12179/4 Pints Deep

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4 Pints Deep
Date of Scene: 15 September 2020
Location: Luke's Bar, Central Harlem
Synopsis: Claire and 'Lester' meet at Luke's once again, after Claire has had a horrible day at the hospital. He talks her out of at least one bad decision and confirms for himself her true identity.
Cast of Characters: Claire Temple, Bullseye




Claire Temple has posed:
A few weeks after the strangely pleasant meeting with a certain man named Lester, and Claire is back at Luke's. She's been there a while tonight, having come straight from the single shift she did at the hospital. The scene had been bad enough they told her to go home, not to stay on the double as she often did. She went to Luke's, instead. She's been there a while, two pint glasses on the little table in front of her and a third in her hand as she stares into the room. It's that dead, slightly too distant, numbed stare of someone who is simply just overloaded. Easier to shut down that feel anything. The beer helps with that.

She's in pale blue scrubs with a white undershirt. Most of the mess is off of them, but she missed a bit of splattered blood on her left hand sleeve and the left pant leg. Her hair has the slightly greasy sheen of someone who worked far too many hours and hasn't bothere with a shower. She looks like she hasn't slept well in a handful of days. Once more. The beer helps.

Bullseye has posed:
    Just a few days ago, this psychotic assassin was rubbing shoulders with Erik goddamn Lensherr and Lex fuckin' Luthor in a secret mountain headquarters to get briefed on destabilizing SHIELD. Tonight? He's limping through the door of a dingy, dark bar in the middle of Harlem to sweet-talk some dumb broad who may or may not know his greatest enemy. Both are equally important.

    When he and Claire unofficially decided this was to be "their place," Bullseye didn't think she was serious. But boy, oh boy, was he. She didn't need to know that he'd come back to this place nearly every other night for the last few weeks, looking for her --- just that he was here, tonight. He scans the room and finally spots her in the corner. She looks broken. Exhausted. He licks his teeth. This is what he needs to see.

    "Hey," he offers with a weak smile, slowly walking over. He slowly removes his leather jacket and places it on the small hook under the bar. He needs to look vulnerable, too.

Claire Temple has posed:
The dark haired nurse wasn't exactly at the bar, but at a little table a few feet down from it. In the corner, as far from most of the other bar goers. Somewhere she could curl up with her beers and not really be bothered. The chair in this corner had a higher back and was a little older that some of the stiffer ones around the tables that littered the room. It had lost it's padding years ago, but it worked to be a space where she could curl away from the world.

She watched him as he moved to the end of the bar, a weak attempt at a smile crossing her lips. It didn't really hit her eyes. She took another long sip of her beer before forcing the glass down. Three in and she knew she'd be feeling it if she moved. But she simply doesn't move. Yet. "Lester. Been a few weeks. Thought maybe you got lost downtown..." She offers quietly, voice a bit of a rasp.

Bullseye has posed:
    A tiny smirk makes its way onto Lester's hardened face. From his "usual" spot at the bar, he motions to the woman behind it for a pint of Big Wave and slowly turns to Claire. He cups his hand around the side of his mouth and performs a pretty bad... or good... stage whisper as his beer is placed in front of him.

    "I DIDN'T WANT TO PRESUME," he says just slightly over the music playing, nodding his head towards an empty chair a few feet away from her table. His smirk grows slightly, and his voice goes back to its typical gravelly tone while he points out the beers. "That's what they teach you downtown, don't you know. Etiquette and shit. Especially when you're trying to talk to an acquaintance who's got 'Fuck off' in neon lights on her forehead."

Claire Temple has posed:
"... I turned you on to the good stuff, hm?" Claire asks as she catches his order on the air, what she's drinking as well. Seems they got another keg for the fall, since it's been popular enough. Or, just maybe, Luke likes her that much. Either way, she raises her glass to him in a toast of silent approval and downs slightly too deep a gulp. The third is going to be empty in no time at this rate.

As he mock whispers, Claire's mouth pulls into a slightly deeper smirk, reflecting his as he points at her beers. She exhales a slow, long breath, looking from him to the rest of the room, and then back to him. Finally, whatever she's been toying over in her head is decided. She uncurls one leg from where her knees are pulled up into her chest, the heels of her crocs hanging off the edge of the chair, and pushes the chair across from her out in his direction.

Bullseye has posed:
    Lester raises his glass and downs a gulp, himself, letting it rest for a second as he catches Claire's subtle invite to the table. He looks to his left and right and playfully points at himself, a wide-eyed expression of surprise on his face. Grinning, he grabs his jacket and beer and casually makes his way over.

    "Jury's still out as to whether or not it's the good stuff," he replies, matter-of-factly, "but I'll take it over the swill Johnny Man-Bun is peddling when he's not making artisanal pickles or learning the tabs to 'Wonderwall.'" He drapes his jacket over the back of the chair and lets out a sigh, asking the most obvious question in the history of obvious questions. "Bad day?"

Claire Temple has posed:
Something in her slightly relaxes as he takes the invitation. The day sucked. Being alone also, somewhat, sucked. And it certainly didn't seem to help her mood any, so maybe his company would be a good distraction. Claire finishes off her beer and sets down the glass with a motion that is a little too sloppy for her to be exactly sober. She's probably not a three beer girl and, from the look of her scrubs probably missed dinner tonight.

"Mm. I think this might be the closest thing to Johnny Man Bun that Luke carries...other than the pumpkin shit. It's already selling like mad." Claire mutters, beer far easier to discuss than the day. Her legs curl back in against her chest, one arm loosely around them, the one with that errant bit of blood she probably doesn't even realize is there. She looks him over, a tint of concern crossing her eyes. "You don't look much better. And...yeah. Pretty shitty. Shoulda stayed for a double just to work through it and...not think of the shit. But they sent me home. So..." She raises her glass towards the bar, shaking it for another.

Bullseye has posed:
    "Bit of advice from a guy who's probably got ten years on you, age-wise, but twenty to thirty in terms of baggage? Workin' through shit, ain't gonna work that shit out." He pops his eyebrows to try to hammer that home before taking another gulp. "Now, believe me when I say I'm the last sumbitch that should be doling out any advice to anyone about goddamn anything --- but that much I know."

    He leans back in his chair, taking a quick glance at the clock above the jukebox and then to Claire's scrubs. This is the time to be "honest." You get on her wavelength, now, and she'll be dialing you for avacado toast in Brooklyn by the weekend.

    "You wanna talk about it? Maybe with a guy who's got no qualms saying he has no idea how to help, so he'll just... sit and fuckin' listen because that's all he's qualified for?"

Claire Temple has posed:
Dark eyes level in his direction as he dares to give her advice, even if it's pretty good. Claire isn't exactly in the mood to take advice, even if it was the same as what she heard back at the hospital. Go home. Sleep it off. Take a shower. Well, she took none of that advice, but she did end up here. She nods a slight thanks to the bartender as he comes by to scoop up her empties and drop another full in front of her. That helped, at least.

She still doesn't answer him at first, stewing in her own exhaustion and bad mood. Claire Temple doesn't seem the sort to talk out her problems to someone else, but he's not leaving and she has another beer. She breathes slowly out her nose, head lulling back against the wood behind her. "...two kids dead. Probably a gang hit. They had colors on. But... Fuck. When they're 14 and 16? They don't know what the fuck they're doing. They're kids who never had a fucking chance playing capture the flag with drugs and guns because... that's... That's the only way they think they'll make it. And then they end up coding on you and... *Fuck*." She doesn't look back at him. She doesn't want him to see the glassiness in her eyes. Even some things get to the battleaxe nurse.

Bullseye has posed:
    Oh, Jesus Christ, bitch --- kids? Some stupid fuckin' kids? Oof, Lester might have had a few lessons with the world's smallest violin, but Bullseye's ready to smash that thing into the ground. Those kids probably deserved it. In fact? It's probably on them they got killed in the first place. The weak get culled --- that's the unfortunate truth about life that no one in this stupid, goddamn world can ever seem to get through their thick skulls. People get killed. And guess what, if you don't wanna be killed? Then go out and be a fuckin' killer yourself. This shit ain't hard! It's easy! In FACT, it's the easiest goddamn thing to learn!

    He blows out a hard breath.

    He takes a noticeably small sip from his beer so as not to upset Claire further.

    "...I'm sorry."

Claire Temple has posed:
"Yeah. I am too." Claire whispers quietly, a touch too lost in her own world and the numb sort of shock that happens after an incident like that to catch the thoughts that might be behind his eyes. Or maybe he just hides it that well. She takes another gulp of her beer and then finally looks back to him, realizing she's said very little the whole night other than the worst story no one else needs to hear. "Shit. I'm sorry, you..."

She unfolded her legs from the chair, shaking her head as she pushes herself up into standing a bit too fast. Unsteady on her feet, but not toppling back over. She's been drunk before. She just didn't expect it quite so hard tonight. "Sorry. No one wants to hear this shit and I'm... shitty fucking company tonight. I... I should just close out. Get home. I'm sorry. It was...good to see you again, in one piece."

Bullseye has posed:
    "The hell you are," Lester says with a scoff. "Look at you --- you're five seconds away from eatin' shit." He pushes himself up to his feet, as well, downing the rest of his beer and slamming it down on the table. He narrows his eyes at her wandering gaze and woozy swaying, snapping his fingers to get her attention. "Kid. Hey, kid --- look at me. You wanna close out? Fine. But take a goddamn seat. Drink some water. Put fuckin' 'Josie and the Pussycats' on the jukebox, I don't care. Your drunk ass ain't driving home, you hear me?"

Claire Temple has posed:
The woman stops as he snaps at her like that, dark eyes jerking back at him, momentarily actually angry that he's treating her like some toddler. But then he offers that argument that she shouldn't drive and Claire outright laughs. She shakes her head slowly, tiredly chuckling to him. "Shit, son, you think I'm way better off... I work at Metro General, who has the money for a car? This is a night to get four beers in and shake it off by walking home... less than twenty blocks. It's not too bad. That's why I come here..." But he has stopped her from actually going out the door. She probably needs a bit of water to even consider that walk.

The bartender is good. Been listening the whole time, and he knows his customers. A silent round of water is dropped off at their table, along with Claire's tab. He's watching Bullseye quietly, but seems to feel the man is taking care of a friend enough that he's not interfering.

Bullseye has posed:
    Eyes are on him, and Bullseye knows the best way to hide is in plain sight. He lets out a small sigh with a roll of his eyes at the bartender --- at least this was the one he'd been talking sports with over the last few weeks to gain that social capital. Whether or not he actually likes Lester is one thing, but at least he'd actually had a few conversations with him --- even if he WAS a Mets fan.

    "Thanks, Phil," Lester offers the man before his eyes eventually meet Claire's, again. He doesn't want to look like a total white knight right now, so he decides to joke around about Claire's current predicament rather than try to "rescue" her. "Look, I hate to sound like a big brother or a dad or whatever, but look, I've spent a weekend or two watchin' them 'Law & Order' marathons. Car or not, just don't go, alright? Not right this second, at least. Just take a load off and --- I dunno --- call me an idiot for a few minutes." He slowly takes his seat, hoping she takes he cue. He leans back again.

    "And just so you know? You aren't shitty company."

Claire Temple has posed:
Silence lingers for a few minutes, Claire staring at him and the slight white knight routine. But it also made sense. He wasn't *wrong*, she just hated that she let herself get sloppy. So, with a slight roll of her eyes, she sinks back into that big, flattened old chair, pulling one leg up again into her chest and reaching her hand for that water. She's not exactly pouting, but it's the edge of it, unhappy she's been talked out of leaving. But also unwilling to fight him on it.

"...Trust me, I know shitty company when I see it. And I'm not going to end up some Law and Order... special. I know this city and I'm a local. I'll take the good streets. People don't touch me... they know me. But... Fine. A glass of water and... Fine." She picks up her water, waggling it a bit to show him see? She's drinking! And she takes a good sip of it before putting it down and pulling out her credit card to cover the tab.

Bullseye has posed:
    "Hey, I'm not saying you're incapable, I'm not saying you need my help. This is your neighborhood, and I get it." He takes off his beanie and rubs the top of his shaved head, "But I got sisters, okay? This shit I can't exactly deprogram." He places the beanie on the table, and without it, his silver eyebrow piercing above his right is a little easier to see. There's some scarring, too, with a fairly prominent one on the back of his skull. A discerning eye would know it's from a surgical procedure.

    "So, let's talk about other stuff." Lester starts to look around, trying to conjure something out of nothing. "What do folks do when it comes to small talk? No aliens invasions... the Juggernaut ain't tearin' shit up, downtown... fuck, I dunno. Oh, I decided not to become a vigilante? That's good, right?"

Claire Temple has posed:
The sight of his bald head, and those scars, gets a slightly more curious look from Claire. She tilts her head, trying not to stare but her reaction time is a little slower than it would be if she wasn't 3 beers in, so he might catch sight of her dark eyes tilting over that scar, before his head moves again and she can't see it. The last comment is enough to get a genuine, tired laugh out of her. "...That's the best fucking news I've heard all week, actually. Good job. I'm proud. I...owe you a drink, next time you are in. Keep up the good work not getting yourself beat to shit trying to clean up a city that's been dirty for a hundred years." There is definitely something a little too personal behind that tone from her. She knows vigilantes.

But small talk isn't really her forte either. She nurses that water between her hands, trying to get the whole thing down but it's less tempting to drink that the beer she's mostly abandoned. "...Sisters? How many? They moved away now?"

Bullseye has posed:
    Him showing the scars was no accident. This broad's a healer, after all --- she'll zone in on that immediately, even if she's not saying anything. He just needs her to look... and look, she does. Perfect. "Yeah, I know I give off the 'soft and fluffy' vibe, but I've been in a few scraps. But like you said, vigilante work don't pay for shit. Can't take gratitude to the bank, know what I mean?" He's looking a lot more comfortable, now that she's joking, herself.

    "As for my sisters, we, uh... we don't really talk much, anymore. I know one of them's got kids... big fuckers, too, but I haven't... I haven't seen 'em much lately. We're all sorts of fucked up." He quickly clears his throat and abruptly sits up with the briefest look of sadness flashing on his face. Could this be real? Maybe. Maybe not. But from what he's gathered, family's a thing for Claire, too. Let's fix some more bait on the line.

Claire Temple has posed:
Another long drink of her water and she sets the empty glass down on the table. Claire's a bit more steady than she was before but she also doesn't look ready to run out of there any minute. Whatever defensive walls she slammed up and almost spooked her away are firmly coming down now. Exhausted, slightly blood shot dark eyes stare over his face as he talks about his sisters, a few more of those defenses crumbling. "...Shit. No. I'm... sorry. Not my place to ask. It's hard to have family and not... " Claire shakes her head a bit, still a little too drunk to find the right words. "Anyway. Sorry."

She picks up the half finished beer she was going to abandon and, instead, takes a sip of it. Slower this time, settling back into conversation and his company. But she seems to have been thoroughly distracted from her day, at least.

Bullseye has posed:
    Lester tilts his head ever-so-slightly, his lips curled to the side as he gives her a small shrug. "We all got our shit, right?" He snickers. There's a moment of hesitation as he takes in this moment. "Jesus, look at us --- all we need is some free, shitty coffee, and this'll be the best support group I've ever been to. You need a coin? I got a coin if you need a coin." Oh, Lester. What a positive and fun, if not damaged, man.

Claire Temple has posed:
That makes her roll her eyes. "...I don't need a coin. Hell...I can't remember the last night I actually sit down with a beer. Much less three. Probably half the issue here. I'm a fuckin' light weight now." Claire admits with a half laugh, shaking her head at herself as she tucks her body back into that chair and draws her knees back up. Still exhausted. Still making herself instinctively smaller than she normally is. But also still talking to him. More than she was in the beginning. "...If you...*do* wanna talk about it. I'm here. Least I can do after you heard my mess. If not... well, I guess I'm here until the end of this beer and water anyway."

Bullseye has posed:
    "I... could," he says, drawing it out a bit. "But I don't got the funds to pay you for that amount of therapy. I tell you what, though --- maybe we can just be cordial with each other and yammer on about non-shit, if you like." He glances at the beer she's sipping and considers buying himself another before ultimately deciding not to. "But I wouldn't know where to start. I mean, what do people talk about at superhero bars when they're not trying to bang, y'know?"

Claire Temple has posed:
"... What makes you think this is a super hero bar?" Claire asks, genuine confusion across her face and a little bit of an exhausted laugh behind her voice. She's nursing that beer now, not pounding it. His conversation clearly serves as much of a good distraction as the booze itself did earlier. She rests one elbow on the top of her knee, the other loosely at her side, fingertips around that glass. The way she sits in the chair emphasizes she's mostly long and lanky, soft in a few areas, a decent rack, but she's got the thin limbs of someone who maybe works a bit too hard and eats a bit too little. Tone from wrestling patients and carrying bodies.

Bullseye has posed:
    A confused expression washes over Lester's face, as well. He takes a second to look around before returning his puzzled gaze back onto Claire. "I'm not high, am I? This is Luke Cage's bar? Look, I'm not saying anyone here's a supe, but I'll bet you a hundred dollars --- that I ain't got, by the way --- that if you drink HERE? You've probably rubbed elbows with a few of 'em." Shit, did he just fuck this up, already?

    He lets out a small sigh, leaning back. "I dunno. Maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part."

Claire Temple has posed:
"...They call him a superhero nowadays? Yeah... I guess so. This is Luke's place." Claire gives a tired, half snerk of a thought about it. "...I told you not to get any vigilante thoughts. And, shit... I've known Luke since he was some punk kid. It just..." She shakes her head, "I guess I never thought of it like that." She's someone that either is so unimpressed by vigilantes because she's mad at them, or because she sees so many of them it seems common place to her now. The look on her tired face really isn't giving away which, but she clearly knows the man.

"You...don't want to be rubbin' elbows with that mess. I told you already. I don't give a shit what the Post says, the Post is a clickbait rag that still somehow makes it onto news print." Her dislike of the Post is as classic New York as one can get. There is no doubt she's born and bred this city.

Bullseye has posed:
    "My bad," he replies weakly, visibly concerned as --- yet, again --- this vigilante talk is causing her stress. If there was ANY doubt that this was the Night Nurse, it's gone. "How 'bout this, then --- how about we don't talk superheroes or whatever at all? Not Luke, not the Batman, not... the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, none of it. We won't talk about anything that's gonna... fuck, what's the word? Trigger us?" There's the smallest uptick of emotion when he mentions the Devil, but hey, maybe he's just a religious guy.

    "So, that said --- what do YOU wanna talk about so that your walk home ain't gonna be you mutterin' shit to yourself for twenty blocks, straight?"

Claire Temple has posed:
He's got to be looking for it closely, really closely, but Claire is drunk enough that she can't entirely control every reaction she has. As he mentions the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, there's a slight narrowing of her eyes. A momentary tension to her breath. Someone who is less than pleased with something, but isn't going to bring it up. Still, everything about her changes for just a second. Then she drowns it in a gulp of beer and everything seems gone.

"Trigger... is a word that really should be reserved for non-neurotypical reactions to deep trauma. Nothing's going to 'trigger' us. But... yes. We should talk about things that are less annoying than people who take the law and lives into their own hands." She's trying not to think about it, but after another drink of her beer, she sets the glass down to forcibly slow herself down from drinking. Subconsciously, her fingertips fall against the edge of her sleeve, thumb brushing against a scar that peeks out from the edge there. Knife wound, probably. She might not even realize she's touching it.

Bullseye has posed:
    Truth be told, he's too busy stewing and trying not to clench his fists to really catch Claire's not-so-happy reaction to the Devil --- and even if he did, doesn't everyone hate that fuckin' guy? Regardless, he nods politely as she goes into that nerd shit about the /actual/ meaning for "trigger" and his chest heaves for a moment at her mention of "trauma." This dumb broad doesn't know trauma. Not like he does, especially since he's usually the source of it.

    "Alright, then. Happy shit. How 'bout this, then --- you got three bands or singers that you can listen to for the rest of your life. Just three, that's it. Who are they, and why is it Led Zeppelin, AC/DC, and the Backstreet Boys?"

Claire Temple has posed:
Eventually, her eyes narrow just a touch on him. Claire's good at reading people and just drunk enough to not be exactly polite. "...Lester...am I...annoying you?" She's probably read it wrong. It's her mind exhausted, seeing different writing on the wall, but there's a flash of something she just catches in his eyes and then it's gone. Still, she trusts her instincts and the question comes out of her lips before she can stop it.

But he's moving on. Still trying to distract her. Happy shit and things. Claire blinks, trying to shake off that feeling as he asks that question and then supplies answers. Her eyes roll hard at the last one. "Maybe Led Zeppelin. MAYBE. But you're wrong if the Doors isn't on there and probably Prince?"

Bullseye has posed:
    Lester winces at her question, and realizes he may have given her a tell. Nurses are probably good with details, anyway, no matter HOW many beers they've guzzled down. He decides that maybe he just didn't hear that question, 'cause why on earth would he be annoyed? Maybe he's empathetic with a less-than-stellar poker face? Maybe he doesn't know how to talk to people when they're legitimately troubled? Or maybe he's a psychopath with a one-track mind and a seething hatred for the color red.

    Regardless, he meets her answers with a tiny grin. "Alright, the Doors --- I'll give you that one. But Prince? I dunno. Music's fine, but then I realize he probably shops at the kids' Halloween department at Mashall's and I can't take 'em seriously, anymore, raspberry beret and all. But hey, that's the beauty of music." He then addresses the elephant in the room. "But don't think I didn't catch you rollin' your eyes at my Boys." His grin extends, ever slightly.

Claire Temple has posed:
"...Fucking... *Backstreet Boys*? You are kidding. You HAVE to be joking. Beastie Boys I MIGHT take. But... Backstreet? Come on. I'm not that drunk." Claire grins to him, the momentary worry of if she was bothering him gone. He didn't mention it, so why should she dwell? She still shakes her head, skeptical about his music choices, as she scoops up her beer and finishes the last, deep gulp of the stuff. "There. No alcohol abuse."

Bullseye has posed:
    Lester chuckles to himself, "I wish I was kiddin'. But hey, if we're friends and gotta be honest with each other, let's be fuckin' honest with each other. Look, I'm not sayin' I got their posters on my wall --- not anymore, at least --- but if you can't feel AJ when he sings the pre-hook in 'I'll Never Break Your Heart,' you're a fuckin' monster in my eyes." There we go. Get that laugh. You're no threat at all.

Claire Temple has posed:
And he succeeds. It's not a full bodied laugh, but his defends of the Backstreet Boys definitely gets a warm, deep chuckle from her throat. Enough that he's officially turned the bad enough around that she'll probably be able to sleep. Claire has a good laugh. It's a rare thing, her life exhausting and often more bitter than she cares to admit. But when she laughs, there's a freedom to her and a touchability to it, exhaustion making it the edge of husky and something warmer. Something that shows how lovely she was when she was young. "...Fine, fine... You can take Backstreet Boys. No judgment. I'll keep my Doors."

Bullseye has posed:
    "Goddamn right, I will," he says, putting a finger up. Lady, he is SERIOUS. He snickers to himself and blows out a hard breath before looking at the clock on the wall of the bar. It's getting late. He feigns a yawn, but decides to lean back in his chair, again --- just looking at Claire with that small curl of a smile. He might be tired, but he wants to stay... at least it certainly looks that way. But it's also here that he realizes that his welcome shouldn't be overstayed. "Look, I'll be real with you," he says quietly enough for just the two of them to hear. "This was kinda chaotic... but it was fun. Honestly, I just dropped in for a beer, y'know? But this was real nice. How's about we not wait a couple weeks to do this again? You good with that?"

Claire Temple has posed:
The laugh finally trailing off, but most of her soured mood passed, Claire remembers her credit card and leans over to grab her bill, signing it off with a very nice tip for the bartender. An apology for the messiness earlier. But she's feeling the time of night as well and he's giving her the needing to go signals. It was a good time to wrap. She gives him a tired smile. "I... guess it was. And I should get home. It *is* still twenty blocks. Uh..."

The question of not waiting to do this again makes her stop. Claire stares at him, lips pressing together in a thoughtful, slightly uncertain line. "...I.. am not really the sort to... Date. Last guy I almost did..." Nearly died on her couch several times? There's a tension behind her eyes about it that doesn't really get explained, but it's not good. "It... was messy. But...I'm around here. Sharing a beer is never... Bad."

Bullseye has posed:
    Lester tilts his head again, clearly perplexed. It's here that his eyes go wide as he realizes how she took that last question. The reality was it was exactly how he'd hoped she'd react, but now it's time to subvert expectations. Bronx girls are the toughest girls on the planet, which is why when they think you're gonna zig, you gotta zag HARD.

    "Hey, Claire, look," he says, "I really hope that you don't misinterpret what I said, here. I swear, I really am not that guy who's goin' to bars lookin' to date. Quite frankly? I'm fuckin' bad at it, so I don't even really bother, anymore."

    He starts to fidget in embarrassment, but is clearly trying to smooth it over. "But you're a cool girl, and you're fun to talk to, so yeah --- let's share beers."

Claire Temple has posed:
She's definitely a Bronx girl. And Claire's instincts are definitely a little on edge. But everything she could read off of him was honest. Not trying to score a dater or a night home. She stares at him, trying to find something wrong with the offer. But, eventually, she just relaxes an inch and gives a slight tilt forward of her head in assent.

"...yeah. Beers... are doable. I usually have Tuesdays off. Sometimes Wednesdays. I come here if nothing's happening. So...maybe I'll see you next week? And we're both bad at that... dating thing. So beers and friends sounds just fine."

Bullseye has posed:
    "You got it," Lester says, offering a smile but still clearly embarrassed. In better lighting, he might even be considered to be blushing, but he grabs his beanie from the table and slips it back onto his head, adjusting it in the nearby mirror on the wall to hide it. "Next Tuesday, it is, then!" With that he stands up, and now comes that awkward part -- hugs? Nah, not after that. Handshake? That's for dorks. Instead he gives her a Cool-Guy-Nod, and whips his leather jacket around his shoulder to put it on. "You gonna be good on your walk? I got a bike out front, but I don't have an extra helmet."

Claire Temple has posed:
Dark eyes move to those scars again, curious, but this isn't the time to ask, especially as he covers them once more. Claire is definitely a bit more steady than she was the last time she stood up, though her cheeks have the high flush of someone who has drank more than one tonight. Credit card smoothly slipped into her wallet and that back in her pocket, she zips up her hoodie over her scrubs and gives him a slightly softer smile. "Next Tuesday, then. If I'm not here, I got pulled on shift. Swear I'm not being an asshole. But...hopefully I'll be here. And I'll be fine to walk. I've done it a hundred times before. Really."

Bullseye has posed:
    "You don't gotta tell me nothin', Bronx," he replies playfully. She's a tough broad. A little too skinny for his taste, and not as fucked up as he likes them, but she's tough. He adjusts his jacket before turning to the bartender, who's been keeping an eye on them at various points. "Hey, Phil --- fuck the Mets!" he shouts, to which Phil replies with a hearty, "Fuck off, Woody!" Ah, yes --- the Woody Harrelson joke. He gets that a lot.

    He then shoots a glance over to Claire and shrugs. "This fuckin' guy," he says before making his way towards the door. He doesn't want to have his gaze linger on her too long, but he does sneak peeks at her through the long mirror that spans the wall. Good night? See you later? Screw that, he's fuckin' Bullseye. This shit has to hit the mark. And as he nears the threshold, he offers his last words of the night with a smug grin she wouldn't be able to see:

    "Night, Nurse!"

Claire Temple has posed:
The banter between bartender and Lester is enough to set Claire even more at ease. He really has been coming here when she's not here. He's a part of this neighborhood. Whatever instincts are going off in her head are pure paranoia from a life too long on edge, nothing actually wrong. She gives him one last tired smile, a half salute, and heads for the door, her work duffle bag now slung across her shoulder.

She's about to completely exit, not expecting any other words, but then he calls that good night. That very specific. Good. Night. Claire pauses almost immediately, almost stumbling. She's heard the nick name before, more than once now, on the streets. Did he know it? Was it concidence? Dark eyes turn back to him, a slightly funny smile on her lips. Trying to figure out if he meant it like that or not. "...Night, Lester." She calls back. After another heartbeat, she turns to go.

It was nothing. It was probably nothing.