multiversallogs | Fire up that fiddle, boy, and bring me one last drink [open]

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Fire up that fiddle, boy, and bring me one last drink [open]

Who: Apollo and YOU, please

What: Having a drink

Where: One of the taverns by the inn

When: Sukkardi (Saturday)evening

Notes: Multiple threads okay!

Warnings:Tipsy Apollo?

Apollo was not unfamiliar with battle. He'd watched dozens of them. Hundreds of them, maybe. He knew how war worked, understood that people were drawn to bloodshed, believed that world peace would never be achieved. Still, it had never mattered before.

He had never been in the middle of it before.

The whole event had left a bad taste in his mouth, which was why he found himself knocking back drinks. More than ever, he was eager to get back home, to be able to distance himself from all the unpleasantry again. "Another," he called out, pushing his empty glass back. Half distracted by a woman down at the other end of the bar with dark eyes and a large chest. Eyeing him less than discretely and he felt nothing. A sigh of disgust. What was wrong with him?

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"I suppose she is," he answered, glancing at her way. Apollo wasn't planning on making any conquests tonight, he was much too tired and a little too drunk for it, but the idea that Cassandra didn't like it made him want to tease her.

"Jealous?"

Cassandra propped her elbow on the counter, resting her chin in her palm. "Curious," she replied with a shrug. "This place is different. It isn't like the caravan. It's a community. And I find myself wondering how you're going to fit in within the community." Perhaps he would have done better in Rowan. Unfortunately, that wasn't exactly an option for either of them right now. "Or are you still convinced that we're going to disappear at any moment? Or...you're going to disappear at any moment?"

She swirled one finger in a circle on top of the bar counter. "You know, I hadn't thought of that before. You. Moving on someplace else. Or me. Our being separated."

He turned to look at her, feeling the alcohol giving him a push toward asking the question he was thinking. A gentle nudge, just enough to convince him not to think through his questions.

"I've thought about it. Would you prefer it, or would you miss me?"

He flashed her a brilliant smile.

An awkward question, to be certain. Made more so by the fact that he was completely drunk. "Difficult to say, when you're like this," she replied. After all, she couldn't lie. "All things told, I think I prefer you when you're sober. You're more dangerous, but less..." She made a futile gesture of her hand, unable to come up with the proper word.

"How long would it take you to stop missing me?" she asked. It went without saying that he would miss her, at least remotely. After all, what was it? A hundred years after her death? And he still remembered her name.

Still claimed to love her.

With that humbling thought, she lowered her eyes. "We should not be having this conversation like this."

He snorted in derision.

"I can't give you a number right off the top of my head. You know I'd miss you. The question is, would you miss me?"

Apollo reached over, boldly placed his hand on her thigh. "If I stay the night, will you stay with me?"

Cassandra's eyes flicked down to his hand. Her entire body stiffened and it took every measure of her strength not to curl her fingers into claws and to plunge them into his eyes. Moving very slowly, she reached out, clasping his wrist and pulling his hand off of her skin. "I wouldn't sleep with you," she said. "And that's what you were really asking, wasn't it?"

She looked up, into his eyes. "It really wouldn't mean much. Like this. Just one more drink after so many. And that doesn't appeal to me much. You know that."

He waved his hand dismissively, drawing away. "Too tired for sex tonight," he explained. "Or not drunk enough. But at this point, what's the use in pretending it would mean nothing?"

He held up a finger. "Once? maybe an accident. The mood."

He held up a second finger. "Twice? You have feelings too."

She arched an eyebrow. "I have feelings," she said quietly. "I have too many feelings, most of the time. And I have difficulties telling them apart, for which I can thank you." She lowered her hand, pressing it to the counter of the bar as she leaned forward, toward him. "Thank you very much."

Cassandra leaned back, turning her seat to face directly forward, toward the shelves of differently colored bottles behind the bar. How was it he could be so charming one moment, then so irritating the next? Surely, she had always known him to be mercurial. But what hadn't it bothered her before? Youthful enthusiasm, at first. Followed by visceral hate. Now she was trapped somewhere in between.

"As for my feelings about you," she said. "Right now, I feel frustrated."

"Can't blame me for everything, Swan," he pointed out, taking another sip of his drink. "People make their own choices in life. The gods don't control everything."

He turned to look at her. "Take this, for instance. You can decide that I'm the enemy. You can decide that I'm an ass. But we both know that you're just tired and troubled from that battle you just fought and right now, being mad at me is a good distraction."

He raised a hand to the tender, gesturing him over. "A drink for the lady."

"Water," Cassandra immediately told the tender, before turning her chair back to face Apollo.

"You are not the enemy," she said quietly, her tone even. "You're no hero, of course, but you are hardly an enemy."

And there it was. The reason why Cassandra was so inexplicably angry at him tonight. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't even heroic. Hell was breaking loose and he, an immortal, was cowering in a bar with a bottle and a bow, like her brother.

She sat back, hard, on her seat, putting a hand to her mouth. Oh. That was it.

She was looking for Othryoneus.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Something just hit you, Swan?"

Frankly, given her current expression, he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know what that something was.

She shook her head. "Nothing that needs to be said," she answered quietly. She didn't want to say it and he sure as hell wouldn't want to hear it. So why bother?

Cassandra stood up, nearly tripping over the stood beneath her. "Just promise me you won't go wandering around the streets while you're drunk. It isn't safe."

Let him think it was patronizing. She didn't care. Her heart was in the right place.

Wasn't it?

"Don't run off so quick," he asked, looking up at her. "I was worried about you."

True enough. Then again, he was always worried about her.

"Like it or not, we're all we have. Stay."

"Oh, I'm worried about me too. I make bad decisions. It's all I know." She looked down at him, her dark eyes reflecting the light of the room. Lightly, she grazed her bloody fingers along the back of his hand. "Don't worry about me. Nothing can kill me, I think. I'll die in bed."

She stepped back, pulling her hand away.

"Then again, I've already died twice on my feet. Maybe there's a pattern there I should worry about. Who knows?"

Her words were coming out quickly now, bordering on manic. The sad part was that it wasn't an act. She never pretended to be anything other than herself with Apollo.

He gently took her arm and pulled her back onto a stool. Drunk or not, he wasn't stupid. Something more than what she was saying was bothering her. Likely dealing with the battle, one way or the other.

"Sit. Calm down a minute, there's no need to rush off."

Cassandra met eyes with Apollo. "I need to go," she told him softly.

She stood up, twisting her arm free of his grasp. "Goodnight, Apollo."

He watched her. Too drunk at the moment to conceal the hurt in his eyes.

"Goodnight, Swan."

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Fire up that fiddle, boy, and bring me one last drink [open]

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