ǝʌoɹɓɹɐɥ ʎllıq (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} camaronitemare) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} 666parkavenue,@ 2019-09-19 12:24:00 |
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Date: july 19th, late evening
Location: Pandemonium Bar
Summary: the drunk get drunker and maybe gets lucky [possible one-night-stand option for bingo]
Warnings: pg13
Status: tbd
What was with this building? He'd only lived in this place a little while and already twice he'd gotten stuck in closets and elevators. At least in the closet, he'd had Al for company. He would have preferred her in the elevator too. Anyone besides mister creepy and blood-obsessed Declassian. Maybe he'd just imagined all of it. That had not been his finest moment and he was sure there was nothing so unattractive as a guy who couldn't keep his shit together. Maybe he'd freaked himself out so much that he'd just made up the whole thing.
Fuck, he'd rather he was going crazy than believe that the crazy shit that had happened in that elevator had actually been real. Strap him up and stick him in a goddamn bubble room. No, he was sure he'd imagined it all. This place was making him jumpy. It didn't help that someone had been murdered at that fancy-ass gala almost a week ago. Sure, the chances of him being next on the chopping block were low. He was sure he hadn't pissed off anyone that badly. The thing that bothered him the most was that no one seemed to really know what had happened. Was the guy targeted? Was it just random? Was it an accident?
Why the fuck was he still in this godforsaken building? Those were just a few of the questions that kept bubbling in his mind. He kept rubbing at his ears all day as if he could feel the gross thought-froth coming out of him. Or maybe that was just all the tequila shots he kept sneaking at work. He was never good with fear. Was he good at anything?
Origami. Actually, he was really fucking good at that. He'd made one of the ladies at the bar a little owl out of a cocktail napkin when he first got to the bar. She had seemed about as unimpressed with it as the tall guy with the purple 90's tie-dye shirt had been with his napkin-crane. That didn't put Reese off. He'd been drinking for nearly twenty-four hours straight at this point and he was just at the right kind of drunk to not give a damn about anything. What did it matter how many no's he got when all he wanted was one yes? Okay, so he was desperate but not really for the sex. Just for the comfort ... for the company. For the reason to not have to fucking think about anything for a few hours.
But three hours at the bar and he might as well have just taken on the night shift at work for all the time he was spending just watching everyone. He kept ordering drinks, hoping that one of them was going to be the one to help him get tired enough to just pass out back in his own bed. Or his liver would give out and he'd just end up on the floor, someone hopefully carrying him out.
At some point between his third whiskey and second cherry coke (thanks, bartender), he gave up on his chances of getting laid that night (he was just fishing at the wrong pond, that was all) and moved to the last chair at the bartop, pulled out his phone and taught himself a couple more origami folds. The bartender ended up slipping him some actual paper from somewhere and Reese ended up giving them a twenty with his number on it (who knew, maybe he'd get lucky) and filled the rest of his night with his own humming and avoiding papercuts.