milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

oom,
voodoo

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This is no way to live.

So don't mind the man carrying a hastily packed duffel bag weaving his way toward the Bar to ask her with slurred words for a room key, because he's just going to keep on going, until he reaches upstairs (goddamn stairs being all wobbly) and settles into his clean, cockroach-free, shitty-upstairs-neighbors-free apartment.

But eventually he's going to come back downstairs, because this is where the liquor is. He's going to order an entire bottle of scotch and a glass, and then he's going to take his two new friends to a dark, quiet booth and spend the rest of the night with them there.

[tags: Kenny "Lou" Shea]

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Don't look now, Lieutenant Shea, but there's a plainclothes SEAL silently regarding you his seat atop a nearby table (yes, atop - screw the waitrats, he can sit where he damn well pleases).

Half of him says he should keep watching. Half of him says he should join in.

And some voice, high-pitched and tinny, buried deep (and we mean deep) in the back of his mind, says he should walk over and ask him straight-up just what the fuck he did to get himself here.

Edited 2012-05-23 06:57 (UTC)

Don't worry, Kenny isn't looking now.

He isn't looking anywhere except at the bottom of his glass as he drains it. Because when he sees the bottom, he knows that it's time for him to refill it. And that's what he's doing. He even manages to get most of the scotch into the glass, too.

So keep watching, sailor. He's not going to notice or care.

And that's enough to make Voodoo mosey on over, hands in his pockets.

"You want some help with that, chief?"

Edited 2012-05-24 00:19 (UTC)

Without looking up he replies with slow and careful enunciation, "I'm perfectly capable of finishing this bottle on my own, thankew very much. And that's lieutenant to you. But I'm off-duty. So who gives a shit. Call me whatever you want."

He swallows another mouthful of scotch.

"...how about dogshit?" Voodoo asks, leaning on the booth. "'cause that's what you look like right about now."

"...Excuse me?"

Kenny then does look up. Slowly.

Sure, he hasn't shaved in a while. Sure, he's wearing yesterday's shirt. He doesn't exactly qualify as dogshit. Not yet, anyway.

It takes a moment for him to recognize Voodoo.

"What d'you want, kid?" It's almost a sigh.

Voodoo shrugs. "I want to know what's making you hog an entire bottle of scotch. And pulling it off."

Kenny utters a miserable grunt and shakes his head. "Well, there are some things that a man is willing to talk about, and there are some things that a man would rather drink about. This counts as something I would rather drink about. Sorry to disappoint."

Voodoo shrugs. "Your choice, pal."

He stands up. "So long as you're still breathin' tomorrow, huh?"

He huffs a mirthless chuckle. "I'll put it on my to-do list."

When Voodoo starts to leave, he then says, "Hey, kid, wait..."

Voodoo turns. "Hm?"

Kenny hesitates for a second.

"If you run into Tommy...don't tell him you saw me like this, okay?"

Voodoo hesitates.

Then pats Kenny on the shoulder.

"Sure, old man."

"Thanks, Voodoo."

A beat.

"And Jesus Christ, you can call me dogshit if you want, but anything but 'old man.'"

"How about 'pops'?"

"Don't push your luck, whippersnapper. Now get off my lawn and leave me be."

And, with a mock salute, Voodoo does just that.

The problem with being able to see in the dark is that it's not just nighttime she can see through. It's daytime shadows too. So those dark corner booths, to Sunshine, aren't so dark.

In any case, she recognizes the guy getting further shitfaced in this particular shadowy booth. And she recognizes some of the mood.

So there's a large, fragrant, still-warm-from-the-oven cinnamon roll (and its baker) heading over towards Kenny.

Usually, when you're inebriated, all your senses become dulled. But for Kenny, there is some vestige of functionality to his sense of smell. Wondering if he's just imagining things, he glances up and around...

"Oh God," he mutters, and he hastily straightens out his shirt and scrubs a hand through his hair in an attempt to make himself look more presentable. ...Doesn't really work.

"Sheer," she says, in the tone of one saying calm down, as she sets the plate with the cinnamon roll on the table. "I've seen worse."

And Rae knows that some days call for it.

Kenny nods and sighs, deflating. He blinks a bit blearily at the cinnamon roll, then glances up at her.

"Do you often spontaneously show up with pastries wherever they're most needed?"

"Only spontaneous in that I never know beforehand that they'll be needed," she allows with a slight smile. "It's usually a conscious decision, the showing up part."

Good, delicious food. Friendly, non-judging company. They're small things. But sometimes they can be like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. A small thing that, maybe, in the right circumstances, can turn the day around.

He takes a deep breath, at the same time inhaling the sweet, bolstering scent of cinnamon and sugar.

"Well... Thank you. This is just really, really...really thoughtful of you. If I didn't have nearly half a bottle of scotch in me, I probably wouldn't be so maudlin about a pastry, but as it is...thanks."

"It's a kickass pastry - well worth getting maudlin over," she pats his arm with a wry smile. There may be some residual flour that gets transferred - her hands tend to always have at least a little on them. "In any case, there are worse things to be maudlin about."

"Besides, the bread'll help soak up some of what you've been taking in. Help keep it from coming back up any time soon."

"Yeah, that's a good point," he says with a wan chuckle.

"I, uh, don't suppose you wanna stick around for a drink? I would be remiss if I didn't share some of this scotch in return."

Rae considers this.

"I'll take a little Scotch, I suppose. So long as you slow down on it, yourself."

There's no judgement, really, in her tone. Just slight concern.

"Heh, yeah, well, I suppose finishing it off all in one go isn't going to make much of a difference either way. But then again, it's really good liquor."

Kenny signals a waitrat and asks for another glass, which it fetches in no time. Steadying his hand, he pours out a shot for Rae, and heeding moderation (even though it might be a little late for that), just a shot for himself.

"To the healing power of cinnamon rolls?"

"Drinking it all at once'd also be damned expensive. Just two fingers, for me," she says, holding her fingers up sideways to the glass to indicate how much. Once it's poured into the glass, she hold up the glass to inhale the scent of the well-aged Scotch.

"I don't know about the healing powers of cinnamon rolls, but they do taste quite good."

"This is on my friend's tab. He owes me." His little smile is tight, his shrug is loose, and he stares down at his drink before taking a measured sip of it.

He then decides to tackle the cinnamon roll in question, almost reluctant to do so because it's just so perfect. But he pulls off a piece, slathered in gooey icing, and pops it into his mouth. He's silent as he chews slowly, savoring it. Finally, he murmurs,

"...Wow."

He goes for another piece, and licks icing off his thumb.

"Yeah, I don't... Yeah. Wow."

Sunshine sips from her glass of Scotch, savoring the flavor as Kenny tries the cinnamon roll.

"No words necessary," she smiles slightly. Cinnamon rolls aren't magic, but they might seem as though they are, sometimes. Not just good, honest, flour and yeast and sugar and cinnamon, with warm, homemade vanilla icing. There's a reason why they're her best sellers, over all the other fantastic baked goods on the menu.

"Good, 'cause combining inebriation and a sugar high will greatly reduce my verbal skills." He takes another chunk of cinnamon roll.

"So, Sunshine," he says, the name somehow warming him up from the inside, or maybe that could just be the liquor, "tell me something about yourself. I know you're a fantastic baker, but surely that's not all."

"It's the majority of things, at least," she smiles. "I've been the Head Baker at my step-father's coffeehouse for the last seven years. Pretty much my entire life revolves around the place."

Apart from that segment of her life that gave her those scars on her shoulders, arms, and upper chest, that is. But she doesn't like talking about that. Most of her scars are just scratches and scrapes, but the thin burn scar looping her neck like a shiny necklace and the sickle-shaped knife scar over her heart are unique.

"I love feeding people - it's practically a necessary trait if you want to survive in the family-owned restaurant business. Charlie, my step-father, he has it too. Apart from liking to make good food for people, I also like to read entirely too much. Usually gormless old horror stories."

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