notgoingtorun (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notgoingtorun) wrote2012-05-01 11:03 am
notgoingtorun) wrote2012-05-01 11:03 am
[for Kate]
Neal had yet to really settle into a routine on the island -- the whole place turning into the old west had managed to disrupt any tentative sense of normalcy that he had. He tried to keep some sort of continuity with life as he'd known it in little ways here and there, mostly with how he dressed. Today he was clad in a white button-down shirt, vest, and dress trousers. The lack of tie or suit coat were his only concessions to the fact that he was on a distressingly warm island.
There were a few regular stops that he made, during his completely un-planned days on the island, one of which was the Winchester, an ideal spot for people-watching. Oh, the whole island was ideal for people watching, but you could learn a lot about people at a bar, and that's what Neal was after.
He leaned up against the bar and ordered a drink, still finding himself somewhat surprised that the islanders had managed to perfect the art of making alcohol. Oh, sure, it wasn't quite as good as anything in his collection back home, but that miles (and dimensions, possibly) away, and, well, it was better than shitty boxed wine or those terrible beers that Peter always insisted on drinking.
Drink in hand, Neal sipped slowly and found himself looking around the room, wondering what each person's story was.
Everyone had a story.
There were a few regular stops that he made, during his completely un-planned days on the island, one of which was the Winchester, an ideal spot for people-watching. Oh, the whole island was ideal for people watching, but you could learn a lot about people at a bar, and that's what Neal was after.
He leaned up against the bar and ordered a drink, still finding himself somewhat surprised that the islanders had managed to perfect the art of making alcohol. Oh, sure, it wasn't quite as good as anything in his collection back home, but that miles (and dimensions, possibly) away, and, well, it was better than shitty boxed wine or those terrible beers that Peter always insisted on drinking.
Drink in hand, Neal sipped slowly and found himself looking around the room, wondering what each person's story was.
Everyone had a story.