Barfly

The bar was quiet. Dead.

Just how he wanted it.

He doesn't want to talk to anyone, and he is worried that his expression alone wouldn't be enough to show that. Intimidation was something he'd always had issue with. It didn't help that he is tired. So very, very tired.

The bartender takes one look at him and a look crosses his face.

Pity.

The young man resists the urge to snap at the bartender as he approaches the stained oak counter, marked and worn from the countless glasses it'd seen in its lifetime. The stool creaks underneath him and for a moment, he worries it might break under his weight, but it holds. Not that it would have surprised him; with how his day-no, week, had been going, embarrassing himself by picking the one weak stool out of all of them would have been the cherry atop the rest of the shit piled upon him.

"Two-" the young man begins to speak, but his voice is hoarse and scratch. He clears his throat and licks his lips to wet them. "Two shots. Hunter's Choice, straight."

Again, that look of pity. The young man's hands clench tightly, in a white knuckled grip, but once again he swallows his anger and turns his gaze back to the bartop. Rings from where drinks had been placed without coasters overlapped. He wonders how many of those rings were from people like him. How many of those rings told a sad story, of loss and of weakness. He withdraws a scroll from his pocket and opens it. A small, bitter smile crosses it and he places it back into his pocket. No messages. It doesn't surprise him; his friends were, for a time, happy. Not him though.

Ruby had Weiss. Yang and Blake had put aside their differences, enough to try and rekindle their broken friendship. Ren and Nora had each other. Him? Blue eyes flicker to his right, the empty seat next to him a stark reminder. He is alone. No one to watch his back. No one to support him. No one to keep him from drinking himself until he either passed out, or his wallet ran dry. The sound of glass hitting the oak counter in front of him cues him to the fact that his shots are ready, and with a smile holding no joy, he picks up one of the amber filled shot glasses and holds it up to mouth level. He isn't much of a drinker, so he can only hope that his father's taste in alcohol has been passed down to him.

He takes a shot.

It burns going down, and he almost chokes, but through force of will, he manages to get through the stinging, burning pain with only slightly watery eyes. It had to have been the most foul thing he'd ever tasted.

The second shot goes down easier mere moments later.

"Two more." he mutters, just loud enough to be heard. His eyes are hidden by his bangs; he'd have to get a haircut soon.

Once again the bartender gets back to work, and the young man finds himself staring back down at the bar top. He fee;s sick, not because of the shots, but of the jealousy deep down at having seen the joy that team RWBY displayed upon reuniting. Even Blake's abandonment of her team had only dimmed their joy slightly, helped by her insistence that she was a changed woman. He tried so hard to be happy for them, he really did. When Ruby had declared her partner had returned, an icy feeling had stabbed its way into his chest, and hadn't left yet. He knew they weren't partners, not really, but it'd been nice, if but for a moment to have someone at his side. Ren and Nora were supportive, sure, but not in the same capacity as she'd been.

The fact that he was so easily able to slip away to the bar, and that not a single one of them had noticed or tried to text him was an even heavier blow. He knew it wasn't because they didn't care, but they'd been so distracted. RWBY with their reunion, and Ren and Nora finally opening up to each other, finally admitting their love for one another. By all accounts, he should have been overjoyed. By all accounts, he should have been celebrating.

Instead he sits in a dead little bar, taking shots, feeling sorry for himself.

The clink of two glasses signify the arrival of the second pair of shots, and the young man grasps one of them, knocking the third back. This one is easier than the first two, the burning sensation quickly fading to a warming sensation. His gaze flickers over to a television hanging above the bar, and almost winces when he sees what is on it. Reruns of old Tournaments. Tournaments she was in. There she was on screen, fighting with the grace and style that nearly brought a tear to his eye. He forces himself to look away, lest his own sorrow overtake him.

It was then he notices his second shot is missing. At first, he thinks that the bartender had simply forgotten it, and his gaze flickers over to the suited man in an attempt to grab his attention. It is the clink of an empty shot glass onto the bar that tells him otherwise. He glances over.

To his right, sits a woman. No, a girl? He can't tell. She is short, surprisingly so. Her hair is tied into a ponytail, one half of it a soft pink, the other a chocolate brown. Her chest is particularly developed, and the air she gives off is of someone confident. In fact, when she glances over to him, removing her hand from his empty shot, the smile she gives him is quite smug.

A year ago, he would have blushed, maybe even stammered at being so close to an attractive woman. Now, all he can feel is a sharp spike of irritation. "Hey, get your own damn drinks!" He snaps.

The woman glares back at him, causing a shiver to involuntarily run up his spine. Something about her is rubbing him the wrong way, and not just in her audacious behavior. He shakes his head. "Never mind…" He mutters darkly and begins to get up off of the stool.

A grip like steel around his wrist stops him, causing him to almost fall over.

"H-hey!" A brief moment of panic flashes through his mind, overriding his depression. The enemy was in Mistral he knew. Was she among them?

A scroll is shoved unceremoniously into his face, close enough to force the young man to lean back slightly to read it.

[Consider it my fee for keeping a sad sack like you company.]

The young man glares, his anger flashing once more, and with the same strength that he used to stop the dreaded Nucklavee from trampling his closest friends, wrenches his arm out of her grasp and almost yanking her out of her seat. Said action seemed to surprise the young woman, whose multicolored eyes (the same color as her hair, no less) widened slightly. "I didn't ask for your company. I just want to be left alone."

A look crosses her face that momentarily has Jaune stiffening, a look murderous enough to nearly set off his fight or flight response. It's stifled just as quickly though, and instead an even more smug smile crosses her plush, pink lips. She taps away at her scroll, crossing one leg over the other. The scroll is turned around, its message clear.

[Hasn't anyone ever taught you how to treat a lady?]

The young man's hand clench tightly, frustration building even higher. All he'd wanted to do was have a few drinks, and forget about his life for just a night, not be harassed. From the television, a cheer could be heard, followed by an announcer triumphantly crying out, "And the winner is,,,Pyrrha Nikos!"

Like a puppet whose strings have been cut, the young man slumps back into the stool, the fight gone from him. His head hangs down, eyes stinging and watering. Faintly, he can hear a huff of air, and curiosity causes him to glance over to his unwanted companion, her eyes rolling. A few taps on her scroll, and the message is pushed into his face.

[Please don't tell me you're upset over Nikos. What, are you some sort of loony fan of hers?]

His gaze turns downward once more, going silent. A few seconds go by before he speaks up. "I was her partner."

There is no response.

His head remains hanging as he fights the urge to break down in the there and now, depression seeking to overwhelm him. He wanted to get away from all of this, not be reminded of it. Moments pass, the cheers of the television above being the only sound to break the silence.

Then: glasses once more hit the table. A finger taps his shoulder.

He raises his gaze up from the bar to see a shot glass filled with a slightly different shade of amber before him and he turns to his erstwhile companion, whose expression now seems to mirror his own internal conflict, staring at a similar glass of alcohol in front of her. Between them, her scroll lays open with a new message.

[I lost my partner too.]

Any remaining irritation the young man might have felt was gone upon seeing the message. He looks away, grasping the shot glass.

"Well then, to your partner." Jaune replies, affixing his beautiful drinking partner with a small, sad smile.

She looks to him and gives a huff of air, a soundless chuckle, and an honest smile passes over her face. In turn, she picks up her glass, and taps out a quick message with one hand, erasing the previous one.

[To yours, as well.]

The two take their shots.

Whatever the young woman had given him had been a much smoother drink than the swill that his father apparently partook of, and he finishes it with a minimum of effort.

"Good stuff. What is it?"

A perfectly manicured fingernail painted pink points to a bottle sitting in front of the both of them, an ornate looking bottle with the label of, "Pumpkin Spice Whiskey." She taps on her scroll, then places it between them once more.

[A personal favorite of mine. To remember my parnter by.]

The young man gives a 'hmm' of understanding and nods.

Silence takes over once again.

The next hour is spent in quiet contemplation. This time, upon ordering his two shots, the young man offers one to his new drinking companion. In turn, she wordlessly orders two of her own and passes one to him. They don't converse, but there is an odd air of understanding between the two of them.

He loses count of how many shots they do. She probably isn't keeping track herself.

Then, she stands.

A handful of Lien chips are tossed upon the counter in a clatter of plastic, with the young man noticing that the amount was more than what she needed to pay for her drinks. He looks up at her. "Going?"

She nods and gestures to the pile on the counter, then to him.

He smiles. "You...you don't have to."

She shakes her head, an amused, but soft smile gracing her expression.

His expression falls. "It's late. You live close to here?"

A single eyebrow raises slightly and she shrugs.

The young man's lips press tightly together for a few moments as he contemplates, then he too stands to his feet. "Let me walk you back. It's the least I can do."

She starts to shake her head, but then stops, her expression morphing into a thoughtful one. Her scroll is pulled out once more, a message quickly typed out onto it and turned to face the young man.

[Suit yourself. I won't complain about the company.]

Her smile is once again the same almost infuriating smug smirk it was when she'd first made her presence known, yet the young man can't bring himself to feel irritated by it. He gives a fake bow and gestures to the door. "Ladies first."

She lifts up a parasol, pink and lacy and lays it over her shoulder, walking forward, her stiletto heels clicking upon the hardwood floors with each step. He in turn follows behind her, hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie, and the two step out into the night air…

He didn't look like much.

She'd seen men so handsome that women flocked to them in droves that she ignored. Compared to him, he was terribly unstylish, gangly and a little pathetic.

If she was being honest, she liked it like that.

Sadist was what some called her, and perhaps it was true, but there was a certain thrill in weakness. She'd toyed with some of Juniors men back in Vale, but they were too soft, willing to cave in too easily. At least this boy showed a small modicum of backbone, just enough to entice. He was a little innocent, a little naive, and altogether the perfect prey. Or at least, he was.

Now there she was, walking beside him, unsure. After losing Roman, she found herself questioning her actions as of late. Questioning her goals. She wanted revenge, yes, but against whom? Ruby Rose, who was the last person to have seen her beloved father figure, or Cinder Fall who was the woman responsible for putting the two of them up there in the first place? These things would wait. Tonight...tonight she was lonely. Lonely like she'd been for a while, and this boy seemed like the perfect partner to share the night with.

They'd both lost someone, so who better to seek comfort in?

The inn at which she was staying at wasn't particularly far from the bar she'd entered, and soon the two found themselves at the door to her little room.

"So...I'll be going now." the young man replies awkwardly. The young woman had to resist rolling her eyes. He wasn't particularly socially graced, but she'd work with it. He turns on his heel, only to be stopped when the young woman bluntly places her hand directly onto his rear, and squeezes, causing him to leap slightly with a comedic cry. "Wha-hey!"

She grins wickedly. Leaning forward, she makes sure to squeeze her arms together, pushing her bust up and together to watch the blush in his cheeks reach a fever pitch and his baby blues desperately trying not to look at her and failing miserably. By this point, he was probably at least tipsy, if not slightly drunk. If she was being honest, it was going to be too easy to get him in bed this night.

Her finger points to him, then to her door before letting her finger rest just under one of her lips and winks at him in a way so flirtatious that only the absolute brain-dead would miss. He stammers for a few moments, his alcohol sodded mind trying to make heads or tails of things. She opens the door and pushes the attack, hooking a finger under his collar and bringing him close enough to nearly taste her lips, flicking her tongue over his own to silence him.

Loneliness. Alcohol. Sex. A lethal combination that even poor Jaune Arc cannot hope to withstand, and he puts up almost no resistance when the gorgeous woman pulls him into her room, hips swaying with each step.

He'll awake the next morning sore all over, naked, and nothing more than a scroll number to remind him of what took place that night, and a hundred messages from RWBY and the rest of his team. Jaune will find himself trying to calm six very concerned friends, downplaying the night he had as he tries to remember what occurred on a night filled with soft curves and lusty gazes. The physical reminders will last much longer, long scratch marks down his back and bruises where her lips had claimed his flesh without mercy.

And try as he might, a little voice in the back of his head tells him…

This isn't the last he'll see of her. Not by a long shot.

A/N: No, this isn't a new fic, just a one-off. If I really feel like it, I might go for another chapter or two, but this isn't going to be anything particularly long. Got more than enough on my plate. Working on a few things here, will hopefully be updating one of my more major works shortly.

And I can't be the only person who really, really wants Neo to join Jaune/Ren/Nora! You could even make her name Neo Politan, so you can have team JNPR again… _

…

A man can dream.

Signing off for now, this is LaughingLefou.