#adrunkenrage

She’s gonna have to fight me on that one. He’s my BBY

Ah, Riley, and here I thought you’d be happy to have one more person on your side :P

It was beautiful how her teammates could warn her off of the place that felt closest to home, as if Ireland were some godless hovel that would swallow Julia alive. Bars like this dotted the world, overflowing with familiarity even when goodwill was in short supply. Old wounds were not easily forgotten, and there was a very real fear that the agent would be gnawed to bits and spat out if the truth of her allegiances were to be revealed. They might even be right. Her superior in particular had seemed concerned for her well-being, having seen firsthand the damage that both sides could inflict on one another.

Strange how she feared less tangible bogeymen over the more pressing threats a British agent had hanging overhead.

Julia would not discount the unease between the two islands, but some part of her more feared the kind of men that wandered the night in this city. She was sure enough she could talk her way out of things that she sat quietly and unafraid, the apparent newcomer in the dizzying world of Belfast, and kept to her own business. Her motherland no doubt offered some kind of shield. No one would hear her drawling accent and draw conclusions about her loyalties. So long as she kept her head low and listened only for what she needed, she might get out without any trouble.

Perhaps she might even realize how low her head was hung. The bar moved smoothly, all the people mingling, but something in the air around the stranger seemed negatively charged. The tall, gaunt woman hardly had a welcoming presence, already drawing less than favorable notice. Sipping at her wine -- a disgusting vintage, all things considered, but her usual poison was far too memorable to risk ordering -- she half wished for a book so she could at least be the snooty bitch at the bar, rather than the creepy one who set others ill at ease.

What could clearing the air hurt? Uncrossing her long legs, the fabric of her dark pants fairly slithering back down to her ankles, she cast an appraising glance around the bar without ever turning her head. Pale eyes scanned the glass set across from the counter, seeking someone that might offer entertainment without jumping out of their skin or deluding themselves --

Oh, but he spoke of authority. Salt and pepper hair established him as old hat, whatever it was he practiced. This was the kind of man she ought to avoid, the kind of man who could see far too much and make himself a nuisance. Julia had lost count how many times local authorities had interfered in her professional business, but then she had no proof he even belonged to a group that might inconvenience her.

For all she knew, he carried himself as a man who was blessed below the belt and knew it.

Even if he might be trouble, it was only one night’s worth of conversation. There was just enough age on him that she felt confident, the very beginnings of feeble senility lining his waistline and the corners of his eyes. Turning her attention to him, she swirled the red liquid in her glass.

“Are you keeping score?”

deadpool starters | accepting!