((figure it's about time to post))
Nick
"The times are tough, and things are bad, so why be dumb and risky? When you see the trouble come, you better just send the whiskey."
Turning to glance at Caius from over his shoulder, Nicolae frowned for only a millisecond. "Tweet tweet." He shot back, grinning widely. Pivoting fully on his heavy boots, he reached an arm forwards to set in Caius what he assumed was the correct payment for the Ducati, the stub of his now used-up clove separating from his lips with a glowing puff as he compulsively rolled the too-short smoke between his teeth. Whoopsie. Ensuring the marks were in Caius's hand and fishing in one of his jacket pockets, he pulled out his rat-chewed wallet and removed a small sheet of paper to verify he had the proper authorization to own a vehicle, flashing it to Caius before slipping it back in and replacing the wallet with a pack of cloves. Removing one and lighting up again, as was his habit, he glanced between the three others in the room idly while he waited for either affirmation or rejection of the payment, taking long drags of the clove.
He had been fairly relaxed today, asides from his occasional musings of his own mortality and the aesthetic improvements that a bit of fire could do for the Butcher Shop. Suddenly, he felt more inclined to wariness. He wasn't particularly suspicious of anyone in the room, perhaps because he was off work, perhaps because he didn't consider any of them a serious threat to him- however he was still nervous. Nick at that moment decided to expect company when he got home; he'd eat his left boot if there wasn't someone waiting on his destroyed, eight year old couch.
Once payment was all sorted out, he'd clap Caius on the shoulder and offer up another genuine word of thanks before walking the beaten Ducati out the door, pulling off to the sidewalk a bit from the door of the shop and considering the handiwork a last time while Caius closed up or spoke to Zoe or whatever. Not shabby at all, he'd been satisfied with the work done to begin with- but now he was very deeply pleased. He really hope his tires weren't shot out or something on the ride back home.
Home. He didn't want to
go home, to see the agent waiting to assign him something. Not that he didn't enjoy some assignment of gratuitous violence, he just wasn't feeling it right now in his calm state. Might as well try to stave away his hearthly arrival as much as humanly possible. Glancing at Ariadne, providing of course she was also outside at that point, he'd raise his brows. "So about that bike," clearing a throat. "Any interest in looking it over while the sun's still half-up?" The orange painting the streets was evidence enough that the day was being gradually throttled by the night- as the orange faded to rust and shadows began to lengthen, the day apparently began to lose a few brain cells from oxygen deprivation. He figured, best get to that repossessions warehouse before the day was totally smothered and had to be hid in the glorified dumpster that was the slum-silhouetted horizon.