2007-09-25: Out of the Woodwork


Giselle_icon.gif Vasili_icon.gif Seamus_icon.gif Felix_icon.gif Benjamin_icon.gif Church_icon.gif


Vasili and Giselle go to Oldcastle Pub for some entertainment — and decide to make their own. Trouble follows hand-in-hand.

Date It Happened: September 25th, 2008

Out of the Woodwork

Oldcastle Pub and Restaurant

The interior of the Pub is all highly polished wood, wood paneling, and brass ornamentation. The bar is long, stretching all the way down the left side as you enter. There are bar stools lined before it like soldiers waiting for duty, assuming that duty involves several pints, a bowl of bar snacks, and being sat upon regularly. Behind the bar, running the length of it, are mirrored shelves holding hundreds of bottles of various varieties of spirits, ranging in price, quality, and country of origin. The walls of the pub are a dark stained wood, and generally the light is kept subdued, as any successful Pub should be. The staff and customers, however, are another story. This is, after all, an Irish Pub.

Good cheer and good drink are customary, occasionally laced with temper. Irish memorabilia and all manner of ephemera is posted to the walls up the pub, up by the ceiling. There's flags and license plates, and photos and such. The bar shines at a high polish, and there's a few tables scattered along the other wall, a booth here and there, too, to host customers. In the back there's several dart boards for a friendly game, and a hallway leading to the restrooms. Menus are available upon request, and food is served at the bar and the tables, both.

Oldcastle is, indeed, an Irish pub, and as such is usually filled with raucous cheer and amusement. Tonight is no exception, and the far end of the bar seems to be even busier than usual, tables scattered with pints and bottles and plates of food before the hands of laughing men. Even more men are standing around the dart boards, cheering (or jeering) as they see fit, as darts find themselves repeatedly buried into pegboard. At the center of this good cheer is Seamus O'Malley, just a little red in the face with a pint in one hand. His opponent is only slightly less jovial than he is (possibly due to the fact that Seamus is winning), but so far, all is good — loud — cheer in the pub this evening.

Even though Giselle is- quite inconveniently- straddled with the body of a blonde and female bombshell, that's never deterred her from enjoying the rowdiness of pubs like Oldcastle. Trying to, at least. She isn't here alone tonight, though it's she who shoulders the door open first, curling a strand of long hair behind her ear as she looks around expectantly. Modesty apparently wasn't on the wardrobe to-do list: she's in a salmon-pink peasant blouse with drooping sleeves, tight jeans, pointy(!) ankle-strap heels, and pigtails. It isn't quite on the level of skanky, but it doesn't do much to make her blend in with the men here, either.

Once she's in, her eyes are drawn right off the bat to Seamus, and she remarks over her shoulder as she watches: "…Mick looks like a tomato." Red hair, red-faced. Mmhm.

Vasili happens to /like/ Giselle's body. A lot. Vasili's hand appears above Giselle's head to shove the door a little further open after she makes it inside. Most of what he's wearing is concealed, save for his black jeans, thanks to the leather motorcycle jacket that has been zipped all the way up to the center of his throat and then buttoned securely in place. The motorcycle is elsewhere, but that doesn't mean Vasili can't enjoy himself by looking completely badass. He follows Giselle's gaze after she makes her comment, squinting a bit - and then?

"Maybe we should have some fun with him. I bet you could tear his shoulder off in an arm-wrestling contest. Or I can stick his head into the toilet." Vasili is obviously a paragon of good manners and fine social skills.

Seamus is /not/ a tomato, okay. Maybe more like a cherry. Or an apple! He's /sweet/, is the point, whatever his half-drunk friends have to say about him. And even when wet enough in the brain to be taking three steps for every intended stride, he still manages to make the darts he throws end up neatly in the inner circles — and higher-scoring wedges — of the target board. His next dart brings a loud cheer from three of the tables and a resounding groan from two more. "Don' ya worry abou' it, Sammy!" he laughs with his mates, giving the other man a congenial /shove/. "When I win I'll buy ya another plate o' wings to make up for it. Put somethin' in your belly to sober ya up for round two." More cheers and laughter all around. Most of those in the back are having too fine a time to even glance toward the entryway, so the two newcomers to the bar go (so far) largely unnoticed.

The trouble is when Vasili and Giselle decide to /look/ for trouble, they rarely go unnoticed for long. Looks like a hectic night; the bartender will probably be a few minutes yet in asking for an order. So instead of sidling up to the polished bar to slide herself into one of the unoccupied seats, as she might normally, she heads right for the dart boards in the back - towards the figure of Seamus, in particular.

"…hm. /Decisions/." The last word is spoken with extreme, unruffled airiness. "I'll take whatever you suggest, V."

Hah. Vasili catches up to Giselle for a moment, sliding his hands along her sides and letting them… drift… for a moment before he leans in to give her cheek a kiss. "How about my girlfriend goes and hits on the airhead Mick? Or makes him hit on her. Whichever." And then Mr. Babenkov can take /great personal exception/ to that. Giselle gets a little squeeze before Vasili withdraws, crossing his arms with a smirky smile.

When pretty ladies start heading for directly for a person, however, they become a little harder to miss. Seamus is not a jackass, however, even while tipsy. Really! Though his eyes do some, ah, drifting of their own, and though he does cast Giselle a grin, he manages to avoid seeming lewd. It's a jovial grin! And then it's back to the dart board. Flick! - Bullseye. The next cheers are all but deafening, and Seamus's grin compounds threefold. "Ye want those wings now 'r later, Sam?"

Normally, this request the sort that gets the /asker/ hit. Never mind anything about 'hit on'. Giselle's eyebrows rise as she pauses and stills her movement, accepting the kiss. Her voice lifts from a murmur, as the kiss is going on, to a more normal volume as seconds tick past it. "I'm not really -versed- in the art of seduction, Vee. How about /you/ go hit on him, and I'll-?" She crooks one of her hands, reaching to crack the forefinger with the opposite one in a delicate motion.

Buh/whuh/. Vasili stares at Giselle for a few moments, gaping like a fish - and then his lips and expression thin out. "…You'd better hit him hard, Giz. I wouldn't do this for anyone else." God knows Vasili is homophobic enough to be nearly psychotic - and hey! If Seamus responds to his ~seduction~, that just makes one more reason (the others being 'Mick', 'funny looking', and 'too smiley') for the man to be held upside down in a urinal. Or something similar. Just to reassure himself of his masculinity, Vasili's hand roams downward to give his girlfriend's tush a little squeeze and a pat. "Be sure to save me in time."

And then the Russian is off, moving smoothly towards Seamus. Eventually he makes it to the other man's side, and leans forward over Seamus' shoulder. "Good throw. Anything else here-" He gestures around the bar "-you'd like to toss? It's very manly and appealing."

…And when pretty boys come right up to a person, they're altogether /impossible/ to miss. Although Vasili's "come-on" should be altogether a failure as a pick-up line, fact is? Seamus isn't in his right mind, and the Russian — once the redhead turns enough to give him a quick once-over — is /pretty/. Maybe he only sounds ridiculous because Seamus is tipsy. "You aren' bad y'self, blondie." A quick step brings the Irishman fully about to come face-to-face with Vasili, and with a grin that /maybe/ tilts the /tiniest/ bit into lewd, he raises his eyebrows and his beer. "Ta be blunt about it, matter o' fact-" punctuate here with a quick swig from his pint "-I wouln' mind givin' you a toss, if y're up for it."

Oh god. Oh /god/. /OH GOD/. Suddenly Vasili is even more /extremely uncomfortable/ than he was two seconds ago. He stares at Seamus as the Irishman rounds on him and then starts to get /overfriendly/. It bothers Vasili - just a little - that he has to look /up/ at Seamus. "The name isn't 'blondie', to start with. But maybe you and I could give a bit of a toss. I bet the pool table's free."

At that, Seamus's brows go up a little further, and his grin fades just a little, for just a moment. But as one of the other men from the loud-and-louder celebratory group gives him a good chuck on the shoulder, it picks immediately back up, with an additional lopsided tilt. "Where're my manners?" As though the Russian is showing them. "Name's Seamus. Seamus O'Malley." The Irishman gestures toward the other man's chest with his half-empty pint. "An' you? If I'm gonna be makin' a spectacle with ya in two minutes' time — I'd like ta know the name I ought ta be yellin'."

In the blink of an eye, Vasili has /stolen/ Seamus' pint from him with the aid of a firm grasp and a very insistent tug. The liquid inside the mug sloshes in protest, nearly spilling over the container's lip - only to be chugged down by the Russian a moment later. "A spectacle is one thing. But I wouldn't say you'd be 'yelling' so much as 'screaming', 'cause I tend to play a little rough. You can buy me another drink, and you can call me Babenkov."

Seamus doesn't put up much of a fight as his beer is stolen. Booze is a small price to pay for the promise of a good time with a very good-looking man. "Th' drink I can do," he grins, giving his head a jerk toward the bar and bringing one hand up to guide Vasili by the shoulder. One of the partiers behind him gives the redhead a shout, but a pointed look cuts that off with a hearty snerk from the shouter in question — and the others at his table. "The screamin', I can also do, Babenkov, without a lot of coaxin'. I tend ta be loud."

Sorry! Your girlfriend isn't coming to the rescue; in fact, she's silently doubled up in laughter at the spectacle, one quaking elbow leaning up atop the bar behind her as she presses her body close to it. Giselle otherwise stays firmly out of the way, having actually pulled up a barstool for herself while waiting. This is too entertaining.

Okay. Okay. This is /lame/, and Vasili is /very not comfortable/ with this particular situation. He stares at Seamus as if the other man has sudden spouted something (say, a penis?) on his forehead, and then tightens his hands. Into /fists/. Enough is enough - Giselle has not stepped in quickly enough for Vasili's tastes, and he promptly takes things in to his own hands. /Fists/.

One of them suddenly comes back. And then comes back up. At Seamus' face! /Really hard/. And /really fast/. Also, unlike Seamus, Vasili is not drunk.

Wait wait what what—ow ow /ow/! Seamus suddenly has a /fist/ in his /face/ and his /lips/ are cut /all over his teeth/ and his /jaw/ feels like it's on backwards /fuck fuck fuck fuck/ /OW/. His hand automatically clenches on the back of Vasili's jacket, but it's not a good grip, and he goes down anyway, only pulling the Russian around for a few inches' tug. Instead, the Irishman is pretty much lain out on his side, one arm barely keeping him up and the other holding his bleeding mouth. "…Wha' th' /fuhch/." Mouthfuls of blood and sore jaws don't make for clear speaking.

And what what what what goes /Giselle/, who flounces off that stool just as quickly as she'd gotten onto it when she sees the punch fly. Her pigtails bob serenely behind her as the woman heads over to stand over Seamus' fallen figure, close to Vasili, lips pressed together tightly in what is either a displeased grimace or a supreme smile. It doesn't matter that the Irishman is down and bleeding already. That's now how she works.

"Faggot," she practically breathes in a sigh as she goes to work. She -stabs- her foot inwards for a jarring kick at the middle of Seamus' stomach, letting the heel come to a hairs-breadth away from it. "That is /my/ boyfriend. Thank you very much."

That's /much/ better. Vasili looks over at Giselle once she (finally!) shows up, giving her a melty-faced look of absolute /adoration/. What did he do to deserve such a wonderfully active woman? It probably had something to do with all those losers he beat up in high school. The Russian just watches Seamus on the ground, his own right foot touching the floor only with the toe of his shoe. Apparently, Giselle beat him to the kicking. Awww. "Took you long enough."

FF-!!! Seamus /gags/, his left arm giving out beneath him as his right clamps harder over his mouth. This time, it is not to cradle his aching face, but in attempt to stifle a /retch/. He'd rather not vomit all over himself, thank you. His body doubles up in a shudder, and he squints up at Giselle through one squinted eye. What the /fuck/. Another shudder, another suppressed /retch/, and the redhead manages to gag out, "Y-yer commie boy-toy came onta /me/, Goldilocks." Hsss.

Giselle removes her foot quickly at this-don't toss your cookies all over my brand new shoes, thankyouverymuch-but just as quickly aims another vicious kick in between retches, this one just a little lower. "I don't care what /he/ did, you little beast." In her eyes? Seamus is as guilty as sunshine. No questions.

Aww, poor baby. Vasili stands beside Giselle, taking a step closer to her while giving one of Seamus' kneecaps a little nudge with the tip of one toe. It could be worse. He could've actually /kicked/. "He lied to me, Giselle. He said he's a screamer. I'm not hearing any screaming - are you?"

Seamus isn't screaming because he can't get the /breath/. Giselle's next kick very nearly makes him /piss/ himself, and both hands leave his mouth to wrap around his belly as he curls in a little further. Drunk, Seamus would have enough trouble getting /up/ if he /weren't/ being beaten on; he's not exactly up for fighting back.

The other Irishmen in the bar, on the other hand? They haven't been knocked over, and not all of them are drunk enough to be pushed over. And Seamus is on at least friendly terms with every last one of them. So the deafening silence from the back of the bar can probably be interpreted as /not good/, especially now that the four most sober men are headed for the trio near the bar. Three of them are over six feet tall. One of them is holding a handful of darts.

Giselle forces her heel down in one final -kick- towards Seamus' abdomen before her eyes slip sideways, perturbed by the sudden lack of noise from the back. She straightens, folds her hands in her lap. The picture of womanly innocence. The expression on her face, however, is anything but apologetic.

Ah, glorious synchronicity. Which is why Fel comes in, just at that moment. Really, all he wanted was a beer in peace, not a fight. But a fight there is, complete with Giselle and Babenkov. And Fel, braver than he is wise, is quite prepared to wade into it - he's already shed his suit jacket to expose the shoulder holster underneath, and is reaching for the safed 45, the better to use it to pistolwhip Vasili with.

OhGOD. Something very like a whimper chokes out of Seamus's mouth as a result of Giselle's stomp, and the redhead twitches before rolling almost completely onto his face in attempt to shield himself. The sound has barely faded from the air when two of the other men make it level with Seamus. One kneels down in attempt to aid his fallen friend; the second steps completely over the mechanic with his eyes on Giselle. "I don' like hitting ladies," he growls. "But bein' as there aren't any ladies in this room, woman, y'wanna take this outside?"

And Giselle meets the challenge with a wide-lipped smirk of her own, sparing not even a glance for Seamus somewhere down below her. "Let's /do/ this, douchebag." To Vasili: "Keep them busy here, darling." It only takes a moment or two more for the door to BAM open again, the blonde glaring her sudden surprise for Felix for only a second before she steps past him— and out.

Come to Giselle. That's it.

'Keep them busy here' is something Vasili feels he can do. The 'darling' added on to the request only reinforces his resolve, and the Russian suddenly takes immediate and violent exception to the remaining Irishman helping Seamus. "Hey. /Hey/. Leave that fuckwit where he lies, unless you want to join him. I don't think I could make you any uglier than you are, but I could /try/."

Fel is not there to prove how manly he is, and get into a direct fist fight. He's a spook by trade, and it shows. Because he catspaws up on Vasili, and brings the pistol down on the back of his head as hard as he can.

Vasili seems about to say something /else/ meant to be inflammatory, but then - then. Then there is a big bump on the back of his skull, and he drops like a sack of bricks. The man hits the floor with an inelegant thud, sprawled with his cheek mashed up against the wooden floor. He's probably going to be seeing stars for a few minutes yet.

Unlike Vasili, the man aiding Seamus sees Felix coming, and therefore ignores the Russian's threats entirely. And even if Felix weren't there — come on. Vasili's /Russian/. The Irishman is unimpressed. At least Seamus stayed conscious after a blow to the head. The larger man — Damon, by name — gets a hand under the slighter's arm, hauling him to his feet despite the mechanic's grimacing. "Ffff-fffuuuuck." /Owwww/.

Oh, boy, is he ever. Because Felix does not scruple to hit a man when he's down. So Vasili gets a few vicious kicks to the gut and the ribs as a follow up, even though he's obviously down for the count. Perturbingly, there's no sign of anger on Felix's face - by his cool expression, it's business as usual. Only the blue eyes are ablaze with that positively crystalline hatred. Vas's lucky there are witnesses, that this is a public place. Because mutual employer aside, Fel'd contentedly beat him to death. But after a few blows, gun in hand, he remembers himself and calmly holsters the weapon, still glaring down at Vasili. «That's for prison, you little fuck,» he says, coldly, before glancing up to examine Seamus, that mask of impassivity replaced with real concern. "How bad'd he get you?" Felix wonders, in accentless English.

"Fuckin' /Russians/-" "Damon." Seamus grimaces, but his conviction is strong. /Russians/ indeed, but Felix did help him out. Even if he is having enough trouble standing that Damon sees the need to help (read: practically lift) him onto a stool at the bar. "I'll be alrigh'," the redhead wheezes, holding his bruised gut with one hand and wiping the blood from his mouth with the other. Yep, he'll be totally fine. After another moment and another grimace, he can't help but grin through blood-smeared teeth. "Been worse." Sad but true? At least /he's/ not unconscious. — On that note. /Ptoo/. Vasili can have a nice splat of spit and blood on him for later.

Felix retrieves his suit jacket and shrugs it on, again toall appearances just some random businessman. "Man, I just wanted a beer," he says, bemused, eyeing Vasili. He heaves the Russian into a booth, but seems quite content to leave him there. That dealt with, he seats himself at the bar. Seamus gets a looking-over, though it's a cop's gauging stare, rather than anything flirtatious.

"I'll buy ya one," Seamus offers, leaning stiffly against the bar with a long, drawn-out grimace. "'S the leas' I can do. Ta thank ya, I mean." Damon gives Seamus a quick squeeze on the shoulder, receiving a nod in return, before he and another of his friends head out to check on the fight taken off by Giselle. Seamus should be okay with the gun-toting Russian looking after him, and if not, there're another dozen Irishmen in back who are very wary and not very happy. "Ya didn' have ta step in, even if ye are — whatever ye are. Cop?" Ignore please that Seamus is still kind of bleedy in the mouth as he speaks.

"That's very kind of you," Fel says, politely. "Used to be. Ten years NYPD. Now I'm a Fed," His tone is utterly matter of fact about it. He casts a scornful glance at the unconscious Vasili. "I've known that bastard for years. Violent little fucker." He reflexively hands Seamus a napkin - at least he didn't reach over to deal with the wound himself.

Oh. OH. Oh oh oh /shit/, a Fed. Seamus manages to keep from doing more than raising his eyebrows, though, which can — totally be attributed to a normal person's surprise, right? Right. He takes the napkin, and the hint, dabbing at his bleeding lips and trying to clean the stains from his teeth. …Ah, fuck it. "Oi! Whiskey fer me an' a beer fer m' rescuer, eh, Mickey?" The 'tender complies with half a smirk, and Seamus downs half his drink in a good swish-and-gulp — ffffuuuuck that /buuuurns/. Owww. It probably got rid of the blood, though! "He done enough fer you ta arrest 'im? I can make up somethin' else to attest ta if you'd like."

"That sort of assault's a local problem. Not exactly my jurisdiction. I still know some folks on the force, though," Fel says, easily. "Heineken, please." He flicks a look around the bar. "How'd it start?" he wonders.

Safely (and uncomfortably) tucked into his booth, poor Vasili lets out a little bit of a groan. He probably has a very bad headache. And it will not improve the situation when he wakes up.

And.. into this mess.. walks Benji and Church. Is this what Ben can expect out of his partner when the two aren't supposed to be attached at the hip? And will Ben expect to get into some trouble because of Vasili, even though he was not here? While Vasili isn't immediately seen, nor the state of a battered Seamus.. there's tension in the air. The tension? Is that supposed to come with an Irish pub?

"S'far as I know, it started with blondie-boy over there comin' on ta me. Badly." Seamus snorts a little, getting now why Vasili's opening line /sucked/ so very much. He glances up as the doors open, glowering a bit before knocking back another swig of his whiskey. His voice is a bit lower when he continues: "Next thing I know, he's punchin' me in th' face an' 'is little goldilocks is stickin' her Barbie heels in my belly. Nice way ta end a night." And it had been going so /well/ beforehand.

Fel's visibly startled at that. "Wait, what? He made a pass at you? Was it just to see if you'd respond? Because man, there is no faster way to get a Russian to try and kill you than to ask him if he's queer." He apparently exempts himself from that - been in the States long enough. He casts a glance over at Vasili, before taking a pull from his beer.

Tension is something that Lawrence is absolutely used to. But perhaps after he has been there a while. He files in the door behind Benjamin, eyes scaling the pub and practically exploding with mirth at what familiar face he sees. "Felix!" HI, GUYS. It doesn't take him much longer to take in the rest of the place, including the booth Vasili is in. He furrows both eyebrows and circles around to look down at Vasili as if he were here all along. "…Uh-oh." It is a childlike statement. "You've got something on your face." Even if Vasili can't hear him properly, it serves to lower tension.

Vasili chooses this particular moment to have a bit of a muscle spasm. It jerks him back to consciousness - albeit hazy consciousness - and the first thing he sees?

Lawrence Church.

That's enough to make /any/ man violent after suddenly waking up, and when Vasili's brain last exited the land of those who are awake it was in a state of violence. He sort of flails in his booth, legs swinging all over the place as he attempts to force his body to cooperate, only to stop after one knee *CRACKS* into the side of the table. "Ssssshhiiiiit," hisses the Russian.

Oh hey, Ivanov! What a small world for a big city huh? "Hey Felix," Benjamin calls out once Church leads the greeting charge. About to just hang there and converse.. Seamus's condition is noted. Felix doesn't look too happy.. Frowning just a tad at Church's uhoh and circling, Ben follows after and then.. groans as he sees Vasili there in the booth. "What'd he do now?" He doesn't know Vasili very well, but he DOES know Babenkov likes to cause trouble. Ben just kinda stands there, hanging back, like the parent who has a child in trouble weekly at school. Disappointed.

"May've been," Seamus murmurs, casting a scrutinizing glare Vasili's direction — only to /jerk/ a moment later, splashing half his remaining whiskey down his front. Church is /LOUD/, and it startles the fucking hell out of the mechanic. "…Fuckin' hell." Waste of good liquor! Another quick glance around, and… "Do all you ruddy nutters know each other?" Small world blah blah GET OUT OF SEAMUS'S BAR you're ruining his night and his clothes and his face and his stomach and his drink. Waugh.

"Church, Winters, hey," Fel says, lifting his bottle in greeting, "Little bastard apparently decided he'd do a little gaybashing. Next biggest sport in Russia, right behind soccer," Felix says, drily, fingers curled lazily around his bottle of beer. "His little sweetiepie was getting in on the action - she's out there now, fighting some other guy. I pistolwhipped the fucker before he could put him," A jerk of his chin at Seamus, whose name he abruptly realizes he doesn't know, "Into a coma. Shouldn't be let out of the house off a leash," Belatedly, he remembers his manners, and proffers his free hand to Seamus. "I'm Felix Ivanov, by the way. Would we'd met under better circumstances."

Church watches Vasili struggle alive with an almost pitying face. Man, oh, man. He steps decidedly back away from Vasili, and the booth- only to round on his heel and practically descend on Felix just as he introduces himself to Seamus. Giselle may or may not get a talk later, but right now Lawrence is invading Felix's space with a grab, hug, and one of those Totally Russian kissing of cheeks. Russians do that, right? Felix is just that touchable, in any case. At least he leaves the smaller man's arm free for that handshake he offered.

"It's like we're magnetized." That's how they keep happening on each other, isn't it?

Benjamin glances past Vasili, even as he winces in sympathy at the knee banging on the table. Then again.. he brought it on himself. "Some of us more than others. Unfortunately this one here," he points at Vasili, "His mother asked me to keep an eye on him. Neighbors n'all. He got past me today, he hasn't had his medication. Sweetiepie.. oh.. /her/.. Yeaaaah.. Vasili, you know you aren't supposed to be associating with her. I'm telling your mother. She just might put you in that institution now after what you did today." Ben's new coworkers are a bad influence. They're bringing out his weird sense of humor. Or maybe it's just associating with Church. Seeing as what he just did.

Hey. HEY. Vasili can HEAR YOU, FAKE-RUSSIAN BOURGEOIS MAN. To that effect the blonde directs his hissing at /Felix/, leaning forward far enough to stare at the other man. "Fuck you, you prick. I'm going to /kick your ass/." As soon as Vasili can see straight, that is. "…and fuck you too, Ben." Yeah, his 'timid' (???) partner is going to get a little bit of a 'talking to' later. With pain. It happens now that the throbbing pain on the back of Vasili's head begins to overwhelm the one on his knee, and as the Russian's feet hit the floor he bends forward to bring his head level with around the area of his knees, his hands clasping together over his lower skull. It's kind of like the emergency airplane procedure, only with a lot more head trauma. "/Fuck/. /Fuck/, fuck."

Pfffff. "/Exactly/," Seamus calls over to Vasili, scoffing slightly at the other man. The Irishman isn't usually the type to indulge in the suffering of others, but for the rat of a Russian, he'll make an exception. Another scoff finds him attempting to ~brush~ the whiskey off his shirt, which works about as well as would be expected. "Seamus O'Malley," he answers Felix after a moment, lips quirking just a bit at Church's (very Russian) kissing. "S'nice t'meet all o' you, I s'pose. Except the jerk with the lump on 'is head, but if th' rest o' ya don't like 'im either, I guess it's all th' same."

Well, the hug and the kisses were certainly unexpected. Fel's expression goes a bit owlish. "You've been doing some research, Lawrence," he says, once he can breathe again - he takes a hasty pull on that beer. "Reminds me of home." Vasili's threat doesn't seem to much perturb him. "Fuck your mother, Babenkov. You just try it," His tone remains mild. "You're lucky you didn't get fed to the pigs." In both senses of that word. "Vasha there's a skell. Don't mind him."

O'Malley? "O'Malley the alley cat?" Lawrence offers to the stranger with a coyote-like smile. He bumps his arm into Felix good-naturedly before peering like a hawk over the bar. He came with Ben to satiate hunger, but it is a pub, yeah? He's still being sort of loud for Seamus' tastes.

"You Russians need to lighten up. Maybe the snow and the bears and the tigers are what makes you highstrung." He's not being serious.

"That's five dollars for the swear jar. Your mom's rules," Benjamin says to Vasili.. with a straight face. "I'm really sorry about his behavior, he gets like this when he hasn't had his medication. I should get him home." Then he's crouching down on eye level in front of Vasili. "Don't worry, I know how to calm him down!" Ben then announces cheerily, trying to make eye contact, and a show of gesturing with his hand as if he were the dog whisperer or similar.

Vasili 's oncoming wave of pure /rage/ is… suddenly cut off and then overpowered by one that is suddenly suggesting very strongly to him that he /sleep/. Despite popular opinion, Vasili is not stupid - and he has a pretty good idea of just /why/ he's feeling the need to lie back in his booth (which he does), stretching out on the seat while still holding onto his head. The weariness setting in, coupled with the sheer level of physical pain and exhaustion that he's currently experiencing, has him out like a light in no time at all. He'll get everyone back for this /later/, though.

Well. Um. That was. Unexpected. "Like th' wha', now?" Seamus has /no idea/ what Church is talking about. He didn't have a TV when he was younger, so most of Disney has escaped him entirely. Pity. He'd probably enjoy most of it! "So. You, over by the arse. That you givin' him his medication?" This is all /very/ confusing. A heavy sigh rushes out through the man's nose, and he asks himself another whiskey from the bartender. Maybe if he gets a bit drunker the Russians and their friends will start making some kind of sense.

"You gotta wish me happy, chuvak," Felix says, faint smile on his lips, glancing up at Church. "I'm getting married. My last week as a free man. Well done, Winters," he adds to Benjamin. "I needed a Sig 45 to accomplish that." He finishes the last of his beer, and sets the empty bottle aside. "We should do the city of New York a favor and drown him while he's out," he suggests, eyeing Vasili speculatively. "We're not all that far from the Hudson…." To explain Church's comment, he notes, "O'Malley the alleycat. From an old cartoon. Ironic," he says, reaching into his suit to pull out a pewter cigarette case. "We're both named after cartoon cats."

The humming on Lawrence's lips when he weasels a drink out of the bartender is the same song, but it stops abruptly when Felix drops his bomb. Lawrence raises both eyebrows onto his forehead, staring beside him at Felix. Wait. What.

The older man narrows his eyes a little. Suspicious! "What'd you call me? Married?" That's a bit louder than it should be. "Back up, comrade." His hand slowly wraps around the glass now in front of him, lifting it to motion it carefully at Felix's head. It's actually just soda. He drove, after all. Parched.

"I know she's your babymama and a gymnast, but what the hell?" This is Disbelief. Do you see it? "You're not husband material." Duh.

Benjamin contains his excitement at that working. Hoooly cow. How lucky was that?! "I'll just go put him in the car!" is the rather cheerful announcement as Ben struggles with getting Vasili upright. Pausing there to catch his breath before heaving the Russian up, he stares at Seamus. "Uhm. Yeah! He won't cause you any more trouble today! Promise!" Then.. he nearly drops Vasili as he hears Felix's good news. Surprise! "Congratulations! I uh.. don't remember much of my bachelor party. I think that should have been taken as a sign it was doomed from the start. Not that you'll have the same trouble! Not at all! My ex is a smelly pirate hooker! We'll have to have a party later! But for now, I'm just gonna go put him in the car and make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else or himself!" With that, he's hauling Vasili up, and it's a struggle with the dead weight.. but slowly, he's dragged out to the car.

Seamus raises a single brow at the fits of shock and congratulations aimed Felix's way, finally lifting his own glass toward the other man. "Cheers, then!" And sort of a pity. Ah well. He knocks back half his glass in one go — despite the fact that it still burns like hell all over the inside of his mouth — and calls after Ben as he leaves. "Forget the car! Leave 'im in the street and roll over 'im on your way out." See, that way he won't cause /anyone/ any more trouble /ever/. This is a pragmatic solution.

Fel is calmly going through the ritual of lighting up a cigarette, having laid the pewter case on the bar. "Chuvak. It just means 'buddy'. Don't get your boxers in a knot, Church. I'm not insulting you. And my innings batting for both teams are over, if that's what you're referring to," he says, with dignity. "She's the mother of my daughter, Lawrence. And she needs legit citizenship. No kid of mine is growing up in Putin's Russia. Besides. If she can't stand it, all she has to do is hang on for a couple of years and divorce me. I'll do what I can to make her happy in the meanwhile." He shoots Seamus a sidelong, amused look. "You're a man after my own heart. And thank you." HE clinks his empty bottle against Seamus's glass, rather absentmindedly.

The words 'bachelor party' make those little prickles in Lawrence's brain start going off. So does listening to Felix. Oh, man, is it sinking in? A little.

He seems to bristle less and less as Felix explains this newest development. At least he seems to be understanding of it. "You may not seem like a husband, but at least you're a man." Lawrence lifts his soda in his own motion of Cheers. "So my chances have gone from Nada to Below Zero Freezing Temperatures- I can live with that. …So long as I get to babysit." The older man shuts himself up quite well by sticking the edge of the glass to his mouth.

"Anytime. Braver man than I, settlin' down wi' someone." Anyone. /Ever/. Settling down is too much trouble, whatever the reason — even if it really /is/ all a legal issue. Church, on the other hand… gets /eyed/ a little. Just a little! Hey, Seamus is tipsy and has taken a hit to the head. Give him a break in terms of discretion, okay?

Felix pauses, and stares at Lawrence. "Wait. Wait a second. I thought you and Mara…." He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, like he's staving off a headache. "You learn something new every day, I guess," he says, with a sigh. "I never thought you were any kind of serious."

Church smiles his bright white smile, after a moment it even curls into a smirk. "It's one of those more… easygoing relationships, Felix." Just to try and clear that up and be as subtle as possible at the same time. "I guess you don't really have those, but I'm sure you can at least wrap your brain around it. And hey- I'm always serious." Lawrence even makes a SRS face at Felix, though the man on the other side of him catches his sharp eyes. Wait, dude, is he watching me? "Well, as serious as someone like me can get." The man shrugs once, almost dramatically. "So. Bachelor Party." A cunning and impishly-voiced topic switch. Let's not talk about the woodwork and all the queer-bugs crawling out. Not in the Irish bar, at least.

Yes, /dude/, Seamus /is/ watching you. You made /comments/. But talk of a bachelor party brings a slight frown — very slight! — to the Irishman's face, and he hides the expression in another sip of his whiskey. One doesn't generally invite new acquaintances to one's personal party, which leaves Seamus sort of… out in the rain. "Easygoin' relationships /are/ the best kind," he puts in lamely. "S'much easier on all involved. Or not actually /involved/, s'more the point." …Can we maybe go /back/ to talking about the crawly woodwork?

"Not since San Francisco," Fel drawls, shaking his head. And then Lawrence mentions the bachelor party, and Felix stiffens. "Uh-uh. No thanks. Not interested. It's not gonna be a big affair. Her family's not coming. Hell, I don't even think she's told 'em - they don't get along, and her marrying an American cop would go over like a lead balloon. Besides, I've hated strip clubs ever since I had to do a stretch working with Vice. It's fucking white slavery, is what," He catches Church's glance, and follows it, looking back over his shoulder at Seamus, somewhat apologetically. "And you're entirely right," he agrees, nodding at the Irishman.

Church is immensely disappointed with that part. "Aww. Am I at least invited?" Say yes. Someone's gotta witness, besides. He gives Seamus a smirk past this conversation with Felix; now he knows what I'm talking about. Hah. "'S my favorite kind of gettin'to know someone." Lawrence bumps into Felix again, entirely Platonically, of course. He's just messing around now. "I suppose Ben took Vasili and put him in my car, eh? If he bleeds on my seats, I'm going to be angry. Maybe I should drag Babenkov home." At least now his soda is gone, and a bill passed off down the bar. "He was going to try to feed me, Felix. I always love pulling that. It only works once, though. Baha."

Seamus quite honestly can't help but smirk back. Blame the alcohol! /Blame it all on the alcohol/. "I'm inclined t'agree with the earlier idea of draggin' 'im to the Hudson instead, but that's prob'ly jus' me." A light shrug; another sip of the steadily-draining booze. Church, by fault of Felix not being at all available, gets most of the mechanic's attention, and so the tipsy man attaches himself to the larger one's latest comment. "I take it ya got a healthy appetite, then? Or's tha' puttin' it too mildly?" …For the love of god, blame the alcohol.

"I don't know where it's gonna happen. It's all up to Misha," Fel explains, quietly. He blows a last smoke ring, and stubs out the cigarette. "Ben's a kind soul, poor slob. And seriously. Drown Vasha. Drop him off the Brooklyn Bridge." He doesn't seem to mind the bumping. He pulls himself up from his seat, takes care of tab and tip, apparently having forgotten the beer was free. After a moment's rummaging, he produces a business card from a suit pocket, and sets it before Seamus. "If Babenkov shows up here again, gives you any shit, call me," he says, simply. "Evening, gentlemen." With that, he's heading for the door. He has, in that fit of absentmindedness, left his cigarette case.

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