The Old Man glared at Tom for daring to reject the punch, but refilled the glass anyway. He also charged him slightly more for it, with a 'What are you going to do about it?' expression.
"S'just juice. And rum," he said to Daysha, unconvincingly. Well, presumably it was the juice of something.
"Nice rack," Derevko said shamelessly, and shook Harlowe's hand. "You bring it out for everyone, or just special occasions?" Well, she started it. If he was going to stand around looking like Attila's slightly more stripperiffic fucking brother, he was going to have some fucking fun with it. He glanced at Jackson and grinned broadly, the scars on his face twitching as he did.
"Nah, I caught him walking down the fucking street, headbutted him, and took his stuff. What happened to you? Last time I saw a cop displaying that much skin, I'd been called in to break up a riot at a bachelorette party," he shot back.
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"Glad to get that sorted out, Ja-kuh," Rory answered, trying to duplicate what the other man had said. He gave the punch a dubious look as it was pointed out, and pointed out as being free.
"Can you make an Irish Coffee?" he asked the Old Man.
Rory was deliberately fucking with the old bastard. Any self respecting bartender valued their counter space way, way too much to dedicate it to Irish Coffee, and it was time consuming to make. He smiled to signify it was a joke.
He'd always wondered why people acted to surprised and weird when they saw him out of his vestments; now he knew. The conversation burbled around him as he tried to reconcile Daysha's current appearance with the Cold Case thing she had going on. Part of that reconciling involved bobbing his head like a pigeon as he struggled to find somewhere to look that felt halfway decent.
He settled on the area just between her eyebrows and forehead.
"Uh, hi. Daysha."
He looked at Derevko and gave him a nod. Fuck if he remembered his name.
Maybe I should change. Nope, stand your ground. I feel like a hooker. It’s just Halloween. Decisions decisions.
“Ha, ha” Standing in a closed off posed, Daysha cocked her eyebrow and gave a sarcastic smile to Derevko. “Uh, are you hitting on us?” She smirked and glanced at Harlowe.
“Hey Rory.” She nodded a little. “I dig the costume. It’s kinda fitting.” Daysha said as she recalled his accent. He actually looked fairly natural in it. She felt like her father was giving her the once over. Well he is a father – priest – was – is – awkward.
The thought crossed Daysha’s mind that she should have a word Tom, or Mr. Tiller.
Tom returned the look from the bar tender with a nod and a smile as his glass was filled, giving him a few extra bills as a sort of tip in thanks. He would have just said thanks and saved the money but the fact of the matter was that the old man scared him, anyone with that many scars who lived to that age had to be some kind of bad-ass. So Tom just kept his lips shut, formed into his familiar smile as the old man retreated back to his bar.
Once he had left Tom took a long sip from his glass. He was right, he was going to need it, but then again the sooner he drank this one down the sooner he would have to ask the bartender for another. Setting the glass down tom leans low over the table, it was looking more and more like he had made a mistake in coming tonight. This clearly wasn't the place for him.
"Special occasions," Harlowe answered, without missing a beat. "So try not t'get too used to it. Then again, charm likes yours, you probably already got used to it," she snorted.
She glanced sidelong at Daysha. "He's hittin' somethin'," the former soldier answered. "S'probably the only chance he gets," she added languidly. There was not, however, a bite to her response. This was obviously a more relaxed night for her.
Jack rubbed his neck while slowly backing away from the group. He felt lucky that the recently arrived scar face hadn't noticed him. He wasn't scared, he just didn't really want to start shit like last time, or at least not yet.
Shit why are my fingers trembling?
He hoped it was just nerves from everything that was going on but time honed experience told him that it was the withdraw setting in. It was the worst feeling in the world and it hadn't even fully begun. Even though it was just the smallest of inklings it reminded him how weak he really was, both physically and morally.
What was it that Sartre said? 'It comes as an illness does, not like an ordinary certainty, not like anything obvious. It installed itself cunningly, little by little; I feel a little strange, a little awkward, and that was all and now it has started blossoming.'
He shook his hands for good measure than spoke to his companion, not sure if he was even listening:"Uh Rory, please excuses myself rudeness- I mean, uh, pardon me I just need to sort something out."
Jack, with his usual level of awkwardness, left the main bar and went to the restrooms. Confident that there was no one around to see him he unzipped his bag and carefully removed a small unmarked pill bottle. He felt vaguley disgusted with himself as he let two of the tiny white pills fall into his open palm.
Death has been condensed into a pill, eagerly swallowed up by those who wish for the ecstasy of victory.
"Yeah, I'm totally hitting on both of you. You're irresistable,"Derevko said, his voice affecting a casual sort of boredom. "My boyfriend doesn't like it when I hit on cheap strippers. No offence, Harlowe- nice muscles, but if you worked on the costume, you could probably start charging more than a buck a pop."
As for Rory, Derevko couldn't remember the guy's name. Or if they'd even been introduced. He remembered the guy sitting at the table, but he'd had a fucking bad day that day.
Well, these fucking days, all days were bad.
"Nice to see you again," the scarred Agent said, 'cause that was at least a safe bet towards the guy in the kilt.
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Rory was momentarily distracted by Tom, who looked like he was going to pass out at the bar.
"Oh, thanks, I've had it a while, it's better than trying to make a Captain America costume or something -- I'm just not handy with that kind of thing. I, uh, like yours, too." The last bit came out like someone bellyflopping into a swimming pool; it started out as a polite reciprocation, but halfway through he realized it could be construed as something else.
"Not, uh, the fitting part. The costume. That."
Add drowning to the bellyflop.
Rory nodded at Jaque and then to Derevko, flailing for a lifeline. "Yeah, you too."
Finally, he decided to try for some safe, neutral ground.
"So, is Lexi coming?"
Daysha rolled her eyes. “Alright, I think we’re done bashing on each other for now Davy Crocket.” As she glanced at Derevko and then returning to Rory.
“You didn’t want to wield a garbage can lid as a shield?” Her lip kinked into a smirk.
As Rory continued to oddly compliment her, Daysha’s face had a confused and puzzled look. “Oh… uh, thanks.” She didn’t know what to say really other than that. Thankful for the sudden change of subject, the Detective had a concerned look on her face. “Ya know I haven’t heard from Lexi until after one night where we put this vam…. thing away at her country house or something.” Daysha stopped herself from yelling Vampire out loud, again. I wonder if I should check through police records. “So, do you play poker?”
“I know that guy Mr. Tiller,” She said pointing at Tom. “Signed up, so did I.” She glanced at Tom and Harlowe. Can we get this show on the road old man.
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