Title: Treno's Finest
Characters/Pairings:
Freya, Jack/Gilgamesh/Four-armed Man
Rating: PG-13 for language
Words: 1313
Summary:
So this theif walks into a bar, see?...
Notes:
Prompt: #48. Hot Drink


"What'cha doin' here, love?"

Freya ignored the four-armed man. It was courtesy; she was feeling rather generous tonight. Bonus on both sides. She didn't have to waste energy punching out his guts, and in return he kept his face. That was the right thing to do, yes?

She took a swallow of her warm beer.

There was a shuffle beside her, and then a hairy arm protruded from the side of her vision. He was calling the barman, who was occupied with a pretty lady moping her sorrows at the other end. Freya looked at the ceiling pleadingly. This was why she hated bars. Even in Alexandria. There were too many idiots who thought sharing a drink with a female Burmecian might end in a new experience of a shady nature. None of them recognized, of course, that she wasn't the typical female Burmecian. Apparently, Burmecian Dragoon suits were not recognizable.

She knew she should have brought her lance.

The man beside her seemed to give up on the barman, momentarily. He was silent, and Freya had a itching suspicion he was looking at her. Of the two arms she could see, one was getting a massage from the other. It was so disconcerting that Freya took an extra large swallow and glared straight ahead.

"Not going to answer?" The voice was deep and gruff, scratchy like face stubble and cacti needles. There was a lilt of amusement somewhere in there.

"No," Freya mustered from around the rim of her drink.

"Ah." The man shifted in his seat. "Guess it's your right. Mighty strange, though, seeing Sir Freya Crescent in these parts."

Freya's head shot up so fast that beer sloshed over her muzzle. The man was eying longingly the spilt beer, but Freya could care less. She squinted at the man's features. Bright red hair, four arms, a patch. He looked familiar.

"Do I know you?" Freya inquired.

The man suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Err—no. I just…you're a famous woman, is all."

Freya wrinkled her nose. She didn't believe him, but after a minute or so of trying to recognize those distinct features, she gave up. It was a waste of energy anyway. She'd probably beat him up long ago in a bar fight or something.

She returned to her drink. The man cleared his throat, then spoke up again.

"Special occasion, love?"

Again, Freya considered and cast aside the idea to punch him. She was too tired. He wasn't worth the energy. She was partially drunk. So many excuses came to mind. She hadn't realized she had come to the point where knocking someone's head in was a chore. What would her mother say?

Freya snorted. Probably something like, finally came to your senses. Took you long enough.

She set her glass of beer down and peered at the amber liquid. She wasn't doing anything, might as well answer the man's questions. "No special occasion," she said at last. She glanced at him. A pair of his hands were twiddling his thumbs. She watched, fascinated.

"Right," the man said. "I suppose even heroes need a drink or two." It was obvious he was trying to keep the conversation going. Freya didn't particularly want to talk; it was like pulling teeth. She rubbed her forehead.

"Sure," she sighed. Suddenly, the beer had a bad taste in her mouth. She felt awful, like her insides had turned to bile. After a moment, she pushed the beer away from her.

"You don't mind?" the man asked immediately, his hand already snatching up the glass. Freya didn't even bother responding as he slugged it all down in a single swallow. She stared half-lidded across the bar, picking at her sleeve with idle claws.

The man slammed the glass down with a satisfied sigh. "Shitty stuff," he burped, "but it hits home." He looked so content. Suddenly Freya felt irritated.

"I'm not a hero," she muttered.

The man looked up. He seemed to study her for a moment, playing with the glass.

At length, he snorted and lifted the glass to his mouth, trying to chase the last droplets into his mouth. "Course you're," he mumbled around the rim.

Freya's fist clenched. "Right," she bit out. "Of course. Kill a god and you're an instant hero. Never mind that I was scared out of my mind, or that I would have killed anything to live, even my own friends."

The man raised an eyebrow. "And?"

Freya slammed a fist on the bar, making it shudder. The barman and the girl at the other end jumped and looked over. "I don't give a fuck about what Dagger says, we aren't heroes. Even Amarant doesn't get it, though he doesn't give a fuck about much to begin with." Wow, her tongue was loose. Nervous energy churned within her. She could easily punch a hole through a wall or two. Or a skull.

The man obviously didn't care he was in mortal danger. "Haven't a shitting clue what you're blabbing 'bout," he said airily, "and I don't particularly care either. Why you getting so worked up, anyway? You're famous, who gives a flying fuck why?"

Freya's lip curled to reveal sharp teeth. "Because it's not real."

The man burst out in laughter. He had the audacity. Freya stood up abruptly, arms shaking.

"You—you," he gasped, tears leaking from his green eyes.

"Shut up," Freya snapped.

The man waved a hand at her. "Sit down, don't get your knickers twisted," he coughed out between guffaws. "Honestly, it's just—I'll explain," and he let out another burst of laughter.

Freya nearly clocked him. She was so close she actually lifted her arm half way. But then the will to do so disappeared. Sudden, like a snuffed candle. Whoosh, gone. She stood there, staring at him a little lost, and then just dropped in her seat. Exhausted.

The man was still trying to control his laughter. "You see," he began, chuckling, "it was just---I couldn't believe—" He paused, taking in a deep breath, then shook his head. "You don't honestly think that's what it's 'bout, do you?"

Freya stared at him. After a moment, the man sighed.

"Look," he said, and suddenly he looked awkward. On of his hands started rubbing his hair. "No one cares if you did anything for the right reasons. You did it. Killed the big baddie. That's it. An' you can say fuck 'bout whatever drove you to do it, no one's going to complain. You did it to kill evil? You did it for the fucking chocobos? Sure thing, miss, whatever you say. It's not like I care why." He picked up the glass again, staring into its glossy surface, his face pinched. Then, very softly, "Just glad you did."

There was a long moment of silence, where Freya stared and the man fiddled with everything in reach. Finally, to the man's relief, Freya turned back to face the bar and raised a hand.

"You wanna beer?" she asked casually. The man lit up so fast Freya's lips quirked. She called the barman, who came immediately over, much to her four-armed companions disgruntlement. After she'd ordered another round of the finest beer he owned, Freya turned to the four-armed man.

"So, what's your name?" Freya asked.

"Err—Jack," the man said, his eyes fixed on the filling drinks. It gave Freya the time to get another good look at him.

"Are you sure we haven't met before?" Freya asked at length. "Lindblum, maybe? Treno?"

The man stiffened considerably. "No," he said quickly, and then, under Freya's narrowed scrutiny, gave a nervous grin. "Err—does it really matter?" he asked hopefully.

Freya looked at him for a long, tense moment, the shrugged, taking the glass of beer the barman handed her.

"No," she said softly beneath Jack's crow of delight. "I suppose it doesn't."