Who: Wash & Zoe What: Wash is being his husbandly self and hanging around the bar his wife works at, also booze. Where: The Rabbit Hole When: Thursday, late night, during bar hours Status: In progress Rating: TBD; It's a bar, and Wash is drinking. There may be some colorful languages in here.
When he'd first entered the establishment, he'd detested the music. It was far from the local "hits from the '60s, '70s, and '80s" station he'd found a love for on the radio. Though a good five hundred or so years in his own past, he had grown particularly fond of the likes of Tony Orlando, Creedence Clearwater Revival, Frankie Valli, and especially Elvis Presley.
After a couple hours, and losing track of how many piña coladas he'd had, the music wasn't as bad. He'd even absentmindedly started tapping his foot to the beat of the current one. He'd stopped drinking to munch on the pineapple slice that had garnished his drink. He'd forgone any sort of etiquette and stabbed the silly thing with the paper umbrella that had also trimmed his drink (coincidentally in nearly the same shade of teal as his shirt). Hoban Washburne looked like he belonged on deck of a cruise ship surrounded by curmudgeonly retirees who played shuffleboard rather than on a bar stool in a dive bar in Storybrooke, Maine.
He hadn't seen Zoë yet. He imagined she was busy throwing rambunctious and unruly bar patrons out on their duffs. That would be enough to hold him for a while yet. He liked to think of his wife as the strong and magisterial person that he knew her to be. The woman that could kill him with her pinky if she'd wanted to. Though he was quite grateful that she'd never had a reason to fancy trying.
He had, however, craned his neck around to look for her quite a few times since staking claim to the barstool at the middle of the bar. Sometimes even with the straw in his mouth. He was enjoying the fuzzy feeling clinging to the edges of his vision.