(no subject)

[alan_shore]

Who: Alan Shore and some brave souls
What: A day in the life.
Where: Everywhere. (The El, Flyside, Aspic, the locale of your choice.)
When: Sukkardi
Notes: Format essentially stolen from Samm. Except for the part where I can't get that box thing to work.
Warnings: Smugness. Legalese. Gratuitous discussion of pie, probably.

Tag into one of the threads below or devise a scenario of your choosing.

Comments

[platanera.livejournal.com]

Maggie isn't sure what brings her to this side of town, especially since she tends to stick close to home and Chimer where the market is. But she's here now, nursing a third shot of vodka that tastes slightly off unlike the kind she's used back in New York. She's been homesick since day one even if being home means being yelled at by her mother. Lonely too, but far be it from her to admit that out loud.

Never a social drinker, this is one of the few times Maggie drinks out her problems in public and not in the safety of her living room with the cats.

[alan_shore]

The sight of Maggie--of all people--at the bar inspires in him a peculiar reluctance. It's not that it's such a touching scene--she simply looks...self-contained, sitting there with her vodka. For some moments (as he savors the few sips of beer remaining in his glass), Alan gives serious consideration to walking out the door and back into the night, leaving her and everything else undisturbed.

"Finally," he says, setting his empty glass down on the bar and breathing the word out like a contented sigh. He smiles benignly over at Maggie (he's taken care to position himself out of arm's reach and therefore, hopefully, harm's way). "No more the unanswered text, the lone voice resounding in an empty room. No, this time when you storm off, as you inevitably must, I'll be afforded some closure."

[platanera.livejournal.com]

Sometimes, she just wants a moment to sit down and stay in her head, thinking about nothing at all. Too bad for Maggie, this is not one of those times.

His voice is grating like sharp nails on a chalkboard and she doesn't dare look over at him lest he take it as an invitation to stay. Maggie digs into the pocket of her jacket, throws a couple of bills on the bartop, and quickly makes an attempt to move to the other side of the bar.

Away from him. Far, far away.

[alan_shore]

His eyes—and only his eyes—follow Maggie as she hastens to create what he presumes is a sort of buffer zone of bar patrons. Her reaction is surprising only in its lack of severity—he'd opened his mouth fully prepared to be mopping vodka from his face moments later. He watches for a handful of seconds and then leaves her, for the time being, to her own devices.

He orders a scotch and, when it arrives, settles in at the bar for a glass' worth of calm and perhaps a quarter-glass' worth of reflection.