Chapter Text
Infernus has seen many types of people float in and out of Jezebel’s doors.
He knows his regulars– the ones he likes and doesn’t like, but will be polite to for the sake of Hank’s business. He knows the faces that come in after a long shift, or the ones who enjoy the atmosphere and environment of Jezebel’s. Stories are in the floorboards with each creak, and memories linger like dust motes in the glass stained window fractions and candle-lit gleams.
Couples tend to come by often enough where he can just tell from a glance. He’s lucky to have been naturally perceptive, before, but now Infernus has an eye for it unlike any other. He’s helped ladies order cocktails for their date, and shooed men out of the door if they become unruly or too aggressive towards the other party. Romance is as easy as mixing a Sidecar or a Devil’s tail.
So color him surprised when he catches the Drifter and Mirage sat at the tail end of the bar-top at a quarter to three in the morning. They’re the only ones in the bar right now; last call had been nearly thirty minutes ago, but Infernus wasn’t going to force the two… lovebirds to stop chatting.
It’s odd, to see a being like the Drifter hunched without his hat, leaning into Mirage’s space. He didn’t know the vampire, not well enough to care, but it was still a sight that made him look (dare he say) human. The Drifter wasn’t even leading the conversation, seemingly content with listening to the Djinn emissary speak. He would nod his head on occasion, tapping blackened claws against the polished wood, but never really spoke.
Infernus kept himself to the opposite end, wiping down nothing and reorganizing the same stack of glasses. He would meander by and silently offer a refill of Mirage’s Manhattan, once or twice, catching words that were definitely not spoken in English- the romantic hints of French catching on Infernus’ ears, but nothing that he could understand. The only thing that the two ever spoke to him when he passed by were words of thanks.
The weirdest thing about seeing the two so close was how Mirage didn’t seem scared. Infernus wasn’t fearful of the Drifter, not by much, but Mirage wasn’t like him either. There were no signs of terror or disgust, being so close to him; Mirage seemed charmed. The idea almost makes Infernus laugh aloud, but then he catches the two men smiling at each other like they were alone, and proceeds to chuckle due to the comedy of the scene.
A man sophisticated like Mirage, who smells of perfumes and rarely has a crease in his uniform, with a predator of the night who revels in carnage: it’s like something out of a Broadway production. “What has you laughing, Infernus?” Mirage asks, meeting his eyes from across the bar.
“Nothin’; just remembered a joke from earlier,” he lies, giving a smile when the Drifter glares at him. Of course the vampire could probably tell he wasn’t telling the truth, but Infernus didn’t care. “A couple from earlier were real wisecracks; had Hank and I laughin’ to each other far long after they were gone.”
“They must have had true talent if it kept ya laughin’ so long after,” the Drifter mutters, huffing when Mirage lightly hits him with his hand. Infernus almost laughs again at the sight: he will be telling everyone possible, about this. Silver might get a cramp from laughing if she believes him, but when has Infernus ever (recently) been a liar?
Infernus gives them space after that, back to his corner at the opposite end of the bar. After a nice suggestion from a local librarian, he had stacked a few second-hand books under the bar for the slow hours. The pages are frayed from dog-eared pages and soft from wear, and even with his idle reading Infernus can’t help but spare glances at the two men.
Ironically, both the Drifter and Mirage– two men who hold themselves to their high reputations– seem to be at their most vulnerable.
The iconic coat the vampire seems to never leave is missing, hung over and folded onto the bar top; his hat neatly laid ontop of it. It’s a rare sight, and Infernus keeps a chuckle to himself when the Drifter’s ears flick and twitch with Mirage’s laugh or sighs. The latter is wearing something casual, by the emissary’s standards, if Infernus had to guess. A tan overcoat folded next to the Drifter’s, and a neatly pressed button-up done to Mirage’s neck create a comedic view: two different walks of life colliding in a church-turned-bar. It’s definitely expensive and way out of his own personal budget, but its similar to what Jeanne would consider nice. Infernus might even find it fitting for the two to have an intimate moment within these glass-stained, candle lit walls.
In another life, he thinks, they could have been something sweeter. Maybe if the Maelstrom had led them to different paths; or, just like his own life, he was always destined to fall whichever way fate decrees. Like Gatsby and Carraway. “Alright, gentleman,” he interrupts quietly, looking over his glasses and meeting their eyes. “Closing’s in ten. I can pour you two a sendoff round, but if not, y’all should start headin’ back to your abode.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Mirage smiles at him. “I think Nashala and I will be returning here more often. Your talents truly are one of a kind.”
“Ha!” Infernus laughs, shaking his head and putting his hands on his hips. “I prefer a dinner date and a walk in Prospect, but thank you. Afraid I’m taken.”
“… you’re jesting-”
“Yes, I’m joking,” he nods, ignoring the ire emanating from the Drifter. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I’m sure Hank would love to host Ms. Dion here at Jezebel’s. Next time, first drink’s on me, alright?”
After Mirage leaves, the atmosphere of Jezebels’ drops to a sudden cold tension. Warmth is replaced with what Infernus could only call a shroud of jealousy. “Relax, Drifter,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I don’t have interest in your new boo. Just funny, that’s all.”
“Nothin’ funny about Mirage, bartender,” the vampire drawls out, rhythmically tapping his nails in a one-two pattern. One-two, one-two. “You gonna keep this small night between us?” It is obviously a threat; the Drifter makes eye contact and is trying his hardest to make Infernus flinch. Even if there is fear in his heart, Infernus isn’t scared of him.
“Hell no,” is his reply.
“Didn’ take ya to be so exclusionary.”
“Oh, please. You and I both know that ain’t true, Drifter. Get the hell out of my bar before I start making you sweat.” Infernus points to the door with a raised brow, and fire sparks at his fingertip. “I ain’t messin’ with whatever you two got goin’ on. I just think it’s funny how you’re a monster whipped for a man.”
The Drifter leaves, disgruntled. Despite this, Infernus has to give the man a little respect for not taking the five bucks Mirage left as a tip.