So, because of my writer's block with The Making Of, take this Punk fic for what it's worth, lol.
Reagan Jones never really had the capacity to deal with bullshit. She ran her own tattoo shop and had a rotating cast of artists because of her inability to deal with petty fights and arguments. She liked it better that way, though, and the ones that stuck around just did their job and kept to themselves for the most part. After all, she had a reputation to maintain; Second City Tattoos & Piercings was quickly becoming one of the most noted tattoo shops in the Mid-West, and she would be damned if egos got in the way of that.
It was a rather quiet Saturday night for Reagan; especially with the Cubs in town and people generally about and making shotgun decisions well into the night. She bopped her head to the music coming through the speakers, singing along as she continued to sketch an idea that had she had been stuck on for the past few days. A proud peacock, though the purple haired woman could not seem to get the legs just right, and furiously erased at the paper until the bell on the door chimed. It wasn't until she heard a voice that she picked up her head.
"Hey, are you a tattoo artist around here?" The man asked rather gruffly as Reagan looked him over.
"Nope, I'm a chef." She responded sarcastically, trying to figure where in the world this lanky guy would have left to put more ink. "I'm Reagan, I own Second City; what can I do you for?" She asked as she stood up from her stool.
"Didn't know this was a comedy bar as well…I've got this idea and I need someone to ink it. My usual guy closed up shop, and everyone says this is the best place in the area. Can you do it, Reagan?" He asked with a roll of his eyes.
"If you tell me your name, sure. Or else I'll call you Grumpy Gills." She chuckled to herself as the green eyed man huffed.
"I'm Phil, now could you please tattoo my thigh, Miss Manners?" He quipped.
"Since you asked so nicely...Follow me to my chair." The woman waved her hand and sauntered over to the back of the shop. Phil stroked his chin as he walked along with Reagan, eyes fixed on the tattoos on the back of her arms, and one poking out from under her shirt.
"Y'know, for a tattoo artist, you don't have that much ink." He quipped as they went to sit down. Phil was used to much more fanfare in his presence, but he'd take it.
"Not much that you can see." Reagan teased, though unable to keep a straight face. "I get tattooed when I'm inspired. I just haven't had that much inspiration lately…Though, it looks like you've been plenty inspired, Phil." Reagan scanned over the design he had and began to trace it out on the transfer paper.
"…Was that a compliment?"
"Whatever you need it to be, Phil." She said, and looked up with a smile; eyes locked momentarily. There was something about him that looked familiar and well, intriguing all at once. Trying to avoid any more awkward silence, Reagan stood up and straightened out her shirt. "I'm gonna go and mix the ink, you stay put, alright?" She said before making her way further back in the shock. Phil raised a brow at her and watched as she walked away, not quite sure what to make of the tattoo artist.