Fey Friendly?

Fey Friendly?

finnegan_icon.jpg harper_icon.jpg

Where: Bottom of the Barrel
When: 07-12-20
What: Werewolf-Vampire socio-politics and alcohol.

Alcohol may be man's worst enemy, but the bible says love your enemy. - by Frank Sinatra

Many Friday nights find this bartender on the paying side of the counter over at the Reseda Country Club, but tonight he's on the pouring side. The "Barrel" is moderately busy — most of the cool kids tend not to go to South Central to get their drink on, so it's more of a neighborhood crowd, or Fey who know it's an FFE.

Fey Friendly Establishment, for the acronym-challenged.

The two servers on duty tonight are both Unseelie fae, and Finnegan is the lone man behind the bar. He seems to be in a better mood than usual, but maybe it's all an act for good tips.

The seedier parts of town tend to house Harper's favorite hangouts. Granted, the Barrel isn't a bar she has ever felt too compelled to step foot in, but maybe she just never noticed it with it's unassuming front facade.

She opens the front door and stands there a minute, as if she needs to really soak in the atmosphere before committing, but her feet take her around the tables and toward the bar where the people without a group can find a spot to plant themselves.

Spotting Finnegan behind the bar, she settles in with a crooked smile to give the bar a tap to get his attention.

He likely sees her but takes his time giving the customers he's chatting with his full attention, pouring their drinks with a smile and refilling their peanut supply despite the fact the bowl is still half full. Another guest's empty glass is taken and the bill cashed out before he finally manages to head to the end of the bar (and it's not that long a bar) where Harper sits smirking.

"Plum out of O negative, I'm afraid," he says — perhaps payback for the puppy comments. He does wait, however, for her to give her order, brows lifted and an amused look on his face.

"I'll take whatever you've got," Harper says with a sudden grin that serves as a playful flash of teeth. But, joke aside, she nods her head toward the liquor bottles, "Can you do me a dirty Cricket? Or is this strictly a pint and peanut kinda place?"

It's difficult not to hear a tease in her words, especially as she turns a bit to glance over the other clientele. Particularly the number that aren't vampires. But when she looks back again, she adds, "Because I'll take a Sierra Nevada, if that's the case."

"No blood on the menu today, especially not mine. AB negative," says the self-deprecating werewolf. "And yes, I'm being a tease. Don't get too excited."

He tips a head to the array of alcohol behind him. "Those are just for looks, clearly," Finn adds with a smirk before moving to the shelves to gather the bottles he'll need, and then grabs the cream from the refrigerator below the bar.

"Didn't take you for a sweet tooth," he says, scooping some ice into a shaker and then pouring the proper ingredients in, eyeballing them rather than measuring.

"And what a tease it is, rare vintage and everything." Harper doesn't seem to have been taking him too seriously, at least. "You never know. Some bartenders are better than others. I've seen some who wouldn't know Blue Label from Blue Ribbon." Probably especially in South Central.

"Gotta learn to appreciate all sorts of flavors when your meals are pretty static. Can't sit around hoping that everyone's got something fun flowing, can we?"

"It's true. No need to learn the cocktails if you're in some of these places. Pop's across the street, they only do wine and beer, and your choices are two-buck Chuck white or two-buck Chuck red if you're a wine girl. Beer, they got Coors, Coors Light on tap, and maybe a Heineken or Dos Equis in the fridge." He finishes shaking and pours the drink in a glass, topping it off with the 151.

He looks curious for a moment, as if maybe he's tempted to ask how different people's blood tastes, but then the look fades. He nods to the drink. "Lemme know if that's about right. It's been a few months since anyone's asked for one."

Harper tilts her head a little to watch as the brownish liquor seeps its way into the otherwise white drink. "No one should have Coors on tap," she notes, distractedly.

Without straightening up, her gaze flicks from the drink to his face, her smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Oh yeah? Should I test you with some really fun ones?" When she does right herself to actually taste the drink, she seems to like it. Or, at least, she doesn't hate it.

"I agree." The tap here boasts both Guinness and Bass, along with some picks from two local micro-breweries. "To the Coors, that is. Not to you testing me. No one can remember half those crazy names. Half of 'em I think someone made up just to screw with people on their bartending exams. Luckily I don't have to say the names most of the time, just make them."

Finnegan moves away to refill a couple of beers and take some people's money, but the bar itself isn't too busy and the servers seem to be getting nothing but pitcher orders which they can fill themselves.

"So you get any good publicity out of that event the other day? More hits on the band's website or anything?" Finn says, returning to where Harper sits to work on cutting up the garnishes that need replenished.

"And to screw with anyone easily embarrassed. How will they ever have a Sloe Comfortable Screw, I ask you." Harper turns her attention to her drink when he walks away, and by the time he comes back, she's got it mostly finished.

And she seems genuinely surprised that he comes back to talk to her again. There's a glance down the bar toward the other patrons, even. Maybe she doesn't think they're as interesting as her, either, because she looks back to him again pretty quick. "Oh, that. Yeah, bit of extra interest. Rumors. No such thing as bad publicity, all that. Some people like the idea of danger just enough to buy tickets." And belatedly, she adds, "You came out of it alright."

Maybe his ears tinge a little pink at hearing her say the words 'Sloe Comfortable Screw,' but he's got it under control by the time he returns. He lifts his shoulders. "We're pretty hardy," he says — of werewolves of the Fey in general, it's unclear. "I was a bit worse off than I thought. I thought it was a clean slice but I had a bit of silver shrapnel in there making mischief. You ever need a doc and don't wanna go to the real thing, Eddy's pretty good."

The lemon slices finished, he begins work on the limes. "Could've used the fight money tonight, but what are ya gonna do." He looks up. "No gigs? You need more publicity, clearly." It's meant as a joke, not a barb.

"I usually try not to need a doctor," Harper says, her tone dry as she slides her glass toward his side of the bar, "but I'll keep it in mind." Her eyes narrow just long enough for her to work out if he meant for her to get growly over the joke, but she seems to decide not as she lifts a shoulder. "None for now. I've got a reputation for being a bit fickle. And I'd like to not get blown up next time. If I can help it. When's the fighting back up and running, anyway?"

"I always need a doctor but try not to need to go," Finnegan tosses back, then smiles and waves as one of the regular couples head out. "It's on tonight, but I got a few stitches in me, just inviting a few punches or knees there. Taking a pass this week. It's usually Friday and Saturdays. I'll head back next week."

He finishes with the limes and tosses the knife under the bar into one of the plastic dishwashing bins.

"I can ask the boss about you playing the Whiskey some time if you want," he offers.

"Ah, I see. I thought maybe the ring didn't survive. Which would be a shame considering I just found out about it. Maybe your tips will make up for it, huh?" Harper picks up a few peanuts, but only to fiddle with there on the bar, apparently.

She lifts an eyebrow at the offer, and glances over her shoulder. "…Why?" Suspicion seems to counter sense for a moment, but she shakes her head before she clarifies, "Why would you?"

Her suspicion draws a flat look from him, and he shrugs, pulling away to put the fruit slices where it's easiest to use them. "Because from what I heard, I liked it, and he's got a weird sense of what's good music. Likes… I donno. Fiddles and shit."

He avoids her eyes as he begins to wipe down the bar. "But suit yourself. Ain't like I'm best friends with the boss or anything, so it likely wouldn't help."

"I don't do much in the way of fiddles." Harper pushes her little pile of peanuts around, putting them in a line along the bar. When she looks over at him, seeing him not looking at her, she turns back to consult with those peanuts.

"I didn't mean anything. Just not used to volunteered favors." She doesn't add from a werewolf.

Finnegan looks unhappy about having to accept an apology. And he doesn't. Quite.

"Look," he says, "I don't like your kind. I don't like my kind. But I figure you didn't go sign up to be what you are anymore than I did to be what I am, or else you wouldn't be striking up casual conversations with me in the first place. It's not hard for me to talk to the boss, and I'm not looking for any return favors."

He doesn't add from a vampire.

"He may completely ignore me, and it's not a guaranteed in. I just meant I'd put a worm in his ear, so to speak, and that's it. No one's going to look twice at it, and wonder what the fuck you're doing fraternizing with the enemy, I promise."

Silence drags out and Harper goes between frowning at the bar and frowning at him before she eventually speaks up again.

"Who'd sign up?" Which may confirm that she didn't, even if she's being vague. "Alright. I'd appreciate it," she says, sweeping the peanuts off to the side, "if you wanna mention. Maybe give you a chance to see a whole show." She stands up from her stool, patting her numerous pockets for a wallet. "How much do I owe you for the drink?"

Finn shakes his head at the rhetorical question. Who knows, man. For the other question, however…

"Eight bucks. The dirty part was extra, as it usual is, right? I'd say it's on the house, but then you'd be questioning my motives," he says with a slightly mocking smirk.

"You bet your ass I would be," Harper says as she pulls bills out of her wallet, which include a nice tip. "Customers are suppose to fawn over the bartender, not the other way around." She smirks there, too. An expression she seems the most comfortable with.

"I'll see you around," she adds, tucking her wallet away, and not in the same pocket she took it from, which is probably why she can never find it right off. She punctuates her goodbye with a little salute before she heads casually for the door.

He takes the bills, prepared to make change before she puts away the wallet, and he gives a nod of thanks.

"Seems likely," Finn says, and it's hard to tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing from his perspective, but there's a two-fingered wave to her salute before he turns back to refill more drinks. At least he got to work for his pouring with the cocktail.

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