#x.starter

After about fifteen minutes spent scrubbing the same stubborn stain on the bar top, Ronan is forced to admit defeat. With a sigh, he tosses the damp rag he’d been using over his shoulder and surveys the club with a critical eye. Even for the late hour, Lolita’s bustling. A large group of patrons huddle in a corner booth, screeching with laughter - every few minutes, they send someone to the bar to order a new tray of shots and, without fail, at least a half of them hit the ground on the way back to the overcrowded booth. (More work for him, later. Yay.) At another table, a couple of wolves trade stories in hushed whispers, eyes never straying from each other’s faces. They’ve been nursing the same drinks for an hour and Ronan’s starting to get a little fed up. If they’re this busy and they still don’t hit their revenue goal, his boss is going to fucking flip. 

Ronan can’t help the way his eyes stray to the clock on the wall across the lounge. Just a couple more hours. He could do this. Serve a few drinks, clean a few spills and bam. Quitting time. (Of course, he’d have to come back tomorrow and do it all over again but, he’d rather not dwell on that.)

“One day at a time,” he murmurs to himself as he sets to work buffing fingerprints out of a pair of cocktail glasses.

Ford sprawled across his desk in a snoring heap. It had been several hours since he had started pacing the floor of his lab, trying to figure out what to get Stanley as a gift. He hadn’t realized just how tired he was, until he sat down to rest for a moment and promptly passed out. Hopefully someone would wake him up soon, or he’d more than likely stay asleep at his desk for the next three days. 

So much for celebrating the holiday. 

“Come on, Fiddleford! It’ll be fine!”

His partner had always been a little more weary of their exploration (especially since the Gremoblin incident), but Ford was confident he had nothing to worry about this time. It was just some routine research. How bad could it possibly be?

He enters the shop, already a bit skeptical. He’d only recently heard of the new business opening up in town, and Stanley had sent him to make sure they wouldn’t be any sort of threat to the Mystery Shack.  From what he saw so far, he didn’t think so. It looked like the little shop brought in more serious customers than gullible tourists. 

He looks around for the owner, or at least an attendant. Perhaps he could get some more information that way.

In retrospect, she probably should’ve knocked, but she figured an unlocked door was safe enough. Who did something they didn’t want to be caught doing without locking a door?

Turns out Jo Grady did, because when she ventured into his apartment, she came face to face with a very naked partner. Stumbling back, her hand caught the door handle, scraping the knob painfully. 

“Fuck-!”

She stops herself from finishing that sentence thankfully (it probably wouldn’t be appropriate to scream ‘fuck me’ at her presently unclothed coworker), and her hands fly up to cover her eyes instead. 

She lays on her back, trying to catch her breath. There’s already a painful stitch in her side from running, and she clutches a stake in one shaking hand. Once she feels as though she can properly breathe, she glances up at the vampire next to her. 

Yup, pure judgement as expected. 

The crumpled ball of paper she’s been using to “take notes” (read: doodle) for yet another lecture in detention bounces off her brother’s head and lands with a satisfying thud at her feet. She grins when he turns to look for the source of the disturbance. 

There’s an intense silence in the room as she watches the man in front of her. Chin in her hands, green eyes closely inspect the scene. After a few minutes of uncomfortable staring, she leans forward in her seat, voice soft and conspirational. 

She points to the package of Oreos that Hicks has taken out of his lunch box.