Some places are familiar to those who travel a lot; warm, welcoming, while most people would think of them as ordinary places on the lonely road. For Colorado, however, it was McDonald's. God only knew why he loved them so much; he could barely taste the burgers, and, usually, it was a waste of vitae to force the food down your throat. But there was something inherently comforting about seeing the same building, the same burgers, the same poor service no matter where you went. Texas or New York, Memphis or Detroit, hell, even Michigan - they were all the same. Always there for you to pull in by the road, usually not even minding if you parked your car for the day.
It's why he took the exit early, snaking his way down the off-ramp, towards the familiar, golden arches. Even when you're undead, driving for hours makes your mind and body tired. Eventually, you just feel like taking a break. Pretending everything's normal for a few moments. Mickey D's does a wonderful job of doing that. Quietly, he reached out to flick off the stereo as he pulled into the parking lot, looking over at the lit restaurant.
A group of teenagers were mingling out the front, passing around hand-rolled cigarettes while they leaned on cars and shoved each other, and the one of the late-night staff members was glancing at them while they flipped chairs onto tables, cleaning up the front section of the trash they'd left around. He looked tired, like he just wanted to go home and sleep, not continue working - and not clean up the mess of a bunch of loudmouths. But he didn't comment. Neither did Colorado - though he did park in the far side of the carpark, before glancing over at Fringe.
"Hungry?" He cracked a small grin, before looking at her. "You'd be amazed at how useful these places are for having a chat."