Til the walls are going up in smoke with all our memories
Sonny is tending bar at his place, the Crowbar. He owns it, but he does like being the bartender on more than one night a week when he can swing it. It gives him the opportunity to dole out his advice to the masses that pay for their drinks and to meet the people that frequent his place, to get a sense for them and to allow them to get to know him too. Hey, he is old fashioned in that he likes to know the people. It's a family owned business. The personal touch is what sets them away from other places. Or something. If someone talks too loudly about their issues or they appear to be in a rough mood, he will interject with his advice whether or not it's asked for. It's how he rolls.
He will also be making the drinks, and he is really fucking good at making drinks after all this time.
At a different time, Lucky Spencer is at the Crowbar, sitting on a stool with his head in his hand. It has been a rough few weeks, and he is recovering from a cold after taking an unintended, naked skinny dip into a lake with a woman that he had just met. That was his first day in the Rift. This is within his first week in the Rift, he is still occasionally coughing, but he is well enough that he is seriously considering a drink or two or three.
As an addict, he is perfectly aware that he should not touch a drink, but the urge is there, and he has run out reasons why he shouldn't. It's enough to numb away the pain.
Harry Potter is distressed. He hasn't been able to find Hermione, despite the thoroughness with which he has searched. He has written to her on the journals, stayed in her room hoping that she'd just walk back into it, and searched the streets for days. Her things are all still in her room, but if she's in the city, she isn't-- She's hurt or trapped.
It's been a week. He has been searching the sidewalks and streets for a week, asked Martha Jones who send out a search team, but nothing. Nothing. When he returns to the Kashtta, it's with a heaviness that he hasn't felt in a long time. Impossible to describe, but written all over him. His clothes are dirty, worn, and torn, and he ends up leaning against a wall, looking entirely too lost for someone that's supposed to have made his way home.
Hermione is what made this place... home for him, and she's gone.
He will also be making the drinks, and he is really fucking good at making drinks after all this time.
At a different time, Lucky Spencer is at the Crowbar, sitting on a stool with his head in his hand. It has been a rough few weeks, and he is recovering from a cold after taking an unintended, naked skinny dip into a lake with a woman that he had just met. That was his first day in the Rift. This is within his first week in the Rift, he is still occasionally coughing, but he is well enough that he is seriously considering a drink or two or three.
As an addict, he is perfectly aware that he should not touch a drink, but the urge is there, and he has run out reasons why he shouldn't. It's enough to numb away the pain.
Harry Potter is distressed. He hasn't been able to find Hermione, despite the thoroughness with which he has searched. He has written to her on the journals, stayed in her room hoping that she'd just walk back into it, and searched the streets for days. Her things are all still in her room, but if she's in the city, she isn't-- She's hurt or trapped.
It's been a week. He has been searching the sidewalks and streets for a week, asked Martha Jones who send out a search team, but nothing. Nothing. When he returns to the Kashtta, it's with a heaviness that he hasn't felt in a long time. Impossible to describe, but written all over him. His clothes are dirty, worn, and torn, and he ends up leaning against a wall, looking entirely too lost for someone that's supposed to have made his way home.
Hermione is what made this place... home for him, and she's gone.