milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Those rooms here, they are certainly commendably convenient. There's a shower and everything, and he'd just let it run for a minute, amazed at the fact that there's a place where showers are common, where water isn't rationed, where he won't have to go for weeks with nothing to use but sand to scrub himself as clean as he can.

It'll sure do wonders for his skin.

He's in the same suit when he comes back downstairs, though, and no matter how clean that thing is, it still always manages to give off the impression of being dirty, or at the very least, rumpled beyond repair. The Punisher, once again wrapped in clean white cloth and strapped with belts, bounces lightly across his back as he makes his way through the room to the bar itself.

It's been enough time now since his trip to the Wasteland that the Bar gives him, along with the coffee and stew he asks for, a notice of the packages left for him by Ellen: more than enough meat to feed the orphans for weeks. Hell, he'll probably have to leave some of it here, just so it doesn't go bad in the desert heat.

For now, he just taps a cigarette out of a new pack, lights it with a scratch of a match, and takes a deep breath in before sighing heavily.

A legitimate job, huh?

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The snap of a match catching fire catches Grace's attention. She watches the sulfur flare and the fingers holding the cigarette, expression thoughtful. Her eyes stay through that first inhalation and then return to her glass of Jack Daniels on the bar.

Soon enough, she's fishing her own pack of smokes from the back pocket of her jeans. It's a soft, mostly crushed pack of Camels so there isn't much point in tapping it against her palm, but she does it anyway, selecting a cigarette at random and pulling out her cheap plastic OU lighter next.

She flicks the flame up a few times, letting her finger drift closer and closer to the heat. Eventually she lights her cigarette and sucks in a long drag, eyes closing as she holds there longer than can possibly feels good. When she exhales, smoke rings drift up toward the ceiling.

Is Wolfwood the type to notice any of this? Is he the type to pick up on the way she's still watching him, even when it seems like she's not?

Because she is.

That cloth-wrapped and belted thing he's got with him is hard to ignore.

Edited 2012-05-21 20:41 (UTC)

There's a slow, sidelong glance at the flicker and flare of the lighter, and he stays there a long moment, watching her out of the corner of one narrow gray eye.

He gets a lot of looks.

It comes with the territory: subtlety isn't his style. White crosses glint at his cuffs, the sober black suit is dusty but straightforward, and of course there's the giant cross, leaning there against the bar. Being watched doesn't bother him, but it is intriguing, especially in a place like this, especially when the person doing the watching is a pretty woman, especially when the woman in question is doing the watching with that carefully casual glance that nonetheless lands sharp as a dart.

Draining his coffee, he orders a bourbon. The ice in the glass that appears clinks, gently, floating idly in the liquid.

"Tell me," he says, conversationally, through another haze of smoke. "Do you play chess? I was considering looking for a board."

The white crosses on his cuffs, once noticed, force Grace to crack a smile. Isn't that overkill? she doesn't ask the man carting around a giant cross. All sorts of suppositions present themselves: priest, prophet, angel, traveling bible salesman.

A Christian Sisyphus.

"Nope," she lies; Grace used to play with her dad. "But I'd be up for learning."

She exhales again, squinting at him through her own smoke, as if using it to check whether or not he changes shape or form when her vision blurs.

"Course there are all sorts of games here."

His face falls in a way that would probably be comical if it weren't so incongruous -- actually, strike that, maybe that makes it more so. Either way, if she's waiting to see him transform, studying him like that, she'll be sitting there a long time.

"Oh, no. I'm a terrible teacher."

That much is definitely true.

He considers her right back, the two of them sitting there, taking each others' measure and pretending that's not exactly what they're doing; well, he can appreciate a woman who reserves her judgment. Messy blonde hair, jeans that round comfortably over the curves of her legs, the kind of smile that could lead men out into the desert and leave them there to rot.

Or maybe he's reading too much into things.

"Chess may be out. However, I'm sure you're right about there being something else to play. In a place like this, imagination is the only likely limit."

He's not.

"Yeah. The usual rules don't ever seem to apply." She takes a long pull on her cigarette, pretending to consider their options. "You play pool?"

The combination of a hip swivel and her feet planted on the rungs of her stool allows her to spin the stool just enough to face him straight on and back again, a process that is repeated slowly as she watches him.

She has many questions.

They will keep a few more minutes.

"Poorly," he allows.

This, too, is a lie.

They're something of a matched set, aren't they?

"But yes. And I'm much more inclined if I'm playing with an attractive lady like yourself."

She's swiveling, but his eyes don't drag down to the motion of her hips and legs the way they want to; they stay on her face, friendly, entirely unthreatening in a calculated sort of way. Where she's all slow, instinctive motion, he's as still as a snake sunning itself on a rock. His only movement is a light tap at the ash on his cigarette.

"Interested in going a few rounds? I have some time to kill, and I'd rather spend it with better company that just myself."

Grace has a lengthy list of her lies hand delivered by an angel. They should compare notes.

The ash on her cigarette grows longer with another drag; she leaves it there in a choice that might be defiant or simply lazy. A slow, devilish smile curls her lips and she nods, jumping off the stool with sudden coiled energy. Somehow, the ash remains.

"Yeah." Another smirk. "I would."

She tilts her head.

"I'm Grace."

Grace.

Were he a less cynical man, he might consider it to be a sign, but salvation lies further and further from his path with every step he takes and grace isn't something he's ever found much of in life.

Well, but he only just met her. Who knows what might happen during an encounter with a fascinating stranger?

"Wolfwood." His smile widens, and despite the overt friendliness, there's something distinctly predatory about it. As he stands, he catches one strap of the cross, lifts it up and against his back in a motion so familiar he might as well have been tying his shoes. He hefts it like it weighs nothing at all, but the way it hangs suggests a solid build.

"Well, Grace, lead the way."

"Wolfwood."

The stare of a cop can be a damn near heavy thing; Grace has broken more than one suspect by keeping her gaze steady, unblinking, unreadable. This time, she's not even trying.

She watches him heft the cross onto his back, and still nothing registers in her eyes.

Finally the ash starts to fall. She flicks what's left and takes another drag before stomping on the butt with the toe of her boot.

"Nice to meet you." A beat. "Sure."

Grace saunters ahead of him. It's not a far walk to the pool table, but she makes it worth his while.

His cigarette is tucked between his lips as he follows her, a steady stream of smoke leaving a wavering trail in his wake before it dissipates into the bar atmosphere. He's straight-backed, carrying the Punisher, while she's anything but: she's got a way of walking that makes him think of side-winding snakes shifting through the dunes, but though his eyes keep threatening to watch that hypnotic sway of her hips, he keeps them on the back of her head.

There's something different about her, and he doesn't mean the way she seems as comfortable in her body, limbs and skin and wild blonde hair, as he is in his suit.

It's a rare thing to see.

At the table, the Punisher goes down on the floor with a heavy, muffled metallic thud as he leans it against the wall and turns back to her, taking out a pool cue and testing it between both hands, that wide smile back in place.

"I'm sure a girl like you can make a good clean break. Ladies first."

Grace is busy collecting balls when he puts down the cross. Her head tilts slightly at the sound -- it's not wooden, then -- but she continues with her task, dropping the balls into place with easy confidence. Once the rack is filled, she runs it back and forth on the table and leaves it perfectly in place.

Smirking: "I manage."

The way she chalks her cue is downright suggestive. Grace is still smirking, still watching him with that heavy-lidded look that could be interest, could be a lazy nonchalance.

She leans down low and sends the cue ball right up the middle, sinking a ball in the left corner pocket.

"Stripes. I'm sure a guy like you can catch up," she says, checking out her options on the table.

It seems to him she can do a whole lot more than manage, considering the way she seems to fill leftover space in the room.

He can appreciate a confident woman, but Grace is nearly aggressive in her comfort level in a way he's never seen before.

Well.

Maybe not never, but she's a lot nicer to look at than that prickly-haired bastard.

At any rate, he can admire the way she leans in to take her shot, and the break that comes of it. "I hope so," he says, sounding concerned, taking in the way the balls have scattered.

There's an easy shot at the right middle pocket: he takes it, sinks it, and winds up with the cueball smack in front of a grouping of stripes.

Great.

"It occurs to me," he says, considering his options, "we haven't decided on any terms. Are you a betting woman, Grace?"

Good, she wants him to admire the way she moves: for the thrill of it, for the heat in her blood, for the chance to use and the chance to take. She's always working more than one angle.

The crack of the cueball hitting and the roll of the other ball in the pocket makes her smile. Looks like he's better than he said he'd be. She's not even a little surprised.

"Am I a bettin' woman?"

Yes.

Some things are fundamental.

"Depends." Grace leans toward him, holding the stick out to her side. Blonde hair flops in her face and does little to cover her grin. "What're the stakes?"

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