By the time he stumbled into the bar he had already been walking for two hours. As a point of interest, he had also officially declared that night to be the most unsuccessful of his heretofore illustrious existence. The bar was standard, as things like bars go: neon signs for Budweiser and a leggy, half-naked girl on a beer bottle rocket ship ostensibly advertising what was to be had inside. Rocket ships, he reasoned, were largely unnecessary, but beer or alcohol of any kind would do nicely.
It was cold outside. He hadn't noticed it when he'd first stepped out, but the wind had bitten through his rented tux and frozen the sweat as it had formed on his body during his trudge along Bath's downtown. It took him a full minute inside before he stopped shivering, though he stopped his teeth from chattering through a sheer force of will.
Yes, Elliot Williams still had willpower. Anne hadn't taken that from him, whatever she might think.
The bartender was wearing a Canadian tuxedo and was sporting a moustache that Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain would be proud of, if it weren't for the enormous Confederate flag hanging beside the bar. Elliot squinted at it over the top of his beer glass. He didn't think Confederate flags were even legal in New England. Socially, at least. It figured that the place he wandered into to get away from the total crazy that his life had become would end up being a racist Confederate bar in the middle of Connecticut. And didn't the Civil War end a hundred and fifty years ago? Wasn't it time people got over the fact that they lost? A jukebox in the corner played "Born in the USA," which seemed to be a hilarious contradiction to the tone of the rest of the bar. Not many people listened to anything beyond the chorus anyway.
Suddenly curious, Elliot glanced around the room to take stock of the crowd. That was usually his first step going into a new place, though it had only occurred to him just now that his tux made him the object of much scrutiny. Down at the end of the bar there was a guy in uniform with startlingly defined cheekbones and a constant look of pained boredom. After a while, people's faces just stuck the way they usually were. This guy wasn't trying on anything new, as far as Elliot could see. His facial expression was the physical equivalent of his comfiest sweatpants.
I want to go home and sleep, he thought wasn't much to be done about that now, especially since he'd paid for the beer and he was damned if he was going to abandon her in his time of need. No beer left behind.
There were two middle-aged biker types sitting on chairs, their backs to the sweaty wooden wall paneling, their legs stretched out in front of them in what only appeared to be a casual fashion. Elliot didn't have to look hard to see the tension in every line of their bodies. They weren't speaking to each other, or even looking at each other, but they were very aware of each other. He, Elliot, had always been good at reading people. Until tonight, at least.
Okay, enough. On the list of things to forget: Anne Elliot. Cozying up to Anne's sister should plans A, B, C, and D not work out. Dying rich and comfortable.
Beer. Or something. Whiskey. Men drank whiskey in bars like this. Or was it moonshine? He ordered two shots and pounded them down, one right after the other. Then he ordered two more. If there was one thing Elliot Williams could do, it was hold his liquor. Well, that and apparently refer to himself in the third person in his own thoughts. Now might just be the time to reign in some of that willful douchebaggery.
The door opened, introducing another cold burst of air to the sweaty, beer-laden atmosphere. Elliot glanced briefly, almost territorially, at the new guy, who passed a casual look over the place and then sat down, ordering a drink with just a wave of his hand. A regular, then.
The older biker guy behind him made a weird coughing sound and despite himself Elliot turned to look. Turned to meet OBG's gaze, inexplicably full of malice, "What're you lookin' at, faggot?"
Awesome. "Your beautiful face." Getting into a barfight with a drunk, racist, homophobic biker with a prime henchman didn't actually seem so bad right now. How's that for self preservation?
"Say that to my face, you fucker," OBG and YBG stood up to their full impressive heights and girths, respectively, folding their arms across their chests to make their biceps look bigger. Yes, I was a boy in middle school, too.
"I said it about your face. I think your face remembers it. It seems like a smart face."
OBG's hand shot out to grab Elliot by the shirt front, pulling him in close enough to catch the utter foulness of his breath and to simultaneously menace Elliot with his fist.
Anne Elliot, if I die, this is your fault.
"Lenny, let him go." It was the army guy, from the sound of it. "Take your shit somewhere else." OBG's eyes flicked from Elliot over to the captain and back. He's actually afraid, he thought. This massive, sweaty, leather-clad drunk guy is afraid.
Note to self.
"Did you hear me?" One great thing about the Army, they don't like being disobeyed. In this case that went exactly along with all of Elliot's hopes and dreams, which had recently been adapted to include Not Dying, and Keeping All His Teeth.
In lieu of answering Army Guy, Lenny set Elliot down rather roughly, almost knocking his stool over.
"Now stay away," this came from New Guy, who also hadn't stood up. "We don't want to have another night like last week, do we?"
Lenny's counterpart gulped, visibly and audibly. Elliot raised his eyebrows, fighting down a smirk. Lenny's hand went up to rub the back of his neck tenderly. The smirk escaped, regardless of previously established survival skills. The two went back to sit down gingerly, as if there were a minefield between Elliot and their chairs.
There was a moment of almost hilarious silence (except for "Sweet Home Alabama" in the background), as the foundations of the Earth were shifted. With a definite lift in his spirits, Elliot realized that he had been saved, well and truly.
He turned around, bemused, and passed an appreciative nod to his saviors, who looked more or less bored with the entire proceedings. "Thanks, boys."
"Don't mention it," said the captain, his steely eyes fixed on some point to the left of Elliot's head.
"That's a nice tux," said New Guy appreciatively. The captain rolled his eyes in disdain. "You don't have to like it, Captain, but some other people happen to enjoy a nice tux once and a while." New Guy turned to Elliot and hitched a grin. "The Captain over there likes the uniform better. He thinks it gives him better luck with The Ladies."
"Doesn't it just."
"My name's Fred Wickham, by the way. The Captain's name is Fred, too, but no one ever calls him that. He thinks it gives him better luck with The Ladies."
"That only works if they know your last name," Elliot said dismissively. List that in and among the knowledge that arose from his past experiences.
"It's written on my jacket," The Captain sounded irritated, as all this talking were a waste of his valuable thinking time.
"Well, then they need to know how to read," complained Wickham, and even The Captain smiled. Elliot's eyes flicked over The Captain's jacket, where the name TILNEY was sewn in black letters.
"Well, Fred Wickham, Captain Tilney, my name's Elliot Williams, and I must say it is a pleasure to make your respective acquaintance."
I know that this is super self-referential. For that I do apologize.