ArchivedLogs:Maude and Bartholomew

Maude and Bartholomew
Dramatis Personae Eric, Morgan	2014-09-27 A meeting in a bar; a discussion of pigs, by pigs.
Location <NYC> A Bar - Lower East Side
This bar is literally a hole in the wall that is the Lower East Side. Grimy tables litter the small common room, nearly pushed up against the small bar in the corner. On the mirror behind the bar, a greasy menu has been taped, with a small offering of pub food to purchase. A jukebox, at least forty years old, sits in the corner, an 'out of order' sign on its cracked glass face. This is a bar to come to when you want to drink to forget, or maybe pick a fight. Certainly the crowd looks rough enough to oblige the latter, and the booze is cheap enough to indulge the former. When pouring beer on a table and sopping it up with a napkin makes the counter /cleaner/ than it was before, you know the kind of bar that you're at. Not exactly something going to appear in the lists of up-and-coming bars in Manhattan, the crowd that lingers at this bar isn't really the kind to buy subscriptions to the New Yorker anyway. "Yeah, hit me. I'll take another." Eric's voice is confident and crisp, despite the small marching line of shot glasses neatly arranged in front of him. "And another one for my friend here," Eric says, grinning brightly, hand coming to clap the shoulder of the man next to him, who groans and lets his head fall forward onto his hands on the countertop. "Yeah, that's about right." Eric chuckles, wiping his hand off on his black jeans and sticking his hand in the pocket of his leather jacket to come out with his cell phone. His thumb scrolls lazily over the screen for a few moments, flicking back and forth over the pictures of people lining the screen, before he shrugs and shoves the phone back in his pocket. "I did tell'ya not ta' try to drink me under the table. Hardly a fair fight, ya know?" "Watch it," Morgan warns as she postures her way into the bar, giving some blue-collar type side eye. He backs off, drunkenly holding up both hands in a silent yield of dominance. The former cop smooths out the material of her shirt at the inward curve of her waist. With her other hand, she slaps a folded up newspaper against her jean-clad thigh as she prowls forward. Her boots snapping against the basement bar's floor with each rhythmic step of her approach, "Somebody sittin' here?" She asks a man at the bar just in front of Eric's table, running a hand through her hay colored hair. "Yeah, uh, I think," the man in question, all beard and tattoos answers Morgan's chest. Pursing her lips, she turns on her heel to scan the rest of the shitty little bar. Already, she regrets not getting here before Happy Hour ended. Her chest heaves in agreement with her. Eric glances up at the sound of the clicking feet, and his eyes follow Morgan as she strides up to the bar. "Yeah, my friend here." Eric gestures to the man sitting across from him. Slumped across from him, really. "I don't think he'll be usin' it anytime soon, though. Leastwise, not until he's gotten some sleep. You're welcomet'a it." Eric stands up, striding up to the bar and nodding at the bartender as he sinks into the seat next to the aforementioned one. "I'll take it here, Tom, thanks." Eric says, shooting the bartender a smile. "Eric." He says, looking Morgan over once and extending a hand. "Morgan," the blonde takes Eric's hand and shakes it once, firmly. She makes direct eye-contact, if only to size him up, "Thanks." Smaller than she'd like the believe, she has to do a little hop to slide into the barstool but if there's any credit to be given, it seems like something she's used to doing. "Macallan. Neat." She chin-nods to the bartender, sinking back in her brand new seat. It creeks. Maybe it isn't that new. Reflexively tightening and loosening her jaw as she watches her drink being poured, Morgan pays close attention to Eric in her peripheral. She figures him for a cop. Eric accepts the tumbler of whiskey - cheap whiskey, of course, the bar not having any other kinds - and lifts it to take a long sip, before letting the glass rest back on the table and he leans back, shifting on his seat which groans underneath him. "So, what brings you to this particular corner a' sunshine tonight, Morgan?" Eric asks, voice light with a taste of teasing laid smoothly atop. "Somehow, I ain't think it was the decor." He glances around the room, as if verifying - yup, still a shithole. "Oh, yuh ain't?" Morgan mocks the man's accent, if only because he's prettier than her. She holds up her own drink, clinking it against his before bringing it to her lips. "I kindof like it -look," she motions with her drink hand, extending a finger elegantly, "A boar's head. Can't beat that." Not seeming to mind the mocking, Eric's eyes follow her hand, and he squints at the head on the wall. "Is that what that's supposed to be?" The police officer says, tilting his head to one side and the other. "I just assumed it was some poor bastard who got too drunk'n crawled up there to die. Looks better'n a lot of the other people comin' through here, so ya can see where I mighta' gone wrong." Eric's smile is easy, eyes twinkling as he winks at her playfully. "It can't have been both?" Morgan laughs, bringing the back of her hand to gently slap at Eric's arm, "Wait! /Excuse me/?" She plays at being offended. Morgan, after all, is technically one of those people. "This guy both'r'n y-uuu?" The bearded drunk man to Morgan's left leans in over her lap to look her in the face. Unabashed, one of his hands plants itself rather high up on her leg. She puts down her whiskey. "Suppose's true." Eric nods, head tilting from side to side as he considers the head on the wall once more, and takes a sip of his whiskey. "Sure could be." He sniffs once and fixes his eyes on the man sitting next to Morgan. "I don't think ya want to do that, pal." Eric says, voice still light, but with a note of caution in his voice. "I don't think you're her type." The police officer places his glass down on the table, hands flexing in the air for a moment before he puts them down in his lap. Morgan takes the man's hand in her own where it meets his wrist and applies some pressure. While he howls, she twists it around until he is forced to pin himself down on the bar. The woman doesn't say anything, save for a feral, feminine growl. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" The man drunkenly blubbers until he is released and pushed away. Coolly, Morgan lifts her drink back up to her lips and settles back into her seat. A hand gently comes up to fix her hair where it's fallen into her face. After a pause, she turns back to Eric casually. "Told you." Eric comments, dryly, giving the man a shake of his head. "But ain't nobody ever listen ta' me." The police officer crosses his arms over each other, studying Morgan again, this time much more appraisingly than before. "Nice technique. Looks practiced. Martial arts?" Eric asks, raising one eyebrow. "Someone taught'ya that one." Morgan scoffs, "/Martial Arts/." She drinks on, leaning back to appraise him right back with a cocked eyebrow of her own. "Mm. Rookie's catchin' on," she comments quietly to herself for Eric's benefit, wetting her lips in a pursed, playful smirk of her own. "Can I actually get a lager also?" Morgan asks sweetly as the bartender passes, leaning almost seductively over the bar to do so ...as if everyone didn't just see what she just did. "Rookie?" Eric blinks several times, straighening up and then grinning at Morgan. "A boy in blue." A pause. "So to speak. And I ain't no rookie; got the stripes on my shoulder to show it." He tilts his head to one side, curiously. "Actually, now I'm curious. What squad are you with? I ain't all that modest; I would'a thought my reputation woulda preceeded me." Morgan grins, laughing, "Oh, you have a reputation?" She looks over either shoulder, as if someone might recognize him. Not making eye contact as she shakes her head, batting her lashes hesitantly, Morgan falters some, "Oh, I'm not-none." Her grin remains strong as she makes a popping noise and gestures with her thumb out the door. As the beer is placed before her, she draws it near, "But please, I need to hear more about this reputation!" Eric pauses for a second, then he nods. "Yeah, I've been there." He leans back on the stool and cracks his neck, rolling it from side to side before picking up his glass and drinking. "Well, I got more'n one. I'm, of course, famous as the hottest cop in the departent." He rests a hand on his chest, adding, "The most modest s' well." He takes another sip of whiskey and grins, voice dropping down lower. "N' I'm the head of MID. The one they fired n' reinstated. Ain't exactly got a whole lot of people in blue drinkin' with me, these days." Morgan bursts out laughing, perhaps drawing even more attention to them than she had moments ago. She has to bring up her hand to keep her beer in her mouth, almost choking on it. "Mmmhmm," the blonde nods, "Mmhmm. Sorry, I uh, didn't have my ear to the ground for that one. I'll take your word for it." Morgan hesitates once more, bringing a few fingers up to twirl at her hair as she almost tries not to ask, as if she might lay down something very personal and serious, "Yesenia still there?" Some people, not everyone, might find him more attractive than Eric. Morgan bursts out laughing again. "You better." Eric says, looking very grave, despite the playful twinkle in his eyes. "Yeah, I am. Head'a division, for all the people it is. All eight, nine'a us. Barely a shift, nevertheless a unit, but it's what I got, and we make it work." He shrugs his shoulders and gives her a smile. "Needs must, n' all that. Work needs doin', and ain't nobody sign up ta' wear the badge because they wanted the money." "Well, good for you," the blonde pats her throat daintily, regaining herself. To the last bit, Morgan just cocks up both her brows and nods, holding back whatever she might be able to say on the matter. She leans back, "How'd a Southern boy like you end up another pig out here? Or is that a fake accent?"' "Ain't no fake," Eric says, eyes flickering over Morgan's face curiously. "Georgia, born n' raised. Moved up here several years back, transferred from the county Sherriff's department. Worked patrol here, n' the bike squad in Central Park. Then this." A pause, and Eric raises an eyebrow. "How bout you? What'd you do to piss off your rabbi?" "I lost it on a perp," Morgan turns away, scratching at her eyebrow before taking the last swig of whisky. She slaps the tumbler down on the bar and slides it away from herself, smacking her lips. Turning back to look at Eric, she shrugs sincerely, "Patrol, then Vice for a couple years, then ...SVU." "Ah, a detective. Get the gold badge, n' you forget all about your days poundin' the pavement with the rest'a us." Eric shrugs his shoulders once and nods. "It happens. Ain't good, but." He raises his glass in a salute and drains the rest of it in a quick gulp, then spinning the glass slowly under one finger and the surface of the bar. "Ain't a postin' I'd ever want, that's for sure. But - as I said. Needs must." Morgan holds up her beer in agreement, "Needs must." It's not a saying she ever heard of, but she'll go with it. Pursing her lips, she stares down at the empty whisky tumblr. Her thumb absently fiddles against her other finger and the tan line where her engagement ring used to be. "Needs must," she repeats. Eric looks over the ex-cop for a moment before he tugs his buzzing phone out of his pocket. He glances at it for a moment, swipes a quick reply over the surface of the screen, then shuts the screen off with a thumb to the power button. "Needs must n' the devil drives." He says, a small smile on his face. "S' the full phrase. At least, the one my ma always says." He lets the glass down onto the table with a soft clink of glass against wood. Morgan flicks her eyes down and up Eric. Unable to admit she likes the saying, she teases him, "/Your ma/." Taking another sip of her beer, she watches him plug away at his phone, "If you've got somewhere to be - I'll be fine." She gestures towards her bearded boyfriend, who moved a few barstools away for his own safety. The man quivers, as if Morgan's whimsical hand movement forces him to relive the entire ordeal. "Just one'a my officers checkin' in with me about a shift change tomorra'. Ain't got no plans tonight." Eric says, looking up from the phone and eyeing Morgan. "You got any plans for'n night?" he asks, raising his eyebrows in a far too innocent look. Morgan laughs happily in response to his charm, slapping his arm again, "Fuck you." She presses her lips into another pursed smile, shaking her head, "And the devil drives." Crossing her legs, the blonde turns her body to better face Eric, draping an arm over the back of the stool. Eric spreads his hands out in an innocent gesture. "Just askin'. 'Cause I know I've got beer just's good 's this back home, and it's half the cost. And better company to boot," he says, with a wink. "Better'n old Maude up there," he says, thumbing at the boar's head mounted on the wall. Morgan flicks her eyes over the the mounted head, momentarily distracted. She figured it for a male's. 'Maude' will have to grow on her. Turning back to Eric, she laughs more, chiming a small, "Alright." Her hand comes up, fluffing about her pale hair as she checks over her shoulder again. "Everythin' alright?" Eric asks, going more serious, hands dropping to his side as he looks over her shoulder as well. "You look distracted, and it ain't by my pretty face. N' that's unusual, ya know." He says, teasing. He does reach into his pocket, though, tugging out his wallet and pulling out a twenty to put on the countertop. "Five back, when you got a chance, Tom. No rush." "No, I'm sorry," Morgan makes a show of turning her full attention back to Eric, "I was just thinking," she points up towards Maude, "That I thought it was a boy-" She shakes her head, dismissing the tangent and whatever else she may have been thinking about. Stretching, she produces her own muddled wad of cash and begins picking out what she figures she owes. Eric looks back up at the head, blinking several times and tilting his head to one side to study it. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Tusks, n' all." He frowns, rubbing his nose with one knuckle as he considers. "Bartholemew," he says, suddenly. "Seems more fittin', doesn't it?" He turns to her, smile wide on his face. "Ya comin' ta mine?" he offers, extending a hand. In the most ladylike fashion she can muster, Morgan lifts up the remainder of her beer, throws back her head, and downs it. Clearing her throat, she sets the glass down on the bar and takes the offered hand, sliding out of her seat. "Bart," she tips an imaginary cowboy hat to the boar as she dabs the corners of her lips with a finger.