"Matthew D." (propatria) wrote in repose, @ 2016-04-26 19:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, matt devlin, steve mcrory |
[log: the cat - steve/matt]
Who: Steve and Matt
What: A Steve walks into a bar.
Where: The Mean-Eyed Cat
When: Today
Warnings/Rating: N/A
The bar seemed like the last place someone like Matt should be working. It was loud, full of unpredictable people, and there was the occasional fight between patrons.
But he'd taken to it like a duck to water. He could serve drinks and let patrons talk at him. The work was repetitive, but constant. It kept his mind busy. Only when he fell out of the flow of following directives did he sometimes find himself jolted awake, lost in the flood of orders and voices.
He'd only had to walk out to the back twice since he started. That was good, even if he didn't feel changed.
There had been improvement, incrementally. He could hold down a conversation in English, now. That seemed like a step in the right direction. If he did flinch every once in a while, or stare a little too long, no one cared. So long as that was all he did, it would be fine, working at the Cat.
He liked taking care of animals and seeing them put right, but that work was only so regular these days, and he had to pay for food somehow until he got what he needed from this town. Cat had asked him to come, and she needed him there. There were good reasons to stay. Practical reasons for his own mission, too - he was more likely to catch a good rumor or find a lead about the facility at the local bar than he was giving shots to someone's pet.
Nothing, nothing was simple. Things had only been simple before he woke up, and then it was still only a top layer, a whitewashed facade, over and over. When he was working at the Cat, he could turn everything off. Maybe it was all one more role, but fulfilling it kept his thoughts in straight lines.
He was washing the bar when the door creaked open. The bar was murmuring but not crowded - still early in the evening, yet. His hair was tied behind his head because the old-timers murmured into their drinks if he didn't. He plucked up a beer glass with his left hand (gloved) and passed it into his right (not) to push it under the tap, rinsing away calcified rings of slowly developed foam from the hour the old man had been drinking. He was a regular, and he didn't make too much conversation, so Matt gave him his first drink free. This one he'd be paying for.