There are worse ways to spend Christmas Eve than drinking, Sombra reflects as she signals for a refill, and worse company than Jesse McCree. When the man strode into the bar earlier, she almost groaned, sure that her uneventful night was going to come to an end. Calaveras crawls with criminals at any given hour, and there aren't many of them who wouldn't pass up the opportunity to secure a 60-million dollar bounty. One thought away from activating her thermoptic camo and vanishing, she watched him make his way across the room and take a seat at the bar.
But no shots rang out. No chairs scrapped back for a brawl. Sombra relaxed once she was satisfied that she wasn't going to be caught in a crossfire. Either McCree is more of a regular here than she thought, or the holiday spirit intervened to sustain the peace. Given the other patrons at the bar, their skull-and-bone tattoos and weapons glinting in the dim light, she'll bet on the former.
And for someone who keeps a close watch over her ‘territory,’ anyone who can stroll in and act like they belonged is a person of interest.
She gets up, taking her drink with her. Sidling onto the stool next to McCree, she flashes him a grin. “Nice clothes. Did you just walk off the set for one of those vintage western reboots?”
When it comes to being on the run there's not much more Fuck You somebody could get than being alone on a holiday. Jesse hates it to begin with but he hates being angry on a day like Christmas even more. And if he's learned anything about anything over the last decade or so... you've gotta make your own happiness. In this case happiness came in liquid form and this bar alone had the nearest top shelf tequila he could get his hands on. Like hell he was gonna let anyone stop him tonight.
Maybe tomorrow if he finishes off the bottle tonight but that's a problem for Future McCree.
While he wasn't so careless in his choice of seat—near an easy exit and beside some cover—he was more so in the disregarded company around him. It wasn't far from the norm; "badasses" holed in for the night, armed to the teeth and flaunting earned ink. He knows the type. He couldn't give a shit, honestly. It's not a great night and he could fight if need be.
Thankfully it isn't and Jesse gives the bartender a toothy, carefree 'Gracias' as the glass and freshly popped bottle are set before him. A half grin settles on his lips as he pours, finishing it before he looks over to his visitor. "Aw darlin', bless your heart." Bubbly and deep, the laugher does well to cover light-hearted sarcasm. "Here I was thinkin' I lost my touch!"
Gently swirling his glass on the counter he hums. "Maybe I am," Jesse sighs wistfully before playfully drawling: "Don't tell me I missed the rave, now."
Sombra raises her eyebrows and a hand to her mouth at the same time, spreading her fingers across her lips to keep her laughter locked in. Is he serious? He even sounds like an old Hollywood actor. She could almost admire the effort he puts into maintaining a persona, just as she does—if it isn't so lame. Why trap yourself in the past when you could move past it? Or overwrite it with something better? Maybe the frayed serape and worn boots serve to make McCree's enemies underestimate him, but Sombra already knows how to handle anything he can throw ( or shoot ) at her. After all, someone wandering the world in a guise of a cowboy is easy to find info on. A shadow? Just a little bit harder.
Tilting her head, she pretends to look him over again. “No offense, but I think you're a little on the old side for raves around here,” she says. “And they're usually invite-only.”
A thought occurs to her then. Los Muertos has been stockpiling weapons lately, something the Deadlock gang used to traffic in. Is a coincidence that a former member of that group shows up in Dorado at this time of the year, when so many packages and parcels are crisscrossing the border?
Picking up her drink, she takes a gulp before tilting the rim towards McCree like a microphone. “Do you have one?”
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this is prose but i can change to actionspam/brackets if you'd like :>
But no shots rang out. No chairs scrapped back for a brawl. Sombra relaxed once she was satisfied that she wasn't going to be caught in a crossfire. Either McCree is more of a regular here than she thought, or the holiday spirit intervened to sustain the peace. Given the other patrons at the bar, their skull-and-bone tattoos and weapons glinting in the dim light, she'll bet on the former.
And for someone who keeps a close watch over her ‘territory,’ anyone who can stroll in and act like they belonged is a person of interest.
She gets up, taking her drink with her. Sidling onto the stool next to McCree, she flashes him a grin. “Nice clothes. Did you just walk off the set for one of those vintage western reboots?”
prose is a-okay with me c:
Maybe tomorrow if he finishes off the bottle tonight but that's a problem for Future McCree.
While he wasn't so careless in his choice of seat—near an easy exit and beside some cover—he was more so in the disregarded company around him. It wasn't far from the norm; "badasses" holed in for the night, armed to the teeth and flaunting earned ink. He knows the type. He couldn't give a shit, honestly. It's not a great night and he could fight if need be.
Thankfully it isn't and Jesse gives the bartender a toothy, carefree 'Gracias' as the glass and freshly popped bottle are set before him. A half grin settles on his lips as he pours, finishing it before he looks over to his visitor. "Aw darlin', bless your heart." Bubbly and deep, the laugher does well to cover light-hearted sarcasm. "Here I was thinkin' I lost my touch!"
Gently swirling his glass on the counter he hums. "Maybe I am," Jesse sighs wistfully before playfully drawling: "Don't tell me I missed the rave, now."
awesome! also sorry about the super delay!
Tilting her head, she pretends to look him over again. “No offense, but I think you're a little on the old side for raves around here,” she says. “And they're usually invite-only.”
A thought occurs to her then. Los Muertos has been stockpiling weapons lately, something the Deadlock gang used to traffic in. Is a coincidence that a former member of that group shows up in Dorado at this time of the year, when so many packages and parcels are crisscrossing the border?
Picking up her drink, she takes a gulp before tilting the rim towards McCree like a microphone. “Do you have one?”