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Post by Deleted on Aug 24, 2016 23:21:40 GMT -6
[attr="class","sendav"] When you first came to Morrie’s Bar, it was impossible to miss. Locals that David knew by name and order scatter like bugs underneath your feet. It’s amusing, and that would have been all he noted if it weren’t the way you held yourself. The scars that cut valleys into your skin weren’t from mere child’s play; no businessman looked like that, either. His interest is piqued, but unfortunately you slink towards a quiet corner. A waitress gets your order—two fingers of whiskey on rocks, David makes it, sends it on it’s way. Few gossip at the bar in hushed voices, loud enough that the barkeep’s trained ears hear them talking about you; the man who supposedly lived in a haunted house. Little else is given, and he shuts off before he hears your name. That, he will get from you himself. Time and time again, however, you float to your usual spot. David’s come to expect you at a certain time on certain days. For awhile, you come randomly—sometimes it appears as if you are testing waters and if you truly wish to hang in the dinky local bar with too many beers and not enough fine liquor. Yet, in the end, you always appear. David always gets you two fingers of whiskey on rocks and routine is born. The fifth time you stumble in through the door—blocking it with your bulk and causing any attempting to flee to step aside until you’re through—he meets your eye. David doesn’t flounder underneath your critical gaze; he merely pauses rubbing dry a thick glass—busying himself with minor tasks as the night drones on slowly. A nod is given a second later as an afterthought, he goes back to minding his business; not expecting you to step towards his domain instead of the small corner you usually hold yourself up in. |
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Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Aug 25, 2016 0:17:23 GMT -6
These places all smell the same. He tries to hate it, he does — the wood varnish, the creaky lights, the excuses for drinks, all of it. He can't, though. It's too familiar. He knows how to be in these places, knows how to act, since he's done it all before. He tosses one unforgiving glance at who he's supposedly pushed out of the way (the guy backed up over himself completely on his own, Gabe hadn't said a word) and ducked into the bar. He's entirely aware of what he does to rooms. Shifts them in a way that can't bring back the comfort or warmth they once had. They say his scars ruin appetites, or his manners put people off. Not his fault.
He doesn't even mean to meet the barkeep's gaze, familiar even if it's normally two meters distant and shaded by the overhead lights. But he does, and as usual, the face doesn't waver. It never did — he was only a little guilty of watching him over the rim of his own glass, drenched in half-lit shadow and the haze of cigar smoke. He nods, and Karma's nose twitches like it's got an itch. Cocky shit. On pure impulse, his heavy steps turn toward the bar, driven entirely by the fact that his gaze left.
"Two fingers of whiskey," he rumbles on approach, throat scratched from a day of cigarettes, and it still sits weird in his throat. He used to sound so much different. Leaning the thick weight of one elbow on the bartop, he doesn't sit just yet, wondering after the tap and the bottles on the wall. Pretentious bottled shit that hipsters loved, of course. "On the rocks." His gaze drops to your eyes, poignantly. He rarely ever looks at people unless he has to, you'd know that well enough.
So, Mr. Oh So Casual — can you recognize the difference in the way he looks at you? Ten bucks says you can't — and he's got 'em sitting in his thick leather wallet, just in-case you, by some miracle, win this little bet he's made.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 25, 2016 0:57:24 GMT -6
[attr="class","sendav"] Heavy footfalls of boots against the weathered wood flooring don’t cause him to look up. The bartender pays attention to the glass like it’s a holy treasure. He rotates it in his hand, smooths the towel over it. Of course, he’s listening to each steady step that comes his way; his ears straining to hear the adjustments of it as if he’d figure out your story just by the way you walk. Solid; seasoned; trained. The noise stops. David freezes in his motion, decides that the glass is dry enough and slides it with the others. Clink.If his mind told you that he imagined what your voice might sound like, he would deny it. The aged gravel haunting your order is what makes him slowly turn upwards to meet your stare. It’s the first you’ve dared to step foot in his territory; granted the whole room is David’s, but the bar is treated like his baby when he’s on the clock. You’re so close now. He can see the grooves in your scars, the differences in coloration. If the lighting wasn’t so bad, maybe he’d be able to pick out more pieces. It’s just a scratch on the surface; promising of a deep echo like your voice but for now, David can only see face-value. The edges of lips curve upwards, hidden by the scruff of his dark beard. Amused because you don’t sit in front of him. Instead, you pose, leaned forward like you’re trying to intimidate him. It would work on anyone else. David’s not used to being on the short side either, but it doesn’t mean he hasn’t met others playing alpha dog before. He goes about making your order—pointedly showing a smirk on his lips as he turns his back to grab the whiskey. If he knows the heated glances, he doesn’t show it—if you really wanna go down that line than David knows he can win. His hips don’t lie and the way your gaze lingers doesn’t either. The bartender slides the glass over; it stops in front of you with practiced ease. “You like it that much, viejo?” |
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Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Aug 25, 2016 3:49:53 GMT -6
He hopes he's not so obvious that look fading from Mr. Barkeep's face is one of victory. He most likely is, though. It's been a while since he's made any conversation above four words or more. Gabriel rolls his broad shoulders absentmindedly, old bones cracking all the way - flavored with the handsome pop as his thick neck cracked, bearded lips twitching over white teeth - as he watches his nameless company work, the familiar clink of ice and glass bringing some content to the thread of tension suddenly roiling about the bar.
Nose twitches at the sudden Spanish. Somethin' he wouldn't say in English is somethin' best left unsaid. It was usually the way that went, French, Spanish, or otherwise. Raising the glass to his lips, Karma slipped onto the barstool nearest his leg with an effortless stride, swallowing his first sip with a soft breath threading through bared teeth. The burn of alcohol. Another familiarity. He'd never let that burn climb to a flame, like his pa had.
"Suppose that's your way of selling me something 'better'?" he challenges, though there's no inherent press in the gravel of his voice. No, he's just making casual conversation with the bartender — doesn't everyone? His lip twitches at the corner, silvery beard ruffling. The blossom of amusement at this whole situation doesn't skip past him for a moment. What a novel character you are, Gabe. He sure doesn't talk to the locals, but damn, does he spill his heart out to the barkeep.
Another sip, and past the cradle of his thick fingers, one unsubtle sweep of that single, grey eye flicks down Mr. Smirk's face to wherever his body disappears behind the bar, swallowing with another breath as he can't stop an eyebrow from piquing. Well?
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Post by Deleted on Aug 26, 2016 14:55:37 GMT -6
[nospaces] [attr="class","sendav"] Whether he means the simple whiskey or something else, he leaves up to your imagination. Take it as you will; he's curious what game you'll end up playing. It isn't that you are obvious; no one here knows how you tick. No one has tried to step on your toes yet, least the barkeep assumes for else there would be more than whispers on the wind about your supposed demeanor. Perhaps underneath the scars isn't something cold but warm and beating. David just knows he takes your interest the way he wants. Your intentions be damned. He's curious and allows it to lead him like a leashed hound. [break][break] So he watches your every move. That nose twitch of yours doesn't go unnoticed. (If only you knew what it meant, David.) Finally, you've taken a seat. The bar stool doesn't add to your height like it would others; instead it brings you closer to his level. Eyes drop to your lips. The first sip taken nice and slow; your enjoying the burn like David would a cheap dark cigar. His shameless stare slinks lower to your throat. [break][break] "'Better'?" 'Gotta look elsewhere for 'better', viejo.' Unless your type is güeros that call you "daddy", then David's pretty sure you're shit outta luck as far as this bar's concerned. What a shame if your taste is so bland, too. If you gave the ladies a smile, they'd be all over you. Hands roaming strong muscle and feeling the valleys of your scars. From first impressions anyone could think you're the "one and we're done" biker babe, but David hopes there is more to your story than a man having a midlife crisis. [break][break] Two sets of dogtags shift underneath the confides of his black dress shirt, he tilts his head to the right with one thick eyebrow quirked upwards. Usually it rises to underneath his beanie, but the manager is lurking around and he had to lose it. Soft curly hair twists atop his scalp instead—maybe he'd better get it shaved again. He studies you and let's the silence stretch a bit too long, crossing his arms until a grin with hints of bared canines flashes in your direction. Mischievous like a kid set on poisoning his mamá's meal. [break][break] Without word, he slips away from staring you down in favor of getting ingredients and supplies. [break][break] |
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Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Aug 26, 2016 15:29:27 GMT -6
Yes, better. Had the word gotten a new meaning he hadn't gotten around to learning? He downs another thick sip of golden liquor, brow still peaked with expectation. Kid matches his look, all younger sass on a wrinkling canvas, and Karma rolls the taste and burn of whiskey around in his mouth while he drops his expression, meeting the barkeep's gaze flatly. Guess not.
But that expectant silence flows into foreverness. The music crackling on the speakers bleeds in, old and familiar, worn around the edges like them both. Still too much energy behind Mr. Golden that he can't get over, though. The type who acts like he's seen some shit, when it's all been behind a rose-colored glass. His nose twitches, and Karma doesn't itch at the skin. Instead, he meets that toothy grin with a huff of air through his nose, and downs the rest of his drink just as you pull away into your work.
He's content with that sudden silence, too. It's no longer a dance, some undescribed tension. Just a man and his drink. He lets the glass linger against his lips, staring into the rack of beers and fancy liquors he was told he's never had the taste for, brushing his mustache against thick knuckles. Man don't drink sweet cocktails an' fancy pisswaters, Gabe. Man got his whiskey 'n his brandy. Keeps him a man. Drunken slurs still rang true, thought twelve-year-old knobby knees and bruised cheeks. Broken teeth don't mean nothing when those good, war-tired eyes say they're sorry. Or, at least, when he thinks they do.
He was a stupid kid. Everyone always is. Placing his glass down, Gabriel grabs the worn box of cigarettes from his back pocket, taking one between his teeth and fishing for the military-rewarded Zippo in his front. Somewhere between lighting the thing and reading the word Pabst, his eye wanders. Finds the black curls and the scalp around the ears, dim-lit. He exhales a sharp, stinging cloud that's far past hurting through his nose, rolling the cigarette between his teeth. You ever seen a man with curls, Corporal? Look like angels. Your hair's getting long; why don't you try it? Might make ... think you're prettier. His mind blacks out the name, and Karma's eyes move back to the full shelf.
"You're the first silent barkeep I've met," and he marks the maybe-insult with a curl of smoke around his tongue, fitting one thick finger on the rim of his empty glass. "Or is my being here bad for business?" It wouldn't be the first time one of the locals around here cold-shouldered him into leaving. He never did, but then again, he never chased someone for conversation, either. Slate grey eye rolls back toward the skin around his black-bearded mouth, withering at the corners with almost-age.
Another twitch of his nose, and he blows a stream through both nostrils. Hm.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 26, 2016 16:37:39 GMT -6
[nospaces] [attr="class","sendav"] He busies his hands; fingers once used to curling into fists or pulling the trigger of a rifle now make homely alcoholic beverages for patrons. When he works like this he can almost forget where he came from and how he got here. ( How he's still a government lab-rat.) You're part of the game he hasn't touched yet; this interaction would either leave you coming back at the beckon of his finger or gone back to sulk in your corner. It's that 'live or die' adrenaline of his talking; making his muscles tempted to tremble underneath phantom touches. Perhaps why he's eager for you to keep from disappointing him. Bartenders are paid to chat too, but he gives you the silence you seem so comfy with. [break][break] The telltale switch of a zippo earns you a side glance. His hands pausing; the smell of smoke distracting him like a haze. He whirls back to makeshift barracks made in a mountain side. Back then, he couldn't be picky with what smokes he got. Usually stole 'em from Tiny because no matter how big that kid was, he didn't have a backbone in his body. 'Course when it mattered most, the bunch of them soaked in sweat, blood and puke, Clint Eastwood refused to take Tiny's last stale cig. Didn't matter how much he hungered for that nicotine and the comfort on his lips; he wouldn't take it. Tiny ended up lighting it, taking a long drag as they sat there staring at the sunset. Blank expressions mirroring how empty and bone tired they felt. Tiny offered it to 'em again, Eastwood didn't reject it this time. The smell of smoke too tempting. [break][break] First time he ever shotgunned. [break][break] Leave it to you to smoke the same brand. His safe place behind the bar feels intruded on. The "no trespassing" signs ignored, and David can't say you're exactly to blame. He's the one who's been toeing the line and treating you different from the rest because he had that inkling the both of you were one and the same. His hands get moving again as he swallows down the memory like a pill. [break][break] "I'd bore you with a conversation about the weather if I wanted you gone, viejo," He follows it with a chuckle. David gives a last few shakes of the steel cocktail mixer before he grabs a thin stem glass; straining and pouring the yellow beverage into it a beat later. He sets the shaker aside in favor of wiping his hands on his apron and garnishing the drink with a slice of lemon and a raspberry. Two fingers cup the stem and bottom of the cocktail glass before he sets the drink in front of you. [break][break] "Figured you liked the silence." He grins, leaning his elbows on the edge of the bar. Closer to the smoke here, he desperately wants to pluck that cig from your lips and take it for himself. You can enjoy the sour Lemon Drop he made just for you—don't tell the others, they're supposed to think all they sell is shitty beer and cheap whiskey. [break][break] |
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Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Aug 26, 2016 17:06:55 GMT -6
That was surprisingly candid. His brows jerk upward, just an inch, when the barkeep sluices back over all tool-of-the-trade airs and graces. There's nothing inherently different about him from the bartender a few towns over. Some part of him believes that, anyway. The other part finds the genuine lilt on his voice, on that statement, a little unnerving. He's not used to that. He doesn't like it when he's not used to things. What old man does?
It's only then that he notices what you're doing with your hands. When had that happened? He'd been lost somewhere in the curls and the haze and the memory of floorboards and concrete against his long-lost eye when the bartender makes a cocktail mixer appear from thin air. He hadn't even heard the shaking. Taking his cigarette between two knuckles, Gabriel wipes a calloused hand over his mouth, burying some deep sound in his palm. Some sick feeling that's too old to be familiar swoops around in his gut, and he blames the cancer stick in his hand, tucking it back between his teeth.
I do. The response bites back between a simple twitch of his lip over the cigarette, mustache ruffling with the idle shift and settle of his bones and muscle, moving beneath the tight white pull of his shirt. When had his collar gotten itchy? The drink clinks unoffensively down, and Karma jerks his head backward, something like insult rippling down his spine. "What is that." Barely a question, and his voice is no tighter than his jeans. I still sort of like 'em, even if my old man says I shouldn't.
He smells cologne and summer nights spent behind bleachers, and grimaces, single eye finding the face behind the bar with an unamused varnish. He won't refuse it, no, but why. He was certain he looked the part. The rest of the damn town knew it. They'd never plop a cocktail down in front of him. He disliked nothing less than a joke at his expense, bar the craftsmanship that went into the drink. The hell's your game, boy? It's swallowed down with the taste of whiskey. That's something Pa would say. So he doesn't say anything, just jerks a brow and waits.
Jokes aren't funny if you have to explain them.
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Post by Deleted on Aug 31, 2016 12:40:35 GMT -6
[nospaces] [attr="class","sendav"] He wonders if he stepped on your toe or insulted your mother whether you’d have the same reaction to a cocktail as you do now. You slide away from it, keeping your distance with suspicious glint; not willing to trust the glass. ‘Maybe it bites.’ Can’t think it’s poison, else he doubts you’d even drink your famed whiskey on rocks. David keeps where he is; he’s ignored your raised hackles in favor of appearing nonchalant. [break][break] “You wanted something ‘better’, viejo,” he all but purrs. If you asked the barkeep why he made you a Lemon Drop martini, then perhaps he’ll tell you that you look the part. A sour old man needs a lil refreshments in his life, y’know? Mostly it’s his way of teasing; not in the way you might think, however. No ill intentions meant, just a good drink. You don’t want it? Shame, but you don’t gotta drink it, either. [break][break] “Vodka, lemon and orange liqueur.” In case you wanted to know what was in it; he doesn’t give you the name. David shifts on his feet and moves away from tantalizing smoke. Broad shoulders set subconsciously at the ready; he doesn’t follow through with standing at ease with his hands. He crosses his arms over his thick chest instead. [break][break] |
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Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Sept 1, 2016 19:21:09 GMT -6
More Spanish. His nose twitches, and Gabriel leers down at the thin-stemmed glass dressed so finely on the counter. Something he might order for a girlfriend, if Pa ever had his way. One had used to like appletinis, though, he remembered those; green like slime. They'd always laugh every time he made a fuss. The words flowing off Barkeep's tongue almost let a roll of his eyes tumble down the opposite end of the bar - liquer. Whoever made that word should be shot dead in the backalley of whatever pretentious high-falutin' place they first said it in. It's just goddamn alcohol.
Sparing one more glance as Barkeep retreats for the second time - which is, for some reason, starting to get on Gabriel's nerves - one thick-fingered hand closes around the bottom curve of the actual glass, the stem swallowed up by his palm. He raises it to his lips with a small huff of breath through his nose, still twitching just above where one might scowl. The cigarette balances on practiced teeth as Karma takes one lazy, though tentative, sip of the girly drink, a wrinkle threading through the age of his brow. The hell. Citrus, and a lot of it, but nothing like a bourbon or a beer with the rind. Just citrus. It practically tasted like a Lemonhead.
Sour. Hardy har, very funny.
A silvery brow raised, and the remaining eye that just so happened to be on Barkeep's side slid over to him, narrowed thinly. Another deep drag of his cigarette, and Gabe fixed his fingers around the glass. Did he just throw it back, or did he sip it and savor? Stupid drink rules. Taking another healthy gulp, the warm thread of vodka hissing down his throat and slicking it in heat, Karma tipped the glass in a small, polite ways of thanks, I guess, before letting his gaze slip toward the rest of the bar. If he wanted to slap a drink down in front of him and have him off his bar, that was fine by him. He'd tried, hadn't he? And you got a girl's drink out of it.
Pa would call him a sissy, even with the muscle and the jeans and the scars and the cigarette. It was only half of the reason he stuck by whiskey, honest. "I do," he says suddenly, voice rough with smoke, as he all but flashbang remembers his hidden responses from earlier - he didn't. His gut jerks, and he blames the vodka. Has to be, he hasn't drank it in years. "Like the silence, I do. But you don't go up to a bar if you want silence." The hell did he think he sat at a table in the back for? His brows jerk up into his hairline, and though his body is only half-angled away, he props a thick elbow onto the bar, dropping its weight almost poignantly. "You don't want my conversation, you say it. Don't blame me."
Sweet, simple, to the point. It's a wonder the neighbors don't love him, honestly. </sarcasm>
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Post by Deleted on Sept 1, 2016 22:27:09 GMT -6
[nospaces] [attr="class","sendav"] That twitch of your nose. The more he sees it, the more he wants to bite. Curiosity always killed the cat, but he’s been curious before. As you can see, he still stands. Dogtags around his neck. Bullet wounds and scraps scattered across his body; reminders of how many times he’s risked starting the Reaper in the face and lived to tell the tale. You’re like him in that aspect. The scars you wear are kept open and that posture of yours makes him feel more about you than a simple patron and a person to cheat gossip from. [break][break] He watches; eyebrow rises up again when you wrap a large hand around the drink he made specially for you. David didn’t know what to expect. Regardless of your reaction, he would have been surprised deep down. The satisfaction of it, however, brings a broad, pleased grin across his face. His crossed arms tightening in anticipation of your judgment. Sour, perhaps, wasn’t your thing after all. But you didn’t set the drink back down with a look of disgust. You hadn’t thrown it at him and stormed outta the bar in a fit of childish rage either. [break][break] You took another sip. [break][break] Shiver runs up his spine without his permission, he drums his fingers on an elbow to release the itch he feels lingering on the tips. He wants to reach over and pluck that cigarette from your lips, if he’s being honest with himself. The Eastwood resists; he isn’t ready to take that step with you yet, and he doubts you are, too. [break][break] The deep rumble of your voice causes him to look up (when had he started staring at your hand on that drink? When had his expression softened? Damn). “I do.” “Hm?” ‘Agreeing to marriage already, viejo? We’ve just met, darlin’.’[break][break] Seems like you don’t trust him. He can’t say he blames you either, but he doesn’t think you were hear for small talk about the weather. David might have said he assumed you liked the silence, yet he answered you back, didn’t he? If he wanted you gone, he would have given you your drink and left to play with another patron. There may not be a lot around tonight, but he knows his regulars. [break][break] The barkeep frowns. [break][break] Arms unwrapping, he falls into temptation and leans into the smoke again. Resting on the bar, he all but looms in your space. “I thought we were over this already; if I didn’t want your company, I wouldn’t be here.” ‘Wouldn’t have made you that drink, either.’ Brown eyes glance towards the yellow drink in question before he returns to staring at you. “You want to talk to me.” It isn’t a question; he knows you’d correct him if he’s wrong. His head tilts, eyes relaying a silent; ‘Why?’[break][break] He knows he’s treating you different than others. In hindsight, he would have rambled about anything til he got you talking about what you wanted to talk about first, but he made his choice. Maybe it was the wrong one. [break][break] |
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Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Sept 2, 2016 13:47:01 GMT -6
Despite missing an eye, he's not blind. Emptying the glass with a slick squint, Gabriel shifted the cigarette in his mouth from one corner to the other with practiced ease, taking a long and thick drag that curled out of his nose and over his mustache. Barkeep comes back, drawn in by something that's not entirely him, he doesn't know what, but Karma takes what's been offered. The smoke filters around both heads like a haze, and the nameless black goatee and curly hair leans into it, coming closer, ever closer. Karma's pleased. He doesn't know why, but he is. His nose twitches, and it runs thick around the corner of his mouth, jerking the aged skin and ruffling the silvery hair.
Not a smile. Something subconscious.
You want to talk to me. His single eye narrows. So he does have a brain somewhere behind all that hair mousse. Another long, deep drag, filling the expanse of lungs that had tasted every kind of smog-thick air. A tingle lingers in his lips from the alcohol, his throat warm and dulled to the scratch of smoke, and a roll of his tongue pushes the cancer stick between his lips as he wets them, letting its still-grey ashes dangle dangerously close to the proud beard on his chin. He barely notices it.
"Viejo," he ventures, bothering to mimic the word as best as he can (he knows it probably sounds as White as possible, though), touching the sloped base of his empty glass and pushing it toward Mr. Barkeep with something threading molten mercury through that slate grey eye. "What's it mean?" Let's break barriers, shall we? The glass breaks the first barrier, crackles through the stone and iron and lets in a thin beam of sunlight, a window cracked in the iron vault. Not enough for thieves to weave their way through, but a bird, a snake, maybe. It's enough. It's all he's going to give.
Quid pro quo, Curls - what'll you do with it? He taps a thick finger to the rim of his glass, his gaze never wavering, that cigarette still hanging off the barest connection of thin, dry lips. Another, if you don't mind terribly.
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Post by Deleted on Sept 2, 2016 14:37:33 GMT -6
Maybe it's right. David almost adds on that he wants to listen to the drawl of your voice; scratchy and low. Eavesdroppers wouldn't be able to hear it from their safe perches many feet away. This bubble is his and yours alone. The barkeep thrives in this knowledge, enjoying the small distance with smoke ghosting a scarred cheek. (Any mother would be appalled; screech about secondhand smoke and how disgusting it smells, but to David it's a comfort that has his stomach feeling warm.) You finish the drink without missing a beat and the heat that smoulders in brown eyes doesn't shy; he's bewitched by the stick as you rotate it in your mouth. Ash on the edge about to burn that white beard of yours.
Seems like he might have finally convinced you that he wants to be there; good because he only has so much patience repeating the same thing in a soft cadence. His boss wouldn't be so peachy to learn he's bitching at customers and David's only response would be they deserved it. Lips twitch in amusement as you butcher viejo, he knows you wanna learn what it means. You don't even need to finish the sentence, but the Eastwood doesn't stop you from asking. He leans forward, watching the tap of your finger on the glass' base. 'Another.' David smirks.
The crack in your door is enough that he can peak in; but unlike others he doesn't force it. His presence is there, he lets his own chains give an inch. Resting an elbow on the bar, he slides his right hand off. His fingers attempt to steal the cigarette from your lips before tapping the excess ash off. "Viejo," He purrs, placing the cig on lips and enjoying the burn. The taste is familiar—welcomed & the desire stated just a touch now that he has it—but he can taste the linger touch of lemon. Exhaling nice and slow through his nose, he returns to his perch. He takes the cig, flips it between two thick fingers and offers it back to you. "Means 'old man'."
Smirk turns lazy.
"Do you want sugar or salt on it?" He gives a half-hearted gesture to the glass, not quite touching it yet.
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Post by GABRIEL DOBREV on Sept 2, 2016 15:06:09 GMT -6
His ears sting on either side when that gaze lands on him, molten around bronze and gold. He blames the vodka, again. It's an easy thing to do. The heat of alcohol can't compare to the flashbang that sizzles and pops and storms through his head and down his spine on the lackadaisy way thick bronze fingers only just miss the touch of his lips, tickling beard hairs and fussing them to the follicles, to the nerves. He just tenses his lips and says nothing, teeth clacking on the loss. Toss me one - what's it they call you? Karma? His thumb rubs over a knuckle, the dry flat of his palm where one nasty scar sat thick and white against the skin. Familiar. It tethered some far away part of him that balked and snarled at the wanton display of whatever the fuck Barkeep was doing and let it simmer down to a simple snatch of a smoke.
Outwardly, he only blinked, the phantom white eye ruined by a scar still moving with its once-twin as he followed the trail of smoke that burned out of Curly's mouth. Old man. Karma snorted, guttural and thick. His nose twitches, but it's voluntary this time, not bothering to reach back for the box in his backpocket as he only crosses his forearms on the bar and presses in, that thick weight of a shoulder against the door, blocking whoever stood on the front porch and tried to peek in. Somewhere, there's a government dog rattling on its chains in the yard.
"Salt and lemon?" To anyone else, it might have been a general exchange of words. To him, somewhere in the black recess of his mind, he's practically clawing over the bar, grabbing the hem of that black, tight shirt and tearing it to pieces in desperate hands. The sensation doesn't wander to his face, but he knows it's there; in that thick-barreled chest there's some weak little kid begging with silent eyes, please please please please, respond this time. Ask him something. He got an A on his project today. Don't you care?
He just doesn't do this, you know? It's starting to rattle his persona out of the cobwebs, give it a shove off the shelf. He feels sick, and he knows it's not because he's nauseous. Not even because he's trying to make conversation.
Gabriel clears his throat and nods to the shaker, leaning back in his stool and wetting his lips again, matching bronze with fresh forge silver. The smoke hazes up his tongue, and he tastes it when he wets his lips again, parting them with a small exhale before -- "Whatever's best, kid." His eyes glance downward, ashy grey and still-burning embers in thick fingers, and his nose twitches. Involuntary, this time. Tongue pokes at the corner of his lip, sweeping some lemon tang from the skin, and his gaze raises again, saying nothing. What? What are you going to do?
@david
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Post by Deleted on Sept 2, 2016 16:30:23 GMT -6
If just that look has your ear tips burning a noticeable red then he wonders what biting down on them would do. (Not that he can reach; not that he would be allowed to touch, either.) Shame that he missed grazing your lips, but he'll take the featherweight scratch of your beard across it. Broad shoulders relax underneath that tight black shirt; all too content to melt into the smoke that reminds him of too long days, blood and the distant echo of gunshots through valleys. Most would think of home as a warm bed, white picket fence and their dream spouse; but comfort was a battlefield to a man grown used to being a soldier and one unacquainted to civilian life. This simple cig brought him that soothing feeling; too bad it isn't stale.
He's tempted to show you his surprise when you don't swing it into reverse and backpedal away from him. Usually the hunger in his eyes is enough to spook his prey away, but you seem almost interested. David wonders if it's because you don't wanna back down from a challenge; another thinks you like what you see and you want it just like he does. He keeps a thin smirk on his lips. Smug, but moreso pleased if anything. His hand stays as it was, hovering with the offer for you to take your poison back. David isn't sure if he's disappointed or entertained when you just stare at it. 'Doe sn't bite.' Maybe you want him to touch your lips this time, however. Gaze twitches down to them, staring as you wet your mouth. 'Heh.'
"Sugar, then." Suits you, he thinks. Sweet and sour. Flipping the cig back around, he takes in between his lips instead. You lean away, he follows suit; he grabs the glass and gets to work pouring ingredients in the shaker. Each move done with trained ease. He gets you a new glass, tips it with sugar along the top before he pours the yellow mixture in. Tops it with a cut of lemon and a raspberry again. He slides it over, taking a long drag of the cig as his fingers linger flat on the base.
There are a few questions he can ask you here; 'When did you arrive?' (He knew the answer to that one), 'Why did you move here?', 'What part of the military are you from?' and so forth.
"What's your name, viejo?" His free arm lays flat against the bar, leaned in close with the cigarette tipped upwards in the right corner of his mouth.
GABRIEL DOBREV will code later |
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