@coltthebuck
LOCATION: hell's gate, outside FOR: colt buckley
MOST NIGHTS, ROSALEEN SPOKE more with her fists than her words when she was in the confines of hells gate ( but then again, she spoke very few words normally ). and yet, there were certain nights where she was making finn's life hell behind his bar -- commandeering it as her own. go see ros. she'll make you one hell of a stiff drink. that's a fuckin' promise. tonight was one such evening, something she considered a lucky break for those who came to fight. she'd watch from afar, like a vulture perched along the branch of a dilapidated tree. that is, until the time came for a well deserved smoke break -- by who's evaluation left up to interpretation.
lips curl around the instrument, eyes scanning her surroundings. even before the cicadas, the enforcer was always on her guard. while there were very few things or people she considered a threat -- you could never be too sure.
her attention is caught, however, at the sight of an all too familiar opponent. colt buckley. things certainly just became far more interesting. the lit instrument is soon found dangling between her fingers, smoke furling around her in a choreographed performance as she exhales.
" ay, buckley -- quite the feckin' shiner ye got there. " the blonde eventually speaks -- a rarity for most to hear, the kind of thing that makes you wonder: is there someone behind me? someone else she's speaking to? " must'a had quite the scrap. with one helluva opponent. "
frankly, rosaleen was no stranger to fighting the men of devil's elbow -- not often just leaving with their money and their pride, but their balls in a vice grip. and yet, colt was somehow different. he always seemed to get right back up from the very moment he was knocked down -- no matter if it was in the ring, or in a battle for her attention. frankly, there was some amount of fun in the chase.
" oh right -- i believe 'twas me. "
the ends of her mouth turn upwards into a grin that can only be described as satisfied -- like a chess player waiting for the next move. or a spider waiting for it's prey to be caught in her web.
"No fights, just gloatin' today, huh?" Colt raises an eyebrow at Rosaleen, the pain itching at his swollen socket even as the cooler night air sooths the bruised skin. It was true, it was one hell of a shiner, even now that it was halfway done healing - he hadn't been able to look out of that eye for the past couple of days. Which had actually netted him a couple of days off - depth perception was pretty important when some of the guests felt like compensating for one thing or another.
Colt casts her a glance as he pulled out his own pack of cigarettes. It wasn't the first time he'd seen her get behind the counter, serving drinks. One helluva different sight than her in the cage, that was for damn sure, one that'd surprised him so much the first time he wondered if she'd fucked up so bad that she'd been put on customer service duty. Who the fuck liked dealing with drunk fucks yelling for drinks all evening? But she'd seemed to actually enjoy herself whenever he saw her there, and hey, he wasn't gonna say shit about the drinks she made.
Not because he'd mind another black eye, though. A grin spreads on his lips. "What's the matter with you today, Rosie? Not in the mood making some poor sucker pay you to get the crap beat outta him?" He doesn't bother with getting his lighter out, instead pressing the unlit tip against the faint glimmer of hers until a second set of smoke curls into the night air. Inhaling, he lets his eyes roam shamelessly over her form, making no effort to hide it as his eyes settle to a spot at her side.
"Don't want other people to see that someone got to land a hit on you?" Their latest match hadn't turned out well for him. They never did. Whenever they fought or sparred, it was common for Rosaleen to put him down on the concrete floor. He didn't mind that much - these weren't fights he was picking to win, even if he was gonna. Someday. He nods at the spot between her ribs. "You gonna show me your bruise too, or do I gotta walk 'round all exposed on my own? My shiner's lonely, Rosie."