While not one usually to succumb to such things, Dominic has taken one of the couches by the fire, back against one of the arms, legs stretched out on the seat. There's a folder on his lap, and he's going through the contents in a somewhat detached manner. He's slightly more involved in the fact that the jukebox (apparently dormant - or at least in a good mood - for the moment) has begun playing
an aria, and he's always had a terrible weakness for opera. If you think he's humming along to it, it may not be completely your imagination.
Dick Winters is sitting at the bar, with a glass of water by his elbow that has largely been abandoned (although not on purpose). His boots are hooked up on the rungs of the stool he's sitting on, and on the counter in front of him are spread a couple of maps. He's trying not to take up too much room, but if he's in your way, feel free to tell him to move.
Although he's still not the biggest fan of the bar (it's a variable quantity, and he likes constants when it comes to his everyday life), Topher's learning how to settle in. And, okay, he still doesn't really like the rats (they're neat and all, but they're still kind of bizarre), and Bar still freaks him out, but really, he's doing better. Today finds him holed up in a booth with an old-school GameBoy and a number of cartridges, which, incidentally, are his own, and not Bar-provided.
Michael has recently discovered that his brother-in-law is posing as an English nanny in order to try to bond with his daughter. Understandably, he is not in the best of moods about this, especially since Tobias' attempts to get himself discovered have been growing increasingly distressing. When he comes in, he makes a beeline directly for the bar and gets himself a glass of scotch. He tries not to drink (his mother already drinks more than enough for the whole family), but some days, it's just hard.
The possibilities that Bar offers are endless, and Paul has never been one not to take advantage of that. Or at least, up until he got his bar tab. Remarkably, it isn't that high (he's been bailed out a couple of times and he's never had anything more exotic than an Aqua Velva - and not even those recently), so he's decided to pay it off now. As such, the contents of his pockets litter the space in front of him, ranging from ticket stubs to spare change to newspaper clippings.
Having secured a table, Septimus is sitting with his feet propped up on one of the empty chairs, spurs for once not on his heels but in his hands. (They were his father's, once.) Chances are he wouldn't mind a conversation, but this tends to vary from second to second.
( ooc: otherwise known as the 'rog neglects her pups and is trying to make up for it' post. this is open for forever and a day. and remember, slowtime is our best friend. )![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hecu_marine
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