Kiernan Manley (wingsofwyverns) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-02-01 19:51:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, kiernan manley, magnolia paget |
Who: Kiernan & Mag
What: Drinking and fighting away their rage
Where: Tipsy Sheep
When: Backdated to 1/31, after this
Rating: PG-13 for swearing and violence
Status: Complete!
Kiernan arrived at the Tipsy Sheep as they agreed. Mag was already there, sitting at the bar and radiating the anger that Kiernan still felt after Lavitz left the house. He walked towards her, greeting her with a thin smile when she looked up, and waved the bartender over. “Daiquiri,” he said, “and go heavy on the rum.” As the bartender went about making the drink, he turned to Mag and said, simply, “Hey.” What more could be said? And he knew neither of them were much in the mood to be making small talk. “Hey,” she returned, not quite managing a smile. Her blood was still boiling in her veins after her argument with Bram. There was none of the usual conversation with the bartender to kill the time; her expression was as grim as Kiernan’s. As he took the seat next to her at the bar, she downed the shot of liquor in front of her and asked, “How is he?” Kiernan's noses wrinkled as he recalled the state he last saw Lavitz in, and he wished the bartender would be faster about making his drink. "He's... as you'd expect. From him anyway." He shook his head. "He's even considering taking the fall for this." Just saying those words was enough for his rage to resurface. Maybe it was a good thing he didn't have his drink yet -- not that he was hurting for money anymore, but damn did he need that daiquiri in him and not on the floor. "Fucking idiot." The understatement of the century. For Lavitz to be thinking of taking the blame for a crime he hadn't committed— but she could see the dead eyes, the pained expression he had worn when he'd confessed to his suicide attempt. "Of course he is. Of course he Faram-fucking —" Mag took a deep breath and balled her hands into fists on the bar. To stop herself from reaching to take the liquor botfle from the bartender, or convince herself that punching anybody near her (anybody would do) was a very bad idea. After a moment, she slid off the stool and said, "Be right back." She reached out to squeeze Kiernan's shoulder (to comfort him or herself, she couldn't be sure) and headed toward the ladies' toilet, in hopes that splashing her face with water would soothe the rage where nothing else had. It didn't work, but she hadn't really been counting on it to. Shortly after Mag disappeared into the bathroom, the bartender handed Kiernan the finished daiquiri. He barely finished taking the first swig -- oh, Faram, the brain freeze; this was not his best decision of the day -- when he felt a rough hand grab his shoulder and spin him about. “Hey, guy, this here is our spot,” a burly man snarled. Kiernan rolled his eyes. “Your name ain’t on it. Back the fuck off, you pig-faced--” Then he felt a blow to his cheek, and when he stumbled back into the bar he knocked over his drink. The glass toppled to the ground and shattered, and Kiernan slowly shook his head and gritted his teeth. “Oh, wrong guy, wrong day,” he hissed before he tackled the man to the ground. Mag emerged from the toilet to see chaos unfolding in the tavern. Four men against Kiernan, and a matter of time before the whole tavern got dragged into the fight. She cursed, and the words were drowned by the sound of barstools clattering to the floor as Kiernan tackled somebody. He clearly needed reinforcements, and she would have been amused had she not been having the shittiest day in years. "Kiernan Manley," a punch, "you better," another to the guy beside the first, "not get us kicked out of here." She dodged a blow from one of Kiernan's new friends and kicked him to reduce his chances of leaving behind offspring. "I like this bar." "Fucking coward," the man wheezing. "You got your woman to do your fighting for you?" Another kick took care of the attitude. "I didn't say you could talk," Mag told him, watching in satisfaction as the bastard folded in two and tumbled to the floor. “They started it,” Kiernan protested as he dodged another punch. He grabbed the guy’s shoulders and took his knee to gut and then his elbow to the back of his head. “Just trying to finish it is all.” A third one raised an empty beer bottle to attack Kiernan while he was otherwise engaged, and Mag socked him in the jaw. "Well," she said, "this might be just what I needed today." Only one of Kiernan's friends still standing. Out of the corner of her eye, Mag spied a fifth guy start to get up from his table and then subtly sit back down when it became obvious which way the fight was going to go. Kiernan cracked his knuckles and his neck as he turned to face the last guy. He had been about to comment in his message to Mag about needing a punching bag, but he never thought that the night might end up like this. But, he agreed with Mag; somehow he was feeling a little better already. “So,” he said to the final contestant, “wanna dance?” The man’s mind looked like it had a few hamster wheels spinning about, and to Kiernan’s delight, he chose the fool’s route. In the instant he lunged for one of the nearby chairs, Kiernan grabbed a splintered barstool and smashed it on his head, seat first. Kiernan flinched as he felt some of the splinters dig into his hand, but he ignored the sting and clenched his fists for a final jab to the side of his opponent’s head. Then, there was some quiet, and Kiernan grumbled as he fished out triple the cost of his drink and placed it on the counter. “Sorry for the mess.” Likewise, Mag left a handful of coins on the counter, more than enough to settle her tab. “Sorry,” she echoed. “Hope that helps with the repairs.” The bartender shrugged. “Theatre District,” he said simply. “These things happen. And most people don’t leave a single gil to apologize.” He swept the coins behind the bar and nodded at Kiernan. “Appreciate you only broke one stool.” From the floor, the men groaned—something like agreement, it seemed to Mag. “You getting another round?” the bartender asked, as their audience saw the excitement was at an end and returned to their conversations. Mag’s eyes flickered to the bottle of liquor already in the bartender’s hands again. It hadn’t done anything to calm her down, and certainly it wasn’t going to now, so what was the point? She shook her head. “I have to go,” she said, with an apologetic look at Kiernan. “I’ll buy you a drink when this shitstorm’s passed us.” Kiernan was pleasantly surprised at the bartender’s nonchalance -- really, why couldn’t more owners be this laid-back about brawls in their bars? It seemed the occupational hazard of owning or working in a bar. But the pick-me-up was brief, but Kiernan did see Mag’s point. “It better pass soon,” he mumbled, then, after a moment’s consideration, asked, “Want me to come with?” He didn’t expect a yes, but at least the offer was made. She almost answered yes, but then she thought that if Kiernan was this angry, the conversation with Lavitz couldn’t have gone much better than hers with Bram (to call it a conversation was a stretch). She couldn’t imagine her chances of getting anywhere productive with their friend were all that high, either—but she had to try. “Thank you.” She pulled him into a hug and took a deep breath before pulling away. “But it’s better if you don’t. I’ll contact you later and let you know how it goes.” She gave his hand a squeeze and turned to walk out of the bar, carefully sidestepping the idiots still whimpering on the floor. Kiernan nodded and returned the hug, expecting the answer and not needing to ask where she was off to next. For now, he only watched as she left the bar, getting some satisfaction out of the wake of their brawl, before he turned back to the bartender. “Another daiquiri,” he said. It was really the only solution he could think of, for now. |