Cian (thebettingsort) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-12-08 23:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, cian wilde, hippolyta flynn |
Who: Cian & Flynn
What: A bar fight
Where: The Blue Bear
When: Tonight
Rating: PG-13 (oh sweet baby Ajora, count the f-bombs)
Status: Complete!
The notion of a mage taskforce had been swimming in Flynn’s head for days, turned over and over in her mind. She’d never been one to doubt herself, at least not on a frequent basis, but this was a possibility that seemed like it verged on the impossible, no matter what Councilor Matsudaira said. Accidental hero or no, she had anger issues, magic issues— wasn’t she too much of a loose cannon, or did that not matter? She sucked down her fourth shot of whiskey a little too fast. “Hey there, shrimpette,” crooned a voice from behind. That shot glass hit the counter hard. It was a voice she recognized, one she hadn’t intended on hearing again. What was his name? Oh, right, he hadn’t given it, especially not after she decked him in the face. Swiveling in her stool, the redhead glared with a sharpness even daggers would be jealous of. “Motherfucker, if you start this shit again, I’m going to give you a matching bruise. Fuck off and don’t have a nice day.” Upon attempting to swivel the other way, the man grabbed her arm rather roughly, preventing her from completing the turn. “Listen, midget, you think you can get away with what you did? Think I won’t hit a girl and give you two matching black eyes?” A swipe of her hand caught him in the throat, and he choked. It didn’t end there-- she was leaping off of the stool, sizing him up despite their full foot of height difference and slamming her hands into his chest. “What, you wanna hit me? You want to turn me black and blue, then you fucking try it, dickhead, I fucking dare you.” Okay, not going as according to plan, but she could make an exception for socking an asshole. Fighting was a standard order of business in establishments that served alcohol but not, typically, in the Bear. Most people tended to know to steer clear of the owner, and those who didn’t know were generally wary of the clientele. These two, though, didn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Cian might have ignored it, but no one could play dice with that sort of racket. And hell, it’d been awhile since he’d clocked anyone, he considered, standing from his table and making his way over to the combatants. Might as well get back in the game. A nod to the bartender had the man turning away as Cian waded into the fray. Fortunately, these two were too focused on each other to be bothered with anyone else -- to their soon-to-be chagrin. The guy got a lightning-fast punch to the nose; as he dropped with a startled gurgle -- broken, by the crack the cartilage had made against Cian’s knuckles -- the gambler grabbed the girl by the scruff of her neck and held her at arm’s length, lest she attempt to punch him, too. “Chill the fuck out,” he suggested, in a tone that was almost conversational. Like a displeased tabby, Flynn flailed, twisting this way and that in the hold. Her feet didn’t touch the ground, so she kicked out, catching the first guy in the shoulder and forcing a pained, startled yelp out of him. It wasn’t clear who she was more angry with: the man holding her like she weighed nothing, or the one on the floor. “Fuckin’ dickstick, you want to hit me, let’s take this outside,” she spat, limbs lashing out. “And get— lemme go, I’m not a fucking cat.” This was directed to Cian. “The dickstick’s being shown out,” Cian said. Two of the men who had occupied a nearby table had already stood and hauled him onto his feet. His nose was bleeding, and he was uttering muffled curses as he was escorted out. He couldn’t help a smirk as he watched the little redhead flail in his hold. Damn, but it was good to have his strength back. “Kind of look like one, kitten,” he told her. “You going to scratch me if I set you down?” Clearly, this guy was making fun of her size; there was no other option. Had he held her any closer, a flying elbow might’ve connected with his nose, but he was too strong for a girl just barely over five feet tall. She squirmed, still unappreciative of the manner in which he’d hoisted her up, and of how her collar was cutting into her throat. “No, so for the love of fuck, just put me down.” A more appropriate reaction, sadly, might’ve been a hiss. He chuckled but did as she demanded. “You new around here, kitten?” he asked with amusement, putting emphasis on the nickname (to him, she would never be anything else, after such an auspicious first meeting). “No fighting in this bar.” Feathers effectively ruffled, the mage straightened her shirt, rearranging the collar almost obsessively, as if he’d done her great harm. She snorted, maybe a little too loudly, and scuffed her boot along the floor out of habit. “I didn’t start shit, and he started it,” she pointed out, petulantly. (If it sounded childish on her own ears, she made no indication.) But it didn’t stop there. “And who are you, the bouncer? You look a little scrawny for a bouncer.” This was mostly a lie, but the whiskey didn’t care. He quirked a brow at her. “Says the woman I held off the floor with one hand,” he pointed out. “This look like the sort of place to employ a bouncer?” he continued. Dive as it was, and in this part of town, you were probably more likely to get shot than escorted out. Flynn kicked at her scarf, which had unwound from the stool and pooled on the floor. “You really want me to tell you what this place looks like? I didn’t come for the fucking company or scenery or to get manhandled by assholes who don’t know their place.” She huffed, angrily. “So then, what, you the good Samaritan who punches people they could just say ‘fuck off’ to? ‘No fighting in this bar’.” The last was parroted in a voice that, presumably, was meant to mimic Cian’s deeper one, and failed. “Yeah, my ass.” “Guess you’re not a mime,” he said. By any standard, the impression had sucked. “And your ass isn’t worthy of comment.” Which was also not entirely true, but he could lie with the best of them. “I’m the owner,” he said, still amused rather than annoyed -- probably to her benefit. “You need to be cut off, kitten? Seems like a lot of whiskey for someone your size.” Oh. Well, shit. That was not an admission Flynn was expecting to hear, so she paused, glare carved into her face and not wavering once. Who would want to own this place? This went unsaid. Feeling rather affronted, she stood up on her tippy toes, a painful position considering the cut of her boots, but it was the principle of the matter. “I’m dandy, thanks, and it’s got shit all to do with my size,” she shot back, dropping back onto her heels. “I didn’t even punch anyone. Hooray, the councilor’s gonna be so proud.” It ended in a grumble as she turned, attempting to slide back onto her stool and stomping on her abandoned scarf in the process. “Shoving and kicking don’t qualify as punching,” he agreed. Maybe it was her… creative turn of phrase, but he kind of liked her. “Stay out of trouble -- some of us are trying to drink,” or dice, “in peace -- and I’ll spot you a shot on the house. Not every day someone’s dumb enough to call me an asshole who doesn’t know my place in my own… fine establishment.” He grinned down at her. “Makes for a nice change of pace. Once.” The moment the redhead’s — she’d lost count, honestly — next shot of whiskey slid across the bartop, she held it up to him in a mock cheers, and uttered a most heartfelt, “Bottoms up”, before throwing back the shot and swallowing. Yeah, nice change of pace. For as long as she didn’t think Three-Face was watching her every move. That was one crisis averted, at least. |