multiversallogs | It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife

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It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife :: [OPEN]

Who: EVERYONE
What: Réjean has decided that more people ought to celebrate and help raise a bit of dosh for one of his favourite bars. See: flyer.
Where: The Apache.
When: Misdi night and into the wee hours of the morning.
Warnings: Discussion of Pickman's manky feet.

The Apache is much the same as it always is: dimly lit, with the jukebox playing in the background, and the bartender serving whatever's on tap. Tonight, the bar is packed with people from all across the city, different cantons and cohorts, all out to celebrate surviving the fungal plague. Patrons are encouraged to buy tickets for a door prize with the proceeds going to repair the damage tunnelling ants made to the cellar.

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He nods, and she smiles, warm and bright, pleased to see him. She tilts her head slightly and waves him over with a look that clearly says why are you even standing all the way over there, come on, which she follows by patting the empty stool beside her.

He's definitely a friend. This is on top of being (to her thinking, anyway) the other half of her questioning-and-poking-at-things efforts by virtue of being one of the first people she met and the one she's talked to the most about them. And they're both alive after all the crap that just went down; surely this is reason to celebrate.

He comes, then, and settles next to her; he isn't going to decline a lady's invitation, nor does he really want to. "How's the evening treating you?"

"Not bad, so far," she replies, smiling. "I haven't been here, like, all that long but it's nice so far. And I think we could all use this, after everything we've been through."

She reaches over, touching his arm, just for a second. "It's good to see you."

He gives her a smile. "You too. You look nice," he adds, as she does and it seems polite to say so. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"Thank you." Her gaze drops for just a moment and then she lifts her eyes again, nodding. "Yes, please."

She surveys the crowd again. "Looks like a good turnout tonight." She's wondering if some of these people are from different cohorts--there do seem to be some people, here and there, who are older than their group.

But then she decides, that just for tonight, they could stand to not be picking at everything. That sort of goes against the whole celebrating thing, right?

"What's your poison, then?" See? He can interact like a human being.

"A whiskey sour, please." Indeed, he can; it's delightful. And a nice change from all the serious business conversations about how messed up this place is and how they need to get out. She isn't forgetting that, but it's nice to set it aside for a bit and just be.

"Whiskey sour it is." He signals the bartender, and also orders a bourbon on the rocks for himself. "I guess if there's an occasion for drinking, this is one."

"Thank you, Raylan. And yeah, it totally is--not that I need an occasion," she says, with the delightful candor that comes with a little alcohol already in your belly. "But there's something to be said for celebrating life, and surviving, and winning out over some seriously shitty times. I think everyone's feeling it after all that."

He smiles, and raises his glass. "To survival." He can't help but think, a bit cynically, that there's nothing to build camaraderie like facing a common enemy. Though this seemed a bit extreme for a team-building exercise.

"To survival," she echoes, tapping her glass against his. And then, after a moment's thought: "...And to our continued good health and all that."

She plucks the stirring stick out of her glass and sets it on the counter, taking a drink. "So, have you found a place to live yet? Outside the inn?"

"Yeah - I mean, sort of. It's a boarding house, still nothing permanent." He's allergic to admitting he's not going home any day now, though. "But I decided to get a little farther from the first place the militia goes in a crisis."

"Good." She pauses to take a sip of her drink. "Especially since they kinda know you after their last round there. I think it's best to stay out of their way. And best to be somewhere where you have a little more expectation of privacy. So where's the boarding house?"

"Not too far from here." Mog Hill had seemed medium enough, for the time being. "I'm going to need to start earning some money, though, I want to stay in good standing." He deeply did not want to get a job, but he didn't want to live in the Spatters either.

"That's good. This seems like a good area. Safe and clean and all that."

She frowned slightly, thinking. "Well, there's always the employment offices if you can't find anything on your own," she said. "People sometimes post job notices on the boards at the tea house, too--if you want I can keep an eye on those and call you if I see anything promising?"

He sighs. "Yeah. I mean, I've got a sort of specific skill set, I'm just not thrilled about throwing my lot in with the guys running the place." Maybe he'd go see the sheriff; it seemed separate from the militia, if not separate from whoever was running the place.

"Yeah. I can't say I have faith that'd turn out well for you." She can't see it working out at all; either he'd be too close to the powers that be for comfort, or he'd have to carry on as they did. It wouldn't end well, no matter which way it went.

She signals to the bartender, holding up her almost-empty glass and gesturing at Raylan's as well; another round. "Well, if you wind up needing help finding something, let me know."

He smiles at her move to get them refills, but says, "Sure. Maybe I'll find a new and exciting career."

If he threw his lot in with the sheriff, though, maybe he'd at least get a new weapon. He'd used to think they'd let him keep his gun because they didn't find it a threat. After the ants, though, he's realizing they probably let him keep it because there was no good way to get more ammo. If you've only got two clips, what do you save them for?

"Yeah, maybe," she says with a smile.

Rachel glances down at the bartender, hard at work; it'll be a minute or two before those drinks come, she thinks. She looks over at Raylan.

"Did you always want to be in law enforcement?"

Why yes, now begins the I'm determined not to continue talking shop tonight, and also, I'm nosy and want to know more about you portion of the evening, why?

He raises his eyebrows at her, but says, "Not always. Long enough. You decide to be a reporter cause you already liked asking questions, or was it the other way around?" He's not annoyed, though, the response almost a light tease more than a criticism.

Rachel laughs at that, an okay, fine, you got me look on her face. "I wasn't a reporter yet," she says. "I was hoping I would be someday, but not yet. And, no, since you asked--I wanted to tell stories. The kind that don't get attention when really dumb or awful stuff does."

"I had my suspicions about you being a hopeless optimist." He smiles a bit. "There are worse things to do."

"Yeah, well. It's not the first time I've been accused of that, and I'm sure it won't be the last," she allows, laughing. "But thank you. Dunno if I ever would've gotten there, but it seemed like a good thing to aim for. The right thing to do."

"Kidding aside - it's good. Enough awful in the world, folks'll forget about the rest if you let 'em." Raylan himself might be a case in point.

Rachel's smiling again as she sets down her glass, but this one is softer, maybe a bit wistful--not the amused ones from earlier.

"Thank you," she murmurs, tucking a bit of her hair behind her ear. "I guess that's the whole point, with me. I can't let all that awful win or dwell on it or anything. I feel like I have to keep trying, that I can't give up."

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