milliways_bar | (no subject)

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That was unpleasant.

And yet Boyd, like so many, cannot help but pick at a sore spot. And he wants to know what that was -- that thing that's left him with a bullet in his pocket to turn over and over in his hand.

It's what he's doing at the bar right now. There's a drink at his right hand, to assist in thinking. The bullet can and will be palmed.

And Boyd is ready, if it happens again.

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X keeps her gaze on his pocket for a second, then flicks a look toward his hands.

"I am allowed to ask why?"

Boyd slants her another look. "It's a free country."

Beat.

"You surprised that someone would come to a bar to get a drink?"

"I am Canadian," X offers.

Technically, anyway.

"And I am not surprised."

Beat.

"But other people are not always drinking. Here."

Canadian gets a look of suspicion.

And then his glass gets a look, and he drinks.

"Then maybe they don't know what a bar is for."

X looks dubious.

"I do not think that is likely."

Somehow.

"Unless their world does not have them."

Hmm.

Boyd takes another drink.

"So this mean you joined the Women's Christian Temperance Union?"

X blinks.

"I do not know what that is."

"Means you're against the general existence of alcohol in a way that prevents people drinking it."

"Drunk is stupid," X offers, matter-of-factly.

"And dangerous."

Beat.

"And it is not safe. To pick fights. Here."

Boyd raises his eyebrows.

"That a threat, Miss X?"

"No."

Threats are for other people.

"But many people here are jerks."

Present company --

Well.

"It is better to be careful."

"You see anybody else in my immediate vicinity?" he inquires. "You ever see anybody else in my immediate vicinity? I come here to drink alone and go home. That's it."

(He is perhaps not aware of his voice becoming slightly less modulated toward the tail end of all that.)

(There's a bullet in his pocket.)

X's nostrils flare, just a little.

It is at this point that X slips onto a barstool and orders a root beer float.

"You could go upstairs. With a bottle."

Beat.

"Or outside. There are fewer people there."

Especially now that things have calmed down.

"You telling me I can't drink here?" Now Boyd's sitting upright. "Because if that's the case, I think I want to know what I did to get my privileges revoked."

X does not sigh.

"No."

Beat.

"It is easier to be alone. Somewhere else."

She offers a shrug, one-shouldered and quick.

"Maybe for you," Boyd says, and drinks again.

X takes a sip of her own drink.

"The rafters are okay, too."

X gets a look.

"Ups the risk of spilling your drink, don't it?"

X considers that, head tilting.

Then --

"Not if you are prepared."

Travel cups are all the rage.

Really.

"Well, I'm prepared to sit here on this stool with my spillable drink," Boyd says. "And that's about it."

He is too old for rafters, except in the most dire of circumstances.

"Okay," X says, and sips equably at her drink.

She's not on duty yet, but she will be soon.

There is no reason to go anywhere in the meantime.

After a suitable moment, and another drink or three, Boyd says, "Saw something the other day."

His voice is low, and a decent approximation of casual.

X tilts her head, studying Boyd carefully.

Then --

"Outside?"

Beat.

"Or indoors."

It could be relevant.

"It was indoors." He turns the glass in his hand. "Over near that window, right by the door."

"Apparitions happen often?"

X flicks a glance in that direction, nostrils flaring again.

Some things leave a scent residue.

Some do not.

Then she looks back at Boyd.

"Not often," she says eventually.

Carefully.

"But sometimes."

Beat.

"You are okay?"