(Untitled)
Who: Greed | OPEN
What: Greed get his hole of a bar open. It's not much and the selection is small, but any and all are welcome.
Where: The Devil's Nest | South Side of Town
When: Late Afternoon/Evening | June 11th
Rating: R for now - probably language,.
( Read more... )
What: Greed get his hole of a bar open. It's not much and the selection is small, but any and all are welcome.
Where: The Devil's Nest | South Side of Town
When: Late Afternoon/Evening | June 11th
Rating: R for now - probably language,.
( Read more... )
The good drink probably wasn't helping much either.
Much to the former police inspector's misfortune, his wife had a terrible knack of stumbling blindly right into the sharp embrace of trouble quite frequently. Which was probably why Naomi was lucky enough to have her husband there beside her on her first night in Greed's little haven. Who knows what might have befallen the woman if she'd skipped into this den of vipers for a few rounds of drink all on her lonesome. Especially since she was already beginning to convince herself that Greed was a nice guy and absolutely harmless.
For all of her renowned intelligence and keen womanly instincts, it was only around trouble making men that Naomi lost all credibility.
"Do you hear that, darling?" Her own wide smile was nearly mimicking Greed's at this point, though it certainly was lacking any of his predatory sharpness. That pretty head of hers tipped coyly up at her husband as he towered over her. "He has the right idea, letting me have absolutely anything I want. You should be taking notes."
As Greed slid the new glass of unwanted soda in her direction, invading her very tiny bubble of personal space, Naomi only laughed. He was nearly as big a flirt as her! Most men wouldn't dare act so teasingly right there in front of her stone-faced husband, but easy confidence was practically oozing from the other man as he gracefully flitted from here to there around the bar. The very moment he'd stepped away from her to roguishly lick his own finger, the woman sent a particular look his way to convey a very simple message:
She'd want something stronger for her next drink, no matter what Javert said.
At her husband's easy agreement to her suggestion of a game and Greed's offer to play against him, Naomi finished off her first drink completely before adjusting her seat so she'd have a clear view of the table. This she would want to watch. Though she cared deeply for her husband and knew him to be a very fun and endlessly entertaining person in private, it wasn't very often that she was able to coax him into joining in on normal socialization like this in public. It may seem like an average evening out for most people, but she was proud of him for this small accomplishment.
"Just a kiss?" Naomi almost doesn't trust a bet that easy, but perhaps Greed was just more gentlemanly than she'd assumed. Or he just had the sense to not ask for more from the woman's husband. "Well, I'm flattered you think a quick kiss from me is worth anything at all. I'm game."
She looked to Javert, knowing it would be his decision ultimately. "Well?"
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Javert allowed himself an icy, skeletal grimace with a brief glance at his regrettably forward wife. His eyes rippled with something indiscernible. Indeed, a quick kiss from Naomi was worth just about as much as a drug store jewel: common, plastic, and cheap. She was a looker of a wife that intentionally and frequently used her sex appeal to her advantage. The control and power she held over men delighted her, but it also got boring very quickly. The fun for her was to wrest the game in her favor, not to reap the winnings.
That was what drew her to Javert so permanently. He did not let her sex manipulate him like it did the boys. He kept a lid on it, so to speak, and devised trickier methods to conquer her straight on back.
Knowing what he knew about his wife, and twitching visibly at her stupid decision to boast and question the light terms of the wager, he looked ahead down the path they were headed and saw nothing but a dark, murky depth there. He had a hunch. He could anticipate it. The more he studied the Greed's viper grin and raunchy flirtations, the more he believed in his own wild suppositions.
"Now, don't paint me the villain. She is not my drone. I'm not as old-fashioned as I look! But occasionally I make myself her voix de la raison. One of us better have the ability to walk out tonight, don't you think?" he drawled smoothly.
That thought and implication in his quip neatly planted in mind, Javert bent over the bar and pushed the empty glass forward. There was no way, no how that he trusted what he was about to agree to. He would need to devise a contingency as he went along.
"Haven't you heard not to take candy from a stranger?" he said, seemingly out of the blue, a conversational and casual lilt to his brisk voice. He folded his arms across the table; bent in half though he was, he still hovered well over Greed's head. "Let's have it, then. I'll try your drink, one hit of it. But mix a pair."
He observed Greed closely.
"--Or do you wait to drink until after hours?"
Don't be too proud of your husband, Naomi. He always has an ulterior motive in mind, and he hasn't precisely agreed to this charade of a game. Not yet. Not until he could have his own terms added to the deal.
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They were, for lack of a better term, deliciously human. But they were not of the regular cut.
Again, Greed found himself wanting a little more.
So, he started with the promised drink. The whiskey filled all three glasses because, shit, the lady wanted more and how could he rightfully deny her? "I'm a man who wants it all, so a quick kiss is a fine wager against whatever the hell you're thinking." The bottle fell back down with a thud. Greed hmm'd and hummed before sliding down, legs bent, palms at his knees. "I won't lie to you - I'd be more interested if you were single, Miss Naomi. But -!" Greed wasn't a man who took things that were happy, at least when it came to women. Because, while his avarice was and remained the deepest pit, he had no intention of ruining a family. Just maybe, maybe making Javert a little hotter under his collar.
The homunculus peeled back and he had three red balls between the knuckles of his fingers. "I think getting anything from you is worth it." He dropped the candies, one into each drink. Threw ice in after, garnished all three with a slice of red pepper. Then he turned, glasses held by their lips, and set them on the bar.
Because Greed had been amused by Javert's question - drinking after hours? Him? He worked for no one but himself - he made the rules, made the hours. He would drink whenever he damn well pleased. "Had to improvise, hope you like it." Greed took a swig of his and the whiskey was hot and cinnamon - literally. Fireball whiskey had been the name and Greed had sampled it after hours a couple of times before now. Learned the name came from a candy that was made for children. So he got the idea then and there - a spicy drink, hot and burning, garnished with the candy of its name and a pepper to add a bit of a tingle.
He'd blame the angel for that one, especially the whole bit about candies.
Taking in his fill, Greed lowered his glass and finally made his way out of the bar. He stopped next to the couple, elbow on the corner of the bar top. "You do look old fashioned." And here - here was something free to keep the fishes hooked.
"But then again, I used to have to dress much the same." The homunculus took another sip and held his eyes. "-After all, two-hundred years ago the people of my neck of the woods were very much like you."
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Javert, who had been looking at his drink with a faraway glaze in his eye, raised his head and met Greed's meaningful stare with an opaque look.
He had the faint feeling he was being played. But then again, his era of dress and his manner was something that could be observed by just a glance. A smart one, but a glance nonetheless. Javert, on the other hand, learned a considerable amount about this new prey of his in his cat-and-mouse game: First, that Greed was from a world much like Javert's Earth, Javert's Paris, if not the same universe; second, that he is no man but a creature, a viper, that has lived well past the normal human expiration date. Judging by the look of him, Javert guessed that Greed would have to be at least two-hundred-thirty years of age, at minimum. Most likely more. A lick of danger welled in the back of his throat. What sort of otherworldly being was beyond the reach of time and old age?
Javert could think of several unsavory possibilities, of the kinds of beasts he had run into in the past. Yet still, knowing that he was behaving exactly as Greed expected, he wanted more, too.
"Yes, you heard me the first time," he said, nonplussed. "I look the part. But it's not very nice to dredge up those memories and remind your elders--" a peculiar emphasis there-- "of their apparent stale age. Or has that gone out of fashion in two hundred years?"
Javert smiled a broad toothy smile, grin stretching from ear to ear. He scooped up his drink.
"The leathers are sounding like a better idea every minute, Naomi. Some well-fitted ones. Then I would simply resemble an old lunk in a motorbike gang rather than a relic of the Restoration. Are you sure you don't miss them? Ah! Next visit."
He sipped. Smacked his lips. Pondered. Lazily lifted a brow. Sipped again.
The drink was a wise choice on Greed's part. It reminded the former police inspector of grog, the underclass cheap drink of choice, usually brewed with a healthy shaving of cinnamon. He discovered he liked it, and raised another askew glance to the… intriguing barkeep. He stepped away from the almost-invasion-of-his-personal-bubble and languidly approached the pool table. He shot Naomi a questioning look. She still found this acceptable, didn't she?
"You might be disappointed, I'm afraid," he said carefully. "I don't play much."
That was not to say he never had the occasion to closely observe tight matches between gentleman in the past. And predict ball trajectories rather well. His tall stature only aided him in a billiards match.
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He knew his drink and he knew his customers. The mark of an expert bartender.
Yes, no matter the outcome of this friendly game, Naomi already had decided she'd be coming back to Greed's little slice of heaven, or hell, as it was. This place was just too damn good to pass up.
"Now, I expect a fair game out of you boys, understand?" Her sparkling gaze swiveled between Greed and Javert, her eyes rolling up ever so slightly at her husband's mention of leathers. It was a thoroughly ridiculous image still for her to think about, even all these months later. But not even the casual mention of the man's age and the time period he was originally from was going to bring the enchanting doctor's excitement for this casual billiards game down. Let the friendly competition begin!
Leaning casually up against the back of her chair with those slender legs of hers crossed, Naomi finally reached over for her ignored club soda as she prepared to enjoy the masculine display that was about to begin in front of her. But, perhaps, Greed might catch a particularly sharp edge to her smile as she played the part of the silent audience.
After all, Naomi Hunter knew her husband more intimately in and out than anyone else could ever even hope to. And she was well aware that Javert, despite being considered nothing more than an antique or relic by those who barely knew him, was so rarely disappointing.
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"So, what's your wager?" With the cue prepped and prime for the game, Greed reached under the table, grabbing the rack secured underneath. He placed it on top of the luscious, if not stained, green and began collected the billiard balls. His hands were large enough to hold two or three at a time and his knuckles bulged against smooth surfaces. He set them up, taking his time. Javert still had to pony up his end of the bet and Greed? Well, Greed had his eyes set on Naomi again - legs that could go on for miles, a chest that was just teasing enough that his avidity for more pounded in his chest.
A night with her? That'd be prime. Greed's body language remained casual though, languid despite the ache of want. If everything went as he wanted, he'd have a tussle with her. Hell, her husband could come if he wanted. Greed didn't really care either way - his hunger for selfish desires were all a part of him; it filled every atom, every hole, every fiber.
But he would just look for now. Watch her with the silver of his shades.
"I always play fair - never a liar and never a cheater." He lifted the triangle and made it disappear back under the pool table. Set up the cue ball at the edge and circled the set up. He looked like all manner of beasts that Javert had probably tangoed with in the past. He walked like a buzzard circling his prey and his crouch was one of a tempting devil. He was everything his name alluded to - avarice in the flesh, predator by nature, and hellion with his tongue. Bad to the very core, but tipped in favor of a good time.
Not a saint, but a sinner. A preacher of absolution.
Greed had moved his wanton gaze from Naomi to the billiards. Like he was sizing them up.
"Ehhh," he exclaimed, a noise of play confusion and weariness. "I've hit a few games myself, but I'm no Martel, no Roa." Names - Greed knew his guests wouldn't know them from the next hole in the wall. But it felt good to say them. Just a little opening up of that old wound.
Put a band-aid on it, move on. There was a game to be played, after all. And he knew that kindred spirits would have his head if he went too soft.
Greed strut up behind Javert, purposely getting into that narrow space of proximity. "If you want, I can up my wager since you seem so put off by my first. That is, if you're game." He shot a look at Naomi and his teeth came so dangerously close to the back of Javert's neck. Not enough to touch, three inches from the back. But enough that even Greed knew he was pushing things.
But he liked his envelops pushed, liked his buttons popped. So to speak.
"If I win," the homunculus hissed. "I'll take everything I want from the two of you." He jerked away from Javert, sliding to the opposite side of the pool table. The lights above washed him out and he looked pale. His sunglasses were but silver sockets, drinking everything in.
"How's that for a bet?" One look to Javert, then a slow crawl of a stare at Naomi. "If you two think you can do it, that is."
OOC | Sorry about delays. Been workin' my little butt off.
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At the end of it all, Javert gave a listless shrug and a fierce, repulsed grimace. The wager was a vague one, but the former inspector had a proposition of his own to offer. He straightened and made an exaggerated show of rumination over the offer, tapping the cue with a gentle smack idly against the heel of his palm. He resembled a schoolmarm slapping a ruler against her palm.
"I'll take it," his nostrils flared, "if you take mine. Provided she agrees."
Thus far he barely cast a glance at the table. Now he sat back against the edge of it and tilted his head like a sly old tiger. Javert was born with the beasts; he understood and spoke their language, even if he did not personally identify as one of them. "I win -- and I tell you I have little practice, so we shall see the odds of that soon -- I win, I have a use for you."
Javert leaned forward, cradling the cue in the crook of his bent elbow. He studied Greed intently.
"I want to own you."
((OOC: Skip Naomi this round, she'll hit in next time))
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"Greed - I own, not the other way around. But - ! Since I like you and I like your avarice, you can make your wager. However," he straightened, pulled up by a strong spine. "-I don't work for anyone. Did that song and dance and rebelled like a bad son would." He spun the cue stick around, whacked it across his shoulders, and hooked his other hand around it. He gestured then, wrists wrapped around the cue stick, pointer fingers at Javert. "You've raised a high bargain and I'll meet that wager. Here's the deal."
Greed let go one side of the cue, shifting the balance of weight to the other. The pole lifted off his shoulders, slid through his palm, and careened butt-end to the floor. "You won't own me - sorry. That would just end terribly for you. But, I'll give you what you want. Whatever use you've got for me, fine. I'll take it."
And there he was, closing the space between himself and the other man. "Guests first," Greed said, sultry tone absolutely thick on his tongue. "-make your shot count."
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He took a third modest sip of his fireball whiskey and laid the glass to rest on the lip of the table. In a shocking demonstration of verve and energy, he hopped -- bounced -- to his booted feet. He rocked on his heels.
"Another note," his eyes glittered, voice icy and even. He tap-tapped that cue incessantly. Everything in his body language and manner bespoke of a fervent recklessness, a new, strange brand of resolute indifference. "You know nothing of the terrible ends I've seen. I advise you not to assume otherwise. Excuse me a moment. There is something I must address. We will start when I return."
Javert slung the cue over his shoulder like a soldier's bayonet and zig zagged his way back to his wife at the bar. He casually plucked his hat off the empty neighboring chair and placed it into Naomi's hands, bending over to whisper grimly into her ear,
"Take care of this for me. The stakes have been raised to a game of Simon Says for the winner. Give me the word, and I will remove you from the deal."
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Despite their closeness and the rather odd way they could usually communicate without speaking, there were times when even Naomi couldn't see through that grimacing expression to read into what was really going on in that sharp mind of his. So, even if it wasn't an option she truly felt comfortable with, the woman had no choice but to learn to put her blind faith in the man's decisions. And, for the most part, they always turned out for the better in the end.
Which is precisely why Naomi was slightly taken back when Javert's tall form abruptly stalked through the bustling crowd to speak with her privately, coming over to inform his small wife that the end result of the bet had indeed changed but not exactly going into detail on just how different it was. Now, that was the kind of odd behavior that got her brilliant mind running. Has his confidence in the game suddenly dropped? Were the stakes just too high?
Naomi's dark-haired head tilted to the side, a curious lift to one of her delicate eyebrows. She only had one simple question to ask before she decided on whether she wanted to be a part of this silly male bet or not.
"How certain are you that you'll win?"
Whatever Greed had in mind didn't matter as long as Javert was sure he was going to win.
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"A fair chance," he said at last, glancing over to the hovering and waiting Greed. "Fifty-fifty. Sixty-forty, possibly." He grimaced crookedly and thrust his large fists in his pockets; he was fishing around for something he wanted. As he searched, he added under his breath, "Yes, I'm bound to be in luck today. I have to be, for this miserable gamble."
Ah!
Javert drew out from his right side a shiny, nearly untouched pack of cigarettes. They were a good brand, his singular luxury he allowed himself throughout the breadth of his life. To people like Naomi, who knew him intimately, the tobacco use indicated indulgence. Whatever it was he felt, he was, at the very least, recklessly sure of himself, no matter what his actual chances were. He stared at Naomi hawkishly from beneath a hooded brow and fished around in his pockets yet again for his matchbook.
"That viper has been eyeing you like a medium-rare filet all evening. Weigh that against your confidence in my talents."
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More or less.
Naturally, the doctor had her own reservations about this little game between Javert and Greed. A fifty percent chance of winning may have seemed like a great deal on family game night, when there was nothing more at stake on the table than a handful of cash or a get-out-of-trouble-free card. But in a game where testosterone-fueled men were attempting to fling around their supposed power to gain control over the other and their 'possessions'? A fifty-fifty chance really wasn't something to brag about.
It may have been her idea originally for her husband to get out and have a bit of fun for the evening with another man, to socialize and act normally for once in his long life, but Naomi had never envisioned it turning into something so goddamn dangerous.
Still, taking a glance over to Greed and that deliciously wide grin of his, Naomi knew that her husband was going to go through with the bet no matter what she said. Even if she removed herself personally from the bargain, it would just mean Greed would want to raise the bar to the next extreme level possible.
It was best to just leave it the way it was before things got too out of control.
"Go on ahead with it. I'm not going to stop either of you," Naomi finally allowed herself to reply softly, turning away from Javert and his cigarettes with a frown. She immediately helped herself to the rest of her whiskey. It looked like she was going to need it.
"But you had better win or I'll never forgive you."
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Javert balanced a fresh cigarette in his mouth, dropping the rest of the pack away. He struck a match, a grim and opaque sidelong stare cast her way.
"You would be justified," he admitted gravely. "Forgiveness would be undeserved." He intentionally turned and leaned away from Naomi as he struck a match and got the rolled tobacco started with a few gentle puffs. He knew full well that she disliked his one vice. He shook out the match with a sharp flick of his wrist and gave it a proper, lengthy pull.
"Should you change your mind," he said to her, the smoke unfurling from his barely-parted, frowning lips. He gave her knee a quick and firm squeeze. "Come speak to me."
Javert clenched the cigarette between his lips and made his approach back to the pool table, resplendent with his own sense of dignity. He took his place at the head of the pool table and looked down to the triangle of play pieces as if assessing them for the first time. He eyed his adversary through narrowed lids.
"My wife has agreed to your terms," he called to Greed with authority. That part is audible the Naomi, to all those close-in, to any potential spectators. The next line he reduces to a volume barely above a murmur, biting smoothly around his fresh cigarette, "Though with your qualifications to mine, I beg the right to refuse her involvement. It is me you're playing, not the woman."
Javert aligned himself with the cue ball, bent at an awkward angle over the table, one eye closed to improve his accuracy. He steadied his aim, tilted his eyebrow inquiringly at Greed.
"Shall we start?"
He struck the first move.
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While the two of them chatted, Greed sprawled lazily. He tipped the cue stick forward, balancing it on the pointed toe of his boot. Whistled a tune and then when he got tired of that, he just plain watched them. It was interesting, really. The hushed tones, the glances he got from Naomi. And Javert was a smoker, look at that. The homunculus was entranced, even with the airs of someone who seemed bored. He was far from it in reality - the gears in his head spun behind apathetic eyes and he tilted his head, admiring the lights. It was dim in the bar and the darkness from outside just made it that more shadowy. The faint light caught dust and smoke, swirling it to the top.
"Anytime now, old man," he called from his perch, but there was no malice there. All smiles, all joy, all the time. Greed pulled himself from the pool table and took hold of his whiskey. Shot a gulp back that was far too over indulgent, but swallowed it nonetheless. It was rich and it stung all the way down to an empty stomach. He brushed his wrist against his lips and chin, removing any that may have slipped from his lips during his eagerness. Sat the glass down on the edge of the table once it was done and went down into a crouch.
He was watching other patrons now, but his eyes always wandered back to the couple. A night of fun had turned a bit dangerous. But he wasn't a creature of limitations - those were for things that hadn't lived a century or two, hadn't met death too many times to count. Greed loved his life rich in more ways than one. It was why he had upped the ante in the first place. Because really, he hadn't imagined that Javert would have taken him up on his proposal. He had a million in one things in mind, but nothing forced. He wanted there to be that desire there too, otherwise it would be no fun.
The homunculus bolted back up to his feet, albeit a little less graceful than previously. He grunted, rubbed at his neck. "Seriously - you're going to leave me hanging? Backing out of our game?" And then Javert was back. Greed thrust his shoulders, spread his arms at the elbows. "I wouldn't imagine hurting a lady - it's not my style. You reserve your right, just as I reserve mine."
He watched with the eyes of a vulture as Javert made his first shot. And was it a good shot! Greed howled, whistled and whooped. "You know, I should have seen that coming! Impressive, really." Cue in hand, he spun it once, twice, then jerked it still. Fanned the end over the side of his stomach, right above the hip. He leaned down, coiled tight like the viper Javert had so aptly named him.
Greed tipped his shades down and lined the end of the stick between thick knuckles. The ball was knocked with a pleasurable crack, sending one of his balls into a corner pocket solidly.
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"A fair shot," Javert observed with a twitch of his brow. He strode - meandered, even - around the length of the table once. He had a peculiar way of moving and playing where he would circle constantly, either on foot or visually with a broad sweep of the eye, as if he were examining the cue balls from every angle, considering each possibility carefully. Upon his turn, he abruptly bent over at a spot at random and knocked his shot with a sharp clack.
Thus the game began.
Javert settled into the flow of the game quickly. A puff of tobacco here, a sip of his spicy whiskey concoction there, and a lightning-quick tap of his cue ball to finish; that was the pattern he fell to. Despite the deliberation, the game was rather a disappointment at first. At a glance, to all observers present, it became far too apparent that Greed must have been the more experienced player. The old man did not successfully sink a ball at every turn, nor did he seem to accomplish much in the way of hindering his opponent's shots. Yet not once did he lose his cool, and never did he lose his perfectly calm, impassive and abrupt manner.
He could be overheard muttering phrases to himself throughout the course of the game. It was a rather disconcerting habit, to watch a man engage in an argument with himself beneath his breath. Phrases like, "Ah! There my luck is turned," or "Now I've got him!" or "It's all falling in!" hissed without a care, without pausing to consider how much like a mad old duck he sounded. Especially since he would mutter these things in stark contradiction to what was happening on the table, then fall into a contemplative silence for another turn and a half.
Occasionally he also took it upon himself to commentate and scold Greed's play choices. "Oh! Don't do that. Nothing good will come of it," he would caution with a light turn of the brow and a gentle click of the tongue. It was sure to be beyond infuriating and very irritating. But what did Greed have to worry about, if he was dealing with a loony? He was close to winning this idiot's run, wasn't he?
At last they were down to the final stretch. All that remained were one striped ball, Greed’s last obstacle, and three solid balls for Javert. The eight-ball hung awkwardly apart from the rest, floating off at some impossible angle that Greed would surely have difficulty nailing if he stuck to the rules and sunk his striper first. Javert’s cigarette was long gone, barely smoldering in the tray, but with the start of this home stretch, he procured a second and struck another light. His face, with steely eyes shining mysteriously, was an impassive, unreadable mask. He took a seat against an unused table’s lip, his cue laid across his knees.
“This is your last turn,” Javert said resolutely and blandly. It was so ridiculous, so comical how he declared it like a King issuing a royal decree, that it felt out of place. He observed Greed like a hungry predator. “Make it count.”
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The finale was unfolding and Greed took a moment to shoot back the last drops of his whiskey. He set down the glass with a loud thwack and puffed out his shoulders. He had been diverted by Javert the entire night. Part of him knew it, part of him just didn't give a damn. So what? The human was a clever old fool, but one that Greed could obviously appreciate. His hunger was just as bad as Greed's own. Two kindred spirits doing the tango on the fine line of pride and sheer competition.
Greed lined up his cue stick, felt his fingers numb under the wood. He raised a brow up high, creasing his forehead. "Oi, oi, oi," he muttered to himself. He kicked one leg out behind him, stretching it as far as it would reach. His elbows propped back, fanning out like fins. And his head bent down low, causing a vertical rise in his spine. One eye remained open behind his dark shades, while the other screwed tight under a black brow.
He struck his target, but it was off balance. Slid against the white ball, plowing it straight into the side wall. Greed huffed: "Well, that wasn't what I was going for." The cue ball rolled and tumbled, sliding across green. And then it sunk into a hole with a thud. "Ehhh?" The homunculus bent down, mouth open. "Did that really just happen? Jeez!" His body went careening back on his heels. Spine straightened, hands open to his sides. He shook his head in disbelief and groaned deep within his belly. "So damn close, too."
It was a scratch, a miss, and the perfect opportunity for Javert to snag his chance.
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