Pleasantly Depressed – Ch 24 "Of Skirts and Suds"
by Skandranon
He should be angry. There was a lot to be angry about, surely. But right now his head was too fuzzy to remember all the details. Not fuzzy enough though. Another drink should help with that.
He'd always prided himself on his ability to hold liquor. It was a detriment at the moment, though. It would take him at least three more drinks before he could forget what he was pissed about. It was an honest mistake, really. A nameless enemy on the battlefield, only this one had a name. Still made him pissed.
Squall, the bastard, was at his side, and refused to leave despite the shoving, and swearing, and a few punches. Now he just tried to ignore the bastard, and focus on his golden drug.
It was a wonderful tavern, if he'd been in a position to appreciate it. Earthy, warm, loud. Solid dark woodwork, candlelight, serving girls with three-stacked skirts smiling at everyone and calling them "sugar". A band, and a thumping good one, with even a woodpiper. Not too many drunks, but just enough to keep it entertaining. A cozy dancefloor with a fair crowd kicking up boots on it. Such was the way of southern Galbadian bars. The folk ran a bit dumber than his people to the northwest, but just as fun loving, and more rowdy.
He'd had a few offers for dance, and so had Squall, and then they'd got knowing smirks when the answer was no. He didn't care what they thought they knew. He was trying to concentrate on his fuzziness here.
"Lady Rain, let me take you home tonight
I've warm blankets and a bed
"Lady Rain, with your clothes so damp
You can borrow mine instead."
Finished with their song, the band paused for hoots and hollers, then launched into a well known classic that got the audience singing along.
"Give me a gun and give me a target,
Give me a girl and give me a room,
"Give me a beer on another man's tab,
And I'll never see sign of gloom,
"Give me a war and a reason to fight it,
Give me a song and a partner to twirl,
"But if I get only two of these things,
"…Just give me the beer and the girl," Irvine muttered, while the rest of the room belted it. He downed the rest of his glass, motioned the nearest triple skirt for a refill, and got caught in the eyes of a brunette in the corner.
She really seemed keen on him, whoever she was. Lovely, sure. Big bright amber eyes. Simple face, but with a sweetness to it. He almost got up to go say hello before he remembered he was engaged. Then remembered he was having an affair with Squall. And then remembered Trent, and ducked into his refill with renewed vigor.
It was around that time that he noticed that some of the locals had noticed who they were sharing space with. Squall might not get recognition on sight at the Estharian palace, but most southern Galbadians knew at a glance the favorite outfit of the leader of "those blackcharred SeeDs". A lot of the country's military was recruited from this area; the itch for fistfights ran in the local genes. And it was making itself known at the second table over, where a redheaded farmhand was using one too many insults of a racial variety.
Let him get too drunk to start anything, Irvine prayed, and let me get too drunk to care. Amen and another swig.
Squall, for his part, just looked bored, but made no suggestion that they do anything else. He glared up at the redhead when the fellow stumbled over, spitting "Pitts" and "Humblades" in their general direction.
Groaning, Irvine hauled himself to his swaying feet and slapped on a grin. He stepped into the line of sight between the hick and his companion. "Friend, you look a mite thirsty. Why don't you have a drink on me, and then take one of these lovely ladies around the dance floor."
The hick spat on his boot, earning a snarl from the nearest barmaid. "I ain't your friend, greenback, and I don't like the company you keep."
"You'll take my drink, friend, and take a seat." Irvine's grin wasn't any less, but his tone had dropped a notch.
The nearest barmaid apparently knew the hick, and smacked his shoulder. "Gathrie, don't you go bothering these outers. You go run on back to your folk. Get!" Gathrie reluctantly slipped back to his own table, knowing better than to argue with a Galbadian waitress.
Irvine turned to sit down, and paused to blink as Squall slipped by growling something about a bathroom, headed in the direction the hick had taken. Deciding that this was beyond his help, the sniper slumped into his chair, gulped down another shot fast as he could, and found that he still wasn't alone.
"Hi," said the brunette, and stared at him intently. On stage, the band started into The Death of Bille Jo.
"Now Bille Jo was a farmer, and not too very bright
And it was to his misfortune he got drunk that Tuesday night,
"The Gilded Cat was lively, the windows shone with light,
And the girls were in their dancing curls
With their dresses pulled up tight,
"When Bille Jo saw An Mable, oh lordy what a sight,
But she was with her boyfriend on that fateful Tuesday night."
Much of what happened next was the drink talking. He was soaked, and upset, and here was a willing thing with very nice legs. Somehow they ended up in one of the bedrooms upstairs, with him baffled by the latch on her underblouse. He distinctly remembered her coaxing him every step of the way, and him saying "I can't" at least twice, but by that point he was already too far in to say "No". Some part of him was surprised and sulking a little at his sudden inability to hold his liquor, but that was an afterthought given the current circumstances, and his brain didn't have much room for any thought right now.
"It's alright, Irvine, I'll take it off," she said, and did. She wrapped her arms around his neck and teased his earlobe with her teeth.
"When'd ah tellye m'name?" he wondered aloud, between mouthfuls of shoulder. His hands paid more attention to her lower back, and the newly discovered region left by the stripped underblouse.
"A while ago. A good while. You're kinda cute when you're drunk, you know."
"Thnx." By now conversation was on autopilot, and he barely noticed that she was still speaking. There were far more interesting things. Things that could be a little better if they were a little flatter and more muscled, but it was a body, and the owner was kissing his neck. He could never get turned on when he was drunk, anyway.
"I've missed this."
"Mmhnm."
"You miss me?"
"Mmph."
"You even remember my name?"
"Shrry, knda outait rh now."
"Course. It's Sensiny, by the way."
"Ssn. Rht."
"Shh, let me do that. You always were clumsy when this sussed."
"…"
"Irvine?"
"…"
"Aw Hyne, not again."
The Galbadian hadn't stood a chance. He was sloshed, and too angry to think, and poorly trained at any sort of combat. But he was a threat, if a small one, and he was taken care of. Plus he was annoying.
He stood up to head back inside, and got bumped into by a very apologetic and very familiar brunette.
"Squall! Squaaaall! Eeee!" Selphie hugged his neck tightly, and then suddenly let go and jumped back with a terrified, nervous gaze. "Squall?"
"Selphie. What are you doing here."
"Speak for yourself! Do you have any idea how hard you are to track! Where's Irvine? You didn't… you …. is he okay?"
"He's fine. Drunk. Inside."
"He's okay?"
"He's drunk and recovering from a fever. He's fine."
She seemed awfully timid around him, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. She bounced her way inside, scanned the room on her tiptoes, and turned to him in puzzlement. "Where?"
"At the tabl… well, he was over there."
"I'll find him! You just, um, stay right here. Don't, um…. don't kill any…do anything. Do. Anything. Um. Don't drink! Drinking bad. Heh. No beer. I'm just gonna go. Yeah. Look for my Irvy. Stay."
"Whatever."
He sat at the table, and listened to the performers. He tried to learn the dances by watching, and gave it up, realizing that much of it was improvised.
Squall? Yoohoo, can you hear me?
A group of men with a hostile air came in the door shoulder to shoulder, hands lingering near scabbards and holsters. The leader spoke with a bartender for a moment, who nodded in Squall's direction. Immediately all the hostility was aimed towards him. The group marched closer.
Guess not.
Squall had his holdout gun up against the underside of the table, pointed at the man's kneecap. No one could see it at this angle, and his other hand was in clear view on the table. He watched them come closer, marked them down as an immediate but low level threat, and stared.
Pretty soon the leader figured out that he wasn't going to win this staring contest. "You the one did that ta Gathrie?"
"He should watch what he says in public."
"Ain't the point. You comin' into our town, beatin' up our boys? Don't sit well with me. Man was wet to tha bone, and you're plain as day sober, and armed if I'm guessin' your shoulder angle right."
Squall mentally upped the threat level to mild, and stared.
"So I'm thinkin', my boy Gathrie got rolled by an outer, unfairly, and a Pitt at that. I'm thinkin' I want to be a mite angry 'bout this. And I'm thinkin' you're gonna come have a talk with us outside."
"I'm thinking no."
All the nearby waitresses had stopped what they were doing and now watched with hands placed defiantly on hips. They didn't show favor to either side, but they were obviously not keen on a fight taking place indoors.
"I'm thinkin' you're gonna come talk with us one way t'other, an' it'd be better on ya if'n ya come peaceful-like."
"Still thinking no."
"Jeffton, don't you start nothing in my pub."
"Won't be me startin' it, Clarine." The leader eyed Squall carefully, with a gunman's squint. The others in the group circled the table until all angles were blocked off by a Galbadian looking for a tussle. Squall upped the threat level to low average, and cocked his gun. The sound was audible now, seeing as the band had stopped, and so had most of the conversation. He noticed the lack of a twitch in his opponent, and upped the level to medium average.
The tavern shook with a muffled explosion.
"What in the name of Serendip was that?"
"The upstairs wall blowing off, probably." He fired.
They tried to gang up on him, but he kept them at bay with wild swings of his gunblade. The locals must've been used to such fights, as all noncombatants evacuated in an orderly manner, and those that couldn't hide behind whatever they could find. The band carefully packed up their instruments.
Squall knocked over his table for side cover, and another for more. His enemies hadn't pulled out missile weapons yet, but when they did, he'd need a place to hide. Two came at him with long, cruel daggers, hoping to get inside his reach. He broke the wrist of one of them, and smashed the blade of the other with his own hard enough to bend the little knife. Piss poor tempering job.
A brunette girl came screaming down the sidestairs and bolted for the door. She didn't make it far, as Selphie was hot on her heels and knocked her down with a blow from her nunchucks. The girl scrambled under the bar, while Selphie shouted "Don't you crawl away, hussy!"
"Didn't know! Swear! Didn't know!"
"Get back here when I'm hitting you!"
Realizing that there were now two fights going on, the few civilians left hiding ran for the nearest exit, and even the waitresses headed for the backrooms.
The leader of the gang wasn't going anywhere, despite his injury, but he was smart enough to use a gun instead of getting close. Squall threw up a Protect and concentrated on the others. He kicked one into a wall, but couldn't pin him there for a finishing stroke because another jumped on his back and tried to strangle him with a belt. That one got a gunblade to the stomach, but the angle was awkward because the guy was behind him. It got him of Squall's back, though, and out of the fight long enough for him to turn around. He didn't get a chance to knock his head off with a solid swing, because another was going for his legs with a cricket bat. He twisted in his step enough to take the blow on the sides of his ankles. It smarted, but he stayed upright, and the attacker was stooped over nicely for a knee to the guts. He couldn't continue with a crack to the back of the neck, however, because now his Protect was used up, and the leader was gunning for his head.
He dove for the upturned tables, and had a soft landing on Selphie, who was hiding from the beer bottles the brunette was tossing as cover fire.
"Hey! What are they mad at you for?"
"They're Galbies. Who's the girl?"
"A man stealing tart. I'll handle it."
A bottle smashed against the table, and suds dripped down into his fur collar. My coat better not smell like whiskey after this. "Where's Irvine?"
"Upstairs, asleep. I'll handle him later. Wanna team up?"
"The girl after, the men now. Take down broken nose; I'll take big and bleeding."
"Too right! Squall, are you insane?"
"Not now."
"Is that a 'no' or a 'don't want to talk about it'?"
"Not. Now."
"We really do need to talk about it. Quissie says you could go pop. I don't want you to go pop! So preventive measures must be taken."
"Selphie. For once. In your life. Stop chattering while we're under gunfire."
Author's Notes : All lyrics herein are genuine Galbadian folk tunes (written by yours truly). For added effect, read this chapter while listening to the song "Beer for my horses" by Toby Keith and Willie Nelson.