[attr="class","carrie"]Sometimes, the hallucinations rose and fell like the waves upon the shore, fading into the background, barely noticeable, the softest sounds, whereas others came crashing in suddenly and desperately cold. They weren't like seeing a movie played before his eyes, or even a memory rising to his thoughts. It was always the smell first, the coppery taste in the back of his mouth, changing and shifting until it settled strong and pungent. Than... the smells. He knew the smell of smoke... ash... burning metal far to well. Than, the sounds, voices and howling winds, the snap of fire or the shriek of rubber on asphalt. Sight was always the last to come, and the first to leave. Fleeting, rarely was it images that lingered in his thoughts. It was the taste, the smell. It was why he worshipped coffee like no other. It covered it up, chased away the unpleasant sour flavour, and drowned out the smell. Leaning his hip against the counter now, he watched as the girl made his cup. She always did it the same, tilting the cup just, wiping clean the lip. The strange, almost charming patterns she drew into foam; this time, a leaf.

Amused, he dropped the change into the tip cup, even as his eyes traced over the cafe. It was quiet, as it always was when he came, the regulars yet to be drawn from their beds. They wouldn't be here for another few moments, the first always the old man that lived just down the street, in the apartment on the corner. He'd die in a years time, killed in a hit and run. Rachel... he had seen her death change three times since he had come to Mongolias. The latest, that prick of a boyfriend she had. Allowing himself to look at her, he could see the bruise peeking up just under the sleeve of her right arm. Clark could remember the questions doc had asked him in his sessions; why he didn't help these people. Why he didn't do something. But than... he found after a time, it was just to much to help everyone. Walking down the streets each day, he would get a first hand account of endless sad stories. It was an never ending cycle, and sometimes... the changes were worse than the original fate.

The chime over the door dinned than, drawing him with a startle from his depressing thoughts, brilliant azure eyes hidden behind his glasses turning to take in this new intruder. Dressed to impress, cradling an umbrella under his arm, the guy was a bonafide pretty boy. Blonde wavy hair, bright luminous emerald eyes. Watching the other approach from over the rims, he slowly turned back to the counter, setting his sights stubbornly upon the baristas hands. the lid, the cardboard sleeve, and finally into his hand. She smiled, he smiled, looking to play the part of someone who wasn't completely mental, he moved away, shifting to the back of the store. In the corner, a old, raggedy chair, a small table with solid wooden legs tucked with its back to the wall. Sliding into the upholstery, he set the cup on the table top, reaching to grab hold of the paper folded on top. Opening to a random page, sports, huh looks like the yankees one last nights game; his real intentions upon the new comer.

Perhaps it was odd of him, to be so intent on a guy who had come to a coffee shop. Plenty of people drank coffee after all... but rarely at this hour, and rarely in this shop. Like an old paranoid man, he had a schedule, and was never quite happy with having that schedule changed. Before he could put much thought into it though, his phone vibrated in his pocket, causing the slight man to jump in surprise. "Fuck," he muttered, leaning forward and pulling it from its case, gazing at the screen. Doc... with a grimace he answered the call. "What do you want?"

'Boo... so mean Clark. No wonder you have no girlfriend. Such a grouch.'

"What is it Denvers," sighing, rubbing his brow, Clark rolled his eyes. This man was far to fricking preppy to be human. It was as if he never slept at all... did he sleep? Calling him at all hours of the day, man if this was any other patient - doctor relationship it'd probably just be weird.