Fucking hand. 

It was all Roman could think of as he entered the pharmacy; the prescription for his pain relief being backlogged for weeks now. It had been manageable at first, taking over the counter medicines and letting Ophelia take him to acupuncture, but it was beginning to get more unbearable as the days progressed. He had never been particularly patient, but he truly seemed to be at the end of his rope this week. After a strained phone call to both the doctor and the pharmacy, he stormed straight in, not unlike a cowboy entering a Wild West saloon, gave his name to the pharmacist behind the counter, and waited for it to be fulfilled, exploring the rest of the drug store.

It was then when he saw the owner of O’Shea’s across the aisle, and internally groaned.

Just because the man didn’t know the genuine experience of an Irish pub…and yet Roman was the fucking problem. 

He debated how to get past without notice, when his name was called by the pharmacist, and somehow the man who definitely wasn’t Roman Daniels looked up, right at him.

Fuck.

There were better stores in Blue Harbor. Stores that didn't smell both like bleach and stale cardboard at the same time, and had more options for decent, edible meals. Stores that didn't have fluroscent lighting so bright it gave you a headache. However, only one store in town sold Picke-Ice Freeze Pops, a delicacy sacred to Phoebe since she first stepped foot into Dreamland Market as a precocious kid. Now, they were even more enjoyable due to Foster's attempt at hiding the clear disgust on his face whenever she pulled one from her freezer in need of a late night snack.

She was doing her monthly stock-up when she noticed the back of a very familiar head and, shoving her freeze pops in her basket, skipped over, grabbing the first item she could reach from Leon's. "Gotta keep your wits about you in these parts, dangerous criminals flock about here!" She greeted teasingly, waving it in front of his face.

Fay handed the fellow his coffee, then sat down themselves. “I don’t actually work here,” they suggested. The stranger had given his order, assumed Fay did work there - they were cleaning the counter - and they had simply told him to have a seat and they would be right there with him. “But you’re giving me a good reason to take a break, so I stan you, my friend. Coffee’s on the house. I think... maybe they’ll make me pay for it.” 

rakesh used to flinch when he watched the fights. not that he really remembers it, but they were once a young little thing, someone that winced and hissed with every blood splatter coming from the cage. now, this ritual feels like communion. they stand near the cage, close enough to smell the ichor and the grit, but just far enough that the coat of old, matted down fur doesn't get newer bloodstains on it. he chews on the side of his nails, teeth picking at skin, destroying flesh out of boredom as their eyes watch the fight unfold.

this one is different. rak finds his eyes trained on the man inside the cage -- someone close enough could've told them their pupils were wider than normal, but it would be a foolish decision to approach when he was this focused. the thing that fascinates them is that they haven't given this man much thought before this. the newcomer's name is something starting with an L, rak is almost sure; he didn't bother committing it to memory, sure as he was that this man would be just someone else they could watch get torn apart in the cage, nothing more. but now-- oh, now. now he is covered in sweat, and infected gunk, and he's ramming his knuckles into a clicker's skin before pulling its spore-y skull apart with bare hands and it is... well. rak didn't know that watching the cage fight could get them to squirm in their own seat.

they are the first to offer taking care of the newcomer, when it's pretty obvious yen is willing to give him a chance after surviving the cage. he keeps the thinly-veiled second intentions far from his voice, but yen still gives him a disapproving look before he allows it.

Jet-ski racing? The archangel watches as a couple of mortals ride around on the tiny machines, skidding across the water- they were rather amusing looking . . . And what’s this? His head tilts ever so slightly to the side as one red head in particular seems to lose control of the vehicle. He’s driving . . . Straight at Belial but-

/ / FWOMP / /

He hits the sand first, flying off- thankfully he’s in luck, Belial holding out his arms and catching the human without moving an inch- is this what they called, bridal style?