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Nicholas Foster wasn't a gatekeeper.
As the prince of hell, first of all, that wasn't his job. If you wanted to get into hell, it was not hard. Second of all, it definitely wasn't his job on the "maternal plane" or whatever Earth was called now (he could only pay attention to so many meetings at D.A.D.D.I.E.S.). He didn't see the point in keeping people from entering spaces they wanted to be in, so long as they weren't, as his uncle-dad would say, harshing the vibe. Third of all, what was he, a fucking cop? They had security for that.
However, there was a limit to his tolerance, and it was the sudden appearance of a celebrity at his favorite bar in San Dimas. It wasn't that paparazzi were still following her around, or even that she was bothering anyone (besides him). It was her mere presence — clean cut, formerly America's sweetheart in a dingy rock n' roll bar, in a short dress like she'd just come from an exclusive club where only beautiful rich people were allowed their luxury drugs and EDM—that grated at him.
It didn’t help that she was insanely hot – and Nicholas lived in hell.
Nicholas realized that it was not, in fact, about her, so much as what she represented (a relatively normal life he had not, could not, and would not, ever have), but he felt a stab of resentment every time he saw her there anyway. (Not that he was looking for her. She just naturally demanded the attention of everyone in the room by sticking out like a sore thumb.) Didn't she have parties to go to, tabloid headlines to make, elbows to brush or whatever? What did she think she was going to find here?
Terry Jr., ever his designated driver (he'd once had a sip/chew of his stepdad's home-brewed beer and swore off everything but white wine), sat in his usual seat next to Nick in their usual booth. "You alright?" He was tucking a sliver of napkin into his pocket—undoubtedly someone's number. Nicholas may have made his rounds through the regulars here, but Terry Jr. was a new addition. Fortunately, Terry Jr.'s energy was such a contrast to Nicholas' that their friendship wouldn't hurt Terry Jr.'s chances.
"Fantastic," Nicholas deadpanned. Terry Jr. glanced at his friend's barely sipped beer and the undulating, mirage-like heat waves that emanated from him when he was not doing great. Nicholas ignored the beginnings of a frown on Terry Jr.'s face, and tipped his chin in the direction of the unwelcome newcomer. "Hey, where do I know her from?"
Terry Jr. was, easily, the best one of the team for him to have brought here. Unlike Sparrow, he did not make a show out of following Nicholas' gesture; unlike Lark, he wasn't banned, and unlike Grant, he wanted to be here. His dark eyes skimmed over the other patrons — a casual observation — before he landed on Nicholas' focus. "Oh shit, my mom loves her show. Ron too, I think."
(For the briefest moment, Nicholas felt envious of Terry Jr.'s ability to so casually talk about and with his stepdad. Things had not been the same for Nicholas and his parents since they got back from the Forgotten Realms the first time, and he still struggled to connect with either of his dads. If pressed, Nicholas couldn't name many things Jodie liked, but he also couldn't think of a time Glenn had been emotionally available to him, so it balanced out in a fucked up way. At least he had his mom back.)
"It's weird that she's here," Nicholas said.
Terry Jr.'s concern took on a note of a confusion. "Not any weirder than me being here," he pointed out, with a gesture to his neatly ironed button-down shirt that he had only undone the top two buttons of to "fit in".
"Yeah, but you're with me, it's different," Nicholas replied, not unpleasantly. Terry Jr. watched his eyes dart to Cassandra, then slightly downward. He knew better than to immediately point out that Nicholas, clearly, thought she was hot.
"I think her name is Cassandra... something," Terry Jr. provided, but Nicholas didn't react. When Terry Jr. looked over, Cassandra had turned to one of her companions, revealing that her dress was, indeed, backless. Although Nicholas was distracted by that, Terry Jr.'s eyes had landed on her companion—some square-jawed, well-to-do man that he'd seen in political ads. He was pretty sure he remembered his mom making a disgusted noise and muting the TV whenever his airbrushed, pristine face appeared, which was typically the sign that he was bad news. She would be devastated to hear one of her favorite TV stars was somehow involved with him.
Next to him, Nicholas shifted forward in his seat. The air around him was noticeably warmer, but rather than point that out, Terry Jr. scooted a little further away. Cassandra was arguing with her companion — Terry Jr. saw him reach for her wrist, and she slapped his hand away. Her companion rolled his eyes, threw his hands up in exasperation, and stalked off. "Trouble in paradise," Terry Jr. muttered.
Nicholas glanced at him quizzically. Terry Jr. noisily sipped his drink like he knew something Nicholas didn't, so he just sighed and started to scoot out of the booth. "I need a smoke break."
"I'll hold down the... booth," Terry Jr. said with a nod; as Nicholas was leaving the table, he saw two women whispering conspiratorially and looking pointedly at the open seat next to Terry Jr. Go figure.
* * *
Out in the alley way behind the bar, Nicholas leaned up against the brick wall and pulled a joint out of his jacket pocket. For once, the alley was deserted, so he snapped his fingers to produce a flame to light up. He didn't enjoy smoking that much, he was seeking the high and the relaxation. He and Terry Jr. had pulled double shifts at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. for the past few days, and he could feel it in his shoulders and back.
"Hey," A soft, clear voice caught his attention from up the alley. Quickly, he snapped his fingers and extinguished the flame from his fingertips before he looked up.
At Cassandra Swift.
Now she wore an overcoat that skimmed her knees, but large swaths of her thighs were still visible. He did not pretend not to notice, and she did not pretend she’d noticed. Swallowing back his cottonmouth — whether that was from the joint, the bar, or Cassandra Swift's legs, who's to say? — he tipped his chin up to acknowledge her. "Hey."
"Mind if I join you?" she asked, leaning against the cool brick.
This, Nicholas could not comprehend – he was not a bad-looking guy, but an alley next to a seedy bar with a stranger was a choice. Then again, maybe she just wanted a smoke break and her entire existence did not revolve around irritating him. "'S a free country," he said with a shrug. Fuck, what was he, 12?
But she smiled kindly, and reached into the pocket of her coat. Nicholas recognized the label of herbal cigarettes she produced as the same that littered the passenger seat of Lark's car. "Do you have a light?" she asked, patting her pockets. "I think I lost my lighter."
Although he knew he didn't have one, he dug in the pockets of his jacket as if one would magically appear. Maybe there was a spell for that. "I don't, sorry."
With a glance at his lit joint, she raised an eyebrow. "That's okay," she said, without a single degree of pique at the obvious lie.
Nicholas looked at her for a moment longer than was comfortable. "Here," he took the joint between his first and middle finger. She put the cigarette between her lips, leaned over, and in the brief fraction of a second where she closed her eyes, he lit her cigarette with his fingertips. Shamelessly, then, he watched her rest the back of her head against the brick and inhale, then slowly exhale a stream of smoke.
"Thanks," she sighed. Meeting his gaze, she added, with a tip of her chin towards his own vice, "Mine're herbals, too."
In the dark alley light, his eyes appeared to have a red-orange glint to them, like two stubborn embers in a bonfire. "I know."
She took another drag. "You know?" she echoed, tilting her head.
A flare of irritation crossed his features. "Friend smokes them," he said gruffly, taking another hit of his own joint. He thought of Lark leaning against the wall with him behind D.A.D.D.I.E.S., shaky and tired and refusing to do a damn thing about it. He'd probably be the first death from herbal cigarettes, if the sleep deprivation didn't get him first.
They smoked in tense silence, the only noise being the bass from whatever band was playing inside the bar. Even once his joint was finished — and he didn’t feel much better than he had inside — he lingered, casting the occasional glance down the otherwise empty alleyway. None of her companions had followed her out, and something about that grated at his already bad mood. Yeah, he wasn’t a fan of hers, but there was no telling what kind of creature could turn up.
Then again, he guessed, to some people, he would be the worst kind of creature to be alone in an alley with.
"Are you here often?" she asked, out of the blue, as she was stomping out the last ember of her cigarette. Nicholas just looked at her again. "This bar, I mean." She gestured to the bricks they were leaning against. "I don't think I've seen you here before."
The implication that she had been there without him knowing struck a discordant note. "I'm here all the time," he half-laughed, half-scoffed, partly out of incredulity.
Her eyes narrowed. "I must not have been paying attention,"
Nicholas' eyebrows bounced once as if to say 'finally someone said it' and continued his ‘brooding’ (as Sparrow called it).
"I'll have to keep an eye out for you next time," she added. When he looked over at her, she pointedly met his gaze, then gave him a slow once-over. He was so unlike her usual type that even she was surprised to feel a flicker of warmth in her core.
Nicholas' mouth twitched towards a smirk. "Looking forward to it."