ruby gets a little sassy with the waitress because she doesn’t think the side of fries comes with enough ketchup.

”can’t you just keep a bottle at the table?” she grumbles, not quiet enough to keep her annoyance to herself. you give her a pointed look, and she rolls her eyes, but switches her tactics. she clears her throat. “could i get another thing of ketchup?” she asks, voice clearer as she looks the waitress in the eyes, tone just a bit kinder. you don’t urge her to say please, because you know she won’t.

honestly, you don’t care about the feelings of every human out there. you’re more of a greater good sort of person because, well, you’re not a person, but an angel. it’s just that you’re worried about drawing any attention to yourselves. ruby’s viewed as a traitor or enemy to nearly every species or group of beings involved in this whole apocalypse thing, and you’ve taken it upon yourself to keep her protected.

she’s adorable as she swirls a fry around the small tin container of ketchup, lip curled in distaste. “do we always have to be so polite?” she holds no real menace in her voice. she has a soft spot for you, and you know it. “i mean, what kind of diner doesn’t keep a ketchup bottle at the tables? and who could possibly think that this measly thing is enough for a whole serving of french fries?”

she’s practically incredulous, just as passionate about french fries as ever, and it’s quite endearing. she picks up the little container, waving it around in the air a bit for emphasis. if the table weren’t too wide, you’d lean over and kiss her.