paradisalogs | Working hard

Entry tags:

grencia mars elijah guo eckener

Working hard

Who: Gren and YOU
What: Working...or maybe not
When: Today
Where: A pub in town

Given everything, it was nice to simply be doing something ordinary with his day. The job he'd gotten here wasn't much. Initially they'd hired him as a part time janitor, but things were slow enough that he'd become a fill in bartender and occasional handyman when things in the run-down little bar needed work. And that was okay with Gren. It was homey, peaceful, and had a stock of some of the best whiskey he'd ever had. It was a lot less exciting than drug running, but he could live with a few less bullets in his day.

Today he's finishing up a little repair work on one of the barstools that had come loose. A small red toolbox is set on the bar as he tightens the last screw.

He stands up with a sigh, pushing his hair over his shoulder, and contemplates a short break.

"Hey, sorry about mess. I'll have it out of the way in a second..." he says as a customer walks in.

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"Don' worry 'bout it," Murphy grinned, plopping down next to him to survey his handiwork. "Looks good from here."

"Oh...hey Murph..." he said, slowly gathering up the scattered tools. "Hope it holds. I'd be very embarrassed if it didn't. How's things?"

"Pretty fuckin' thingish," he decides, shucking off his coat. "Been busy wi' the church an' lookin' after our Da.... You bartendin' tonight, or do I hafta ask someone else fer a Jameson's?"

He grins, "I can pour it for you. Just gimme a sec to get this out of the way."

Gren gathered up the tools and then rounded the bar, setting the case down on a lower shelf before moving to the backbar to take down a bottle and a glass.

"I take it the renovations are going well then?"

"Oh, aye." He settled into his stool, taking a look around the bar as Gren got his things settled. It wasn't as familiar as McGinty's yet - and probably never would be, as Murph still saw the old Boston bar in his sleep with just as much detail as he had in waking at home. But it had the makings of a good regular haunt, and he could appreciate that. Especially when the added bonus of a friend was thrown into the mix.

"Church proper's all cleaned up - managed t' get it done in time for th' Kent wedding. Mostly it's shorin' up the foundation, now." Read: building Cardinal Sforza the extended armory and safehouse in the basement. "Thinkin' of either tryin' to add a wing, or convertin' the gardener's shack in th' back for our Da, so's he can live out there with us."

"Sounds like you're keeping yourself busy," he said, deftly pouring a fairly generous glass for Murphy and sliding it over to him. Keeping yourself busy was pretty much the name of the game here. This job, the music lessons, the broadcasts - all of them were tiny parts of a general effort to stop himself from dwelling on where he was and what he'd lost.

"How long has your father been in Paradisa?"

"S'what works best. Y'know what they say 'bout idle hands and all that, anyway." Murphy raised the glass in a brief but silent salute to him, then took a swig. Yep, that was definitely the good stuff. He took a moment to clear his throat against the burn before responding.

"He showed up a few days 'afore the flood happened. Gotta tell ya, it was a heart attack an' a half gettin' him t' safety with a fresh chest wound."

"Jesus..." his eyes widened a little, "is he okay now?"

He remembers what Dr. Beckett had said to him, and wondered a little if that idea about the trend of people arriving injured actually had a little more truth to it than he first thought.

"He is, aye - least, he's on th' mend. Carson saved his life, though. Good two, three hours under th' knife to get th' bullet out." Murphy's voice was quiet as he took a long, slow sip of his drink. "S'good t' have him with us. I ..."

He sighed, closing his eyes.

"We won't, once we leave this place. S'no surgeon waitin' for him at home."

Gren winced slightly in sympathy - more for the brothers than their father. It was harder to have someone you love die and to go through it yourself.

"I'm sorry. At least you have him here, though...right?" Hesitant, because he knows even suggesting that Paradisa is in any beneficial is a tricky subject, but he's seen that particular angle on his own.

"Aye, exactly. S'a blessin' and a miracle t' have him with us in any way, even in a place like this. Father Abel told us when we arrived that there was a purpose in us bein' brought here, an' ... well." He smiles, a little. "If that's part of it, I'm certainly not 'bout to sit here and complain."

Gren smiled, both wryly and a little sad, thinking on how only a few months ago he felt completely lost, but it took his past showing up to make him find his own purpose. Or maybe, his purpose had found him. "Well, I hope your priest friend was right."

"I dunno. We've done a lotta good since we got here, I think. Not t' be boastful or nothin'." Murphy smiles, quietly. "I think he was."

"No. You're right. The church...taking people like me in...it's all great. This city can use more people like you Murph."

He smiled and poured himself a small amount.

"Let's drink to that, hm? To blessings in disguise."

Humbled, he smiled, raising his glass. This? This was exactly why he and Connor did what they did. A silent prayer of thanks went up to the Lord, even as the words left his lips.

"And to friends. Slainte mhaith."

Ah, so the rumors are true! It's good to know that she can still track down a target if she wants... ignoring the fact that Gren's description isn't exactly an easy one to miss. Either way, she's taking it as a victory, sounding pretty proud of herself when she spots him as she wanders in.

"Well, you made yourself at home quick here, didn't you?"

He's a little surprised to see her here, but there's no counting out Faye to show up when least expected. He doesn't exactly mind that she's found him here. It's better than his apartment, which he'd been counting on as his safe haven.

"In a manner of speaking," he answered easily, leaning against the bar. "What brings you in, Faye?"

Of the few things that Faye could be considered something of an expert on around here, the shops and pubs in town are probably on that list. It was only a matter of time before she found you, Gren.

Wandering on over, she pats a paper bag that she's got tucked under one arm.

"I'm a delivery girl today."

He smiled evenly. "About time. I was about to call in for a refund," he said jokingly, pushing to his feet.

"Glad you're here, though. Why don't you have a seat?" He pats one of the barstools in invitation.

She can't refuse an invitation like that--it would feel like breaking some tradition that didn't actually exist if she did.

Sliding into her seat, sliding the bag across the bar, "Hey, you can't rush genius. Not everybody has one of these, you know."

Granted, most of the ones that didn't were armed with magic, or fangs, or straight-up immortality... but the point still stands.

He was partially aware of how little a gun actually counted for, but it was a least enough to make most people think twice, and that was usually all he needed.

"Well, if they were passing them out on arrival then you'd be out of market. Can I get you a drink?"

"Sure." She didn't care what of. She'd gotten a lot less discerning in her time here.

"There's a shooting range too, if you haven't found it already. You'd be surprised how fast you get rusty when you're just sitting around here."

Small talk and free advice--easy conversation seems so appealing right now.

"I found it couple of months ago," he answered, pausing to fill her glass with ale. He'd never been a bartender by trade, but spending a few years hanging out in one helped him pick up a few tricks. Well, that, and the amount of drinking he sometimes did on his off time.

"I kind of figured they wouldn't like me taking one from there, though."

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Working hard

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