Owner	Pose
Bullseye	Ugh.     Rap music.     Bullseye rolls his eyes from behind his aviator sunglasses, sinking back in his stool with a row of peanuts lined up in front of him. This isn't the first time he's felt out of place somewhere, but to say he sticks out in this particular venue would be a massive understatement. Too many young people with their all-too-expensive t-shirts made to look old, beaten-up and hip. Too many people with their stupid smartphones and stupid conversation laughing and smiling. Too much joy. He fucking hated joy.     "One more," he says to the bartender, motioning towards a his empty shot glass. He doesn't want to be here, but he needs to --- at a chump superhero's bar, no less. But if he's done his homework right and operated with his mark's routine in mind, said mark was going to show up any second, now. And then the REAL work would start.
Claire Temple	Nearly 10 pm on a Wednesday night wasn't exactly the most rocking time at Luke's bar, but that's when Claire liked it the best. She could almost hear herself think over the rap music and it was her one night off this week. The last thing she wanted to do was sit at home, waiting for someone to stumble through her fire escape half dead. So, she let herself be talked out for at least a few beers. Without work, Claire is is wearing what counts as 'going out' clothes. A pair of tight fitting jeans, black tank top, a light gray Metro General hoodie. So, maybe they aren't really clubbing clothes, but they are clean and the jeans do everything right for her slender frame. She's got her black hair down in loose waves, still fairly fresh out of the shower. Dark eyes scan the room, looking for any familiar face... To no avail. She was going to spend her one night off alone. She huffs out a bit of a breath and stalks to the bar.
Bullseye	Ding-ding-ding --- we got ourselves a winner, ladies and gentlemen.     Bullseye wasn't the type to dedicate so much time to a civilian he wasn't being paid to kill, but this wasn't just any would-be rabble rouser. This was someone important. Someone who, if the rumors are true, could lead him to the one thing that's haunted him for what's seemed like forever. He traces her movements out of his peripheral vision and peers down at the peanuts in front of him, downing another shot of Jameson before slamming it down with authority.     Yeah, sister. He's had a hard night, too.
Claire Temple	Out of strange luck, or maybe the fact that Bullseye is actually good at his research and there weren't many other places to sit solo, Claire comes straight up to the bar near him. She gives him one of those momentary, awkward smiles, of someone trying to slip into a bar without invading space. But it's often hard. She's also trying to figure out if she recognizes him -- this wasn't a place that got a lot of out of towners. "...Uh...Still got the Big Wave on draft, or is all pumpkin spice and Oktoberfest now?" The woman behind the bar smiles and shakes her head, "Last bit of summer left until the keg is kicked." And the woman pulls on the Kona Big Wave handle, golden beer spilling out into a mostly clean glass. Claire sighs and sits. At least they had her beer.
Bullseye	Bullseye can't help but crack a small grin at Claire's joke. She was a lot cuter than he'd thought she'd be, but that was neither here nor there. If this was going to go how he'd planned, Bullseye needed to engage. No woman in their right mind would start up a conversation with a guy who virtually had "Don't say a goddamn word to me" tattooed on his forehead.     "Yeah, I asked for the pumpkin spice beer, myself," he offers, making sure not to make direct eye contact. Nope, that'd scare any woman off with a face like his. "Evidently, my hair," he says with a smirk, removing his black beanie to reveal his short, cropped hair, "aint... Kimmy enough? Katie enough? Christ, what's the name for some mouthy broad who complains too much? Can I see your manager and all that?"
Claire Temple	"...Karen?" Claire offers with just slightly skeptical an edge to her tone. She's used to being hit on in bars. If that's what he's doing (and she suspects it is), he's far more subtle than most. Subtle enough he gets a side ways smile from her and sight tilt of her beer before she scoops the thing to her lips. She takes a long, needful bit of a sip. A woman who will sleep better for a few of them in her system and the headache gone from behind her eyes. "...The pumpkin stuff is too sweet. Maybe if it's an imperial, but they usually don't carry those in these parts." Because they are too expensive. Because no one is going to pay 8 or 9 bucks a pint for some fancy ass craft beer when half the people here are barely making that an hour.
Bullseye	"Can't say I've had one," Bullseye says, keeping his attention on the row of alcohol bottles on the shelves behind the bar. His face scrunches up slightly and his eyes narrow, his eyes darting from one end of the shelf to the other. "Honestly, I don't have a clue why anyone would wanna drink a fuckin' pumpkin, anyway, but call me a simple guy."     He brings his hands up to the bar to spread the peanuts out in front of him even more. "But we live in a world of psychos dressed up as bats and monarchs with a hard-on for Darth Vader, so yeah, what do I know?" He smirks, looking like he's about to flick one of the peanuts up at the bottles a good 6-7 feet away. "Speakin' of drinks... you up for one? If I pull this off, it's my treat."
Claire Temple	"Tell me about it." Claire deadpans a bit too tired, a bit too bitterly, as he mentions about the world being full of psychos dressed up as bats and monarchs. She doesn't even disagree, having seen far too much of it in the past year. She just eagerly drinks her beer, a woman not scared to enjoy consuming something to relax. There's very little traditionally 'lady like' or 'delicate' about Claire Temple. She's a Bronx girl, through and through. "...What? If you pull what off? Get one of those into one of those tiny-ass bottles?" Claire laughs skeptically, shaking her head. "That's about the weirdest pick up line I've ever heard but sure, buddy, if you do the impossible, I'll let you buy the next round."
Bullseye	"Pick-up lines are for suckers, lady," he says with a short breath. His words come out slowly as he begins to measure his angle, here. Of course, none of this is necessary. If he wanted to, he could pull off this same stunt from the front door and blindfolded, but hey --- baby steps.     "No, this is just what happens on a day off. Excuse me, can I get some help, here?" He motions to the bartender for her attention who finishes drying a glass before asking what he wants. He tilts his head towards Claire and says, "Me and this total stranger over here would like a shot of..."     He lets it loose, and the peanut is a blur as it shoots off from the bar. Was he trying to bounce it into one of the bottles? Maybe. If he was a rookie. Instead, there's just the sound of light metal-on-glass, timed perfectly to the end of the song currently playing on the jukebox, as the cap of a bottle of Grey Goose spins in place and loosens itself from the peanut's ricochet. "Ugh," Bullseye says with a disappointed sigh. "Vodka."
Claire Temple	"...Well. I'm glad neither of us is a sucker." Claire responds, though there is a hint of genuine amusement behind her voice. Even if he was a sweet talker, he did it in a way that was amusing, if nothing else? Claire's intrigued enough to waste a beer and another shot on it. Especially if he's buying. Dark eyes track his showing off, still with that slightly skeptical, I've-Seen-Everything narrowing to them. Claire's been bragged at by the worst of them. But he's not bragging. In fact, he makes it look easy. She blinks as he practically knocks the cap off with the peanut, bottle clearly chosen. Dark eyes then narrow a bit closer at him, body fully turning on her barstool. "...Fine. Drinks are on you. But if you hate vodka so much... why aim for it? You...clearly got some freaky talent you've been practicing since the 4th grade. I bed you could nail any one of those, right? Why go for that one?"
Bullseye	There's a reserved sigh and a lazy shrug from Bullseye, who starts flicking the rest of the peanuts into the garbage as the bartender pours him the two shots. "I dunno," he offers, turning his face halfway towards Claire, now. "Call me an underachiever? And look, as for the this 'freaky talent' o' mine, it's like those lil' Asian kids going nuts with those Rubik's cubes. Sure, it's impressive on a technical level, but after a while, it ain't exactly a Tony Stark suit we're marveling' over, y'know? I mean, I ain't a doctor or nothin'."     He slides a shot glass over to Claire, meeting her gaze, now. His face looks worn. Tired. This is a guy who's seen some shit, and it's not entirely clear on what side of the blame he falls on. He raises the glass for a quick cheers, "And for the record? I been workin' on this since the FIFTH grade."
Claire Temple	"No... doctors are far worse assholes and generally far less interesting. And when they show off their talents, they don't buy you a drink, they just hand you a 30,000 dollar bill." Claire could see it in his face, that sort of life exhaustion. The sort of face she sees a lot around here. It endears her to him far quicker than some show of ER surgeon. She raises her shot glass to his and clinks it gently before knocking back a good gulp of the thing.     Grey Goose. Way higher shelf than she can normally afford. It barely stings going down. She knocks back the few last legs of it on the side of the shot glass before sliding it across the bar. "Well, at least you have good taste in vodka. Too rich for my blood, but I'll take it." Then she's going back to the dregs of her beer. The fifth grade comment gets him an honest smile. "Oo...Fifth. My mistake. Impressive."
Bullseye	"Ah, sounds like someone who works at a hospital," Bullseye replies, gulping down his shot. "If so, you're doin' the lord's work, and I don't say that lightly. If I could be frank, I don't think I'd ever be confused for anyone who spends his Sundays hearin' sermons from the Good Book, but you've gotta be crazy to think there ain't some higher power lookin' down at all this shit and just laughing his fuckin' ass off." He shakes his head, slowly placing the shot glass back on the bar with a mutter to himself. It looks like this whole ruse is working so far, but this girl is way too goddamn nice. It's gonna get her killed. And hopefully, not by him.     "Anyway, how 'bout you? What's your story? No way I'm the only person between us with some freaky, useless superpower."
Claire Temple	"Got it in one. Nurse. Down at Metro General." Claire admits quietly. No reason not to tell him, half the neighborhood knew, she'd be in here in her scrubs after a particularly bad shift. She finishes off her beer and motions for another. "Make it two...my tab. Give him somethin' worth drinking." Claire calls to the bartender. The guy looked hard enough on his luck, fancy tricks or not. At least she can repay the favor with a cheap beer instead of an expensive vodka. As he mutters about church, she gives a husky laugh in that Christmas-and-Easter catholic kind of way. "Yeah, probably is...but my abuela would tell you to maybe get in on a Sunday or two. Just to be safe." She gave him a bit of a grin and picked up her fresh pint. "Don't get around to it much myself. Work first. Occasionally sleep. I'd like to think if God's not a complete asshole, he understands." The question about her story drives her quiet for a few heartbeats. She stares down into her glass then over to him. It's the first time something felt off. Maybe she's just not used to being nice. Still, she watches him for a far longer moment before offering simply, "Not much to say. Grew up in the area. Went to nursing school. Inherited a rent controlled apartment. As stories around here go, I'm one of the lucky ones." Even if her eyes look like ten miles of exhausted, bad road.
Bullseye	Off, indeed. Bullseye wasn't much for small talk, and sure, every now and then he can maybe get away with a witty line if it wasn't for that dead-eyed look he's so used to rocking --- but this was different. A shithead politician or some mafia snitch would make this whole predator-meets-prey thing more amusing, but some nurse with a decent sense of humor who actually sees him as a person? If just for a conversation? That's more disarming than a billy club to the back of the dome.     "Count your blessings, then," he offers with a small pop of his eyebrows. "This neighborhood, this city, this whole world will eat you alive if you let it. And this is a kid from the Bronx sayin' that. But you look around at everything happening, and you gotta ask yourself if what you're doing on a daily basis even fuckin' matters. For you? I think it does. You're one of the good guys, drinkin' at a good guys' bar. That ain't a coincidence. As for me? I'll stick to sittin' alone at bars."     He snickers to himself, receiving the newly-ordered beer and raising it up. "Fuck, maybe I'll put on a mask and hope the next big super-powered shithead has a peanut allergy."
Claire Temple	There is something off about him and Claire just can't figure it out. She's normally good at getting a read on people but her read here was vascillating. Somewhere between a guy down on his luck, genuinely, and someone doing a con. She studies him over the rim of her beer glass, dark eyes narrowing just a touch. His words were nice enough, and not exactly wrong. She gives him a thin-shouldered, tired sort of shrug. "No clue if it really makes a difference. But I know if I didn't do it, there'd be a lot more people SOL so... might as well keep getting out of bed. And...you *are* the one that offered to buy me a drink, mister peanuts." She tosses a gaze at the discarded shells. The moment he jokes about putting on a mask, however, her back stiffens a bit. She shakes her head almost too insistently. There's an edge of trauma here. The part of her desperate not to see another person bleeding on her couch. "Don't. It...it's not worth it. Sure, cops are shit heads, but doing that shit?...Just as likely to get someone killed. You or someone else. It's an idiotic move and it doesn't pay."
Bullseye	There it is. The button to press. He isn't exactly sure if continuing to push it is the right move, but there's a part of him that almost envies the civilian life. Then again, this was no ordinary civilian. "Sure, you wanna tell the Avengers that? The fuckin' Justice League? This world craves chaos, and loves itself a savior. Every morning, I look up at any of these goddamn superhero towers and I think to myself, 'What's a guy gotta do to get THAT kinda love, y'know? That respect?' It's crazy, I know."     He takes another sip of his beer. There's certain hesitation and reluctance in what he's about to say. "About six months ago or so, this little boy and his grandmother --- couldn't have been younger than retirement age, I figure --- flat-out gets mugged by some fuckin' asshole right in front of her apartment building. Broad daylight. No one does a goddamn thing. More people pulled out their phones than anything else. You know how I know this? Because I was one of those people. I wasn't scared or nothin'... I just... I didn't do nothin'. You forget that these capes can't be everywhere at once. You forget that just 'cause you ain't got no powers, you can still do SOMETHING. And look, I know you're puttin' up the red light or whatever, but you weren't there. I was. And I didn't do shit."
Claire Temple	He had her. The slight softening of her eyes, quiet understanding of a story she's heard a thousand times before. Claire sighs, her head lulling a bit to the side as she braces herself for an argument she's had with more than one person. They just already took the plunge, and this guy hadn't. She can feel her headache returning as she considers how to approach this without scaring him away. "Look...What's your name? I'm Claire." She sets down her beer and actually offers her slender, slightly calloused hand. She's got a seamstress' callouses, having done way too many stitch jobs and practiced on false skin far more than a nurse should. Hand shaken or not, she continues after a handful of heartbeats. "You might have a nice eye with some peanuts, but those guys are out there because they literally got to cheat the game, somehow. Captain America a cocktail of government drugs... Stark billions of dollars in tech money. Sure, it must be nice, but they aren't *people*. And whether you should have pulled your phone out or not, the one thing they tell you...tell us, is the moment someone's threatening you, let them take it. If someone comes in and holds up my ER with a gun? They are getting whatever drugs or bandages or needles they want. It isn't worth our lives playing super hero, when we only have *one* life and it's so... Damn... Fragile."
Bullseye	"And that's why you're the smartie-artie workin' at a hospital, and I'm the guy with the cheap parlor trick." He extends his hand to shake Claire's, and even in this lighting, one might see the old scars or the light bruising on his knuckles. "Lester. And yes, for fuck's sake, that's my real first name."     He snickers. He's opened up a bit more now. She's taking the bait, but he can't get careless. Whether or not she gets hurt at the end of all this, it'll be worth it if he gets to mount the Devil's head on his mantle. "I tell you what. If --- because I am, indeed, an idiot --- I decide NOT to take my phone out the next time some shit goes down, hopefully I can just call for you when I show up at Metro General? Nurse Claire, right? Can I just shout out Nurse Claire? I'll even bring some pumpkin spice beer 'cause I know it's your secret favorite. Can't fool me, lady."
Claire Temple	The Smartie-Artie comment definitely gets a roll of her eyes and a slight turn away, not used to that sort of praise when it doesn't come with a bit of mockery. So, it feels like home. Not that home always felt great. Claire is trying not to watch him, not to get sucked into it again with a stupid kid from home with too big a heart. His name gets a wry smile, though. "...Lester. Well, maybe you shouldn't be calling someone a smartie-artie when your name is Lester." But her full lipped smile has a bit of a tease behind it. Then he's going on about that and she turns directly back to him, a bit too sharply, her eyes wide and over protective in that momentary, Latina anger she doesn't always control well. "Lester. Fuck. No... I mean, if you're dying, you ask for Nurse Temple because that'll get you the right place, but just... NO! Don't do it. Don't fucking do it. Be smarter." She looks down to his knuckles with a bit of a huffed breath. "...Smarter than you've been."
Bullseye	There's a change in Lester's face at this point that comes with Claire's somewhat panicked concern. And although the quick jab at his name was warranted (if completely predictable), he glances down at his knuckles upon her last comment and quickly brings them in. This was working. "Yeah," he says with a light stammer. "Smarter than I've been."     Now's the time to pull out. He's got her sympathy, he's got her concern, and now he's got to go. If he's planned this right, she'll be worried about him. Maybe not in the same way as a loved one, or even a friend, but as someone she had a genuine (if fleeting) connection with. With any luck, he's not the guy at the bar anymore. If she's indeed, the Night Nurse, he's the first patient she'll have that's never been on her couch. And that, to Bullseye --- not Lester --- was a start.     "Look, I, uh --- I gotta go. Work in the morning and all that. But maybe I'll see you around, Nurse Temple." He nods, grabs his beanie from off the bar, and places three twenty-dollar bills next to his now-empty beer glass. "And not in the holy-shit-my-jaw's-broken kinda way." He grins, straightening out his leather jacket.     "With my luck? It'll be a rib."
Claire Temple	And then he's going? No cheesy comments about heading back to her apartment or finishing the pick up job? Just a good conversation, a good beer, and out? Claire stares at him like he's grown a second head, but not in a distrustful way. Just in a way that says this situation is unexpected, a little foreign, if nice. "Uh...Yeah, of course. Work comes first. My only night off this week so... guess I'm going to stick and enjoy it a bit longer. But...thanks. The company was nice." Oh yes, he's got her. Then he ends with that last little bit and she groans, shaking her head and swatting his shoulder one moment, as if to shoo him at the door. "Go, go! Shit. You know where to find me when you DON'T have to be bleeding. This is the place. I'd much rather see you with nothing broken, okay? But...get out of here before I take it back and realize you're actually some sort of sleeze and not just a half-way decent guy from the Bronx. *Go*. Good night!"
Bullseye	Lester holds his hands up as if he's been caught with them in the cookie jar. "Your reverse psychology is a motherfucker, Nurse Temple. I'm gettin' fitted for some spandex right now." It's here, when he stands up that it's clear this guy is in pretty decent shape. Construction? Security, maybe? Regardless, he gives her one last nod --- no cheesy smirk, no seductive gaze --- and turns to leave, offering one last smart-ass, Bronx-boy retort:     "And did you just call me halfway-decent? Shit, don't tell my ex."
Claire Temple	His retort, of course, is a proper Bronx-girl response. Claire Temple gives him a single middle finger over her shoulder, back still turned away from him. But he might catch the fact she's grinning in the mirror behind the bar.