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| Kind of a Jerk | |
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| Participants | Kitty, Scott |
| Synopsis | Beers are spilled and unsavory impressions are made. |
| Location | Boar's Head, Lower East Side, New York City |
| Time | January, 2016 |
| Posted By | Scott |
It's getting to be late at the Boar's Head, though many either don't care or can't tell in the dirty and jostled bar and grill. After having phased in to the back and staying, she isn't worried about getting caught any more. After the Cosmo that Gambit bought here is gone she bought herself something else - a pint of beer. She has no idea what kind it is and she really isn't sure if she likes the taste of it. Pulling a face after taking a swig, she pulls her hair back from her flushed face.
The bartender comes back, giving her an eyeing over. Kitty certainly doesn't look 21, but it hasn't been a problem now. He doesn't say anything yet, but he hoovers close by. "What?" she asks him moodily, sounding more like a regular than she even means to.
Late? Anything but, if someone asked Scott Summers. Drink o'clock should've started hours ago. But a grueling shift over at the shop kept Scott from those ambitions — until now. And already a regular at the Boar's Head, there's no need to waste time. Shouldering through the front door, the man's all business about getting a drink. A casual wave draws the attention of the 'tender, whose expression seems to betray passing recognition. With no other plans tonight than drink and don't think, Scott starts with the usual. A double of whiskey on the rocks. Jack Daniel's, since the place doesn't carry any of the finer spirits. No Maker's Mark, even. A damn shame, but one Scott lives with, nosing right down onto a stool. It's purposefully a seat apart from anyone else at the bar. A grizzled old man on Scott's right, and a too-young-looking scrapper on the left. That'd be Kitty.
Whatever it was that Kitty drank the first time, it most likely was not a Cosmo. Since she's never had it before, it may have just been some strange concoction Gambit told them to make that looked vaguely pink. Whatever it was, it was high proof. And the small lightweight Kitty is feeling it. An elbow left and the pint of beer collapses on the bar with a loud clanking noise and a quick wash of a mostly full beer spreads over the table toward the surly and determined to drink man to her right.
The sound of the glass pint colliding with the bar counter is jarring, but Scott doesn't so much as jerk. Curious in a way. But the quickly-spreading pool of beer, running down the uneven surface in his direction? Yeah, that raises a brow above the curve of dark sunglasses. How Hollywood, wearing shades after dark. Which Scott doesn't even remove, even in reacting to Kitty's unfortunate clumsiness. He issues a grunt, removing an elbow from the counter's edge to shoot a sidelong look down the line at the responsible party. "Thanks," comes the wry comment, even as the bartender rushes to mop up the mess with a grumbled curse and a dirty rag.
Embarrassed, Kitty flushes a bright red. This whole thing seemed like a good idea in theory, it isn't exactly playing out as she planned. She didn't really do much drinking back in Illinois, even if she did live in a small town with little to do. Eyeing the man to her right, she attempts to help to mop up the damage, even as she quickly stands to get out of the way of the beer dripping over the edge of the counter. "I'm really really sorry," she gushes, only giving him a bit of a glance to the side. She notices the glasses and can't help but take a double take at them - who wears glasses late at night in a bar? Then, she catches herself and mutters again, "Sorry."
Scott isn't moved. He even runs the risk of that dripping beer, too stubborn to take an undignified jump off the stool. But the odds seem to be in Scott's favor, with the bartender working that rag so expertly. And what does drip over the edge, dotting Scott's faded jeans, doesn't seem to bother or insult the man. From the safety of those dark shades, Scott looks the instigator of this disaster up and down. Her embarrassed apologies, in the end, just earn another grunt. Forgiving, ain't he? "Yeah, just sit down. You're making me nervous, jumping 'round like that."
Stubborn or not, Kitty is sufficiently unnerved and feeling silly now. The flush on her cheeks doesn't fade at all as she obediently slips into her seat again having done nothing but make the spill a little worse. She doesn't order another drink and she doesn't know what else to say. It doesn't look like he's angry with her for almost dousing his lap with beer, but that doesn't mean she's feeling easy about the situation. "Sorry," she adds again. "Didn't mean to…that is, I'm not normally…do you know that people play Go Fish here?" Once she's started to talk it's hard for her to stop.
"You knocking your beer over isn't an invitation for this — " And here, Scott gestures to the space separating himself from Kitty. He evidently means the conversation. He's not looking at Kitty now, so it's a rather blind gesture. But hey, there's a thought. Maybe Scott is blind. What with the glasses and the unmoving. He wasn't being downright cold with the comment, but there's a certain edge of harsh dismissal to it. Which Scott, deep down, recognizes right away. But it's not for another beat than Scott's breath comes out in an audible exhale, something close to a sigh. "Look. Do you need another drink, kid?" What's five bucks to an auto-repair mechanic?
Normally, Kitty is a very smart person. She tested at genius levels in school and usually is quite adept at keeping her footing and everything in check. But, she's never really contended with that on alcohol, though. Taking his gesture literally, she frowns at the stool between them. It would be hard to take his statement as anything other than a dismissal, a gesture that he doesn't want to talk to her any more and she puts both her hands up in a defensive movement and adds with a bit of a glare, "Don't worry, mister, I'm not attempting to take your chair. Or, really, your extra second chair. I've got my own." As for another beer, she looks at the space her empty glass once filled and thinks it over. "N-no. I don't think so." The offer deflated her defensive anger. She sighs and adds, "Thanks."
And for Scott's part, a moment of: what? Something about an extra chair, babble babble, then a no thanks. He doesn't follow, of course. But then, neither does Scott really try to. Her bout of bristling is passed over, forgotten with the same carelessness Scott gives everything else after a long day at Bruno's. He palms his own tumbler, downing the watery whiskey's dregs in a go. And then flags down the bartender for another. He doesn't push the empty away, but instead plays with it — rolling the glass edge along the sticky counter. "Good," Scott turns at the neck, giving the poor Kitty and her empty pint a look. "Means you can't spill any more."
It's not like Kitty hasn't met people who drink themselves into stupors and don't care about anyone or anything. There are people like them everywhere - Manhattan is no different. Why is she still even talking to him? She can't even really pinpoint the reason, but he's there and still talking back, which makes him a victim of her babble. "Right." After a long pause, she looks over at him and furrows her eyebrows. Her voice isn't accusing, she sounds more like she's just discovered this fact. "You're being kind of a jerk, you know that, right?" She pauses for another short moment and adds, "I mean, other than the offering for another drink. That was proper, but the rest of it."
Stupor implies some sort of thuggishness. Scott's not looking to become an ogre tonight. It just takes the edge of the whole overthinking thing, whiskey. It's not even an attempt to better evade responsibilities or, still worse, emotions. Rather, it just helps Scott sleep better. Whiskey means no thinking, and no thinking means no insomnia. A beautiful equation, Scott's discovered. The thing about responsibility and emotion? Just a convenient perk. He abandons the empty glass when a new tumbler's pushed across the counter. "Didn't realize, no," Scott intones dryly. "But then, whatever gets your clumsy ass out the door, right?"
Whiskey would be a strange experiment to Kitty. Already a couple sips of beer and a 'mixed drink' of whatever she had before Scott arrived. "I just thought I would ask." She doesn't sound upset until she's called a clumsy ass. "Well, you wear dark glasses indoors." Which to her means that he's attempting to be either too bad ass or too cool for school. And she's never been too cool for school - it's one of her favorite places to be. The alcohol right now is just going to make it harder for her to make it back home. "And I'm not leaving. Not yet." Not until it's easier to walk.
It's difficult for Scott to even be certain she's buzzed. He mistakes the chatter and clumsiness for characters flaws — not the product of one too many. But then, it's not a puzzle Scott is too hell-bent on solving, either. Does make Scott wonder why she's so reluctant to go. But maybe she's just being stubborn. Sounds plausible, since she's proven to be such a nuisance so far. Another dark brow nudges over those glasses, provoked by Kitty's petulant — but rather poignant — comeback. He chooses not to draw further attention to the 'fashion' choice, though, giving only a one-shoulder shrug. "Might wanna rethink that, kid. Later it gets 'round here, the rougher. Last bus is in a half-hour."
It's hard to tell when strangers are feeling the effects of alcohol unless they're slurring and stumbling about. Though normally Kitty is a friendly person, she's not normally the type to spill drinks everywhere and tell complete strangers they're jerks. Only if they truly deserve it and Scott's main problem right now is being seated next to Kitty and not being completely friendly. "I can handle myself." Much like a kid sister, she bristles at the shrug and the advice that he gives. She smirks. "Thanks for the concern, though."
The advice wasn't exactly dripping with concern, of course. If she's managed this long in the area, she must have some wits. Then again, the population of the Lower East Side is almost entirely mutant. There're exceptions, of course, which is why Scott isn't jumping to conclusions about Kitty. But, in Scott's opinion, mutants do tend to be a better crowd. Humans, on the other hand, they'll jump you for a quarter. Damn aggression. But Scott supposes that comes with being threatened with possible extinction, as a species. All these thoughts are prompted by Kitty's defensive response. Doesn't sound like just hot air, either. "Yeah. I'm sure you can." More whiskey.
Kitty didn't expect him to actually be concerned for her wellbeing. They don't know each other and for the most part they've been bristling at each other ever since Scott sat down. Not totally up to date on the composition of Manhattan's different neighborhoods, the phasing mutant has taken the defensive stance of assuming everyone outside of the Manor to be suspicious. "Right." For once, she doesn't have anything else to say. Wobbly, she slides off her stool and smooths her clothes down. "Well. It was a pleasure." She's being just a touch sarcastic, as she's still smirking, but there's no real bite.
And in these dark times, Scott really ought to be a touch more civil — in the off chance Kitty is another mutant. Self-preservation and all, especially among the unregistered. But she's caught him in a particularly prickly mood tonight. Which obviously does wonders for first impressions. But hey, she's the one who almost spilled a beer in his lap, right? So the hell with the pipsqueak. She can go. Any tiny voice that might be urging Scott to question the wobbly, to see if she needs a ride, is promptly squashed. Sure, if she ends up a murder victim on the morning news, Scott might feel a pang of guilt. But until that happens.. "Fucking charmed, kid. Don't trip on your way out." A clumsy joke, no doubt.
Though small, Kitty's got her own pride that means she can't help but give him a bit of a glare. First impressions for these two have really managed to end up on each other's bad sides. She didn't mean to spill her beer and he had a right to be huffy about it at first. However, situations have just managed to get to a point where she can't be anything but annoyed. She most likely won't be one of those people who ends up in the river after being murdered for one reason or another, but she also doesn't know the city terribly well. "Yeah, I wo—" Unfortunately, just like his little quip, she does manage to trip over a leg of a stool and she glares it instead of Scott and moves for the door. That's her big last word, and it obviously isn't a very good one.
Well, she might not have made it to Scott's 'bad' side. That would take more than some spilled beer and some babbling. But yeah, Kitty's certainly not winning any affection. It's just as well she go away, before Scott's tongue starts to loosen with another few drinks. He doesn't offer another word, either. Not a good-bye, not even an insult when she does — quite on cue, really — stumble past one of the stools. But when she's quite through glaring and just about out the door, Scott's surly expression cracks. The smallest suggestion of a grin, certainly at Kitty's expense. Hah.
