✺: Tony protecting Lucy from a sleaze at the club
Tony watched the bar over the top of his glass--his third of he night, and the world hadn’t blurred out yet, so he counted himself lucky. It took a certain level of commitment, a dedication that, if he squinted, he could pretend he was proud of, to say that he’d earned the stomach (and the liver to boot) to drink down three two-shot glasses of Scotch in an hour and still be able to keep his (somewhat) whits about him.
Not that there was anything particularly interesting about this particular bar on this particular night except that the light was an interesting violet glow, and he though he recognized the song playing on the jukebox (and even if he didn’t, he sort of had to appreciate the existence of an actual jukebox, didn’t he?).
And then there was the girl. Tall, a suit that rivaled Tony’s own--something expensive he’d seen in a window before he’d gone ahead and thrown in the towel and added a private tailor to his monthly bill. She looked important, that much he was sure of. She also looked annoyed.
The man hovering over her had to have been more than three glasses to the wind--or less skilled in the “holding it” department, anyhow--because the way he staggered around her like a distressed peacock was more embarrassing than it was--well, whatever it was he was going for. Tony guessed compelling. His eyes were certainly on her shirt and not her face, and not, if Tony had to guess, because he was too drunk to know just what he was looking at.
“Get off me,” the girl said--Tony could hear her all the way from his seat, his seat on the other end of the bar, and yet Douche Face didn’t seem to have gotten the message; he leaned in closer, tugged at her arm, and whispered in her ear. She pushed him away, and he came right back.
Sighing, Tony downed the rest of his drink, pushed the empty glass toward the bartender, and jumped off his stool. He pulled out his phone as he approached and took two pictures of the man’s face with the flash very purposefully on--bright as could be. The drunkard was caught staring, eyes wide and surprised, face sullen.
“See this?” Tony said, moving so he was standing between the man and the woman, leaning shoulder to shoulder with the drunkard in question; that he didn’t seem to like so much, and thank God for it--he eased away, putting a foot between them while Tony showed him the handy dandy app he’d pulled up on his phone’s front screen.
“That’s you.” He pointed to the picture he’d just taken and began dragging it toward the app. “And this is a database of creepy people. A good check for people looking for a date; makes sure they don’t make a mistake. Oh look, now you’re in it. It’s almost like you’re famous.”
He clapped the man on the shoulder, smiling, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes--at least not until the man raised a hand as though ready to fight. “Uh, uh, uh, you’re not going to want to do that,” Tony said; he’d already been reaching for another drink--whatever was in this glass (and he really wasn’t quite sure) it had to be more interesting than the walking joke before him. “You might land one punch, I’m not going to lie to you. Might even be a good one. But then I’m going to have to suit up, kick your ass, it’ll be embarrassing for everyone involved.” He watched as recognition dawned in the man’s eyes, and this time when Tony laughed, it was almost genuine. “There we go.”
The man left--almost too easy, honestly--and Tony reached for his glass again, holding it up in a silent toast to the woman before him. Then without waiting for reply, he downed the shot and walked away.
