"Alright lads," Tavish says, sliding forward a napkin holder and a small bottle of hot sauce, "this one's Helen and that one's Miss Pauling."
Mick and Scout groan.
Dell, whose quest to finish his after-work beer without issue sees that as increasingly unlikely, lowers it. "Am I missing something here?"
"DeGroot wants us to play matchmaker again," Mick says, eyeing the tobasco like it might bite him.
"Like getting Doc to talk about his sex life wasn't scarring enough the first time," Scout grumbles.
"You're all acting like I had you do a caber toss with a live hornet's nest," Tavish says. "And I never bloody asked you to talk to him about his sex life."
"Well he still volunteered it free of freaking charge!"
"Let me get this straight," Dell intercuts. "The reason Misha and Ludwig started making out in the middle of the bar that one night is because you set them up?"
"Ye make it sound so nefarious," Tavish says.
Dell shakes his head. "Well, it's definitely an accomplishment, I'll give you that much."
"It kinda is," Scout admits. "You know, for a straight guy, you are weirdly good at hooking up all your gay friends."
Tavish spreads his hands out magnanimously. "Everyone has their talents."
"I don't care how talented you are," Mick points the knife that had been dissecting his shrimp flambé, "you're not going to be able to pull on Helen what you pulled on those two drongos. That sheila eats cactus spines for breakfast and spits out the flechettes at passing prams."
The company's eyes turn to the piranha in question, a dry martini in one hand as she scours the tavern for even the faintest iota of something that doesn't displease her. She has the aura of someone who knows she could get every person in the room under her employ in a matter of hours, and a viselike grip on her drink that indicates she would eviscerate anyone she couldn't.
Tavish rotates back. "Ach, she's not so bad once you get to know her." He receives dissenting murmurs in reply. "Oh come on now! Can't I get at least one of you to help smooth things out between Helen and Miss P?"
"I gotta say my interest is piqued," Dell hums thoughtfully.
"There we go!" Tavish claps his hands together. "Now, I think our first step should be-"
DeGroot Keep, ever-sensitive beast that she is, knows when something momentous is about to occur. It is not conscious, but when the door slams open and the wall-mounted swords rattle in their sabers, every person in the tavern freezes in their cups and turns toward the young woman about to make the greatest announcement of her life.
"I quit!" Miss Pauling yells at full volume.
Two-dozen heads glance at Miss Helen who, like they, looks as though she's been told that the sun is purple.
Wildly, Pauling repeats, "you hear that Helen? I quit!" She says it with such unrepentant glee, of which her audience has never heard the likes of before, and are shocked further still when she begins to laugh.
The laughter, speaking of years upon years of pent up underappreciation, bursts forward like a stampede of wild horses, unlike Pauling herself who has turned and fled joyously out into the street, manic whooping chasing her all the while.
"Oh," Tavish says. "Okay."
Dell whistles. "Never thought I'd see the day…"
"…Anybody else scared to look at Helen?" Scout already has a hand up, side pressed to the bar and strategically blocking the administrator from view.
Tavish, like all reasonable men when told not to look at something, looks. But where he expected a seething, vengeful harbinger, Helen only looks confused, no trace of the lightning quick rebound she's mastered in even the most dire straits. Tavish, who's never met a woman he's more convinced is a steel automaton come to life, finds this infinitely puzzling.
This is not, however, the Keep's only spectacle for the night.
Where Pauling once stood, a well-dressed man enters, out one problem and in another. His upper lip is curled in utter superiority, his black hair slicked back as though its gel is the only thing keeping it attached to his skull; the look of controlled arrogance could rivals Helen's, except for the fact that (while she considers most things beneath her) she does not exude disgust while looking around a simple tavern. This stranger sizes up Tavish's pride and joy like it's the greasiest spoon he's ever stepped in, instead of being merely kitsch.
This is the first obvious sign. The second is when Scout yells, "aw crap!" and promptly rolls full-body across the bar top and into the under bar.
"Oi!" Tavish says, now with a tangle of baseball player around his legs. "What the bloody hell was that about?"
The look Scout gives him from the floor is of disdain wrestling with mortification. "That's my freaking dad, that's what it's about."
Ah.
Tavish glances up at the stranger who, having finished his initial scan of the establishment, is now walking over to the bar itself. From what Tavish knows of Scout's ongoing academic situation (not to mention all the labels back-and-forth they've been doing lately) he completely understands why they might not want to be seen by the elder Mr. Fortier at this precise moment.
"A glass of whatever passes for your finest in this place," Scout's father says by way of greeting.
"…Are you trying to order a glass of wine?" Tavish ventures a guess.
"Yes you simpleton, wine, and if you cannot handle that much then perhaps you should rotate out with one of your more competent coworkers."
Hm. It's been awhile since he's considered throwing a customer out on their arse within the first twelve seconds of meeting them, but strange times do abound.
The bastard isn't making himself popular with the others either. Mick—who caught a laser beam of distaste as the stranger sat down—is returning the favor, lip curled in his direction. However, Dell was close enough to the scuffle to hear at least part of Scout's hissed warning, and his face has folded itself into something frighteningly stern. The engineer is slow to anger, but Tavish thinks he might be seeing the beginnings of it.
The Keep's finest does not spend more than ten seconds in Mr. Fortier's gullet before he makes an exaggerated gagging noise.
This lasts for eleven seconds. During this time, the act of three men honing their spite into a veritable orbital strike is practically audible.
When he's quite finished, Mr. Fortier takes two fingers and deliberately slides the glass of wine away from himself, returning to glaring at the front of the house with frightening purpose.
Tavish grits his teeth. That curb-kicking is looking pretty good right about now, but he might as well give the snake one chance. "Looking for someone?"
"Yes, my son. I was told he frequented this establishment, though it seems I was misled."
"What's-"
"Proof you should never trust hairdressers," Mr. Fortier continues before Tavish can even assemble the syllables. "Incompetent. It appears I will have to go to the registrar after all, and God knows how inept those secretaries will be. It is a disgrace that these events were allowed to get this far, no doubt the fault of that defective institute that this whole pathetic town is leaning on."
Dell, who's working his way toward his 12th PhD at that 'defective institute' while still putting in full time at the oil field, breathes in hard through his nose.
Scout, similarly, lets out a growl only Tavish can hear. Discreetly as he can, Tavish sneaks a glance at them, and to his surprise they're sporting an expression that puts Mick's open sneer to shame.
"Honestly, why I allowed this is a mystery." Good Lord does this man ever stop blustering? "His scholarly pursuits weren't always a disappointment you know, at least when I had my say in the matter. Yet when I put forth my selections for respectable universities, the boy's mother vetoed me!"
The glance-sneaking is no longer subtle. Scout's face is turning bright red as they're involuntary made to listen to the conversation above them, one hand scratching nail marks in the liquor shelf. Tavish is starting to worry they might do something they'll regret later.
"Scout…" he says softly.
"-I swear, the only thing more disgraceful would have been somehow winding up in community college."
"That's all your freaking fault!"
Scout's return to the scene is so sudden, so bombastic, that Tavish is nearly bowled over with their sudden verticality. In fact, Mr. Fortier is knocked over, though from shock and mismanaged weight on his barstool.
"Jeremy?" he says, shaking his head as he lifts it from the floor. "What on Earth are you doing behind there?"
In a skillful rendering moot of the subject, Scout hops the bar and lands on the other side. "The only reason I couldn't go anywhere else is because you'd only cover half of it!"
To his credit, Mr. Fortier recovers quickly. He stands and adjusts his tie, saying, "what I provided would have been more than sufficient if your mother cared enough to add a single cent. I am no longer paying child support. My contribution to your education was a gift, a gift with the condition that you would not fail your way out of this glorified diploma mill!"
"Yeah well I would have failed my way out of whatever snooty shithole you'd've picked too, so the least you can do is stop bitching about it."
Those that hadn't cleared out in anticipation of Helen's oncoming meltdown are beginning to trickle away now, except for a few stragglers seeing if anything exciting will happen. Maybe they're the wise ones, since when Tavish looks, the administrator is nowhere to be found.
"That is besides the point," Mr. Fortier snaps. "I came to see if you were in need of assistance, and clearly the trip was necessary. Already I've seen that your leisure hours are spent in this place, you're beginning to show signs of malnutrition, and you obviously haven't had a haircut in weeks."
That sputters Scout to a halt, whether having forgotten it or merely that they were meant to be hiding it, their hand jumps to the stray hairs curling around their ears.
Thankfully, their second trip across the bar has realigned them with allies. Mick moves to put an arm around Scout's shoulders, and Dell has had just about enough.
"If you've come to see if Scout's alright, you've a funny way of showing it." He moves in between Scout and their father, leveling a glare at the taller man's lightly stubbled face.
"Scout?" Mr. Fortier's anger almost seems eager to jump to a more unfamiliar target. "My son does not need nicknames from a den of drunks."
The fingers of Dell's left hand curl, and Tavish is just beginning to think that as a responsible bar owner he should maybe do something about all of this when the engineer says, "you're bothering our friend, and I think it's best if you get along now."
"I will not take instruction from the likes of you," Mr. Fortier hisses. "And I will not be questioned on my parenting from a illiterate, mouth-breathing, redneck-"
Dell socks him right in the chin.
Both Scout and Mick leap back, the former saying, "holy shit Dell!" A startled laugh erupts from them in sheer disbelief. "Haha, oh my God. You actually freaking punched him."
Tavish does some quick mental calculations and decides to pick up a cleaning cloth and turn the fuck around.
For the second time tonight, Mr. Fortier struggles off the (reasonably clean) tavern floor. "How dare you-"
Doing his best impression of someone who's just heard a startling noise, Tavish rounds on the scene. "Oi! No fighting in here. The pair of you take it outside."
"The pair of-" Mr. Fortier squawks. "But he punched me."
Tavish shrugs. "Well I didn't see it. When in doubt, throw the louts out." This Tavish has just made up, but he's immediately very proud of it. "Go on."
Scout's father will protest this for a bit longer, but Dell humbly nods his head with a, "real sorry for all the trouble," before bowing out. He doesn't wink, but the grateful smile he fails to hide tells all.
After a few low not-quite-threats, Mr. Fortier departs too, bristling all the while and pointing at Scout, "we will speak later."
When the tavern's finally empty, Scout lets loose with a long held breath. "Whew. Thanks for that guys."
"Anytime," Tavish offers.
"Y' gunna be alright, Roo?" Mick asks.
"I think yeah. That shit bought me some time at least, I gotta go home and figure out what the hell I'm going to do about," they wave their hand recklessly. "Him. But uh…might leave through the back door if that's alright right with you."
"Be my guest."
By the time true night has heralded in Jane at the end of his shift, blessed silence has crept into every cranny of the tavern, comforting Tavish and he flips the last of the chairs onto its table.
"You missed a hell 'o a day today," he informs the ranger. "Romantic entanglements, family dramas, an exchange 'o fisticuffs: was like the old classics come to life!"
"Fisticuffs! Without me? The gall." Jane reaches behind the bar and helps himself to a beer.
"Aye, but that's not the craziest part. Miss Pauling quit."
Jane pauses in his attempt to liberate the pry-off with his bare hands. "She did not."
"She did! Came right in here, smart as you please, and told Helen right off. Didn't even say why, just had her piece and skedaddled."
"Ridiculous." He shakes his head. "Miss Pauling is the most hardened warrior I know. She has more gumption than the rest of this company put together; she's no quitter."
"It's hard for me to believe too." Tavish finds a spot beside Jane, indulging as well in a final drink of the night. "To be honest, I always thought she was too infatuated with Helen to ever leave her."
"Maybe that's why she had to go. Maybe it made staying too hard."
Tavish opens his mouth, but the necessary commentary doesn't arrive. The refrigerator hums in the room beyond, and he breaks the silence with a different topic, "Scout's da showed up at the bar today."
"The French one?" Jane blinks.
"Is that the only thing you remember about that whole situation?"
"Negative! In fact, I think the worming frenchiness can go very far in explaining the entire cesspit of issues roasting over there. Spinelessness is in that family's DNA."
"If you saw the argument I had, you wouldn't be calling afoul on spinelessness." Tavish thoughtfully sips his beer. "It seems one of those immutable facts of life that no matter how many generations we go down we've never quite cracked the code of healthy parenting."
Jane doesn't respond. Jane doesn't respond for a while, and Tavish is so caught in picking a bit of broken skin around his fingernail as an old unpleasantness settles in his stomach that he doesn't even notice. When he finally glances Jane's way, he frowns, knowing he's been staring at him.
"What?" he asks, already defensive and lying to himself that he's not.
"You're thinking about it again."
Damn him. Tavish hadn't even glanced at the battered, samurai themed calendar pinned to the bar's back wall, but the reminder of the incoming date must have been clear on his face. Brushing aside what was supposed to be the last drink of the night, Tavish reaches over and endeavors to give it some company.
"Are you okay?"
It's so soft, so straight to the point that Tavish could be forgiven for thinking he had imagined it. But when he looks up, the concern is there, and he finds he can't meet Jane's eyes. "I'm fine. Haven't had any more incidents since the vomit thing."
"Are you sure? Because the last time it was this bad with the anniversary coming up-"
"-You found me with one foot off the overpass bridge, I know, I was there." He regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth. "Ach I'm sorry, you don't deserve that. I just…I really am alright Jane. I haven't been slipping up." Jane eyes the beer in his sweating palm and he adds, "much."
"…Acknowledged."
And it's a relief, because although Jane knows when to push, he also knows when to back off. After a while, Tavish says, "I don't think I could have asked for a better stranger to walk past all those years ago. I really mean that Jane. I wouldn't be anything without you."
The breath through his nose is sharp and stinging, and Jane's eyes lock forward while the rest of him tenses back. His mouth works silently for a moment, and Tavish hurries to fill the gap.
"And if you ever need me, I'll be there for you. Aye?"
This snaps Jane back to attention, but not in the way Tavish would have thought. In fact, he seems almost angry. "Don't. Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Try to find something to help with."
"Again with this! What's so bloody wrong with helping people?"
"Because what I need is something not in your power to give," Jane whips the words at him, something painful and unarticulated caught in his throat. "And I'm not accepting charity from you until you first learn to ask for things for yourself. Now, if you really are 'not slipping up', then you will get rid of that drink and turn in for the night."
It feels as if he's just been scolded, but over what Tavish has no idea. He was going to bed anyway, though, so he makes a pah and heads for the stairs, if only to get away from the mood.
Not before finishing the beer, however. He bloody pays for these things.
He's still thinking about the argument in the morning, if it really was an argument. He's perfectly aware that most people have issues beyond his means. His is goal isn't to grant wishes, dropping them over his friend's heads like some glorified delivery boy; all he wants to do is provide support where he can, nudging them on toward their goals. Jane should at least be able to talk to him about whatever's going on.
This occupies him to the point that he nearly breaks a dish from scrubbing so hard, and he forces himself to take a deep breath and put it from his thoughts. Practicing mindfulness and all that.
It's pure luck that he's out of the kitchen when the unwelcome visitor returns. There is the usual soft dancing of light as someone passes by the stained glass, then the true shadow when it appears in the door's glazing, surrounded by oaken grapes carved straight from the wood. As opposed to his first appearance, there is nothing grand about Mr. Fortier's reentrance. In fact, he more or less slinks into the Keep, crawling onto a barstool with little fanfare. A plump bruise has manifested across his right cheek—it seems the meeting with Conagher wounded his pride after all.
He half lays on the bar and says, "gin," his tie undone and his suit ruffled.
"You still owe for the wine yesterday," Tavish says matter-of-factly, not making a move to help.
The Frenchman grumbles something, then reaches into his pocket and slaps a couple hundred-dollar bills onto the bar. Tavish shelves his morals and gets the good man a gin.
"Surprised you came back," Tavish says as he pours, "let alone that you thought you'd be welcome back."
"Despite my best attempts, this is the only place I know Jeremy can be found," Mr. Fortier says, deflecting the first accusation and ignoring the second. "I cannot simply give up. Not now that I know I wasn't imagining things."
"Why not? You don't seem all that keen to be here."
Mr. Fortier glares over the colorless liquid rolling in his glass, digging into Tavish with offense just barely held in check. "I have several contracts waiting for me in San Francisco at this very moment. Before this, I had chartered a private flight to Cancun that would have consisted of all-inclusive beverages and a much needed four-hour nap. Believe me when I say if I did not want to be here I wouldn't be."
Tavish shrugs. "Scout's under the impression that Ms. Deramo sent you."
"Sent me," Mr. Fortier scoffs. "My ex-wife, a byproduct of raising several monkeys, does not believe in coddling. She couldn't care a lick about our son's education, or any crisis he may be experiencing thereof."
"I find that hard to believe, Mr. Fortier."
He waves the hand away. "Please, you aren't one of Jeremy's boorish high school friends, the formality comes across as sniveling. My name is Crue if you must."
"Well Crue," Tavish says as he applies one of the dozens of refills the man has prepaid for, "it seems it's going tae be right difficult to give your kid any help if Scout doesn't want help, you ken?"
A deep and prolonged sigh escapes from the exasperated father. "I am aware. But how can I simply turn around and go home? You know Jeremy quite well, yes? And can you tell me, looking me straight in the eye, that nothing has occurred within the past month that I should be concerned about?"
Hesitation comes swiftly and obviously. Thankfully, Tavish is saved a crisis of loyalty by the smack of a door and the demand of, "DeGroot! Your assistance is required. Now."
Helen is not one for entrances, let alone dramatic entrances, and the surprise is enough that Tavish misses a beat.
"My what now?" he asks, but Helen has already clambered into the seat next to Crue, much to his surprise. Elbowing people out of the way while completely ignoring them is his modus operandi.
"Do not play coy with me," she says. "I know what you do here."
"…I tend the bar," the bartender says.
"You deal in information. In advice. I require your counsel in getting Miss Pauling back."
If Tavish were the sort to comment on a lady's appearance, he'd say that Miss Helen does not look great. After years as Pauling's unofficial caretaker, he knows the signs of a night without sleep, both by the darkening under her eyes and the few escapees from her impossibly stiff hair.
Tavish, with affected dispassion, pours more gin into Crue's glass. "Sounds like something I could help with. Assuming, of course, you've completed step one of admitting to yourself that 'getting her back' doesn't mean entirely in the practical sense?"
Helen bares her upper lip, which is one of the most expressive emotions he's ever seen on her.
"If not, well," he shrugs. "Brain Drain is a serious issue in our modern age, and there are experts who dedicate their whole lives to studying how to reverse its effects. In that respect, I'm out of my depth."
"The idea that I would admit to something so…pedestrian is ridiculous," she spits. "Miss Pauling is an essential employee. She cannot quit. It is…it is not allowed. My personal feelings are inconsequential to the grand design."
"Ah, but that is not saying they are nonexistent," Crue cuts in mildly, having found himself in the middle of the conversation and welcoming the distraction. "Perhaps examining one's motives might narrow down your courses of action."
"And who are you?" Helen says, as though truly not having noticed him all this time. "Why should I listen to your pathetic insight, someone who-" She sniffs the air. "-Has such little propriety he smokes Gauloises Blue Way?"
Without missing a beat, Crue says, "rich coming from a woman still wearing heels from the Manolo Blahnik collection of last year. Fall of last year, even."
"To profess expertise on shoes when yours are clearly the inferior leather version of-"
"Helen," Tavish snaps. "Focus."
The bit of liveliness she'd gained by having someone to trade bitchy quips with quickly dissipates. She perches one elbow on the bar and rubs her temple.
"My feelings," she says, "as I have discovered these past eighteen hours, may not have been entirely professional. But that matters little. What matters is that I convince her to return. She is irreplaceable."
"That so?" Tavish lifts an eyebrow.
"Her work speaks for itself. All of the good The Facility has done in the past eleven years could not have been accomplished without her, without her conviction. Her pragmatism is sound, and her ability to improvise is unparalleled. She is the most intelligent, beautiful, hard working woman I know."
"…Helen," Tavish says wearily.
"And I cannot continue without her. I must get her to see reason, to understand she was loved and appreciated-"
"-Helen!"
"What?"
"Don't you think," Tavish's beleaguered voice asks, "that calling her 'the most intelligent, beautiful, hardworking woman you know' sounds like a…" He motions her to continue the sentence.
"A what? The opening lines of a promotional announcement? A description for a hit?"
"Something you should tell her in person," Tavish presses.
There is a noise. A petulant, disgruntled noise that had never festooned the walls of the Keep ever before or ever since, and until that very moment Tavish didn't believe the CEO of TF was capable of making. She glares at her current elbow supporter as though it will tell her otherwise.
"Now, Helen," Tavish adds, this time a little gentler. (He's fed up, not completely heartless.)
"Yes. Hm. Now is the best time I suppose. Before she seeks other employment."
Tavish thinks Miss Pauling could first do with a good scrumpy-coma as opposed to a new job, but that's neither here nor there. "There's a good lass. Off you go."
As Helen hadn't ordered a drink, she had nothing to down in one gulp before turning heel out the door. Instead, she settled for Crue's.
"Garce!" he swears, but she's already gone.
Tavish pats him lightly on the arm. "There there. I won't take it out of your tab."
Crue sighs, but offers no more complaint, no doubt resigning this to just another footnote in his terrible day. They sit in silence for some time longer, Crue failing to lower the waterline in his drink, and Tavish at least pretending to do his barman duties. Noon comes and goes.
"So," Crue finally offers what's been on his mind. "You are seen as a dealer of advice among these people?"
"Aye, it's a reputation I've accrued. You looking for some?"
"I obviously need it." This flirting with self-reflection is gone before Tavish can process it, and Crue continues, "if I am to provide…fatherly support, then first I must get Jeremy to speak with me. Considering you knew my name, I can assume you and he are friends, and it would be remiss not to ask if you could perhaps…parlay with him? On my behalf?"
"I'm not telling you where Scout is," Tavish says.
"I am not asking you to. But anything you can offer is better than what I have."
Tavish thinks on this. He taps his chin, initiates a brief staring contest with the cigar-twirling deer, then pulls out his phone.
As Crue perks, Tavish says, "I'm warning you're here, in case Scout wanted to stop by and winds up thinking better of it." He holds up a finger. "I will mention that you're acting all regretful, and that it seems like you've come in peace. Everything else is up to Scout."
"Merci. That's all I ask."
Part of Tavish, a very small part he's trying to ignore lest it cloud his judgment and try to make Scout's decisions for them, hopes it all works out. There's a long history there, more than just money and parental spite, but he also knows that if anyone could use another leg for their support system right now, it's Scout.
So when classes are done for the day, and the kid is the first to appear in the evening rush—striding to the little booth Crue has scuttled into and depositing themself with a suspicious but not outright hostile frown—he's grateful. One by one regulars and little knots of familiar faces stream into DeGroot Keep, each paying their respects as flashes of surprise before moving on with their night. Through all this, and the general hubbub, Tavish almost misses when two flicks of purple join the influx.
He's serving drinks to the crotchety old man who runs the law firm next door when he spots them, and can't peel himself away until later in the night. When he does finally grab a moment, he's stopped by Dell.
"That something we should be worried about?" he asks, jerking his chin at the familial disentanglement.
It hasn't risen to shouting again. Crue, the bright bruise still blooming on his face, has spent most of the time with his head lowered, taking in whatever Scout has been telling him. Scout is harder to read, back turned toward the bar, but Tavish swears the tension has gone out of their shoulders as the evening went on.
Tavish hums. "I think they'll be alright."
"You sure about that?" Dell presses. "I know how easily family crap can suck you up again, all honeyed words and promises to do better."
"Then we'll keep an eye on it," Tavish says. "Besides, I talked with him. He's a right pillock, but he isn't all bad."
The grunt Dell gives is dubious at best.
"And we only hated him on Scout's behalf, aye? If they decide to forgive him, it's our duty to do the same."
It again looks like Dell might fight him on this, but after a moment his shoulders sag. "I s'pose you're right. Y'know I hate when you're all morally upstanding about these things, makes a man feel bad."
"Morally upstanding! Can't say I've ever been accused of that before," Tavish chuckles. "But if you'll 'scuse me, I have a different ado to check up on."
With a drink in each hand, Tavish escapes to the lower regions of the tavern. Either by chance or by Helen's follicle-melting gaze she can direct at anyone passing within her sphere of influence, the room of cushy chaises and stalwart suits of armor is uninhabited.
Save for a pair of women that is. Pauling is fast asleep, her head nestled against Helen's shoulder and a line of drool leaking into the woven tweed of her jacket. As Tavish enters, that terrifying glare of the remaining lass is leveled solely at him.
"You will speak of this to no one," she hisses.
Despite the venom in her words, when Pauling snorts in her sleep, she reaches up and fondly tucks a loose strand of ink-colored hair back behind her ear.
Tavish smiles and, setting down two glasses each garnished with an indigo cherry on the table next to them, he says, "wouldn't dream of it."