(Untitled)

[trigger_man]

 When Jack comes down to the bar tonight, all he wants is a drink.

Instead, what he get is a note, in Bar's 'handwriting'.

Your turn.  The book of drink recipes is on the counter.

"Oh, no. No way, Bar.  I've paid my tab."

Yes way.  I need my beauty sleep.

Five futile minutes later, Jack's standing behind the bar, looking mutinous.  Behind him the

Comments

[morethanprops]

Moist appreciates that special and sits down in his elegant three piece pinstripe suit,

"Could I get some whiskey?"

[trigger_man]

"Any particular kind?" Jack asks, pulling out a glass. Much as he doesn't want to be here, he manages to say it without an attitude.

[morethanprops]

"MacAbre's, please. I think I've earned it,"

And he's going to keep earning it as he still has to get out of town.

[trigger_man]

Jack pulls down the bottle and pours the drink. " There you go. Looks like you need it."

[itwasjustified]

"I've seen pissed-off gators that looked happier than you do, right now."

[trigger_man]

"Probably because those gators could bite the head off anything they wanted," Jack says with a grim smile. "Anything you want while I'm back here?"

[itwasjustified]

Raylan settles on a stool, suppressing a chuckle.

"I'll take a glass of Old Rip Van Winkle, if you've got it back there."

A beat.

"Last time, it was right - "

He nods just behind Jack's left shoulder, to the shelf the bottle of bourbon last occupied.

"Back there."

[trigger_man]

Jack turns, finding the bottle right where Raylan's pointing.

"Ice, or is that some kind of sacrilege?" he asks, grabbing a glass.

[hallelujahpilot]

"Well, you look happy," Trudy says, cheerfully.

[trigger_man]

"Hey, Trudy. Want anything?" Jack says, straightening up from leaning on the bar.

[hallelujahpilot]

"Many things." Beat. "But I'll settle for some whiskey."

[trigger_man]

"Good, because that's about the only one I can offer." Jack grabs a glass and starts pouring. "Been busy?"

[boston_bruiser]

Jack might recognize the man walking up to the Bar. Not the man, actually, but the outfit he's in - with the turban and the months-old beard, that M4 carbine sticks out like a sore thumb.

The man looks at the specials board, then takes a seat.

"Hard liquor, huh? Got any rum?"

[trigger_man]

Jack's a little taken aback for a moment by the dissonance between the man's appearance and his voice, with it's subtle Bostonian sound. Of course he's known a number of American Muslims, but the firepower gets a side-eye, and then the request sinks in.

"Any kind of rum in particular?" he asks, giving the man a not-so-subtle once-over.

[boston_bruiser]

"Mount Gay if you've got it, but I don't care much either way."

[trigger_man]

"The bar has pretty much everything," Jack says, turning and scanning the rows of bottles. Spotting the right bottle, he grabs it and a glass and pours a drink. "There you go."

[fanofthegenre]

Given the circumstances of their last meeting, Beckett's first instinct is to draw back inside her shell (in this case, her turtleneck sweater, conveniently enough) and disappear.

Instead, she distracts herself with the sign on the specials board, and for some reason, sensing a little hostility behind the familiar handwriting amuses her more than anything else as she steps up to take a seat at one end of the bar.

[trigger_man]

Jack sees her approach as he pours a drink for another patron, glad for the necessary moment to pull together some kind of nonchalance.

"You can stop looking quite so smug any time now," he says, as he walks over to her.

[fanofthegenre]

"Where's the fun in that?" Beckett replies, her smile appearing a little easier than even she could've predicted.

"It's not like I enjoy watching you suffer or anything."

[trigger_man]

"Oh of course not." There's a beat as he tries to think of something to say, then he falls back on the obvious. "Can I get you anything?"