It’s been a week since he and Alastor had last talked. He’d made sure the bar was clear today. A couple disgruntled murmurs here and there but they understood. Business was business.
As he anxiously awaits the arrival of the other, he’s got himself a whiskey glass with an ice cube in it. Mid-sip, he hears the door open. To be expected around this time.
He glances over, thinking nothing of their entry, before glancing again and doing a good spit-take, wiping their mouth. Their face says it all. A conglomeration of confusion and bewilderment. Hurrdily something is scribbled on the board.
‘You’ve got to be messing with me.’