(Untitled)

[sixgoodreasons]

WHO: Logan (sixgoodreasons) and open
WHERE: The Tool Shed, a dive bar on the East Side known for its lenient attitude towards imPorted.
WHEN: 6th & 7th of July, late evening to early morning.
WARNINGS: Violence, language, drinking, country music.
SUMMARY: Just another Tuesday night.
FORMAT: Whatever feels natural.

Comments

Four hours later, like woah, e'rybody in the bar gettin' tipsy

[doubleoohbaby]

The arrival of other imports doesn't seem to have swayed Bond from his determination to spend the evening drinking, going through beers and bourbon like water and showing very little sign of any of that alcohol intake actually getting to him. James is a heavy drinker and he's known to keep a straight head on even at the height of drunken stupors. Sadly, he's never been quite so good at keeping his emotions in check as the alcohol levels rise.

He still manages to attract the attention of the odd female arrival and is more than happy to humour them for an hour or two at a time, buying them drinks and providing idle conversation, still managing with the usual smooth charm, even when blending in with the crowd, decked out in jeans, t-shirt and dark jacket rather than the famous tailored suits. He's a spy, after all, he's built to adapt.

Even with the distractions, James still spends plenty of his time sparing looks to other imports, keeping himself up to date on actions and clipped words that he occasionally hears through the murmurs of bar talk and trying to judge personalities. But it's the short bloke that's got the majority of his interest. Selina's guy. Not even Bond seems to be able to stop himself from the hidden glances, his mind trying to pick out faults and errors in everything he catches Logan doing.

As the night goes on, there's eventually a decision made somewhere in the depths of Bond's mind, causing him to raise to his feet- surprisingly steady- and move the short distance down the bar to Logan, facing him as he uses an elbow on the bar's surface to support his weight. "Well, look who it is. I knew I recognised you from somewhere. Should have worked it out sooner, after all, it's hard to forget a face like that..."

[sixgoodreasons]

In the time since Jeannie's departure, Logan has gone through two thirds of a bottle of Crown Royal and is working steadily on completing the job. It isn't even a little fun, drinking like this. His gut is burning and his fingertips are tingling, going numb; he's fighting his healing factor every step of the way. Soon the pain of it will be all he can feel. That's what he wants. What he needs.

But he's not there yet, and so when Bond approaches he notes subconsciously that the man smells drunk but sounds sober. He's taller than Logan thought he would be. His breath smells like vermouth.

Logan pulls his gaze up off his glass like it's a physical weight. Fixes it on Bond, his expression dark and sad and dangerous. He bares his teeth a little, exposing the points.

"This ain't wise, bub." It's as much warning as Bond is likely to get.

[doubleoohbaby]

The warning seems to fall on deaf ears, not even making the effort to seem concerned by it and watching as Logan snarls out a physical reminder, teeth on display like some agitated animal which only seems to cause Bond to retaliate with a lazy smirk, lips curling at the corners and the amusement never quite reaching his brighter than blue eyes.

Seems they've both got their own woes to deal with, but right now, as is so often the case, alcohol just isn't cutting it for James. He needs a reminder of his existence. Something that can make him feel alive yet so utterly pathetic. Something that's going to give him more than just a headache the next morning.

"I'm not doing anything. Just like you haven't with that woman of yours, I'd imagine. You certainly seem to be popular with certain other females, I noticed. Got a thing for redheads?" There's only a vague slur behind his words.

[sixgoodreasons]

The blue-eyed English prick is looking for a fight. Logan can smell it coming off him in waves, the coppery scent of adrenaline starting to build. He can hear the sound of Bond's heart beating under the drawl of his words.

Silently, and without taking his eyes off of Bond, Logan pours himself another shot, drains the glass, and sets it down on the bar. Then, moving with deliberate care, he slides down off his stool, bulling his way into Bond's personal space. The spy has five inches on him in height, but Logan's willing to bet that's not going to make a whole lot of difference in two minutes time.

"Hey buddy," he snarls, his metal knuckles cracking as he clenches his fists, something like a smile appearing on his chops, "say that again."

[doubleoohbaby]

What seems like a good idea at the time might be something James comes to regret by morning. But right now, while he's full of alcohol and letting his pooling aggression slowly get the better of him, Bond seems to think this is the best idea in the world.

No surprises then that he's only arching a blonde eyebrow down at Logan as the shorter one squares up, causing Bond to retaliate with a slow inhale that fills his lungs and puffs his chest out like some territorial creature, muscles taught and fists clenched. "The bit about you not satisfying your partner, or the part where you show a little too much interest in all those other whores around you?"