Work Text:
Things You Said At 1AM
--
The Pyramid's usual crowd were mostly college students, or those who should be in college, and the occasional high school seniors that were lucky enough to score really good fake ID's. Young adults, to say the least. So it was too easy to spot him by the bar.
Marceline Yamada scowled. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not after what they did to John, and little Leila, and that detective.
And he had the nerve to actually wink at her.
Darwin, their vocalist, nudged her. “Howell said it’s time for the final song. Can you please stop scaring the audience with your Sadako impression, Mar-mar.”
"Nobody's scared," She mumbled, hitching her sleeve to look at her mickey mouse watch. It flashed 12:59 am back at her. Marceline looks back at her friend and says, “Okay, let’s finish this.”
Her fingers worked the opening chords like clockwork and her eyes wandered over the crowd as they collectively jumped as the band launched into Green Day's Basket Case, and it's as if they were in grade school again, and Billie Joe Armstrong is the goddamn messiah of unironic edginess and heaven fucking bless them because they found a decent drummer whose girlfriend Marceline isn’t attracted to.
Marceline almost paused as her gaze falls to him, again. She can see that he's actually kind of attractive, this Scarface guy, and he's the type, the honest to goodness type of man that Lana Del Rey wrote songs about. Plus, the look on his face can only be described as a wolfish grin, highly accentuated by the goddamn scar on his face, and he’s smirking at her because somehow it's clear that she feels bothered by him.
She hates it. And she’s not supposed to be thinking that he’s attractive.
He’s technically The Enemy™, and there's this rule about sleeping with the enemy, and she knows that John wouldn't approve if she slept with the man who locked him and an infant inside a freezer. And she can already see the judging look Harold would give her if they found out. Not that she'd care about people saying something about who she sleeps with, really, but she actually looks up to John Reese as an older brother, and Harold Finch is her boss.
And she had to pause because when the hell did sleeping with Scarface come into the equation?
So after the final chords and the band's curtain call (it’s tradition that they would always close with Basket Case), she thanks Martin, their new drummer, for being the equipment guy for the night and she makes her way to the bar, stopping occasionally to greet and nod back at familiar faces, then excusing herself before they can take the conversation further.
"The lady friend," Scarface says, looking at her as she approached, and she thinks, 'Damn his voice is the right kind of low.' And, 'Hold your goddamn horses, Marceline.'
Brushing those thoughts aside, she glared at him. "The hell are you doing here?”
"Can't a guy enjoy some good music?" If anything, that smirk hitches higher and she wants to either punch that off his face, or maybe make out with him. In that order. Maybe. "I'm not here to cause trouble."
“Right. Because pop-punk is definitely your genre.” She says with an eye roll. “I could always call the cops.”
“HR? Sure. Call them.” He says coolly. “Even your friend, and Detective Carter can’t handle them by themselves.”
“Hm. Then maybe you should ask your boss about my friend.” Marceline countered. "He seems to be a fan."
He just grins at her. “I swear, I’m not here for trouble.”
“Fine. Whatever.” She grumbled before taking the chair beside him, and turns to the bartender and asks for gin and tonic.
“How’s your friend?” He asks after several minutes.
“Why, you worried about him?”
“Curious.” He shrugs.
“For someone tied to a pipe then locked in a freezer with an infant? John’s fine. Leila’s fine too. Remember? The baby you locked in with him? Yeah.” She shook her head. “You asshats put an innocent kid in danger.”
“We didn’t wanna do it, but it’s leverage enough. ‘Sides,” Scarface said. “Boss knows your friend won’t let a child die.”
“That doesn't really change the fact that you're a bunch of assholes. You're lucky Leila didn't catch a cold. And as if her father’s wife didn’t screw up her life already. That woman had Leila’s mom killed, you know?” Marceline said again, quieter this time. She watched the ice float on her drink. “How’s the father-son reunion?”
“It wasn't Hallmark worthy.” He grinned, but didn’t say anything else.
“I bet,” She says. “So, what brings you to this place? Pierced, tunneled, and hot topic hub really makes you stand out.”
“What?”
“Have you seen the crowd here?”
“It’s quiet.”
She shoots him a funny look as the current band on stage played a scratching opening riff, followed by thundering drums, with their vocalist screaming, “Now you are my beloved ghost…”
--
It was almost two in the morning, and most of the crowd had dispersed. A band is still playing on stage, a slightly upbeat tune while the vocalist croons about heaven knowing how miserable they are.
Marceline was feeling a bit lightheaded, and combined with the song being played on stage, she let lout a small laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“Do you know that song?” She said. She then leans into him and sings, in time with the band, “In my life, why do I smile, at people who I’d rather kick in the eye…”
He stares at her. “You’d rather kick me in the eye?”
“No,” She protested. “No. I mean, Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now. That’s the song. And it’s just funny. I’m drinking here with you. And I don’t even know your name.”
“My name?” He downs his drink and gestures to the bartender for another before answering. "Why'd you wanna know?"
She shrugs. "John keeps referring to you as Scarface, ‘cause you know-," Her fingers motioned to side of her own face. “But it’s too… cliché. You, I mean. You look cliché.”
He raises an eyebrow at that. “What do you mean?”
Marceline tilts her head. “If I had a checklist… I mean look at your clothes, your hair, and your nickname,” She lets out a quiet laugh again. “So, yes. Seriously, what is your name? Because I don’t want to keep referring to you as Scarface.”
And he laughs, because if there's a good reason for someone to ask for his name, then this was it. "Anthony."
"Anthony?" She repeated, testing the sound of his name on her tongue. It was the name of some trust fund asshole, not a second-in-command for some organized crime group. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
She smiles triumphantly. To his credit though, his boss' name was Carl. Carl the fucking mob boss. “Okay,” She nods in between quiet laughter at how downplayed their names are. "Anthony. Yeah. Sure. It suits you,"
"Got any more questions?" He asked. Marceline shook her head in response. He continues to look at her, then says, “You’re Japanese,”
She blinked. “What?”
He points to the patch sewed onto her utility jacket. “Yamada.”
“Yeah,” She shrugs. “And before you ask, no, I’m not affiliated with the Yakuza. So, no information for your boss.”
Anthony looked amused. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”
“Sure, you weren’t.” She quips before finishing her fourth drink.
He grins. “Nice to meet you, Marceline.”
“Likewise, Anthony.”