#para: pagingdoctorbates

[evebrennan]

Spoilers

TIMING: Evening, current LOCATION: The Perfect Pint PARTIES: @pagingdoctorbates & @evebrennan SUMMARY: Bates tries out a new bar and teases the locals, Caoimhe just wants Ireland to get the credit they deserve. CONTAINS: Alcohol use

It was ten in the morning in Ireland. It wasn’t usually something Caoimhe found herself considering anymore, but the thought crossed her mind as she pushed open the door for The Perfect Pint. There was an old football rerun playing on the television, England versus Republic of Ireland, and a few rowdy patrons were cursing over missed strikes made years ago. The bartender was yelling along, in an accent that sounded like home in a way that ached. It was one in the morning in White Crest, but the door clicked shut behind her, and if she closed her eyes, she could imagine it was ten in the morning in Ireland.

Fates, she hadn’t felt that homesick in a while. Never settling long enough to grow roots made “home” a foreign concept at best, somewhere vague and green and inconsequential. She hadn’t taken a moment to consider it in so long, it was jarring when she finally did. She was considering home, and it was looking a lot like White Crest.

She blew out a breath and looked to the bar rather than let herself spiral. There was no live band and no karaoke, and the late-night crowd was just past tipsy and tapering off. She slid up to the bar next to a man looking up at the reruns, company was perfect.

“Would you be mad if I spoiled it for you?” She glanced up at the screen, where England was making a solid charge towards Ireland’s goal, “He’s going to miss.”

Bates lowered his glass from his lips and swallowed the harsh whiskey. His eyes never wavered from the screen. “Mind if I spoil it for you?” The player kicked the ball for the goal, but the shot went wide and sailed right past the post. “They still won.” He finished his whiskey off and raised the empty glass to the bartender nearby to signal for another drink. “And I was three-hundred dollars richer for it, too.”

He turned to face the stranger sat beside him. Her hair was brown, shoulder length. Her neck and lower left cheek were red, and her clothing was neat and casual. It wasn’t exactly overdressed, but it was definitely a bit much for a bar at one in the morning.

The bartender brought him his next drink and swapped it for his empty one. Bates took it and turned back to the screen. “Based on the accent, I’m sure you’re happy the home team took the gold medal.”

“Lucky guess.” Caoimhe grinned and slid onto the barstool next to him, making herself more of a permanent fixture.

On the screen, Ireland recovered to make their own drive down the field. The man was right, they would go on to win it. Any time they could get a win over England, with a title on the line or not, was the best kind of win. Caoimhe had been in a different bar, in a different town, when the game was played live. No one had cared nearly as much as even the drunk stragglers in The Perfect Pint did two years later. She hadn’t been missing home, then. She’d been too focused on figuring out where she was going next.

Caoimhe pulled her focus from the television and pivoted to face the gambler. His accent wasn’t Irish, but she’d learned there were many people who could hide such things. Their team wasn’t a bad bet, but it wasn’t necessarily a good one, either. She couldn’t tell if he looked the type to make bad bets, certainly not ones worth three-hundred dollars. He looked casual in jeans and a button up over a t-shirt Caoimhe couldn’t make out. He was at a bar at one in the morning, but then, so was she. “What made you bet on Ireland? Not that I’m complaining. Again, the accent.”

After another hearty drink, Bates sucked in a breath to ease the burn. “Dark hair, third position.” He pointed at the screen, and once it passed over the man Bates mentioned, he leaned his head toward the woman. “Right there. He’s the reason I bet good ol’ Ireland.”

Caoimhe squinted up at the screen until she caught sight of the player in question. Wearing an England jersey. “Sir…”

She wasn’t fantastic at sports, it was hard to keep up when you spent most of your life in a beat-up Impreza, but she was fairly certain Ireland had gone on to win. She certainly didn’t know enough to know which players were good, and which ones were bad. Her thoughts were interrupted by the bartender, asking for her order in that accent that almost distracted her from the matter at hand. “Just...hold on, sir, that’s an England player. Were you rooting for England? MacAuley, I think he’s rooting for England.”

“Rooting against England,” Bates corrected. “Guy’s name is Reynolds. He spent the first half of this season recovering from lung damage. He stops every five seconds to catch his breath in this particular game.” He paused and took another drink. “Having your ex-best player in an important position he can no longer play means even Ireland can score a goal or two.”

Caoimhe paused to look up and watch for a moment. Sure enough, it only took a moment for the player in question to pause. “Huh.” She let out a breath, all faux-annoyance leaving her in a breath. Only to return just a moment later. “Now hold on, ‘even Ireland?’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Yes, even Ireland,” Bates reiterated with a hearty nod of his head. “There’s about fifteen minutes left of the game, and Irleand is up six to England’s two.” He turned his head to her. “England has an empty whoopie cushion for a star player, and Ireland’s not only been scored on, but they’ve only scored six?”

He shook his head and took another swig from his glass. “They almost deserved to lose this one.”

“Six is so high for soccer.” It all came out in one breath, just on the edge of exasperation. Caoimhe wondered just how far he’d have to go before MacAuley wouldn’t serve him. The thought was amusing, even if she didn’t actually wish him robbed of his alcohol, even if she was just a little amused already. It wasn’t often someone was able to get a rise out of her. Typically, it was the other way around. “Those are brave words, sitting in this pub. Ever been in a bar fight?”

Bates studied her face carefully. Despite her tone, she didn’t appear to be seriously angry. Not yet anyway. The right side of his mouth curled up into a smile. “Depends, have you ever started one before?”

“I haven’t.” Caoimhe crooked a thumb over her shoulder at the late-night stragglers, completely unaware of the conversation taking place at the bar. One of them was draped over the table with what appeared to be drool pooling around his mouth, and the other was sloshing the dregs of her beer around in the bottom of her glass. Neither of which looked particularly up for a bar fight, “But who’s to say...okay, so they’re useless. MacAuley, however, might have some experience.”

Bates glanced over the woman’s shoulder at the bartender nearby. MacAuley wiped a glass clean with a red rag. His expression was still. If he was tuned in to their conversation, he wasn’t showing it. “Yeah well,” Bates began, easing back in his seat and lifting his drink to his lips for one final time, “I tip really really well.” He finished his drink and slid the empty cup across from him. “So I think I’m safe.

Caoimhe gave a half-hearted huff, amusement belied by the smile tugging at the corner of her lips. There were some things even a good tip wouldn’t fix, but she was willing to give up the point. Ireland had won, and no amount of trash-talking two years later would change that fact. “Okay, Mr. Money. How much does it take in tips to drown out Irish pride?”

“Aye,” Bates said in an Irish accent as he scooted his seat back. “About as much as it takes to buy me n’ me mates another round.” He hopped off the stool, and gravity threatened to send him to the floor. He felt fine while he was still sitting, but now that he was on his feet, the realization that he had a little too much to drink was extremely apparent. He gripped the side of the bar tight until he found his balance.

Once he was steady enough to continue on, he turned back to the woman next to him. “How much does it take in charm to convince you to come home with me?”

“Oh–” Caoimhe followed the man as he stood up, hands hovering near his elbow as he steadied himself. She wondered how long he’d been sitting there, letting MacAuley refill his glass. Another round certainly shouldn’t be in the picture. “You’re good, okay, just–”

It almost reminded her of another night, not long after she’d shown up in White Crest. It had been much later, with the sun threatening to rise up along the horizon, and her only interest had been in ensuring Milo got home safely. This man seemed to have ideas, but Caoimhe thought perhaps her mission wouldn’t be much different. “It’ll take about as much in charm as you lost just trying to stand up. Oh, and insulting Ireland. Losing game, my friend. I can call you an Uber, though, make sure you get where you’re going.”

Bates paused before nodding a single time. The drinks were numbing his senses. “Right. Should’a known. Violin players have too much class to be taking home drunk strangers from the bar.”

He rubbed his palm over his face and woozily began toward the door. The room was beginning to spin. He should have guessed by the red mark on her cheek. The alcohol in his system was making him foggy. That was the whole point, though. To turn his brain off, even if it was only for a little bit.

He took another couple steps toward the front door, and the room turned sideways.

Caoimhe paused, watching his progress towards the door. He’d pinned her as a violinist before they’d even exchanged names. It made her wonder just who he was, and how much he’d picked up in their brief exchange. She didn’t even know his name. Her momentary shock wore off quickly, and she trailed him towards the door, watching the way he put one foot in front of the other. “Oh, is that true? Pegged me for stuck-up before we’ve even exchanged names, huh? Maybe I just think you should be sober when you take a gi– shit.”

It was sheer luck that she’d sped up enough to stand beside him when he fell. Instinct had her looping an arm under his elbow, pulling what weight she could onto herself in an attempt to keep him upright. “Hey, he– yeesh, hey. Are you okay?”

His hand pressed tightly against the wall, and between that and the woman holding him up, it was enough to keep Bates upright for the time being. Once his mind was caught up, he let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes. “I said classy, not stuck-up.”

He willed his legs to move, but the constant rocking of the ground under them made it difficult. The woman’s scent invaded his nostrils as she helped him stand. A mixture of autumn air, burnt wood, and pine. He didn’t think about it right away, but now it was hard to ignore how comfortable she seemed in a bar. She clearly spent time outside. Something about that interested him, but right now he was too fuzzy to figure out what.

He reached over and grabbed a glass of water from a nearby table. “Are you always this handsy with drunk strangers?”

“I’m reading between the lines.” Caoimhe was impressed with the level of banter he could maintain, despite his state. It was hard to keep up with him however many whiskeys in, she wondered what he was like sober. 

She hovered close, lifting a brow as he grabbed a glass of water. There was something to be said about strangers and germs and questionable decisions, but in the grand scheme of things, she figured he needed it. She cast a sidelong glance at MacAuley, some measure of commiseration in the way he shrugged his shoulders in return, and turned her attention back to the man. This was decidedly different than helping Milo home. At least Milo could walk, despite all her teasing.

“There’s no way for me to answer that, you know. I’m a quick study, you’ll twist my words.” Despite the razzing, Caoimhe stayed close, lest he topple. “If it helps, I’m Caoimhe. Now all you have to do is tell me your name, and we’re not quite strangers anymore.”

“See, now you have me at a disadvantage,” Bates began. “I’m drunk, and that name sounds nothing like it would probably be spelled.” He tilted the water toward himself. “Unless you like baths, Caoimhe, I recommend taking a step back.”

“For the record, this is out of respect, and not because I don’t practice good hygiene.” Caoimhe took a step back, hands up. If he fell, she’d be faced with some sort of moral dilemma, but there was nothing new about that. “You gonna tell me your name, or do I have to guess how it’s spelled?”

Once Caoimhe was in the clear, Bates threw the water into his face. Ice clattered to the floor. The cold was a shock to his entire system. It wasn’t enough to kill his buzz, but it was sobering enough to allow him a much easier walk out the door.

He set the glass back on the table and wiped his face off with his free hand. “Bates.” He paused to wipe his eyes before turning to her. “Don’t worry, it's spelled how it sounds.”

Caoimhe hopped back a couple steps, unable to hold back a bark of laughter. Of all the things she’d been expecting, it wasn’t a face full of ice water. She did not envy MacAuley or his staff, and the incredible amount of patience they had for drunken customers. “Feeling better, Bates the typical spelling?”

Another long breath escaped Bates’s lips. He nodded once. “For a minute.” He rubbed both hands across his face and neck. The cool night air would feel heavenly once he made it outside. His focus fell back on Caoimhe once more. 

“So, same time tomorrow?”

Caoimhe glanced down at her watch: one-forty-five. It was ten-forty-five in Ireland, but she supposed that didn’t really matter in White Crest. Maybe the next night they’d still be playing reruns, and maybe Bates wouldn’t need a face full of ice to walk a straight line. Caoimhe wondered if she cared enough to find out, but then, she’d always been curious.

“Perhaps.” It was half a commitment and best, but she tempered with a smile. A little more serious, “Do you need me to call a cab, or are you going to find your way home okay?”

Bates pointed at the door. “My apartment is a five minute walk from here.” With the room much less shaky, Bates took a few steps on his own toward the exit. It wasn't the first time he’d stumbled out of a bar like this. Definitely wouldn’t be the last either.

“‘Perhaps’ is a pretty committed answer. It must be a date then.” Before she could offer an answer, he was out the door. The cool evening air chilled his face and neck. It would hopefully be enough to keep him focused until he got home.

Caoimhe interested him, and he still couldn’t figure out why exactly. There were dots he couldn’t connect with her yet, but who knows. If she did indeed show up again tomorrow night, then maybe he’d get some answers. The bar was charming enough. The patrons didn’t seem quite the brawly type, at least not tonight. This place could be worth coming back to.

Maybe Ireland wasn’t so bad after all.

“Not a date!” Caoimhe called as Bates disappeared through the doorway. She was beginning to feel like a broken record with that line. The door shut on the bar but not on Caoimhe’s curiosity. How he’d managed to know so much about her without her volunteering a thing was a concern, at best. He seemed clever, and witty, and knew more than he should when he couldn’t even seem to stand properly, and Caoimhe wanted to know more.

She ran a hand through her hair and shook her head, contemplating the pros and cons of making sure he made the walk home okay, before ultimately pivoting back towards the bar. “Did you hear him, MacAuley? I think you should ban him, if you ask me.”