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One of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen is sitting at the bar.
If Ajay were even slightly interested in women that’d probably have a number of effects on him. Since he isn’t, though, all it means is that he focuses in on how the muscles in her back are tense in a way that gives deeper meaning to the blank expression on her face.
Probably the drunk coming on to her – way, way too close into her personal space – has something to do with it.
It’s…
He just wants a drink. Just something cheap and possibly palatable to take some of the edge off, just for a bit. He doesn’t want to get into anything, wants one day without blood. So he shoves all his instincts and inclinations down and makes for the far end of the bar.
Except that’s when the drunk puts his hand on the woman’s leg, so high up on her thigh that it almost stops qualifying as her leg, and Ajay sees every muscle in her body tense and –
Oh for – damn it.
“Hey.” It takes him barely a second to reach them, a hand going to one beefy, sweaty (Ew) shoulder and startling the guy so badly that he jerks away from where he’s groping with a yelp (and, at the edge of his vision, the part of Ajay’s brain that he blames Kyrat for pings the way her fingers slowly loosen around her glass). “The lady’s not interested, ok?” And then, because he really, really doesn’t want to deal with anything today, Ajay nods down to the other end of the bar. “C’mon, let me buy the next round.”
And there’s a moment (just one shining, beautiful moment) where it looks like the promise of free booze has reached through the guy’s haze and Ajay might still get a relatively peaceful afternoon.
And then he watches as that moment dies (screaming, flailing, on fire, and with a rabid honey badger latched onto its throat), the guy’s face purpling with drunken rage and contorting in ways that promise the opposite of a peaceful night for Ajay “white knight syndrome dumbass who’s incapable of minding his own business” Ghale.
Yay.
Already he’s shoving himself into Ajay’s face – bringing all the delightful smells and sprays of fluid that a drunk brings to such a situation – and “You wanna shtart shom’thin’, pretty boy” gets snarled into his face with much expulsions. At least Ajay’s pretty sure that’s what the guy’s saying, though between the amount of cheap booze in him and the thickness of his accent it could be almost anything.
I don’t need this today. Ajay lifts his hands in the universal placate-the-angry-drunk gesture. “Look –”
And then (because the universal placate-the-angry-drunk gesture never works, why does anyone even use it?) there’s a pair of ham-sized hands grabbing him by the jacket. “How ‘about ya f’koff b’for ya get hurt!”
A very familiar cold stillness settles over him. You just had to get involved, didn’t you, Ajay. He meets the drunk’s eyes slowly, cataloguing nine immediate ways of dealing with him and dismissing six on the grounds of lethality. “This isn’t necessary.” His voice is calm and even as a slab of stone as he dismisses a seventh option as too much effort. “Just let the lady drink in peace and –”
The guy shoves him, which would’ve probably unbalanced him if he hadn’t seen it coming and moved with it, and spits (literally, Great, thanks for that) something that’s probably horribly offensive in his native language (or possibly literally anything in unintelligible drunken English, again, it could go either way). “F’kin – ya thin’ yer bettern me, don ya?!”
Yes. Ajay doesn’t say, trying to decide between kicking out the guy’s bad knee before driving his own (better) knee into his face, or boxing his ears and then taking him down in a sleeper hold while he’s reeling (one would be cleaner, the other more satisfying). “I think it’ll be best if we both just walk away and –”
Another shove, accompanied by another tide of foul breath and fouler spit. “F’kin ‘merican! Ya thin’ she’s gon be intar- intrin- in- inta ya when yer no’ sho pretty?!”
And he's getting ready to respond to that (possibly with a boot to the knee - he's definitely starting to lean in that direction anyway) when a scoff cuts through the air and pulls their attention back to the woman in question, who’s in the process of rolling her big green eyes with an almost palpable blend of exasperation and ridicule as she tops her glass off from a bottle of questionable looking liquor.
Um, you’re welcome? Ajay doesn’t say, partly because ok fine, she hadn’t asked for help, but mostly because the drunk seems to have taken her reaction to mean he isn’t angry enough, and Ajay had been so thoughtful as to put a target on his face, now hadn’t he.
Not that it seems possible for the drunk to get much angrier, given how the guy’s skin tone is looking downright unhealthy now, to say nothing of the veins pulsing all over his head. Hell, Ajay could almost think that he’ll just pass out on his own in a few seconds... if not for past experience teaching him that Kyra and Banashur both were punishing him for sins in this and all prior lives, ensuring that things never go easily for him ever, meaning he’s probably only got a minute (at most) before violence happens.
“How about,” he gets the words out before the drunk gets his mouth open, “we calm down before this gets out of ha-”
He gets cut off by another shove and another snarl, and another noxious spray settles Ajay’s mind (and fully spent patience) on the method of conflict resolution that involves knees.
“How ‘bout,” the guy sneers back in what’s probably supposed to be a mocking imitation of Ajay’s accent, his expression going even uglier (if possible) as he lets go of Ajay with one hand to pull out a knife (if you can call it that, anyway) and confirm that he’s really not that fond of his knees or face, “I cu’ up ya pretty –”
“How’s about…”
Ajay and the drunk freeze in a moment of incongruous synergy.
The woman at the bar turns, the motion drawing all eyes to her like… well like a beautiful woman in a rundown shithole bar. Even Ajay’s drawn in, though (unlike most-to-all of the bar) his attention is due more to surprise than anything libidinous. Because… well….
Because it’s not that she’d looked remotely local (not least of all because this part of the world hasn’t seemed flush with David Bowie t-shirts) but, still, the sound of her accent – something lilting and drawling and unmistakably American – catches him off guard like a syringe full of drugs to the thigh.
And he’s still a little hung up on it (how long has it been since he’s run into another American? Four months? Back in – no, wait, that guy had been Canadian, hadn’t he?) when she finishes moving – back resting against the bar, right arm lazily draped across it’s sticky surface, one leg crossed over the other and dingy glass held loosely in her left hand in a textbook display of I-don’t-give-a-fuck-ery.
“You shut the fuck up,” her drawl continues, the barest trace of annoyance in it belying her equally textbook you’re-boring-me expression, “and take your little cockfight elsewhere.” An eyebrow arches pointedly as she glances at the drunk. “Somewhere with microscopes might help you there.”
The insult (and all the judgment and annoyance behind it) hang in the air, and she shifts her gaze towards Ajay and –
His annoyance with the drunk fades, replaced by a second wave of Kyrat-trained awareness as he sees a damn firestorm blazing inside her eyes, something sharp and bloody and ready that he’s grown all too used to seeing (inside Amita’s eyes, Sabal’s, in memories of his mother on bad days that he only now understands because he keeps seeing it in his own damn reflection), and Oh, he thinks. Shit.
And he’s changing gears – shifting to neutral as he downgrades the drunk to nonentity and turns his attention to the idle tigress lounging at the bar (nonaggressive, nonprovocative, but ready to defend if the new predator decides to be a hostile one); and as he does so he sees her eyes sharpen a bit, clearly seeing something in him like he’s seen in her, her expression shifting a touch (a little bit interested, definitely intent) and –
The drunk finally realizes that he’s been insulted.
And Ajay stumbles back a step (Idiot’s got some muscle to him…) as the guy shoves him one more time, but this time letting go of his jacket to wheel on the woman, knife jittering erratically in the air between them. “Y- bitch!”
Shit.
Big green eyes shift, slowly and smoothly, off Ajay (not actually ideal, that) and back onto the drunk. Her head tilts a little to the side (also slowly and smoothly and doing nothing to make Ajay’s mind stop making tigress comparisons) and if the drunk’s misogynistic and highly unoriginal shriek bothered her in the least she shows no signs of it. Instead she just blinks once, languidly and kind of pointedly…
And smiles.
Oh fuck.
There’s a little huff of laughter as her eyes flit down to the knife being brandished at her. “Cute.” And then, big green eyes shifting back up to lock onto the drunk’s, her smile grows – sharp and gleaming and oh shit the tigress is pissed and hungry – and her voice is a damn velvet blade as she purrs, “Mine’s bigger.”
“Don’t.” If her voice is a soft and sweet blade then Ajay’s is a gunshot, and honestly he’s not even fully sure if he’s warning the drunk or asking (pleading, threatening, challenging?) the woman but –
But it doesn’t really seem to matter how he’d meant it, because apparently it was taken as a general threat or something, given how suddenly half the bar seems to be on its feet – some of the patrons holding knives and others bottles (and one enterprising guy hefting a chair), some of them looking like the drunk’s a friend they’re coming to the defense of and the rest just apparently deciding that the free show’s moved into its group participation segment (chair guy definitely belongs to the later group), and Ajay and the ginger tigress are the center of everyone’s attention, and Kyra fucking damn it Ajay had just wanted a drink! Just one!
I just had to pick this bar, didn’t I?
He’s going fluid, shifting his weight so he can get the bar counter at his back once the rush comes, has settled on that one barstool (that one, right there) as the one to grab so he’ll at least start with a weapon/shield and, if things escalate badly enough, he can throw it to buy him time to free his kukri from where its disguised on the top of his pack (and damn it this is the last time he’s doing this, from now on he’s going to just wear the damn thing like he’d done in Kyrat and fuck the looks and whispers that brings), and to top everything off he’s still keeping (must keep) an eye on the tigress (who’s gone terrifyingly relaxed looking and is still grinning at the unfolding shitshow like a very hungry specter of death) in case she turns out to be the kind of predator that attacks everything around it when the music starts (and, honestly, Ajay seriously doubts he’s lucky enough to run into a sky-tiger rather than a Shannath one) and –
Something moves into view down at the far end of the bar.
And, as one, the locals freeze.
Much like Ajay’s blood, actually.
Oh please no more.
Carefully (very carefully, and very much not forgetting about the nearly begun barfight surrounding him) Ajay glances down to see what new flavor of shit if about to get rained upon his life from the vindictive heavens.
There’s a booth at the far end, small and shadowy and positioned to provide anyone sitting there with a perfect vantage point of the whole bar (like the architect had paranoid bastards in mind from the blueprints), and innocuous enough that Ayaj’d completely missed it (Shame, Ghale, genuine shame.)
And it’s from this shadowy corner that a new player’s entered the field.
The man stands out from the rest of the bar (almost as much as the now-still tigress; as much as Ajay himself probably does). He looks about Ajay’s age, maybe a year or two older; and he’s wearing the same kind of easy to move in (fight in – kill in) clothes that Ajay himself’s grown to favor (Tigress is the same, really should’ve noticed that…), though he seems to favor a more muted color palate (a slate grey t-shirt, dark grayish-brown tac pants, sturdy brown boots and a worn leather shoulder holster that’s strangely empty). He’s slender in a way that’s simultaneously serpentine and feline – exquisitely lithe and exceptionally, quietly lethal. He’s fair skinned, dark haired, and really fucking pretty even with the unkempt stubble and heavy shadows under his eyes, which –
Ajay’s blood runs a little colder and his hands itch for his kukri.
The beautiful stranger’s leaning against a section of the wall, still half in shadow and looking like it’s all that’s keeping him upright, left hand sort of dangling by his side (by the strap of a knife sheath on his thigh) as he stares out at the room with eyes that are deathly cold, razor sharp, and empty.
Those, Ajay thinks, the realization plunging any attraction he would’ve normally felt into ice, are Pagan’s eyes.
Only a few second have passed since the lovely stranger with killer’s eyes emerged from his shadowy corner, but it’s more than long enough for the building to fill with the distinct sense and feel of terror.
And it’s not often you run into a situation where you could actually hear a pin drop in a crowded room, but in this case…
Well, anyway, when the guy moves it’s like the metaphorical pin drop – a couple people flinch at the movement and someone gasps like a scared kid. Which, given that all the guy does is lift his hand to rake his fingers through his hair – revealing a swath of black ink that starts at his fingertips and coils all the way up his arm – would feel like an overreaction… except Ajay’s seen what someone with eyes like those can do (what they can be), and suddenly he finds himself really hoping that the next thing to drop won’t be the pen.
There’s a long moment of silence as the newcomer stares blankly out over the room before, taking a deep breath, the guy lolls his head wearily against the jut of wall and closes his empty eyes (and every sense and instinct in Ajay continues to scream danger).
“You know…” The stranger’s voice, soft and gentle and detached – eerie and other in some not entirely explicable way, and just as hollow as his eyes (and what the hell?! Another American? Where are they all coming from all of the sudden?) – drops the pin to a grenade.
“This place,” his inky hand waves vaguely, drawing a little circle in the air to include the whole bar, “was really peaceful when I got here.”
There’s a long, slow sigh.
And then his eyes open.
“I was enjoying that peace.
A new wave of fear crashes down over the room – people flinching, gasping, whimpering, trembling – and even Ajay isn’t spared as the words and tone and promise send a rush of memory (“I’m very particular with my words”) through him like a knife to the gut.
(And, in the back of his mind, he wonders who Tigress is hearing again – going as deathly still as she does.)
And then, the room still quivering in place, the guy sighs again – shorter and sharper – and suddenly there’s a hint of dangerous exasperation in his voice. “Do I really need to elaborate…?”
The room explodes with movement as one man (not one of the ones who’d been coming to the drunk’s defense, not even one of the ones who’d been ready to fight just for the hell of it) surges up from his chair, rushing across the floor (most everyone he passes bolting for the door as he clears them) to grab the instigating drunk’s arm in a white-knuckled grip. “Sorry!” Free hand held outwards in an act of supplication, he starts pulling the fear-stricken drunk backwards towards the exit. “Very sorry!”
And the building’s emptying – all but a handful of people still sitting quietly here and there flooding through the door, eyes wide and faces bloodless and voices low and harsh with panic (trembling murmurs in the local language and wordless whimpers and one guy, sounding ready to piss himself, gasping something that Ajay’s pretty damn sure is “Snow White” of all things before they vanish from sight).
Which – aside from the handful with their heads down – just leaves Ajay, Tigress, and the beautiful dead-eyed stranger, standing in a rather lopsided triangle of lethal tension.
Pagan-Eyes… (Yeah, nope) Snow White (Sure, why not) is the first to break the tension – his lips lifting into a tiny little smile that brings exactly nothing into his eyes, a bemused little hum coming from him as he watches the other Americans. “Well.” His voice sounds vaguely like Ajay imagines sleep paralysis would. “That was interesti-”
“Motherfucker!”
Tigress’ fist slams down onto the bartop, hardwood that’s probably endured countless brawls cracking and splintering at the blow, and with an almost preternatural grace the woman’s on her feet – eyes blazing and teeth actually bared as she roars, “I was this. Close!” She jabs a finger at the other man, not actually indicating any sort of distance (or time or whatever) but nevertheless conveying immediacy. “This close to being able to punch the shit out of that drunken prick while being completely justified in it!”
Her (shriek feels dismissive and roar seems suddenly insufficient) words echo through the otherwise silent bar – the locals very passionately studying their drinks while clearly regretting their decisions to stay.
For his own part, Ajay can taste ‘Are you fucking serious?!’ on his tongue – the words only stopped because he just wants a drink, damn it, and the madwoman is clearly one push from loosing what little shit she’s got left and –
“Oh dear.” Snow White’s smile goes deeper, one eyebrow lifting slightly and head lolling a little more, drawing Tigress’ attention into a laserpoint and making Ajay’s blood run ever colder. “Well then… this must be very upsetting for you.”
Ajay sees Tigress quake in the exact moment he feels his jaw drop.
Oh fuck you and also why?
He sees what happens next play out in slow-motion. Tigress roars, lunges, grabs a bottle off the counter and chucks it at Snow White’s face. He dodges, kicks a chair into her path that does nothing – she hurdles it effortlessly and uses the momentum of her jump to power her first punch (a brutal left to his face) but the chair was just to get breathing room and Snow White evades, counterattacks with an abandoned bottle that’s broken immediately before it goes for her face. Tigress blocks in with her forearm, grapples and starts to turn the ring of broken glass around and back towards Snow White, only for him to drop it, his other hand sweeping out with the knife he’s been working towards the whole fight (the sheath on his left thigh), taking a straight shot towards her stomach – and she wheels away, bottle shattering at their feet as she swings out, uses her grip on his right wrist to pull him into an armbar and brings her elbow down (fast and hard) towards his own upturned elbow. He twists into the grapple, knife arcing out again, gets free just fast enough to avoid having his arm shattered but not quite fast enough to evade a kick to the side of his knee (the first blow landed) when she responds to the blade coming at her by moving in, rather than retreating after the first dodge. Snow White’s leg crumples under him and he throws himself to the side, rolling away before Tigress’ fist can come down on the back of his neck, his fingers grabbing a shard from the abandoned bottle as he goes and this time she’s not fast enough to fully dodge when he throws it – the jagged glass cutting a bloody furrow across her face, the knife following close behind it, Snow White barely slowed by the agony he must be feeling. Tigress dodges the first swipe aimed for her throat, dodges the stab to the stomach, feints left – except no, she doesn’t, it’s not a feint she’s moving forward, deliberately lets the blade sink into her own fucking forearm and then shoves forward, getting her non-impaled hand around his throat and lifting him up off the ground by it before slamming him down, hard, and her hand’s crushing his throat and his still has hold of the knife buried in her arm and –
Snow White blinks as Tigress half heaves half snarls a sigh, one hand coming up to claw into her tightly braided hair, dropping her head in a shake that’s equal parts exhaustion and barely restrained fury.
For his own part, Ajay slowly releases the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and drops his hand from the wrapped handle of his kukri.
“Fuck. You.” Tigress shakes her head again, muscles still quivering from adrenaline roused by the death-match that nearly was, and the measured volume of her clipped words does nothing to disguise the ocean of anger behind them (such that ‘anger’… really doesn’t cover it, honestly; though ‘fury’ doesn’t seem quite right either…) as she finally lifts her head to lock eyes with the other American again. “I have had a day.”
Her words… hang there, for a moment – curled through the air like blood in water. The sound of them, the way her body shifts, the sudden expression she doesn’t allow onto her face but can’t keep out of her big green eyes (loss and open wounds and a wild beast in a too small cage, Hurt that can never be fully put into words or run from or forgotten, the bitter taste of fear and helplessness that will never fade, and the knowing you can never be free from all your demons because there will always be one waiting in the next mirror), the words not said that nonetheless scream how she's had so much more than one day... it all curls and circles and seethes around Ajay and it's just too…
Ajay can’t hold back a shudder, not with his mind suddenly bringing him back to Shannath, to Durgesh, to Jalendu and the cramped hut and the opulent dining room and –
Snow White pushes himself up off the wall, rolling his shoulders and head as indolence-disguised tension bleeds from his muscles – everything about him going as peaceful and nonthreatening as he can probably manage.
“Well in that case,” there’s almost a spark of actual humanity in his amused little smile, and his eyes are still cold and hollow but they’re suddenly less lethal as he starts walking. “I suppose I ought to make it up to you.”
Tigress pulls herself back upright, rocking onto one heel as she watches the approach side-eyed, and Ajay –
Ajay just sighs, reflexively, arms folding (also reflexively) over his chest as he leans back against the bar counter and regrets his entire life for the he’s-lost-count-ieth time this week.
Which, of course, draws two pairs of painfully familiar eyes his way – Tigress’ rage (almost there but still not quite) steadily relaxing into profound annoyance and general done-with-this-shit-ness, and Snow White raising an eyebrow as his housecat-with-barely-sheathed-claws amusement deepens.
The urge to just flip them both off is strong.
And that probably shows, at least a little, because Snow White huffs a little laugh and nods towards him. “Sorry, did you want to punch someone too?”
A muscle jumps at the corner of his eye. If I didn’t before…
He doesn’t bother suppressing the next sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose hard, just to get a moment of not having to look at the other Americans. “I just wanted a drink.”
“Well then…”
The third sigh almost makes him feel a little better, and Ajay’s hand falls away from his opening eyes in time to see Snow White lazily lift and wave three fingers towards the bar counter – a motion that makes a lot more sense when Ajay turns and sees that (Oh, hey!) there’s actually someone back there.
The bartender scowls at all three of them in turn (Fair), before setting her gun (Is tha- is that a fucking M60 LMG?! Why the fuck does she have that behind the bar?!) down and reaching for a somewhat dusty bottle. “So,” she plops the bottle down with a thud onto the counter, three shot glasses following it and her glare never wavering from Snow White, “everyone from your country is insane.”
Ajay kind of wants to protest that statement (though whether it’s to distance himself from the other two by pointing how he is perfectly stable and hadn’t been about to commit violence for stupid reasons and excuse you not all Americans, or to distance himself from the other two by explaining how he’s actually technically Kyrati technically thanks) but, before he can decide whether or not to, Snow White just leans his head back slightly and laughs.
It’s… very nearly a normal human laugh – soft and easy and genuinely amused in an apparently healthy and non-murderous way (at least if you can ignore the broken glass at the edges of it). It sounds… really nice, actually. And kind of very distracting.
Equally distracting is the guy’s face when he looks at the bartender – the exchange and the laughter softening him (even if Ajay knows it’s going to be temporary) and bringing an actual spark of light into his eyes and a touch of softness to his face, not much (not near how Pagan had changed when he’d looked at Ajay, or even when he’d talked about Mom or Lakshmana) but enough.
Just enough.
And Ajay’s… a little stuck on that (alongside the sudden spike of Oh no, he’s pretty; he’s got Pagan’s eyes but he’s pretty, I don’t know what to do with this… that’s running through his mind) when Snow White hands over a stack of the local currency in exchange for the bottle, still smiling humanly as he pours a more than generous amount of an unsettlingly dingy liquor into the glasses and, settling the bottle down in easy reach, lifts one to toast the bartender.
“America.” And then, his expression suddenly going a little softer and a lot more injured, and his accent going rather bewilderingly German, he brings the glass to his lips with a soft, “Fuck ja.”
The shot goes down him – smooth as gasoline on sandpaper if his wet-eyed wince is anything to go by – and then down to the counter.
“Well,” his voice is alarmingly hoarse for the next few words, “go on.” His own empty glass still in hand he bats at the still full ones, neatly sliding one towards Tigress and the other towards Ajay with (impressively) minimal spillage. “Drink up, kids. This round’s on me.”
Ajay’s tongue is trying to decide between a pragmatic ‘What is that, exactly’ and an intelligent ‘Yeah, I’m good, thanks’ as he watches Snow White start to refill his glass.
He doesn’t get the chance to say either.
“This round?” A hand (that he’s only now – consciously – noticing is wrapped up with artful bandages – like a boxer or martial artist or something) reaches out to pluck up one glass mid-slide, the shot going up and back and down with practiced speed and ease. And then it’s slamming back down next to Snow White’s, barely even a twitch in her expression and a slight growl in the back of her throat giving away how she’d imbibed whatever rotgut’s on offer. “Try all rounds.” The shot’s barely even put a hitch in her lilting drawl (and that the bartender’s staring now in open mouthed disbelief doesn’t give Ajay good feelings – about the quality of the booze or the nature of the young woman – and Young, oh Kyra, she might be Bhadra’s age… – who’d just knocked it back like water), and when she locks gazes with Snow White there’s still clearly some ire (Still not it) smoldering inside her. “I don’t get to have a bar brawl,” she shoves her glass a pointed inch forward, “then we,” and she clinks it against Snow White’s before (for some unfathomable reason) nodding sharply towards Ajay, “are getting drunk.”
“Whoa!” Two sets of eyes (the bartender seems to have taken her ludicrously overpowered gun and retreated to the safety of a stockroom) shift towards him.
Which is not what he wants to happen, but then he wants to be part of this… whatever this is even less, so he does his first sensible thing of the day and steps away from the lunatics (and the threatening little glass) with a headshake of firm denial. “Leave me out of this.”
There’s an amused little hum from Snow White, but it gets quickly and mercilessly swallowed by the scoff of laughter Tigress sends his way, alongside a long suffering (and vaguely insulting) eye roll. “Yeah, nope, not how this works.” Shoving bodily past Snow White (who hums a little more loudly in amusement at the affront), Tigress gets a hand on the refused glass. “Sir Gwalchmei doesn’t get to roll up on Keincaled, toss down the gauntlet of Chivalry and Domnei, and then fuck off into the sunset without following through on the after-party and aftercare. Now,” very pointedly holding eye contact with Ajay, Tigress slides the glass further down the counter towards him, “my plans for the evening having been thoroughly derailed and my dance card emptied… I’m getting drunk.” And here a wry, lopsided smirk gets sent his way alongside, “And I’m not doing it alone.”
What… the hell…
“I –” Words failing him after that first one, Ajay feels his mouth working soundlessly as he stares back at the clearly insane red-head and tries to settle on which point of her madness he should challenge first.
Then he remembers that arguing with crazy people never ends well, and falls back on pragmatic fact. “I am not getting drunk.”
And honestly? That should be all he needs to say (not the least because it’s entirely true – among the many, many hard though valuable life lessons Kyrat taught him, ‘don’t get drunk unless you’ve got people around that you trust to watch your back’ was a big one).
And yet…
There’s a spark of indulgent amusement in her big green eyes and arched brow as the glass shifts an inch closer. “That’s what you think.”
“Look lady…” Why oh why hasn’t he had any normal social interactions in years? “I’m sorry I interrupted your diabolical plot to bait a drunk idiot into a hopelessly one-sided fight –” it’s not even sarcasm, he really is sorry, though probably not for the reasons he should be, “– but I haven’t exactly been having the greatest day myself –” understatement of the fucking century (probably up there with ‘I have had a day’ actually), “– and I just. Want to have one drink. Preferably a non-lethal one. And some peace and quiet to enjoy it in while I pretend my whole fucking life is literally anything other than it actually is.” And he’s pretty sure his hands are shaking (his voice is definitely cracking a little); but given how he’s just said more in twenty seconds then he’s said all week he thinks he’s entitled. “Alright?”
There’s a moment of silence.
Which is proper because, once again that should be all he needs to say.
And yet.
“There are three prime methods of dealing with shit.” Tigress’ voice has dropped into an easy and companionable, if vaguely exasperated and didactic, drawl. “One,” and she pops her middle finger up (of course she does) with a raised eyebrow and the ghost of a smirk, nearly cutting off his sputtered protests, “violence. Two, snuggling with a fluffy-murder-baby. And three, booze.” The glass scooches another pointed inch his way, the eyebrow arches higher, and Ajay starts (finally) to wonder whether he’s been high this whole time and just didn’t realize it (because fluffy-what now?!). “Now,” she continues, unfazed by Ajay’s growing bewildered incredulity, “you boys put a stop to the violence, and I am tragically without any form of fluffy-murder-baby, so that leaves the booze.” Another inch closer, putting it directly beneath his dropped jaw and the madwoman guiding it within poking distance, her lips twitching fully into a smirk and her eyes suddenly, incongruously soft as she drawls, “So drink the damn rotgut so we can fuck this day already.”
Ajay stares up into her eyes (suddenly less Amita and more Banhi, less Mom-on-a-bad-day and more Mom-when-Ajay-was-being-endearingly-stupid), blinks…
And finally snaps.
“What… the fuck is wrong with you?!” Ajay glares up through a haze of frustration, watches her blink back in a moment of surprise before starting to look amused, and finds himself itching for his kukri again. “Did you even hear a word I just said?! Are we speaking the same language right now?! Did – did I start speaking Hindi again and no one’s known how to tell me?! What in the Kyra damned hell i-”
A laugh cuts through the air – soft and light and just a touch sunshiny in a way that does nothing to disguise the intrinsically unhinged note it’s built on – and despite himself and every instinct in his body Ajay finds himself turning in unison with Tigress.
Snow White’s lounging against the counter, head cocked to one side and fingers playing idly over the rim of his glass as he stares at them – fever bright eyes not quite synching with the fond little smile or gentle laughter. Then (slowly, lazily, a cat and/or snake lounging in the sun that’s finally making up its mind) his head lolls over to the other side with a little nod. “You two are fun.”
There’s a beat.
Then, without consulting him, Ajay’s own head turns and he shares a glance with Tigress.
You are insane, Ajay’s eyes say, calmly, but I think we can both agree this guy’s worse and we should go while we still can.
Tigress nods slightly, her eyes responding with, You are a little bitch, but also absolutely right on all counts.
And then, because she is absolutely insane how did he forget that, she grins, grabs Ajay’s hand and presses the full shot glass into it, and turns with a wink to walk back over to where the oldest American is lounging.
“And you,” she chirps brightly, rolling her empty glass in little circles across the bar as she grins at Snow White, “aren’t unhinged in the slightest.”
And then (with a little hum and a pair of nods) the two lunatics turn to stare (still smiling, to varying extents) expectantly at Ajay.
Ajay stares back, mind blank and jaw slack.
“I…” the words trail off, momentarily stunned from him by the sheer inanity of the whole situation.
And then – like the sun bursting up over the horizon – all the stunned bewilderment and flailing confusion fades, leaving a painfully familiar mantle of resignation weighing down on him.
“I regret coming to this bar,” he says, tone as flat as the look he shoots the grinning monstrosities before him. And then, “No offense,” shot towards the stockroom, because none of this is their fault.
A face appears just beyond the doorway, just long enough to express that offense if very much taken before retreating again, and –
And Ajay sighs, shakes his head, and knocks back the shot.
It burns like the fires of damnation and tastes vaguely like something the convoy people used to make in their downtime (which had been informally known, either out of deep respect or intense derision – he’s never been sure – as ‘Yalung’s Piss’) and which they’d used to clean engines as often as to get outrageously drunk.
Ajay’s pretty sure he’s gone temporarily blind in his left eye before the stuff even hits his stomach.
And he could absolutely do without the deliberately perky cheers coming from the two asshole lunatics down the bar.
“I know,” Snow White’s toneless hum of a voice echoes through the sparking darkness, sounding more amused and delighted than sympathetic, “It’s horrible, isn’t it?”
“Eh,” beside him, Tigress is only visible as a vaguely woman shaped column of fire and shadow. “I’ve had worse.”
And if that isn’t just the single most terrifying thing either of them’s said or done since Ajay walked into this Kyra-forsaken bar…
He slams the glass down on the bar counter, half-doubled over it as he simultaneously gasps for breath and coughs in agony, unable to do more than twitch when a hand like thunder hammers ‘helpfully’ on his back.
It takes a few moments to compose himself, eyes still watering and throat still burning like he’d drunk kerosene, and when he blinks up at the world around him there’s still two pairs of eyes fixed on him.
Ajay stares back.
Blinks.
Shakes his head.
And mutely holds the glass out towards Snow White.
The other man’s grin sharpens, the fever light in his Pagan-eyes burning even brighter, and at his shoulder Tigress cheers and nearly sends Ajay to the ground with another clap on the back.
This, Ajay thinks, watching as Snow White fills their glasses back up again, is a horrible mistake.
“This,” Ajay says, holding his glass up and eyeing it warily before running an equally wary eye over his fellow Americans, “is a horrible mistake.”
There’s a sharp burst of laughter by his side and “Probably,” chirps Tigress as she lifts her glass.
There’s a soft hum in front of him, followed by a tilt of the head and a “Definitely,” purred from Snow White as he lifts his.
This clarified, the three of them clink their glasses together and knock back the shots.
And that’s when several things happen.
First there’s a sudden roaring of engines – starting in the distance and moving in close faster than they should.
Second the locals in the bar jerk to attention, heads whipping towards the door and skin going pale, and the sound of locals outside drops to nothing.
And third… Snow White stills. Sighs. And then visibly relaxes.
Which by itself can’t be anything but bad…
And Ajay’s barely got time to think that (barely got time to turn towards the door with one hand on the pistol he keeps under his jacket, while Tigress has gone back to being all tense and ready) when the doors burst open and some kid comes running in, skin ashy and eyes wide as she makes a bee-line for Snow White, a flood of panic rushing out in the local tongue as she tugs at his clothes and points towards the growing clamor outside.
Snow White just pats the kid on the head and gently pushes her towards the other side of the bar, the remaining locals already moving towards the back room and one obediently ushering the kid along when Show White shoots a dead-eyed glance his way.
And the last of the locals are disappearing into the stockroom (LMG-bartender lady sending Snow White a fairly dead-eyed look of her own as she lets the last one through) when the noise outside finally starts clarifying – general noise taking shape as the low cries and stampeding footfalls of terrified locals, the roar of engines and harsh shrieks of rapidly applied breaks, and the too familiar sounds of voices – rough and sharp with the promise of violence – barking threats and orders among the begging and cries of panic.
Whatever good the industrial solvent they were drinking had done for Ajay evaporates.
“So,” he sets his glass down on the counter, voice steadier than it’s been since he left Kyrat as he cocks an eyebrow at Snow White. “Friends of yours?”
The other man huffs a little laugh like broken glass, his own glass going next to Ajay’s as he turns, rolling his shoulders and stretching idly. “Something like that.”
There’s an explosion of sound outside – a mélange of rising voices, most furious or terrified and at least one desperately aiming for reasonable, the thundering of guns being hammered against doors punctuated here and there with the splintering of wood, and the distinct pattern of movement that comes from people being herded together.
A predatory cold sweeps through him (running alongside bone-deep resignation) too fast for him to experience even a flicker of despair.
“Local government?” He asks, stretching his own muscles a little.
And Snow White, ambling over to the booth he’d been in, shrugs a little and sighs, “Local revolutionaries.”
And Ajay’s blood’s gone to ice at that, his stomach twisting in knots and a veil of anger and pain settling over him when – picking up a beaten up pack from the booth – Snow White pauses, cocks his head to the side and stares off in thought, and then shrugs again. “Or local warlord. Or crimelord, cult leader, invading foreign PMC.”
And then, eyes still fixed on where Snow White’s strapping on the pack, Ajay sees Tigress (already leant up against the wall, peering through the boards that serve as window shutters) go still.
“Cult leader.”
Humming a little and making his way towards the door, Snow White gives no sign of being at all affected by the deathly cold and flatness of the woman’s voice (when even Ajay flinches at it). “Or something like that.” And, when they both fix their gazes on him, he just shrugs a third time, expression bemused even as his eyes have gone colder and deader and hollower than ever. “After a while… all the despots and other assorted baddies start to blend together, really.”
And he’s just coming up on the door, the screams and shouts outside climbing to a fever pitch, when…
He stops.
Freezes.
Tilts his head to the side.
And then he turns to Tigress, lips and brows quirked as he regards her for a long moment and –
He smiles.
“You still want to punch someone?”
Big green hold, fixed on Snow White. Then, expression unsettlingly flat (given the constant play of emotion she’s displayed nonstop up to this point), Tigress slips her hands into the pockets of her hooded coat, only to pull them back out a second later – her boxer-wrapped hands flexing around the vicious looking knuckle-dusters she’s now wearing.
She sighs lightly, barely more than an exhale really, her eyes now staring into the distance as she brushes aside her coat to unclip a safety strap on the sidearm at her waist, fingers skimming lightly over the row of throwing knives on the thigh holster just below (and damn Ajay’s gotten rusty if he didn’t catch any of that earlier), and her lilting drawl caries a shadow of Snow White’s hollow eyes as she speaks.
“I don’t like cults.”
And the words, phrased as strongly as if she were commenting on a shopping list (I need eggs, I should get some milk, I don’t like cults) nonetheless manage to convey a whole world of meaning (matching if not surpassing ‘I have had a day’).
And then she’s moving, head stretching from side to side and fists punching (one-two, left-right) downwards as she tiger-stalks her way towards the door.
And it’s still going crazy outside, people shouting and screaming and crying, and the noise doesn’t even dip as Tigress throws the door open and prowls outside.
And still Ajay can hear when Snow White starts laughing again.
Slowly, Ajay turns back to the other man.
And Snow White stares back, laughing and smiling and meeting Ajay’s eyes with his own – cold and dead and gleaming up through dark lashes.
“Well?” He purrs, voice thick with amusement and hunger as the noise outside dips suddenly low, and nods towards the door.
And Ajay… stares at him. At the lithe, beautiful man – fair skin and dark hair and rough stubble, all too familiar in his practical clothes and broken edges. He looks at the knife sheath on his left thigh, at the knife he’s just now seeing tucked into a boot, at the pistol that’s suddenly slipped into the shoulder holster and what appears to be a sniper rifle (in parts, ready for quick assembly) strapped to his pack. He looks at the tattoo that covers his left arm, disappears under his sleeve to resurface at the edge of his neck (and white guy with tribal tattoos, it should be stupid but somehow it really, really isn’t – something about the too black design dragging too sharp nails down his spine and setting his teeth on edge, a distressingly familiar itch behind his eyes and in his soul like he’d always felt looking at Kalinag’s Thangka). And he looks into the gray-blue eyes that look exactly like Pagan’s.
That look, increasingly, like his own.
And, in the still tense silence, Ajay sighs heavily and pulls his gun from its holster with a resigned, “Fuck me.”
Another laugh curls through the room, a spark of genuine amusement (and the shadow of empathy) flickering through Snow White’s eyes as he meets Ajay at the door, claps a hand on his shoulder… and winks.
“Easy, tiger.” And there’s a teasing squeeze to go with the wink before the other man pulls away, his hand bypassing the thigh-sheath to reach for the back of his belt and pulling out a –
Holy fucking shit.
Ajay stares as Snow White twirls the ornate blade (that’s not a knife, this is a knife, if ever that phrase was to be used – except in this case ‘that’ was Crocodile Dundee’s blade because ‘this’ is halfway to a fucking sword and how had Ajay missed that?!), his smile equal parts lethal and flirtatious as he places his empty hand on the door and winks again. “Work first, fun later.”
And then the door’s open and Snow White vanishes from sight.
Leaving Ajay Ghale standing alone in the bar – shocked, bewildered, and uncomfortably (on numerous levels) aroused as the world suddenly explodes beyond the door.
And then – a sharp, vaguely hysterical laugh bursting from his lips – Ajay readjusts his grip on his gun, cracks his neck… and grins.
It’s a little weary, a little resigned, a little broken.
And a lot familiar.
“Alright,” he sighs, voice barely audible over the battle that’s erupted outside. “Let’s tear shit up.”
And with that he throws the door open and charges into the fray.