𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚡 𝚑𝚒𝚖 (𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎)
Clay Puppington x reader [editing]
•
Bartending was not easy. You didn't go into the job thinking it would be a breeze, but you'd hoped working somewhere called 'Moralton' might give you any sort of reprieve.
It did not.
There were some characters in town, with various stories, who opened up to your listening ears simply because they had no one else to tell or their lips became too loose. All were various levels of sad or concerning, but none stuck out more than that of Clayton Puppington.
He liked to blame others for his mistakes, always had to be on top. He got angry when he was drunk, and spiteful and brash. But he also cried, easily broke down, and all too often would go from looking like top dog to sobbing into the counter. His face would get red and scrunch up through tears, or he'd slam on the table as he silently sobbed, yearning for more whiskey. It was clear as day he had something deeper going on, always opening up to you but never enough.
Safe to say, Clay was a piece of work. The way he sobbed when he got angry suggested that somewhere within him, at one point maybe he wanted to see himself get better, but it was easier to see others get worse.
And you knew this, of course, but to see him frantically slamming his fist on the thick glass window on Easter Sunday was a whole new level of low.
You yourself had only showed at the bar to do a little bit of spring cleaning. Forghettis was closed for the holiday. In a perfect world, one that was clearly not this one, the citizens would all be spending time with their families or friends rather than alone.
Whether or not they were drinking was a personal choice.
With a sigh, you brushed back your hair and took purposeful steps to the door. Your shoes stuck slightly to the ground, a result of a few poorly mopped spills over time. Bells jangled as you opened the door and peeked out, stepping one foot out into the sidewalk.
"Clay," you called out, your eyes scanning him hesitantly. The well dressed man immediately came to attention, trying to compose himself regardless of the fact you'd seen him in worse states. His brown eyes locked on yours, more admiration than you could claim you'd ever seen in them. "We're closed."
"C'mon, just one drink. I haven't been here in... what, a week?" Somehow Clay managed to be grumbly even when he begged. His brown hair was slightly disheveled, a cowlick sticking out from the rest.
"Three days," you corrected. You couldn't help yourself from thinking, 'and I doubt you've been sober for any of them.'
As you spoke you scanned the sidewalk, checking for any by standards who might see what was about to happen. It was likely wrong of you to do any part of what you were doing. You were closed, for one thing, and it was ridiculous you would break that for one man (and one man only). You knew exactly why you were doing it, too, bad intentions and selfish wants.
With a sigh, you nodded. "You have until I finish cleaning."
Clay's face lit up as much as you'd ever seen it. He was quick to follow you, his hand brushing against your lower back as the door shut almost immediately behind you. His hand was warm against you and full of light you'd never seen in him.
"So, where have you been?" you asked, peeking behind you to glance at the man. You walked in, a route you could've taken blindfolded, behind the counter of the bar.
"Hunting trip with the kid," Clay explained, nonchalant. "We caught a lot of nothing but I got a lot of something. What're the odds you have brandy?"
An eyebrow quirked at the lack of use of his son's name. Mindlessly, you poured him a drink. Immediately, he threw it back.
"That's a shame. My dad took me hunting when I was little, too," you mused, reminiscing on a time long ago. "I always felt a little guilty killing things, but my dad always told me it was getting them closer to God, and then we'd pray for them. And we never killed anything we wouldn't eat.” Clay’s eyes followed you as you walked up and down the length of the bar, wiping away unforgettable nights, as well as those too good to remember. “I don't think he ever saw it that way, actually. He was just thinking of me."
Clay's eye twitched as you handed him another drink. "Why would you be appreciative of him lying to you?”
Clay must've drank before coming to be talking like this. It wouldn’t surprise you if the whole reason he’d come was because he’d exhausted his personal collection.
Deep down, a little part of you liked to think he’d came just to see you. Such a shame, the state he was in. Such a shame, the state you were in.
"It was comforting,” you replied, trying to be gentle. Parenting him, almost. “I don't think he was lying, either. He just… put it into a perspective that made me feel safe.”
"He sounds like a wuss,” Clay commented, throwing back another shot.
"He made quite a few sacrifices for me, and sometimes maybe one of those was… being gentle,” you replied, a little bit more edge on your voice. As you saw it, part of masculinity was being brave enough to set it aside when the time counted.
"Sacrifice!” Clay laughed. Rather, guffawed. “Boy, do I know about sacrifice. I made the ultimate sacrifice, you know. My happiness for my kids. And I do it over and over and over and over again, day in and day out.” He banged on the bar, his words slurring.
As you attempted to craft a response to that that would be even a little bit constructive, the door swung open and there appeared Reverend Putty, slightly disheveled.
"We're over!" Revered Putty shouted, pointing at somebody outside the door. Much more calmly, he turned to gaze inside the depressingly darkened room. "Didn't think you'd be open on Easter.”
"That's because we're closed,” you commented, your eyes softening. “I’m sorry, Reverend.”
"What's he doing here?” Putty asked, somewhat annoyed. He shot an accusatory gaze at Clay.
You looked from the disheveled Clay to the mildly depressed Reverend. "He's doing a routine health inspection.”
“With a drink in his hand?” Putty inquired.
Shit. Good question. Instead of showing you were flustered, you opted to challenge him in a staredown.
"Goddamn it,” Putty grumbled after a moment, stepping out the door. “I'll be back tomorrow.” The bell on the door jingled merrily behind him.
Clay laughed animatedly. “What a loser! That guy finally loses his virginity and it's to the ex Ms. Papermouth.”
"He probably had a pretty good time if she has an ex husband,” you commented.
"It can't have been that good if he's an ex!”
You scoffed, nodding exaggeratedly slowly. Shots fired. "Maybe she broke up with him,” you suggested.
As if the devil had called, the door opened once again, exploding the room with a blinding level of light.
“Hello?” Mr. Papermouth, the town’s policeman announced as he let himself in.
“Look who it is!” Clay exclaimed with an exaggerated laugh. “We were just talking about you, you know-“
Papermouth’s eyes widened, and you shut that down before he could bring himself in and start a fight. “No, we weren’t. We’re closed.”
“You don’t look closed-“
“We’re closed. Easter Sunday.”
“Why is he here?” The same question you’d already heard. Like history repeats itself.
“He’s just about to leave,” you said, giving Clay a pointed look. Officer Papermouth gazed skeptically, but eventually showed himself out.
Clay chuckled heartily, shaking his head. “Everyone in this town is so pathetic.” The irony of his words was not lost on you. “Can’t satisfy his sorry excuse of a wife.”
“Everybody’s going through something,” you reminded him. “It’s probably a good thing he doesn’t come in here and drink himself away.”
“Yeah, good, so I can do it alone,” Clay remarked.
“Wouldn’t you rather *not* be alone?” The question was genuine, hinting at something deeper you shouldn’t have even been thinking.
“Being alone is the only way to be,” Clay stated. He gestured for you to refill his drink, which you reluctantly did, wiping the counter. “Others are weak, but not me.”
“Having support doesn’t make you weak,” you stated, cocking your head to the side slightly.
“Who told you that?” Clay laughed out loud. His face was turning a soft shade of red. “Your *father*?”
“Actually, yes, he did,” you snapped. “And he taught me patience, and you better thank God he did, because otherwise I’d have kicked you out too.”
“Then kick me out! But I bet you can’t, because you rely on others,” Clay taunted. He said haughty in the barstool, his arms crossed over his chest. “You need me here.” Still, he watched you closely, waiting for your response.
You shook your head, conflicting feelings in your heart. Above the rest was a growing annoyance, uncertain why you hadn’t removed him yet.
“I don’t need you here,” you insisted, not technically lying. “In fact, you’ve got about five more minutes before you have to pack it up.”
“I doubt you’ll enforce that,” Clay commented, although he didn’t sit so big anymore. “You and everybody else are so desperate for a friend. I bet your father was just as much of a pushover as you.”
"Clayton Puppington, I will not hesitate to ban your entry if you say one more bad word about my father. He was a great man and an even better parent.”
Clay scoffed. Never knowing when to quit, he challenged, "If he's *sooo* great, how come I took his job?”
You weren't sure if he was trying to provoke you or just that drunk, but you didn't care. He probably wouldn't remember it the next day, anyway. Red filled your head, spurred on by all sorts of things you weren’t ready to understand, but most of all by his blatant disrespect for your family.
Before you were even aware of your hand moving, you hit him.
Clay's eyes went as wide as yours when the loud smack reverberated off of his face. His hand came to cup his cheek and you took a step back, surprised you actually had the balls to do it.
The room went silent, Clay giving you a strangely earnest look that crossed shock with hurt. Your heart stopped.
"Clay, I'm... I'm sorry,” you apologized, realizing what you’d done. Yelling at him would’ve been a more productive move than that - you were grown adults, brawling in a bar. “I should've never done that.”
"What?” Clay asked, his voice small.
“I guess I'm not great at using my words,” you admitted, trying to be as polite as possible. Clay was a big customer - you didn’t exactly want to lose his patronage. “Drinks are on me.”
You brushed a hand on his cheek gently, inspecting the slight red mark. He leaned into it, just enough for you to analyze it for nights after, but not too much.
“Can I kiss you?” Clay asked all of the sudden.
Glancing at him, your eyes softened slightly, confused. You bit your lip, sure you'd never get the chance again. You’d be lying to say you'd never thought about it, never fantasized about it. The way his lips would feel against yours, the way his hands would feel rubbing up and down your sides. In your hair.
“Why would you want to do that," you laughed slightly, crossing your arms over your stomach.
“I think I love you,” Clay admitted bluntly.
“Clay,” you said.
“What?” he asked.
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m not that drunk.”
“Come on…. I just slapped you, and now you love me,” you reiterated, hoping he’d understand how crazy that was. How unfortunate that was. You shook your head to yourself, erasing the idea from your mind. “No, Clay, you know you don't love me.”
Clay wasn’t convinced. “No, I think I do,” he claimed with conviction. “I want to.”
You sighed, resigning yourself to bear your soul. You placed your hands down flat on the bar, no longer sticky.
“Look… I like you, Clay. More than I should. But you have a wife,” you reminded. “And I’m not blind. I’ve seen your eyes on Mr. Stopframe.”
You couldn’t deny the gazes you’d seen them share - and the way the jealousy held you in its vise.
“That’s because you're different.”
With a sigh you replied, “Ask me when you're sober. It won't make either of us feel any better right now.”
And that was the gimmick, wasn’t it? He loved you when he was drunk. And even if he loved you sober, he never was.
Always two drinks in, always two feet apart.