2020-05-10 - Cheap Pints and Chats

It's mid-afternoon - a time when only barflies and other ne'er do wells usually hang out in shitty bars. Tor's definitely one of thsoe. He's claimed a table in the corner and is examining something on his phone, then referring to a small notebook, making short notations and looking back again. He's got a half-empty pint of cheap beer in front of him. He looks at something, makes a hissing sound between his teeth and then rocks the chair back on two legs. "Fuck," he mutters.

Sunglasses peel off when Graham steps in, squinting against the dimness of the bar versus the bright afternoon behind him. The door barks closed, makes the room a little dimmer, but still. He makes eye contact with the bartender, heading that way, and it's while passing Tor - he knows this guy! they, uh, work together! - that he overhears the muttered expletive. And, because Graham's obnoxious at heart, he answers the single word with a sweet smile; "Nah, I gotta girlfriend. But you can buy me a beer if you wanna."

It takes Tor a second to connect the smartass comment to Graham. He flashes a toothy grin, despite his expletive a moment ago. He sweeps a lazy look, then chuckles softly. "You're not my type, either. Usually like 'em a little older and a little tougher." The little book gets flipped closed with incredibly light fingers. Then again, he's a known thief.

"Tougher? Tougher?" Graham holds up his left arm, flexing - which fails to be even remotely impressive, 'cause the guy is wearing the PNW uniform: flannel over a t-shirt. "So swol." No, he's not. He does get a beer, though, something in a bottle that he brings back around to Tor and his light fingers. "What're we doing, boss? Hacking the matrix? I'm in."

Tor makes a soft scoffing noise and cocks his head. "Mhmm." If he's perturbed by Grant inviting himself to have a seat, he doesn't let on. He maintains a sort of lazy, unbothered demeanor as he takes a pull from his scratched pint glass. "Just checking some pickup notes. Making sure everything goes where it's supposed to go."

There's a wash of suspicion when Graham eyes Tor and his talk of pickup notes and what-not. It's not the really bad kind of suspicion - not like he suddenly thinks the guy is a narc. More the confused kind, the doubtful kind, like he suspects Tor of trying to pull one over on him. "Like. Fucking. Postmates or something? Is that what you 'do?'" He makes one-handed air-quotes, because the other hand has beer in it. "Deliver pizzas or some shit?"

"I'm a fuckin' fence, dude. You didn't know? Shit, I thought half the town knew." Even the cops. But Tor is careful not to be too blatant, plus enough of them are on the take from Felix to keep the small fry out of trouble. "And yeah, I also deliver pizzas and shit."

Someone somewhere has been fooled by Graham's act at some point. But that person is not Tor. He sees right through the act. Them baby-blues aren't full of innocent confusion; he's just being annoyingly obtuse. "Why would I know that? What the fuck do I have to fence?" He looks down at himself, beer bottle and flannel and scuffed sneakers and all, then shrugs. "I always thought you were a janitor."

When you have criminals for family, you learn to cut through bullshit pretty easily. Graham gets a huff and an eyeroll, followed by a half-smirk. "Cause you're in the goddamn Pourhouse in the middle of the afternoon. And you live in this town. And are presumably not a total idiot." And the look he gives Graham dares him to argue otherwise.

Graham's eyes shift to take in the interior - yep, Pourhouse, and a watch-check confirms that it's the middle of the afternoon. He opens his mouth to say something about the town, closes it, and that guppy-facing segues nicely into whether or not he's a total idiot. Scratching the back of his head, which he ducks into a self-deprecating shrug, he concludes, "Jury's still out on that one." Then smiles prettily enough that it's okay if he is a total idiot, he'll obviously still get by in life. "So is it?" He nods to the computer. "Going where it's supposed to go?"

"More or less," says Tor as he picks up his pint again. He swirls it around idly. Which doesn't explain why he looked at his book and cursed a moment ago. What he is might be an open secret, but that apparently doesn't mean he's going to volunteer other less open ones.

Graham pauses. Waits. Leans his head forward expectantly. Waits another second or two. "Which one? More or less?"

"Most things are. Some things have wandered off track a bit. That's normal." Tor shrugs. "Why do you care, anyway? Are you being a nosy bastard or do you want to know for a legit reason?"

Graham's head stops leaning forward expectantly and starts tilting to the side, a questioning angle that comes when Tor says things going off track is normal. He doesn't say anything about it specifically, but it obviously struck him as odd. Anyway, he takes a quick swig before answering, "Seems like the kinda thing you might want to ask somebody before you start answering their questions, but." He smiles peachily once again. "Just being sociable. Going to all the trouble of bringing your notebook to a bar seems like a real cry for help."

"I didn't really tell you anything though, did I?" drawls Tor. "And I guess I deserve random sociable-ness if I'm sitting at a bar cursing at a notebook." He drains what's left in his pint in one smooth motion.

"Didn't you?" Graham frowns like he's not so sure, his eyes cast upward while he rethinks his way through the conversation, then winds up shrugging. "That's all the random sociableness I have in me for today, lucky you. I gotta be in Humptulips in a half hour." Yes, he giggles about the name of the town. And always will. Then he drinks one last big drink and skedaddles.

Tor has moved from his previous seat in the corner at a table to the bar proper when he started having a bit more trouble keeping his pint glass filled. He's still conferring between his phone and a small paper notebook, making the occasional notation and frowning to himself.

Not quite looking like somoene the cat drug in.. but perhaps a distant fourth, Devlin comes into the bar looking like perhaps he should have gone to bed rather than come here. Still he makes a bee line for the bar and seems pleased he beat last call as he orders a beer along with some nachos.

"You look like shit, man," comes unsolicited commentary from Tor a few seats down. "But that's kinda the default look in a place like this." He's not wrong.

The answer carries that sound of bitterness that comes with one that does not accept some defeats gracefully. "Lost one before the Ambulance got to us. I swear that bastard was laughing at me again." Devlin takes a pull from the beer as it is given to him. "Just a rough night is all.. I hate loosing."

"That bastard being god or somethin?" Tor very clearly doesn't capitalize the 'g' in that when he says it. "Or the devil or something? Just trying to sort out if you're being figurative or literal about the whole laughing thing."

"Call him what you want.. death, reaper, thanos, wild hunt.." he sighs, "And a host of other names." Devlin takes another pull, "I'm a paramedic.. " the last perhaps a fast explanation of sorts.

"Yeah, I figured something like that," says Tor. There's a laziness to him. Not indifference, but detachment? He's not expressing sympathy, really, but he's also not actively downplaying what Devlin experienced. "Accident?"

Devlin says, "Yeah, an accident.. College kid.. daddy or mommy bought them too much horsepower. Ad in some booze.. dark highway, perfect storm for a disaster."

Tor lets out a low whistle. "Yeah. Shit happens." A half-shrug. "More here than most places. But it happens." He lifts his beer and takes a swig. He's actually swaying a little, suggesting he might be a bit in his cups.

Devlin nods, "Bunch of bad choices. I know I can't win all the time. But.. that kid might have learned from the mistakes." He takes another swig of the beer. "Don't run into to many people at this hour willing to just talk."

"Yeah, well, I'm kinda drunk and I've had a long day," drawls Tor, like he's been caught in the act of being sociable and didn't mean to be. "Just don't go unloading on me like I'm a fuckin' therapist or something and we'll be all good, man."

"Guess we both had long ones. A few drinks with others and just shooting the bull goes a hell of a lot faster and cheaper than any damn therapist. But they do seem to make politicians happy about the band aides to make the public feel better." Devlin hmms, "So what brings you out here?"

"What brings me out here?" Tor smiles sloppily. "Fuckin' lived here my whole life." And apparently that means he's got a vocabulary littered with expletives. "If you mean this shithole pub, it's one of the only places in town that'll let me run a tab."

A bit of a chuckle, "You should see some of the dive bars around a military base.. now those make this place look like a polished turd..." He takes a pull on his beer as he gets his food. "Sounds like here you have some cred with the ownership.. always a good thing to have one sanctuary like that to get blitzed at when your a little light in the wallet." He drops a few bills, "Another.. and get him one of what he's been having," Devlin hooks a finger towards you. He lifts the mug, "Nothing like self medicating.."

"Wouldn't know. Never been further than Seattle," says Tor with a half-shrug. "It's not good-will," he looks to the bartender who gives him a slightly sour look in return. "...I think it's pity and family pressure." That and if he gets no-tabbed at the Pourhouse, there's nowhere else to go in Gray Harbor. He eyes the bills, then looks up at Devlin. "Shit man. You must really have had a bad day if you're dropping down cash for my company."

The chuckle becomes a laugh, "At least I am not buying rounds for the thirty one bravos... Sorry, Military Police.. you got to be seriously messed up to buy for them." He takes a breath as he enjoys his beer and starts chowing on the nachos with purpose. "Not to mention, you strike me as more intelligent than the grunts.."

"Yeah well, being smart only gets you so far in a town like this," says Tor idly. He's started to shred a bit of napkin into the tiny snowflakes. He gets the thirty mile stare someone who's had a few too many does.

Devlin says, "So that is where you start from today.. just make a new step each day." He smiles a bit over his mug, "Free advice.. and being smart means you can see other steps someone else would miss." He shrugs, "I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer.. but I have done pretty well. Survived four tours, saved a lot of people, lost more than I wanted to.. just don't quit."

"You're coming at the wrong person with that positivity shit, man. Give Gray Harbor some time. She'll wear you down more than any military tour." Tor doesn't seem to be engaging in hyperbole either. He'll take the free beer though. He doesn't have pride like that. "Dunno how long you've been here, but if you haven't already, you'll already know that the shiny people live and fuck like it's the end of the world."

Devlin says, "Yeah I've been learning, for now.. I keep being positive because if you come at saving a life being negative.. you will fail. Gray Harbor does a number on some.. seen it. Never know when the game will change."

"I don't know shit about saving lives. It's enough work just to keep myself up and running." Which is not helped by beer consumption. Tor's latest pint is going down a bit like water. "Cept the magic saving lives part, but that doesn't involve knowing how to stop bleeding."

Devlin nods, "I've had a few very hard days. One of the worst happened in my first tour.." He muses over food and beer, "Firefight.. couple people on the patrol were down. I was working on them. This guy comes out of no where... shoots one of my patients. I shoot him.. five minutes later I am treating the same guy for the gun shots I inflicted on him." Something about his tone and the laugh after are tinged with that Ain't life a bitch feel. "I survived that.. I think I can survive Gray Harbor's shots.."

Tor chuckles humourlessly, then murmurs, "Yeah, imagine that except you're stuck in an infinite hell-loop and monsters are breathing down your neck while you try and do field surgery." Hard to tell if he's being serious or not. He chugs the rest of the beer, then slips off the stool, and staggers a little. There's a small burp. "Thanks for the beer, superhero. Try not to die."

Devlin says, "I've assisted some surgeons in the field.. and once under fire." He grins, "Not a superhero.. just another guy doing the right things."

Devlin finishes off his chow and beer, "Yeah.. about time for me to head home. Get that sleep those bags under my eyes are demanding.."

"Yeah well, good luck with that," Tor murmurs as he shrugs on a beat-up denim jacket. He means both the sleep and the doing the right thing part. "Thanks for the beer." He tips a salute to the bartender and ambles crookedly towards the door.

Devlin settles his beer, "Yeah.. take it easy."