milliways_bar | [ happy hour ]

Entry tags:

[ happy hour ]

Not one to pass up a good business opportunity, Ben’s behind the counter, aiming to earn some credit toward what’s left of his tab.

Specials
† bourbon
† milkshakes
† bourbon milkshakes

The bar is fairly quiet at the moment, so Ben’s leaning on one elbow, doodling on a napkin.

[ tiny tags: gene hunt, mark hoffman, moist von lipwig ]

[ ooc: ~~have at, guys — open till 8:30 p.m. est~~; tag away, and feel free to threadhop all over the place!

eta, 8:33 p.m.: AHAHA, you people. THANK YOU ALL. closed to new threads, but i'll be hitting these as i can before bed tonight, and tagging back all slows tomorrow for those who want 'em! ♥! (threadhopping, o' course, is still encouraged.) ]

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Gene takes it, drinks it down in one and pushes it back for a refill, eyeing the guy the whole time.

'I'll take your word f'r it, Sunshine.'

He was intruiged by the guy's cowboy clothes but not he's just pissed off.

Ben's lips twitch as he obliges, pouring out three fingers this round.

"Ben Wade, 1866."

Edited 2010-08-22 22:44 (UTC)

He pouts the way he does when he's thinking, then takes his fag out of his mouth with his left hand and offers his right abruptly.

'Gene Hunt. 1973.'

"Pleasure's mine, Mr. Hunt," Ben says, giving his hand a firm shake.

"Since we're bein' so civilized, would you wanna try a little bit of one of those milkshakes on the house?"

'No.'

Seriously. No.

'I'm no' a ponce. An' by the look of it, you shouldn' be either.'

A jerk of his head indicates the attire, like his meaning should be self-evident.

"Likin' alcohol and sweets makes for a — "

A thoughtful pause.

"Ponce? I ain't familiar with the term."

'A ponce,' he says, with relish, 'is a bloke who likes milky alcohol. An' can't 'and out a kickin' to them what need it. The sort o'bloke who drinks out of a straw an' talks abou' girly shit. An' probably cries.'

This right here says quite a lot about Gene and the time period he's from. Especially when he follows up with;

'A real bloke drinks a real drink. Like Scotch.'

Ben listens with two attentive ears.

When Gene finishes, he can't help but chuckle.

"Mr. Hunt, I come in here to enjoy the things I can't get at home, especially in 1866. After drinkin' 'shine that'll take the hide off a horse for weeks at a time, I'm happy to take a goddamn milkshake when the opportunity presents itself."

He pours himself a measure of Scotch.

"But, since I'm no ponce — "

He lifts his glass.

"Bottom's up."

'Firs' sensible thing you've said, cowboy.'

His second goes down just as quickly as the first and he's ready for a refill.

He would be quite happy drinking moonshine, it has to be said. He'd miss the taste of the good stuff but hey alcohol's alcohol.

'You know Kate Barlow? She's from abou' your time.'

And Ben's happy to oblige; he refills the glass, and his own.

"I do," he says, once he's swallowed. "Her world's a little bit later down the line than mine."

He nods toward the Front Door.

"I'm not from Texas, either. I'm out in Arizona Territory, at the moment."

'At th' moment? Like, you move aroun'?'

He drinks again, eyeing the bloke once more. Old habit maybe; he rarely looks away.

'She's alrigh', f'r a bird. Teachin' me 'ow t'ride an horse. Been shootin' with her. Mind you, she was a bloke firs' time I met 'er so she's obviously a bit dodgy.'

Not to mention being an outlaw.

"I travel quite a bit in my line of work."

And it's true; Ben's line of work just happens to be the illegal sort.

"She knows what she's doin'," he says, nodding once. His focus stays on Gene while they speak, just as calculated. "She's a good shot, too; I taught her how to handle a six here."

Ben's Colt is holstered at his hip, ever-present, the distinctive gold crucifix on its grip catching the light when he shifts behind the counter.

Edited 2010-08-23 03:03 (UTC)

'Did you now?'

He chuckles, dry as anything.

'She never mentioned tha' part. Made it seem like she knew all abou' it, all on her own.'

He's not surprised though. She's a bird, naturally she'd need a bloke to show her what to do. And he nods at the Colt.

'Can I 'ave a look?'

"You certainly can," he says, good-naturedly.

He lifts the Colt free of its holster, the movement as sure as it is non-threatening.

"Look all you want, but no touchin' this one."

(Gun's got a curse on it.)

"If you're out to handle a piece from my time, there's others I keep here."

'Why no'?'

He looks confused at the restriction and pulls his own gun free of its holdter, a Magnum .357. It's also a non-threatening move but he does it show that he knows what he's doing with a gun.

'I've used Kate's. They're alrigh'. A bit girly f'my tastes.'

There's nothing ornate about his weapon. It's there to stop bad guys, that's it. And also help his badass image, obviously.

"Gun's got a curse on it," he says, voice light but eyes serious.

He looks over Gene's piece with obvious interest.

"These newer models are somethin' else. I took some good advice and asked Bar for a modern cleanin' kit for this, and I could feel the difference the next time I shot."

'Well, you gotta keep it clean. Don' want it firin' wonky when you've got some bastard in your sights, eh?'

He's well aware that their definition of 'bastard' may vary somewhat, simply because just about everyone he's met in this place is someone he'd happily stick in a cell back home, and just as happily lose the key on.

'What're you on abou'? It's a gun. An' there ain't no such thing as curses.'

Ben smiles, holstering the Peacemaker.

"When it comes to this one, there is."

Gene stares at him. Well. Glares, more like.

'Why?'

"Let's hope you never find out, friend, for both our sakes."

This does nothing to assauge his curiousity or indeed, answer his question.

'You been chewin' the funny roots out there in th' desert, pal?'

He empties his glass once more and silently asks for a refill.

'Drugs ain't the answer, mate.'

Ben pours out more Scotch, and chuckles under his breath.

"Peyote's not somethin' I've got a fondness for."

He slides over Gene's glass.

"I'd rather possess my faculties. Too many people forget themselves, and that's when they make mistakes."

He nods his thanks for the drink and, as it happens, agrees wholeheartedly with the sentiment on drugs.

'An' what mistakes are you tryin' no' t'make?'

"The kind that'd get me killed."

He raises his own glass in somewhat of a toast.

Gene continues to eye him. He sure as hell doesn't strike him as a lawman.

'Wha' business you in?'

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almosthonorable - 2010-08-29 16:33 (UTC) - Expand

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the_gene_genie - 2010-08-29 20:33 (UTC) - Expand

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