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MIGUEL.
OWL’S THE BAR A BAR? CHRIST, IS THIS A CLUB?
WHO EVEN CARES ANYMORE? FUCKING HELL.
It’s been… a night.
Julia has been flitting in and out. Hands on your shoulders, giggling, asking if you’re alright, and–once, just a few minutes ago–planting a sloppy kiss on your forehead before heading off to say hello to someone across the bar. You’ve waved her off every time. She should go have fun.
“I didn’t expect to see you here.” Half-shouting over the music. You turn toward the voice and crack a bleary eye open.
It takes a second to recognize the man standing next to you outside of the armour. Wei Chen. Steel. Drink in hand, crisp and dapper in his black tuxedo. His bowtie has a studied neatness to it, and you wonder how long it took him to tie it. It makes the wrinkle between eyebrows stand out—a single, brief mark of uncertainty.
“I didn’t expect to be here,” you admit. Alcohol and exhaustion making you less resistant, if only by a little. “Though this isn’t really your usual spot, either.”
“I’m not the party type,” he shrugs. As if this is a normal conversation. As if you and Steel ever have normal conversations. “Where’s Julia?”
“She’s… you know. Somewhere. Off.” Your wave is too loose, overshooting nonchalant to land somewhere around wasted . Or worse, miserable. “Having fun. Just talked to her just a bit ago–”
“Aren’t you supposed to be… with her?” A note of something has crept into Steel’s voice. Irritation? Caution? Curiosity? You can’t tell. Not in here. Your eyes ache from trying to see in the mostly-dark, and the bass feels like it’s rattling your teeth in your skull. Everyone else in here feels—sloppy. Slippery. Their smiles are too wide for their faces, alcohol-warm and camera-bright. Their thoughts stick to you like a film of cooling sweat.
The bar stool you’re sitting on feels suddenly a long way off the ground.
“I have no idea what you mean by that.” You rest your elbow on the bar and scrub your knuckles into the ache developing just behind your right eye. “Julia’s a grown woman who does what she wants.”
“That’s not—” Steel pauses, setting his drink down. You don’t even have to hear the put-upon sigh this time: it’s been directed at you often enough that you have it memorized. The sound of a quick footstep, just to the side of you, and a hand closes tight under your left bicep. You wriggle in alarm, trying to shrug it off, but everything’s spinning.
“ Don’t ,” you yelp, as the hand yanks you up and resettles you in your seat. “Getoff–”
“Stop sliding off your chair and sit properly then,” barks Steel, and the hand– his hand, you realize belatedly–lets go. He beckons to the bartender. “Could I get a water for my friend here?”
You rotate your shoulder grouchily, slouching over the bar and trying not to look too moody when the bartender comes back with your tap water. Steel has perched himself on the stool next to you, and for all the world seems as immovable as a fucking boulder. Here to stay, you suppose. He glares balefully at you until you finally take a tiny sip. Not a capitulation , you tell yourself. Smart move. Hydration is strategic.
Something itches in the back of your mind though. He’d called you a friend . Is that what you are? Maybe Steel just doesn’t want to sound like an asshole in public–although, you’d argue, it’s far too late for that. Colleague would be the generous answer, though you aren’t in a charitable mood tonight. The resident occupational hazard. Julia’s pet annoyance.
“You shouldn’t let Julia drag you around,” Steel says, sounding like he’s mustering up every ounce of patience he has. “Or leave you behind.”
“I’m not let –I’m not getting dragged around,” you say mulishly. “And she’s right over there. This is just what people do. You know… to have fun.”
“Drinking alone in the darkest possible corner of the bar?”
“It’s usually better than this.” It’s not, but damn if you’re going to admit that to Steel of all people. You’d rather chew glass.
“Sure.” He sounds skeptical. Christ, how lame do you sound? How desperate?
You eye your rum and Coke. The evening’s fourth? Fifth? There were drinks before this one. There will probably be drinks after it. It’s usually around this point that things start looking up. If he even lets you tonight. “Look. Maybe I’m method acting. Have you ever considered that? It’s literally Halloween.”
“And your costume is… irresponsible drinking.” You can feel Steel’s doubtful eyes scraping over you. Taking in the trench coat, the rumpled suit and even more rumpled hair. The five o’clock shadow and the (blessedly unlit) cigarette in your hand.
“No, you–” You scroll mentally through a selection of names, and end up biting them back. He’s not all wrong. “Well. Sort of. I’m supposed to be John Constantine? From the comics? Alcoholism is the least of his issues.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” he admits, but he humours you anyway. “You have one day out of the whole year to be whoever you want, and you pick an alcoholic comic book character?”
“Among other things, yes,” you agree brightly. “To be fair, Constantine’s one of, if not the most powerful warlock in DC. He’s just also a mess.”
“Why not leave the mess out of it then? If it’s just a costume.”
“But that’s part of his charm!” You surprise the both of you by wagging a finger at him. Steel looks baffled for a second before a smile starts to creep onto his face. “The assholery and the substance issues are just as much a part of the character as the magic. You literally can’t separate them and keep him the same person, which is—”
You falter. Which is what? Nice? Comforting? The thought of having your issues exposed and being able to continue on anyway? You shake your head. “Anyway. I just think we do enough pretending at work. All of us.”
When you look over at him, Chen is watching you and frowning. “I… see.”
“Yes. So. That’s. Yeah.” You scratch the back of your head and try to smile. “I–I mean, to be fair, lots more people would rather… be what they’re not. Pretending is the point. Magical. Funny. Cool. I suppose that’s why you wore your nicest suit to a nightclub?”
“Not entirely,” Chen says. “I mean, it’s not just the suit.” He lifts his drink into view like it’ll clue you in. Little triangular cocktail glass, clear liquid, a little swirl of—lemon peel?
“A martini. Okay? Yum. I always thought you would be a beer guy.”
“I—‘Shaken, not stirred?’” he tries. At your blank look, he sighs, and reaches into his jacket, pulling something small and yellow out of the inside pocket.
“Holy shit. Is that a water gun ? Have you had that around all day?”
Chen is clearly pursing his lips to stop his smile from widening. A child’s water pistol, so small that only two of his fingers even fit on the handle. “Unloaded. Didn’t feel like making it too easy if Ortega got ahold of it.”
“Or Themmy,” you add.
“Or Themmy,” he agrees. “At least not without another one on hand.”
“Oh, very appropriate office conduct.” You’re smiling now, goddammit. The thought of spritzing Themmy like a particularly picky pup is too much. “Intra-organization water fight. Still don’t know who you’re supposed to be, though, aside from an instigator.”
Chen looks at you with something resembling awe–or resignation. “James Bond?”
You pause. “ Oh . Boo. How was I supposed to know that?”
“Some people might say it’s been a bit of a thing over the last few years. Also–” Chen taps his temple, eyebrows raised, as if reminding you. Telepathy?
“Right, well.” You sniff. “I’m tired. And drunk. I can’t even get my head straight, let alone yours.”
Not that he would let you. Those dampeners in his armour are there for a reason, aren’t they? Of course he’s not in the armour tonight, but… too many alarms to set off. And–and what would you even do in there? The walls are as tall and cold and blank as they’ve ever been. Guarded, naturally. Forbidding. Like the man himself.
You press a couple of your mental fingertips to the walls. Let the chill calm soak in like cold tile after a bad night. And push off. Whatever’s behind there… Better to let the two of you pretend. It’s Halloween after all.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’d be a decent Double-O-Seven.” You laugh a little. “You’ve got the tux and the drink and the skills already. You can even tie the tie. All you need now is the charm and the Bond girl.”
Chen pulls a face and rolls his eyes but he doesn’t seem annoyed this time. Just exasperated. There’s something almost friendly about the way the two of you are both leaning on the bar. Mirroring. It was something you’d learned to do at the Farm, trying to build camaraderie. Done sparingly and casually enough, it tended to make people feel… at ease with you.
Are you trying to build camaraderie with Chen? Is he with you? Christ .
Chen opens his mouth to say something, and clearly thinks better of it, tracing a finger through the condensation on the table. You wish you weren’t still so tipsy. “Well… not all I need,” he says, looking nearly thoughtful. “For one thing, the tie’s a clip-on.”
“What?” You bark an incredulous laugh. “Really?”
“Your faith in my fine motor skills is inspiring.” A quick tug shows the metal clip tucked into the collar of his shirt.
“No, I just thought—huh.” You have no idea why you’re so surprised. You’ve borne witness to the button issues before. “You just seem like the type to struggle through it. You know, do it anyway.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes you have to.” He shrugs again. “I’ve learned to pick my battles. I’d tell you to do the same, but that’s probably not going to happen.” Chen slides neatly from his bar stool and adjusts his jacket. Following his movement makes you teeter a little on yours, you forgot your feet weren’t on the ground.
And there it is again–Chen’s hand. Pressed flat to your shoulder blade this time. Heavy. Steady.
“It’s going to happen even less now that you’ve told me to,” you mutter, but you let the hand stay until your balance comes back.
“Of course it is,” he agrees. “But for right now, you can choose to wade through the crowd and find Julia yourself–or you can let me do it while you sober up enough to go home.”
You squint at him. “Wh–I’m not a toddler. Using that voice isn’t going to work on me.”
He cracks a tiny smile at that. “It was worth a shot.”
“I’m noticing that ‘sitting here and getting astronomically wasted’ isn’t an option.” You try to put as much challenge in your stare as possible, but he doesn’t take the bait.
“It could be, if you want.”
“You wouldn’t stop me?” you ask suspiciously.
“If I tried to, would you?” he fires back. “Like you said. You’re an adult.”
“Fair point.” You glower. That’s the thing about hiding so much: sometimes you forget what you look like. You never thought you’d see the day. “This crowd sucks.”
“It does. What are you going to do about it?” You sneak a look at him and he looks perfectly sincere. It makes your brain itch. He’s not a telepath. Is he buttering you up? It feels like being back at the chessboard, trying to pick your way out of a check.
You drain your water and ignore how Chen goes back to stopping his smile from widening. A choice. Your choice. That counts.
“Do you want me to call you a cab?”
“I already said I don’t need a babysitter,” you grouch, but it’s harder to put your heart into it tonight. “I got it.”
“I know.” Easy as that. Has it always been? That doesn’t sound right. “I’ll figure out what Ortega’s gotten up to. Take care, Miguel.”
“Don’t I always?” His silence does you no favours. Chen watches you sidle your way to the exit. He shouldn’t. He doesn’t have to. You needed some air anyway.
Just before you round the corner, you cock a finger gun at his expression and mime firing off a couple shots. The milling crowd is already starting to swallow him up but you can see him shake his head and turn away.
You stand and wait until he disappears into the dark.