#well---getting there

@lafaucheuses​ 

  Crane should have known better, hopelessly so, when he’d finally agreed to a bet when the bartender swore on his steady business that he’d give Crane what would be worth a months’ rent of a one-room apartment in dingy, downtown Arkham -- if he’d finish off the remainder of some cheap whiskey, not sorely missed for the opportunity that it brought these crass men who seemed set on watching him and making him their entertainment for the night. 

He’s not a gambler. Not by far.

 He doesn’t know what he was thinking. His head lands with a soft ‘thunk’ as he lets out a soft groan, letting his head loll to the side. He manages to mumble together something snide, but it comes out sounding a bit blubbery. 

“She was just so mean, you know?” He hiccups, lifting his head up in mortification and sitting up ram-rod straight. 

Please, anything but thi - 

- `HIC! ,- 

“And you! You have some awful sense of humor, you know that?  `HIC! ,-

Putting a respectable working man up to th-  `HIC! ,-

I giveeeee uppp... Please let me go home. I’ll be taking back this tip.” 

He leans over to start fishing his wad of bills out of the tip jar, looking straight into it to look for his bill. He’d scrawled his name and contact on it like a business card, looking “officially” shady just in case someone snagged the bait. 

“Where is my lady beacon? You know how many of my cards I have left? There are only five in the world right now.” He deflates when his hand can’t fish any further, proceeding to put his whole face in the tip jar. 

“You know who your maker is. Come on out. 

     ...You awful, fickle little thing.”