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Joe's day has been long enough, so he has no clue why he's choosing to prolong it even more.
He stumbles into the bar heavy-limbed, eyes deep-set in an exhausted face. His muscles are aching. Everything feels uncomfortable, from the grate of his shirt against his skin to the fit of his prosthetic over the stump of his knee. It's one of those nights where he isn't sure whether he wants to melt into his body or tear it apart and crawl out of it.
He wouldn't be here at all if he wasn't in desperate need of a drink. He's spent all day lifting lumber twice his weight, and a good part of it trying to ignore the incompetence of his idiot foreman. He knows that if he really needs a drink he could just go down near his house, to the familiar embrace of Smokey's bar. The only thing that deters Joe is the knowledge that it will involve more socializing than he's got the patience for tonight.
Right now, all he wants is hard liquor and a bit of peace. There's no better place to find that than at a random bar that he's never been to in his life.
Third Street Bar is nice, as far as bars go. It’s not too shabby, not too sticky, and doesn’t smell as strongly of spilled beer or even worse things as some other places in this part of town. The best part about it: Joe doesn’t know a soul there.
He walks into the place to the comforting sound of anonymity. No one shouts his name from across the room; no one tries to intercept him as he makes a beeline for the bar. He slides into his seat and relaxes his shoulders, wincing at the slight ache there.
He orders a beer from the bartender, conscious that he still has to drive himself home. As he leans back in his seat, he is finally able to relax the cloak of unapproachability he’s been wearing since he walked into the bar. He’s too tired to look anything but grouchy, but maintaining the look of someone who’ll break your jaw if you say something to him also takes more effort than Joe’s willing to exert. He doesn’t think he needs to look so foreboding here anyway. When everyone’s obviously caught up in their own social group, no one looks at a stranger twice.
As it turns out, he’s mistaken.
“Hoooly shit,” a loud voice says from his left. “Your arms are like fuckin’ bazookas.”
Joe startles, and only turns after a few seconds makes it clear that yes, there’s a guy right next to him, and he’s not going away.
He’s unimpressed by what he comes face-to-face with. The guy is shorter than he is, on the wiry side. He’s clean shaven, but the mop of messy hair that falls across his forehead is almost enough to make up for it. There’s a grin on his lips that looks like it belongs there, and he regards Joe with large brown eyes already glossed over by intoxication.
Great. He’s been in this place two seconds and he’s already got some drunk guy hanging in his personal space. (Not a bad looking guy, admittedly, but a drunk all the same.) Joe wants to curse; instead, he goes off his first instinct, drawing his shoulders up to make himself look even bigger than he is, and glowers. If the guy's got any sense he’ll make himself scarce.
The guy’s eyebrows quirk up like he’s impressed, and he shifts on his bar seat to make himself more comfortable.
God damn it.
Joe leans forward over the bar, wondering how many hints he can put out before this guy takes one. “Bazookas aren’t actually that big. They’re long, not wide. You sayin’ I have noodle arms?”
“No, no.” The guy slams a hand on the bar, and it bounces. He doesn’t seem to notice. “They’re like… like… shit, what’s a good analogy? C’mon, I’m six shots deep here. Help me out.”
Joe doesn’t know why he humors him. Maybe it’s how earnest he seems, like some sort of persistent dog. Maybe it's the way he's still grinning, even as he fumbles for a good pick up line. It might be more charming than Joe wants to admit, and he really doesn't need this tonight.
“Pistons,” he sighs, pulling a word from the top of his head. “They're big, and they bend.”
The guy claps his hands together, grinning broadly. “Perfect. Couldn't have described ‘em better myself. Not that your face isn't gorgeous, but your arms are a work of damn art. You ever tried crushing fruit with those biceps?”
“I really hope this ain't your usual way of hitting on people.”
“Nah, I'm even more charming sober.”
Damn everything, but Joe’s lips twitch with the fraction of a smile. There's no way the guy didn't notice that. He’ll be even harder to shake now.
This isn't right. Joe needs to put a stop to this before he can get carried away. He definitely didn't come here to wind up taking a stranger home, and if this carries on he knows he's going to be broken down. “Look, man,” Joe sighs, holding up a hand to cut the dude off before he can go any further. “I just really need a drink. I’m exhausted tonight, and you’re drunk. I’m not the kinda guy who’ll take anybody home if they can’t walk there themselves, and I’m just not in the mood tonight. Sorry.”
The guy is silent for a few moments before straightening up, nodding like a bobblehead. “No, it's fine. I can respect a gentleman. Have a nice night, man.”
“You too,” Joe says, nodding to the guy as he finally makes himself scarce. He tries not to breathe a sigh of relief. The guy hadn't been bad or anything -- actually, he was just Joe’s type, and that was the problem. He's just off the tail-end of a bad breakup. The last thing he needs is a hookup, god forbid a relationship.
Joe does his best to push the cute guy out of his mind. For a while, it even works. He loses himself in his beer, trying to relish what little alcohol content there is. For someone with his tolerance, it's not enough to get him close to tipsy, but it takes the edge off of his grating nerves. It's just enough for him to relax, to breathe more easily and feel a little comfortable in his environment.
Relaxation only goes so far, however. After half an hour he's ready to leave, his beer drained and money on the counter. He's just starting to rise from his seat when he hears it: the familiar, wheedling tone of someone who can't take no for an answer.
“Come on. Come with me tonight.”
“I said get offa me!” protests a very slurred voice. “Hands off!”
“A body like that… look at you, you're just begging for it…”
Joe’s heard more than enough. When he turns on his heel to see that the familiar face getting accosted by a sleazy looking man is the same guy he'd turned down earlier, that only clinches it. He's striding across the bar before he can think twice.
A firm grip on the creep’s shoulder jerks him away from the other man. The drunk guy is left stumbling back, bracing himself against the bar as he sways in place. Joe catches those dark, glossy eyes as they flicker over the confrontation in front of him, but he doesn't have time to process any more than that before the bastard he just grabbed is suddenly in his face.
“What the hell’s your problem?”
“He told you to leave him alone,” is all Joe says, glowering at the creep. “Back off.”
“Mind your own business!”
“Touch him again,” retorts Joe, “and you'll wish I had.”
That’s the final straw for the creep, because he switches gears. Joe spots the fist flying towards his face, deftly ducks before it can connect, and sends a jab towards the guy’s jaw. His fist strikes hard, but it doesn't knock the guy out like Joe had expected it to. His opponent staggers, but remains standing; he grunts heavily, ducking his head like a bull going in for the charge, and swings so quickly that Joe doesn't even see the punch before it catches him in the jaw.
He reels back, stunned. This is the opening the guy needs to charge forward again, coming at Joe with more punches he's forced to dodge before he can regain his bearings. As soon as he does he moves to hit the guy again, but he's blocked by something unexpected --
A small, angry blur flying between them and hurling itself at the creep’s face like an enraged cat.
Shouts of “sonuvabitch!” echo through the bar as fists fly, and this time Joe isn't one of the ones throwing the punches. He watches in awe as the unintimidating, very drunk guy he just stepped in to defend goes feral on his harasser.
It's a little scary to watch. He uses his height to his advantage and fights dirty, kicking and scratching -- Jesus, Joe is sure he sees him bite the guy at some point. There's enough screaming that Joe can't tell who’s saying what, but it's clear the drunk guy is winning off of momentum alone. He gets caught by a few solid punches, including one right to the face, but keeps fighting hard.
The brawling creep is staggering under the full weight of Small-Drunk-And-Crazy; he looks ready to topple. Joe shakes off his stinging hand, and waits for the money shot. As soon as he finds a clear hit, he swings his fist hard.
The bastard drops like a sack of bricks.
For a moment, neither Joe nor the drunk guy speak. Both are breathing heavily; they exchange glances, somewhere between awed and exhilarated, before they both seem to steadily fade back into their surroundings. Other bar patrons are shouting, and someone has probably called the cops by this point. It would be a good time to make themselves scarce; Joe definitely doesn't need any sort of legal trouble to complicate anything in his life, and he suspects this other guy feels the same.
“Now’d be a good time to go,” he says, and the drunk guy slumps back across the bar.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “That's a hell of an idea.”
Joe is very ready to turn tail and exit in a speedy fashion, never to show his face in this place again, but one look at the other man has his heart sinking. It seems like all the alcohol and adrenaline is finally catching up with him. The longer he holds still, the more his limbs seem to turn to jelly, and Joe watches as he slowly slumps sideways onto his arm.
Joe can't stick around here. He has work tomorrow, and there's a good chance he'll have a bruised jaw in the morning. Still, the guy in front of him is of more pressing concern.
"You look really nice sideways," the drunk says, giving him a sleepy grin. He's listing so far over the bar that he is, in fact, at a ninety degree angle. Joe winces, realizing that there’s absolutely no way this guy is going to get home on his own. He looks hazy, halfway to passed out already, and the shiner rapidly developing on his eye can't help. He heaves a sigh as the realization that he's going to have to play the Good Samaritan for just a little while longer sets in.
"Thanks,” he says, offering the guy an arm. He latches on like Joe has just handed him a birthday present, and it's all too easy for Joe to hook an arm around his waist and pull him up from the bar. A quick nod to the frustrated bartender signals that he'll make sure the drunk gets home safe, and then he begins to lead his companion to the doorway as quickly as his staggering will allow. “Come on, man. You got a name?"
"Yeah, I do. I've got a great name. The best."
“Wanna tell it to me?”
“Y’know,” slurs the guy, “I've been callin’ you ‘Arms’ in my head all night, but I didn't get a look at your eyes. You've got real nice eyes. You ever hear that?”
Joe hefts the guy further up on his shoulder, keeping his arm locked around his waist. At this point he's supporting most of the guy’s weight; he definitely doesn't stand a chance of making it home on his own. Even calling a taxi would be a worthless effort at this point.
Joe’s eyes drift across the street to his own truck, and he huffs. “Okay, what’s your address then? Gimme something here. I’ve gotta make sure you get home okay.”
The dude took on a guy twice his size for him; Joe figures he has some sort of obligation to help him out. Nonetheless, the drunk still gazes up at him with wide, almost adoring eyes, and it makes Joe uncomfortable. It's not like he's a saint; he's just being a decent person.
“Hmm,” says the guy. “Can't remember.”
“What?”
“I can't remember. My address. It's just, it's gone, I'm sorry. Not up there.”
Somehow Joe doesn't believe him, but he's not about to argue with a wasted guy over whether or not he remembers his own address. By the way his head is lolling against Joe’s shoulder at this point, there's a good chance this guy might not remember his own name; but there's something in his tone, and mischief underlaid by several layers of intoxication, that makes Joe think he's being played.
A wince takes over his own face as he realizes exactly how this night is going to go. With a sigh, he pulls open the passenger side door and gestures for the guy to get in.
“Fine,” he says, “I'll take you someplace you won't get mugged.”
The guy gives him a sleepy, adoring smile that leaves Joe unsure whether he should feel annoyed or incredulous.
“I thought you said you didn't bring guys home if they couldn't walk there themselves.”
The barely-familiar voice comes out as a croak, strained by sleepiness and the glory of a hangover. Joe knew the guy was awake fifteen minutes ago, when he heard the sound of groaning coming from his bathroom. Since then, he took the opportunity to straighten up the couch (messy from having a drunk draped over it all night) and start breakfast. Now he snorts, not bothering to turning around.
“You remember that?”
“My memory is in perfect condition,” declares the drunk-who-is-no-longer-drunk. He pauses for a few seconds before adding, “Up to the second hour, I mean. Then it's just a lotta static, a little blood, and what I'm ninety percent sure was tequila. What'd I do to win me a black eye?”
“Bar fight,” Joe replies, forking scrambled eggs onto one of the plates.
A low whistle echoes through the kitchen. “Jesus. That's a first, even for me.”
“Well, congratulations,” says Joe, adding a few breakfast sausages before finally turning around. He finds the guy slumped over his kitchen table; his hair’s a mess, his skin is pale, and he looks like he's still half asleep. The area around his eye is an ugly purple. He sets the plate down in front of him, and tries not to laugh at the way the guy's eyes widen like Christmas has come early, as if he wasn't talking to Joe while he was making breakfast. “You didn't lose.”
“That have something to do with you?” asks the guy around a mouthful of breakfast. Joe snorts. Like that’s even a question.
He doesn't say anything, watching the stranger inhale his breakfast while he slowly works at his own. It's two plates and one glass of Joe’s patented hangover cure later before the guy finally looks alive enough to lift himself off of the table.
“I guess I should thank you,” he says, offering Joe a smirk with only a flicker of shame. “You saved my ass a few times last night.”
“The way you went at that guy? Your ass didn't need saving, just to be carried outta there.”
“I remember none of that,” declares the guy, sounding almost proud. Joe is taken aback by a hand suddenly thrust towards him. “It's George, by the way, and this is the most interesting way I've ever made a friend.”
Joe only hesitates for a second before accepting the hand. “Joe. And who said we were friends?”
“You let me crash on your couch,” replies the guy (and that smirk should be illegal, damn it). “And got in a bar brawl with me. I think we're practically besties by now.”
Joe considers George for a moment, and decides there are a lot worse ways to meet someone. If it's a person like George -- well, Joe is willing to call the bruise on his face and the disheveled state of his couch worth it.
“What can I say?” Joe shrugs, offering George a dry smirk of his own. “Guess I'm just a gentleman after all.”
George grins at him, and it's like the sun shines a little brighter through the windows. The whole room seems lighter, the air is warmer, and Joe feels…
Joe feels like walking into a random bar last night was the best decision he could have made.