Nolan Home for Wayward Refugees, 33 Apocalypse, Sunday Late Morning
Ronan blearily wandered downstairs and towards the kitchen, flicking the on-switch on the coffee pot before collapsing onto a stool at the counter. Give him a few moments, and there'll be breakfast cooking, though.
First, coffee. All the coffee. Remind Ronan to never go on errantry again, okay? No? Fine, just give him a few days to recover first. And, y'know, the big greasy fry-up -- eggs, bacon, tomatoes, potatoes, fried bagels -- that he started when the coffee maker finished and he started infusing his system with blessed, blessed caffeine.
[Expecting one, but open!]
First, coffee. All the coffee. Remind Ronan to never go on errantry again, okay? No? Fine, just give him a few days to recover first. And, y'know, the big greasy fry-up -- eggs, bacon, tomatoes, potatoes, fried bagels -- that he started when the coffee maker finished and he started infusing his system with blessed, blessed caffeine.
[Expecting one, but open!]