“Spare me, I wasn’t exactly considering asking you out to dinner.” Sarcasm sufficiently conveyed, Wesley scowls as he slips into the narrow booth, barely muted discomfort ensuing due to the limited space available for his loftier frame, knees painfully hitting a central balancing pole beneath the table between the odd pair. The diner is the kind of hell which is overly Yankee Doodle for his tastes, music blaring in the background due to a gaggle of children with more quarters on hand for a jukebox than common sense ( if he has to listen to ‘Tutti Frutti’ one more time... ). Yet it’s a fairly inconspicuous location, their conversation needing to take place in a more public setting as opposed to one of the brunet’s private albeit tampered haunts, the newly arisen risk of their collusion being listened to incredibly pertinent.
“There’s been---” The man pauses, graciously accepting a menu from a waitress before she heads back to the counter, blue eyes lowering to the garishly brightly coloured imagery upon laminated card. “...another turbulent time displacement signature in LA. I think it’s sufficient to say that you’re being followed.”