Closed RP You Don't Talk About Fight Club

[Phoenix]

Every Thursday night for the last month, Sam and Spork had met up at “Urban Oasis” for drinks. Sometimes, they sparred as well. For someone who had tried to kill her only four weeks ago, Spork was actually pretty chill. She found she didn’t mind them and their antics, and actually really enjoyed their company. It was nice, having a friend roughly her own age. It seemed more and more that Sam was either training and meeting teenagers, or spending most of her time with Todd now that they’d sorted everything out. She couldn’t say she minded either all that terribly, and especially given the recent turn in her relationship, she really didn’t mind it.

Still, it was nice having someone like Spork around. Someone rowdy, bold, and loud. They definitely made Sam loosen up a lot when they hung out. She still wondered if she’d ever meet this Mari that Spork mentioned occasionally. Seemed like they were really good friends. Then again, for as much as Sam gushed about Todd, she hadn’t thought to bring him along yet either.

Although maybe that was because she didn’t quite want him seeing her that stupidly wasted.

Especially when he found out how much alcohol it actually took to get her that drunk.

It had gotten fairly well known by the staff that Sam was a bit of a big-ticket spender when she came in. After all, she didn’t drink outside this, and she was pretty sure the way she processed alcohol meant she would never become an alcoholic. She was sober by the time she went to bed, most nights. The twenty-minute walk home gave her plenty of time to sober up if she drank enough water. She was also sure her stomach might be made of steel for the amount she could drink and not throw up.

Sam arrived at the bar a little earlier than usual and wasn’t surprised to find Spork hadn’t made it yet. Her hair was tied up in a pair of twin braids with little ribbons at the end. Unlike usual, she wore a cute pair of brown slacks and a turtleneck under her winter coat. Not like she needed either, but better to blend in. Normally she’d arrive in work clothes, but she had just come from a rare date with Todd and hadn’t bothered to change quite yet. Not like Spork would be able to tell the difference, she thought with a small smile. A bit mean, but then again Spork did try to commit a hit on her. So, all things even, really.

“A White Russian, please. I’ll be starting a tab.” She set her card down on the counter for the bartender– god was this the one who hit on her the first week, poor gal– who flashed her a bit of a flirty smile and nodded, getting to work on her drink. Now all that was left was to wait for Spork.​

 

[Katpride]

Thursday is a good day for bar hopping. Not too crowded, not too empty. The after-work crowd is raring for the weekend, but reigned in by the promise of one more day of work. Well, at least that’s true for the regular folks. Spork isn’t too picky about when they go partying, since they’re paid by the gig and paid well. Not that anyone would know that, from the places they haunt.

They step out of the nightclub still buzzing from the energy of the dancefloor, their heart thudding along with the heavy bassline of some nameless EDM song, and the night air is like a slap to the face. They laugh just to feel the rush of cold air sting their throat, and stumble into their ride before they can start to shiver from the sweat cooling on their skin.

The car is nice and warm, with a driver that’s learned not to push for small talk, and that’s really all they can ask for, isn’t it? They slump into their seat with a sigh, and the car rumbles off soon enough. It really was nice of Mari to arrange a ride for them. Nice enough that they haven’t been tempted to give the driver a runaround. Yet. The night is still young.

“Hey Siri, what time is it?” they ask, bringing their phone up to hang somewhere near their mouth. The British Siri voice they’ve chosen for this week reads the time for them, and they sigh again, disappointed this time. Dang, they’re a little late. Oh well. Sam shouldn’t be too mad, it isn’t the first time they’ve lost track of things.

The car ride seems to stretch on forever, and Spork amuses themself by pulling out their vape and beginning a game of window tug-of-war with the driver. When the car finally arrives, the driver practically runs to open their door, so of course Spork opens it before he can get there and unfolds from the seat at their own pace. They tip him $20 and tap their way up the sidewalk to the bar, pushing through the door with a cloud of fruity smoke still clinging to their skin.

At least their drinking buddy is a creature of habit. They make their way to their usual spot at the bar and lay a hand on Sam’s shoulder, leaning in to jokingly leer at her. “Hey there, ‘sweet thang’. Come here often?”

It’s an old joke, but if Spork can’t endlessly make fun of the men trying to hit on them then they have nothing in this world. They park their ass on the stool beside her, one foot on the rail at the base of the bar and the other dangling. Then they notice that their hand isn’t enshrouded in the usual cloud of hair they’ve come to expect from Sam, and their eyebrows shoot up. “Did you cut your hair?!”

They bat lightly at her shoulder before finding one of her pigtails. They give it a tug on principle, their eyebrows returning from orbit. “Oh, nevermind. What’s got you all gussied up today?”

 

[Phoenix]

There it was. Sam laughed at the playful imitation of the men who had hit on them since they started going to the bar together. Sometimes it was women too, but mostly it was men. She was glad Spork couldn’t see some of the men who had hit on them, because god, it was obvious they thought they were a gift from God himself onto this world. They were not. Not even close. If anyone was, it was Todd, at least to her. But that was obvious to Spork at this point, she was sure. However, their new friend had just given her the perfect excuse to gush about him some more.

Spork’s hand batted at her shoulder until they found one of her twin braids and then gave it a tug, which brought a smile to Sam’s face instantly. She laughed as her drink was served up, and she immediately gave it a stir to mix the Kahlua and Vodka together with the cream. “Hey’a, Spork. I had a date with Todd today. We went to the botanical garden, as a date. I got a little dressed up for it. Normally I’m coming here after work. Decided to see if I could still french braid my hair and shit, and it turns out I can!”

Her laugh then was carefree and full, a soft and lilting sound that was at odds with the raspy edge of her voice when she spoke. But it was genuine and happy, and there was just a touch of something dreamy to it. She really couldn’t help it when it came to Todd, especially given how things had changed after their joint breakdown on his birthday. He was happier, and brighter, as if life meant something to him now. No more fear of her, no more hiding from her- just them.

She cleared her throat with a little chuckle, her cheeks flushing a bit. “Sorry, I’m just incredibly happy. Our relationship has always been just a little tense but it got so much better in the last two weeks- I’m sure you’re sick of hearing about it after last time.”

The bartender returned, a smile still on her face as she looked at Sam. In another life, she might have been Sam’s type. Taller, with a hint of muscle, straight brown hair held back in a high ponytail, and dressed in a way that emphasized both her curves and her muscles. Her face was all sharp, with a longer aquiline nose. Lots of piercings. But now, she couldn’t even imagine being with someone who wasn’t Todd. Still, she could mess with people, and a bit of a mischievous smile came over her face.

With that, she leaned into Spork and pulled a trick they had done at least twice already. “Babe, drinks are on me. Pick whatever you’d like, my lovely rose!”

She had to bite her lip not to laugh as she put on the sappiest tone she could come up with. It was cheesy and stupid and to anyone with an observant eye, clearly fake. But to people hitting on them, or getting ready to? They looked enough like partners that they could pass and confuse people. Sam might know what Spork’s “gender” was, but no one else did. Were they lesbians? Were they straight? Personally, Sam didn’t care what people thought, as long as they let them be. And as expected, the bartender’s flirty grin started to subside as she cleared her throat.

“Right, can I get you two anything else?”​

 

[Katpride]

Spork snorts as they find a shiny-smooth ribbon tying off Sam’s braid, and they finally release it with one last swing. They’ve somewhat given up on any pretense of politeness by this point, so they don’t bother hiding their vague amusement when she starts talking about Todd. “Damn, you two are still together?”

They rest an elbow on the bar and prop their chin on their fist. At least the drama is fun to listen to, if nothing else. And Spork thinks they can be dramatic about relationships.

“Happy for you, man,” they comment, bumping a fist into her arm. She does sound happy, and they can’t begrudge her that even if they might miss the weekly gos’.

The bartender returns with impeccable timing, and Spork puts on their best sleazy grin as they sling their arm around Sam’s shoulders. Time to use their ultimate power: making any queer woman seen associating with them look like the world’s biggest lesbian. “You’re too kind, honey pumpkin sugar skull.”

Anyone who would believe Spork the sort of person to be called a ‘lovely rose’ deserves a little razzing. Yeah, the cropped athletic top and Hawaiian shirt really say ‘take me on a garden stroll’. They chuckle a little at their own joke, but place an order for “Whatever fruity cocktail you make the least often.”

At least by now they’ve learned not to go drink for drink with Sam. God, once was more than enough, both for their liver and their wallet. They don’t like the same sorts of drinks anyways, and there’s only so many pixie sticks they can add to a shot before it becomes undrinkable sludge.

 

[Phoenix]

The bartender nodded and moved off with a significantly less flirty grin. Sam couldn’t help the little laugh that escaped her lips. She leaned into Spork as she did, easy as could be. Being around them really was relaxing. There was something about them that made it easy for Sam to unwind in a way she rarely did. With Todd, it was easy to be herself, but that was different. They had something between them that made it raw, that made it all or nothing. With Spork, it was just easy. There was no judgement between the two of them, not after they had kicked the shit out of each other.

She turned her attention back to them as the bartender walked away. “But yeah, we’re still together. I’d like to be for, well, ever. He’s really everything I could have ever wanted. Which is wild because I didn’t even know what I wanted, you know?”

She pulled back a bite and ran a hand through her bangs, fluffing them away from the center of her face. “Anyway, how have you been this week? You get in any good fights or you get a good lay or two in? You always have some kind of story to tell when we get together.”

Sam slung back the drink she’d been working on and smiled softly at the feeling of warmth tracing through her throat and chest. Unlike some people, Sam really liked the burn of alcohol. It was one of the few things that for some reason felt warmer to her. She put the empty glass back on the counter and pushed it forward as the bartender came back with a catastrophe of a drink. There were gummy candies at the bottom- sharks, maybe?

“Here’s a fishbowl, for you… ma’am?” The bartender hazarded a guess and then looked at Sam’s empty glass. “And another White Russian for you?”

“Please. Keep them coming, when you can. I’ll be going through them tonight.” The bartender– who’s name badge looked like it read Kathy in the low light– nodded to her and started mixing her another drink, just slightly off to the left of them in the back of the bar.​

 

[Katpride]

Spork isn’t ashamed to admit that they kind of enjoy having Sam under their arm. Not in that way, though they’ve never had a problem being a homewrecker before. Any kind of wrecking is right up their alley, really.

But they’re getting away from their point. That being: it’s kind of nice to be close to someone without the expectation of violence or… something else. They get that with Mari, sometimes, but she’s all bones and her elbow always ends up in Spork’s kidney before too long. Sam was like that when they first met her, too skinny for the heavy blows she landed on them, but she’s not quite so skin-and-bones these days. It’s kind of nice.

They let her go without comment, rubbing their hand on their track pants absently. “Oh, you know, funny you should mention two,” they say, their grin turning decidedly cat-that-ate-the-canary. “There were these ‘totally platonic besties’ at the club the other night, right-”

Before they can continue, the bartender returns with their drink, and they slide their hand smoothly over the bar before bumping into it and picking it up, bringing it to their lips. “Sir,” they correct absently, then turn back into their tale, sipping their drink between their recount of merrily taking the ‘platonic’ out of ‘besties’.

“- and I’m like, I don’t even remember which of them is Holly and which is Molly, so I just shut the door. Like, not my problem that your monogrammed sock got stolen by the sock goblins. Who monograms a sock, seriously? Mari found it in the dryer later and I swear she threw it at the window. I heard a distinctive sock-glass slap. Worth it.”

They’ve downed most of their drink and are chewing on a gummy shark by this point. It nearly slips out of their mouth before they slap it back in, chewing vigorously.

 

[Phoenix]

By the time that Spork had finished their story, Sam had made it through two more White Russians and had started on her fourth for the night. The alcohol was just finally starting to hit her, and the tight tension in her shoulders had faded away. She gave a laugh at Spork’s mention of Mari finding the sock. Over the last few weeks, she had heard enough about Mari to be curious, if nothing else. At some point, she’d probably ask more directly about this woman that Spork kept mentioning. She assumed it was likely their partner… of some kind. Work or otherwise.

“How do you even end up in these situations? You’re just a magnet for fucking trouble, aren’t you?” She laughed as the slight flush of warmth started to settle across her bones. She cracked her neck at the release of all of the tension, the sound resonating loudly, but ultimately being drowned out by the din of music and talking. She gave her drink a stir as she looked the blonde over, a lazy smile on her face.

“Well, a magnet for fucking, and for trouble.” As she made the joke, she laughed and slipped out of her coat, deciding it had likely been long enough for her to appear normal doing so. She draped the article across her lap, leaning onto the bartop. There was a light in her eyes that seemed to sparkle to those around them, which really helped to continue convincing the bartender Kathy that they were, in fact, an item.

Happiness was a new feeling for Sam. She hadn’t been “happy” in so many years, she had forgotten what it was like. Even the first few weeks of knowing Todd, well- there had been a lot of feelings, but happiness had come later. She decidedly liked being happy. It was a feeling she could get used to if permitted. If everything kept going right.

She could think of a few things that could make things go wrong.

Even that wasn’t enough to take the sparkle from her eyes. “So you got any plans for the new year? Any checklists or bucket lists or general plans and schemes?”​

 

[Katpride]

Spork’s smile is a reply all its own, sharp and salacious. They tip their glass back, finding a piece of ice to crunch between their teeth but a disappointing lack of more gummy treats. They’ve rekindled their buzz from earlier, though, so they can’t complain.

“Ehh, I don’t really buy that ‘new year, new me’ type shit. It’s, like, why should I try to figure out a whole year in January, of all months? Nah, I’ll just be doing me.” They take a moment, then cackle at their own poor phrasing. “Fuck, not like that. I mean, maybe, but iunno, there’s too much that I want to do to make a list. I’ll just do it when I think of it.”

Their drink clinks loudly against the counter when they set it down, and they push it a little further inward so they can rest their arm there. To all appearances, they’re loose and unguarded, one foot propped on a rung of their stool but the other dangling, the slant of their shoulders relaxed. But even now, they keep their head tilted just so, one ear to the currents of the rest of the bar. Passively monitoring, letting it wash over them.

“How about you? What have you got up your sleeves for this year?”