Who: Flemeth and Merle. What: A friendly drink. When: Backdated to after Merle's arrival. Where: A bar! Rating: R for language. Trigger Warnings: Coarse slang, racist slang, mention of rape but nothing explicit. Status: Complete!
Merle Dixon had already worked his way down to the neck of the bottle when he began wondering if Flemeth was going to turn up. Sometimes people liked to be late on purpose; he knew, he was already ten minutes late when he arrived. Maybe she lacked patience. Or maybe she was just a kind soul giving him the time he needed to sit and drink.
It wasn’t the best bar in the world, but they had ice in the back and the music wasn’t God-awful. Merle liked the honesty of it. He liked the grime and the grit, the fresh reality of such a place.
She didn’t lack patience, she simply was better at manipulating people than he was. She’d waited across the street in her car, powdering her nose and reapplying her lipstick, amused at how he’d walked in ten minutes late (late! for her!) and how he’d just went to the bar. Men like him - they were fixtures at bar, just as prominent as the taps themselves, or the neon signs. Without men like him, how would they run? Women like Flemeth, however, women covered in silk stockings and even flimsier dresses - they didn’t come along very often. Which was why the bar got a little bit more quiet as she approached the man tending it, ordering two fingers of singer malt.
“And woe befall you if you think about putting water or ice in it.”
“Woe? ‘Woah’ is what I was about to say, beautiful,” said Merle, turning slightly to her with a slow curve of a smile. “Flemeth, right? Merle Dixon. At your service.” He downed the rest of his beer in one.
“And what service might that be?” She wondered if she’d have to use any of the weapons she’d brought with her that night.
Merle grinned with lifted eyebrows. “Whatever service you got in mind, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m a ‘for the community’ type of guy.”
“Right now, you can buy me a drink.” Flemeth tipped back her scotch, sighing contentedly. There was nothing like a glass of Glenfiddich after work.
“Pushy. I like it,” said Merle, taking out his wallet. “Just don’t push too hard. So what brings you to Orange County?”
“I’ve always lived here, dearie.” She smirked at him, amused at how cheery he was. “But is that your best line? That’s like ‘come here often’.” She ruffled his hair. “What brought you here?”
“Who says I’m using a line? Hell, you’re just playin’ tough ‘cause you think you can get into my pants,” said Merle with a smirk, recoiling a little when she ruffled through what hair there was. “I’m here for my baby brother. Just got out of the service.”
“Which branch? My daddy was in the Corps.” She smiled, realizing that the tough guy act was probably just not being used to women around.
“Regular army. Staff Sergeant,” said Merle with a big grin. “Daddy in the Corps, huh? Oo-rah, semper fi and all that other shit.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know. He was a racist, wife-beating piece of shit. I was too busy sneaking off to smoke under the bleachers and make out with all of the football players.” Flemeth winked. “But he did a good job. I guess that’s all that matters.” She ordered another scotch, knowing she wouldn’t make Merle pay for it.
Merle shrugged as if this confession was perfectly acceptable. To Merle, it was. His father had been much the same, just without the military bearing. “Oh, bad girl, huh? I dig that,” he said. “I never did play football. Couldn’t give a shit. I wasn’t in school a whole bunch. I was probably riding around town while you were taking the football team.”
“I didn’t do them all at once, don’t be crass.” Flemeth grinned to herself.
He laughed and made a mock bow of his head. “Apologies all over, ma’am,” he said.
“None needed.” Flemeth couldn’t help but chuckle. This guy wouldn’t win any genius awards, but he was sweet in his own fumbling way. “So, why’d you retire?”
Merle didn’t need to consider. “I was too good at my job. Made all the other pussies and democrats look bad,” he said with a simple shrug of his heavy shoulders before deflecting away from the question. “What d’you do, huh? Morale-booster for the Oakland Raiders?”
That just made Flemeth snort. “I own my own business.” She wondered how he’d really gotten kicked out of the Army - he’d dodged too hard.
“Oh yeah? And what are you in the business of?” asked Merle, toying with the ice at the bottom of his glass.
“I sell hippie new age bullshit,” Flemeth grinned. “You’d be surprised how well I do.” She also worked in blackmail, extortion, pandering, narcotics, and various other things, but oh, she wasn’t about to tell a stranger that.
“So you’re to blame for the weirdos trying to sell me dream-catchers and all that shit?” asked Merle. “Damn. That’s just evil.”
“No, I sell other weirdos dream-catchers and all that shit,” she corrected, smiling. “Although those do have a bit of cultural significance to some.”
Merle waved away the idea. “Pfft. Yeah, backwards-ass jungle people,” he said. “Who gives a shit? Catching dreams and all that boogey-woogey crap?”
Flemeth raised a high eyebrow. “Wow.”
“Wow what?” asked Merle, his tone growing bored and weary.
Flemeth simply shook her head. “Vietnam?” It’d explain the lazy racism. He was starting to remind her a bit of her own father.
Merle stared back at her. “How old do you think I am?” he asked. “Hell, no. Gulf, mostly.”
“Judging by your manners and outdated viewpoints, I’d assume about a thousand.” She swallowed her drink and rifled through her purse for some bills. It was taking everything she had to keep from tasing him. “Mister Dixon, I’d like you to remember this moment, the moment when you thought you’d get some easy tail from a dizzy slut, and the moment where she allowed you to continue to draw breath. Be glad for it. Now, I’m sure you have a hate crime to perpetrate, I won’t keep you.”
Merle looked at her for a moment, and felt the rage boiling in him. Then, he took another moment. “Huh, what? Sorry. Wasn’t listening,” he shrugged.
She simply turned, smiled, and waved her fingertips, giggling when a mild electric shock flowed through the air. It wouldn’t hit him, and it wouldn’t hurt him, but boy, did it make her look scary as hell. Flemeth thought of the man she’d stabbed the month prior, the one in jail, currently being raped as often as he’d raped on the outside - because she’d helped put him there.