gunsforhire | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who: Church and everyone. Everyone else.
What: Drinks! Chats? Shenanigans. Tipping your bartender.
Where: Eagle & Asp
When: ~~whenever you want it baby~~ 5/21 through the evening
Warnings: surely I don't have to warn everyone about their language right

Church is a regular here. Not as a patron, hell no, but as a bartender. Usually, in fact almost always, in blue (especially his helmet), declaring his side the 'eagle' side. It's a themeing thing, okay? Don't question the theme.

And he really wishes the mercs would find other bars to hang out in, planning their whatevers and darkening doorsteps, but what's he gonna do, call security? So long as he gets paid, then whatever.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Having his helmet practically glued to his head (both for effect and practicality) actually serves him pretty well. It lets him glare at patrons and drunks and assholes all night without them ever knowing. It's fucking great. So when he rolls his eyes at Florida, the guy'll never know.

...Right? H-ha, right, obviously...

"Funny how that happens, right? So, what unholy fruity concoction can I drill your sweet tooth out with today?"

"The usual, handsome," Florida coos, leaning across and waving a hundred credit stub at Church. "You think more about my offer?"

Oh boy oh boy, he really hopes that cash is to pay to ply the merc with drinks all night long and not a prize for if he happened to change his mind. He grabs the vodka, pretending to think while he starts whipping up the drink.

"Can't say that I have. Why, you here to sweeten the deal?"

"You know I try every time," Florida smiles. "This time I'm offering weekly dinners for information in addition to what I've offered price wise already."

He leans back in his stool and smiles as he sets his helmet under his stool. "How you doing?"

"Gotta get to a man through his stomach instead of his wallet, huh? Sneaky." Shake-a shake-a that martini up with a little practiced flourish and strains it neatly. He doesn't give any answer otherwise to the offer.

"Same old. C'mon, you know nothing exciting ever happens here unless it's caused by mercs. Part of that inner city charm."

"And the mercs are the people I need to know about," Florida points out. "I keep getting blind-sided. Lots of mid to low level mercs like Eagle and Asp. Which means you get to hear things they might not intend to let people hear. You're going to hear it anyway. I'm just offering to pay. Pay to get you to tell me. Pay to get you to whisper other things."

That's what it means to be part of his web.

"Dude, I'm just a bartender." He slides the fresh appletini over, glinting lightly green. He even starts making up another in quick succession, because he's pretty sure Florida's going to hang around long enough to want at least one more. "You start paying me, I get involved. I get involved, I get put between crosshairs. I get put between crosshairs, I say goodbye to a not-completely-shitty life. And me? I kinda like living."

"You think so poorly of my ability to look after mine," Florida pouts. But he takes his appletini and allows himself to sip it.

"You know it's not that complicated."

He puts up his hands after pouring the second tini. "I'm a neutral party in this shit. I'm sure you can bribe the other bartenders and bar backs and whatever to be your handsomely paid informants with full bellies."

"I'd rather pay you. You look like you need to be handsomely fed," Florida counters with a soft laugh, sipping at his drink. "Come on, I'll show you how. Hear any interesting gossip lately?

"I'm not skinny," Church counters in what is totally not a whine, "I'm lean. All the better for muscle development." Uh-huh. What muscles are those again?

"Okay, yeah, here's one I heard." He leans in on his elbows. "I heard that a pretty persistent mercenary was harassing a poor lowly bartender. Isn't that wild?"

"I'm going to win you someday, Mister Church," Florida chuckles, shaking his head. "I just have to find the right deal."

He sips his drink yet again. "Fine, new topic... Meet any pretty women lately?"

Now that's a topic he can get behind. "Dude, I am a magnet for pretty girls. They all want a piece of the bluetender." A beat. "I'm still working on a cool nickname. They, uh, at least tend to giggle, which is good? I'm working them over. It's a long game."

"Bluetender?" Florida laughs, loud and disbelieving. "No, that's horrible. Never say that word again. Ever. I am ashamed to know you Church."

"Uhhhhh little boy blue? No, that's dumb. True blue? Potential there." He rubs the back of his helmet awkwardly. "Look, you wear blue, you get me, right?"

"Yes, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's the best idea," Florida chuckles. "True blue? It's terrible. Wow, Leo, someone needs to teach you how to do this."

He grins and shakes his head. "I wear blue because I have to be easily identified. What's your excuse, blue boy?"

"Lotta people wear blue. You get identified by your flamboyant captain outfit, Info Booth. Me, I just like blue. It's very...me. I mean, can you imagine me in orange? Or black?"

"Very much so," Florida smiles. Black ropes over pale skin. Very lovely. "I can imagine a whole hell of a lot of things."

"...You're imagining a whole hell of a lot right now." He wags a finger. "I can tell. You get that look. It's kind of creepy. That look that surprises people when they don't know that, surprise!, you're actually skilled and dangerous."

"I'm imagining how good you would look tied up and moaning," Florida admits quite readily, laughing before he takes a sip of his drink. "But you're not the kind of guy that would let me do that, so I will let it to be all in my mind."

His jaw works a few times, but he's not sure what to say, so he swallows instead. "Uh." He's super eloquent. "What? Yeah, I--uhhhh. That--shit. Uh. Yeah okay moving on."

Moving on to what, he's not sure, so he's just gonna. Um. Stand over here cleaning a glass particularly vigorously? It's really spotty okay.

"Wow you're so delicate," Florida laughs happily. "I could get you to blush so easily."

"I'm not blushing. I don't blush. I totally don't blush. That was just. Uh. It was--you know, out of the blue, and like, not what I was expecting, cuz, I dunno, guys don't, y'know, hit on me? Much. Ssssso."

He puffs out his chest. "Nothing delicate about me."

He reaches out to touch Church's arm. "Oh, but there is."

"Aw, hey man, you can look at the gun show, but you're generally not supposed to touch the merchandise," he teases, though he rubs the glass a little harder.

"I mean. I'm not for sale, but. Metaphor had to go somewhere."