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boneshakerWaking up is still a strange affair. He's only been in this new city and this new (free???? he's still not over that part) apartment for, what, three days? Four? Finding himself in this amazingly clean, comfortable bed, seeing the stark white ceiling and the pristine furnishings and the light pouring in through the glorious windows is all very bizarre. It still takes him a minute to realize.
This morning his entire body hurts like hell, which is a helpful reminder. He remembers being out last night, and getting into a fight! A real fight! He got his ass kicked and it was amazing.
He stumbles out of the bed and makes his way over to the bathroom, checking himself in the mirror. He's a mess. Black eye, split lip, a couple minor cuts along his cheekbone. Bruises on his ribs too. Everything hurts. But that's okay. It reminds him he's alive. He's really here, this is really happening. This gorgeous rich-people apartment is his. He's still not really sure how he feels about that.
Well, it doesn't matter, he doesn't have to stay here. Spike gave him the address of his workplace and Castor has every intention of visiting him. It might be a little desperate and clingy to go visit him first thing after spending the night with him, but whatever. Friends are good. He needs friends.
He gets himself as clean as he deems necessary, gets dressed and heads out, following the directions his weird fancy rich-people phone gives him. It's not too long before he gets there, standing outside the anonymous little bookstore, which really looks closed, or like it should be condemned, tucked in next to a really nice-looking bakery. The bookshop is uninviting at best, and though that tends to be more his speed than the bakery's posh atmosphere, he finds himself getting cold feet. Besides, he skipped breakfast. He's still got some money, he should get some food, right? Yeah. Then he can visit Spike.
He steps into the bakery and feels immediately out of place, but marches bravely up to the counter anyway. The woman behind it flicks a blisteringly judgmental glance up and down his person before asking if she can help him. He politely requests a cinnamon roll. He's never had one before. They're huge.
He carries the giant pastry gingerly over to the coffee counter, where a young man whose nametag says 'Joel' stares at him.
"Hi," says Castor pleasantly.
"Are you okay?" blurts Joel.
"What? Oh. Yeah." Castor smiles as if proud that Joel has noticed. "Yeah, it was just a fight, you know. No big deal. You should see the other guy."
Joel seems both alarmed and impressed by this information, which Castor finds hopelessly endearing. Aw, this guy. He belatedly seems to remember what his actual job is and says, "Oh, uh, what can I get you?"
"I have no idea," confesses Castor. "I don't know what most of these options even are."
"Uh... really?" Joel looks up at the complexly chalked menu hanging on the wall behind him. "Well... do you just want like a regular house blend?"
"Yeah, that sounds easy enough," says Castor. "Uh... dark roast, I guess?"
"Coming right up!" says Joel cheerfully. He manages only a few steps of the process before the bell on the door rings and he looks up and stops short, staring at whomever's just walked in with an expression that can only be described as deep longing.
This morning his entire body hurts like hell, which is a helpful reminder. He remembers being out last night, and getting into a fight! A real fight! He got his ass kicked and it was amazing.
He stumbles out of the bed and makes his way over to the bathroom, checking himself in the mirror. He's a mess. Black eye, split lip, a couple minor cuts along his cheekbone. Bruises on his ribs too. Everything hurts. But that's okay. It reminds him he's alive. He's really here, this is really happening. This gorgeous rich-people apartment is his. He's still not really sure how he feels about that.
Well, it doesn't matter, he doesn't have to stay here. Spike gave him the address of his workplace and Castor has every intention of visiting him. It might be a little desperate and clingy to go visit him first thing after spending the night with him, but whatever. Friends are good. He needs friends.
He gets himself as clean as he deems necessary, gets dressed and heads out, following the directions his weird fancy rich-people phone gives him. It's not too long before he gets there, standing outside the anonymous little bookstore, which really looks closed, or like it should be condemned, tucked in next to a really nice-looking bakery. The bookshop is uninviting at best, and though that tends to be more his speed than the bakery's posh atmosphere, he finds himself getting cold feet. Besides, he skipped breakfast. He's still got some money, he should get some food, right? Yeah. Then he can visit Spike.
He steps into the bakery and feels immediately out of place, but marches bravely up to the counter anyway. The woman behind it flicks a blisteringly judgmental glance up and down his person before asking if she can help him. He politely requests a cinnamon roll. He's never had one before. They're huge.
He carries the giant pastry gingerly over to the coffee counter, where a young man whose nametag says 'Joel' stares at him.
"Hi," says Castor pleasantly.
"Are you okay?" blurts Joel.
"What? Oh. Yeah." Castor smiles as if proud that Joel has noticed. "Yeah, it was just a fight, you know. No big deal. You should see the other guy."
Joel seems both alarmed and impressed by this information, which Castor finds hopelessly endearing. Aw, this guy. He belatedly seems to remember what his actual job is and says, "Oh, uh, what can I get you?"
"I have no idea," confesses Castor. "I don't know what most of these options even are."
"Uh... really?" Joel looks up at the complexly chalked menu hanging on the wall behind him. "Well... do you just want like a regular house blend?"
"Yeah, that sounds easy enough," says Castor. "Uh... dark roast, I guess?"
"Coming right up!" says Joel cheerfully. He manages only a few steps of the process before the bell on the door rings and he looks up and stops short, staring at whomever's just walked in with an expression that can only be described as deep longing.
