He's off the next three days, go figure. So he does something that he knows he'll feel stupid as Hell for later on. He can't ask Glenn. He's too awkward college kid that probably won't remember the favor he's asking anyway. Then there's Andrea and Maggie. He knows they'll just use it as another excuse to poke fun and generally make his life a living Hell for the foreseeable future. And then there's Shane, the asshole owner of the place, who he'd never ask a favor of if they were the last two people on the whole God damned planet.
Instead, he asks Ms. McCleod. The fierce old lady who he wouldn't think should be in a place like this cleaning up after the filth of humanity, but she does it with a fucking smile on her face every other day, and he respects her a lot for it.
He stops her at closing the night that she strolled into that bar and ripped his whole life to shreds. Only he hadn't realized it then. Wouldn't realize it for a long time. But he must have known something because he stops Ms. McLeod and asks her in his quiet way if she could watch out for someone for him. A tiny slip of a woman with her heart in her eyes and a chip on her shoulder big enough to tank the Titannic a second time over. Ms. McLeod, bless her heart, smiles and tells him she will. Tells him she'll do him one better and call him up the moment the woman passes the threshold. He tells her, flushed and heated all over, that isn't necessary. But as he walks away (does not run, would never run from something so stupid) he hopes that she ignores his words and calls anyway.
She doesn't call. He tries not to feel too put-out. It was a long shot and he figures, with the way she left the joint that night, he wasn't liable to see her ever again.
He goes into work three days later. He's replacing Maggie and he thanks the God he doesn't believe in that she has plans. That she won't stick around to talk to him after her shift. He's feeling pissed off and strung out and he wants to get piss drunk, but he's got to get other people piss drunk. And isn't that just the way.
Two hours into his shift. The place is dead quiet. He hasn't had but three customers. Two of which have left already, stumbling out with laughter heaving out of their lungs. The other's passed out in a booth. Probably catching a fucking catnap or some shit before he jolts awake and downs some more vodka. He's about to take a smoke break when the front door creaks open. He's told Shane they need to get the damn thing oiled, but when he looks up and swallows the sight of her, he's never been gladder for his dipshit of a boss.
She's beautiful in the dim lights over the bar top. He tries not to grin like an idiot, tries not to show her how pleased he is that of all the nights for her to show up again she picked this one. He must have done something real good in a past life to earn this. Doesn't really think about the conundrum until all is said and done. If he'd earned this in some past life, the fuck had he done wrong in all the other ones to make him deserve what came before? And what came after?
She doesn't order a Whiskey Sour. Doesn't order anything for a very long time. It's like everything's faded away. He's hyperaware of every shuddering breath breaking free of her lips. Of the jerky, fluttering dance her hands are doing in her lap. It's irrational and completely unlike him, but he thinks he wants to reach out and touch her. He can't and that's sort of the point isn't it? But he wants to, oh, how he wants to.
He must have known it before. There's a sadness in her eyes. A sadness that goes deep enough to poison and fester and rot in her soul. A sadness that he feels in himself sometimes. He tries not to feel the kinship. Tries not to identify with her. Attachment isn't something you really pick up with his job. Isn't something you pick up as a Dixon with his life and his past and his God damned family.
"You need a drink?" he asks, tries not to be self-conscious of the croak in his voice. Feels the relief blossom in his chest when she, finally, raises her eyes to his own and nods.
"First round's on the house," he says and feels the way her eyes burn into him when he takes two shot glasses from the wall and fills them with cheap rum. He meets her eyes, his eyebrows quirking upwards in a challenge. She laughs at him and snatches the shot glass. With a twist of her wrist the liquid is past her lips and crawling down her throat. He ignores completely, almost, what that does to his insides what it does to his southern parts and throws back his own shot. He could get fired for this, he knows, but it was worth it to put that look on her face. Third parts mischief, caution, and relief. He doesn't know what will come of this, but he's got hope in the pit of his heart for the first time in a long while. And damn his soul to Hell, but it feels fucking incredible.