Smashed || Declan & Mathis
When Declan had walked into the Gaslight a couple hours ago, conversations had faltered and every head had turned. By now Mathis realized there’d been more to that than simply the way the man was dressed. Another patron had picked up on the young bartender’s questioning looks and had been kind enough to fill him in. Joining them tonight was none other than Declan Andrews, Spiritvale’s assistant district attorney and, even more notably, Rayne’s right-hand man.
It was unusual to see him outside the Boathouse or the ring, which would explain why Mathis hadn’t recognized him. He’d never spent enough time in either of those places for their paths to cross, but maybe it was just as well. Declan clearly hadn’t come here to chitchat, so Mathis hadn’t bothered him beyond taking his initial order and starting his tab. Even as said tab was getting a bit on the astronomical side… well. That was just par for the course where wolves were concerned.
He tried not to think on it much as he split his attention between other customers, doing Declan the favor of ignoring him as long as his glass wasn’t empty. Alas, it seemed like every ten or fifteen minutes he was topping him off. They were nearly at the bottom of the second bottle he’d opened for him when Declan told him to just leave it. Mathis couldn’t say he was surprised, exactly, but he did pause a moment, mainly to consider logistics.
There were about two rounds left in the bottle. But considering how much the man had already had to drink, and how much he was going to be paying for whiskey that was honestly mediocre at best, it felt petty to be worrying about it. That’s why, after a small shrug, he refilled Declan’s glass, then did as he was told, setting the bottle on the bar. Yet before he uncurled gloved digits from its base, he asked, “You want me to hang up your jacket for you? You look like you’re gettin’ hot.”
It was nice, the silence of the bar. No one stopped to talk to him, though a few heads turned in his direction. No one felt the need to stop and say hi or even offer to buy him a drink. Thank the fucking gods. He loved the boathouse, it was a great bar with a lively crowd, but he knew all the people in there. They all stopped to shoot the shit, which was a terrible expression, but no matter. This bar was different. Sure, he got looks. A hush had descended upon the sleeping tavern when he’d first shown up, shock evident in their behavior. He didn’t really understand why, it wasn’t like he didn’t have his dealings with Axel, plus, as far as all of them knew, he was still co-owner of the ring. He was hardly there on District Attorney biz.
The bartender, a skinny witch with a set of eyes Declan hadn’t had the pleasure of noticing before, said nothing as he ran up his tap. He was sitting there in an Armani suit, he could fucking afford a bar tab. That wasn’t an issue and he appreciated the guy’s silence, even if, he could the look of unsureness as he asked for the bottle. Declan had no idea what he was unsure of and honestly, he gave no shits about what the guy thought, either.
The bottle was placed beside his glass, but the hand... gloved as it was (odd but okay) hadn’t let go of the bottle. Declan glanced up at him, his own motion pausing to glance up at him. He cocked an eyebrow at the question and then looked down at his jacket. “Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “Sure, why not.” The glass clinked on the bartop and he stood, slightly tilting for a second in the shift from sitting to standing (this is what he told himself, anyway) and undid the jacket so that he could hand it over. “Thanks,” he said simply as the dark blue material was held out to the other guy.
