Bar Hopping
Title: Bar Hopping
Characters: CJ Cregg, Danny Concannon
Rating: Harmless
Notes: No real time. This feels like a multi-part. Who knows.
Disclaimer: All credit goes to Sorkin, Wells, & NBC/Warner Bros.
It’d never occurred to CJ, not once, that Danny would be the kind of man that’d get hit on in bars. She’d pegged him as a wallflower; the type that came in to nurse a beer and watch the game surrounded by other guys doing the same -and that was at best. At worst, she’d seen him slumped over a stool in the corner, blasting woeful Beatles songs from a jukebox while he slammed back one scotch after another.
Seeing him now, in the middle of more blonde hair extensions and fake breasts than could be scrapped up from the latest issue of Playboy, made CJ feel…well. She’d rather not complete that thought, cause there was something not great about having a thousand flashbacks of high school, all of which made her want to bolt to the nearest ladies’ room so she could throw up or cry, in the middle of a crowded bar in front of a man and his practically preteen fanclub that she absolutely refused to be jealous of.
“Listen, I appreciate the offer-”
“Offers.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot of us, Danny, dear.”
God, did they have to talk? It was bad enough when they breathed, but the cloying, twenty-first century Valley Girl was enough to make her want to leave. Which she would’ve done, gladly, if she remembered how walking worked.
“Yeah, well, I’m waitin’ on somebody, so thanks, but no thanks.”
“What’re you -you serious?” Gee, what a great bartender. Always looking out for his clientele. “This kinda thing doesn’t happen every other minute. Ain’t like catching the train to Chattanooga -you can’t wait for another one.”
“It happens enough. I’m not interested, okay?” He shrugs away from two girls rubbing at his shoulders, then fights the rest off his arms and out of his hair. “Okay?”
The blondes pout, but get the picture. The bartender shakes his head.
“If I were you, buddy.”
Danny shrugs, slams back his scotch, and shoots a look over at the jukebox.
“That thing got any Beatles songs in it?”
Much better.
Characters: CJ Cregg, Danny Concannon
Rating: Harmless
Notes: No real time. This feels like a multi-part. Who knows.
Disclaimer: All credit goes to Sorkin, Wells, & NBC/Warner Bros.
It’d never occurred to CJ, not once, that Danny would be the kind of man that’d get hit on in bars. She’d pegged him as a wallflower; the type that came in to nurse a beer and watch the game surrounded by other guys doing the same -and that was at best. At worst, she’d seen him slumped over a stool in the corner, blasting woeful Beatles songs from a jukebox while he slammed back one scotch after another.
Seeing him now, in the middle of more blonde hair extensions and fake breasts than could be scrapped up from the latest issue of Playboy, made CJ feel…well. She’d rather not complete that thought, cause there was something not great about having a thousand flashbacks of high school, all of which made her want to bolt to the nearest ladies’ room so she could throw up or cry, in the middle of a crowded bar in front of a man and his practically preteen fanclub that she absolutely refused to be jealous of.
“Listen, I appreciate the offer-”
“Offers.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot of us, Danny, dear.”
God, did they have to talk? It was bad enough when they breathed, but the cloying, twenty-first century Valley Girl was enough to make her want to leave. Which she would’ve done, gladly, if she remembered how walking worked.
“Yeah, well, I’m waitin’ on somebody, so thanks, but no thanks.”
“What’re you -you serious?” Gee, what a great bartender. Always looking out for his clientele. “This kinda thing doesn’t happen every other minute. Ain’t like catching the train to Chattanooga -you can’t wait for another one.”
“It happens enough. I’m not interested, okay?” He shrugs away from two girls rubbing at his shoulders, then fights the rest off his arms and out of his hair. “Okay?”
The blondes pout, but get the picture. The bartender shakes his head.
“If I were you, buddy.”
Danny shrugs, slams back his scotch, and shoots a look over at the jukebox.
“That thing got any Beatles songs in it?”
Much better.