Something seems impulsive about being in the outside world nestled in a bar corner sipping a beer only weeks after escaping certain death. Maybe he should be at home hiding away, or perhaps still at the hospital seeking counsel. All those things would be valid in the tediousness of his recovery, but he craves what he perceives as normalcy. He sits haphazardly at a booth in the back, slouched in the corner with his legs propped up on the table while the news channel plays on the TV mounted on the adjacent wall overhead. In his left hand, the place where a finger was missing bandaged not out of necessity but for his own comfort, he casually grips a beer, the still cold bottle sweating against his palm. A stirring straw is clasped between teeth, chewing idly and his free hand occasionally twisting it between his lips.
The news story that emerges, not so much to his surprise but rather just distaste, is his story. A picture of his disgruntled, dirty features is plastered on the screen moments after police arrived while a woman whose voice still sounds too pleasant describes his kidnapping. His eyes narrow a touch but lips upturn to smirk at himself to mask his own displeasure. He glances around. The bar is mostly empty. He’s not too surprised, it’s a bit early for most crowds but he still feels to need to affirm that if he’s recognized he’s at least prepared for an awkward line of questioning.
No one save one seems to be paying close enough attention.
When his eyes catch theirs, he shrinks back a touch but maintains posture with his legs propped up on the table, opening his arms out to offer a shrug as if to say “yeah, that’s me, I don’t know how to feel about it either” but somehow still inviting. Tristan doesn’t want attention but his nature compels him to invite it.
“Guess that’s one way to get famous.” He says, a touch quiet for the space between them as they sit at the bar, but still audibly carrying across the space.
she’s honestly just zoning out, her brain trying to catch up with the last few hours of working on her laptop. the latest endeavor for ms. clara oswald? a novel. or at least a story. really, she’s not too concerned about it as long as she gets something about the donner party (her subject for the foreseeable future) out while she’s here. the house is still being set up, the boxes are yet to be unpacked and the wi fi isn’t going to be installed until tuesday, but at least this rink-a-dink bar on the edge of town has the internet she needs along with a good amount of empty seats. not enough, though.
she breaks out of her reverie with the slice through in the general lull of the bar, the guy in the corner catching her attention with some sort of weird comment she has to think through a few seconds before catching and understanding. that’s one way to get famous? what the hell kind of ice breaker is that? brows furrow, dark brown eyes shifting between the stranger and her laptop a couple times before she reaches up, closing the laptop.
who the hell was this guy and why the hell was he calling her out in public? yeah, her publisher had made her use her picture on the back of the last few books and they’d done well, but no one’s made a comment toward her like that since that whole misery-wannabe situation last year.
she tucks her laptop under her arm, sliding off the stool and glaring him down a bit, taking in the absolutely horrid way he was sitting in the process. “guess that’s one way to ruin a perfectly fine table.” jerk.
with that, she turns on her heels and walks out of the bar, huffing just a bit.
