Bishop and Teagan
Time was a thing he wasn’t even keeping track of anymore. The fire was still blazing, the music still thumping and the booze still being poured, that’s all that Bishop truly cares about in this moment as he sits lounging in one of the rickety old lawn chairs. His long legs are kicked out in front of him and his fiddle sits propped up against the frame of the chair, set aside, but not forgotten. If the mood strikes him he might pick it up again, though as the minutes tick by it looks more and more unlikely that he will even have the mental capacity to play anything more tonight.
The ‘shine combined with everything else of the booze-y nature he had taken into his body that night was doing a hell of a number on him. So much so that when a blonde in a tight black dress happens to enter his preferable vision, it doesn't immediately register that he knows her and she isn't just another camp bitch. “Come ‘ere,” he drawls as he reaches out and takes hold of her hand and tugs, effectively pulling her into his lap.
In the flickering firelight and with the woman now this close to him, Bishop gets a good long look at her and can't help but gape at her as realization sets in. “Spitfire?” Shock is evident in his voice, even with the heaviness of his accent. “You’re, you, what are you wearing?” This isn’t what he means to say, but it would seem his mind is struggling to connect the dots and Teagan’s proximity to him and choice in attire aren’t helping any.