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"What'll it be for you, Rory?"
The unfamiliar name makes Shane look up from his glass of beer, squinting at the door to the tavern. A man has walked in - curly auburn hair, wearing all black, and with a slightly gap-toothed smile. The new farmer. Shane had run into him on the way to work one morning and promptly rebuffed him. It was better not to make friends. He'd push them away eventually or they'd decide he wasn't worth it. Better to save himself the pain in the long run. Especially in the case of such a handsome man. Still, he has eyes and he can't help but look.
"Well, t'at'll depend, Gus. What you got for whiskey?"
With alcohol comes disinhibition and Shane's sodden brain skips any social niceties to immediately swoon over the man's voice. Good lord, the man is Irish. He's got a full burr, shortening his words, silencing letters and lengthening sounds. It is, quite frankly, one of the most beautiful voices that Shane has ever heard. His glass thunks on the bar and startles him out of his staring (oh no, he'd been staring and practically drooling, please say the farmer hadn't been looking at him). But the man - Rory - is leaning on the bar, peering at the bottles against the wall.
Gus turns to look at the bottles as well. "Irish whiskey, I'm assuming? Not scotch."
Rory laughs and shit, even his laugh is pretty. "Perish the t'ought. Irish, please."
With that, Gus walks over and pulls down a couple of bottles. "We have Jameson and Dead Rabbit. Your grandfather used to love that one."
From this angle, Shane has an excellent view of Rory's face and something in Rory's face has softened, staring at the bottle of Dead Rabbit like it's a newborn. "Aye, I'll have t'at then."
Gus pours Rory a few fingers while Rory counts out his coin, and they make the trade of glass for gold. "Here you are. Bottle's yours whenever you want more."
Rory holds the glass loosely in one hand, looking like a poet with his rolled-up sleeves and a carelessness that Shane could never achieve. He considers the glass and then turns his head to scan the room. Their eyes make contact for a moment - Shane's cheeks go red despite himself - and Rory tips his glass in Shane's direction. "Sláinte mhaith."
Shane has no idea what that means and frankly finds it a bit absurd that two made-up sounding words are making him blush even more. He'll blame it on the beer. Still, he gets the idea and tips his own glass in response. He's an antisocial asshole, true, but he will never turn down a toast. Besides, it lets him drink a bit more. That part is especially important here.
Then Rory is sliding into the seat beside him. Without an invitation.
"Do ye mind?" Rory smiles. "I won't talk to ye, don't worry, but yur the only person I even remotely know here and t'nite I dun wan' t' make friends."
Shane...can understand that. He nods, gesturing fruitlessly to the stool that Rory is currently occupying. "Didn't really give me much of a choice there."
Rory leans in. "Sorry 'bout that. Lewis was staring me down."
Shane can also get that. He nods and settles back into his corner to drink. Rory does the same, sipping at his whiskey and looking out over the tavern. Shane tries very hard not to stare. Sober Shane wouldn't even dream of staring at Rory in a place where Rory could easily see, but this is drunk Shane, and drunk Shane peeks up over the edge of his glass every now and then to look at the farmer. He has pretty green eyes, emerald almost, and has a dusting of ginger stubble over his cheeks. His fingers tap out seemingly random rhythms on the counter, his head sways along with them, and he drinks like he's being filmed for a commercial. It would look entirely constructed if it didn't also feel so natural. This may...just be how Rory is.
As the tavern starts to clear out and Shane's liver starts begging him for mercy, he considers it time to leave. He pays his tab, pressing it over to where Gus can grab it, and begins to rise. Then he notes the faint noise coming from Rory's seat. As he has refilled his glass, Rory has progressed from tapping to humming. Now, with a new glass, he's progressed from humming to...singing.
Singing?
Shane should leave. But his feet don't seem to be working. Not when Rory is rumbling in a way that only Shane can hear.
"Come guess me this riddle, what beats pipes and fiddle
What's hotter than mustard and milder than cream?
What best wets your whistle, what's clearer than crystal
What's sweeter than honey and stronger than steam?"
How can no one else hear this? Shane is riveted to the spot, his eyes wide as he stares at this man, singing a song to his glass. Rory's voice is deep and clear, every note sounding like it belongs to a professional singer. Or a faerie. Something of the like.
"What'll make the dumb talk, what will make the lame walk,
The elixir of life and the philosopher's stone?
And what helped Mr. Brunnell to dig the Thames Tunnel -
Wasn't it whiskey from old Inisowen?"
Whiskey. A love song to whiskey. The Irish think of everything. Shane's mouth twitches in a smile, even as it falls open a little in wonder. He can't stop listening anyway, even if he feels the song a bit foolish.
"So stick to the cratur' , the best thing in nature
For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys!
Oh lord, I have wondered if lightning and thunder
Was made from the plunder of whiskey, me boys."
Shane makes an approving sound, just shy of starting to clap. Rory turns and grins at him, waves him goodbye as Shane staggers slowly out of the tavern. The song lingers in his head and he stops to look back.
What can make the dumb talk, what can make the lame walk, the elixir of life, the philosopher's stone?
Love, Shane's traitorous brain whispers to him, staring at the bob of Rory's throat as the farmer swallows, the faintest glimmer of whiskey on his lips, the scar in his eyebrow. Love and whiskey.
He practically runs out of the Stardrop at that, stumbling towards his house. Maybe these thoughts won't catch him if he runs.
...who is he kidding. Of course they'll catch him.