Just a Suggestion
It had been another busy night, filled with off duty cops (they gave Joseph the creeps) and relieved fire-fighters. All of them had spent their time drinking and regaling one another with their stories of death defying stunts and heroic antics, all of which sounded impressive to the average person. Joseph held his tongue on more than one occasion, especially when they had talked about people like him, law breakers and gangsters. He should have known it would be difficult, being who he was and working in the bar. Pat was great, no doubt about that, but Joseph, he just didn't fit.

Thankfully the evening had wound down, and as it did people left to make their way home to their ever loving wives and families, shouting a few goodbyes to Joseph as they left. It was as the last person left that Joseph sagged against the counter and dropped his head, blowing out a long breath and closing his eyes. The longer he spent working behind this bar the more he itched for something more, a little excitement, the sort that had never failed to make his heart race.

He pushed away from the bar and slid his hair back, turning to open the side of the bar so he could walk the length of the it, collecting glasses that all needed to be washed before Joseph could head home. He might not have felt passionately about this job but he never did anything half-assed so he was going to do things properly.

There was still some time left on his shift and Joseph glanced at the door, relieved that nobody had come in just yet, but somebody would; they always did. He turned on his heel and headed back behind bar, placing glasses on the side before he meticulously picked his way along the surface.

Urgh, some people were such pigs.

If a breeze hadn’t come into the warm pub, ushering two dry leaves onto the entry mat, Darian’s entrance would’ve been noiseless. He stayed at the door for minute, having a look at the Smoke Eater’s Tavern. It wasn’t his type of venue; the wood floors and seats covered in green leather were well cared for, but instead of art, fire and rescue paraphernalia decorated the walls. It was not as excessively done as a modern chain restaurant like Appleby’s, but he didn’t appreciate the concept of tacking turnout gear, helmets, and state police badges to the walls.

But he wanted a drink, and the bar down the street that normally received his patronage was closed for renovations. Darian pulled off gloves and tucked them in the pocket of his overcoat. “What time do you close?” He took a couple of steps into the place; the shine on his shoes outdid the polish on the floor. Joseph didn’t strike any chords of familiarity with the Dealmaker. They might’ve circled the same places in the desert, but he didn’t know it.

Joseph's sharp hearing picked up on the light rustling of leaves and his head lifted, resting dark eyes on the tall man that had just entered. He looked somewhat out of place in a venue like this, he looked like the sort of man who might frequent a more classy place without the touch of nostalgia and family pride to it.

"In an hour," Joseph answered. He removed the cloth from where he had been polishing the bar and rested it on the counter behind him. "What can I get you?"

The customer took off his wool coat and dropped it on a stool. “Bourbon, neat.” He looked around. As much as Darian disliked crowds, being the only customer in a bar was almost as bad. It lent itself to making niceties with the bartender, and he wasn’t much for small talk unless he had something to gain from it. For that reason if not outright interest, he kept an eye on the guy, making a casual effort to gleen something from him.

The bartender moved around easily enough, but there was a factor the Dealmaker couldn’t initially place that made him as much a mismatch for his surroundings as the demon was. “You don’t look like someone who works in emergency services,” he said, making conversation. “So I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you’re not the owner.”

Joseph made a mental note of the customer's order with a nod of his head, turning away to rummage out a glass and the bottle of Bourbon. He rested the glass down and poured a glass of the dark liquid, lips tugging into a casual smirk. "You got it in one. Bar belongs to a guy called Pat, I'm Joseph."

He put the Bourbon away and turned back to his customer, letting his eyes look at him and pick up on small details that most people would miss. "You don't look like the sort of guy to drink in a place like this. Pretty sure you'd prefer the other bar just down the street but they're closed, right?"

“Something about overhauling the restrooms,” Darian said blandly. “When it reopens, there will probably be leather couches next to the urinals.” That whole trend of adding lounges to public bathrooms, encouraring men to lurk for longer than it took to relieve themselves, wasn’t one he personally understood.

He swallowed some of his bourbon and set it on the square napkin. “Where’s ‘Pat’ this evening? Out fighting fires, pulling little girls’ cats out of trees?”

"Classy," Joseph drawled with a smirk. He turned back around and picked up a nearby glass, using the cloth to dry and clean it until it was sparkling and he could start on the neck.

He reached up and scratched a couple callused fingers across the back of his neck. "More than likely. It's what he does best after all." Joseph set another couple glasses down before he tipped his head at the other man. "This is a bar predominantly for fire-fighters and cops in case you hadn't guessed." He swept his hand towards the walls and smirked.

“I picked up on that,” Darian said drolly. He gestured at a dirty yellow fireman’s coat nailed up near the pool tables. “But if a fire ever breaks out in the kitchen, at least you know where you can get the proper gear. Actually I’m surprised he doesn’t have you tending bar in suspenders and a helmet, like some kind of Chippendale. Not that I’m complaining.” Had that been the case, he would’ve gladly gone home without a drink.

He studied the logo on his napkin. Sarcastic commentary aside, the concept of the bar wasn’t a bad one from a business perspective, and Darian had a feeling that the Smoke Eater’s Tavern kept up with its competitors. That was a fact he could respect, if not the genre décor.

Joseph glanced at the fire equipment on the walls and made a small sound under his breath, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms across his chest. The imagery conjured up by that mental picture was horrifying and Joseph's expression reflected as much. "I think if that was the case I would have quit a very long time ago or not taken the job at all.

"You mind if I clean up around you? Means I get outta here earlier."

“Not at all.” As was often the case with him, a barbed comment announced itself in Darian’s brain, demanding that he say it aloud. And whom was he to attempt impulse control? “I’m sure you’ve got places to be… your real profession waiting for you.”

Because he had not done any digging into the employee’s head, it was one of those comments that had no true insight behind it, but might be incendiary enough to provoke him into a reaction. It might make the man feel small because it wasn’t true ( ‘surely this can’t be all you’re doing with yourself’), or it might be so true that it would strike the bone ( ‘you’re not fooling me with the drink-slinging gig’). Because the New Yorker behind the bar was of an age when pouring drinks was no longer acceptable as a primary source of income, and because he admittedly wasn’t in familiar territory, and because he had a shrewd look on his face that implied he was intelligent enough to do otherwise.

Joseph slid out from behind the bar and he bit out a small laugh at Darian's comment. His hand immediately lifted to where the scar around his neck began, rubbing over it slowly. "Slight problem with the real professsion, it has a nasty habit of killing people mixed up with it." It had taken both his parents after all and it had nearly gotten him.

He picked up glasses and returned them to the bar, picking up another cloth so he could wipe down the tables. Joseph was trying to go straight but he was finding it difficult, very difficult. "This is the safe but very boring option." Why he was saying all these things to a complete stranger was beyond him but whatever Joseph didn't think there was much harm in it, it wasn't like this guy was a cop - he didn't have that feel about him.

As it seemed unlikely Joseph was referring to a career as an Alaskan crab fisherman or something equally legal-but-dangerous, the conclusion Darian came to was that it wasn’t legal. But that eliminated virtually nothing on a large scale of possibilities. “So you choose domestication over adrenaline. That’s mature of you.”

Halfway into his drink, Darian tilted the tumbler and looked at what remained. Then he fixed his attention on an item hanging above the bar, a framed photograph of a Chicago police battalion in black and white. “I’m sure you have a good reason, maybe a wife and a two-year-old at home.” There was no ring on the bartender’s finger, but he ignored that.

A man's perspective changed after he had lost practically every family member he had to the lifestyle and had himself nearly died at the hands of an enemy with a blade in his hand.

But it was hard, changing a lifestyle after so many years and it was also disheartening.

"Never married," he pointed out. "But I do have a girlfriend." He finished with the tables and returned to the bar to fill the bucket with hot soapy water so he could wash down the floor. "What about you? You married with kids? I can't quite picture that myself."

The thought of reproducing, and whether it was even possible, had never featured into Darian’s musings. As unphased as he could seem, that was the one improbability that might bring him to his knees, if it ever came to pass. He frowned and tried to imagine Bethany in that predicament, but even a vivid imagination couldn’t drum up that mental picture. He shifted his weight uneasily on the stool and brushed off a complex set of emotional reactions.

“No,” he said. “I have a lover, but Bethany doesn’t lead a lifestyle that lends itself to motherhood, any more than I lead one that lends itself to fatherhood.”

Bethany? The name immediately rung a bell with Joseph. It couldn't be right? Couldn't be the same Bethany that Joseph was thinking of, the woman who had run that club back in Vegas. "Is her surname Richards by any chance?" He had to ask, Joseph had always been curious. "If so I can't imagine her as a mother either."

He dipped the mop into the water and then wrung it out before slapping it onto the ground. "I used to live in Vegas, she ran a club there. Heaven's Peak." He had held a grudge against her for a very long time but that was over, had been for a long time now.

Darian’s eyebrows went up and he glanced over his shoulder. “That’s the one.” For a moment he watched the mop swirl in its puddle of rapidly graying water, then asked, “Were you a client?” His fingers stayed on the rim of his glass. If the answer was yes, he wouldn’t have to pry to get a grip on why Joseph was having a hard time walking a straight line. Absolutely nothing that Bethany got her hands on stayed legal for long. “I don’t remember seeing you around.”

The wind picked up outside the bar, lifing leaves and pieces of gutter trash in a dust devil that tapped against the row of windows.

Joseph chuckled and shook his head. "Never got that close." He continued cleaning the floor. "I had a couple dealings with her, nothing too serious." He was careful with what he said, not wanting to reveal too much especially to Bethany's lover. Joseph wasn't stupid.

"Popular club if I remember correctly."

“She’s good at reading the public,” Darian said. “She opened an exotic dancing venue two months ago. It’s a notch above your typical fare; for some reason, making the sex industry upscale removes guilt from the equation.”

He finished his drink but didn’t ask for a refill. The demon pulled at the knotted tie around his neck and gave Joseph a second look. Maybe his face was familiar; the idea that he knew him from somewhere, not personally but in the second-degree, stuck with him, and it wasn’t because of the connection to Bethany.

On a whim, he asked, “Your girlfriend… did she come with you from Las Vegas?”

Joseph finished with the floor and came back to the bar, emptying the bucket and resting the mop back into the depth of it.

"Yeah," Joseph said as he turned his gaze back to Darian. "How did you guess?" He pulled out a glass and helped himself to a small drink, he didn't think Pat would mind.

Joseph leaned back against the nearby counter and lifted the glass to his lips, taking a small sip.

The mental zap of having the right answer would’ve made a more casual person snap his fingers. Darian had figured out the connection to the bartender, whose name, if he remembered adequately, was Joseph. He knew him from digging around in a Slayer’s head a few years back, trying to figure out what it was that she wanted in order to manipulate her. Back then, the slayer had wanted to be with this guy.

“Just my intuition,” he said, letting go of his tie. “How does she feel about what you’re doing for a living? Is she relieved that you’re tending bar instead of out collecting scars?”

"I think she is," Joseph admitted with a nod of his head. "But to be honest I'm beginning to think that I'm not cut out for the normal life."

He eyed the liquid in the glass before taking another sip from it, tasting the alcohol before swallowing it away.

"It's... dull," Joseph admitted with a laugh.

“There’s a reason people have mid-life crises,” the Dealmaker said. “Start to question their choices, give up their lovely wives, their stable jobs, blow all their savings, ignore their children.” He unbuttoned his jacket and let it hang more comfortably off his frame. “If you want my opinion, save contented safety for your retirement years, or better yet, the afterlife. Do it quickly, before you get so bored you blow a hole in your perfect world.”

Joseph tipped his head, considering the other man's words. "You know," he began before taking another sip. "I'm beginning to think you might well be right. Not that the thought hasn't crossed my mind already." He tapped his ringed finger against the side of his glass and lifted a slow eyebrow. "Thought I could do this, go straight and be a respectable member of society but some things never change."

Darian smiled to himself. For some reason, the thought crossed his mind that Elfleda would be very pleased with him right about now. “Besides,” he said, flipping open his phone for a moment to check a setting, and then stowing it back in his pocket. “Some women, however much they’re loathe to admit it, appreciate the excitement of discovering there’s a little blood on a man’s hands. Especially yours.” It was as if he couldn’t resist the dig. Things had gotten too conversationally polite.

He tapped his forehead lightly. “That’s right, I didn’t mention I knew your girlfriend. Rhiannon, right? Not that it makes a difference. You’ll do what you want regardless of anyone else, if you want to save yourself from a life of wiping down counters and collecting tips in jars.”

Joseph dropped his hand to his side as this man brought up Rhiannon's name and immediately a frown crossed his more attractive features. "How do you know Rhiannon?" And how had he picked her name out of the many it could have been? Something was different and a little off about this man, it wasn't so much in the way he looked but how he spoke and behaved. It seemed so controlled, so structured and completely out of place.

"Who are you?" Joseph asked directly, straightening up a little. The next obvious question came to mind, "What are you?"

Darian looked at him plainly. “You wouldn’t buy ‘I’m just a guy having a drink’, would you?” he asked rhetorically, going into his jacket pocket for his wallet. “My name is Darian. I’m a demon. I met her about five years ago, outside a church in Searchlight. She needed a favor and I offered her my assistance. It had to do with some mess she’d gotten into with a vampire; I’m certain you know the story. It’s water under the bridge.”

He pulled out some money and put it next to his napkin. “Before you begin to wonder what I’m doing in here, it actually is a coincidence. At least it’s nothing I’ve orchestrated. I’ve stopped being surprised at the number of times the world throws me into contact with connected people.”

Joseph merely finished off the alcohol in his glass and rested it on the side, making a mental note to clean it later. He found himself in sudden need of a cigarette; he'd sate that later, when he was done working and on the way home.

"Seems like there's always one more person in this town that knows somebody you do. You wouldn't think it for a city as big as Chicago, would you?" He rubbed a hand through his hair. "Looks like we all got the same idea and moved at the same time."

Joseph pushed away from the counter and gathered up the money. "Great minds think alike or something like that."

“My money’s on the second half.” Darian restored the wallet to his pocket. “It’s disquieting knowing you’re a puppet on controlled strings.” He got off the stool, shook out his overcoat, and began to put it on. “Like when you overturn the applecart and get back into old ways, any really all you’ve done is play into a hand you can’t even see. Have you got any idea what you’re going to do?”

Darian settled the coat on his shoulders. “I’m curious.”

"I never know," Joseph admitted as he put the cash into the register. "Not until I'm in the thick of it." He rubbed at the side of his neck and tipped his head to look at Darian. "I'll figure it out, I usually do."

Joseph usually landed on his feet and there was a slim chance that he wouldn't but he was willing to lay those odds on the line if it meant he settled back into a life that felt fit for him.

“I have a feeling it’ll be interesting when it plays out,” the demon said. He headed to the exit and the blustery weather outside. “Have a good one, Joseph.” Out on the sidewalk he pulled the collar up around his neck and went in the direction of home.

Joseph watched Darian leave and stepped out from around the bar, pulling the door shut completely and sliding the lock into place. The bar was officially closed for business and Joseph had a feeling this would be one of the last shifts he worked at Smoke Eater’s Tavern.

Life was going to change again.