"Rough day?" Nancy asks from two seats over, having observed the man and the shotgun as he came in. After all, Nancy only resorted to guns herself when things got really really bad.
"You must be a professional then." She replied, only sort of questionably, before taking a sip of her gin and tonic. "I've always been terrified. I mean, I have a decent shot, but I'm still fucking terrified to take it."
"I - used to be a soldier," he said, by way of explanation. "You - stop being afraid of taking the shot, and - you start being afraid of receiving one."
Ray, on the other hand, has been stuck here for . . . a long time. He can't remember exactly how long, anymore, and he wishes his body out in Bruges would make up its fucking mind about whether it's going to die or not.
He spends a lot of time pissed, which he figures is only to be expected when you've nothing to do but wait around in a pub to find out whether you're alive or dead. From the look of it, he's a couple sheets to the wind already when he wanders up to the bar.
"Pint, love." When nothing appears, he groans. "Ah, Christ, don't be like that, it's only me fifth."
Harry's hand instantly flies to the place in his belt he'd normally have a pistol, but it's not there. It's one of the things that got left behind when he arrived here, much to his chagrin.
Still, his expression immediately turns extremely unpleasant, and he practically snarls down the bar: "What the fuck are you doin' 'ere?"
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He doesn't, however, approach her for another moment or two.
"Evening."
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Yet, at least.)
He nods in response to her question, the corner of his lips curving slightly.
"A couple."
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"Not - too much so."
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Although, now, he isn't much afraid of either.
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He spends a lot of time pissed, which he figures is only to be expected when you've nothing to do but wait around in a pub to find out whether you're alive or dead. From the look of it, he's a couple sheets to the wind already when he wanders up to the bar.
"Pint, love." When nothing appears, he groans. "Ah, Christ, don't be like that, it's only me fifth."
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Harry's hand instantly flies to the place in his belt he'd normally have a pistol, but it's not there. It's one of the things that got left behind when he arrived here, much to his chagrin.
Still, his expression immediately turns extremely unpleasant, and he practically snarls down the bar: "What the fuck are you doin' 'ere?"
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"Oh fuck," he says, almost blankly. "It's you."
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(It's a rhetorical question.)
Then, once again: "What the fuck are you doing here?"
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