Out for blood [open to multiple]

[erratic_hematic]

Spike is on Grand street in Chinatown, it's eight o'clock in the morning, and he's staring at a chicken. The chicken in question isn't alive or possessing a head, so he's betting that any chance of getting any blood from it or the five other chickens next to it is slim to none.

The blood supply available here in New York isn't any good. What he'd initially figured was just a blandness of taste is actually much much more of a problem. Blood that he buys here just doesn't do what it's supposed to be doing for him. Even after he switched butchers, the problem continued. He's constantly tired, and constantly hungry, and things are only getting worse as time goes on.

Hence, the chicken.

"Oi, you," he yells back to who he guesses is the proprietor of this little shop, "whatta you do with the blood?" He makes a fiddly finger gesture at the chickens. "The chicken blood?" When the man doesn't seem to understand, he repeats, slower and more enunciated, "CHICKEN. BLOOD."

After a few more frustrating back and forths and the assistance of a passing bystander as translator, Spike gleans that they do not sell chicken blood to the public, but they do sell it to an asian market a few streets over, where he can buy it in chilled and possibly gelled cubes. It doesn't sound promising, but at the moment it's the best idea he's got.

[Spike will be heading over to the asian market, picking up gross blood cubes, then heading back to the rebel apartments. You're welcome to have your characters find him in Chinatown, waiting for/on the B train, or walking back to the rebel apartments. Here's his trip]

dinner at the Morning Star [closed]

[bibliophale]

Gabriel's neighborhood, it turns out, is known as 'Hell's Kitchen'. As he stands and waits outside the diner known as 'Morning Star Restaurant', Aziraphale is not certain he can cope with this amount of irony.

He stills feels terrible for having left Melanie when she was clearly upset, but he knows he is not equipped to be of much help to her now. He expects she needs her space. Humans tend to want space.

He wishes, too, that he'd been able to contact Crowley. He's never gotten drunk with Gabriel, and it's only under immense duress that he invites the possibility at all. It seems utterly improper, getting drunk with an archangel, but this Gabriel has already proven himself to be nothing like what he expects. And he's not ready to face Crowley. Not after what he's just done.

Gabriel is, further ironically, the only person he can really turn to right now.

He looks down impassively at the sidewalk until he feels Gabriel arrive, at which point he looks up. Or down, but less down.

"Thank you for meeting me," he says, feeling immediately awkward.