WHAT COMES NEXT?

She could feel his eyes on her and warmth rose in her cheeks. She was only human, after all, and positive attention of any kind after the year she’d had was very, very welcome. Even if it came from someone she’d decided— without any real reason— she did not trust. But she was grateful for the dim lights of the bar, dipping her head to the side to flash him a coy little smile. “So he comes with presents and flattery.” She raised a brow, one side of her mouth still curled in a smile. Nat watched him shift fully towards her, and she found herself unable to resist the charm. She didn’t want to. At least, not enough. Who left her in charge of her own decisions? Colossal mistake. “As a December baby, I feel obligated to say Christmas. But the theater kid in me wants to say Halloween.” She tilted her head, dancing a little closer to some invisible line. “There’s something about pretending to be someone else for a night, you know?”

* ˚ ✦

Theater? Wasn't really his thing. Hadn't ever been his thing. Although, he wasn't too proud to see the similarities between sport and show. Both were trying to entertain; both required pure talent to pull off. His mom had a passion for plays, operas, and performances— New York City had always been her artistic playground, and in a way, he wanted to tell this girl all about it; all about how his mom knew this person and that person, and had tickets lined up before they were even out, but something about that also felt cruel. Something in him wanted to tell her anyway. Though if she was close with Cara maybe she'd already heard it all, which was something he was still trying to figure out: their exact relationship. She seemed too sweet to really be running around with his sister.

Nevermind. He tilted his head to the side, curious, wanting to ask her more, "Alright, to Hell with Christmas then," He capered, letting out a faint, amused laugh, "Who would you be then for a day if you could then? Dead or alive, time travel prohibited," He smiled, his lips sinking into a smirk as the seconds passed, realizing it was a rather dense question, as he probably couldn't think of someone flat, "... And if you can't think of one give me a top three."

When wasn’t Sassa trying, though? 

At Luke’s words, Sassa sighed, turning to look fully at him, her eyes landing on Luke’s face, meeting his gaze straight on. She could look at him fine. “Don’t be dramatic,” she said, leaning a hip against the bar. “I’m looking at you right now.” She blinked, lashes fluttering at Luke, lips curling up ever so slightly. Honestly, Sassa had been pissed when he hadn’t answered her after she had left his room that morning. But she was powerless against that smile, especially when coupled with an actual apology. 

“It’s fine,” she said softly, glancing back to see where the bartender was at, still needing to get a drink, even if she had just slipped into the bar as an excuse to talk to Luke. Or, rather, to get him to talk to her. “So what did this blessing from St. Patrick get you then? Besides the duty of passing out glasses and kazoos?” she asked as she turned back to him, unable to help but letting a flirtatious lilt creep into her tone.

'I'm looking at you right now'— his gaze that had since dropped to the bar counter now actually looked up and found her eyes. He looked at them, and now for fortunately longer than just a passing moment, and within saw a contradiction. Hurt and adoration, seemingly in combat for a place, and he knew that it was entirely his doing. It was strange. He didn't like hurting people, as most didn't, but most also didn't care enough to be hurt. She did, though she cared and he didn't know why she did, but she did, and whereas most women lingered around him in hopes of money or some sort of sickly fame (at this point in the investigation), she genuinely seemed to care.

He'd done all but push her away, and here she was. And those eyes, dark and warm, invited him back in all the same. He found himself smiling, and as he watched her it seemed she was melding into a newer, cooler version— the page officially turning, the next chapter, and he saw a way in. He shrugged, boyish, leaning down on the counter and interlacing his fingers, "Well, talking to you, for one," He capered lightly, scooting just slightly closer to where their conversation allowed for a more respectable level of intimacy. He set the bags down, away from them, "All other 'duties' will come after the fact," And he silenced the notion of simply moving away or leaving the conversation at his own earliest convenience. He looked at her, dragging a tongue across his bottom lip, gaze moving across her face. He thought briefly about the last time he saw her, more so the lack of clothes between them both, and smiled, "So what have you been up to? Fill me in on what I missed. I wanna hear all about it."

"Sydney Pollack was a great actor, wasn't he?" he asked Luke, rather than answer his inquiry, still watching the booth. One of the guys threw his head back and laughed, a girl joining in, but it was like they were on mute from this distance, the din of the bar filtering out anything that wasn't him and Luke. He could bet that he'd sold to each of them before, even just pot, but his mind was elsewhere tonight, his grip on reality tentative at best. It made him reluctant to veer any closer to the group, keenly aware of how much he didn't fit with that crowd. "Y'wanna step outside?" he offered, plucking at the front of his shirt a few times, suddenly warm beneath the double layer of his green corduroy jacket. "Do a little business? I'm always on the clock, man." Monty finally looked at Luke again, a suggestive smirk sliding sharply across his mouth. "Couldn't let down guys like you, right?" The big spenders, consistent and always good for it.

He was seemingly unphased by the question, random as it came across, there was also something patronizing about it that he was able to pick up on— something weird in the tone, and if it had been anyone else Luke may have ventured into knocking them down a peg. But it was Monty, and he so happened to need Monty right now. He had current irritants that psychologists seemingly refused to want to prescribe for. He needed a strong dosage and something potent. Not that it would have been hard to knock down Monty either, as Luke had a head of height and at least fifty pounds on him. He had to know it too, how fucking toast he'd be if he ever crossed him. Funny, how he seemed to be poking and prodding at the line. Only seeming, and Luke didn't want nor feel the need to push. His faint, momentary scowl curved upwards, amused, "Sydney Pollack my nutsack is what I think," He retorted, and though for a moment it was tempting to look up (only after) what the other might of meant by a question, he knew it didn't matter. Luke was a Morrison. It didn't matter what anyone thought of him, as he'd always be better off at the end of the day. A privilege Luke would be the first to admit he had.

After gazing upon the crowd he was with, making sure Monty saw and understood fully what he meant by 'business', Luke nodded, "No, you couldn't," His hand gripped and squeezed the other's shoulder, furthest from him for a moment, and then he let him go completely, "So let's go, Monty Mule, lead the way." And he followed accordingly, until they were both outside, and not in earshot of anyone who would care to hear what they were talking about, at least. Luke's glasses have since been removed, and he let out a sigh, "I need my usual whenever you can get it," He ran a hand through his blonde hair, and he knew Monty would know what that meant. Xanax, Valium, and more recently, a touch of Special K. A concoction Luke would describe as 'perfect in suppressing all perceivable existence'. He lightly cleared his throat, already reaching for his phone to Venmo him. When Venmo asked what it was for? Naturally Luke would always fill in the void with the donkey emote, "The goons inside just want a gram of the best dope you have on you."

     he takes a look at the shamrock glasses that were just passed over to him, and there was a grin on his lips — there was absolutely no way link would ever want to be wearing those, for any occasion, whatsoever. but then again, link didn’t want to do a lot of the things that he did and didn’t want to say a lot of the shit that he said over the years, but he did to get to where he was now. as he placed the glasses on top of his head, he looks over to lucas with a bit of a goofy smile on his lips beginning to form — a very pointed expression, hoping to finally get on his good side already. maybe tonight would be it, since it looks like he’s in a good mood. usually, link would be met with a soured expression from lucas almost immediately. “ not the party favors i had in mind, but i guess they’ll do. ” he tries for a joke, that grin still plastered across his lips. link takes a quick second to subtly zero in on lucas, wondering how he managed to get to really high places with both of his sisters — yet he was still stuck sleeping outside when it came to him. which angle does he play tonight ? “ so be honest, how many glasses did you buy to pass onto drunk strangers tonight ? ”

* ˚ ✦

Not the party favors he had in mind. Luke pretended not to delve into that further. Was that the kind of business he had with his sisters? 'Party favors'? It added up for Cara— she went with the party, wherever and to whomever it took her to, but Greer? A hint of distaste scorned his lips for a moment. His propitiatory demeanor was starting to crumble, he could feel it, but he couldn't let it. There was something about this guy, and if he were to figure it out he needed to remain polished and gregarious, "Well, if you want something that'll really toot your horn, I might be able to help you," Luke smirked, brushing a thumb against the side of his nostril in gesture. He didn't have any blow on him, but he was interested to see how Link responded. His blue eyes past the tint of his clover glasses grew speculative, and had the room been well-lit and had he removed the shades, it would have been discernable. Truthfully, Luke hadn't bought them for anyone but himself, but alas, jolly he'd become after three lagers and a shot of Grey Goose, and admitting that seemed daft, "However many came in a bag at Party City," He gave the bag a shake, and offered a smile, "What can I say? I love spreading the wealth." A pause, and a canting of the head to the side, playful, "And you do pictures for the school paper," If there was one thing Luke realized he did know about him, it was that, "-Where's your camera at, man? If you want the scoop it's here." The blonde waved an arm out in the direction of the rest of the bar.

“You’re like Leprechaun Santa with his little bag of toys.” Nat’s eyes fell to said bag as he set it down between them and she grinned as she plucked out a pair of green glasses and a kazoo for herself. She slid the glasses onto her face and tilted her head in a silent invitation to scrutinize her. “Do I look festive enough for you?” This felt a little like a game she’d decided to play with herself, she just hadn’t quite figured out yet what that game might be, so she turned briefly to the bartender in a greeting, flashing a smile before turning it back on Luke, brows raising at his offer. Kind of annoying that she was genuinely eating up this attention. Without breaking eye contact with him, she reached out to take his glasses from where he’d set them down and slid them onto her own face over top of the ones she was already wearing. “I’d like. Thank you,” she said with a single nod, grin growing slowly wider as she turned back to the bartender. “I will have a raspberry mojito, please.” Once the bartender had the order, she turned back to Luke again, though she could hardly see him through the double glasses in the already dimly lit bar. “You a big St. Patty’s guy?”

* ˚ ✦

"Saint Nick has nothing on me," He retorted lightly, "I also won't come climbing down your chimney either," Luke capered, a small smirk finding his expression. He watched her, slender fingers picking out a pair from the bag, and then proceeding to put them on. His smile gleamed a boyish fun that seemed to lightly illuminate his eyes. Whether she intended to or not, he took her question as an opportunity to rake his gaze over her. His head tilted to the side, inspecting, moving up until he landed on her face. Luke liked what he saw, and he wasn't a man who hid it, his smile widening as he spoke, "Festive and gorgeous," He told her, still holding his own pair of sunglasses in his hand, "-If I wasn't wearing green I'd insist you pinch me," He joked then, cheekily, and it would be a lie to say that he didn't have fun with flattery. What a grand thing a compliment was; in his mind there was no greater a front. A mojito. Rum and tequila were the liquors of ebullience— the superior party juice. He wondered then if he'd seen her around at any before, but not before her question cut through his thought, "Just a big celebrations guy," He responded, turning to face her fully, "-I'm more interested in you," He smiled, "What's your holiday?"

Did she notice who she was slipping in next to? Of course - this was Sassa Fiske, after all. But she didn’t acknowledge Luke, instead ever so slightly facing the other direction, pretending she didn’t even see him. 

Until he spoke to her, Sassa’s head snapping in his direction as surprise turned her lips into a perfect oh, before they curled up in the faintest hint of a smile. “Lucky how?” she asked, though she had a feeling she knew exactly what he was implying. “I’ll go with the glasses, though. Not about to be blowing your dirty kazoo,” Sassa added, scrunching her nose up at him. 

Is this the part where he was supposed to feel bad? Because he felt a little bad. In fact, the more he stood there, the worse he felt. It had been weeks since he'd seen her, and about the same amount of time since they'd talked— a decision that wasn't her own. She'd spent the night and he had fizzled away within the following days. It wasn't as simple as that, though. It never was. In fact, he'd wanted to talk to her, but he found himself procrastinating the very action, until finally it seemed to late. Or was that what he wanted to happen all along?

She seemed to take an aloof approach, while he turned to face her but took a step back, friendly but cautious; anticipating the worst but hoping for the best. He removed his glasses, an elbow resting atop the bar, "They were all blessed by St. Patrick himself— kazoo, glasses and yours truly alike," He capered, almost softly as he felt struck by sudden sobriety. He slid over a pair of glasses, "Fair enough," Luke wasn't going to argue, nor take offense. He knew he deserved any slack. But he wasn't one to veer from confrontation.

After a pause, and a momentary glance away, he ran his hand through his hair, "I guess I really fucked up, huh?" He faced her once more, a small, modest smile on his expression, "'Cause you can't hardly look at me and I'm suddenly not having a good time." He spoke casually, calmly, cool, the other side of the coin whose other half could be absolutely scalding if he wanted it to be, "I'm sorry."

She didn’t expect to sidle up next to Luke Morrison and before she could slip back away into the crowd, he’d already seen her. She smiled a little weakly, still finding it a little difficult to disentangle herself from the bad feelings Greer (and by association, her posse) left behind. Her smile strengthened, widened. “No wrong choice, huh. So what if my choice is both?”

Where did he know her from? One of Cara's friends, yes. He'd seen her around: the atheletic's center, maybe— a ball game, perhaps, but most certainly by his twin's side at least a few times. He knew to an extent that those who ran around with either of his sisters were at least a little laden with trouble, but trouble seemed to be the normal nowadays. Her smile, widening, seemed to have an effect that enstilled the erasure of distress. Luke, as all men seemed to become around beautiful women, melted into a mere mortal, "Well," He almost sighed, breathing out, "Two rights never made a wrong, did they?" He set the bags on the counter, offering, "If you want both, take both. 'Both' is a fantastic choice," Luke removed his glasses, looking past her in attempt to make eye contact with the bartender.

Louie. That was the tender's name, and he knew very well that if Luke was served a little better than the average customer, he'd be walking away that night with a tip to make his week. Luke nodded, then turned to her, his elbow resting atop the counter as he removed his glasses, eyes revealed, "You want something to drink?" And then with a hint of coyness, rather boyish, "-Let me rephrase that, actually: I'd love to buy you a drink, if you'd like."

Though if they had any sort of normal relationship, her showing up at his door wouldn’t need explaining, especially after the birthday they shared had passed without much acknowledgement. But alas. Practically the last thing the Morrison family relationships could be called was normal.

“That looks like shit,” Cara said in a flat tone, glancing from the wall with patches - rough, uneven, unfinished patches - on it to Luke, her expression still set into a frown. “What are you even doing?” she asked, her nose wrinkling up as a small laugh slipped from her lips. “Pretty sure you don’t need a college degree if you’re considering pursuing...construction,” she added, which, despite the distaste that coated the words as they exited her mouth, was still a generous descriptor for the project that he had taken on, in her opinion.

"There were holes in the wall," He put plainly, "I fixed it," Luke smirked, mostly unbothered by her criticism. He adjusted the cap sitting on his head, moving past the coffee table that had a few empty beer cans stacked into a small, two-dimensional pyramid atop it, "Cute. But if I wanted to waste people's tax dollars, I'd just become a politician, Cara, at least they don't stand around all day in mud smoking Black and Milds like total bums. Work smarter, not harder." He capered, his tone abhorrently condescending, though if anyone would pass judgment on looking down on others it would be a Morrison. Bred for perfection. Or so it would seem on the outside looking in. In actuality, they weren't even close, and Luke knew this— he lived it, but the pride he held for his family was now more important than ever. Normalcy had to be maintained.

But he was himself, and Cara was Cara. He didn't even want to bother asking what she got up to on their birthday. He didn't expect her to ask him either what he did. So, her presence became even more puzzling. He was at his kitchen counter now, wiping off the excess spackle from the putty knife, his back turned to her. Luke only glanced over his shoulder, "Not to sound like a dick, but why are you here? Did Mom or Dad say something?"

sipping on his water, this girl he had just met asked him to save her spot in line for the bar while she ran to the bathroom, and dawning a fake celtics jersey (he was a die-hard grizzlies fan but he was the lone one up here), leaky nodded along to the irish music in the background (he needed to learn more about it because damn, it was pretty great), before a voice stepped closer. looking up he raised his eyebrows at luke, cracking a smile at him. "i mean, i tried my best with this jersey." it's pulled over a black hoodie because despite the crowd it was still freezing outside. "but gimme a kazoo, i can make some magic happen with it luke, just you wait." he winks. "you seem to be having a good time. no 'kiss me i'm irish' button?"

Was it the deflated gesturing to the Celtics jersey or was it the way that Luke could seemingly detect the dissatisfaction in the other's words? Either way, it made Luke smile, wider than before, "No way in hell you're a Boston fan," He ventured, guessing really, but he knew Leak couldn't be from the New England area, at least. The fall of the Pats, Brady, and Belichick had been something Luke had relished over the past few years. Not to mention, he just hated Boston. Was it the Long Island in him? Perhaps, as all New Yorkers had a sense of pride that couldn't be disturbed, but he at least figured they would see common ground with both not appreciating green and white. He offered a kazoo, handing out the bad, "Thatta boy, Leaky," He smirked, one less kazoo off his person and hopefully one merrier bar-goer that he'd leave in his own wake, "No, no button, no cheap gimmicks," Luke protested, "-the game never stops, man, especially here. I mean, these girls are complicated, and their expectations are set way, way too high."