Midnight Magic Part 3/?
Title: Midnight Magic, Part 3/?
Rating: High PG-13, since there is quite a bit of swearing.
Characters/Pairings: In future chapters: Webster/Liebgott, Skip/Malark, Roe/Babe, and Winters/Nixon along with the possibility of some more. This chapter contains hints of Skip/Malark, some Webster/Liebgott subtext, mentions of Winters/Nixon, and even Sobel/Evans if you tilt your head and squint.
Summary: Modern day AU. As the Midnight Magic party for the seventh Harry Potter book approaches, the Barnes and Noble workers must face the horrors of a clueless manager, personal dramas, and the presence of foul-mouthed young readers.
Disclaimer: I claim none of these characters as my own, and all characterizations are based on the HBO series and my own deluded ideas. No disrespect is meant towards the actual men who fought. I am making no profits off this work of crack.
Author's Note: This is longer than the previous two chapters. This is, actually, longer than the previous two chapters combined. :D Thanks goes again to the wonderful
foofighter0234 for putting up with me through my Sobel angst and crazy rambling moments when I really should have been writing. She's an amazing beta. Finally, an add-on to the disclaimer: I don't own Ford, either. Artistic liberties, since I've never worked in a book shop, were also taken on some things.
Cross-posted to
camp_toccoa.
A sudden shift of atmosphere took place in the cafe area as every employee turned towards their manager, looking very much like they'd found out their dog had just died, their father had been thrown in jail, and they were dying of a terminal illness. Perhaps, Webster thought, that was a bit of a exaggeration, but any chaotic amusement that had resulted from the squabbling employees and their spectators had vanished with Sobel's presence. Eugene Roe, he noticed, was standing quietly a few paces away, looking unsure of whether he should leave or not. Webster choked back a heavy sigh and straightened, because everyone knew within their first day that anything less than a military posture of readiness would earn you a weekend's work or some other mindless task.
"Webster, Muck, Malarkey, Heffron, Liebgott..." Each name rolled off of Sobel's tongue with a certain perverse relish, and Webster wondered just how much he enjoyed these power trips. He drawled along innocently. "Since when has the cafe area needed so many employees to work it? And I was sure several of you worked in other parts of the store. Please do tell me if I'm mistaken."
Webster stared straight ahead and wisely remained silent. The others followed suit, though he could feel the vehemence rolling off Joe in waves as he glared at their manager. It truly amazed him that Joe hadn't been fired yet--probably because he worked in the music area, which Sobel didn't venture into very often. Mainly because the man seemed clueless of any genre of music, even more so than he was about running a store.
"Muck, Malarkey." Sobel snapped, glaring at the pair who had formerly been arguing. "Were you trying to make sure China heard your argument?" Both remained silent, and Sobel stormed on with his tirade a moment later. "In that case, congratulations, but the world is not interested in your personal affairs. I, especially, do not care about your petty frustrations. Understood?"
"Yes, sir." Both chorused, staring straight ahead, but Sobel was not done with them yet.
"Malarkey, don't you work in the children's area?" It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it. Malarkey nodded swiftly. "And yet, you're here, bickering with one of the cafe's employees. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Since you both seem so eager to spend time together while working, you both have weekends this week, and because I'm sure you're missing your station, Malarkey, you can read to the children this weekend instead of Evans." He paused, taking on an innocent tone as he revealed the next part of Malarkey's punishment. "I do believe it's a Winnie the Pooh story--and they were promised that their reader would be dressed as Tigger. We wouldn't want to disappoint them, now would we?"
"No, sir." Malarkey managed to slip out between gritted teeth, and Webster glanced over sympathetically. He'd had to read to the children once before, when one of the other empoyees was out sick, and even without a costume, it had been life-scarring enough. He'd seen the poor souls who had to do it dressed as a character, much to the delight of the children who had no quarrels about pulling on a tail or grabbing onto an ankle and refusing to let go. Worse, parents seemed to encourage these practices--they thought it was so cute, and even wanted pictures. He shuddered.
"Good. Now, get back to your station, Malarkey." Malarkey nodded, before walking away stiffly. Skip, however, was left to stand where he was with the rest of the unfortunate employees until all of them were dismissed.
Sobel's eyes roamed over their small formation yet again, and Webster waited for them to settle on the most obvious target--Joe. "Liebgott." He barked, stepping quickly until he faced the defiant employee.
"Yes, sir?" Joe snapped swiftly, with a hint of sarcasm that made Webster wince and Sobel's eyes narrow.
"You seem to be out of your area as well. Is it a craze, or something, to disobey rules?" He inquired rhetorically, and was about to continue before Joe spoke up.
"Actually, sir, I'm on break." He stated lazily, staring at Sobel challengingly, and Webster closed his eyes, praying to some higher power that they wouldn't get labored with work due to Joe's attitude. "There ain't no rule that says I can't be here, is there?"
Sobel frowned at him, before glancing beyond his shoulder at the clock on the wall behind them. A grin stretched across his face as he turned his attention back to Liebgott. "Your break ended exactly two minutes ago, Liebgott. And is that a band t-shirt I see under your uniform? That's a violation of the dress code."
Joe's expression turned stormy but even he couldn't find an excuse to justify his choice of dress or the fact he was out of his station past his break. Sobel could be blamed for his absence--when the manager had arrived, Joe had still been on break, and thus it was his fault, theoretically, that Joe had returned to his post. Webster doubted Sobel would see the logic behind this, and thus, Joe was probably doomed to whatever punishment the manager would hand to him.
"As you also failed to intervene when you saw the argument was getting out of control, you will work Saturday and Sunday this week. Oh," He paused, letting the first punishment sink in before giving out the second. "You are obviously unsatisfied with your work area, so you will be working the Customer Service desk with Hoobler the rest of the week."
Webster stared at Sobel, horrified. The last, and only, time Joe had worked the Customer Service desk, before Sobel was promoted manager, had been a disaster. Joe was prickly at the best of times and didn't have the patience to deal with people who couldn't name the titles and authors of the books they wanted, or asked where a specific genre was when it was clearly indicated on the bookshelves. He has especially little tolerance for anyone who complained about the state of the bathrooms, or how stale the cookies from the cafe were. Banishing him to work there would either have him committed to an asylum or fired. Or maybe a mixture of the two.
Joe's glare had turned deadly as he nodded sharply, giving a tight-lipped. "Sir." Webster knew he was seething, and was surprised (and a little disappointed) that he hadn't taken any physical retaliation on Sobel, who turned on Babe the moment he had finished giving out Joe's sentence.
"Heffron, I thought you were supposed to be working cashiers." He stated, and Babe's eyes widened with righteous fury, as Webster remembered that he'd said Sobel had been the one to banish him to the cafe area because he'd reported a broken register.
"No, sir, remember, you told me to work in the cafe area--"
"Quiet!" Sobel snapped irrationally, and Babe bit back his words, scowling openly. "I will not tolerate such disrespect from my employees. I expect to find you working here this weekend." Babe nodded silently, glowering, and Webster sucked in a breath as Sobel turned towards him. For a moment, he was silent, obviously trying to figure some sort of infringement Webster had performed to earn him a similar punishment. After a moment, Webster began to hopefully believe he would leave this meeting without a mark, until--
"Webster, you did nothing to stop the argument, correct?" Webster didn't bother to inform him he'd attempted to--he'd seen how far that had gotten Babe. He nodded silently. "For punishment, you will be sorting the books in the storeroom. A new load just came in today, and I expect them to be in alphabetical order, ready to be placed on the shelves, by tomorrow morning. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir." He sighed, and Sobel than rounded on all of them.
"Do not let this become a habit, gentlemen.We've got the Midnight Magic party coming up, and the last thing I need is my employees slacking off." He sent all of them one more withering glare before he turned on his heel and stalked off.
The moment he was gone, Skip hurried back to the counter area angrily, working out his frustrations by taking a rag and cleaning the counter area. Webster was more reluctant to head to the back of the store and stare alphabetizing books, Joe probably needed a moment to keep himself from going on a warpath, and Heffron seethed over his unfair judgment. Webster did notice that his eyes flickered, nervously, around the cafe area for a moment, perhaps looking for Roe. It appeared that the frequent customer had wandered off, and Webster wasn't sure by Babe's expression whether he was relieved or annoyed. The youngest employee let out an angry hiss, leaning back against the island containing the sugar and creams, before glancing over at Joe.
"Y'know, for a moment, I thought you were going to take his head off and we wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. Shame you didn't." He commented, and the tense mood broke momentarily as Joe sent him a weary grin.
"Well, I did look at my 'What Would Speirs Do' bracelet--" Webster rolled his eyes at the mention of the man, who they had all had memorable encounters with due to his friendship with Winters' boyfriend, Lewis Nixon. Nixon had no qualms about getting Winter's co-workers drunk with his own motley crew, so he'd often hosted parties where the employees had met Ronald Speirs, who was now infamous amongst them. "--but I kinda figured assaulting the guy in the middle of a Barnes and Noble or coming back to shoot up the place would have unpleasant legal consequences, so I refrained. And sent him the glare of doom instead."
"Oh, shit, I've seen that!" Babe shuddered unpleasantly. "Does the guy ever blink?"
Webster broke in before Joe could comment on Speir's blinking habits. "Joe, I'm glad to see you've got such a wonderful influence, but, as interesting as discussing Speirs, his violent tendencies, and his apparent inability to blink is, shouldn't you two head back to your stations before you get in more trouble?"
Joe was nonplussed by the threat of more punishments. "Hey, that had to be a run-on sentence. Doesn't Harvard's Lit program teach you better than that, Web?" He mocked, grinning sarcastically at Webster's scowl.
"Didn't ya hear him, Joe? He wasted all of it on those big words us commonfolk wouldn't understand." Babe informed him as if it was obvious, and both snickered under Webster's glare before Joe finally addressed the problem
.
"You're not exactly running back to get a head start on your alphabetizing, Web." He pointed out logically, before giving them a rueful grin. "And he took away my weekends, so, as far as I'm concerned, it can't get any worse. Bastard."
"Don't forget you're working the Customer Service desk." Babe pointed out rather unhelpfully, and Joe sent him a furious glare.
"I give up on you two." Webster declared, shaking his head in amazement. "I'm leaving before Sobel turns up and decides he wants my weekends, too." He headed down the cafe steps before Joe's call stopped him.
"Don't forget we're meeting at the Boots tonight, 'round eleven." He called, and Webster sighed and turned to stare at him.
"When was this decided?" He inquired in forced patience, and Joe frowned at him.
"Forever ago. Fuck, Web, don't you ever check your text messages?"
"...Joe, I don't get texting." Webster stated as calmly as he could manage, rubbing at his temples when he saw the man give him an incredulous look.
"Shit, than who'd I send it to?" Joe wondered aloud, glancing over at Babe, who shrugged helplessly
.
"Great, now we have a potential stalker. Nice job on that one." Webster muttered, continuing on his way to the storeroom.
"Just don't forget--eleven, at the Boots!" Webster waved him off tiredly.
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By the time Webster had finished sorting through all the inventory and compiling it into alphabetical order, The Boots had already landed itself in a state of tipsy glee. After stepping off the bus (because he really couldn't afford a car), he avoided two brawling men on his way in, skirted a passionately kissing couple as they stumbled past, and ducked some drunkenly-wielded pool sticks more times than he could count. Over the yells of some of the more inebriated patrons, he could hear faint music, pulsating and electronic, playing from a few shot speakers. It blended in quite well with the din of the bar around, and Webster couldn't determine if he knew the song or not. Coughing as he inhaled some cigar smoke, he skulked up to the bar and sat down heavily.
"Why do we always come here?" He sighed, glancing around the grimy establishments with a quiet sense of contempt. Joe sent him a sharp-toothed grin over the top of his beer, taking a heavy swig of the amber liquid before he replied.
"Because it's tradition." He informed Web solemnly, but with a sarcastic undercurrent that only Joe could pull off. Webster leaned back in his stool, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
"Who started it? And why hasn't it stopped?" Webster whined, tracing circles on the chipped wooden surface of the bar, quickly withdrawing his hand when he touched something sticky. He wrinkled his nose and decidedly removed his hands from the table. It was probably just a spilled beer, but, at The Boots, you could never be too sure.
"I--shit, I can't remember." Joe squinted at his beer for a moment. "As for why we stick around, hell if I know. Pro'lly 'cause Malark thinks his Irish ancestors would haunt him if he wasn't loyal 'ta just one bar." Catching Webster's amused smirk, he curled his lips into a snarl. "Suck it up, college boy."
Webster rolled his eyes, glancing around the 'fine establishment' unenthusiastically. He wondered why he'd accepted the invitation--the guys knew how horrendous Sobel's tasks could be, and they probably wouldn't have begrudged him. Despite his exhaustion, his empty apartment had seemed vastly unappealing when he finally did escape Barnes and Nobles' shadow. He supposed companionship was worth the questionable surface of the bar and the looming threat of pool sticks.
Shrugging, he turned away from Joe and glanced over at Alex Penkala (who worked in the music section with Joe), Malarkey, and Muck, seated to his right. To his surprise, Skip and Malark were snickering uncontrollably, whispering in excited breaths, not a trace of the hostility Web had witnessed earlier in their wide grins. He looked towards Penkala, seated directly beside him, nursing a beer with a self-satisfied grin as he watched his roommates.
"Mal finally give in?" Webster inquired, frowning slightly as Penkala grinned conspiratorially at him.
"Nope." He declared, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "It's really rather sad. Both of them claim to be Irishmen, through and through, but if you give 'em about four drinks, they'll start chatting up the jukebox. They can't hold their liquor at all. After two drinks, they were convinced they were best buddies again--stopped fighting real quick."
Webster nodded. "That was a good idea." He agreed, before pondering it for a moment. "Won't they just be worse in the morning when they wake up with hangovers?"
Penkala's face fell. "Well--shit, I didn't think of that. Oh, fuck." He cursed in frustration, taking a hearty drink from his beer. Webster shot him a sympathetic look before he turned towards the two cheerful drunks in question, who were having an animated conversation about the merits of silverware.
"C'mon, forks are way better than any friggin' spoon." Malarkey hiccuped, his eyes slightly unfocused as he attempted to stare down Skip. "You can stab things wit' em!" He made an exuberant hand gesture to emphasize his point. "An food won' slide off 'em, like it does on a spoon, y'know? Every try eatin' peaches with a spoon?"
"You still ea' peaches? Sobel's always popping those peach breath mints--I can't stan' eating 'em without thinking about 'im barking in my face!" Skip's face scrunched up into a pout reminiscent of an unhappy child, before his face brightened again. "Bu' they can't hold liquids!" He declared enthusiastically.
"Wha'?" Malarkey sent him a blank look, and Skip waved impatiently.
"Forks! They can't hold liquids!" He crowed in a triumphant manner, beaming. "Spoons can hold liquids, but forks can't! So the spoon is obviously the super--supero--superior" He struggled to get the word out. "Superior article of silverware!"
"What about sporks?" Webster suggested, and than, realizing what he said, shook his head and groaned. "I'm trying to have an intelligent conversation about silverware. I need a drink so fucking bad." He reached for the beer a sympathetic bartender set in front of him, only to have it swiped from his eager hands. He stared at Joe brokenly.
"Why?" He almost whimpered. Joe grinned at him and gulped down some of the drink.
"Someone's gotta drive all our drunk asses home." He explained logically. Webster glared at him enviously as he sipped on the beer.
"You're against drinking and driving? Since when did you become such a law-abiding citizen?" He muttered spitefully, and Joe raised his eyebrow at him, clearly amused.
"Oh, well, everyone else was doing is doing it so I figured 'what the hell?'" Joe rolled his eyes mockingly. "You know I don't deal with peer pressure."
Webster snorted. "Smartass." He grumbled unhappily, before glancing around the bar for any more familiar faces and coming up blank. "Hey, didn't anybody else show up?"
"Nah." Joe replied easily. "Everyone was busy. Thought Luz was gonna show up, but he said he had a dentist appointment--"
"--At eleven o'clock at night?" Webster stared, and Joe shrugged nonchalantly, having drunk enough to put himself in a stupor that didn't allow him to react to anything. Or think, apparently.
"--And Babe..." Joe broke off, frowning slightly. "Hell, is Babe even old enough to drink?"
"You didn't find that out before you invited him?" Webster inquired, sighing, though it was more of a statement than anything. From his position, Joe sent him a sloppy grin and drank some more of his stolen beer.
"He didn't show up, so it doesn't really matter."
"Of course not." He sighed, turning to glance around the bar helplessly. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.
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Malarkey scrutinized the woman in front of him, leaning against the wall calmly and sipping on his beer slowly, weighing the pros and cons of going up and talking to her. She really was a fine woman--her hair was stick straight, pale blonde, but with some kind of weird ruffling affect that he couldn't quite understand. Maybe dye affects? He shrugged and took another sip of his beer. She was skinny--kind of unnaturally so, but he didn't really think about it. Instead, gulping back some more liquid confidence, he swaggered up to her.
"Hey there." He greeted in a nonchalant manner, eying her critically. She remained silent, which he took as a good sign as he gave her a large grin and continued. "Was your mom a thief?"
His question was met with more silence. 'Obviously, she's rendered speechless,' he thought smugly, and slurred on with a sort of cockiness. "'Cause she must've stole the stars from the sky and put 'em in your eyes."
The woman didn't say anything, so, somewhat nervously, he leaned in closer, licking his lips with an eager grin and whispered. "If I told you that you had a nice body, would you hold it next to me? Please?" He stared into her eyes for a few moments, until--
"Malark! Malark--what 'cha, what 'cha...doing?" Skip asked, laughing as he slung an arm around the redhead's shoulder, still snickering. He turned to the woman in front of them, beaming, before it faded into a critical look.
"Go 'way, Skip, I saw her first." Malarkey growled protectively, and Skip just stared at him for a few moments, before turning to look at the (still) silent woman in front of him. After blinking twice, he started howling with laughter, clutching Malarkey's shoulder to hold himself up. The redhead batted at his hand irritably.
"Wha'? Why you laughing, huh?" He challenged, his expression sour as Skip wiped some tears from his eyes.
"Malark, that's--that's a lamp!" He insisted, laughing hysterically. "Ye'r--ye'r tryin' to use pick-up lines on a fuckin' lamp!"
Malarkey stared at him and than turned to the woman, squinting. She wasn't a lamp, was she? No, Skip must just be drunk. He pulled his friend over. "Skip, ye'r so drunk--that ain't no lamp, that's a woman. Jeez, you embarrass me sometimes." He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face and grinning tightly at the woman. "Sorry 'bout him, miss. He's had too much to drink."
"Aw, shit, I'm sorry, miss. I'se thought you were really a lamp for a moment." Skip smiled in a dazed manner, before laughing and leaning against Malarkey. "God, I'm so fuckin' high."
"Not high, you asshole, drunk. That's the legal one. Get it right." Malarkey said affectionately, before grinning with childish glee. "You wanna know a secret?" Skip's eyes widened to almost comical proportions, and he nodded eagerly, a lazy grin spreading across his features. "I think I'm drunk, too."
"No shit!" He laughed loudly, and soon both were howling with laughter, clinging to each other to keep themselves upright. The woman in front of them was long forgotten as they giggled manically. Penkala finally appeared besides them, an amused and slightly worried expression on his face. Malarkey beamed at him.
"Penky! Penk, you shoulda heard what Skip said--" He gave a loud snort, and Skip started laughing again. "He says, he says that lady over there!" He drunkenly gestured to the woman who, amazingly, was still nearby. "--IS A LAMP!! A fuckin' lamp, can ya believe it?!"
"I kind of can.." Penkala muttered, glancing over to the woman, who was, indeed, just a lamp, before shaking his head. "Come on, guys, I drove you here, remember? Let's get you back to the apartment."
"Yeah, before Skip starts thinkin' everyone's furniture--" Malarkey snickered.
"--and Malark starts chatting 'em up!" Skip finished, and soon the two were laughing again, trailing after Penkala through the crowded bar.
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"No way in hell am I getting into that car." Webster said slowly, staring at the shell of a car in front of him. Joe snorted from beside him, rolling his eyes and lighting a cigarette. They were out in the bar's parking lot, where Penkala (who, mindfully, hadn't drinken enough to impair his judgement) had appeared, dragging his giggling roommates behind him, and departed only minutes earlier, leaving Webster to serve as chauffer for Joe. Which might be his final act in life, judging by the car in front of him.
Even in the shadowy gloom of the night, the streetlights provided enough light to reveal the sad condition of the car. Webster had never been good with identifying brands, but he could figure out it was a Ford, and a rather old one. It had once been a respectable light blue color, but most of the paint job had flecked off over the years to reveal the rusty frame. Several minor dents were scattered along the car's body, and Webster swore he actually saw duct tape holding together a few parts of the old automobile. Joe grinned at him after he got his cigarette lit, slow and mocking, and Webster wondered why, not for the first time, he hadn't offered to swap places with Penk (nevermind that it made no sense seeing as the other three were roommates).
"Jeez, Web, it's just a car, quit being such a baby."Joe remarked, releasing a breath of smoke and watching it float upwards lazily. Webster frowned.
"That is not a car. That's death on wheels. I wouldn't be surprised to find out the whole thing was held together by a piece of chewing gum." He commented passionately. Joe rolled his eyes and headed towards the car, stroking a hand along its rusted hood affectionately, snorting as Webster hung back.
"It is fucking not. It's a sweet car--good ol' '73 Ford Maverick. Had it forever." He patted the Ford once more, turning towards Webster expectantly, who held his ground, shaking his head violently.
"Well no shit you have. It's older than you." He groaned, rubbing a hand across his face tiredly. "God. And it's a Ford. Just kill me now."
"What's wrong with Fords?" Joe did not have the right to sound so goddamned amused about it, Webster decided, glowering at the smug smirk that was slowly spreading across the other man's face.
"It's a fucking Ford. Ford, as in Found On Road Dead, and Fix Or Repair Daily, and--" He could've gone on, but Joe, finally showing a bit of drunken impatience, cut him off.
"Are you just gonna stand there and make up witty acronyms for it, or are you actually gonna drive it?" He asked sharply, raising his eyebrows challengingly. "Actually, y'know, it's up to you. We either take good ol' death on wheels here," Joe jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the car in question. "Or the bus. I'm sure that would be fun. Lots of opportunities to make a scene and embarrass you and--"
Webster gave in. Muttering swears and death threats under his breath, he trudged towards Joe reluctantly. Joe grinned, holding the keys up in front of his face and jingling them, before laughing as Web irritably swiped them from his hands.
"Just be lucky it isn't a stick shift." Joe said unhelpfully, looking all too amused by Webster's glare. He stalked around to the passenger door, opened it easily, and slid in. It took Webster, who realized his door was a bit harder to open, a few moments before he managed to pry it open on groaning hinges.
Ignoring Joe's obviously amused grin, he sat down, put on his seatbelt (a precaution that seemed more than necessary under the current conditions), and reluctantly started the car. Or attempted to. It sputtered for a moment, but refused to start. On the second try, his attempts were met with similar results. Finally, on the fifth try, the Ford grumbled to life. With it, the old radio began to screech out punk rock at headache-inducing volumes.
"Jesus!" Webster swore, turning down the volume and ignoring Joe's snickering to his right. Muttering a few more death threats (most of which were impressive but probably physically impossible), he eased the car out of the parking space. Thankfully, the Maverick did seem to drive better than he expected, and there were no mishaps as he got it out of the parking lot and onto the road.
Also fortunate, Joe seemed to be a quiet, dazed sort of drunk (at least tonight--Webster had seen more interesting things that had occurred when you mixed him with alcohol), because he just stared out the window with a lopsided grin on his face, humming along to every punk song that the radio bellowed out. In fact, he kept quiet until the first red light, where he decided Webster hadn't been tortured enough for the evening.
"So, you racist towards all cars or just Fords?" He asked suddenly. Webster glanced over, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited for the light to change.
"Not racist--cars aren't exactly a race." He pointed out uselessly, before shrugging and pulling a face. "Fords just...aren't reliable. I guess." He shrugged--it was just what his dad had taught him as a kid. If you wanted a good car, pick an American brand--but not a Ford, never a Ford. Somethings just stuck.
"Pro'lly all prejudice 'cause you were having fun in your decked-out Caddys." Joe remarked snidely, and Webster bit back any remark, because, sadly, it was true--they'd had a lot of Cadillacs when he was growing up. Joe, noticing Webster's silence, immediately realized his guess was correct and began laughing. "Holy shit, you did have Caddys, din't you? You little rich boy."
"Shut up." He whined, staring at the light impatiently. Turn green already, damnit. "I don't even have a car now." Webster pointed out for his defense. Joe latched onto it.
"That's fucking right." He realized, in a sort of delayed revelation. Joe grinned at him smugly. "So you can't go talking shit about my car, seeing as you don't even have one."
"Shut up." Webster repeated under his breath, more than thankful when the light finally flickered to green. He put his foot on the gas pedal, and the car shot forward jerkily, just as a metallic clang echoed and it shuddered. However, it kept going, leaving Webster in a sort of shocked state for a moment as they drove on.
"Shit, what was that?" He finally said, preparing to pull over. Joe shook his head for him not too, shrugging easily.
"Happens all the time." He explained, and Webster stared at him, before slowly shaking his head and turning back to the road.
"Death on wheels." Webster muttered again, hoping they at least got to Joe's apartment before the car broke down (Penkala had taken pity on him and given the address to Webster, who'd recieved several different, fake addresses from Joe--intentionally, because, sadly, he wasn't that drunk--before he finally got the real one). They did, somehow, manage to pull into Joe's apartment parking lot without further incident, though there were several more remarks on Webster's family background, his unfair prejudice towards Fords (nevermind that the Maverick did seem to fall apart 'all the time'), and other general things.
Webster gave Joe back the keys the moment he was out of the car, in a state of visible relief to have escaped the Ford. Joe raised his eyebrow questionably. "How you gonna get home?" He asked, though he pocketed the keys before the question was even finished. Not that Webster cared.
"Bus. Or a taxi if they're still out." He sent Joe a incredulous look. "No way am I taking that car again. The next thing that would fall off would probably be the entire motor."
"That's right, you'd probably break it." Joe agreed readily, ignoring Webster's glare, until the other man just shook his head irritably. There was an awkward pause, and Webster shifted uncomfortably in the unseasonably crisp night air.
"You don't need any help getting to your apartment, right?" He finally asked with a heavy sigh. The music worker didn't seem too drunk to have any problems, but Webster didn't want to get sued if he collapsed or something and blamed it on him. Or something.
Joe snorted. "Nah, Ma, I'll be fine." He said cheekily, waving him off as he headed towards the lobby.
"I don't want to be called back here because you cracked your head open on the stairs or something and I have to take you to the hospital." Webster warned his retreating back, shaking his head in a sort of exasperation. Why couldn't Joe lose his wit with alcohol like the rest of them?
"There's an elevator, dumbass." He called back before disappearing inside. Webster snorted and turned away, walking towards the nearest bus stop to look up the schedule and see if it would be more worthwhile to just call a cab.
That thought paused him for a moment: why hadn't he just done that for Joe? It sure would of spared him a lot of trouble. He let out an unhappy huff of air. "Damnit."
Rating: High PG-13, since there is quite a bit of swearing.
Characters/Pairings: In future chapters: Webster/Liebgott, Skip/Malark, Roe/Babe, and Winters/Nixon along with the possibility of some more. This chapter contains hints of Skip/Malark, some Webster/Liebgott subtext, mentions of Winters/Nixon, and even Sobel/Evans if you tilt your head and squint.
Summary: Modern day AU. As the Midnight Magic party for the seventh Harry Potter book approaches, the Barnes and Noble workers must face the horrors of a clueless manager, personal dramas, and the presence of foul-mouthed young readers.
Disclaimer: I claim none of these characters as my own, and all characterizations are based on the HBO series and my own deluded ideas. No disrespect is meant towards the actual men who fought. I am making no profits off this work of crack.
Author's Note: This is longer than the previous two chapters. This is, actually, longer than the previous two chapters combined. :D Thanks goes again to the wonderful
foofighter0234 for putting up with me through my Sobel angst and crazy rambling moments when I really should have been writing. She's an amazing beta. Finally, an add-on to the disclaimer: I don't own Ford, either. Artistic liberties, since I've never worked in a book shop, were also taken on some things.
Cross-posted to
camp_toccoa.
A sudden shift of atmosphere took place in the cafe area as every employee turned towards their manager, looking very much like they'd found out their dog had just died, their father had been thrown in jail, and they were dying of a terminal illness. Perhaps, Webster thought, that was a bit of a exaggeration, but any chaotic amusement that had resulted from the squabbling employees and their spectators had vanished with Sobel's presence. Eugene Roe, he noticed, was standing quietly a few paces away, looking unsure of whether he should leave or not. Webster choked back a heavy sigh and straightened, because everyone knew within their first day that anything less than a military posture of readiness would earn you a weekend's work or some other mindless task.
"Webster, Muck, Malarkey, Heffron, Liebgott..." Each name rolled off of Sobel's tongue with a certain perverse relish, and Webster wondered just how much he enjoyed these power trips. He drawled along innocently. "Since when has the cafe area needed so many employees to work it? And I was sure several of you worked in other parts of the store. Please do tell me if I'm mistaken."
Webster stared straight ahead and wisely remained silent. The others followed suit, though he could feel the vehemence rolling off Joe in waves as he glared at their manager. It truly amazed him that Joe hadn't been fired yet--probably because he worked in the music area, which Sobel didn't venture into very often. Mainly because the man seemed clueless of any genre of music, even more so than he was about running a store.
"Muck, Malarkey." Sobel snapped, glaring at the pair who had formerly been arguing. "Were you trying to make sure China heard your argument?" Both remained silent, and Sobel stormed on with his tirade a moment later. "In that case, congratulations, but the world is not interested in your personal affairs. I, especially, do not care about your petty frustrations. Understood?"
"Yes, sir." Both chorused, staring straight ahead, but Sobel was not done with them yet.
"Malarkey, don't you work in the children's area?" It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it. Malarkey nodded swiftly. "And yet, you're here, bickering with one of the cafe's employees. Is that correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"Since you both seem so eager to spend time together while working, you both have weekends this week, and because I'm sure you're missing your station, Malarkey, you can read to the children this weekend instead of Evans." He paused, taking on an innocent tone as he revealed the next part of Malarkey's punishment. "I do believe it's a Winnie the Pooh story--and they were promised that their reader would be dressed as Tigger. We wouldn't want to disappoint them, now would we?"
"No, sir." Malarkey managed to slip out between gritted teeth, and Webster glanced over sympathetically. He'd had to read to the children once before, when one of the other empoyees was out sick, and even without a costume, it had been life-scarring enough. He'd seen the poor souls who had to do it dressed as a character, much to the delight of the children who had no quarrels about pulling on a tail or grabbing onto an ankle and refusing to let go. Worse, parents seemed to encourage these practices--they thought it was so cute, and even wanted pictures. He shuddered.
"Good. Now, get back to your station, Malarkey." Malarkey nodded, before walking away stiffly. Skip, however, was left to stand where he was with the rest of the unfortunate employees until all of them were dismissed.
Sobel's eyes roamed over their small formation yet again, and Webster waited for them to settle on the most obvious target--Joe. "Liebgott." He barked, stepping quickly until he faced the defiant employee.
"Yes, sir?" Joe snapped swiftly, with a hint of sarcasm that made Webster wince and Sobel's eyes narrow.
"You seem to be out of your area as well. Is it a craze, or something, to disobey rules?" He inquired rhetorically, and was about to continue before Joe spoke up.
"Actually, sir, I'm on break." He stated lazily, staring at Sobel challengingly, and Webster closed his eyes, praying to some higher power that they wouldn't get labored with work due to Joe's attitude. "There ain't no rule that says I can't be here, is there?"
Sobel frowned at him, before glancing beyond his shoulder at the clock on the wall behind them. A grin stretched across his face as he turned his attention back to Liebgott. "Your break ended exactly two minutes ago, Liebgott. And is that a band t-shirt I see under your uniform? That's a violation of the dress code."
Joe's expression turned stormy but even he couldn't find an excuse to justify his choice of dress or the fact he was out of his station past his break. Sobel could be blamed for his absence--when the manager had arrived, Joe had still been on break, and thus it was his fault, theoretically, that Joe had returned to his post. Webster doubted Sobel would see the logic behind this, and thus, Joe was probably doomed to whatever punishment the manager would hand to him.
"As you also failed to intervene when you saw the argument was getting out of control, you will work Saturday and Sunday this week. Oh," He paused, letting the first punishment sink in before giving out the second. "You are obviously unsatisfied with your work area, so you will be working the Customer Service desk with Hoobler the rest of the week."
Webster stared at Sobel, horrified. The last, and only, time Joe had worked the Customer Service desk, before Sobel was promoted manager, had been a disaster. Joe was prickly at the best of times and didn't have the patience to deal with people who couldn't name the titles and authors of the books they wanted, or asked where a specific genre was when it was clearly indicated on the bookshelves. He has especially little tolerance for anyone who complained about the state of the bathrooms, or how stale the cookies from the cafe were. Banishing him to work there would either have him committed to an asylum or fired. Or maybe a mixture of the two.
Joe's glare had turned deadly as he nodded sharply, giving a tight-lipped. "Sir." Webster knew he was seething, and was surprised (and a little disappointed) that he hadn't taken any physical retaliation on Sobel, who turned on Babe the moment he had finished giving out Joe's sentence.
"Heffron, I thought you were supposed to be working cashiers." He stated, and Babe's eyes widened with righteous fury, as Webster remembered that he'd said Sobel had been the one to banish him to the cafe area because he'd reported a broken register.
"No, sir, remember, you told me to work in the cafe area--"
"Quiet!" Sobel snapped irrationally, and Babe bit back his words, scowling openly. "I will not tolerate such disrespect from my employees. I expect to find you working here this weekend." Babe nodded silently, glowering, and Webster sucked in a breath as Sobel turned towards him. For a moment, he was silent, obviously trying to figure some sort of infringement Webster had performed to earn him a similar punishment. After a moment, Webster began to hopefully believe he would leave this meeting without a mark, until--
"Webster, you did nothing to stop the argument, correct?" Webster didn't bother to inform him he'd attempted to--he'd seen how far that had gotten Babe. He nodded silently. "For punishment, you will be sorting the books in the storeroom. A new load just came in today, and I expect them to be in alphabetical order, ready to be placed on the shelves, by tomorrow morning. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir." He sighed, and Sobel than rounded on all of them.
"Do not let this become a habit, gentlemen.We've got the Midnight Magic party coming up, and the last thing I need is my employees slacking off." He sent all of them one more withering glare before he turned on his heel and stalked off.
The moment he was gone, Skip hurried back to the counter area angrily, working out his frustrations by taking a rag and cleaning the counter area. Webster was more reluctant to head to the back of the store and stare alphabetizing books, Joe probably needed a moment to keep himself from going on a warpath, and Heffron seethed over his unfair judgment. Webster did notice that his eyes flickered, nervously, around the cafe area for a moment, perhaps looking for Roe. It appeared that the frequent customer had wandered off, and Webster wasn't sure by Babe's expression whether he was relieved or annoyed. The youngest employee let out an angry hiss, leaning back against the island containing the sugar and creams, before glancing over at Joe.
"Y'know, for a moment, I thought you were going to take his head off and we wouldn't have to worry about him anymore. Shame you didn't." He commented, and the tense mood broke momentarily as Joe sent him a weary grin.
"Well, I did look at my 'What Would Speirs Do' bracelet--" Webster rolled his eyes at the mention of the man, who they had all had memorable encounters with due to his friendship with Winters' boyfriend, Lewis Nixon. Nixon had no qualms about getting Winter's co-workers drunk with his own motley crew, so he'd often hosted parties where the employees had met Ronald Speirs, who was now infamous amongst them. "--but I kinda figured assaulting the guy in the middle of a Barnes and Noble or coming back to shoot up the place would have unpleasant legal consequences, so I refrained. And sent him the glare of doom instead."
"Oh, shit, I've seen that!" Babe shuddered unpleasantly. "Does the guy ever blink?"
Webster broke in before Joe could comment on Speir's blinking habits. "Joe, I'm glad to see you've got such a wonderful influence, but, as interesting as discussing Speirs, his violent tendencies, and his apparent inability to blink is, shouldn't you two head back to your stations before you get in more trouble?"
Joe was nonplussed by the threat of more punishments. "Hey, that had to be a run-on sentence. Doesn't Harvard's Lit program teach you better than that, Web?" He mocked, grinning sarcastically at Webster's scowl.
"Didn't ya hear him, Joe? He wasted all of it on those big words us commonfolk wouldn't understand." Babe informed him as if it was obvious, and both snickered under Webster's glare before Joe finally addressed the problem
.
"You're not exactly running back to get a head start on your alphabetizing, Web." He pointed out logically, before giving them a rueful grin. "And he took away my weekends, so, as far as I'm concerned, it can't get any worse. Bastard."
"Don't forget you're working the Customer Service desk." Babe pointed out rather unhelpfully, and Joe sent him a furious glare.
"I give up on you two." Webster declared, shaking his head in amazement. "I'm leaving before Sobel turns up and decides he wants my weekends, too." He headed down the cafe steps before Joe's call stopped him.
"Don't forget we're meeting at the Boots tonight, 'round eleven." He called, and Webster sighed and turned to stare at him.
"When was this decided?" He inquired in forced patience, and Joe frowned at him.
"Forever ago. Fuck, Web, don't you ever check your text messages?"
"...Joe, I don't get texting." Webster stated as calmly as he could manage, rubbing at his temples when he saw the man give him an incredulous look.
"Shit, than who'd I send it to?" Joe wondered aloud, glancing over at Babe, who shrugged helplessly
.
"Great, now we have a potential stalker. Nice job on that one." Webster muttered, continuing on his way to the storeroom.
"Just don't forget--eleven, at the Boots!" Webster waved him off tiredly.
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By the time Webster had finished sorting through all the inventory and compiling it into alphabetical order, The Boots had already landed itself in a state of tipsy glee. After stepping off the bus (because he really couldn't afford a car), he avoided two brawling men on his way in, skirted a passionately kissing couple as they stumbled past, and ducked some drunkenly-wielded pool sticks more times than he could count. Over the yells of some of the more inebriated patrons, he could hear faint music, pulsating and electronic, playing from a few shot speakers. It blended in quite well with the din of the bar around, and Webster couldn't determine if he knew the song or not. Coughing as he inhaled some cigar smoke, he skulked up to the bar and sat down heavily.
"Why do we always come here?" He sighed, glancing around the grimy establishments with a quiet sense of contempt. Joe sent him a sharp-toothed grin over the top of his beer, taking a heavy swig of the amber liquid before he replied.
"Because it's tradition." He informed Web solemnly, but with a sarcastic undercurrent that only Joe could pull off. Webster leaned back in his stool, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
"Who started it? And why hasn't it stopped?" Webster whined, tracing circles on the chipped wooden surface of the bar, quickly withdrawing his hand when he touched something sticky. He wrinkled his nose and decidedly removed his hands from the table. It was probably just a spilled beer, but, at The Boots, you could never be too sure.
"I--shit, I can't remember." Joe squinted at his beer for a moment. "As for why we stick around, hell if I know. Pro'lly 'cause Malark thinks his Irish ancestors would haunt him if he wasn't loyal 'ta just one bar." Catching Webster's amused smirk, he curled his lips into a snarl. "Suck it up, college boy."
Webster rolled his eyes, glancing around the 'fine establishment' unenthusiastically. He wondered why he'd accepted the invitation--the guys knew how horrendous Sobel's tasks could be, and they probably wouldn't have begrudged him. Despite his exhaustion, his empty apartment had seemed vastly unappealing when he finally did escape Barnes and Nobles' shadow. He supposed companionship was worth the questionable surface of the bar and the looming threat of pool sticks.
Shrugging, he turned away from Joe and glanced over at Alex Penkala (who worked in the music section with Joe), Malarkey, and Muck, seated to his right. To his surprise, Skip and Malark were snickering uncontrollably, whispering in excited breaths, not a trace of the hostility Web had witnessed earlier in their wide grins. He looked towards Penkala, seated directly beside him, nursing a beer with a self-satisfied grin as he watched his roommates.
"Mal finally give in?" Webster inquired, frowning slightly as Penkala grinned conspiratorially at him.
"Nope." He declared, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "It's really rather sad. Both of them claim to be Irishmen, through and through, but if you give 'em about four drinks, they'll start chatting up the jukebox. They can't hold their liquor at all. After two drinks, they were convinced they were best buddies again--stopped fighting real quick."
Webster nodded. "That was a good idea." He agreed, before pondering it for a moment. "Won't they just be worse in the morning when they wake up with hangovers?"
Penkala's face fell. "Well--shit, I didn't think of that. Oh, fuck." He cursed in frustration, taking a hearty drink from his beer. Webster shot him a sympathetic look before he turned towards the two cheerful drunks in question, who were having an animated conversation about the merits of silverware.
"C'mon, forks are way better than any friggin' spoon." Malarkey hiccuped, his eyes slightly unfocused as he attempted to stare down Skip. "You can stab things wit' em!" He made an exuberant hand gesture to emphasize his point. "An food won' slide off 'em, like it does on a spoon, y'know? Every try eatin' peaches with a spoon?"
"You still ea' peaches? Sobel's always popping those peach breath mints--I can't stan' eating 'em without thinking about 'im barking in my face!" Skip's face scrunched up into a pout reminiscent of an unhappy child, before his face brightened again. "Bu' they can't hold liquids!" He declared enthusiastically.
"Wha'?" Malarkey sent him a blank look, and Skip waved impatiently.
"Forks! They can't hold liquids!" He crowed in a triumphant manner, beaming. "Spoons can hold liquids, but forks can't! So the spoon is obviously the super--supero--superior" He struggled to get the word out. "Superior article of silverware!"
"What about sporks?" Webster suggested, and than, realizing what he said, shook his head and groaned. "I'm trying to have an intelligent conversation about silverware. I need a drink so fucking bad." He reached for the beer a sympathetic bartender set in front of him, only to have it swiped from his eager hands. He stared at Joe brokenly.
"Why?" He almost whimpered. Joe grinned at him and gulped down some of the drink.
"Someone's gotta drive all our drunk asses home." He explained logically. Webster glared at him enviously as he sipped on the beer.
"You're against drinking and driving? Since when did you become such a law-abiding citizen?" He muttered spitefully, and Joe raised his eyebrow at him, clearly amused.
"Oh, well, everyone else was doing is doing it so I figured 'what the hell?'" Joe rolled his eyes mockingly. "You know I don't deal with peer pressure."
Webster snorted. "Smartass." He grumbled unhappily, before glancing around the bar for any more familiar faces and coming up blank. "Hey, didn't anybody else show up?"
"Nah." Joe replied easily. "Everyone was busy. Thought Luz was gonna show up, but he said he had a dentist appointment--"
"--At eleven o'clock at night?" Webster stared, and Joe shrugged nonchalantly, having drunk enough to put himself in a stupor that didn't allow him to react to anything. Or think, apparently.
"--And Babe..." Joe broke off, frowning slightly. "Hell, is Babe even old enough to drink?"
"You didn't find that out before you invited him?" Webster inquired, sighing, though it was more of a statement than anything. From his position, Joe sent him a sloppy grin and drank some more of his stolen beer.
"He didn't show up, so it doesn't really matter."
"Of course not." He sighed, turning to glance around the bar helplessly. He had a feeling it was going to be a long night.
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Malarkey scrutinized the woman in front of him, leaning against the wall calmly and sipping on his beer slowly, weighing the pros and cons of going up and talking to her. She really was a fine woman--her hair was stick straight, pale blonde, but with some kind of weird ruffling affect that he couldn't quite understand. Maybe dye affects? He shrugged and took another sip of his beer. She was skinny--kind of unnaturally so, but he didn't really think about it. Instead, gulping back some more liquid confidence, he swaggered up to her.
"Hey there." He greeted in a nonchalant manner, eying her critically. She remained silent, which he took as a good sign as he gave her a large grin and continued. "Was your mom a thief?"
His question was met with more silence. 'Obviously, she's rendered speechless,' he thought smugly, and slurred on with a sort of cockiness. "'Cause she must've stole the stars from the sky and put 'em in your eyes."
The woman didn't say anything, so, somewhat nervously, he leaned in closer, licking his lips with an eager grin and whispered. "If I told you that you had a nice body, would you hold it next to me? Please?" He stared into her eyes for a few moments, until--
"Malark! Malark--what 'cha, what 'cha...doing?" Skip asked, laughing as he slung an arm around the redhead's shoulder, still snickering. He turned to the woman in front of them, beaming, before it faded into a critical look.
"Go 'way, Skip, I saw her first." Malarkey growled protectively, and Skip just stared at him for a few moments, before turning to look at the (still) silent woman in front of him. After blinking twice, he started howling with laughter, clutching Malarkey's shoulder to hold himself up. The redhead batted at his hand irritably.
"Wha'? Why you laughing, huh?" He challenged, his expression sour as Skip wiped some tears from his eyes.
"Malark, that's--that's a lamp!" He insisted, laughing hysterically. "Ye'r--ye'r tryin' to use pick-up lines on a fuckin' lamp!"
Malarkey stared at him and than turned to the woman, squinting. She wasn't a lamp, was she? No, Skip must just be drunk. He pulled his friend over. "Skip, ye'r so drunk--that ain't no lamp, that's a woman. Jeez, you embarrass me sometimes." He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face and grinning tightly at the woman. "Sorry 'bout him, miss. He's had too much to drink."
"Aw, shit, I'm sorry, miss. I'se thought you were really a lamp for a moment." Skip smiled in a dazed manner, before laughing and leaning against Malarkey. "God, I'm so fuckin' high."
"Not high, you asshole, drunk. That's the legal one. Get it right." Malarkey said affectionately, before grinning with childish glee. "You wanna know a secret?" Skip's eyes widened to almost comical proportions, and he nodded eagerly, a lazy grin spreading across his features. "I think I'm drunk, too."
"No shit!" He laughed loudly, and soon both were howling with laughter, clinging to each other to keep themselves upright. The woman in front of them was long forgotten as they giggled manically. Penkala finally appeared besides them, an amused and slightly worried expression on his face. Malarkey beamed at him.
"Penky! Penk, you shoulda heard what Skip said--" He gave a loud snort, and Skip started laughing again. "He says, he says that lady over there!" He drunkenly gestured to the woman who, amazingly, was still nearby. "--IS A LAMP!! A fuckin' lamp, can ya believe it?!"
"I kind of can.." Penkala muttered, glancing over to the woman, who was, indeed, just a lamp, before shaking his head. "Come on, guys, I drove you here, remember? Let's get you back to the apartment."
"Yeah, before Skip starts thinkin' everyone's furniture--" Malarkey snickered.
"--and Malark starts chatting 'em up!" Skip finished, and soon the two were laughing again, trailing after Penkala through the crowded bar.
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"No way in hell am I getting into that car." Webster said slowly, staring at the shell of a car in front of him. Joe snorted from beside him, rolling his eyes and lighting a cigarette. They were out in the bar's parking lot, where Penkala (who, mindfully, hadn't drinken enough to impair his judgement) had appeared, dragging his giggling roommates behind him, and departed only minutes earlier, leaving Webster to serve as chauffer for Joe. Which might be his final act in life, judging by the car in front of him.
Even in the shadowy gloom of the night, the streetlights provided enough light to reveal the sad condition of the car. Webster had never been good with identifying brands, but he could figure out it was a Ford, and a rather old one. It had once been a respectable light blue color, but most of the paint job had flecked off over the years to reveal the rusty frame. Several minor dents were scattered along the car's body, and Webster swore he actually saw duct tape holding together a few parts of the old automobile. Joe grinned at him after he got his cigarette lit, slow and mocking, and Webster wondered why, not for the first time, he hadn't offered to swap places with Penk (nevermind that it made no sense seeing as the other three were roommates).
"Jeez, Web, it's just a car, quit being such a baby."Joe remarked, releasing a breath of smoke and watching it float upwards lazily. Webster frowned.
"That is not a car. That's death on wheels. I wouldn't be surprised to find out the whole thing was held together by a piece of chewing gum." He commented passionately. Joe rolled his eyes and headed towards the car, stroking a hand along its rusted hood affectionately, snorting as Webster hung back.
"It is fucking not. It's a sweet car--good ol' '73 Ford Maverick. Had it forever." He patted the Ford once more, turning towards Webster expectantly, who held his ground, shaking his head violently.
"Well no shit you have. It's older than you." He groaned, rubbing a hand across his face tiredly. "God. And it's a Ford. Just kill me now."
"What's wrong with Fords?" Joe did not have the right to sound so goddamned amused about it, Webster decided, glowering at the smug smirk that was slowly spreading across the other man's face.
"It's a fucking Ford. Ford, as in Found On Road Dead, and Fix Or Repair Daily, and--" He could've gone on, but Joe, finally showing a bit of drunken impatience, cut him off.
"Are you just gonna stand there and make up witty acronyms for it, or are you actually gonna drive it?" He asked sharply, raising his eyebrows challengingly. "Actually, y'know, it's up to you. We either take good ol' death on wheels here," Joe jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the car in question. "Or the bus. I'm sure that would be fun. Lots of opportunities to make a scene and embarrass you and--"
Webster gave in. Muttering swears and death threats under his breath, he trudged towards Joe reluctantly. Joe grinned, holding the keys up in front of his face and jingling them, before laughing as Web irritably swiped them from his hands.
"Just be lucky it isn't a stick shift." Joe said unhelpfully, looking all too amused by Webster's glare. He stalked around to the passenger door, opened it easily, and slid in. It took Webster, who realized his door was a bit harder to open, a few moments before he managed to pry it open on groaning hinges.
Ignoring Joe's obviously amused grin, he sat down, put on his seatbelt (a precaution that seemed more than necessary under the current conditions), and reluctantly started the car. Or attempted to. It sputtered for a moment, but refused to start. On the second try, his attempts were met with similar results. Finally, on the fifth try, the Ford grumbled to life. With it, the old radio began to screech out punk rock at headache-inducing volumes.
"Jesus!" Webster swore, turning down the volume and ignoring Joe's snickering to his right. Muttering a few more death threats (most of which were impressive but probably physically impossible), he eased the car out of the parking space. Thankfully, the Maverick did seem to drive better than he expected, and there were no mishaps as he got it out of the parking lot and onto the road.
Also fortunate, Joe seemed to be a quiet, dazed sort of drunk (at least tonight--Webster had seen more interesting things that had occurred when you mixed him with alcohol), because he just stared out the window with a lopsided grin on his face, humming along to every punk song that the radio bellowed out. In fact, he kept quiet until the first red light, where he decided Webster hadn't been tortured enough for the evening.
"So, you racist towards all cars or just Fords?" He asked suddenly. Webster glanced over, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited for the light to change.
"Not racist--cars aren't exactly a race." He pointed out uselessly, before shrugging and pulling a face. "Fords just...aren't reliable. I guess." He shrugged--it was just what his dad had taught him as a kid. If you wanted a good car, pick an American brand--but not a Ford, never a Ford. Somethings just stuck.
"Pro'lly all prejudice 'cause you were having fun in your decked-out Caddys." Joe remarked snidely, and Webster bit back any remark, because, sadly, it was true--they'd had a lot of Cadillacs when he was growing up. Joe, noticing Webster's silence, immediately realized his guess was correct and began laughing. "Holy shit, you did have Caddys, din't you? You little rich boy."
"Shut up." He whined, staring at the light impatiently. Turn green already, damnit. "I don't even have a car now." Webster pointed out for his defense. Joe latched onto it.
"That's fucking right." He realized, in a sort of delayed revelation. Joe grinned at him smugly. "So you can't go talking shit about my car, seeing as you don't even have one."
"Shut up." Webster repeated under his breath, more than thankful when the light finally flickered to green. He put his foot on the gas pedal, and the car shot forward jerkily, just as a metallic clang echoed and it shuddered. However, it kept going, leaving Webster in a sort of shocked state for a moment as they drove on.
"Shit, what was that?" He finally said, preparing to pull over. Joe shook his head for him not too, shrugging easily.
"Happens all the time." He explained, and Webster stared at him, before slowly shaking his head and turning back to the road.
"Death on wheels." Webster muttered again, hoping they at least got to Joe's apartment before the car broke down (Penkala had taken pity on him and given the address to Webster, who'd recieved several different, fake addresses from Joe--intentionally, because, sadly, he wasn't that drunk--before he finally got the real one). They did, somehow, manage to pull into Joe's apartment parking lot without further incident, though there were several more remarks on Webster's family background, his unfair prejudice towards Fords (nevermind that the Maverick did seem to fall apart 'all the time'), and other general things.
Webster gave Joe back the keys the moment he was out of the car, in a state of visible relief to have escaped the Ford. Joe raised his eyebrow questionably. "How you gonna get home?" He asked, though he pocketed the keys before the question was even finished. Not that Webster cared.
"Bus. Or a taxi if they're still out." He sent Joe a incredulous look. "No way am I taking that car again. The next thing that would fall off would probably be the entire motor."
"That's right, you'd probably break it." Joe agreed readily, ignoring Webster's glare, until the other man just shook his head irritably. There was an awkward pause, and Webster shifted uncomfortably in the unseasonably crisp night air.
"You don't need any help getting to your apartment, right?" He finally asked with a heavy sigh. The music worker didn't seem too drunk to have any problems, but Webster didn't want to get sued if he collapsed or something and blamed it on him. Or something.
Joe snorted. "Nah, Ma, I'll be fine." He said cheekily, waving him off as he headed towards the lobby.
"I don't want to be called back here because you cracked your head open on the stairs or something and I have to take you to the hospital." Webster warned his retreating back, shaking his head in a sort of exasperation. Why couldn't Joe lose his wit with alcohol like the rest of them?
"There's an elevator, dumbass." He called back before disappearing inside. Webster snorted and turned away, walking towards the nearest bus stop to look up the schedule and see if it would be more worthwhile to just call a cab.
That thought paused him for a moment: why hadn't he just done that for Joe? It sure would of spared him a lot of trouble. He let out an unhappy huff of air. "Damnit."