londoncallingrpg

Entry tags:

OTA

It was like an itch you knew you weren't supposed to scratch. A lot of things had become clearer to Jag, about himself, since he'd watched Hex's videos, and somehow, the closer it came to the time Val would be back, the more Jag wanted to give in to his 'old' habits and do something really stupid. Start a bar in a fight with an arsehole or two, and get hurt.

It was as far from healthy as he could get, he realised, and that was why he hadn't started a bar fight in over a month now. He was in a bar right now, having a pint and trying to resist the desire to walk over to the bastards in the booth right behind him. Their racist, homophobic conversation wasn't making it easy on him. He was waiting for the misogyny to make an appearance, really. He'd barely touched his pint in the last ten minutes and was gnawing on his thumb's nail, feet propped on his bar stool, one leg bouncing.

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It wasn't so much that they weren't, but that the idea of going along with that rubbed them the wrong way on many levels, most of them instinctive. "I don't think so," the leader retorted, and nodded towards the door for the redhead to lead the way.

Jag rolled his eyes, and hopped off his stool. "I hope you realise we're doing you a favour," he told the bartender with a smirk.

Felix was glad he had paid his tab before undertaking this adventure. He straightened, spread his hands like it didn't matter one whit to him, and strolled for the front door. In passing his dark-haired compatriot at the bar, Felix breathed in a low voice, "As soon as they're outside, close your eyes."

His oaths forbid him from using magic on others, of course, but they said nothing about using magic to facilitate a speedy escape.

Surprise and confusion flickered across Jag's face at the words, but he turned away to shrug on his jacket and followed the redhead, wondering what the fuck that meant, and whether he ought to trust him. All he was after was a good brawl.

Which was why, on his way out, he turned back towards the arseholes, walking backwards and facing them as he told them, "For the sake of transparency - I love sucking cock, too."

He hadn't exactly counted on it precipitating matters, but it wasn't a surprise that it did. One of them lunged at him, and he only just managed to avoid the punch aimed at his jaw, bringing his knee up to get him where it really hurt. Seemed fitting, given how much they claimed not to like a good set of cock and balls.

Of course, things didn't go quite according to Felix's (mostly drunk, terribly over-confident) plan. No sooner had he stepped out into the winter night than he heard the unmistakable sounds of scuffle just behind him. His first reaction was annoyance, but the moment Felix turned around, it quickly became self-preservation.

He never would know if it was a fist or an elbow or the back of someone's hand, but something solid and fleshy slammed in to the side of his mouth, slicing his lip on his teeth. Felix tasted the coppery revulsion of blood before he even felt the pain and realized it was his own. He staggered away from the direction of the blow, too shocked to even think about calling the spell he'd intended. All he wanted to do in that instant was get away.

Jag, in the meantime, had just taken a kick in the chest that sent him sprawling back out of the pub, and onto the curb. He only just managed to catch himself, so his bum didn't take the worst of his fall (for all that he scraped his hands as a result), and he scrambled back to his feet as the other two joined them outside.

He ran straight at the nearest, shortest one, which happened to be the one going after the redheaded toff, and barreled into him, taking him to the ground.

Felix had not been involved in a fist fight since he was nine years old, and one of the Keeper's older boys had decided the scrawny, skew-eyed redhead was ripe for pushing around. Even then, it hadn't really been a fight. Mostly, it had just been Felix getting punched in the stomach. These days, Felix possessed defenses far preferable to his fists.

After the stranger tackled a man who had been aiming for him, all Felix could see were the other two, apparently deciding that he was an easier target than the dark-haired scrapper. He didn't have time to worry or be afraid. He threw up one arm as if to defend himself--

-- and blinding pops of bright, greenish-tinged light exploded in the faces of all three attackers, blinding all vision for a few precious seconds. Unfortunately, Felix's would-be defender was right in the line of virtual fire, as well. Felix attempted to grab the back of his collar to drag him up and away.

Jag cried out when bright colours exploded in front of his eyes, blotting out the entire world for a moment. He was hauled off of the bloke he'd been scrapping with, and it was all he could do to find his footing in time not to fall flat on his face. His sight came back slowly, spots dancing in front of his eyes, tears running down his face, and he realised he was being pulled down the street by the redhead.

"So that's what you meant by close your eyes," he stated, as they jogged around a corner and out of sight. "What the hell was that?" He slowed down and wiped the tears from his face.

Felix hadn't thought this escape through entirely -- he'd been drinking, and angry, and ready to throw himself into trouble entirely without provocation. Rational planning wasn't high on his list of things to do. So, he'd unintentionally hurt his would-be rescuer, and he only really understood that once they were away.

He kept walking, knowing that the burst of light wouldn't disable the troglodyte trio forever. "Magic," Felix answered flippantly, and coughed, spitting blood onto the sidewalk. Shaking hands dug through seemingly endless pockets until he found a handkerchief he could press inexpertly against the corner of his mouth. "Cab," he suggested.

"You're paying," Jag warned him, stepping off the pavement to try and hail one down. At least he wasn't bloody, himself, just a few bruises - and his scraped hands tingled like fuck. But the spots were slowly dancing out of his vision? Thank God for small favours.

Attempting to staunch the injury hurt almost as much as the initial elbow jab to the face. Felix winced every time he tried to clean himself up. There was even blood on his very fine shirt. Shannon was going to have a fit.

"Where to?" he asked, carefully, around the handkerchief.

"Wherever that's away from those wankers," Jag stated, and slouched in the back seat, carefully prodding at the future bruises on his face. Fuck. Em would worry again, and... he really hadn't meant to, but he couldn't have let the redhead get into trouble on his own. "So you're, what, a wizard?" he asked, looking back at him - and not giving a shit about the driver.

Felix kept almost primly to his side of the back seat, his posture quite correct as if he meant to contrast to Jag's slouch. He leaned toward the front and gave the driver an address in a much more posh part of town. When he sat back, he gave the other man a tolerant little half-smile. "You can call me what you like, but my name is Felix Harrowgate."

He offered his hand. If the dark-haired man did know about the reality of magic in London, he would recognize the Cabal's tattoos.

Jag had no idea what to make of the tats, for all that he did notice them before putting his hand in Felix's - after a half second's hesitation. "Jag."

He pulled his hand back after shaking. "You often pick fights you barely intend to fight?"

"I thought I did well, all things considered," Felix pointed out, sounding pleased with himself despite the pain in his face. The lift of his brows dared Jag, teasingly, drunkenly, to argue with him. "I haven't been in a fist fight in years."

Jag chuckled. "Yeah, well, you still haven't, by my count."

That sparked an unexpected tumble of uncontrolled laughter. Felix winced with a new twinge of throbbing pain, but he couldn't stop himself from helplessly dissolving into clearly drunken giggles.

They were infectious giggles, and after a beat, Jag joined in, although that made him realise his ribs were bruised, and he ended up holding his side as he laughed. "I should get off," he remarked as he settled down, and glanced outside. They were heading for a part of town he had no reason to be in.

"If you insist," Felix managed once he had a breath to speak with. As an afterthought, he slipped his fingertips into a jacket pocket and produced a little white business card, which he offered to Jag. "In case you need an excuse in the future."

A business card. So fancy. "An excuse?" Jag echoed, unsure what the bloke meant, before leaning over and asking the driver to stop on the side of the road for a second.

"To rough up a few more bigots," Felix clarified, his eyes smiling even if his mouth only quirked a little. "I'm very good bait."

"I never really need an excuse for that," Jag assured him with a smile of his own, although his was more on the surface than not. He really oughtn't be doing that anymore. But the arseholes deserved it. Still, he pocketed Felix's card. "Thanks for the escape." It was probably for the best, for all that he definitely would have welcomed more pain.

It was for the best.

When the cab pulled to the side of the road to let Jag out, Felix wiggled his fingertips in a lazy good-bye wave. "I'll cover the fare, darling. Try to get home without starting another fight," he suggested.

"No promises," Jag told him with a smirk as he climbed out of the cab. "Cheers," he added with a wave of his hand, and then he headed off, already patting his pockets for his cigarettes.

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OTA

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