savetheearth | [closed]

Daylen blinks at the mask, then up at Anders -- then finally down at Dark.

Dark isn't interest particularly in the masks, more in the fact that Anders is here. Anders is a friend! Thus Anders is having one paw waved at him. It's a nonsense trick, one Dark was taught when they went to classes. Shake paws!

Right now all Daylen can think is that if Dark knew Anders wanted to fix a face-mask to his snout he wouldn't want to shake paws.

That, and the meaning of Anders even bringing one.

He closes the door behind Anders, wets his lips nervous as Dark patiently paws at Anders' leg and sits waiting for a response.

"You think," he says slowly, "that it might be something in the air here rather than... in something I ate or drunk?"

This is getting worse and worse. It's giving him a headache. Or maybe the headache is from the drugs making him hallucinate mysterious networks and writing on bits of paper and lord maybe he should just move. Maybe this entire city is utterly mad.

Anders hesitates. It doesn't sit well with him to wear a mask when Dark can't. Setting the masks on the nearest little tablelike thing to the door, he kneels and proceeds to stroke both Dark's ears between the fingers of either hand. "Woosha woosha," he says to the dog as he does this. "Woosha woosha woosha. I can't say there's something in the air or not. Just that the people I live with don't seem to have been suffering any of these effects, so it can't be a simple matter of industrial contaminants affecting the city at large," an explanation that Anders seems to think would have been the most sensible, from the matter-of-fact way it rolls off his tongue. "What have you been eating and drinking? Only things from your apartment, or have you been out?"

"No, I haven't been out." He frowns at Anders, watching Dark soberly accept the stroking of his ears -- studying Anders expectantly. "I haven't been anywhere but here. I -- I had a drink, before I spoke to you. Before I -- thought about what it might be and I know you shouldn't mix drink and drugs so I... well I looked up symptoms, or side-effects I suppose, to try and work out what it is and nothing really matches. I haven't had a dry mouth or felt high or confused but I think -- am I paranoid? I might be paranoid, and I think my heart is racing and -- and I thought I heard a voice, and then Dark started barking --"

Dark whines nervously at the rambling and the mention of his name, backs away from Anders' hands to turn and sit in front of his master. Something is wrong! Yet what?

Straightening quickly to stand, Anders backs away from the dog as the dog backs away from him. "What's wrong, boy? Did you hear a voice too? Whose voice?"

For the record, he's asking the first two questions to Dark, the last to Daylen.

His name! Both of them are saying his name! Dark, that is him!

... Sadly, Dark is not quite a mabari hound and isn't really sure what is being asked. He whines again and nudges at Daylen's hand, licks it in an attempt to be reassuring.

"I don't know," he says, and moves his hand to ruffle Dark's ears. "I was in the kitchen. Getting myself a drink." He swallows, crouches down in front of Dark to let him lick at his face. "I thought it might be my laptop but I... realised after that I closed it. That should have stopped all the video, shouldn't it? Or... maybe it glitched or something. Only it wasn't right away, it was a good minute or so after and -- if Dark barked then Dark probably heard it too, right? I didn't hallucinate it?"

Anders shakes his head. "I can't possibly guess. Do you want me to guess? Or say something reassuring? False reassurance isn't a thing I do, sorry. Here, this might help, at least," rummaging in that messenger bag and producing a liter of Evian. "Yes, yes, I know, it's horrible, but it's bottled in the Alps or something, isn't it? Which means it's not from here. You need to get hydrated," and he holds the bottle out toward Daylen, over Dark's head.

"Well, a little reassurance might have been nice." Daylen frowns and takes the water nonetheless, uncaps the bottle and drinks like he hasn't drunk all day. Dark whines again, aware of the unhappiness, and stands to pace restlessly. Finishing about a third the water Daylen stops, touches the back of his hand to his lips to try and calm himself a moment then recaps the bottle. "Should I eat something? I suppose I don't even know what's safe to eat. Should I just throw everything out? How can I know?"

Daylen's agitation seems paradoxically to calm Anders. Yet as Daylen makes an effort to calm himself, Anders has no such inhibition. "How'm I supposed to know? I'm a veterinarian, not a doctor, Daylen!" Parenthetically, he modifies this: "An unlicensed veterinarian, in this jurisdiction!" He wipes his palms on the thighs of jeans worn chamois-soft with age. "You could throw out everything. That would be sensible." From the messenger bag he pulls out a packet of Ryvita crackers and tosses it at Daylen, expecting him to catch it. "Here, that's a packaged food, that ought to be safe. I think. I mean, I didn't check it for puncture marks or anything."

He sets the bag down with a thump and starts to pace a portion of the room. A limited portion, suitable to someone who paces much smaller rooms. "Obviously the safest thing would be to leave the city. This thing's much bigger than I thought. Perhaps it's not an improv group at all -- or it is, but it's in the pay of corporate interests. Nothing makes sense. But leaving the city would be just what they want, don't you think? I'm not going to let this scare me off."

Daylen awkwardly catches the crackers one-handed, hugs them towards himself and moves away to set the bottle of water on a side table -- drops himself to sit on one of the sofas and sighs. Dark follows forlornly, stands with his head resting on Daylen's knee and wags his tail slowly.

"I've only just moved here, I can't exactly pack my things and leave already. For one thing I'm locked into an agreement on this place for at least six months. Come on, at least sit down."

He pulls open the packet of crackers, holds it out Anders since he can't offer him much else and they are his in the first place.

"That's what happens when a person gets attached to material things," says Anders, paragon of austerity, "you can't just pack up and leave when you need to, the material world is restrictive." He shakes his head and holds his hand palm-out to ward off the crispbread. "I've eaten. You could give some to Dark, I hadn't got any proper dog food --" proper by Anders' exacting standards -- "oh! But that reminds me."

Sitting as bidden, he yanks the bag toward him by its long strap and produces something bulky and reflective orange.

"I got your dog something."

The fetters of the material world.

Anders is sitting down! This means Anders is now closer to Dark's level, so promptly the Labrador switches attention to him -- tail wagging as it approaches and shoves its nose into the bag curiously.

"Dark!" Daylen chides, and closes fingers through the dog's collar to draw it back a little. The dog moves as indicated, glancing with a slightly guilty look before sitting and tilting its head at Anders. "What is it? Some sort of winter jacket?" He takes a cracker from the box regardless, holds it out for Dark who gently takes it from between Daylen's fingers and lays down in front of Anders to eat it -- resting it between large paws.

Unfolding the bulky wad of waterproof stuff and straps, Anders holds it up to show. "It's a harness with a pack on either side. Not just for hiking and things, it could be for urban use, so it's got reflectors in case of cars. It's got collapsible waterbags --" with some fussing, Anders is able to demonstrate this feature, a demonstration somewhat underwhelming due to absence of liquid to fill out the plastic sacks -- "that's what made me think he needed it. Because we couldn't trust the municipal water supply even before all this business with the improv people, surely."

He tilts his head at Dark. Anders' short ponytail is coming loose, freeing locks of hair to either side of his face. "What do you think? Urban explorer dog."

Dark looks up at the word 'dog' (for that is Dark! Dark is a dog!) and tilts his head curiously.

"That's very sweet of you," Daylen says, since Dark is not capable of voicing an opinion. "Thank you."

It draws a smile from him, a real smile rather than forced reassurance, and he moves off the sofa -- leaves the crackers behind to crouch beside Dark and stroke him with one hand as he feels the material of the harness with the other. Dark instant gets to his feet, tail wagging as he excitedly looks between Daylen and Anders. Something is happening!

Edited (no lets be smiley) 2014-01-08 20:46 (UTC)

"It is not sweet, it's practical," Anders objects, though he's smiling a little too at Dark's doggy enthusiasm. "You don't think he'll mind wearing it? Labradors are generally good about that kind of thing, and I think the straps are fairly forgiving in terms of size ... we ought to try it on, just to make sure."

It proves to fit well. Anders sits back on his heels and regards the newly-outfitted dog thoughtfully. "Perfect. Now he's ready for anything. Or he will be, once there's actually stuff in the pockets." Watching Daylen and the dog together, the clear companionship between them, Anders is pleased by the rightness of it. Daylen is what might be termed a good dog guardian.

"Has he been acting at all out of the ordinary, since he touched, you know. That costume. The robes. I assume he was carrying them in his mouth."

Edited (bioware is not nice people) 2014-01-11 15:30 (UTC)

Dark does not have a problem with wearing a doggy harness, mostly because it means Dark is getting lots of attention! Everyone is on the floor, at Dark's level! Are they going to play?

Daylen gently restrains Dark, who is starting to climb on Anders over-excitedly, and rubs his front while trying to persuade him to sit.

"Out of the ordinary? No, not at all. Why? You don't think they'd hurt Dark, do you?"

The thought makes Daylen frown and clutch his dog a little tighter, which makes Dark squirm and try to try to lick his face. Silly human. Nothing will hurt Dark, Dark is a warrior dog!

Edited (typo) 2014-01-11 16:21 (UTC)

"Shh, it's all right, puppyface," Anders tries to soothe as Dark attempts to clamber on and over him. Other than that, he keeps still, letting Daylen take the lead in dog management. No one knows a dog better than its guardian. Once Dark has calmed, Anders rises onto his knees to lean far over toward the couch where the crackers have been left. He's tall and long enough to reach them without getting up.

"I don't have the impression they would hurt an animal deliberately. I'm just wondering whether there's any substance in or on the robes that would have caused our shared delusion. It would have had to be something that absorbs through the skin ..." Having succeeded in cracker retrieval, he sits back down in a sudden flop and laughs to himself with little mirth. "This sounds ridiculous. Even I know that, while I'm saying it. Only how else to explain -- all that?"

Puppyface has no idea why it would not be all right. He just wants to lick his friend! Licking is apparently not allowed though so he sits back, lets Daylen massage his shoulders gently while he listens to Anders.

"It does sound a little strange." Daylen lets out a heavy sigh, presses his face against Dark's fur. Dark half glances back, one ear twitching as he tries to work out the meaning of the action, then looks at Anders. Perhaps Anders knows what is going on? His ears flick forward again expectantly, awaiting an explanation for all the strange behaviour. "All of this is a little strange," Daylen continues, one hand still smoothing Dark's fur. "Although, I admit, it is a little better for having someone I know to suffer it with me. Thank you for your patience, Anders."

Anders ducks his head as if to evade whatever mild commendation Daylen intends to bestow. "Patience isn't exactly something I'm known for. Thank you for thinking so, I guess." For something to do, he turns the package of crackers over in his hands. He likes to fiddle with things. He wishes he had knitting to do -- a fad when he was in college, something he picked up because there were often a few girls knitting in this class or that, and he wanted to show solidarity or something with them, and also there was this really cute girl who offered to teach him -- maybe he ought to pick it up again. A better habit than some he could revisit.

He clears his throat. "What you said, about it being better to have someone you know. We didn't actually know one another very well before all this began, did we? We had a class together, we sat together and talked sometimes, I read your textbooks. And when the semester was over we might wave to one another on the rare occasions our paths might cross. That was all. Friendly enough, but up until you warned those cops off me the other day, I hadn't thought of you in years." He smooths the crinkly cellophane. "That's what makes this, this hallucination we had, particularly strange. Or vision, or -- I really hesitate to call it memory. There's no good reason the two of us should have shared it."

Daylen hesitates -- mostly because he'd considered Anders a friend, and the way Anders describes it he hadn't considered him as such.

Of course, he knew his bar for friendship was set low. He shut people out so much that anyone who even regularly associated with him regardless of that qualified.

Still, it leaves him feeling peculiarly silly.

He frowns and tries to ignore that, engages evasive tactics to give himself time to recover.

"I suppose," he says, since he can't outright say he agrees. That would be a lie, not because he thinks they had good reason to share a peculiar hallucination (of course he doesn't, it makes no sense) but because he'd clearly placed more importance on that company that Anders had.

Neutral face. Don't act pathetic.

Dark helpfully picks this moment to move closer and inspect the box of crackers Anders is playing with but not sharing, thus losing Daylen some of his cover.

He frowns, betrayed by his loyal dog. There is no justice in the world.

"And yet in this hallucination," Anders continues, oblivious to Daylen's discomfiture -- Dark has helped more than either of them knew, as Anders gives his attention to the dog's need for crackers -- "I had the complete and utter conviction that you were extremely important. Not just to me, but ... all right, you were important to me. I remember feeling not just afraid for myself, but afraid for you, when you were standing up to the armored lady and her armored goons."

He feels a flash of irritation at the way Anders carries on with this train of thought, as if the whole thing is now being rubbed in further. It's strange how you were so important to me in that hallucination, since you weren't at all really!

Or at least that's how it feels. Well, that's put him in his place.

Daylen frowns deeper, irritation temporarily outweighing his awkwardness, and draws Dark back a little before he can nose directly into the cracker box.

"Yes," he says dryly, "they did seem a lot stronger than me. Dark, leave that alone."

"Is his intake restricted?" Anders glances up guiltily from the cracker package he's on the verge of opening for the dog. "His appetite's a good sign, I would think. Since he had that robe in his mouth but he isn't feeling ill." Conscientiously, he scoots away from the dog a little, and folds the end of the package over. "Those people weren't stronger than you, that's just it. They were but they weren't ..." Now Anders is frowning, too, and rubbing at his temple with his free hand. "I can't explain, it was just something I knew. That they could have hurt us both very badly, but they weren't allowed, because you had more power. Somehow. And that if they had hurt you, it would have been worse than if they'd hurt me."

Drawing his knees up to his chest, he hugs them with both arms and holds the crackers in front of him like a bouquet. "That feeling hasn't gone away."

If Daylen were an interest in a romance novel or film this would be the point where he flushed, or his eyes widened and he realised something, or some form of event horizon was hit and by the end of the hour they'd be flirting at least. Perhaps even kissing.

Sadly, Daylen and Anders are the last people who should be starring in any kind of romance. Cracker packages just simply aren't romantic, and Daylen is far too set into his grumpy irritation to even realise that there is a compliment somewhere under all that.

Consequently, he simply arches an eyebrow and regards the cracker box in deep suspicion.

"Perhaps it is something in the water, then," he says -- missing the point entirely. "If the feeling hasn't gone away." There's a pause as he drops his eyes to Dark, who is staring fixedly at the cracker box in expectation. "Give him one if you want," he says finally, rolling his eyes a little as he finally accepts that he's going to be betrayed over boxes of crackers. Dark looks up at Daylen, sensing this might mean something, then back quickly to the box. Sometimes if he waits long enough the humans reward patience with food.

Alas, Anders' manic pixie dream boy years have long since given way to drearier days. Morose banshee fugue boy, perhaps. "I'd absolutely advise against drinking the tap water, no matter what." Relieved that the dog has received guardian permission for a cracker -- it would be so difficult to deny those labrador eyes -- he breaks one into pieces, to make it last longer, and holds up the first piece to drop into Dark's mouth.

"Anyway it doesn't make sense. All right, yes, you're a civil rights lawyer, which is fantastic, and I'm sorry I ever believed you'd grow up to be a corporate shill. You contribute to the community, even to the world in a larger sense. But -- I mean no offense -- you're not the savior of all humankind, yes? You're not Captain Planet," and then Anders is a little surprised at himself for blurting that out. It's been a long time since he felt real respect and admiration for Captain Planet! Nonetheless that's how he remembers feeling about Daylen Amell, in that vision or hallucination or vignette. That Daylen Amell was important to Anders in particular, because of something about Anders -- something unstated. Fashion sense? No idea. Something to do with why those knights were after him. And more than that: that Amell was ultimately important to everyone. That this was why he could hold off those knights with only words, but this was also why he'd be a far greater loss to the world than Anders could ever be.

Which Anders would not say about any lawyer, thanks.

Dark surges out of Daylen's arms and delicately takes the piece of cracker from Anders, chewing it and expectantly waiting for more. Daylen sits back and sighs.

Be nice, he instructs himself, even as he resentfully watches his dog fawn over Anders. There was actually an apology in there, even if it was for something else Daylen didn't know Anders thought of him so rather digs the hole deeper before filling it in a little, so Daylen should accept it and stop regarding him with a dark stare that seems as if it might be willing him to set on fire. Or at least feel very guilty about something, very soon.

"Definitely not. If I was Captain Planet," he says -- and he can feel his mind screaming don't say that even as he says it anyway, "I suppose we might have at least been friends."

That was mean. He feels bad for it instantly, but he can't take it back so he frowns at his traitorous dog instead.

Dark doesn't care. Dark is waiting patiently for more crackers.

Edited (Anders is not a dog and also I cannot type on an iPad) 2014-01-15 20:34 (UTC)

This time, Anders tosses a piece of cracker to bounce across Daylen's floor, like a stone skipping over water, for Dark to chase. "If you were Captain Planet," says Anders seriously, "you wouldn't want a friend like me. Also, you'd have a green mullet."

He's gotten away with the remark somehow, and Daylen feels a slight tension he'd taken on in expectation of reprimand give way. He scowls, partly at the cracker skittering over his clean floor and partly at the remark. In the back of his mind he tries to memorise the spot where Dark is now licking up crumbs, to remember when his cleaner is coming next. Also, not to walk about here with bare feet.

"Green hair wouldn't suit me anyway," he says, although he isn't sure why he knows this. It just seems like it wouldn't. He's never changed his hair colour, or his hair cut really for that matter. A mullet would probably be bad, too.

Watching with vicarious satisfaction as Dark smacks his chops, Anders snorts at Daylen's comment. "About as well as a hoop earring suits me. What did I think I was, Carmen Miranda? I'm pretty sure I was wearing a fancier dress than yours, too."

"You looked like a pirate," Daylen announces, watching Dark pad back and point his ears forward at Anders. What does this snorting sound mean? Is there a threat? If not, will there be more crackers? "Or at the very least a merchant prince of some sort. Don't feed him too many," he adds, causing Dark to glance back at him for a second before re-focusing on Anders. "He isn't meant to beg for food."

Anders protests on Dark's behalf. "He isn't begging! Look how polite he is about it. He's just being sociable; sharing food is sociable." All the same, he holds back the piece he had intended to give next. Better to save it until Dark gives him an especially mournful look. "Me, a merchant prince. I should have been able to buy off those knights if I were. Isn't that how feudalism works?"

Anders' notion of feudalism is based on dim recollections of poring over the Communist Manifesto. It is a stage on the way to capitalism, that's the gist of it. The finer points of fealty lie beyond his ken.

"Maybe I was in a musical. Big fur shoulder pads and a gold embroidered skirt, what kind of pirate wears that, a Gilbert and Sullivan type?" Wishful thinking. The memory was not one of play-acting. Disconsolate, he stretches out on the floor, slumping to an obtuse angle that involves leaning his back against Daylen's couch and lolling his head back on the edge of the seat cushion to stare at the ceiling as though watching clouds form. "A stupid pirate with a stupid earring."

Dark is indeed very polite. Since food is not being shared he sits, patiently watching Anders' hands and the cracker box. Sometimes the human feeds you if you sit. If that does not work he can always try giving his paw again, or laying down.

"To be in a musical," he begins, "you'd need to be able to dance or at least sing. If you were in a musical I was too, and I'm afraid I can definitely do neither."

A weary laugh, somewhat anemic. "Some people have the knack, some people don't. You've never seen my spicy shimmy." Anders rolls his head to the side, neck bolstered against the couch seat, so he can look sidelong at Daylen. "Have you had any luck forgetting that vision? Before mister labrador did his retrieving act and dragged those robes into your life, anyway."

"No," he says, but it's a touch absent. His mind is whirring.

Magic isn't for your amusement! Why don't I just do a little dance? Anders' Spicy Shimmy?

Daylen blinks slowly, shifts to draw Dark toward himself so he can hug the dog like an oversized toy. Dark turns reluctantly from stalking the cracker box, patiently lets himself be re-arranged and swishes his tail along the floor. Dark is happy! Dark does not being held! However Dark would prefer to be eating crackers, thus does shoot a glance backwards towards the box.

"I don't understand this," Daylen says flatly. It's happening again. He's remembering things that he should not remember, that have not happened. Maybe he should go and see a doctor. Maybe he's finally losing his mind. "I remember you saying that before."

Not that he's clarifying what, but for now that isn't the point.

"Pardon?" Idly Anders walks his third and forefinger along the floor beside him, kicking up each at regular intervals, mimicry of a dancer in a chorus line, in tune to an unsung melody. One, singular sensation! Every little step he takes! One, something combination! Da da da-da-da-dum, and that's all he remembers, his recollection of showtunes is not the world's greatest.

Dark has seen those fingers moving and is interested. What is the human doing? Why are they not opening the cracker box for him? Is that not what fingers are for?

"I remember you saying it," Daylen repeats a little more slowly. "In your Gilbert and Sullivan pirate outfit. Someone -- a woman, very short, with tattoos on her face -- was asking you to set a bush on fire. You wouldn't, said to her Why don't I just do a little dance? Anders' Spicy Shimmy?"

The fingers halt mid-kick and trail to Anders' side, their dance forgotten. "You say that like it's a trademark. It was just a turn of phrase," and Anders didn't even think about saying it, any more than all the other half-assed puns and flights of metaphorical fancy he tosses around to season his speech. He's never been one to think deeply before he speaks. Now he feels oddly as though Daylen is accusing him of something, he can't put his finger on what. Accusing him of snarking at a short tattooed lady, he supposes.

He sits up slowly. Afraid to move too quickly, lest he dizzy himself. Puts a hand to his head. "Tell me," he says, "why this woman with the face tattoos wanted me to set a bush on fire."

"I'm not sure," he says -- because all he remembers is the conversation. An abstract thing on its own. "To see if you could, perhaps, for fun. At least, that is what you seemed to think. That it was just for her own amusement."

Magic isn't for your amusement! Anders says in his head, and he finds himself circling the phrase warily like it might bite. Magic?

He thinks he might need a drink, only that might make it worse if they are drugged. What if this is a sign it's getting worse?

"I don't --"

Think that ever happened. Only before he can say it, that horrible feeling creeps over him again, smothers him like a blanket over a bell, and he is a hollow thing shaken by reverberations from an unseen blow.

"Fuck," he mutters, and folds up like a knife, springs to his feet. "We need to get out of here. Open all the windows first. Bring the dog."

Open all the windows? It isn't good to leave your windows open! What if someone breaks in?!

Daylen clambers to his feet slowly, one hand reaching down to loop fingers through Dark's collar.

"You think someone in the apartment is doing this." It's a statement rather than a question, there doesn't seem any other reason for Anders to want to leave so quickly. "Where would we go?"

Someone, or something; probably not in the apartment, but perhaps nearby; perhaps with access to the ventilation system. The details are unknowable and therefore do not matter near as much as getting out of here. Anders has already donned his coat and shouldered his messenger bag. "Where? Anywhere public. Just for a couple of hours, until your place airs out. Leave the harness on the dog, we'll say he is a service animal in training so he can come with us. Or, hell, we can just sit in the car. My car or yours? Better be yours, someone's been into mine already, to leave that earring."

Daylen watches the flurry of activity with a slight frown, exchanging an uncertain glance with Dark.

Dark is less uncertain. Andes is putting on his coat! Does that mean they are going out? Dark is excited! They are going out!

Daylen sighs and lets go of Dark, lets him bound circles around Anders for a moment as he grabs his own coat.

"I don't even know where will be open," he protests -- mostly because he can. "It is Christmas Eve, you know."

Christmas Eve which he has spent the first half of worrying he was drugged and now possibly the second half of hiding in his car from people or drugs or both. He picks up Dark's leash and glances back, catches the Labrador to clip it on to the harness. What wonderful holiday memories this will make. He resolves to definitely not tell his mother about this if she rings.

Anders thinks a moment. "Denny's. Denny's is always open. And no one could expect either of us there." Daylen because surely he wouldn't touch such low-class cuisine in such a low-class ambiance. Anders because who knows where that food comes from, the place probably serves Smithfield ham from battery farms marred with huge manure lagoons.

To his credit Daylen demonstrates incredible self control in this moment. He barely hesitates in his movements, doesn't let his expression change at all to reflect his internal reaction.

His internal reaction of Denny's? Well as long as I don't have to eat anything...

Dark bounces between them excitedly, because a walk! They're going for a walk! Daylen just looks up and flickers a faint smile. He's going to be spending Christmas Eve in Denny's with Anders of all people. His mother would have fits if she knew.

"Denny's it is, then," he says -- and swipes up his keys and wallet.

"Don't get too excited, puppyface," Anders admonishes the gleeful dog. "I'd sooner feed you Purina than the stuff they call food where we're going. Full of toxins, who knows where it's sourced."

But better there than here. Anders has never suffered a bizarre hallucination about tattooed dwarves while in a Denny's, which is more than he can say for Daylen's apartment now.

He insists on opening the windows and turning on all the fans to maximum force before they leave, even the vent hood above the stove. Apparently Daylen's building is too chic for ceiling fans to be a thing. "Unless you don't plan on coming home tonight, you'll really want this whole place to air out, I should think."

Dark doesn't know what Purina or toxins are. Dark, therefore, continues to be excited. Things are happening! They are going out!

Daylen, on the other hand, simply arches an eyebrow as all his windows are opened and fans turned on. He opens the door when Anders is finally done, tilts his head at him cynically.

"Now, now, Anders. First date rules, of course I'm coming back. By midnight, too, or we'll cause a scandal."

Edited (typo) 2014-01-18 21:25 (UTC)

Anders huffs a silent chuckle-snort of a laugh. "Right, or you'll turn into a pumpkin and your dog will be in rags. Come along then, Cinderella, before we start hallucinating singing mice."

"Cinderella didn't go to Denny's, as far as I know."

He pulls the door behind them with a click, flashes Anders a faint smile before glancing back to turn the bottom lock. Dark dances in place by Daylen's feet and surges away from the door as they make their way down the hall.

He's only ridden in Daylen Amell's car once before, and as before, he feels as though he ought to disapprove of it on general principle. Two families of migrant workers could live for a year off the sum that car must've cost. Perhaps Anders' unease will be obvious -- or perhaps it can be chalked up to the discomfort of more crazy Ren Faire memories descending.

"That woman," Anders says, once they're ensconced in the objectionable vehicle, dog and all. "The one with the tattooed face. Do you recall her name?"

Because I do. Now. Though I've never seen her before in my life, surely.

Dark is lounging peaceably on the back seat on a rug, alternating glancing out the passenger window and ahead. Daylen is just glad he's grown past the period where he used to like to pace the back seat -- for one it had made it hard to see out the back window, but on top of that he'd been worried if he had to stop suddenly Dark might be thrown across the car.

Looking away from the rear view mirror (where he'd been watching Dark as they sat at the traffic lights, making sure he wasn't up to something) he glances sideways at Anders and frowns at the question. The tattooed woman (and doesn't that sound mysterious, like a character that should be in some sort of mystery book rather than a peculiar memory) and her conversation were still clear when he pulled them up. Distance from his accommodation hadn't seemed to dim anything yet.

"Yes," he says quietly, fingers shifting on the steering wheel as he waits for the lights to change. "Sigrun."

[closed]

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