Your tired eyes speak louder than words

[fleasaremurder.livejournal.com]

*Sirius has only been at the bar five minutes waiting for Andy, but he's already on his second drink. He is trying to resolve to sip this glass of scotch--it is, after all, nice scotch, and tossing it down his throat like he did with the first is almost criminal.

The bar itself is solidly cozy. There's a roaring hearth, and men and women in both robes and Muggle clothes sit at tables. The piano is playing a gentle jazz tune to itself in the corner, and a handful of well-trained but clothed house-elves wait on the tables. By all rights, he should feel comfortable, relaxed, even pampered. He hasn't eaten since breakfast--no time--and he's now halfway through his second generous drink from the friendly, bat-eared bartender. If nothing else, he should at least feel looser from the alcohol.

He doesn't. He can't. He keeps fidgeting, his leg jiggling on the barstool, watching the door for Andy and glaring at his own reflection between the bottle of sweet vermouth and the bottle of creme de cassis across the room. He is tense, nervous, as if an attack might break out even here. And who knows? It could. He slouches over his table in the corner further, rubbing his temples.*