Participants:
| Scene Title | Frenemies |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | After demanding intel on one Charlie Riggs, Ethan tries to play matchmaker and hooks Sacha up with Deckard's number. For some reason the gesture is ill-received on both ends. Call meee. |
| Date | February 7, 2009 |
A place that used to be a cafe and is making a slow progression towards being a dive bar. During the day, the balcony and a good portion of the sidewalk is taken up by outdoor chairs and tables, where people can enjoy a beer as well as a sandwich or whatever else is on their menu - a decent, if simply array of bar food. During the evening, unless it's a warm night, these are taken inside, and the kitchens are closed. A wide variety of beer is available, along with hard liquor and maybe a few wine labels, but nothing fancy. The interior decor is similar to traditional British pubs, with a hardwood bar and brick wall. There's an old pool table towards the back, along with a dart board. The building is actually two storeys high, but whatever is upstairs is inaccessible to the general public.
Shooters. It's a bar name morbidly appropriate for a statistically unfortunate fraction of its regular clientèle. Deckard included, thanks to Edward's apparent lack of caring or foresight. Somehow the former seems more likely.
He's seated at the bar, grey suit faded unevenly across the back of his shoulders and striped tie loose around his neck. He's eating peanuts, left hand cracking at the latest husk its managed to get itself around while he peers down the length of the bar at an even scruffier, more thuggish-looking guy. Said guy is looking back at him while he nurses his beer. If he managed to hit him over the head with something or could somehow throw his glass directly into his face on the way into a fight, there is a chance he could win. So goes the latest in a long line of thoughts that it would be in his best interest not to act on.
Being one of the most dangerous terrorists in the world, and then suddenly being a no one can have its effects on a person. Back in the face he's more accustomed to, Ethan Holden has been lying low. As low as Ethan Holden can go, that is. The man once known as The Wolf has one leg folded over the other, a glass in his hand. Taking a sip of it, his eyes rest on a certain scruffy frenemy at the bar. The waitress is soon delivering a message to the bartender which soon gets Flint Deckard a free drink from… that guy.
A little wave is given to Deckard. A cheery one. Setting his glass down, Ethan leans back in his chair, watching the man stoically.
Night-time on Staten Island. Not a part of the city Sacha often finds himself in, but even the Frenchman has to get away from the rest of the city sometimes. He'd been outside before entering the bar, a transition most people tend to make, standing a few feet away from the door and finishing a cigarette. Stupid American laws, anyway. Once it IS finished, he responsibly tucks the butt into a nearby receptacle and enters the bar, obviously uncomfortable from the cold.
He wanders over to slump into the first empty seat at the bar, lifting a finger to signal the bartender and ordering a rum and coke in his exotic accent. Once he gets it, he stirs it a bit before drinking, then looks around the bar. He does not recognize Deckard. Probably for the best.
Crack. Crunch. Deckard uncurls his hand, allowing peanutty debris to tumble out of his palm and back into the bowl. Presumably the actual nut part is supposed to stay in his hand, but he's distracted out of the catch by the nearness of a French accent. Eyes narrowed, he turns his head slowly after the source. It's like they're taking over the entire goddamn…oh. Just the same one again. Distracted from his staring down of that other random guy, Flint wrinkles his nose at Sacha and opens his mouth only to close it again when a fresh round it thumped down onto the polished wood in front of him. The bar, I mean.
Crown on the rocks, pleasantly amber in its semi-watered down gradient from rim to base. Brow knit down at it, Deckard takes a few seconds to look back over his shoulder in the direction indicated by the bartender. Then he goes a little stiff. All over, not just in his pants.
Ethan almost chuckles, but for now he will just wait. If Deckard should look at him again, he will tap the table in front of him twice. Indicating the man come join him. His eyes roll lazily over to the man that Deckard gave a longer than normal glance at. His brows crease for a moment. A sip is taken of his own drink once again. His eyes return to Deckard. Come on, little Deckard, let's play!
Sacha looks over at the guy looking at him - the whole pseudo-psychic ability to tell when one is being watched thing kicking in. He raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly, and lifts his glass to the man. Kind of old, but it isn't like he minds the attention. However weird it may be. Taking a sip from his glass again, he turns back to the bar to set it down, hunching over a bit. Cozy-like.
However it is after a moment that he pauses briefly, then turns to look at Deckard again. Something looks familiar about him after all!! … But he can't really put a finger on why. He does, however, look at Ethan just as Deckard does, following the bartender's same gesture… but no, he doesn't know that guy either.
It's probably safer to stay at the bar. Probably.
Dilemma.
Deckard lingers where he is, a minute shift in mass suggesting that he's at least considering sliding off the stool, though. He isn't exactly in any kind of hurry. Feeling Sacha's eyes on his profile, he glances helplessly aside long enough to scan the younger man's face, but there's nothing particularly helpful there. Especially not when he looks at Ethan too. Fuck.
One deep drawn breath later, Deckard drops off the side of the stool and meanders his way over to Ethan's table, drink in hand. He does not sit.
His eyes trail over to Sacha for a moment. A smirk peels back the Wolf's lips. Looking over to Deckard as he approaches his eyes go to a vacant chair by him. "You too busy flirtin' wit' your girlfriend over there, or are you going to sit down and be 'ospitable." He says, that old cockney accent ringing true. "Fuck's sake, Flint. It's like you're not 'appy to see me." Ethan says, shaking his head in a disappointed fashion.
Setting his glass down he gives an aggravated sigh, folding his arms in his lap. "Sit down Flint. I'll only say it once." The Brit warns, silently almost as if in a growl.
Sacha, for his own part, takes some measure of interest in the goings-on between Deckard and Ethan. He thinks he knows Deckard from someplace, after all, so he may as well see what's going on. Though the look that Ethan gives him does not go unnoticed, and the Frenchman can't help but feel a bit uncomfortable at being noticed by that particular person; kind of like how you know not to look at the sun, or how dogs hate Ann Coulter. Taking another sip from his drink, he sort of looks away a little bit until he figures Ethan isn't looking at him anymore, then commences to watching the pair again.
"He's not—" Wait, why is he getting defensive? Deckard cuts himself off short before he really even starts, scruffy jaw slid into a clamped set when he glances back over his shoulder the ogling Frenchman. "He's just some guy I…mugged. Sort of." Voice dropped into a mutter, he eyes Pierre a few seconds more, apparently still hoping for some kind of miracle from that direction, only to have Ethan's cockney self reassert itself with one of those 'only going to say this once' warnings.
Deckard sits. He sits with all the enthusiasm of a mangy cat being forced into a sink bath, but he sits, glare forced sideways at the brick wall that butts up against the table's end before it drops back down onto his glass.
"Charlie Riggs. I have a name, I want you to get me everything attached to the name." Ethan says to Deckard, his eyes fixed on Sacha. His gaze will not leave the girlfriend, even should she look away for an extended period of time. When she does look she will find him staring balefully his direction.
"Just some guy." He repeats, giving a dry laugh in response. "Just some guy you fooled around with, ay? So why aint 'e comin' over 'ere to demand child support?" Ethan asks, taking another sip of his drink, finishing it off.
And as Sacha finds that Ethan is /still looking at him/, he looks away yet again, staring down into his drink and stirring at it idly. Sidelong glances are cast over to the pair, and he adjusts his posture into an increasingly less confident one the more Ethan keeps staring. In not too long a space he shifts from sitting upright and fairly confidently to.. hunching over a bit, facing away from the frenemies, and generally keeping himself closed off. Taking up very little physical space, where before he was a bit more spread out. It's all in the body-language.
"One 'g' or two?" Still muttering, Deckard risks enough of an upward glance to take note of the fact that Ethan is ogling the Frenchman. For a split second, his pale eyes flash up to join Ethan's in staring while Sacha draws into himself. Then it's back down to the whiskey, which he sips as if it tastes a little bitter on his tongue. For whatever reason.
"If you keep staring at him like that he's going to think you're jealous."
"Didn't you 'ear the inflection fuckface? It was two." Ethan points out, giving Deckard a heated glance. A little chuckle is given. "Whot a fuckin wanker, I already beat the shit out of 'im and I 'aven't lifted a fuckin' finger. You two are a match made in 'eaven, sweet'eart. I bet she likes it rough, you can take out all your frustrations and so on." Reaching into his jacket the man pulls out a piece of paper, placing it on the table he moves it over to Deckard. "Write your full name and a number I can reach you on."
This is not really a situation that Sacha is accustomed to. One guy who he thinks he knows is pretty much ignoring him, while someone he's never SEEN before is apparently making up for years of lost time. Finally chancing another look over at the two, he bites his lip and shakes his head, looking down at his drink. Staring rather deliberately. He glances at Ethan, looks back down at the glass. Glance, look away.
Sacha is not a man prone to public outbursts of any sort, but nonetheless he finally snaps a bit and, still staring down at the glass, almost shouts, "Stop LOOKING at me!" His glass cracks a bit.. though that could just as easily be from him gripping it too hard. Tension, after all. Potentially awkward moment for the bartender, however.
Deckard sets down his glass with a 'thunk' loud enough to qualify as irritable to free his hands for pen and paper. His name is scrawled first, "Flint Deckard," followed by a more cramped, "AKA Mike Burrows," and the appropriate phone number to reach one and both. "I could give you my therapist's number, while I'm at it," is offered helpfully as he writes, digits finished off flatly so that he can push the paper back across the table. "All this projection of ass piracy is starting to make me think you have a few personal problems you need to work out with a professional, Eth…" an.
Deckard's sneering assist is snapped off neatly by Sacha's outburst. His face turns immediately from England to France, one brow up and the other definitely down, mouth slightly open.
A little chuckle is given as Sacha's sudden outburst is given. Taking the little piece of paper, he nods, "Thank you." The Wolf folds the little piece of paper with a dry smile. "Well Flint, we'll be in touch, ay? Find out what you can quickly. I need to know what the fuck is goin on around 'ere." Reaching down, a few bills are brought out and tossed casually out on the table for Deckard. Three or four twenties. "I'll give you a real payment when you get what I need, right boy?" With that the man goes to stand.
Unfolding the piece of paper, the man commits the number on it to memory as he walks away from the table and over to the bar. To Sacha:
"Easy sweet'eart, you're going to give yourself a panic attack you keep messing about like that. 'Ere, me mate over there wanted you to 'ave this." The piece of paper with Deckard's information is placed down on the bar in front of him. "Give 'im a ring, dearie." A firm pat is given to Sacha's shoulder as the man makes his way out of the establishment
At the very least, Ethan isn't looking at him anymore!! But Sacha just sits there rather stiffly, a wide-eyed stare leveled at his cracked and somewhat leaking glass. Breathing heavily. It isn't until the Wolf himself pats his shoulder that Sacha finally snaps out of it, glancing around quickly then turning around to watch Ethan leaving. The paper that was left behind is picked up and crumpled, and as he throws it at the rather larger man's receding back he spits, in French, "«Stay the hell away from me, gutter trash!»"
Nobody ever said the French were polite.
"Just 'boy'? Have I been disowned?" When his first bout of sarcasm doesn't end in head trauma, Deckard risks another whilst folding over the tossed bills. Thanks, Charlie Riggs.
Another glance is spent up for the exchange of paper and dialogue, which quickly lengthens into a muddled doubletake. Wait — wha. No. Dismay sinks distracted at Deckard's shoulders. "Come on." Ethan is a dick. Sadface.
Right before he fully exits, Ethan stops dead in his tracks, slowly rotating to fully face Sacha. "«Watch your mouth boy, before it gets you into trouble.»" He warns coldly, before turning fully and exiting. Haha.
 February 7th: Because Of You |
 February 7th: Do-Gooder |