Chapter Text
She presses her back into the couch and sinks in, the softness of the cushions providing a welcome contrast to the floors she slept on over the last few days. She reaches for the glass in front of her, filled with amber liquid, and savors every drop, enjoying the light burning sensation the bourbon leaves at the back of her throat as the heat works itself in deeper. It's raw and real. A chance to feel something other than the melancholy despair that haunts every corner of the Commonwealth. There’s something incredibly comforting about sitting in a dimly lit bar surrounded by strangers. Even now, after everything that happened, there are still people out for a drink on a Saturday night, enjoying a measure of normalcy in this crazy world.
Allie closes her eyes and revels in the moment as Magnolia croons softly, her song a heart breaking mix of pain and nostalgia. She senses the shift in the fabric of this place a moment before she sees him casually leaning against the bar, eyes fixed on her. Certain people have the power to make time and space flow around them while they walk through it, mostly unaware, the only indication the trail of change they left behind. Her body tenses almost imperceptibly, preparing to fight, to run. She takes a slow deep breath as he leaves the bar and sits beside her, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, two glasses in the other.
“Can I get you a drink?” He says softly, blue eyes, the bluest she’s ever seen, firmly fixed on hers. Allie nods and holds his gaze as she reaches over and takes the glass, her fingers gently brushing his. She takes a long and a drop of whiskey trickles down from her lip and onto her chin. "Thank you." She angles her body towards him, letting her hand casually brush against the holster on her waist. "I've not seen you in Goodneighbour before." She takes in the rugged scar that runs across his left cheek, the outline of his shoulders beneath the casual white t-shirt and the tilted cap that semi conceals his dark hair. Her eyes drift downward to the knee high boots, a blade expertly tucked in each, and then back to the holster on his side before returning to the eyes that are too blue to have a place in this new world.
“You could say I’m new to the area.” He drawls, mirroring her. She notes the tenseness in his shoulders while he notices the way her hand in never further than a few inches from a weapon all while his right foot and her left, tap rhythmically in an off kilter fashion, haphazard to the casual observer but serving as a mental reminder to remain present in the moment.
“You like what you see so far?” She smiles lightly, her eyes soft. He doesn’t answer and instead reaches over and takes the glass from her hand and finishes her drink before pouring another one. This time it is his turn to brush her fingers and she feels a light tingle down her spine. He is checking her reactions, the dance between them changing tempo. His hand lingers there, a second too long and yet not long enough. Her eyes finally leave his face and wander back down, settling on the bull barreled .44 at his hip. With a smile still playing on her lips, she draws her own side arm, ejects the magazine and places it on the table, grip towards him. It’s a beautiful silenced 10mm that reminds her of the old world ppk, used by suave film stars to take down equally fantastical villains, the kind that wouldn't last a second in this damned place. It’s been her favorite ever since Deacon quietly handed it to her the day they found Tommy dead. The day she’d taken his name as a way of sending silent thanks to the great beyond.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” She beams, her lips light pursed in an amused expression.
He pulls the .44 out and carefully places it on the table after making sure it's empty. She picks it up gently, fingers lightly running over it, admiring the tight fit of the slide, the beautifully crafted grip, its weight..
“It’s beautiful. I’ve not seen one in this condition in a while.” She hands it back and he holsters it before picking up hers. Deliverer, she’d called it, quietly fighting for freedom. A tribute to the man who died protecting others through his silence.
“It shoots 10mm?”
“Yes.”
“Unusual.” He mutters as he turns it. “May I?” She nods and he expertly takes it apart.”
“How’s the recoil?” He asks, noting the lightness.
“Surprisingly good.” She shows him the work she’d done on the barrel, extending it slightly before adding the suppressor, the weight of it dissipating most of the recoil.
“You know my rule about stripping guns on the table.” Whitehall Charlie floats over to them, his tone half amusement, half resignation.
“Sorry Charlie.” She smiles and puts Deliverer back together before holstering it again. “How about I buy a bottle of Bourbon to make up for it?” She presses a handful of caps to him and he floats back towards the bar muttering “Just this once.”
“You strip guns here often?” His blue eyes are fixed on hers again, flickering with something resembling amusement.
“I find it relaxing.” She shrugs. “Sometimes all you need after days of being out there” she waves towards the Commonwealth “is a good drink and a gun to clean. Charlie is great about it but some of the patrons… well, I can understand.”
Charlie comes back with the bottle.
“You know I’ve got that room out back. Got a couch and a table. What you do there… well, what you do there is your business.”
She presses another few caps into his hand and grabs the bottle before turning to face Blue Eyes.
“You want to join me? I've got a cleaning kit with me.”
He remains seated, frozen for a moment before he nods and follows her and the fabric that surrounds them shifts imperceptibly. The room is small and musty but cozy. She takes off her leather satchel and opens it, laying its contents out on the table. Some clean cloths. Oil. A few select grades of sandpaper and some other odds and ends. Blue Eyes pours the drinks and they sit side by side, enjoying the peace brought by the repetitive action. After almost an hour, he finally breaks the silence.
“I haven’t done this in a long time.”He says, adjusting the slide back into place.
“What, cleaned your gun?” She chuckles. "I'm not sure you should be telling me something that personal yet. We've only just met." Her easy laugh disarms him and he shakes his head, allowing himself to feel the kind of levity he hasn't experienced in a long time.
“Found the time to just… be.”
“Why not?" she asks. “It feels like a needless indulgence when there are so many other things that need... doing." He shrugs and his eyes wander back to his fire arm, now glinting by the light of the lantern.
“It’s not an indulgence.” She says after a while. “Doing this… it can put other things in perspective. Sometimes you’ve got to get your own shit together before you can do anything else. Plus, if you don’t you’ll likely get your head blown up and that…” her smile spreads wider but this time, it doesn’t quite hit her eyes "is something to be avoided if possible.” "Do you often offer advice to strangers?" "You aren't a stranger." She says and for a moment she looks at him, eyes opened wide, like she can see into his soul. Then her eyes narrow again, the corners of her mouth shoot up and the moment is gone. "We've had a whole bottle of whiskey. I'm pretty sure in some places that would makes us family." There’s a light knock on the door and a man he doesn’t recognize pokes his head in. “Time to go boss.” he says, looking at her and she nods before he closes the door and disappears.
“Thanks for this.” She smiles and then, caught by the whimsy of the moment, leans towards him and gently plants a kiss on his cheek. “I hope to see you around. Friend.”
Before he can think, before he can act, she is across the room, her hand on the doorknob.
“What's your name?” he calls after her.
“You better figure that out before I see you again” she grins " or things may get a little awkward."
He sits in silence a few moments after she's gone, his hand resting on the spot where she kissed him.