Archive of Our Own ^beta

The bar was next to dead that night.

A combination of elements played toward that. It was a Wednesday night, and a stormy one at that; rain violently pattered on the windows, growing heavier by the hour. Thunder crackled every so often. The hour, too, was a dead one; not quite early, not quite late enough, though Andrew doubted anybody much would be coming in even further into the night.

It was just one of those nights. And good riddance, too, Andrew thought. Leisurely cleaning the counter, he sipped from a glass of apple cider, the kind that wouldn’t even get him tipsy. The music, playing low from the speakers, set a cozy vibe with the sound of the downpour in the background. It was his kind of night. Nobody on this bloody earth to bother him.

Andrew didn’t acknowledge the newcomer when that came in, pulling closed a black umbrella and putting it in the designated bucket by the entrance. Andrew glanced at him, ready to dismiss him and move on — but his gaze lingered on him, caught. Dressed in black slacks, a white button up with its top button popped open, and a dark dress-jacket, the guy’s demeanor was way too fancy for a place like this, in an hour like that.

Andrew slowly put his glass down, eyes flicking up and down the guy’s figure. He was slim, young, but looked steady on his feet, a quality about the way he carried himself sending conflicting messages to Andrew’s brain. On one hand, he looked harmless. But on the other hand…

It wasn’t long before the guy reached the bar-counter. Up closer, Andrew noticed that his dark hair was a deep, rich shade of auburn, damp and tousled from the rain.

“Whiskey neat,” the redhead said, shrugging off his jacket and draping it on the back of a seat, before pulling the seat back and comfortably settling down on it. He glanced at Andrew, icy blue eyes casing him, casually.

There wasn’t any sort of intention in them, at all, but they made Andrew hesitate.

“Today, preferably,” the redhead dryly added, after a few seconds. 

Andrew was shaken out of his stupor and went about moving again, pouring the redhead his drink. He did it naturally, habit kicking in — and honestly, that was the part about this job he minded the least. The monotony of it. It gave him something utterly unimportant to do, and that calmed his nerves. “Passing through the neighborhood?”

“Something like that,” the redhead said. Andrew briefly glanced at him over where he was making the drink. A part of him has expected the redhead would ignore him. “I like this place. Looks cozy. It’s pretty empty, though.”

“Slow night,” Andrew said, pushing the glass his way. The guy caught it, casually, and took a sip from it. “It’s the rain.”

“Yeah, it’s raining buckets out there,” the redhead sighed, putting the glass down again. He rested his chin against his palm, elbow perched on the counter, and slowly nudged the glass back and forth with his other hand. Andrew noticed there were a few rings on his fingers, refractions of light reflecting from the metal. “I hate this kind of weather.”

“Not a fan of storms?”

“It’s the pressure drop, it kills me,” the guy muttered. His eyes flicked back up to Andrew, then. “You like the rain?”

“I don’t mind it,” Andrew said, leaning against the counter and taking a sip from his own drink that he’d made for himself. He was nearly done with it, but he’d made it mostly to occupy himself, anyway. “The quiet is nice. People don’t usually go out as much in bad weather, so it makes my job easier.”

“Small miracles,” the redhead huffed, his mouth quirking into a smile. He took another sip, a longer one this time. Andrew looked at him, studying, for a moment, his features; something about them struck out to Andrew. Maybe it was their sharpness. It looked like every line on his face — the press of his mouth, the bridge of his nose, the shadows his lashes cast on his cheekbones — was intentional.

“What are you doing out in this weather, anyway?” Andrew asked, casually, pulling away to go do something around the counter. He didn’t want to come across as a pushover.

“This and that,” the redhead replied, with a faint smile. “Had some business around.”

“At this hour?”

The redhead hummed, taking another sip. “Might get fired after tonight, though.”

“Really,” Andrew said, pulling a little at the sound. “What’d you do?”

“Fucked up some contract,” the redhead muttered. “Lost the client.” He let out another sigh, this one much more winded, and stretched his arm out against the counter. He rested his cheek on the crook of his elbow, letting out another sigh. “M’kinda screwed, y’know?”

“Just find another job,” Andrew said. The guy snorted, downright cackled, and Andrew glanced at him, his eyebrow ever so faintly quirked up. “What?”

“Nothing,” the redhead replied, puffing out the word with a wind of amusement. “It’s a funny idea, that’s all.”

“Alternatively,” Andrew suggested, “you could drown your problems in alcohol.”

“That what you tell all your customers?”

Andrew shrugged. “It keeps them coming back.”

The redhead laughed, the sound soft and light. Andrew blinked at him, somehow not having expected his laugh to sound so pleasant. 

“I can see how that works,” the redhead said, smiling up at him. He straightened some, taking another sip from his whisky neat — only a hint of a wince seizing the edges of his features. Andrew looked at him, looked at the way his hair pulled back as he drank; at the way the light cast shadows on the line of his throat.

Andrew pushed his own empty glass aside, lightly, with his fingertips, lowering his head with a pull-back as he searched for something on one of the bar counter’s shelves. The redhead’s eyes curiously followed his movements as he pulled out a ragged-looking deck of cards; taking another mellow sip, he kept watching Andrew as that pulled the cards out of their packet and started shuffling.

“You know how to play?”

“I know the gist of it,” the redhead said, slowly putting down his glass, eyes flicking down to Andrew’s dealing the cards. Then, he glanced back up at him. “What are we playing for?”

At that, Andrew put the rest of the deck down, within both their reach, and leaned forward on the bar-counter to meet his gaze head on. “A question.”

The redhead’s eyebrow quirked up. “A question? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Whichever one of us takes the game gets to ask the other a question,” Andrew said. “The loser, in turn, must give a whole and truthful response.”

“That sounds like an over-complication,” the redhead dryly said, and Andrew shrugged, picking up his cards. “We could just have a regular conversation.”

“It’s more interesting that way.”

The redhead hummed, picking up his own. He looked through them, taking another small, absent sip, Andrew’s eyes darting up to him every once in a while.

Glancing at him, and seeing Andrew wasn’t putting out anything, he went ahead and put out a card. Andrew did too, number lower — and the redhead took the hand. “Best of how many?”

“You’re the guest, your decision.”

“Mhhm,” hummed the redhead thoughtfully, eyeing his cards. “Let’s do eight rounds.”

Andrew hummed, starting the next one. By the time eight rounds were up, they broke even — at which the redhead took another sip. “Looks like we’re going all or nothing.”

“Yep,” Andrew said. “You want to start?”

“Might as well,” said the redhead, putting out the highest in his hand. Andrew put out a ten of spades, and swiftly took the hand. 

“Well, fuck.”

“Nearly had it,” Andrew told him, gathering his five won rounds and regathering them into one stack, before putting them aside. Tilting his head up, he glanced at the redhead — who met his gaze over his whisky glass, sipping it. He didn’t seem upset at having lost; rather, those blue eyes glinted with a hint of curiosity.

They looked at each other for a moment, before Andrew asked his question.

“Why are you here tonight?”

The curiosity in those blue eyes wavered, brow furrowing, ever so slightly, in bemusement. He gestured with his half-empty whisky glass, smiling. “For a drink.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Andrew said, leaning forward against the counter. The redhead didn’t back away, even as he got too close within his reach. He swallowed that smile of his into a sip from the whisky, eyes flicking away as he tilted his head, thinking.

“I killed someone tonight.”

Andrew’s smugness flittered away, hazel eyes flicking down to the whisky gently sloshing in the redhead’s hold. He was holding the glass gently, over its top, fingers delicate and long. Andrew wondered how decorative those rings were. Somehow, this guy didn’t strike him as one for superficiality.

“Why did you do it?”

The redhead shrugged. “Procedure.”

The corner of Andrew’s mouth twitched. The redhead glanced at him, the look in his eyes impassive. 

“Do you think I’m a bad person?”

“That depends,” Andrew said.

“On what?”

Andrew thought about it for a moment. “On a lot of things.”

The redhead hummed, like that answered his question. “I didn’t enjoy it.” He fell quiet; Andrew had half a thought that this would be it. But he didn’t respond. He just watched him, naturally falling back onto studying his features; smooth, full of sharp corners and swift lines, a five-o’clock shadow bracing his jawline. He was pretty, in a rough kind of way. But he didn’t look crooked. “I feel…” he let out a sigh, half of which didn’t make it out of his throat. “I feel like a bad person. Overwhelmingly.”

“How so?”

“It’s complicated,” the redhead muttered. “And boring.”

“Simplify it for me, then,” Andrew suggested. “I won’t judge. Promise.”

The redhead’s eyes flicked up to him. “You shouldn’t be so easy to promise things.”

“I won’t judge,” Andrew said again. “I couldn’t care less, really.”

“Nice, touching.”

“I don’t even know you,” Andrew told him. “And I’m not the type to give a shit about complete strangers. Much less inflict some abstract moral standing on them. So go ahead. Whatever it is,” he said, gesturing his chin at the redhead’s whisky glass, “get it off your chest.”

The redhead’s mouth perked up — a smile which, once again, he buried in a whisky sip. “I’m in deep shit.”

“‘Cause of the contract?”

“No,” the redhead said.

Andrew waited, but the redhead didn’t go on. He kept on sipping, instead; slow and careful, lashes low. Andrew noticed, in the soft, dim lighting of the bar, that they were tinged the same auburn of his hair; long and soft, sheltering those blue eyes of his.

“You know,” the redhead said, then, flicking those same blue eyes back up to meet his, gesturing with the glass again, even though it was nearly empty. “That there is not a single person in this world that cares for me.”

Andrew hummed. “Tough life.”

“You’re not going to tell me I’m wrong?” the redhead asked. But not abrasively; rather, curiously. “You’re not gonna tell me that even if I can’t see it right now, there’s someone out there who loves me?”

“I couldn’t tell you that,” Andrew told him. “I don’t know you. I’ve no idea.”

“It sucks,” the redhead said. Andrew didn’t think he meant him. “It really sucks. I mean, it is what it is, but…” he let out a deep breath, dropping his head, shoulders strained up. “I feel trapped. Doing all these things that I know are bad. But there’s nobody out there to get me out.”

Andrew hummed. He couldn’t help but watch him, studying the angle the shadows fell on his features; enriched his hair’s texture. Pushed him into a deeper kind of darkness. 

It fit him. He looked dangerous; but Andrew thought the look of danger suited him.

They were quiet for a few long moments.

“You want something else?” Andrew asked him. “To drink?”

“Maybe another one of those,” the redhead said, putting the glass down before him. “Just dilute it a bit.”

“Too harsh?”

The redhead hummed, indefinitely. Andrew’s attention lingered on him, as if waiting for him to say something else; but the redhead didn’t even look at him. He was looking down at his hand, absently flexing and releasing it. So Andrew went about making him his drink, pouring himself one as well, adding some ice to his own.

“Here,” he said, putting the redhead’s glass in front of him. But the redhead didn’t touch it. “You okay there?”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing up at him. “Just thinking.”

“Penny for your thoughts?” Andrew asked, leaning his weight forward on the bar, sipping his own drink.

“You’re really capitalizing on that question of yours, aren’t you,” the redhead dryly said. “Share yours first. What’s going through your head right now?”

Andrew shrugged. “I think you’re really pretty.”

The redhead’s ease, relatively speaking, faltered. “Huh?”

Andrew gestured at him with the glass, as if to indicate. “Pretty, handsome, attractive, whatever you wanna call it.”

“Do you have no moral backbone whatsoever?” the redhead asked, after a startled second. “I just confessed murder to you.”

“Hey, you asked me for my thoughts,” Andrew replied, sipping his drink. “I gave them to you.”

“That’s not fair,” the redhead huffed out, leaning back in his seat. He braced his arm along the bar counter, lightly holding his glass of whisky. “You think absolutely meaningless things.”

“You’re being incredibly judgmental,” Andrew informed him, impassively. “To the person who’s promised not to judge you as you confessed your sins to him, no less. Besides,” he added, “it’s not meaningless to me.”

“So you’re into guys?” the redhead asked him.

“Yep,” Andrew said. “Are you?”

“Nah,” said the redhead, promptly deflating Andrew’s brief hitch of wishfulness. “I’m not into that kind of thing.”

“To each their own, I guess,” Andrew said, shrugging. “Your turn now. What were you thinking about?”

“I’m getting ripped off here,” the redhead huffed, finally picking up his drink again. “I don’t want to answer that.”

“Consider that decision carefully,” Andrew told him, conversationally. “Do you really want to be in my debt?”

The redhead raised an eyebrow. “Your debt?”

“First question was for the game,” Andrew said, putting a finger up. “Second one was for my thoughts.” He put up another. “I showed you mine. You didn’t show me yours.”

“Well, I like fucking sunsets, okay?” the redhead sarcastically said. “There, we’re even.”

“That’s cheating.”

“You’re the one cheating. You knew I was thinking something personal, but you still made that trade. It’s not fair.”

“Learn to play the game.”

The redhead’s eyes flicked up to him, sharply. “You don’t want to get into games with me.”

“Ohhh,” Andrew drawled, dragging the sound out from between his teeth. “Scary.”

“I’ll show you scary,” the redhead retorted, jerking his chin at him. “Don’t fuck with me.”

“Why, you think I can’t handle you?”

“I’ll fuck you up real good,” the redhead said. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Andrew hummed, taking another halfhearted sip. “You really are a crook if that’s how you play it.”

The redhead’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know I’ve got the high ground,” Andrew told him, cocking his head with a cocky tilt at the corner of his mouth. “‘Cause you took a deal you weren’t planning on fulfilling. Instead of standing behind your word, you’re taking to threats. But c’mon, then,” he told him. “Do something to me. I dare you.”

The redhead’s eyes narrowed. He took a sip, eyes still fixed on him over his drink. Then, he put it down, leaning forward against the counter. “You’re good. I’ll give you that. But you’re treading a line.”

Andrew gave a halfhearted shrug. “You said you wanted to be a better man. You could start with a little honesty.”

The redhead's eyes narrowed.

“Fine,” he finally said, practically biting it out. “Fine, whatever. I was thinking about how I deserved it.”

“It?”

“Being unloved.”

Andrew bit his lip, mouth pressing shut. He quirked up his eyebrows, catching the redhead’s sour gaze. “You really believe that?”

“It makes sense,” the redhead said. “I’ve never given anybody anything but pain, so I deserve what I get. See these?” he said, putting forward his hand — in the kind of gesture that normally, would prompt Andrew to take it. “These rings?”

“You use them for punching?”

The redhead’s eyes narrowed, not having expected it. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“It’s creative.”

“And predictable, apparently,” the redhead muttered. “Got the idea when somebody once punched me like that. Got me real good.” He patted the corner of his eye — where, Andrew realized, there was a thin, barely discernible scar. “Nearly blinded me. I’ve been wearing some ever since, and done even worse damage.”

“Anything’s a good weapon when you’re always down for a fight,” Andrew said, thoughtful. “You get into fights a lot?”

The redhead hummed.

“I do too,” Andrew volunteered, gesturing around him with the flick of the wrist, loosely holding his drink. “A bar’s an inevitable setting.”

“Not if you’re a calm and collected person,” the redhead said, a little wryly.

“I get pissed off easily,” Andrew replied. Putting down his glass, he mimed a little punch, stopping short of the redhead’s face with a tilt of the head. “Don’t even think before I throw it. My brain’s wired on that when it comes to certain things.”

“Things like what?”

“Wanna make a deal for that?”

“God no, keep it to yourself,” the redhead huffed, prompting a little glint of amusement in Andrew’s rich hazel. Andrew picked up his glass again, swishing the ice around a little before sipping it, still looking at him. “You got a name?”

The redhead hesitated; his ease, relatively speaking, falling off again. “Do you?”

“Andrew.”

“I got myself into that one, didn’t I.”

“Yep.”

“Neil,” the redhead told him. “Not that you’re ever gonna need it.”

“What, you didn’t like my company?”

“A bit too stressful for me,” the redhead — Neil — said. “I always need to be on my toes ‘round you. Watch my mouth. Wouldn’t want to accidentally strike a deal with the devil.”

“I’m far from the devil,” Andrew dryly told him, taking another ginger sip as Neil gave him an unappreciative glance. “For what it’s worth, I like yours.”

“Mine?”

“Your company,” Andrew reiterated. Neil let out another sigh, leaning back in his seat again.

“No self-preservation instincts,” he muttered, as if to himself, glancing up and about. “Absolutely none.”

“You’re not as awful as you think,” Andrew told him, gesturing his drink at him. It was mostly ice by this point, whatever left of the whisky too watery. 

Neil glanced down at him again, those blue eyes flicking into seriousness again. Features settling. Smoothed, unseeming. “You don’t know me.”

“I don’t,” Andrew agreed.

“So you can’t say that.”

Andrew shrugged. “It’s your problem if you don’t want to believe it.”

“No, explain it to me,” Neil said, leaning forward again. “You met me, what, twenty minutes ago? How could you know anything about me to say that?”

“For starters, you spilled your heart and soul out to me,” Andrew dryly responded. Neil’s mouth set into a harsh line, annoyed more so than genuinely angry. “But mostly, it’s just a gut feeling. You don’t come off as a bad guy.”

“A gut feeling,” Neil repeated.

“A hunch,” Andrew said, gesturing at him with his glass. “A vibe, an aura—“

“Okay, shut up,” Neil cut him off, his mouth twisting into the faintest little pout. “I get it. You feel it.”

“You don’t have to make that face at me.”

“You don’t have to lie to me to make me feel better. I’m not that fragile.”

“I’m not one for lies, either,” Andrew said. “But whatever. It really is your problem. Not mine. I couldn’t—“

“Couldn’t care less, yes, I remember,” Neil finished. Then, he let out a heavy breath, standing up with both his hands bracing the counter. “I think I’m gonna get going. How much do I owe you?”

Andrew let out a long, dragging hum.

“For the drinks,” Neil clarified, flatly, though with a little smile. His smile looked nice, Andrew absently thought. “In cash money.”

“Ohh, don’t got a credit card? Scared the State’s gonna track you down?”

Neil snapped his mouth shut again, glaring daggers at him. “Stop being fucking perceptive.”

“Stop volunteering so much information.”

“You— you know what? Fuck you.”

“With pleasure.”

Neil’s mouth fell shut, bewildered.

Andrew tilted his head, eyes absently casing him. Before he met his gaze again.

“Fine,” Neil said, then. “You don’t want me to pay you, no problem. I’m tapping out.”

“Come around again.”

“Fat chance.”

“I’ll serve you whatever you want,” Andrew called after him. “We could play another round. All night long so far as I’m concerned.”

“In your dreams, smartass,” Neil called back, throwing him the middle finger before storming out.

Andrew huffed to himself as the door fell shut, running a hand through his hair as he looked after where Neil had disappeared. The rain was still pattering outside, and Neil, Andrew realized, has forgotten the umbrella he’d brought in.

He debated it for all of a moment, before pulling away from the counter and crossing the bar, swiftly pulling the umbrella out of the bucket as he rushed out. 

It rained and rained buckets outside, soaking him instantly. Through all the fog, the violent rain and the humidity, Andrew could barely see a thing. For a moment there, though, he thought he saw his silhouette, nearly dissipating.

Thunder crackled across the cloudy sky, striking the street with a harsh flash of light.

Andrew tried to dismiss the hitch of pressure twisting around his chest when he realized, a moment belatedly, that there was no one there. Only him.

He lingered a moment too long. Thinking about it, about whether a mistake has been made along the way, would only come later. 

For now, he spun the umbrella briefly to shake off the rain, stepped back, and went back into the bar, dropping the umbrella back into the bucket as the door fell shut.