Chapter Text
The sharp autumn wind pushed and flayed strands of long brown hair around a round pale face. Equally brown, albeit watery, eyes stared down at the tombstone at her feet, the wind not the cause of the tears. The woman heaved a shaky sigh as she knelt into the soft ground.
“You should have said something.” She rasped. More tears flow down the freckled face. “Something, anything.” She mourned.
The dying sunlight began to fade in the cemetery, casting an orange glow about the dead grass. Autumn had taken over Central City with a vengeance; nearly every living flora had already turned brown and crinkly, dead. With great reluctance, the brunette stood up, leaving the dirt on her knees. As much as Ann would have liked to stay and cry to her hearts content, she needed to this the proper Scots way. In proper mourning fashion, she had to get sloshed before she can showcased her feeling. Had to drink for those who couldn’t anymore. Ann scowled as she walked to her car. If that was the case, she’d be drinking stout tonight; she hates stout. But, it was her father’s favorite, so she’ll tough it through for him. The proper Scot way.
On the little 8”X11” stone slab behind her, the words
“Here lies Clive-Jamison Terrell Ferguson. Better man than most.
Ag èirigh”
Were engraved with soft curling letters, the edge of each letter was still sharp, still fresh; fresh like the turned dirt and the pained feeling in her chest.
With one last longing look to the grave, Ann left her father’s grave and went to the closest bar to the cemetery.
It wasn’t “Uptagrove’s Pub”, in Opal City, but “Saints and Sinners” would have to do.
—
Dorris Grey liked her bar. She liked her patrons. Non of them paid her any mind nor with credit (and there’s nothing Dorris hated more than over hyped technology).
The girl at the counter, though, is not a usual barfly. She’s dressed for mourning and crying like it too, downing stout and grimacing the whole while. Her brown hair was tied behind her, showing the spotchy, freckled face. Obviously this girl was having a wake for one; and misery loves company....
“What’s got you so down.” Years of smoking had reduced Dorris’s voice to nothing but a low gravel at the best of times. She was proud of herself for being able to convey sympathy with her limited range.
The girl whines in her throat and let her head fall to the table with a sickening crack.
“My dad’s dead, my uncle sold all of his shit, I don’t have a job, and my uncle evicted my from my house.” The girl had a deep Central accent, not unlike Dorris’s own decades ago. “So now I’m homeless, jobless, and orphaned all within two days.” She held up her glass weakly, shaking terribly. “Cheers.”
Oh great. Now Dorris is curious. “Now I gotta her this from the beginning, doll.”
The young girl, Anne, regaled the whole awful affair, from start to finish with an excess amount of cussing, and downing another glass of stout. Dorris felt for the girl she really did, but the only thing Dorris does to help people was to get them drunk enough to forget the bad shit.
As the bartender gently rubbed the younger woman’s back as she sobbed, tired brown eyes flickered up slightly, eyeing the flickering screen of the old tv.
“I can fix that.”
Dorris looked up as well. “The TV?”
“It easy rewiring. I mean, it’d take five minutes.” The television has had shitty reception since Dorris bought it from a pawn shop. It had never work quite right.
But Anne did say that she was an electrician. Dorris wondered idly if the brunette could work a tap.
—-
Leonard nodded to Dorris in thanks when she laid down the bottle of Coors and looked up to watch the latest Diamond Cutters hockey game. Mick and he had been scouting for new people for the newest crew for the last two weeks. The thing about hiring criminals, is that it’s very hard to trust them. The thieves found solace in their usual dive, after tracking down and basically stalking other criminals to see if they could be of use.
“We could get Scudder and Dillion.” Mick suggested.
“I’m not bringing on my sister’s ex-girlfriend and her dickish new boy-toy.” Len snapped back. His grey eyes flickered back to the screen, and squinted at the clear quality.
“D, when you get a new TV?”
Dorris smirked and shrugged, returning to the bar. Mick snickered behind his shot glass. It was always fun to see Len get the cold shoulder.
The younger man threw his friend a dirty look and sipped his beer, ceasing his movements.
“D, comm'ere a second.”
Dorris rolled her eyes.
“Come on, it’s not like you have anyone else to wait on.” That was true, save for the pair in the booth and the stranger fiddling with a neon sign that's been broken since long before Len became a regular here.
The bartender rolled her eyes but came over anyway. In true impairment Dorris fashion, she placed a hand on her hip and raid a single thin eye brow, as if to convey that Snart should hurry the hell up before she left.
“This beer cold.”
The muscles in the dread-locked woman’s face changed minuscully, now conveying the message of “And?”
Len rolled his eyes. "You never keep your bottles cold. Why the sudden change?"
Dorris shrugged, still smirking a little. "Must've been the new hire."
Mick and Len exchanged looks. The day Dorris Grey hired another person to help out in her bar was the day the world ended. It didn't look like the end times when they came inside. Who was skilled enough or cheap enough for Dorris to hire?
As if reading their minds, Dorris gestured with her head to the stranger by the neon sign, now flickering to life. The stranger made a noise of approval and scratched their head before turning around. Mick breathed a laugh at the sight. The new hire was a young woman, brown hair tucked into the dark blue baseball cap on her head, decked in grey, black, and green plaid flannel and jeans that were too long. Not what the pyro was expecting, for sure.
"I think she uses a can of compressed air to chill the beer before handing it to me." Dorris offered before leaving the booth, going to the new girl. They spoke in low voices before the younger woman departed through the back door, grabbing a tool box that the pair hadn't seen from their angle before she disappeared through the back door.
Len's eyes followed her out. It might not take great skill to bring an old sign back from beyond the grave, and if he's assuming correctly, the brunette was the one who fixed the television, but the compressed air? That was clever. Clever to think of it, clever to fix thing that were beyond repair. Clever and good with her hands....
"Didn't you say we needed an electrician?" Mick asked from behind his glass.
Len smirk. They did.
---
Anne rubbed her eyes irritably and shivered in the cool fall air. Dorris woke her up god knows how late (or early based on how you look at it) because something went haywire with the bar's grid before she closed down, which really isn't a surprise to her because Anne would bet her bottom dollar that the last time an electrician looked at the fuse box for this place was when it was installed. Now Anne's evening was away from her (mostly) comfty bed in Dorris's spare room, and in a the creepy ass basement of the vacant bar with a flashlight nestled between her shoulder and ear.
With no small amount of frustration, the brunette hastily threw the small door open and looked into the dusty inner-workings. "How in the hell did this thing even-" Brown eyes fell onto a totally-not-dusty item, small and circular and black, attached to a small cluster of wires. The faded colors of red and yellow and green were exposed where someone's fingers brushed the dust off when they attached the device. Confused, Anne turned the thing around to see where the wires were attached.
"... what kind of bullshit-radio-shack-fuckery is this?"
With expert movements, Anne quickly unscrewed the device, returned the wires to their rightful connection, then, because the disorganization bothered her, she untangled the rest of the wire, flipped the switch, and hummed in satisfaction at hearing the electricity flow through the building, effectively turning on the basement's lights.
Since the flashlight was useless now, she turned it off and dropped it into her tool box.
"And once again, the day is saved by the only competent person in the room." She proudly boasted to herself.
"I dunno, I thought I was pretty clever with inhibitor." A voice called from behind.
Anne may have gotten whiplash from how quickly she turned. At the base of the stair stood a man with short cropped hair in dark clothing, staring at her with an appraising look.
"You have very nimble fingers."
"That is the second creepiest thing someone's said to me."
The man smirked, amused. Either at her quip or the terror in Anne's eyes.
"I don't believe we were properly introduced earlier in the bar."
"I was told not to remember any names or faces in case the cops come."
A quiet laugh came from the stranger and he stepped forward.
"The name's Snart-"
"That's unfortunate."
"Do have a retort for everything."
"Only when I'm awake." Ah, humor. The Ferguson's natural defense mechanism.
The man smirked once again before continuing, his tone serious. "You seem to know your way around a fuse box, and you seem smart enough to notice the device I planted. And since it took you fourteen minutes to get here, I'm going to assume you're staying with Dorris?" Anne gaped t him as he made his way towards her. "And if you're staying there, I'm also going to assume that you're strapped for cash, desperate to the point you're living with your boss, so-" he stopped right before her, Anne's back pressed against the closed fused box door. His height forced the stranger to look down his nose at her, cold cold greys meeting scared brown. "Do you wanna make some extra cash? I need an electrician for an upcoming project."