milliways_bar | Happy Hour, Cubefall Edition!

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Happy Hour, Cubefall Edition!

It's been a pleasant enough month. After all the hullabaloo of the Shindig cleared out, Kate took some time to herself to relax. She's been around, in and out of the stables as usual, but mostly sticking to the libraries and her room.

She's pleased when she comes downstairs and gets a reminder of just what the date is.

The familiar screen pops up:

Hello! Welcome to Milliways. Today, Milliways marks the Cybertronian holiday of Cubefall, the anniversary of the day upon which the Allspark first landed on the rocky world that would become Cybertron. Would you like to sample some possible reconfigurations? (y/n)

Kate grins, taking some time to pore over the choices. The robot is a little unsettling; the horse is tempting. She was a fella two years back for the holiday, and she actually quite enjoyed the experience. Folk always like to compare what a woman can do to what a man can do. Getting some actual idea of what the differences really are...

She chews on her lip, and hits the series of buttons it takes to reconfigure her. Hell if she won't have some more fun with this.

When it's done, a napkin pops up on the Bar.

"Y'jus' like askin' me when I'm tall 'nough t'reach the shelves, don't you?" 'he' grumbles, not without amusement.

He leaps over the counter spryly, and quickly scribbles up a few specials.

Happy Hour Specials:

Robot Cocktail
Fluffy Duck
Gender Bender Shooter
Bourbon
Ice Cream
Bourbon Ice Cream

Build something for half off your drink, and an extra shot of good luck.

"Bar's open! Yeehaw."

[ooc: Open until the next Happy Hour post, or until it scrolls off the front page. All are welcome, threadhopping is encouraged, zaniness is practically required. Have fun! ^__^]

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"Did I? Now, there's a story that begs tellin'."

He leans forward — dangerously close to being improper — so he can get a look at her footwear. He'd argue you can't really say you know what it's like to be a woman until you've been trussed up in stockings and heels, but he ain't fussing.

He tosses the cowgirl another quick smile, his eyes crinkling in kind.

"Doin' pretty well tendin'? Or doin' pretty well carryin' bait an' tackle?"

Jack, never one to be shy, lifts one long, jeans-clad leg, and settles the heel of her boot against the strut of another stool so he can get as good of a look as he likes.

Could be she don't mind the attention one bit. "Well," she drawls, leaning back to give him a good long look up through her eyelashes from beneath the brim of that white hat, "I'd say it's mostly applicable to the rodeoin, all things considered."

That's hardly true, but she's got no desire to bring up John Twist, Sr., and his disappointment in her now. "Talk about turnin things on their head. Not me, a course, I do just fine for myself."

Sure enough, she's got a shiny belt buckle sitting comfortably at her waist to prove it.

There's that laugh again, all kinds of cheerful, 'cause Jack was maybe a little apprehensive about all this, but turns out, ain't that hard, not really. He's done plenty harder in his life.

"From here, I'd say both. Ain't wrong, am I?"

He grins.

"You buck the pony?"

He catches the glint off her belt. Well, now. That looks familiar. He's not thinking too hard on it right now, but it's definitely struck a memory.

"An' y'ain't too bad at it, I reckon."

He picks up his glass, drowning a cat-who-ate-the-canary smirk in bourbon.

"I've done it before. People like me, I guess. An' there's somethin' t'be said for bein' taller."

"Bulls," she confirms, kicking back and tipping a fair measure of bourbon down her throat, feeling her cheeks flush from the warmth of it. "Best damn eight seconds of my life ever time; worst, too. Busted my leg pretty good a few years back, ain't done much since then, but I weren't bad."

She says it modestly, but there's a fair gleam of pride in those blue eyes, too.

A little smirk spreads, slow as molasses, across her lips. "Bet they do. Can't say's I've considered that partic'lar factor before, but I can see how it'd be an improvement."

Experimentally, she swings herself up and off the stool, checks her height, laying her palms on the bar and seeing how her elbows bend more than usual.

"...Huh." Slipping back onto the stool, she laughs, head tipping back. "One more thing to get used to."

She doesn't especially mind.

He laughs.

"If y'need anythin' fetched off a high shelf, I'm your man. An' be mindful when you're usin' the facilities. I gave a couple ladies a good scare last time, walkin' into the powder room like this."

He winks, and lets out another short burst of chuckles. Hell, this is more fun than he remembered.

"Sounds like you've lived an adventurous life. How's your leg now? Keep y'from doin' much?"

He's sure got a nice laugh, and Jack laughs right along with him, blue eyes twinkling.

"I'll keep it in mind," she promises, grinning, then shakes her head, feeling downright bashful in a way she never gets as a fella.

"Kind of you to say, but I couldn't say it has been, aside from the rodeo. Mostly scratchin out a way to make two ends meet that don't want to." She pats the leg in question, which is much slimmer than she's used to.

"Can ride just fine, do my usual work, but ridin the bulls is right out, 'less I decide I don't mind not walkin for the rest of my life." She gives the cowboy a nod. "How 'bout you? Guess you ain't always tendin here, after all."

Edited 2012-05-31 14:10 (UTC)

He's got this way of listening that looks like the bar could be coming down around their ears and she'd still have his full attention. His brow is furrowed, eyes bright and focused, a slight pout on his lips.

"Times tough where y'come from, then? Texas is facin' drought; I know a lotta folk with stock an' crop are havin' trouble stayin' afloat right now. Mother Nature can be fickle. An' we wouldn't want you losin' them pretty legs anytime soon."

He blinks, taking a shy half-step back, working at an invisible spot on the Bar with his rag. His mouth twists with some secret amusement.

"Me? Guess y'could say I see some adventure. Not like yours. My daddy broke horses, an' sometimes I think there'd be no better way t'spend the rest of my days than on a farm, breedin' 'em. But my line of work — guess y'could say it ain't exactly on the up-an'-up."

Her eyebrows quirk up in amusement, but she stifles her laugh into her glass, sipping at the last of her bourbon.

"Seems like times is tough just about everywhere. My daddy, he can hardly keep the old farm workin, ain't turned a profit in years, but they get by. Me, I take about any odd job I can find that'll cut me a paycheck, but ain't got it too bad in Childress. Steady work that pays okay."

She turns a curious glance on the 'tender, though, leaning forward and fixing him with bright blue eyes of her own.

"You waitin' on an invitation to go on, there, cowboy?"

His smile slides across his face, the kind of boyish grin you'd expect from a li'l one who's just been caught before supper with cookie crumbs on his face.

"Didn't know y'were interested, ma'am."

He tugs on the brim of his hat, the shyness not entirely contrived when he wets his lips, taking a moment to answer. His thumbs hook in his gun belt.

"Simple answer is I'm what they call an outlaw."

Not that things like that are ever simple. There's a story there, that much is certain, but Kate's curious to see if she'll be surprised; if she'll remember he's actually a woman, and if so, if that'll make any difference to her.

He reaches for the bottle of bourbon, offering another refill.

It kind of takes a second for the answer to sink in.

Okay, maybe a few seconds.

...Maybe longer. Jack's not counting, or anything, but she's never been all that quick on the draw when it comes to piecing things together, so it sort of fits itself like a puzzle getting worked over as she nods and holds out her glass for the bourbon.

An outlaw. That ain't so bad, there are plenty a folks here that fit that description. She's not gonna judge: man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, and it ain't her place to ask for reasons.

...Except, this fella ain't a fella, not for real, and that leads to a whole new line of thought, one that makes her frown in bemusement.

"Hell, I bet that's a story. Ain't never heard a too many lady outlaws, and that's a fact."

He pours, watching her face rather than the bourbon. He's got a sixth sense for when a glass is full, and she's far more interesting.

The ruts in his forehead are deep, but his smile stays light and crooked.

"Guess y'could say I'm one of a kind."

He's not one to be terribly glib, no matter which body he's in. So he splashes some bourbon in his glass as well, sets the bottle aside, and leans in conspiratorially.

"I ain't gonna hurt you, in case that sprung t'mind. Hell, I was jus' a schoolteacher not that long ago. Everythin's got a story, an' mine — well. It's long an' sad."

She leans on in, too: why the hell not? Ain't this what you do, at a bar? Make friends with the tender if you can, swap stories, bullshit or not?

Her bourbon tastes sweet and smoky and sharp all at once, and shit, this body is a whole lot smaller than she's used to, 'cause it's also kinda goin to her head in a way that really shouldn't be happening without at least one more glass.

Well, nothing for it now, so she just lets her head lighten and tips back a little more booze. Something makes her think it might be the easiest way to deal with this shape and...everything that comes with it, especially when the bartender in question is tall and blue-eyed with a grin like sunrise.

"Don't wanta pry," she says, but it's a lie, and her smile, sympathetic though it is, calls her out on it. "Everbody's got a sad song or two under their belt, but if you're on the wrong end of the law, guess yours is worse then most."

His expression doesn't change; the smile's still reaching his eyes, all lopsided and wry, but his eyes take on a few more fleeting feelings. A distance, kind of like he's not all here; a touch of regret.

He shrugs.

"Well, I try not t'quantify other folks' sufferin'. My life ain't so bad, when y'get down to it. How many people get t'say they spend their days in a magic bar with loony holidays an' the finest-lookin' smiles y'could ever hope t'see?"

He winks, letting a slow laugh out through his nostrils.

"Tell y'what. I'll sing you my sad song if y'sing me one'a yours, an' then — y'can tell me if the bourbon ice cream's any good. On me."

That smile of hers widens at the compliment, and she can feel her cheeks heating in a way that's distinctly unfamiliar.

Damn, but this body's got some strange reactions.

It's a fair deal. 'Course it is, and it ain't like she can ask for his tale without offering one of her own, right? That's just not playing fair.

Still, the sips she takes of her newly refilled bourbon is a slow one, filling her mouth with the sweet sharpness of it before letting it burn lazily down her throat.

"Ain't much to tell," she says, finally. "Everbody's young'n stupid once, right? Me, I left home to follow the rodeo, ended up dirt poor'n scrapin for jobs. And there was a whole lotta stupid shit in between. But like you say, it ain't so bad." She winks, setting the tumbler down.

"Sure got nothin to complain about just at the moment."

Well, she just said a whole lot — of nothing.

Kate don't blame her, though. In fact, his smile grows a bit warmer still, taking from 'young and stupid' and 'whole lotta stupid shit' what's unspoken in the margins of the story. He doesn't have to know in order to know.

One of the curiosities of this body is he finds himself blushing when she swears, and without thinking much about it — she's just so awful close now — he reaches out and tucks her hair behind her ear.

"You're one helluva fighter."

He reckons it's his turn now. Sure, he could make light of it, too; maybe give her a vague summary of events. But he made a promise, and his daddy raised him to be frugal, but not stingy.

"I was teachin' in Green Lake. There was a handyman — his name was Sam. He sold remedies an' poultices he made from these onions he grew out past the lake. He had the warmest smile; voice real sweet, like honey; skin the color of ebony.

"Anyhow — he offered t'fix up the schoolhouse, an' we became good friends. After a few months, I realized I'd fallen in love with 'im.

"Someone saw us kissin' one day, an' the mayor's son led a mob t'my schoolhouse. They burnt it t'the ground. Y'see, it ain't lawful for a black man t'kiss a white woman. So, when I ran t'the sheriff for help, he said the only way he was gonna help me was if I kissed him. I refused. They destroyed everythin', an' then they killed Sam.

"I guess things could'a gone a lot of ways. But the way they went was I went down t'the sheriff's office a few days later, put a bullet in 'im, an' gave 'im the kiss he asked for."

He shifts uncomfortably, his next sentence coming through in a strained exhale.

"Been on the run ever since."`

She goes warm all over at the way he, just so nice and easy, leans over to tuck that hair back behind her ear, and hell, it's kinda nice, ain't it, having hair this long and soft that it makes somebody else want to lean over and touch it?

When was the last time anybody voluntarily reached out to touch her? Not Lureen. Not even Ennis, not hardly at all. Those touches are few and far between and she could probably count them all on her two hands.

Her confused blush dies down at what he's got to say, though, and for a long moment, she just watches him from out under the shadow of that pretty white hat, blue eyes sad and full of the kind of sympathy that can't quite get put into words.

Not by Jack, anyhow: she'd be the first to admit words ain't exactly her strong point.

"Shit," she swears, soft. "That's fuckin hard."

Personally, she guesses there are plenty of ways life could ever go: seems like she -- and this fella, here -- just seem to get stuck in the roads that don't lead nowhere.

"Sorry to hear 'bout your man. Guess I'd've gone after the fuckers, too."

She sucks at her teeth, turns her attention down to her drink, voice muffled by the glass. "Ain't like you can always pick who you end up fallin for, I guess. Can't say as how it's anybody else's business, though."

He smiles real wry now, hanging his head just so his eyes can't see any part of her but them pretty fingers. He rubs at his brow with a thumb, and tests the weight of words on his tongue until he thinks he's found the right ones.

"I would'a picked him. Even if things was different."

It ain't like he wasn't spoiled for choice. Night classes weren't always packed to the brim because the men in Green Lake had a powerful hankering for education. They'd come to be close to Miss Katherine, the 'Angel of Green Lake', the most beautiful woman in town. She could have had her pick of any fine match, monetarily, socially.

She just didn't give a shit about any of that.

"For as long as there's been people on Earth, there's been men who think they're better. The best. Like they got some right t'judge who's a real human bein' an' who ain't. Right now it's the Indians gettin' chased off their land, decried, an' killed. Wasn't so long ago my daddy fought in a war 'bout whether Negroes had the right t'be free. He always used t'say, 'We're all equal in the eyes of God, Katie — you remember that.' Never forgot it."

He shrugs. It's an awkward gesture, what with the way his shoulders are sticking out and his face is downcast.

"It ain't anybody else's business. Y'should love who y'love. We jus' ain't got there yet."

Her smile, aimed down at her drink, is wry, with an unhappy twist to it -- not that it's easy to see, past the brim of that hat.

"Sounds like a hell of a guy," she says, and her voice sounds normal enough.

It's just...

Well, life ain't fair. Never has been, never will be, and they had a good run for a while. Hell, they stole all kinds of time here that weren't ever supposed to happen to begin with, and she guesses that's the best she can hope for.

(Who's she trying to kid?)

Her finger taps against the glass, silent against the thick, heavy curve it makes.

"Guess not quite yet." When she looks back up, she's smiling easily, but there's a shadow in her eyes that doesn't quite seem able to clear away. "Sounds like he was worth it, though."

Maybe that's the rub, right there, the salt stinging in old wounds never quite healed. Jack Twist -- she ain't worth it, is she? Not to Ennis, anyhow, and that's about the only person that matters.

Still, she just can't seem to quit trying.

Maybe she'll see it before she feels it. He don't know, what with that hat angled the way it is, hiding what he doesn't have to see to know is there. He runs his finger along the curve of her hand, in that sensitive spot where her forefinger meets her thumb. His fingers are impossibly large compared to what he's used to, but the same steel-calloused skin, the same tenderness and roughness all mixed up in one.

He's looking at her when she raises her chin, his posture just the same; he has to wrinkle his brow and look up through his lashes to see her. That boyishness is still there, but with the deep furrow and the concerned eyes he looks devastatingly sincere.

"That's a helluva thing t'say yes or no to."

He's whispering, voice like hot buttered rum and gingerbread. Was it worth the one kiss, Sam dying and 'Miss Katherine Barlow' along with him? No. Would he take a single moment back? No.

It's just that life isn't fair.

Well, hell: the way he's looking up at her, he's like a gunshy colt, or like a boy tryin to figure out how the hell being a man work -- the kind of uncertain, skittish creature Jack's always felt a certain amount of kinship for.

Those blue eyes are damn near magnetic, and she feels her hair slip over her shoulder as she leans closer, goosebumps skittering up the skin of her arm at the touch of callused fingers against hers.

That tan, that blonde hair, that smile that's so molasses-sweet and shy, his big hands and broad shoulders, the way hos voice goes low and secret, like there's nobody else in the whole damn room--

Fuck, it's enough to make a girl's blood run hot and cold and boil again, even if what they're talking over are the tragedies of life. "Ain't lookin for an answer," she says. "I couldn't say, myself. Some days I think, hell, I'd do it all over again. Other times, it's all: what the fuck are you thinkin, Jack Twist? You shoulda kept the fuck to yourself and let well enough alone."

But she knows she never could, because Ennis, fuck. He's no sin, and he's no savior, and Jack knows she's going to hell for the things she's done, but those moments up on Brokeback...she'd give anything just for one of them back.

Under the shade of her brim, her eyes are blue as a mountain pond, blue like forget-me-nots or the deep arch of the summer sky, and her smile's sweet, if wry.

"Could be this bourbon's goin to my head."

Could be.

Could be Kate should feel guilty letting her talk about her secrets when he's been feeding her glass after glass. But it ain't the secrets that pull him up short, one hard blink of those thick lashes turning deep concern to surprise.

"Jack Twist?"

Just like that, someone's struck a match in the catacombs of his mind, and it all becomes so much clearer. Those cornflower eyes, the swagger that somehow manages to stay shy, dark hair and easy smiles. Kate breathes a laugh, eyes crinkling, and with this sudden sense of familiarity he slips his hand inside hers and gives it a proper squeeze.

"Now I really would hate t'see your pretty face lined with guilt."

That grin turns crooked, the kind of smile that maybe seems a little off-kilter on her current delicate features but would fit just right on the mug of the cowboy more familiar to the bar at large.

"Shit. Yep, that's me."

She might be about five inches shorter and maybe fifty pounds lighter, but there's something of Jack's twinkle in her eyes and her cheeks dimple with her smile just like they always do when she smiles wide, like she's doing now.

"Why? We know each other?"

Oh, hell. If anything, Kate's grin turns broader — and laced with wicked intent.

"Sorta. Guess y'could say we're acquainted."

He winks, and pushes the brim of his hat.

"As I recall, you're a mighty fine dancer."

"I'm a..."

Nobody's ever accused Jack of being quick on the uptake, but even with her head getting fuzzy with bourbon, she can put two and two together and get something approximating four.

"Shit." She ducks her head again, but this time her slim shoulders shake with laughter. "Shit. And listen to me, swearin like a roughneck, talkin to a lady. But it ain't Miss Barlow, is it?"

Now that she's looking at him, though, there's that smile that flashes like the first gleam of sunrise, and there's those blue eyes that crease in just the same way, and while Kate's hair was smooth and pretty that day at the shindig and this fella's is tousled and short, it's the same shade of hay-gold.

"Well, fuck me." Her cheeks stain and she laughs, shaking her head. "There I go again. Beg your pardon."

Kate snickers in earnest, going a little redder each time she cusses. It's hard to say if he's scandalized, or just reacting to hearing a lady talk with such a filthy mouth. Either way, he's laughing, and shaking his head.

"You're awlright, sweetheart. Ayup, I do believe you've got me."

His intent wasn't to trick or embarrass. Well, all right, his intent was to trick. Sort of a social experiment, you see? But he'd sure feel funny if Jack went away feeling awkward about this whole affair.

"An' here I thought I made a piss-poor fella. You make one helluva lady, though, Mr. Twist."

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