Haven, Maine, Friday night
Nov. 29th, 2019 07:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
betterthanaplanDuke hadn't visited the Rusty Bucket in ages. Which was true of any Haven establishment, of course, but still. Even before he'd sailed off at the age of 22, he hadn't been in the place in awhile. He preferred the Shiny Scupper — better ambiance, nicer clientele — but old Sal had that place closed up for the weekend, so if Duke wanted to get out of Meg's hair and grab a drink someplace that wasn't his own boat, the Rusty Bucket was his only real option.
This town needed better bars. Some place . . . upscale. By the water. Where you could get food that wasn't chicken wings or pretzels, and those big, fruity cocktails.
"Well now. If it isn't the prodigal son himself."
And not run into the local man of God on a bender.
"Reverend Driscoll." Duke sipped his bourbon (decent stuff, he'd give the place that) and flashed the Rev as smile that came nowhere near his eyes. "Still pickled, I see."
"I've been waiting for you, my boy." The Reverend sat down beside Duke, weaving faintly in his seat. "You've been gone a long time."
"And yet not long enough." Duke looked around, but there were no other seats available further from the Rev and his oily, scotch-soaked sermonizing. "Really, though. You shouldn't have."
"Your father and I were good friends, you know. Good, good friends."
"Uh huh. Not actually a ringing endorsement."
The Rev's expression darkened. "Do not speak ill of the dead, boy. The Lord says to honor thy father and mother."
Duke smirked and saluted him with his drink. "One of the many reasons I'm a Buddhist." The Rev reared back like he'd been struck. Duke stood, deciding having a seat wasn't worth the lecture. "If you'll excuse me."
"Don't you walk away from me, boy!" The Rev made a drunken grab for Duke's arm. Duke dodged easily out of the way, and the Rev overbalanced, falling heavily against another patron and spilling his beer.
It was exactly what you didn't want to happen in a crowded dive bar the day after a stressful family holiday. Duke had seen it play out in who knew how many sketchy places all around the world, and had no interest in seeing it again. So as the spilled-beer guy roared and shoved the Rev back, Duke held tight to his drink and looked around for a nice, defensible spot to wait out the chaos.
He wasn't fast enough. The local tempers were shorter than he'd have thought — the winter fish weren't biting, maybe, or more of the Bucket's clientele worked retail than anticipated. Maybe the Black Bears were having a bad season. Whatever the reason, the whole bar seemed to leap at the opportunity for a brawl. Duke was immediately boxed in with nowhere to dodge or run. He tossed back the rest of his bourbon — he'd paid for it, dammit, he was going to drink it even if he couldn't enjoy it — and got his arms up just in time to block a wild haymaker from a particularly stout gentleman with more arm strength than sense. An elbow to the ribs caught him unawares though, and as he instinctively doubled over, hands shifting to his middle, someone split their knuckles on someone else's jaw and Duke got a faceful of blood, spittle, and teeth.
And his trouble roared to attention.
Duke froze in place, shouting through clenched teeth in an attempt to vent some of the aggression roaring through him. A part of his brain he usually managed to block out entirely started cataloguing how many ways there were to kill the people around him. His hands clenched around his ribs, mere inches from the pocket knife he habitually carried. He could have it out and in his hands in an instant, easy as breathing, and who'd even be able to tell who'd done what? He knew his wasn't the only blade in here tonight, and it would feel so good. After everything this town put him through growing up, he deserved a little revenge.
A laugh bubbled up his throat at the thought, coming out as another groan as Duke clamped down on the impulse, on the murderous thoughts, on the sheer joy his trouble took at the mayhem around him. He wasn't here to hurt anyone. He'd never wanted to, only turned to violence when he had no other options. He just needed to breath through this. He was in charge of his own body, dammit, even when it was flushed with dopamine and adrenaline.
Duke Crocker did not lose control.
He glanced up as the trouble wave crested and started to recede, and found the Rev staring back at him, an impossibly stable island amidst the brawling crowd, a manic gleam in his eye.
"My boy."
What the fuck did that mean?!
The rush faded again, and before he could catch his breath to ask, someone slammed a chair against his back and neck, and he lost track of everything for several long moments.
When his head stopped spinning, he found himself pressed against the bar, the smell of cheap whiskey thick in his nostrils, a pair of cuffs closed around his wrists, and an uncomfortably familiar voice in his ear, reading him his rights.
Duke pushed back to try to stand upright, only to get slammed back against the bar again, hard enough to make his forehead bounce against the wood. He tasted blood.
"Stop resisting," Nathan said, voice cold and empty.
"Nate," Duke tried, and got another shove for his trouble.
"That's Detective Wuornos to you."
Duke bit his already abused lip and closed his eyes.
Ah. The joys of home.
[NFB/NFI, natch. OOC is fine]
This town needed better bars. Some place . . . upscale. By the water. Where you could get food that wasn't chicken wings or pretzels, and those big, fruity cocktails.
"Well now. If it isn't the prodigal son himself."
And not run into the local man of God on a bender.
"Reverend Driscoll." Duke sipped his bourbon (decent stuff, he'd give the place that) and flashed the Rev as smile that came nowhere near his eyes. "Still pickled, I see."
"I've been waiting for you, my boy." The Reverend sat down beside Duke, weaving faintly in his seat. "You've been gone a long time."
"And yet not long enough." Duke looked around, but there were no other seats available further from the Rev and his oily, scotch-soaked sermonizing. "Really, though. You shouldn't have."
"Your father and I were good friends, you know. Good, good friends."
"Uh huh. Not actually a ringing endorsement."
The Rev's expression darkened. "Do not speak ill of the dead, boy. The Lord says to honor thy father and mother."
Duke smirked and saluted him with his drink. "One of the many reasons I'm a Buddhist." The Rev reared back like he'd been struck. Duke stood, deciding having a seat wasn't worth the lecture. "If you'll excuse me."
"Don't you walk away from me, boy!" The Rev made a drunken grab for Duke's arm. Duke dodged easily out of the way, and the Rev overbalanced, falling heavily against another patron and spilling his beer.
It was exactly what you didn't want to happen in a crowded dive bar the day after a stressful family holiday. Duke had seen it play out in who knew how many sketchy places all around the world, and had no interest in seeing it again. So as the spilled-beer guy roared and shoved the Rev back, Duke held tight to his drink and looked around for a nice, defensible spot to wait out the chaos.
He wasn't fast enough. The local tempers were shorter than he'd have thought — the winter fish weren't biting, maybe, or more of the Bucket's clientele worked retail than anticipated. Maybe the Black Bears were having a bad season. Whatever the reason, the whole bar seemed to leap at the opportunity for a brawl. Duke was immediately boxed in with nowhere to dodge or run. He tossed back the rest of his bourbon — he'd paid for it, dammit, he was going to drink it even if he couldn't enjoy it — and got his arms up just in time to block a wild haymaker from a particularly stout gentleman with more arm strength than sense. An elbow to the ribs caught him unawares though, and as he instinctively doubled over, hands shifting to his middle, someone split their knuckles on someone else's jaw and Duke got a faceful of blood, spittle, and teeth.
And his trouble roared to attention.
Duke froze in place, shouting through clenched teeth in an attempt to vent some of the aggression roaring through him. A part of his brain he usually managed to block out entirely started cataloguing how many ways there were to kill the people around him. His hands clenched around his ribs, mere inches from the pocket knife he habitually carried. He could have it out and in his hands in an instant, easy as breathing, and who'd even be able to tell who'd done what? He knew his wasn't the only blade in here tonight, and it would feel so good. After everything this town put him through growing up, he deserved a little revenge.
A laugh bubbled up his throat at the thought, coming out as another groan as Duke clamped down on the impulse, on the murderous thoughts, on the sheer joy his trouble took at the mayhem around him. He wasn't here to hurt anyone. He'd never wanted to, only turned to violence when he had no other options. He just needed to breath through this. He was in charge of his own body, dammit, even when it was flushed with dopamine and adrenaline.
Duke Crocker did not lose control.
He glanced up as the trouble wave crested and started to recede, and found the Rev staring back at him, an impossibly stable island amidst the brawling crowd, a manic gleam in his eye.
"My boy."
What the fuck did that mean?!
The rush faded again, and before he could catch his breath to ask, someone slammed a chair against his back and neck, and he lost track of everything for several long moments.
When his head stopped spinning, he found himself pressed against the bar, the smell of cheap whiskey thick in his nostrils, a pair of cuffs closed around his wrists, and an uncomfortably familiar voice in his ear, reading him his rights.
Duke pushed back to try to stand upright, only to get slammed back against the bar again, hard enough to make his forehead bounce against the wood. He tasted blood.
"Stop resisting," Nathan said, voice cold and empty.
"Nate," Duke tried, and got another shove for his trouble.
"That's Detective Wuornos to you."
Duke bit his already abused lip and closed his eyes.
Ah. The joys of home.
[NFB/NFI, natch. OOC is fine]