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Tony had three shots in him. One in whiskey, one in his forearm, and another piercing his thigh. Cold air stings his wounds as Tony curses. Fuck. Not again.
The unforgiving night remains harsh as ever as he stumbles into a bar. Few details stick out: wooden floor. The thump of his boots. Pain. Pain that formed a web across his body, striking every nerve even though he’d been hit only twice.
‘Only’ twice, chastised his brain. You shouldn’t have been hit at all.
Tony growls as he reaches the bar. His eyes sweep the area, meeting the eyes of the only other person here. A final detail hits him. Ginger hair. Fuckin cat ears. Rare.
“Yanno,” says the furry bartender in a casual, suspiciously casual voice. “Were anyone else here, I’d have you thrown out. Tracking blood around my bar. Not cool.”
Tony scowls, arms crossing tighter as he leans, meeting his eyes with a scowl. “Whiskey.”
“Mhm. I’d ask if you know him,” says the bartender, fingers gliding across the counter for a bottle and a glass, “But you don’t seem like you know very friendly people.”
Was there a person named such a thing?? Tony sighs, trying not to move his arm. “What, noticed my piercings, handsome?”
The warm trickling sound of liquor fills the air. It comforts Tony: always took the sting off.
“Heard the shots, too,” says the bartender. “My name’s Garf.”
Whiskey chooses to enter his mouth instead of a biting remark as Tony tosses the shot back. Grunting, Jarf refills the glass, liquor trickling down the edges.
“You, bartender,” says Tony, sighing as the shot hits his brain, numbs his body. “Are weirdly okay with me. With… this.”
“You mean the blood? The gun?” Garf shrugs, leaning across the counter himself. They’re close. “New bar. Can’t be too picky with our customers.”
“Ah,” says Tony, tenderly. “Can’t complain, can I.”
“Nope.”
The air is thick, yellowed lights buzzing in the silence. Most people Tony knows would’ve run away by now. They would’ve found every excuse to leave, avoid even looking at the disgustingness that was Tony, his wound, his profession that often left him stumbling into newly abandoned places like this.
Unusually, Garf’s gaze didn’t leave. He felt…curious, free from judgment as he and Tony stared, neither really able to look away. It was fucked up. It was unusual. It was illegal, frankly.
But he didn’t mind. And he didn’t feel pressured to leave, either.