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Third Floor Common Room; Monday Morning [10/21].
Monday, October 21st, 2019 05:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
howareyanowAt some point last week, Wayne had been making some notes about some of the regionally inspired breakfasts they'd been having to carry on over to his own Monday Morning Breakfasts, but, really, when all was said and done, when he actually got to making breakfast that morning, he decided, fuck, all that was gonna do was make him him miss the place. Not necessarily miss bein' on vacation, he didn't really do well with idleness and vacations and things like that, but he had enjoyed the trip, and decided maybe getting back to the more traditional stuff could be in order jus' to sort of set up the idea that it was back to the old usual grind again.
So there were pancakes and eggs and bacon and what have you as per usual, and that was all well and dandy, but then there was the whole issue with the coffee, and the fact that what Wayne got when he brewed up a pot was less of life-giving bean juice and more midnight matinee horror show. Because what he got was definitely a pot of what was absolutely fake blood (because real blood didn't really look like that).
He sniffed it, made a face, and poured the whole pot right down the sink and rinsed it out (and the sink, too, lest it look like he was up to something decidedly not breakfast related around here), and tried again. Same thing. Dumped that, figgured mebbe the third time's a charm, but no such luck. Which left him to narrow his eyes at the coffee maker, squinting at it accusingly.
"Now, look here, bud," he said, fully aware that he was standing there, talking to a kitchen appliance, "if you've got a problem with coffee this morning, then you've got a problem with me, an' I suggest you let that one marinate!"
This island had put them through a lot of terrible things, sure but no coffee on a Monday morning after a vacation? Fuck a duck, that was just a whole new level of cruelty that Wayne almost couldn't stand to contemplate.
[[ My schedule's a bit wonky this week, so a bit of SP on my end, more'n likeleh, but open breakfast is definitely open! ]]
So there were pancakes and eggs and bacon and what have you as per usual, and that was all well and dandy, but then there was the whole issue with the coffee, and the fact that what Wayne got when he brewed up a pot was less of life-giving bean juice and more midnight matinee horror show. Because what he got was definitely a pot of what was absolutely fake blood (because real blood didn't really look like that).
He sniffed it, made a face, and poured the whole pot right down the sink and rinsed it out (and the sink, too, lest it look like he was up to something decidedly not breakfast related around here), and tried again. Same thing. Dumped that, figgured mebbe the third time's a charm, but no such luck. Which left him to narrow his eyes at the coffee maker, squinting at it accusingly.
"Now, look here, bud," he said, fully aware that he was standing there, talking to a kitchen appliance, "if you've got a problem with coffee this morning, then you've got a problem with me, an' I suggest you let that one marinate!"
This island had put them through a lot of terrible things, sure but no coffee on a Monday morning after a vacation? Fuck a duck, that was just a whole new level of cruelty that Wayne almost couldn't stand to contemplate.
[[ My schedule's a bit wonky this week, so a bit of SP on my end, more'n likeleh, but open breakfast is definitely open! ]]