“Ya sure yer okay here? Funerals in a few?” THe bartender asked the man before him, polishing the last of his glassware as he waited on the young man. Light fog clung to the ground outside, casting wisps across the ground as the sun began its climb. Rays of light danced around the islands homes, shadows dancing in the fog as an immeasurable silence held them in peace. Even the sounds of children in the streets playing was muted behind dusty windows and the heavy oak door in the bar.
“S’not like it matters. No one’s gunna show.” Nate bemoaned to the barkeep, taking another pained swig of the whiskey before him. While most would balk at drinking when not even the sun has broken the horizon, none dared to really stop the young man before. Thankfully none of the other members were currently on the island, save Sullivan who was preparing the body for the rites of the Valkyries. He himself had taken the time off to see the funeral, but the missions were too important to the members to return in time for it. All that was left was to see the old badger off and see the box lowered into the ground, a mundane end to a great man.
“Ya know, he never once called me son, not once. It was either Nate, hellion, or brat.” Nate groaned to the barkeep, glad that the man kept the troubles of those he served quiet. Not even he could pry info from the man on anything. Resting his head on the cool bar, he let out a sigh, wondering where Bella was at this time. Even the comfort of her being there could have made this a bit more tolerable.
“Never even got a chance to call him father. Always boss, sir, or Connor. I mean, what kind of relationship is that for a father and son to have? Instead of playing catch like normal people, we played how to take a bullet. Instead of advice on dating a girl or puberty, he trained me to field dress wounds or how to skin an animal. Seriously, we had a messed up family…” Nate groaned to the man, sipping the drink again and watching the ice cubes swirl around in the amber liquid.
“Sure ‘e was an oddball, but ‘e trained you the best ‘e could. Connor was born and bread a soldier, and wanted ta make sure ye couldf protect yerself. Maybe it was ‘is way o’ bonding?” The barkeep spoke, the Celtic drawl bringing that heavy charm to his words. Nate glared at him, eyes half lidded from the heavy bags under his eyes.
“Yeah, what a way. ‘Here son, this is what it feels like ta get shot.’ or ‘You know that cute bunny we just shot in the eye? You’re gonna skin it and cook it up in a stew’.” Nate mocked his old man before resting back down on the bar. The whiskey had lost its appeal and he didn’t want to get too drunk. He needed to at least make a showing at the event. Keep Sullivan company at the funeral.
“Wake me in about an hour.” Nate offered up the barkeep as he slid a 50 across the bar. The old man just shook his head and dropped the bill into the register and went back to cleaning. He knew the boy was going through a hard patch now, so the least he could do was let the boy get some sleep in. Besides, he had already sent along a message to Sullivan of the boys whereabouts incase he was worried.
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