armedagainstlove | (no subject)

Entry tags:

faith,
vegas

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He has been drinking for some time.

Apparently, in this city of bright lights, gold coins go a very long way. Athos hadn't travelled very far from the door, sitting himself upon a stool and beginning to make his way through as much wine as he possibly could. Two bottles in, he has made a great friend of the bartender, who does not mind that Athos has little to say to him. There are gold coins for the taking and Athos has no care for money. He has plenty of money. He is a Comte living in a hovel. He has more money than he knows what to do with.

The wine of the future tastes empty, though, as though it lacks in strength. He has been given many odd stares for his weaponry, but Athos will not dismiss them, knowing that he is not so dangerous when he is drunk. After all, he can still shoot from five paces away and if Porthos can shoot a melon off Aramis' head when drunk, then Athos can wear his weapons.

When he looks up, after another glass, he now realizes that he is not alone. "How long have you been here?" Athos asks of the beauty beside him, puzzled and rather worried that he is lapsing time.

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They are partners in moderate unfamiliarity, at least. A fact brought on with some surprise, as Faith has found herself more accustomed to cheap whiskey and warmer beer in English bars than the way Vegas is serving it up to her.

These days she finds herself ordering things and using words like neat just to make sure she's not getting watered down spirits. Her constitution as a slayer already makes it difficult to get properly buzzed, and today she's looking for something very beyond buzzed.

"Been here since you sat down," she says with a chuckle. At first Faith had thought Athos to be a costumed actor from one of the shows, but a closer look found his weapons to be more authentic than that would require (not to mention: gold coins?). She'd stuck around just in case he was interested in using them for more than show. She reaches out a hand in introduction, though, lest he forget her again. "Faith."

English, it is. Athos has heard it all around him and his English has been rather impeccable given his education and the time he's spent in England, but he has never heard it with quite such flat vowels and in such strange ways. Perhaps he had best stay sober more often, given the details he appears to be missing. "Athos," he replies, scanning her face and then her clothing, finding her to be garbed in odd wear, most likely a modern person.

"Shall I buy you a drink to apologise for my attention's absence?" he asks, knowing that his manners are dull and out of use, but not vanished.

Oh, good, he does talk pretty much the way he looks like he should.

"Not really owed." Faith herself has got a special New England way of butchering the language, but hopefully Athos will be able to navigate the gist of things.

Her boots give a soft squeak as Faith pushes against the metal of her stool to swivel toward her new friend. After releasing his grasp, she shrugs out of her jacket and twists to haphazardly drape it on the small back behind her. She might as well get comfortable.

"But I'm not about to say no, either," she says. Faith smirks, and then nods. "Jameson's -- a double."

"Whatever the lady likes," Athos says to the bartender, sliding two more gold coins over the counter, aware that the greedy expression on the man's face will serve Athos' purposes well, for money goes a long way to buying the loyalty of those around him and Athos has more money than most thanks to his family. He raises his heavily portioned glass of red wine to her, thinking he might also switch given that he finds the liquor to be weak and empty.

The night is young, of course. There will be many opportunities to do just so later. "Have you visited this strange city of lights before?"

"Passed through once, didn't do much of the tourist stuff. Your first time, huh?" She's definitely not against it, considering how quickly she's swigging back drinks. This one goes down with a wince before she's swirling it in front of the bartender again.

"See the sights? Play any games yet?"

Athos lifts his hands to indicate the bottle (and perhaps a second and a third, given that she seems to drink as Athos does, with great abandon and speed). "I've never seen anything like it before," he says. "And I'm not much of a gambler. That's more Porthos' habit," he says. "Including almost getting caught on a regular basis."

"Mm," she hums before swallowing the next sip she's already taken and nods her agreement.

The lights aren't necessarily a draw, in her opinion, and gambling? "Yeah, never developed a habit for winning those things. Mostly cheap food and booze for me. Saw the door- er, the opportunity? Figured why not?"

The alcohol seems to be working, though, loosening up Faith's tongue enough to slip about the door. But hey, it's a good metaphor so she's not all that concerned about it. "You from England or something?"

"Paris," he corrects, but he understands how she might think otherwise. "I was educated by the very best of tutors my parents could afford. It meant bringing in an Englishman, despite the climate of affairs," Athos says, thinking of his childhood and drinking all the heavier for it, remembering lessons alongside Thomas. "The alcohol, however, does seem to be a great draw," he says, saluting her with his nearly empty glass.

"What is this place called?"

That makes her laugh, as slightly confused as Faith is at his question.

"You start drinking before you got in here? This is uh..." Huh, that's weird. Did she already bar hop? Faith glances around before recognition lights her eyes. Victorious! "This is the Lobby Bar. We're at the Mirage."

"That's French, right? You're right at home." Yep, she's already been cut off by one bartender, now she remembers.

"I don't truly recall a time when I have been entirely sober in the last while," Athos freely confesses, blinking as he knows that is, perhaps, not the best reference of his character. He doesn't usually say as much, either, for Aramis and Porthos would take issue with his indulgences. "If this were my home," Athos says, "then the wine would not be so weak."

He takes the time, now, to truly study his companion. "I don't understand this place. It seems so far-fetched and odd, as if time has marched on. It should be 1630," he says obstinately. "But I am far from my troubles and far from ghosts, so I do not know that I mind overly much."

Well, if he doesn't mind much whether his admissions paint him in a bad light, Faith won't give him grief for it. She's dealt with plenty worse, considering her personal history. Murder rehab taught her all about judging not. She generally likes that motto.

"Letting loose? I can get behind that. But if you're trying to get anything better than a light buzz, wine isn't the way to go." She pushes her half-empty highball glass over to him with one finger. "Especially if you think it should be the 17th century."

He isn't sure that he should tell her that this is a common routine for him, especially as she is a beautiful woman who enjoys drink. He should not burden her with his own pathetic habits. He takes the glass from her, lifting it in cheers, and drinking the strong alcohol, feeling a pleasant burn. "Yes, this does seem better," he appraises. "As if it's ready to strip away the last five years of my life."

Which is his goal in all things, truly. "Why are you drinking so much? I know what I'm trying to forget."

Edited 2014-05-25 02:56 (UTC)

"Misspent youth. Guilt, whatever. Pick the one that strikes your fancy," she says. Faith leans forward again, to slowly pull her glass back from his hand and then finish it off. She rolls the cool glass across her bottom lip as she thinks about whether to get into any kind of actual details or not.

"Normal for me? Pretty not normal. So when I say things have gotten weird lately, I mean they've gotten weird."

"If I elect to choose guilt, then we are drinking for much the same reason," Athos says, smiling with the weight of his grief in it, which is to say that his lips struggle against the heaviness and do not make it very far. "Precisely how weird do you mean?"

"Selective amnesia weird." Because she isn't sure I forgot a friend who was made from magic is the best way to go.

The words come with a shrug, but Faith knows she's probably going to have to give up more than that. "I'm the only one in my, uh, group that forgot a friend entirely. Things got complicated."

"And alcohol wasn't to blame in that instance? Because it's helped to rob me of many incidents," Athos says helpfully, gesturing between them. He'd give an example, but true to his words, he's handily forgotten about the majority of what he yearns to ignore. "There are people I would very much like to forget. What is your secret?"

"Jacked up magic," she replies, not without a chuckle. It's the easiest response, the one sitting right up on the top of her head. She looks a little surprised after she says it, and eyeballs her glass accusingly.

"But I'm working on the alcohol part, now. And reminders that it could be worse from someone who looks like you doesn't hurt, either."

Athos tips his head to her in thanks for such a compliment, knowing that perhaps he has never been frightful of the face, but he has certainly been rough. "Magic," he echoes. "I never much believed in magic. The devil, yes, and hell and all its demons, but not magic."

"You know, I prefer hell and demons over magic at this point. At least it's something to hit." She hates games, and most definitely prefers a more direct and blundering solution.

Which means rough is par for the course for Faith. She's never had much luck with the pretty ones, who break way too easily. Faith smiles and holds up her glass to clink against Athos'. "So, we're drinking to guilt, then. You conveniently avoided spilling yours, I notice."

Hell and demons. These seem to be things Athos is well-acquainted with and when she mentions guilt, he lifts his drink with a steady hand after saluting to her. "Spilling my demons or my drink? I can assure you I am well-practiced in spilling neither without a great deal of coaxing," he says evenly, given how fresh the hell is, in his mind.

There's a few seconds as Faith realizes Athos did not say cokes in, and makes out the real words.

"Aww, c'mon. I showed you mine. Pretty sure there's a law that says you gotta show me yours. If I gotta work for it, where's the reward?" Faith has never been truly adept at subtle persuasion. Given the right arena, maybe, but she's not getting idiotic flirt off of her drinking buddy.

Her drunken logic doesn't quite follow through, either. Even Faith's face goes slack as she registers her words. "Can't be that bad. Can't be worse than my baggage, anyway."

Athos has told remarkably few people of his sins. In fact, no one has been outright told so much as Remy had been there during the act of murder, and since then, he has been atoning through as much red wine as possible. Yet, it seems as though the life is not truly forfeit. D'Artagnan knows, he realises, a split second after he thinks he has hid it so well.

"I killed my wife," he says, the words strange out loud, even buried under so much wine.

Faith stiffens at that. Four words, and no context. Not that she's even thinking about context at the moment.

She had been tracing patterns in the condensation that had made its way from her glass to the surface of the bar, but her finger stills, the point of it in the middle of a tiny lake.

"'Scuse me?" Did she hear that right?

"She was a murderer and a thief," he continues, realizing belatedly (as he winces) that perhaps he might have started with that or perhaps even finished the thought rather than abruptly finishing it. "It was my duty to have her sentenced properly." And he had killed her, or he'd thought he had. "She's still alive," he says darkly. "She seduced the hangman. She escaped."

That's it. Faith waves at the bartender to just bring that whole bottle over to them. She haphazardly adds to his glass before adding to her own and thunking the bottle back on the bar.

"Damn. You're all messed up." He showed her way more than she showed first. Faith's got catching up to do, she knows. She reaches forward to clink their glasses again and then gets herself a refill after she downs the rest. "You some kinda cop, then?"

Cause being technically a fugitive might hinder the way she goes about her turn at show and tell.