Desmond Miles £ 002

[failssassin]

Who: failssassin and somarium !!!
Where: The Fire in the Hole club in Somni
Style: Starts in third, but either is fine with me
Status: OPEN!!! Come drink your sorrows away!!
Warning: Desmond has a foul mouth, so language.

'Thump thump thump thump'

Comments

[onethirdavarice]

After leaving Kara's, the only thought on Locke's mind was that he needed somewhere else to pickle his liver. Asking around had him directed to a club- and while the loud, thumping music wasn't exactly the first place he would have chosen to drown himself in a bottle, it was the first place he had come across, and Locke wasn't sure how much longer he would be able to remain on his feet. He was feeling drained, physically and mentally, and his and Kara's argument left him sour; what little had remained of his ego bruised.

He went in, looking around sullenly. He almost considered turning back around, finding somewhere else- but then he saw the bar. He sighed, made his way over and carefully slid himself onto one of the stools, careful not to jostle his left side too much by anyone trying to get the bartender's attention. He chose one of the stools at the corner, hoping to avoid being prodded by any of these drunk idiots as much as possible-

but then again, if things went as planned, he'd soon be one of the drunk idiots too.

Belatedly he realized he was being addressed, and his head tipped up, grey eyes meeting Desmond's, hollow eyed and stone-faced.

"Gods," he muttered, rubbing his temples, already beginning to get a headache from the loud music, the stifling atmosphere, "Something hard. Something that drowns this business out,"

He brought up his right hand, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

Locke's first priority probably should have been getting another change of clothes; after all, he was still wearing the Galactica sweats that Kara had given him. The sweater didn't quite fit, it hung around his slender form, baggy in the front. The pants were alright, though it certainly wasn't appropriate attire for a night club of this caliber, and already he was generating a few stares. But Locke didn't care; his only concern right then was getting drunk, and getting drunk quick.

[failssassin]

Desmond raised an eyebrow at the man, noting his sunken eyes and sour expression. He said nothing about the inappropriate attire: he had thrown out many drunk idiots in his life, he could still do it if the man was a disturbance to the club. He shook his head at the bouncer when the bigger man moved towards the bar: if the customer needed to drink, he would let him drink. The bartender could relate, somewhat.

Reaching for the bottle of Jack Daniels behind the bar, he slid two glasses on the counter and poured an ounce in each of them.

"First one's on me" he offered as he raised his glass to the other man. He wasn't usually the type to drink while working, but his arrival had been nothing but trying, really. And it had been a while since he had a chance to drink too: they sadly didn't serve any alcohol in Abstergo and Shaun had nearly flipped out when Desmond had asked for a beer at the hideout.

"Rough day at the office?" In all his years of bartending, he knew that most people looking to drown their sorrows also looked for an ear to listen to their problems. He doubted that the man would have ones that could compare to his, but he wasn't asking to judge, nor because he cared. He was just doing his job. The more people mulled over, the more they drank and the better the tips were getting, in all honesty.

[onethirdavarice]

It really wouldn't even have taken much effort to throw Locke out. Skinny as he was, and with how poorly he had been taking care of himself one might as well have been throwing a sack of feathers. But sour attitude or not, it wasn't Locke's intention to get tossed out of the club. After all, getting thrown out was detrimental to getting as drunk as he humanly could before he either a) died of alcohol poisoning or b) stumbled out and passed out in the nearest alleway.

"Thanks," Locke murmured as the glass was slid across the counter of the bar. He reached out, taking it up with his right hand and slamming it back as quickly as his throat would allow him to. He hissed and winced faintly; this was a hell of a lot stronger than the watered down pinkish swill he had been drowning himself in in Vel Virazzo, and carried a gods-damned lot more bite, but he was far from complaining.

Setting it back down on the table Locke pushed the glass across the counter, and back toards the bartender. "I'd like another he murmured, his head hanging to stare at the counter top, a sigh escaping him at the question. He drew his hand back, fisting it in his hair as he awaited the glass to be refilled, and considered the question that had been put forward.

"Yeah," he replied dryly, "Something like that. Something like a horse kicking you in the gods-damned kidneys. Now it's just staunching the bleeding," he paused then, lifting his head enough to watch as the other refilled his glass, "Or something to make it worse," he pushed this thought away though. He didn't want worse; he wanted drowning. Wanted to forget.

[failssassin]

Desmond watched as the other man nearly turned an eye as he downed the whiskey, lips curling in an almost amused smile. Though it was sad to see someone in such a need to get drunk--not that it was the first the bartender was seeing such a thing--it was clear that the man wasn't used to drink hard liquor.

The Assassin refilled the empty glass without saying a thing. It wasn't his place to judge or make sermons about not drowning one's sorrow in booze.

"That bad, huh?" he asked as he drank from his own glass. "This world or yours that's been kicking your ass that seriously?"