damon salvatore; eternal stud (niceish) wrote in thedisplaced, @ 2017-11-08 00:33:00 |
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This wasn’t the first time George had been thrown into a completely new culture and situation, nor the first time it had happened with so very little preparation or information about the world into which he was being thrown In those instances, as with this one, he went to the local watering hole. Every town, no matter what country, whether it had magic or not, and no matter how affluent it was, had a spot where locals aggregated and talked amongst themselves. It was a great way to listen in on the matters on their minds, and get a sense of the social hierarchy of things. The challenge was to find that watering hole, and not just an ordinary pub where people did nothing but sip their drinks and mind their own business. George was aware he’d probably have to look into a few to find the right one, but he was very good at pretending to drink. His main challenge was looking old enough to do so. At twenty-five, he was indeed old enough to drink even in the purantical world of the Broken’s America, but he had a delicacy of face and slenderness of form that made him look younger than he was. Fortunately, he was also an extremely adept physical actor who could carry himself with more maturity and confidence than most young men of his age. That alone had gotten him into places that might have otherwise been barred to him. He walked by the door attendant with no issue and took a seat up at the bar, where he signalled to the bartender. This was where conversations were held; this was where he would listen. Although Damon didn’t actually work the bar himself, he liked to drop in and help out from time to time. He’d been a bartender multiple times throughout his extensive lifespan, so picking up a glass to mix a few drinks was hardly beneath him. Since Jo was, by all accounts, still in Manhattan, he’d been coming in more frequently to keep an eye on the place. The Roadhouse was an old-fashioned joint, something you’d find off the beaten path in any dusty corner of the south. He liked that about it, gave him a pleasant sense of nostalgia that he didn’t usually experience. Then again, it also made him think of Bree’s bar and how he’d killed her, so perhaps wandering down memory lane wasn’t the best course. Spying the young face at the bar waving him over, Damon slung a rag over his shoulder and leaned part of the way over the counter. He wore a smirk, impressed that the guy had made it this far without needing to flash an ID of some kind. He wouldn’t get that request out of Damon either. “You’re new,” he remarked. “What can I get you?” That the bartender was able to identify he was new was a promising sign. It meant he had regulars. “Whatever you have on tap.” George modified his speech to match the flat vowels of the other man. “What is on tap? I just arrived a few days ago.” In that time, he’d been studying the people who lived here and their culture, but there was so much to catch up on, he was well aware of his ignorance in many aspects. He made it a point to keep track of who came and went. Lately, that hadn’t been so easy a task, but Damon knew every displaced that came into the roadhouse. The minute they didn’t show up when they normally did, he knew what had happened. The pessimist in him never held promising designs. “You got it,” Damon responded and went for an ideal IPA. With the pint filled, he slid it George’s way and resumed his slouch over the counter. “We’ve got a few pale ales, Guinness, the usual American crap. That one’s a good one, give it a whirl, newbie. I’m Damon, by the way. You?” “George.” He took a sip of the beer and made an appreciative noise. Anyone in the Weird who’d ever survived a trip into the Broken and tried their beer had come back with derisive stories about how weak and awful it was. George had never minded it. Sure, it wasn’t anything like the moonflower wine you could get at the Court of Adrianaglia, but few things on earth was. For a basic alcoholic beverage, Broken beer was just fine. “You been here a while?” The bartender spoke in simple, direct speech, so George flowed with it. Jack would like him, he thought. His brother never wasted any words. Probably came from being born a cat and not speaking until he was four or five. Damon had a tendency to cut to the chase. When he’d been human, beating around the bush politely had been customary, but years living as a vampire taught him otherwise. Life had been as harsh as he had been without his humanity. Now, he was wafting somewhere between that wayward soldier and the damaged man his own actions molded him into being. “Yep, relatively speaking,” he quipped. “The whole bunch of us here have a tendency to get shuffled around universes against our will. Think I’ve been dealing with it for over a year now, give or take. Hard to keep track when the date’s always different wherever we go. This your first dimension-jumping rodeo?” “Yes,” said George, sounding rather pleased about it. Dimension-jumping wasn’t a thing back where he came from, and that had gotten boring very quickly. The idea of being able to traverse worlds and planets was extremely appealing, even to a meticulous planner like himself. He looked forward to the time he found himself in space, or in some historical equivalent of this society. “This one of the better locations, you think?” George had enough to learn about the Broken to keep him occupied for a while, but eventually he’d be looking for a change in scenery. Now that was an interesting attitude to have. Not everyone took so well to being shuffled around universes. The only thing Damon appreciated about it was that it taught him how to manage his darkness better, and gave him a slew of friendships he never would have experienced otherwise. “It’s the best one,” Damon responded with pride. He had worked hard with Jo to get this place up to speed--her speed--and it had paid off in droves. Now he appreciated it far more than he did the swanky look of the club it had once been when Lucifer was around. “Could be biased, given that I co-run the place.” “Yeah?” George looked around the place with new eyes. Now he saw the little touches here and there that the man he’d thought was just the bartender took so much pride in: the neatly arranged shelves, the polished bar, the worn but clean state of the chairs and fixtures. His subconsciousness had picked it up, and now he connected these details to an owner - or co-owner - who was actively involved in the running of the place, rather than someone content to sit back and leave the management to someone else. After a moment’s thought, he made a decision. “You hiring?” “You bartend?” Damon shot back, opting to grab a distended glass and start polishing it. “With the way things go around here? We’re always looking for new people to help out. Ends up a revolving door. Plus, the locals don’t like to work in places full of unfamiliar faces.” Still, he’d have to run it by Jo before he made any final decision. They were a team, he wouldn’t pull some kind of ridiculous rank on her. Although Damon had a history of doing that, being in Tumbleweed had certainly changed him all the more for the better. George waited for Damon to finish polishing the glass, then held out his hand. “May I?” The man wanted to know if he could bar tend, and George had the sense that he trusted actions much more than words. What better way than to do a demo? He might not know all the names and recipes, but those could be learned. How to find the right combination of liquor, however - that required a knack that George had cultivated. Confidence won points with Damon--generally. He could also be inclined to destroy someone possessing an exorbitant amount, but George didn’t seem half bad. In fact, as far as new people went, he was beyond tolerable. Damon could easily see the man working behind the counter, and that proved to be a positive in his favor. Furthermore, the better help they had, the less he had to come into work and the more time he could spend with Elena. George had his attention, and he’d definitely be hearing from Damon sooner than later. |