Resetting | Neil & Vaughn
Content Warning: Alcohol, Blood
Their first night back at the bar in months should have gone without incident. That was the idea, after all-- the impersonal neon lighting, dozens of witnesses to discourage the intimate air their forays into intoxication had taken on lately.
Vaughn found however, much to his annoyance, that he could not outrun his conscience. Yet his guilt-stricken vigilance may have been what caused him to notice another man, several seats down, staring at his companion with the same hungry gaze he occasionally caught himself.
He likely would have turned away and stewed in uncomfortable silence if the interaction had ended after that, but the addition of a lascivious smirk and a hand gesture to his friend it didn't take a genius to figure out spurred Vaughn to his feet, stalking down the line of barstools to throw a solid right hook at the bastard's face before he could even blink.
The next thing he remembered was the cool of the night air hitting his face, the heat and taste of blood as it ran down his upper lip and into his mouth as he was tossed out of the bar, down a short flight of stairs, and into the mud that awaited there. He saved himself from a mouthful, but just barely; too inebriated by the alcohol level of his blood and mind-numbing pain emanating from the center of his face to give a shit about the whistles and jeers of people enjoying a free show with their smoke-- too drunk to do anything but roll onto his back and gingerly lay his head down in the muck.
His hat was missing. It must have gotten knocked off when the buddy from before got in a cheap shot in from the side, after Vaughn laid the first jackass out on the floor. That was probably how he'd gotten his nose fucked up too, now that he thought about it.
He let out a low, irritated groan, moving a forearm to rest across his streaming eyes-- a decision he regretted almost immediately, the stab of pain it elicited confirming beyond a reasonable doubt that his nose was, in fact, broken. While that in and of itself didn't bother him as much as it should have (it wasn't his first rodeo, so to speak, after all) the hat had been worn by him for nearly fifteen years now. A busted nose meant he was in no condition to go stumbling in there, bleeding all over himself to get it back.
He wouldn't take back what he had done though, if given the chance. He derived a grim satisfaction-- or perhaps, perverse sort of pleasure-- in knowing the other man could no longer eye his friend up if he was seeing stars.
