Adulescentulus Carnifex

[Mordecai Lecter]

"No. Nononononono. No-o-no. Noooo-no-no."

They were laughing. The pale, undead faces of the hunters were, without pity or remorse or shame, laughing, like their souls (or lack thereof) were lapping up every last drop of the blood seeping out of his metaphorical heart. Dead, dead, dead, they say. Permanent this time, you sick little scrap of nothing, another one spits. You beg them to take your life too, and for a minute, they seem to consider it, before acting. The most handsome, tallest, and depraved of them all steps toward you, brandishing his blade. As if in slow motion, the blade lurches up towards the sky with intent to cleave you in twain. You ears can percieve it cutting through the air, much like a guillotine scraping its way down thirstility to a neck. You no longer see it, as your eyes are crashed shut in a desparate prayer that his aim be true and your dealings with this unforgiving earth would soon be done with. It was a kindness, they were allowing you this request.

And yet, the air-cutting stops, all of a sudden. The wind of the blade's halt tickles against your forehead, and you cringe. Not in fear, but in confusion. The deep timbre of your executioner rumbles out in a rolling of damning laughter. Believing that you would be deserving of the same quick end that your domitor had met was ambitious folly. You think too highly of yourself. So nice of him to let you know what you are doing wrong.

You are to suffer, boy. Suffer long without the master of your little world.

***

Some days are easier than others, it is said. It'd been a good while since he'd believed that tripe. No day is easy. If it were a gift to be simple, hell, if it was, he had no such luck or charity bestowed upon him. Daylight broke, and he was sluggish. Moonrise came, darkness fell, and he was none the better. Going through the motions, and it had been a fair measure of time since he'd given up trying to seem like he cared. He'd been hungry those many weeks afterward - so hungry. The source was missing, and his break from the sands of time and the licks of mortality caught up with him. Thirty years of age, and still pining. Ten years of addiction can near literally tear a person apart but Mortie was managing, barely, just barely. At least he was still quite the looker. It counted for something, for sure.

"Hey Mortie! Mort? Dude...Whoa, hey hey hey. Snap out of it, put the knife down. Jesus, you alright man?"

Mordecai blinked once, twice, again and again, then clapped the back of his hand to his head, knife and all, and shook that head. "Sorry, Jeff. Yeah. Uh...fine. Girls. You know, right...?" He dropped that hand. Jeff laughed, obviously still slightly nervous, his heart rate still racheting back down from the surprise. The man had a tasty look to him.

Nonono. Are you out of your fucking mind? No coworkers, nobody familiar. That was the deal, remember? REMEMBER? Goddammit, you are such a fucking spare.

"Oh yeah, Mort. I know. Believe me, man, I know." Jeff kept laughing, and Mordecai frowned, and gritted his his teeth, then forced a grin.

"Shutthefuckup." The knife was up again. Jeff backed away two or three steps, almost stumbling, his hands up, palms forward.

"Ok. Shit. Calm down, man. Just tryin' to cheer your ass up." Hands posed on his hips now, Jeff nodded at the cuts Mortie was making, eyeing them as if pleased. The blood was still fresh on the knife, and leant Mortie an eerie air. "I ever told ya you shoulda been a butcher?"

Huh. How about that...Mortie blnked, caught a little off-guard with the comment. He lowered the knife again. "You did. Yesterday. And the day before...Come to think of it, the day before that. Don't know if that's something to be proud of."

Jeff grinned triumphantly. "You should be. Don't prove me wrong, Mort."

Yes. Don't prove him wrong, butcher-boy.
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[Rowan York]

Using her hip, Rowan pushed against the swinging doors to the kitchens, quickly ducking out of the way of a server bearing a tray of hot food. Skirting along the wall, she made her way to the drink station, quickly scooping some ice into a glass and filling it with water. Then she got the hell out of the way before the next server needed to make use of the station.

She was still at that point in her new-hire process where she knew very few names, the whereabouts of precisely nothing, and the location of the deep freezer because it was a convinient place to go hide when the need arose. She was still just 'shadowing' another of the wait-staff, and already she was stressed. She really hadn't thought a simple waitress job would have been so tense.

"Hey, you wanna look out...?", a voice grumbled.

She was in the way of a dish cart now! "Oh! Sorry..."

Yeah... deep freezer time. She was getting a cold sweat from being in everyones way!

Smiling like she was completely comfortable, she made no eye contact, winding her way through the sea of white, linen-clad, utensil wielding cooks, through the prep-area and into the freezer without saying a word. When she entered the frigid air, she sighed deeply, watching her breath and wondered for the hundreth time that night; What the hell was she doing?

[Mordecai Lecter]

The truth is, Jeff and Mortie used to be pretty good friends. When Jeffrey Mittner divulged his plan to his friend during their days as young apprentices in culinary school, they had been friends for fifteen years by then. Same high school, probably dated the same set of twins...you know, things like that. It was only a year or so in at culinary school that Jeff had solidly decided he would leave and go the business route instead. He'd still maintain his interest in the food side of things, but he wanted to be the man running the show. Such things were not in Mordecai's interests, and so, for the first time since childhood, they'd parted ways. It's been three years since the restaurant opened, and Mortie followed through with his word to lend his knife to his friend as the head chef from opening night. And from that day, the place was packed. Lately, though - in the past six months, at least - Jeff noted there was something a little off about his friend, but...well, if it wasn't lowering the quality of his work, he wasn't going to poke the beast.

Though, the recent episode with the knife-pointing (and wasn't that a gleam in Mortie's eye?) was a little cause for concern. Ehh, Jeff would keep an eye on Mordecai. You know, just in case.

***

That night - Two hours until closing...


"Hey, no. No, no, no. The soup, the SOUP! Geez, yes. Thank you for listening."

Eyes rolled.

"Table four? WHERE'S TABLE FOUR??" ... "Oh, come on, guys! Oh yes, thank you once again. You're a peach, darling, you know that?"

Giggles. More eye rolling.

"Hey, you wanna look out...?"

Things are going well enough tonight, wouldn't you say? A certain amount of idiocy from one's staff can't be avoided, supposedly. The place was a nuthouse behind the veil. What the customer can't see, he shouldn't have to worry about, and everyone being served was rather satisfied. Well, except that one guy who isn't happy unless he's unhappy...doesn't make sense, does it? The staff under Mordecai Lecter's leading were all working parts of a well-oiled machine, usually. The head of that machine, however, was reaching boiling point. It wasn't that things weren't going well. It was just that...

THUD.

Anyone within the vicinity would have heard the simultaneous thud of both the freezer door and the knife embedded in the wall next to it with a line cook shivering in fright underneath the blade. Silence. Dead silence. You could hear the boy whimper.

"MOR-DE-CAI. Whathehelldo-ya--think--you're--doing?"

Heaving heavy, deep, raggedy, air-scraping breaths, redfaced Mordecai snapped his steely eyed stare at Jeffrey. Eyes narrowed to slits, following him to the fear-paralyzed line cook (Tyler, right?), the corners of his soft-lipped mouth yanked downward in blantanly obvious displeasure and maybe...maybe a lapse of sanity as well. Mordecai snorted, and stalked toward the freezer, throwing the door open. There was someone in there.

New girl. Huh. It's been what? Two months? Hehehe...so...

NO.

The door slammed shut, giving death to that thought. And just then, a hand - no, two hands - clamped on Mortie's shoulders, and a stern yet uneasy voice, dripping with urgency, poured into his ear.

"I think...it would be best...if you left now. Take some time off." Jeffrey whispered in his ear. Mort turned his head slightly, and looked out the corner of his eye at his longtime friend. His lips trembled to move a little, as if he were trying to force words out of them. Jeffrey squeezed his shoulders harder. "Don't worry. We can handle everything fine. Call my office when you've cleared up your head a little, and we can talk it out. Ok, man?"

Ok, man. Cool. Yeah, cool.

Snort.

[Rowan York]

Though still taking her requisite breather in the Land of Deep Freeze, the ridiculously tense, waitress-in-training, exiled Princess, still heard the muffled sounds of battle from the outer realm!

Rowan had heard the thud, followed by a voice giving someone a stern talking to. Very stern. She'd actually been sort of dreading leaving the ice-box, but it was getting seriously frigid and there was only so much cold she could take. Teeth chattering away in her skull, she'd headed for the door, only to have it opened, then slammed in her face by one of the chefs. The head chef actually, who everyone swore was a really great guy, who was just going through a really bad spot lately.

Ha! Indeed...

When her chest started to hurt from the cold and she was sure she was turning blue, Rowan finally pulled on the handle and opened the door. She stepped out and instantly felt better, rubbing her arms to take away the chill and that was when she saw it... The knife sticking out of the wall.

Well... that explains the thud then, huh?

"Hey, Rowan! There you are!", Diana's voice. The one she was shadowing. She couldn't be bothered to turn to her though, still oddly struck by the sheer perfect angle the blade was at. It was symmetry at it's finest, and it looked liked it had gone through the wall like it was a pat of butter!

"What happened, Di?", she asked...

The story was relayed to her with quite a bit of drama, she was sent home early for the night, and she clocked out, still slightly unnerved.

Which was a great state of mind to be in when you had to walk home to a crappy apartment..

[Mordecai Lecter]

"Now, let me tell you about this blade, my boy..."

You were a young boy, young boy, all those years ago. Just barely nineteen, new to the scene, fresh as first snow. Don't ask me what this rhyme is for, I just want you to know it's you I adore. It's not meaningless, love, my time draws near. You're everything, everything that I hold dear.

Indeed. What was that rhyme about? You were starting to slip, That vow you made to yourself, as a man, to never go into something like...that...but addictions do funny things to a person, don't they?

***

You really did it this time, didn't you? You control is slipping, boy. In case you hadn't noticed...

The pint of local brew he gripped tighter between his hands, the glass squeaking lowly at the friction, threatening to snap into pieces if he didn't relinquish the pressure. He mumbled something to himself, something about silence and shutting up, while staring absently out the window of a pub about ten blocks away from the restaurant. Tufts of pure white clouds sat lazily on the dark horizon, and stars twinkled overhead to the bright and beaming light of the crescent moon. At the very least, he knew it wasn't an effect of a full moon that caused his haphazard twist of emotions this night. There was some comfort in that.

What are you, a furbrain? Phases of the moon? That's some load of crock to believe in. You really are pitiful.

"Shut up." A grumble, as Mort filled his mouth with the honey brown liquid, swished it a little, then swallowed.

Keh.

He ran a calloused hand through his full hair, bringing it back to rest against his forehead (elbow on the small, two-person table) when it was through, and tilted his head to gaze out the window through a collection of dirty and greasy fingerprints. Jeff was probably still pretty peeved, and he'd sure tried his darndest to hide it, so as not to aggravate the other staff further than Mortie had already managed. The cause of such an outburst was bothering him, because this time, he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He wasn't hungry. That piece of personal business had been well dealt with recently, with due care to not leave any clues behind. A lot of the time a hefty serving of rare to medium rare animal matter seemed to sate him, but that kind of control was hard to keep for too long. The withdrawl had turned out to be full of difficult ravages. He didn't like what it made him resort to, but it wasn't something that could be helped and in all honestly, he'd already rationalized it to death ten times or more. Was he angry? Still angry about the slaying? Perhaps.

Another gulp. Then...

Is that...?

Slowly he put the now empty pint down and removed his hand from the handle, and leaned close enough to the window that his breath was fogging it up and mingling with the fingerprints. His eyes were glued to her as she slowly walked by the pub in which he sat. Next thing he knew, Mortie was jumping out of his seat and jogging out the door to catch her with nary a thought in his head as to the matter. And when his hand clamped down on her shoulder, she nearly peeled out of her skin and whirled around, stumbling back a few steps at the surprise.

"Jesus, I'm so...Hey, sorry." He grimaced, then realized it and smiled, just for her. "Rowan, right?"

[Rowan York]

After splashing down onto the slightly wet pavement, Rowan had only gotten a few steps when she heard someone splash through the same puddle on the street right behind her! Now, she wasn't normally such a skittish thing, but being caught wasting time in the freezer by the head chef, who was then asked nicely to get the hell out for throwing a cleaver into a wall by the line cooks head, and where she might have exited, had she left the freezer a second earlier! - Well... all things considered it wouldn't have surprised her if she was being followed.

Probably some initially-charming madman, cleaver in hand! What was it with her and cleavers tonight anyways?! He was probably as easy on the eyes as....

A heavy hand dropped on her shoulder and her thoughts were brought to a screeching halt. Rowan spun around and staggered, expecting to see a gun or something, but it was worse! It was him! The cleaver wielding charming madman!

"Jesus, I'm so...Hey, sorry." He seemed apologetic about scaring her stupid, at least...

"Rowan, right?" Though he did actually look less lethal when he smiled. She'd been told he used to do that often. She'd never seen him smile. It was...nice...

"Yeah, right... I'm Rowan." What did you say to a guy you worked with , that you barely knew, who just got sent home for violence and was now smiling at you like that?

She glanced at the direction he had come from. A pub.. Perfect.

"So we're both off early. Wanna buy me a drink?"

[Mordecai Lecter]

You were told. Told everything, about how your mother went mad and your father... disposed of without mercy in the damp streets of October. Those your heart has beat for are only buried in the dirt of death and foul play. This is how it has been, and how it always will be. You've seen it for yourself. Even the undead will fall in the wake of your wanting. The Grim Reaper himself has it out for you, boy, and we can't put a finger as to why.

***

He bared his teeth in the slightest, a small grin for her benefit - though he did feel much better now, since she didn't react with a scream and unkind words toward his presence. Doubtless, he'd lost his grip on sanity a minute or two earlier, when he had sent a knife flying, and shaken her wits with the accompanying crazed look into the walk-in freezer. It was likely that Jeff would have some well thought out choice words for Mortie in an attempt to ground him when Mortie would call sometime in the next...oh, few days, supposedly.

"Reading my mind, are you?" Mordecai queried, a teasing quality to the rhetoric. He pocketed his strong hands, his urges well in check. One would suppose that if the hunger wasn't hitting, the urges may very well have been driven by the feel of a knife in hand, parting the fibres of animal tissue. Even after death, the tissue still bleeds. Medium rare is the best way, with some meats. So much flavour to be had. So much flavour.

Pretty, isn't she?

The grin dropped, his eyes darkened considerably, causing him to look away toward the pub. He agreed, but to show anything amiss was not within the cards of his desires. Playing it cool, acting well within the range of the average human being was the required tape. Still, he looked in on the pub from the outside.

"I hear another pint calling my name. Let's get inside."

[Rowan York]

Following behind him, Rowan gave herself a subtle sniff. She had the distinct impression that she smelled of garlic butter. There was no denying that the smell of bread sticks clung to her clothes with tenacity. Hell, even her closet was starting to smell like a vampire-warding zone. Of course, since he probably reeked of chopped up fillets of expensive cow, she was probably in the clear.

It was warmer inside than it had been on the street, and the sudden change in temperature make her shiver a bit. She let him lead her toward a table and slid in, opposite him while giving a hasty order to the bartender who set down a much-used coaster for her.

"Guinness for me please..", she smiled, setting her purse beside her.

"So... bad night?", she asked with a little grin. They couldn't dance around it forever. Best just to get it over with....

[Mordecai Lecter]

"You don't be drinking, boy. It'll dull you."

And so you didn't. The addiction you were supplied with was all you needed. Alcohol wouldn't have seemed like enough, even with remembrance of days when it did. You nodded, simply, your master held your eyes. You were entranced. Dare say you loved your domitor, even though you had sworn to yourself you would never fall so far into that world.

***

"The same, a refill myself." He said lowly, nearly nipping at the heels of Rowan's words. She was pretty, that much he was certain of, but she seemed a might bit skittish. He knew that he was partly to blame for that. She didn't need to know the exact reasons. One thing said would simply give away too much; most of the things were very secretive, enough to frighten those without the stomach for it to madness. There were other ways, one could be conditioned to tolerance...

Too early. Get your fracking head back in the here and now. Worry about the later...well, later. You don't even know if she's worth the time.

His eyes snapped up to her face suddenly. She seemed to be watching, he could almost smell the very slight twinge of unease on her that was left over from earlier. His hunger had been well sated recently, so he was simply able to focus on her a little better and keep his more human urges in check. Yes, one hunger was fulfilled, but it'd been quite a while since the other had been paid attention to.

"Bad night...yeh, I guess you could say that." He loosed the words slowly, and rubbed the back of his neck. The whole thing was, admittedly, awkward.

[Rowan York]

Take the hint, kiddo. He doesn't want to talk about it.

Rowan tried to listen to her ever-so-helpful internal dialog. It was keeping her occupied until she could decide on what next to say that wasn't half-witted. Cursing the lamentable amount of time it took to pour a proper Guinness, she finally smiled at the approach of their drinks. Once her pint glass was set before her, she grinned down at the little shamrock in the foam, charmed. She still wondered how they did that? Leprechauns with cookie cutters or something?

With a careful sip, so as not to muck up the artwork, she bought another few seconds of silence, enjoying the most nummy of stouts, before resolving herself to speech once more.

"So what'd he do? Sneeze on your fillets?" Way to go champ. Extra points for being subtle..

[Mordecai Lecter]

Listen. Just listen closely.
Heart beats all around, let the sound drive you wild.
Child of the Night, don't fear, you are the fright.
The hunting masses come for you tonight.
They are unmatched to your prowess.
When it comes to unlife, you know best.


***

Fingers curled tightly around the handle of the pint, Mortie looked into the perfectly poured Guinness with a slight twinge of unease and vague anger simmering at the question. Not giving mind to the clover atop the drink, he lifted his head and took a long, hearty gulp, swallowing the untoward emotions as well. When the pint glass hit the tabletop, he looked on her again. Rowan's beauty wasn't overdone. It was something simple he could appreciate.

"No, nothing like that." A weak smile. "I don't really know what to say about it." Not without frightening her to death and causing myself real problems.

He was pretty sure that this meeting wouldn't go beyond a simple chitchat between workmates. In reality, it would be much better that way. He wasn't exactly proud of what he had become, but it was becoming incredibly difficult to resist being so, and some perverse corner of his mind got its jollies off on the whole situation. The sickness was becoming appealing, his humanity dwindling in adverse proportion to the increasing attractiveness of this...depravity. At least, that is what he feared would happen.

My, my. What would your master think of this? Oh THAT'S RIGHT. He can't comment. Ha ha ha ha.

Mortie gritted his teeth, gripping the pint glass just a little too tight. Bugger off.

Fine, fine. Have fun with the pretty little toy. Give her a kiss for me, hmm? Ha ha ha ha.

Mortie relaxed, and heaved a sigh. "You must think me mad. Crazy..you know..."

[Rowan York]

Yeah, she already felt bad about her run-away mouth and now she'd clearly made the guy feel uncomfortable. Rough spot in his personal life lately. Sent home for violence and what does Rowan do? Provokes the guy, of course!

It was definitely time to drop the subject, the last thing she wanted was to have someone at her new job who found her to be pushy and insensitive. Whatever his problems were, he'd really just met her, even though they worked together. He was not required to unburden his soul over a pint of stout. Not yet anyways, maybe by next week...

Quietly she watched him, the agitated way he worried the rim of the glass between his teeth and she was struck speechless for a minute.

Why Mortie, what awesomely white teeth you have...

The better to...

Her wandering mind found itself doused with another slosh of beer. Best not to go there. Setting the glass down, she inched her fingers across the table, in obvious apology.

"I'm sorry, really... It's absolutely none of my business. It's a character flaw of mine, to just run off at the mouth with the first thing that comes to mind. Let's change the subject?", she suggested..

"Do you live around here?"

[Mordecai Lecter]

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your conscience speaking. Please have your seats in the upright and locked... Oh hello there, young man! Do I EVER have something in mind for you!"

Maniacal laughter.

In a sweat, awaking.

***

Thank goodness for small miracles.

Mortie breathed out after holding it in while awaiting her answer. It certainly wasn't the answer he had been expecting, but there was relief in it for him. Relief that he would not have to reveal his inner workings, the secrets in bloodletting and severance behind his rather off-the-wall 'inspired' actions earlier in the night. He settled back into the backed stool, dove deep into the cool pint, and wondered on a response to her innocuous inquiry. He wasn't about to just tell an innocent mortal girl (ok, so he was technically mortal himself... that's besides the point...) where his home was located. Perhaps a simple affirmative would suffice. Sometimes, his master would have said, the smallest and simplest answer is enough words said. Too many words can sometimes dull the listener.

"Yes. I walk to and from the restaurant, and Jarvis - that's the barkeep..." He waved, Jarvis pushed half a grin and snorted "...knows my likings for drink well enough. I am a... frequent flyer in this pub, even if just for the conversation."

He cracked a somewhat warming smile, pleased with his decent answer, but also to give Rowan calming reassurance. Another hefty gulp of the pint, and he turned the question on her.

"About yourself, then?" Turnabout is fair play. He could feel the alcohol of the previous couple of pints from before her arrival working their relaxations on him. It was a welcome feeling.

[Rowan York]

"Yeah.. I have a little apartment, emphasis on the 'little', not far from here. A few more blocks actually, I just never stopped in before."

Would she, in the future? Stop in here just for a good beer after a long shift? If she were lucky maybe she'd run in to Mortie again and unravel the greater mystery of the maniacal charming man with a cleaver. Sounded like good times!

Rowan toyed with the coaster, rolling it back and forth beneath her fingers across the table top. "Maybe I'll make a habit out of it now, since the establishment is so grand.", she gave Jarvis a teasing wink.

Then again, maybe Morte didn't want to share his hideout with her. It was a free country, yeah but if this was his downtime he might want to be landed with 'the girl from work' hanging about. "Then again maybe not... Who knows!?", she peeked down at the quickly disintegrating foam shamrock.

Mortie was not the easiest of people to read.

[Mordecai Lecter]

"Well..." He drew out, turning to look briefly at Jarvis. "...I doubt Jarvis would have much complaint about another customer." He turned his field of vision back to his evening's companion and leaned in across the table, lowering his voice. "Unless you aren't good for the business."

Then he settled back into his own seat, and hauled the pint up to his lips, opening up for a large gulp, a swallow, and a refreshed sigh. The alcohol was slowly doing its work, relaxing him, putting his mental tormentor to rest for at least a little while. It had occured to him on many an occasion beforehand that being in a permanent state of drunkeness would likely shut the fool voice up, but then the realization after each thought of that nature was that the moment he was sober again, it would come back. Scratch that thought then, as always.

Mordecai looked up from his pint, to across the table at Rowan. She looked nervous. The nervousness looked cute on her, and he wondered why he'd never noticed her at all before, dismissing the thought for the fact that she was right in front of him (table disregarded) this very second, and figured it would make up for his almost complete ignorance of her existence. On the other hand, she didn't seem to make a huge effort to be noticed either. He shrugged, smiled, and kept watching her. She kept not noticing his stare, her eyes watching the shamrock drawing in her pint vanish.

"Earth to Rowan... Come in, Rowan..." He vetured, after a good minute or two of her staring into her Guinness.

[Rowan York]

"Earth to Rowan... Come in, Rowan..."

Smiling over the rim of her glass, Rowan pressed one fingertip to her temple, as if sending a radio transmission back to Earth through her imaginary helmet.

"Copy that, mission control. Go ahead..", With a laugh she downed the remainder of her drink in one lengthy swallow, the muscles in her neck contracting, visibly forcing the last of the Guinness down.

She sighed in pleasure and set the empty glass down with a thud. "Sorry Mortie. Wandering mind, you know.. Do you ever get that feeling like you have no idea who you are or what the hell you are doing?"

[Mordecai Lecter]

Mordecai had laughed at her silly monkey response to his attempt to snap her out of her far off and away reverie... or whatever it was that was drawing her attention away from him and the conversation - such as it was.

You have no idea, doll. No idea.

"Ah... yeah. Sometimes. Sometimes more than I'd care to have happen." He pulled the pint up and tipped it to his mouth, letting the liquid slide between his lips, over his tongue and cool down his throat, swallowing in satisfaction. The glass empty, he lowered it gently down to the tabletop and turned his head to the direction of the barkeep, motioning for...

"Another for the pretty girl?" He tipped a grin from one corner of his mouth at her when he glanced to make sure he still had her attention. "It's on me, darlin'. Whatever you like."

It was the least he could do for scaring the dickens out of her. The most he could do... well, that depends.

[Rowan York]

Now, now Rowan.. Let's not get carried away. One of those makes you giggle. Two is too many. Say thanks, and go home.

"Yeah, sure! Thanks, Mortie. Ummm, another of these?" She wiggled the glass toward Mr. Jarvis with a slight smirk.

"You know, you might have to walk me home if I keep this up. I'll be so jolly I'll wind up on a milk carton.", she stuck her tongue out.

[Mordecai Lecter]

He grinned. Oddly glad to see the girl wouldn't put down and deny enjoying herself so easily. He turned his head back to Jarvis and confirmed the order, nodding and signaling the two refills to be had. Her second, his fourth. Catch-up was not a game he would let her play with him - he intended to not let her know he was ahead by two. It wasn't a game he could trust himself to remain composed around anyone with. While awaiting the two fresh pints, Mortie turned himself completely back to the once-shy, now enjoying herself Rowan. What a difference a drink could make. He found himself laughing at her light antics and humour.

What a difference.

"Walk you home? I'm afraid I don't know where exactly it is that you call home." He admitted, knowing that she knew he didn't know. "I'm sure in the event that I am to ensure your safe return to your bed and belongings, you'll be certain to inform me?"

He stuck a tongue back out at her, deciding to play along. "And there's got to be a better place to wind up than on a milk carton. I can think of several..."

[Rowan York]

Wait.. What just happened there? Did he just..?

Did he just flirt with me...?

Rowan of course turned bright pink.

It was not the fact that she'd never been out for a drink with a cute guy, or even that she was not used to being flirted with. She blamed her sudden flush of color entirely on too much beer. Personally she thought she was doing a pretty snazzy job of hiding her flaming cheeks, too. Discreetly she'd immediately brought a napkin to her face to dab at some supposed Guinness foam mustache she was allegedly sporting..

Wow.. Mortie the charming madman with the big bad wolf smile, escorting me safely to my bed. How about that..

She really needed to quit talking to herself.

Clearing her throat a bit, she managed a squeak. "You'll be the first to know. Is it hot in here?"

Rowan looked around for a friendly air vent, but then recalled it was cold outside and Jarvis likely had the heat on.

Nice..