As the door swings open the bar is filled with the sound of gun fire. A man screams before being silenced by a grenade shoved into his mouth; an explosion rings out ( Read more... )

A booth is suddenly occupied by a good-looking young man--around the age of twenty-five or so--with red hair, shaved in military fashion. He looks exceedingly comfortable in his scuffed brown boots and his dusty red tank-top and worn jeans. The young man sips absently at his beer, looking as if he is waiting for someone to arrive.

Crowley is wet. Crowley is wet, and cold, and not very happy about it, so it's probably for the best that there just happens to be an armchair free by the fire when he stomps in from out back, dripping crossly on the floorboards ( Read more... )

You spend too much time in the space between tick and tock, and this is what happens; you lose track of the other time. You know, that other time. Where you talk and breathe and think ( Read more... )

*Looking shaken, Thom comes in, hair tousled, eyes wide. He goes straight to the bar and orders a drink; sits down with it, bare feet hanging above the floor.*

Sleep deprivation for reasons other than duty does not a happy knight make ( Read more... )

It's starting to get late. Judas, who isn't tired, makes it down into the bar anyway; he appears, as ever, alert; slightly disheveled.

He sits down at a table, running his fingers slowly along the edge, after the fashion of a nervous habit.

The corner is dark and stagnant, reeking of dried blood and hot steel. She crosses and uncrosses her legs, sighs, and takes another drink of her dark red wine.

It's a slow night for War.

*It's late. Thom looks like you should buy him a drink. He might even be nice about it.*

[ETA: warning for violence.]

[OOM: Red and Black are both having bad days. Sometimes, apparently, two wrongs make a right.]