It had been a good morning; sunshine and dirty hands and motor oil and the smell of not-so-fresh but definitely free London air, but much like the rest of his life, there was no surprise to the glimpse of gloomy clouds loitering on the horizon — or one of the booths inside, to be specific. Over two years had passed but Gideon had  discovered that you didn’t forget the face of the cop who arrested you. “You must be a special kind of masochist.”Â
Dropping heavily into the opposite side of the booth, his lips curled into the customary sneer that found it’s way to his face whenever cops showed up in his bar (it was far preferable to Glinda II or his father’s preferred method of eviction.) “We don’t serve bacon here.”
Amos heard a soft thump as Gideon sat down, and he couldn’t hold back his sigh of frustration. He’d only been doing his job when he arrested Gideon Prewett, and he had foolishly hoped that the other man wouldn’t have held a personal grudge against him. He felt his frustration turn into annoyance at Gideon’s words, and he threw a glare his way.Â
“I don’t want any trouble. Just grabbing a beer.” He said, reaching back out and grabbing onto his pint like he was about to drink it, even if he hadn’t touched it in too long. “And I don’t want to have to send you back, Mr. Prewett. You’re not going to do yourself any favors by threatening an officer. Again.”Â
