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every-last-inch-of-me · 5 years

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Bar-awling || Fab(ber) 5

A fight breaks loose at the Hunted Deer.

@freddie-eddie-wiggins, @hngrylikethewoolf, @hellfire-damnation

(Max + Clayton no longer in play but we didn’t want to lose everyone’s hard work)

[TW: violence, gore, blood, sexism, homophobia]

FREDDIE:

Freddie pushed his glass halfway across the bar, waiting for the hose to hover above and dispense whatever concoction Gaston felt like bestowing on him in that moment. It had become somewhat of a running joke, the barely drinkable beverages that graced Freddie’s glass whenever he set foot in the Deer. Though, the company tonight was somewhat better than it usually was. Fred unhooked one of his heels from the barstool’s footrest and crossed his legs, brushing invisible dust from his trousers.

“So, I get called into the meeting with my boss, told I’m being reassigned, which honestly is a nightmare, because I was just starting to find common ground with…” He paused, taking his drink and thanking Gaston, “...anyway, it’s been a nightmare, and I can’t bear to be in my flat right now, it’s a complete mess, and Percy spent all last night crying and pissing in the kitchen.” Freddie sighed, catching Gaston’s eye again. “Can I get a glass of white as well, large please?”

ERROL:

It was nice, gettin' to talk to Freddie like this again. It had been a few days since the last time they'd gotten together, brunch after a late morning. After that the sheriff had been slammed with paperwork and calls, breaking the new bloke into the town beat, and general other headache-inducing business. Came with the territory, but a drink out was much preferable to staying in these days.

He swirled his brandy around the glass, and took a swallow, listening to the younger man speak with his head resting on a hand. The noise of the bar was stuck in the background, something Errol was easily able to tune out. No one else was his problem here, anyhow, not until they made themselves that way. No, he was here off duty and he was here with Freddie and he was going to make sure they had a decent time of it.

Raising a brow, the Irishman snorted. "Right, an' his grounds fer yer "reassignment" were what, exactly?" Shaking his head, he signaled for another drink from Gaston, thanked him quietly when he got one, and then turned his attention right back where it belonged. He shrugged a shoulder, almost artfully nonchalant, before saying on the tail end of another drink: "Stay at mine. Percy likes Del, they'd be fine. An' I can get 'im tah stop pissin' everywhere real quick like." He smirked slightly, a boyish quality to it, before sobering up. "Doors always open, Fred."

CLAYTON:

It was a relatively crowded night at The Hunted Deer. Relative to the fact that William had only been in Swynlake a number of weeks. Still, the werewolf restriction petition (has nobody thought of an acronym yet? This town: imbecilic) was of hot topic in accordance with two instances of werewolf promulgation in town. Two werewolves just out in the open. It was laughable. And if two identified publicly, how many were still scared and hiding? Had he stumbled upon an entire pack?

Coming back into the bar from the loo, William saw that someone had taken his seat near the more crowded area, where the debate had broken out. Considering his true beliefs were on the more extreme end of the Magick spectrum, his public, Clayton persona, took a more reserved stance. It was all about inflicting fear. They’re dangerous, unpredictable. It was a bar, and everyone had a couple hours of drinking tucked under their belts by now. Slurs began getting tossed around. ‘Beasts’ they were called.

Moving down the bar a bit, William leaned his forearms against the wooden edge and waited for Gaston to walk his way. Beside him, his ear couldn’t help but pick up the sound of a persona he thought only existed in movies. Not being able to help himself, his eyes took a cautious look across the pair of... men before settling on their feet.

FREDDIE:

“Jon just left. I don’t know, had to go back to London, found something better, moved departments. Whatever it is, he’s no longer in need of my services, and Taylor, the guy I was assisting before, just up and died, so now I’m just temping for this one guy while they replace Jon and give me to that guy.” Freddie said, taking up the glass of wine and a couple of large mouthfuls from it.

He considered Errol’s proposition for less than a second. Memories of Errol’s flat, charming as it was, flashed before him, and he shook his head. “I don’t think that’ll work, my shoes alone wouldn’t fit in your wardrobe, and your living room window isn’t south facing.” Freddie said, dismissing that thought without having to fully entertain what it meant. There was something heavy in the word cohabiting that had Freddie mentally backing away, no matter how warm the idea of lazy mornings and quiet evenings was.

That was when he noticed the man behind Errol. Freddie didn’t notice men as often as he used to, but this one was staring...at his feet. He glanced down, thinking he might have scuffed the Louboutins, but no, they seemed fine. He looked back up then, meeting the other’s eye and cocking his head in challenge, gaze stony.

CLAYTON:

William held the man’s gaze for a second, before pulling away and turning to lean against the bar with his back to both of them. Luckily within the same moment, Gaston walked over to him.

Not knowing the night would be so lively he had started the evening out with a few glasses of whiskey-- soon, he was clinking glasses with half the bar. Stepping down to beer wasn’t ideal, but after some hearty ‘rounds with the boys,’ there was no going back.

“Beer.” He told his friend. “You know perhaps it’s worth adding whether men should wear heels to this discussion? Or, maybe now that I think about it, it shouldn’t really be up for debate at all,” he joked with a wicked grin.

GASTON:

Gaston followed his friend's eyes to the heels in question. He'd almost got used to Freddie trotting into the bar like a giant rat, last seen on a makeover TV show and, after the initial distaste, he was nearly coming to not completely dislike the fellow. After all, he had to give it to him, he usually drank the shit Gaston put in his glass. A lot of supposedly bigger blokes wouldn't.

But as always, when presented with something to pick at, Gaston did his best to join in. "Don't really think it's up for debate. They don't put them in the men's section for a reason," he said, pulling the head on the pint and pushing it over. Gaston partitioned most things in life into sections. Beer and hunting and women were men's things. Cocktails and high heels and other men were women's things. If it was something he knew his grandfather would see and grunt 'people at home wouldn't let you get away with shows like that', it probably meant it was in the wrong section. That was the thing with the country, it had grasped the natural order of things at the roots and, by right of being there first, refused to let go. Even if there was a new natural order of things called 'letting everybody bloody well get on with it'.

He shot a sideways glance at the priest, who peered over his glasses with eyes that said 'don't', and shrugged. "Bet there's a dirty corner in the Bible that the bloody do-gooders pretend isn't there anymore that says something like 'Thou shalt not tit around in your mother's clothing' and then something about death by stoning."

ERROL:

The Irishman made a sound at the back of his throat and shook his head. "Shame, 'at. Know he wasn' always amazin' but was still familiar. An' a guy dyin' is jus'...shite." He didn't really know what to say to that, honestly. There were few things he really could say, beside condolences and commiseration. Errol snorted into his glass at the dismissal of his offer, nodding his head a bit and then giving a shrug. "'S a change o' pace fer ye. If he wanna stay wif me, ye can. Yer welcome tah. Yer place 'as more room, mine's cozy." The inflection on the word was intentional and he smirked a bit, wiggling his brows at the other man in a bit of a tease. He wanted him to know he understood; the offer was always open though, as was Errol's door.

The sheriff glanced where Freddie was looking, his shoes, a bit of a frown on his face. He was confused for a second before he caught the younger man staring at a bloke behind them, eyes hard and challenging. Then he heard the commentary and grit his teeth. He would have let it go, honestly. People were going to be wankers no matter what he did or said. But hate speech was illegal in England, and it sounded like this particular strain of topic had gone on well into the evening.

And he was off duty.

"Why don' ye shove it where th' sun don' shine, boyo? Maybe it'll shove th' stick outta yer arse." Or push it further in and impale him. "'S none o' yer damn business." That was a warning and it would be the only one this guy would get. Errol wasn't about to badge him but if it came down to it, he would. He'd wanted a peaceful evening, some drinks with Freddie. And this is what he got.

Errol knew Freddie could take care of himself, mumbled as much when he turned back towards him with stiffened shoulders. His eyes were hard, glaring at the barkeep as he continued on. Off to the side, he could see the local priest glaring just as crossley at the man, clear disapproval on his face. Good. At least someone else was bothered by it.

CLAYTON:

Oi. The mouth on this bloke.

Suddenly, William felt almost giddy.

“No,” he said, turning to face them, looking amused, “that’s certainly not any sort of business I partake in,” his eyes flicked to the one with long hair, “’ shoving things up arses,’ as you say.” Looking back to the older man, William didn’t even try to hide the smirk that played on his lips. With a lift of his chin towards the effeminate one, he said, “However, if you’re looking for advice, I’m sure your girlfriend was working in that industry back when you still thought you were a genuine man.”

Turning back to Gaston, William clapped his friend on the shoulder. “I’ll tell you what, chum, it’s been a busy night, you’ve been working hard--” Pulling a £20 quid from his wallet, he slid it across the bar over to Gaston. “And I hear you’re getting a bit lonely. No shame in it, my friend, no shame. Tonight, your dry-spell ends on me.” Tossing a casual glance to the man in heels as he slid over another £20, William said, “How much, darling? Seeing as this old chap can afford you, I assume it’s not much.”

FREDDIE:

And suddenly Freddie knew this man. He’d seen him in his father’s board meetings. Read him in the comments on those videos. Glimpsed him every time he stepped out of the house in heels and had to tolerate getting looked up and down and sneered at. It just so happened tonight his patience wore from “thin” to “out”. It had been years since he had a fight, and Freddie’s palms itched. He looked down at the note and smiled, chuckling down at his chest as he took the hair band from his wrist and pulled his hair back in a bun. Didn’t want to give the prick anything loose to yank on.

He passed Errol, cupping his cheek and leaving a quick kiss on his lips. “For you, gorgeous…” He said, voice sickly sweet as he reeled back (thumb over fingers, aim past the face, swing from the shoulder) and made contact with that crunch. The crunch that hit him harder than the coke did, with the same high. He reached out beside him and pocketed the 20. “I’d say twenty quid about covers that.” He said, stamping on the other’s foot with the high heel he’d hated so much.

“Consider that one on the house.” 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

CLAYTON:

William moved, not a lot, but he budged. The man in heels walloped a punch that hit hard enough to daze him, staying almost completely frozen in place until he felt him crush one of his toes. Another crunch.

It won a round of “Ooooo’s” from the rest of the bar.

Then, there was a moment of silence. He was hunched, having jolted from the pain in his foot. His vision went red, matching the blood now running from his nose onto his shirt.

With a snarl, not unlike a growl, William glowered at the assailant. These people. Small-town nothings. He wiped his mouth against the back of his sleeve to keep from spitting. They had no idea who they were testing.

Some idiot from across the bar shouted, “Fag!” and for a moment William wondered if he was the one being jeered at.

He lunged.

With one hand around his attacker’s neck, while his other arm was barred against the man’s chest to block his arms, William took three massive steps forward, forcing the other man back, before throwing him down, crashing across the row of bar stools.

Suddenly, the bar erupted into chaos.

ERROL:

Errol knew what was going to happen the moment he saw Freddie's smile fall. There was something there that he had never seen before, some burning light, like anger and hatred and pain all rolled into one. It made him wonder who had caused it, made a flare of protective instinct swell in his chest. The fact that the bastard behind them had the gall to call Freddie a hooker because of his choice in footwear, then had the audacity to call Errol his John was the last straw.

The Irishman didn't have to do much, really. He'd already shucked his coat off and tossed it over the back of his bar stool, but he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled them all the way to his elbows anyway. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Freddie pulling his hair up. A smirk twisted his features, a stab of pride washing through him. Atta boy, he thought, ready to turn on his heel and wallop the man sound enough he'd be shitting his teeth out for a week.

Instead, Freddie's hands caught him, stilled him. They froze in time and, brow furrowing, the silver-haired man registered what he was about to do a second too late. Even if he'd wanted to stop him, he couldn't. Freddie was already reeling back and taking a swing and, fuck, what a swing it was. The lummox barely swayed, but he was dazed, and blood trickled down from his nose. The sight was satisfying to watch.

And, then, all hell broke loose.

Someone from the crowd around them shouted, a slur that he was all too familiar with, and the arsehole lunged. He had Freddie round the neck and slammed him into the stools. And Errol saw red. There was no hesitation, even as the bar erupted around them, as he stood, squared his stance off and kicked off the ground in a perfect arch. His dominant leg came up, whip-fast from the left, and slammed across the back of the bloke's head.

The sheer satisfaction of watching him stumble away from Freddie wasn't enough, however. Now, Errol was looking for blood. He'd do his job in a moment. He just wanted another shot at him. Shifting his stance, the Irishman shifted back and then launched into a forward kick. His foot landed square in the man's chest. He stumbled again, backwards this time, and Errol smiled.

The message should have been clear but, if not, he was ready to go a few more rounds.

Around them, fights were breaking out and furniture was being tossed about. Straightening, Errol fished out his badge, palmed it, and got ready to fuck up everyone's evening.

CLAYTON:

The first kick was enough to make William forget about his original problem, one that he had not been convinced was completely dealt with yet. The second kick sent him tumbling backward over a table and crashing to the floor.

As the brawl rushed in around them, William became separated from the couple. His head throbbed. With one hand gingerly guarding the sore spot on the back of his skull, he stumbled his way over to the far wall. Steadying himself for a moment, it took all his concentration to calm a severe wave of nausea-- a clear sign of a being concussed.

Sensing something to his left, William snapped his attention to the man he caught in his peripheral. Claude. Gaston’s meek, nosy friend.

William was breathing heavily, all of his senses on fire. With grunts and screams echoing across the bar he recalled Claude’s attitude towards him earlier: dismissive. Like he didn’t respect William... Most men were intimidated or awed by him, but he was seldom simply overlooked.

Livid at the notion that he hadn’t landed a hit on his second attacker, William ached to hit the closest thing to him. With an evil smile curling around his lips, he grabbed Claude by the collar, and without exchanging so much as one word, he decked him. A solid shiner on the left eye, one hit across the face, and then he dropped the sorry man. Straightening up, William took a deep breath, re-broke his nose back into place, and then walked back into the fight.

CLAUDE:

The priest had been watching the altercation across the bar from a distance, eyes drawn there originally by Gaston's purposeful commentary. He had originally come to the bar that evening to visit with his friend, perhaps study for his upcoming exams. What he had not expected, however, was the surly man Gaston had latched onto to be there. He certainly hadn't expected to be accosted, either, though Clayton's entire being reeked of self-importance and booze.

A pitiful combination and a cowardly one, at that. It reminded Claude so viscerally of Laurent that the man had found himself shying away, purposefully avoiding that side of the bar all evening. He'd listened as Clayton and, following his poor example, Gaston spoke ill of not only the magicks in town but of numerous other "ingrates." Though Clayton hadn't used the word (and Claude wondered if he even possessed the vocabulary to understand what it meant, let alone use it) the meaning was there all the same.

When he went after that man in the high heels, Claude's gut sank into the bar floor.

When the man's companion retaliated and the bar erupted into chaos Claude's heart leapt into his throat. He would have stayed where he was, away from the fight that had his hands shaking and his anxiety skyrocketing, but another patron had been thrown into his table. The priest scrambled away only to be dragged up into the air by his collar. He could see above the crowd, the sea of fists, and was staring into the pure malice of Clayton's face.

Whatever he had done to incite such a reaction (beyond ignore him entirely), Claude flinched away from the man's fist as it came crashing into his face, a blow that cut open the skin across his cheekbone and had his left eye throbbing in pain. If he'd had his glasses on, they would have shattered. From the feeling of it, he knew from experience that it would swell and that his face would be mottled black and blue come the morning.

Temporarily unbalanced, the priest crumpled to the floor. He narrowly missed another patron's booted foot kicking him in the groin. It caught his ribs instead with a harsh thud! Curling in on himself and breathing shallowly now from the pain, Claude dragged himself upwards and towards the bar.

He didn't realize there were glass shards caught in his hands, falling from his clothing, from the bottles and glasses that had been smashed by the brawl.

GASTON:

The barman watched the scene quickly unfold in front of him. He'd seen fights before. Two separate people on two separate occasions had had their ears bitten off outside his pub. But they tended to be small things. If people got involved, they got involved because they were good friends of the participants. And if he got involved, it was only to take bets from the gathering crowd of onlookers. He'd never seen a fight like this. Likely, he imagined, because the best part of his patrons had been coming since it opened, another part had been dragged along as wives and children of said patrons, and the rest had come for a cheap but relatively tasty meal. Or so he thought. Apparently today they'd decided to air their age old grievances with the crowd.

An American movie style brawl. The first and probably the last in the bar's history.

He would have laughed if it wasn't for the crunch of a table halfway across the room and the sight of someone picking up their plate and stepping back from the impending doom as their peas tumbled across the floor. Well, and the shame. The little voice in his head that sounded like his mother but was probably actually just the shadow of his conscience sighed. 'This was supposed to be a family pub,' it said. 'How do you expect ladies to want to come here when you let things like this-'

The thought was cut off however by the sight of the priest raising into the air, acquiring a nice purple bruise and falling back into the crowd. Gaston found him a moment later scrambling across the floor towards the bar and, when he was in arm's reach, hauled him by the scruff of his shirt over the counter.

Boy o' boy would there be some reckoning.

He was already writing the banning notices in his head and totting up the furniture and utensils he was going to be putting on a certain Frederick's tab. And that was the least of it.

But for the moment, he crouched with the priest, his fingers taking his chin and pulling back his hair a little to expose the damage. He'd seen a hard punch and received a few himself. It looked bad. Worse than bad. Even so, it wasn't life threatening.

"Stay there," he grunted, pulling the crow bar that his father had kept under the bar for events like this and thought for a moment on what exactly he was going to do.

ERROL:

The chaos that had erupted around him and Freddie, while separating the two a bit, also kept that arsehole away from the other man. That was fine with him. But he also figured that, without Freddie or Errol himself to beat on, the bloke would find another target. Call it a bit of a hunch but he'd been around the block a time or two. He knew his type. If you couldn't hit one weaker person, you hit another. Made you feel powerful or some such bollocks.

To Errol, it was cowardly.

The sheriff was proven right or, at least, he thought he was. He could see the priest scrambling across the bar floor when there was a break in the mob. Though he was a bit away from him, Errol could plainly see the already swelling face and the blood, the cuts and the fear in his eyes. Something glazed over, like. It was a look he'd seen countless times, for different reasons, and it made anger well up in his belly.

The priest was pulled behind the bar by the owner and Errol made a mental note to ask the man how he was fairing after this was all cleaned up.

His badge was still in his hand but Errol had to shove it into the front pocket of his jeans. Needed both hands to be able to push through the crowd. If he needed to he was gonna hop up on the ruddy bar to get their attention. And that was his plan until someone laid into him from the side, a right hook that caught him on the chin. It barely moved him, really, but it pissed him off. He just wanted to get back to Freddie and he considered ignoring it but he knew the dumbarse might be drunk enough to try to follow.

"Swing at me again, boyo, I dare yah," he growled, eyes bright with anger. Whatever the man saw on his face made him back away, but the snarl stayed as he stalked the way he'd been heading, a fair bit satisfied that his old commander's voice had worked.

FREDDIE:

Freddie wasn’t sure where Errol was in the mob, but it had been a long time since he’d been in a proper bar fight, and now he just wanted blood. He broke the nose of the man that pulled his hair, broke the foot of the one that went for his gut, and almost clawed an eye out of the man who spat at him. He could taste blood, and feel his cheek split and throbbing, but he felt alive.

He was laughing, high and loud, spitting blood at the floor and continuing to laugh, adrenaline coursing through him at a brutal pace. It was chaos. Absolute warfare. No matter how feminine he presented, the testosterone, the drive to conquer had taken a front seat in his mind. So after a brief pause for breath, and with his mascara smudged down his face, he dove back into the fight. He heard Errol snarl from somewhere close behind him and for a moment was sobered by the thought of how much trouble he’d be in when all of this calmed down.

MAX:

Max was technically off duty. Not by much, but technically he was off duty. He fancied a drink, and knew Gaston’s was a sound place. Not many women or men interested in men, but Max wasn’t out on the pull, he just wanted a quiet pint and a de-stress from the mountain of paperwork he’d had to endure today. He knew Errol would only be breathing down his neck if he didn’t get it done.

Max could hear a ruckus from outside, but hadn’t realised he was stepping right into World War Three.

So much for a quiet pint.

He saw Errol’s head bob up out of the fray and elbowed his way through the jumped-up wannabe Hard Men™ to grab his boss by the shoulder of his shirt. “Oi, need some backup?” He asked, catching sight of Gaston as well, giving him a certain nod to let him know he had things under control now… or would do, shortly.

GASTON:

With his head just above the line of the bar, Gaston spotted the policeman enter the pub, meeting his gaze for a moment. From what he could tell, there were at least two of them. Though he wasn't sure he trusted either of them to slow the crowd down. There were too many people and not enough of them.

Besides, he had his part to play and he wanted to hit at least one person for ruining his bar.

After a moment's breath, he leapt onto the counter, wielding the crowbar and staring into the middle of the crowd. "OKAY!" He yelled, though at first, no one turned. So he picked up a glass and threw it directly at the head of a nearby patron. "I SAID. O. K."

For a second the noise lulled as a few heads turned his way and he gave the weapon a demonstrative swing. "IF YOU ALL DON'T STOP THIS SHIT RIGHT NOW, I'M GONNA COME DOWN THERE AND START BREAKING SOME KNEECAPS." His jaw twitched. "AND JUST FOR REFERENCE, THAT'LL BE AFTER THOSE BASTARDS HAVE ARRESTED YOU."

Clayton:

It was too easy.

William grabbed the collar of one bloke and punched his lights out, knocking him into two more sorry fools. He had lost track of who his friends were supposed to be in this fight and who he should’ve been aiming for.

But that was the best kind of fight, wasn’t it? A free for all.

It meant anyone who came within a five-foot radius of him was getting hit.

From what he could tell, the worst of his injuries was a cut on the back of his head. Some idiot had smashed a glass against his skull. “Are you trying to turn this into a knife fight?” He had roared in a blind rage as he threw the man over the bar, smashing… too much glass in the process.

Suddenly someone in the background was bellowing. Usually a sign of someone wanting a challenge, or that the police had shown up.

He looked up to see it was Gaston.

Deciding that the fight, or at least the better part of it, was over, William dropped the guy he’d been holding up about to punch. Wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his sleeve, William sniffed and waited for Gaston’s cue.

***

GASTON:

The next hour passed in a blur of silver stars and blue uniforms, all of whom he was trying his best to avoid. And too, it seemed, were the best part of the pub's patrons - bloodied and blue and running home to bed. They'd never find all of them and for that he was thankful. After all, police were bad for the health.

He waited until the sheriff was out of the building and slowly pulled the door to, trying not to think about just what the inside of his bar would look like when he turned around.

"Fuuuuuuckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk."

#cnvos #bar-awling #convos claude #convos freddie #convos errol #tw: violence #tw: gore #tw: blood #tw: sexism

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