[ happy hour ]

[almosthonorable]

Not one to pass up a good business opportunity, Ben’s behind the counter, aiming to earn some credit toward what’s left of his tab.

Specials
† bourbon
† milkshakes
† bourbon milkshakes


The bar is fairly quiet at the moment, so Ben’s leaning on one elbow, doodling on a napkin.


[ tiny tags: gene hunt, mark hoffman, moist von lipwig ]


[ ooc: have at, guys — open till 8:30 p.m. est; tag away, and feel free to threadhop all over the place!

eta, 8:33 p.m.: AHAHA, you people. THANK YOU ALL. closed to new threads, but i'll be hitting these as i can before bed tonight, and tagging back all slows tomorrow for those who want 'em! ♥! (threadhopping, o' course, is still encouraged.) ]

Comments

[longtonguedog]

Earl chuckles, a rich warm sound the melts into a bit of a sigh.

"Nope."

His chin drops to his chest and he gives Ben a long look, spreading his ethereal wings wide. Their golden light is diffuse, but it fills the room, bathing Ben's face in something like the first rays of dawn, warm and sweet.

It's quite the sight, which means it might be easy to miss the fact that nobody else can see it but the outlaw himself.

[almosthonorable]

Something foreign-familiar sluices through Ben's intestines.

He doesn't recognize it.

Until he does.

(It's fear.)

[longtonguedog]

And as soon as he sees the point has been made, he folds those wings away again, pin feathers the length of your arm rustling like a line of laundry flapping in a light Spring breeze.

"Hope this don't mean I have to go elsewhere for m'milkshake."