Ollie quirked an eyebrow at that. Breakfast at noon? On a weekend? Most of the time he wouldn't be making breakfast on a weekend until two. Okay, three. Four! Okay, five at the latest. Of course, those super-late breakfasts were usually the result of a night of partying that would make some rockstars wince. And it wasn't usually breakfast as much as it was milk in a bowl, which he would imagine cereal was in while he downed Tylenol and prayed to God that the snails would stop crawling so damned loudly.
He'd been up at eight today. That was eight in the morning. It was safe to say that he'd had no idea what to do with himself. He thought, briefly, about going to look for some of those books, but ultimately decided he could have ended up losing track of time, and he didn't want to miss this opportunity or show up late. So instead he'd just played a lot of GTA. Running people down in a stolen ambulance never got old. Not ever.
He'd also already eaten, an actual breakfast of Cinnamon Toast Crunch rather than milk with imaginary cereal, but it was about time for lunch for people who had eaten at eight in the morning. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I could eat," he told her, following her voice to the kitchen. "Thanks." He smiled, hands in the pockets of his jeans. His flask was in an inner pocket of his long, creamy-tan coat, but was here only for demonstration purposes and not for actual consumption. Underneath that was a faded red zip-up hooded sweatshirt, currently unzipped to reveal a Black Flag shirt. He also had his favorite pair of beat-up chucks.
It was a far cry from the look of his youth. Back then it had been leather, lots of leather, and his hair had been longer, neon-green, and shaved on one side. Oh, the nineties punk scene. How he didn't miss it. These days he kind of liked this look better. It took less time to prepare. About the only thing the two looks would have had in common was the shirt. You could calm the punk, but you could not stop him from listening to the same angry punks he always had.