It's Sunday afternoon, and Saturday night seems a million years away.

Diane slinks in Monroe's, feeling self-concious, and finds herself a seat in the corner, removing a pair of black sunglasses, the sort that just scream 'Hollywood carcrash starlet'. She sets them on the table in front of her.

Ten minutes past one, and she hasn't been up for more then half an hour, but she's ravenously hungry. She could demolish, well, almost anything. And coffee. She'll murder for a coffee. She doesn't believe in hair of the dog that bit you, and anyway, as yesterday's escapade proved, you shouldn't start drinking until suppertime. She's just happy that she woke up in her own bed.

She feels a right mess, though, her tortured hair, streaked red, white and black, knotted at the back of her neck, just to get it out of her way, and her make-up thick, but basic. Just foundation, mascara, and thick eyeliner making her green eyes look more tired, if possible, then she is. There's a tube of lipstick in her pocket, but she can't be bothered to apply it.

She's dressing down, as in, the first things she tripped over when she got over bed. Black jeans, fitted to her less then skinny legs, a black tee-shirt, and long, fingerless 'net gloves. Her trench is in a pile on the seat beside her.

"What can I get you," a bored looking waitress wants to know.

Diane stifles a yawn, and can't really think what she actually wants to eat, besides the proverbial horse. "Coffee," she says. "Black. Please. And..." Uhm, think quick. "A grilled cheese sandwich. With fries. Thanks."

Because that's a perfectly good brekkie, right? And it's a perfectly good time to have breakfast.

"This seat taken?" Aaron asks smiling, dropping lightly into the opposite chair without waiting for an answer, "Thanks."

He smooths out his pants reflexively, the pockets of his khaki cargo's stuffed with random bits of twaddle, hailing a passing waiter. Eggs, with all the sides except hash browns. Over easy, thank you. Oh and some coffee would be lovely.

As the waiter retreats, he resettles his glasses over bloodshot eyes. He hasn't slept much either, but he rarely sleeps anyway, so he's used to it. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the metal tabletop, his smirk deepens. He sizes Diane up with laughing eyes taking note of he state of disrepair with almost a chuckle, particularly over the crumpled trench coat as if thinking of some dirty joke.

For a moment his attention is diverted to the rest of the greasy spoon. Rapidly, he flicks his eyes over each of the patrons and employees. It is almost as if he expects something to happen amid the clank and hiss of cooking food and low hum of chatter. Satisfied that all is well, he breaks away from examining the room with its whitewashed walls and returns to regard his counterpart.

"So," he asks, his smile slowly adopting a wry twist, "how does a pretty girl like you manage to sit all by her lonesome?" for a moment though, a touch of concern colors his words.

Diane thinks maybe it's too early in the day for this sort of thing. Her mind is moving at the speed of a rubber slug but feels considerably more slimy. Social interaction functions are not operating effectively, and this guy is giving her the feeling that he might just be laughing at her.

She yawns again, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, and gives him a quick looking over. He needs new glasses, she notes, but nothing else stands out as interesting. Her eyes wander over the back of his head, looking for the waitress. She wants her bloody coffee.

"I can manage quite well," she informs him, "an' you're sittin' on my invisible friend."

Honestly, some people just don't check where they sit. They should be more careful, because one day they're gonna end up sitting on a hedgehog.

His smirk broadens to a grin, "Please forgive me then, and you too. I am very sorry."

He gets up and mimes moving someone to a nearby chair, before resuming his place in the chair. His pantomime finished he adopts a more serious manner. A bit of a spark in this one, he remarks silently to himself.

"Before you claim to 'manage quite well', you might want to consider your position. You are, as I said, a pretty girl, if disheveled. You are also quite obviously not at your best, certainly not used to the amount of rest you have, since you're yawning so much. A person like this just screams target at me. So you might want to check," he reaches into one of his voluminous pockets and pulls out an awfully familiar tube of lipstick, "If I've taken anything else."

With a casual shrug he rolls the tube across the table, "To tell the truth, I'm surprised you weren't followed. Thievery isn't the worst that could happen to a lady in your state. Of course, if you were to be seen, say eating, with another person with more collected wits. You'd look like a more difficult mark," he smirked slightly, before returning to a more sincere and serious face, "Ma'am, might I join you for the meal?"

Diane's pale hand darts out from underneath the table and snatches up the tube of lipstick. Her nails are painted fire truck red, but only a few scraps of the colour remain.

She slides the lipstick down the neck of her tee-shirt, dropping it into her bra. She figures she'll notice if anyone removes it from there.

"Nothing else in my pockets," she tells him, wondering what the hell he wants. Because if he wants to ingratiate himself to her, taking her lipstick wasn't the best plan. It's her last stick. "You think I look bad," she wants to know. "This isn't bad. This just means I had fun yesterday. I can look much worse then this, with minimal effort."

And what if I tell you I don't want you sitting there, she wonders. She doubts he'll just leave. And he does have a point of sorts. She stretches her hand all the way across the table.

"It's Diane," she says. "Not ma'am."

"Aaron Clarke, always a pleasure," he replies, taking her in a firm but gentle grip holding on perhaps a moment longer than necessary, "Ah! and here's the food... well yours anyway."

The waitress places the coffee and sandwich before going off to administer to a few new arrivals. Aaron smiles diverting his attention to the new comers a moment before again returning his attention to the table.

"Anyway, even if your pockets aren't empty, mine are already full. I could hardly try and fill them with someone else's things," he says in a not-so-reassuring manner, "and if that is how you look after having fun, I should wonder just what you've been doing. Though, please do not be offended by my earlier comment, I meant to say that you seemed... put together in a hurry, I didn't mean to in-" there is a crash and in a blink he's spun to face the sound, arms off the table and hands half clenched into fists with his feat set to leap from his chair. It was just a dropped pan.

Slowly, he turns back to face the table, though now a length of brown twine is visible peeking out from his shirt collar like a necklace, "I hope those weren't my eggs."

Retrieving her hand from his grasp, Diane slips it under the table, automatically wiping it on her jeans. Not that she's paranoid about germs – and even if she were, her jeans aren't really the cleanest things. It's more to rid her palm of his essence.

The falling tray doesn't seem to bother her at all. She doesn't even start. Her attention has already been snatched by the steaming cup on the table in front of her.

Ah, coffee. Both her hands reappear to cradle the mug, and she brings it towards her face, inhaling deeply, but not actually taking a sip. Just the smell and the warmth seem to perk her up a bit. She offers Aaron a tentative smile.

“Just fell outta bed,” she admits. “This crap was just what I tripped on going out the door.”

Like she'd been planning on going out without getting dressed at all.

Setting her coffee down without having taken a sip, she feels through the front and back pockets of her jeans, and then through her coat. “Fluff,” she announces, putting a piece of dryer lint on the table between herself and Aaron and following it up with a couple other items. “Two American cents, and a Snickers wrapper. You'd be welcome to it.”

"Nah, you may keep your American funny-money and the wrapper, as tempting as the latter may be. The lint I might have room for," he says with a chuckle. A touch of sarcasm, perhaps smarter than I thought...

A moment later the waitress returns with his food, carefully depositing each plate in front of him, he fiddles in one of his pocket and when she finishes he taps her by the pocket and thanks her courteously. She retreats.

For a moment he regards his meal for a moment, wondering why he ordered this much, before digging into the spread, systematically demolishing items clockwise on the plates and from left to right towards a similarly steaming cup of delicious joe waiting at the other end.

"So, wanna make a wager as to how long it will take that waitress to notice a new five in her pocket?" he asks with a smirk as he busied himself with the sausage.

Diane picks up her sandwich, and gives it a long, contemplative look through eyes that are narrowed with fatigue. She doesn't seem inclined to actually eat it. It's strange how fast hunger can fade into the background.

“I don' know,” she says, putting the sandwich back on the plate. She's aware that this lack of immediate desire to cram it all into her mouth as fast as possible is either a sign of serious illness, or that she really had too much to drink.

“You wouldn' really win much,” she points out, picking up the coffee again, and this time putting it to her chapped lips and taking a tentative sip. “It's fluff, two Yankee cents, or half a tube of lipstick. That's really all I'm worth.”

Aaron breaks from his food to regard her, glancing from her untouched food to her fatigued face. He opened his mouth about to ask if she was feeling alright, not eating was a sure sign of trouble. Even after eating well last night, better than any time in the past few months with leftovers to spare and he still was eating. He decided against it so as not to bruise her pride.

'Why do I even care about this unnish human?' he wonders, it seems that against his better judgment he's stared to take a shine to her. Lost in his thoughts, he absently begins to scratch the back of his neck, clawing at it like a dog before he realizes what he's doing.

He stops himself quickly though and glances at her furtively, hoping she didn't see that or think it too strange. 'And that is why you cannot associate with these people,' he thinks at himself, 'One slip and you've got to take the responsibility of telling them and making them believe you're no harm or kill them before they run screaming into the streets.'

"Well," he says aloud, studying her face to see her reaction, "If that's all your worth, might I pay your bill as compensation for the honor of sitting with you?"

Diane takes another sip of coffee, obviously unaware of anything strange in her companion. It's not that she doesn't notice he's scratching his neck – it simply doesn't occur to her that there's anything strange in the action. She sets the cup down, running a chipped nail along the rim, and shakes her head.

“Nah, I'm good,” she says. Usually she doesn't mind letting people pay for her. God knows she needs the cash. But she doesn't really trust this guy, not as far as she could throw him. Her stole her lipstick, so he'd not exactly radiating honesty. “Snickers wrappers, y'know, they're worth quite a bit, round here.”

She picks up half of the sandwich and takes a bite. Melted cheese trails between the bread and her lips. It's hot, but not quite hot enough to burn her and it's good. She sighs a small happy grilled-cheese-sandwich sigh and takes another bite before returning her attention to Aaron.

Now, what the hell does he want? What could anyone want? Money? Not from her, as she's definitely not got any. People who want either help or company tend to pick on people who look better off then them, so not that. She doesn't view herself as being particularly attractive – maybe she's pretty, but c'mon. There's really too much of her for most people's taste. So...

She gives up. She has no idea what he's after.

He notes she's started to eat and is pleased, himself most of the way finished. Then in the back of his head he starts to wonder what impulse drove him to follow her three blocks into the diner, and for that matter why hadn't he left long ago? Certainly not his next meal, all other things being equal, she seemed to have a modicum of intelligence. No not for food.

He's becoming more and more lost in thought, glaring at a blemish in the table as though trying to divine some secret from it. Absently he pokes at something beneath his shirt. The chime of the door opening breaks him from his reverie.

"Oh, bother," he mutters, watching the new patron take a seat. Well, this town just got a lot more difficult. He looks back to Diane a bit more on edge, nervously resettling his glasses on his nose, "I, ah, I should probably leave you in peace shortly," he stammers apologetically. 'Well that resolves this matter...' he thinks, making furtive glances at the new comer.

He seems a bit spacey, she's thinking. So maybe he's on something. Or maybe he's just tired. She doesn't really care. She eats the sandwich, and the pickle, and the fries in silence, washing it down with gulps of the coffee.

She glances up when the door opens. Not startled - simply interested. Her eyes follow the newcomer, watch him sit down, and then return to Aaron. "Someone you know," she suggests, one dark eyebrow arching up, and then other sinking a little. "Someone you know and don't like."

She wishes he'd stop fiddling with his glasses, because it's gonna drive her crazy. The glasses are quite bad enough on their own. She'd been walking into walls if she had to, as opposed to wearing them. Apparently not everyone's quite that vain.

For a moment he's shouting in his head, 'Please don't notice me, please don't notice me,' over and over before violently reproaching himself, 'What if it's a psychic?' He sighs slightly, why do they all have to smell so bloody similar? With a quick motion he swipes his glasses of his face, folds them up, and stuffs them in one pocket.

"No, that one I do not know," he says with a growl butting into his voice, drawing his eyes back to Diane, "If I did, or rather if it knew me, things would get very bad, very fast between us."

It's becoming more and more obvious he's fighting to remain calm. He's gritted his teeth to suppress the reflex to run or jump at the other. For a second, he thinks of Diane and pities the thought that if the shit hits the fan here, she'd be right in between them. The thought passes as instinct starts to gain an edge on the rest of him.

So much for coffee.

Ah, thank god. The glasses are gone. She really couldn't deal with those glasses. She reaches across the table, taking his hands, and rearranging his fingers, threading them together and pressing his middle fingers against eachother.

"Cross your thumbs," she commands, a bit of a smirk playing around the corners of her mouth. She catches his eyes and tries to hold his gaze. "Why? Who are they? Bad at making friends or something? Or did you pinch something more valuble then my lipstick?"

With a sight grimace of irritation he wrenches his had back from her, then realizes just what she'd said. She's asking to be initiated. He blinks a second, unsure what to say.

Ok, maybe now's a good time for coffee.

With a slight shake of his head he snatches up his cup and downs the steaming mixture, draining the entire cup in one giant gulp. Staring at the hot cup, 'Great, now I've burnt my throat, peachy.' He sets the cup down gently, ignoring the pain. Just the jolt he needed to start thinking clearly.

"*cough* No, though I 'pinch something more valuable than lipstick' quite often, this is a bit more fundamental a conflict and explaining it might do more harm than good right now," he said to keep her from looking at him with that pitiful, questioning look.

'What did father teach you?' a part of him hissed, 'If anyone finds you out, you must be sure they cannot or will not tell! Any human, inish or unnish, who finds you out will try to kill you.' He shook his head to dismiss the train of thought then he remembered something else his father had told him, 'No initiated being is to expose themselves to the general public.'

"Aww, fuck," he mutter to himself, if the other one knows, the only reason he's still alive is because he's in the diner, surrounded by normal people.

"No, really," Diane says. She's almost but not quite smiling and she folds her hands together like she was trying to do to his. "Do this. It'll help. It's for clarity of mind."

She's trying to work out the situation, but not trying very hard. Something's going on. That's obvious. She's just not sure she cares to know what. She unlaces her fingers and takes another sip of her coffee, with a sideways glance towards the person who's causing Aaron all this grief.

"I don' think they've noticed you," she says softly, looking back at Aaron. The half smile is still hovering around her face. It's definately in her eyes. "Or they're doing a good job of faking they haven't. So hands together like I said, and breath. In an' out. Deep."

With the manner of a reticent child, Aaron does as she asks. After a few deep breaths, he does feel marginally better. Still, the marked scent of charged air is unnerving, but she is right, he hasn't caught a glance since it came in. He calms a bit more but doesn't drop his guard a moment.

'Six days here and I'm already out of my bloody wits,' he thinks to himself, then rationalizing, 'It should be a while yet before anyone takes notice of the bones and even then some more time before anyone starts looking for one like me...'

"Do you know if there's a back way out of this place?" he asks quietly, still trying to impress a need to get the hell out of there to her. He was starting to miss his glasses, even if with them his eyes weren't so keen as most, they did give him a bit of help in seeing.

"There usaully is," Diane says. Fire regulations and all that jazz. She frowns, thinking about it. "But it doesn't really go anywhere, I don' think. The front door would be better. Just walk out, like. It'll be fine. Just act casual. I'll walk with you. No one's gonna notice."

She's not totally confidant of this, even as she says it. But it does seem that whoever Aaron's worried about doesn't know he's there, and doesn't actually know who he is. If that's the case, she's sure that he could just walk out. Provided he acts cool about it.

She reaches into the dip of her shirt collar and fishes out a crumpled note of paper money, which she sets on the table. "C'mon," she says.

She doesn't seem confident to him, he's about to tell her its a bad idea but doesn't. A second later he's getting up, wearing the same half laughing guise he wore on the way in. As he stands he pretends to stretch his back, slipping his hand under his shirt to release a catch holding a knife in its sheath against his back.

"I hope you're right," he tells her quietly, then after depositing some money of his own on the table aloud, "After you."

He stands slightly to the side and behind her, stealing a glance at the it. 'If it has even a whiff or recognition about it,' he resolves in his head, 'I'll put my knife in its eye and then run.' Sufficiently prepared for that eventuality, he follows behind her.

Diane slides out of her seat, picking up her sunglasses and slipping them on. She pauses, waiting for Aaron and then slipping one fishnet clad arm into his. Not the one that's fiddling under his shirt, although she has to supress the urge to grab that one.

"C'mon, dahl'," she says, brightly, steering him towards the door. "I'm no lady, I don' need to walk first. Anyways, there could be mines. I'd much rather have you step on something explosive then me."

She gives the waitress a bright smile, glancing back at the table she was sitting at, to let the girl that the money's there.

Aaron chuckles in spite of himself, "I'd be glad to explode for you on any other day, but today I'd rather keep my feet." Nevertheless he lets her hold onto his arm and strides with her in the direction of the door.

The lighthearted expression is difficult to maintain, every muscle in his body is tensed to the ready and a part of him is screaming at him to run or fight, anything but walk so slow. But that's not the worst of it, as he gets closer to the door it's becoming harder and harder for him to control his shape.

For a flicker of a moment, it's too much. A burst of fear at being exposed helps him reign himself in and put himself back to normal, but from the way everything lost color, he's sure that for that brief time his eyes must have changed.

'Well, here we go,' he thinks, they're passing the table.

"Breathe," Diane hisses at him, sinking her nails just slightly into his arm - a sharp reminder to keep casual. She takes a deep breath herself and smiles again. She raises her voice slightly. "Me too," she says, trying not to make that American accent too obvious, "but you've swept me off them, so no such luck."

That was a little lie. More of a disguise, really. And they're almost at the door. She's never known a door to be farther away, honestly.

It opens just before they reach it and admits a gaggle of noisy teenage girls. Diane moves left, shifting Aaron with her hip, so that the kids go inbetween them and the table they're avoiding.

When th glass door closes behind them, Aaron tenses again. Waiting until they are about halfway passed the next building over before stealing a backwards glance, nothing. He breathed a sigh of relief. As they approached the next alleyway, he disengaged himself from her arm.

"It would appear that I am in your debt, then," he says, smiling for real now managing an overly dramatic bow, "My thanks."

He examines her in full for the fourth time that day, an ok acquaintance for having met on impulse. He sticks one hand behind his back to reset the catches on his knife while rummaging through a pocket with the other. at length he removes a scrap of paper and a small pencil.

"I hope I can return the favor in the future," he says, scribbling down a number on the paper, "Call me if you need anything." He hands her the paper and pockets his pencil, shifting slightly towards the alley behind him.

Diane takes the paper. She tucks it into her the netting of her left glove and gives him a bright smile. "Sure," she says, although she's pretty sure it's one number she's never gonna call. She doesn't need that much weirdness in her life.

"Try not to get killed, mmkay," she tells him, fishing her lipstick out of her shirt and applying a thick coat of red to her lips. She can get it on perfectly, none of it straying outside the edges of her mouth.

"I'll see you around," she adds. It's perfectly possible. Everyone ends up at the liqour store sooner or later.

She sticks the cap back on the tube and holds it out to him, in the flat of her palm. "Here. For luck, cause you apparently need some."

"Keep it," he says with a smile, glancing over his shoulder to note a fire-escape some ten feet up on one of the buildings behind him, "Hopefully we meet under... more amiable circumstances in the future."

He steps back, another low bow. Then he sprints into the alley, bounding of the top of a trash can then onto a closed dumpster, deftly using his built momentum to throw himself atop the fire escape across the way.

"Go make yourself presentable now," he says with a laugh as he leans on the rail of the first platform, not even breathing heavily, "Ta ta!"

With that he scurried up the escape, over the side of the roof, and out of sight.