A Night at the Pub

This is a response to a prompt to write a scene between two characters in a bar, first without dialogue, then with. I'd like to know which you find to be more interesting.

A Night at the Pub

Grey had been sitting at the bar for too long. He was aware of that fact, but the bartender had not called closing yet, and he would sit where he was until the last call. He was alone and he meant to stay that way. His posture, or something less obvious, almost aura-like about him sent invisible signals of warning to those in his vicinity- Stand well clear.

"Another shot, please," he ordered quietly.

"Right you are, sir," the bartender said tolerantly, taking the brown-haired airman's glass and refilling it for... Grey frowned, realising he wasn't exactly sure how many he'd had. It was a dim warning, one he decided to ignore as unimportant.

His task complete, the bartender went back to polishing glasses between customers. Grey was grateful that the bartender had not spoken to him except when absolutely necessary. He was in no mood for a running commentary on the war, or humorous remarks.

It was nearly pure coincidence that O'Neill ended up in the same bar, Grey later thought. There were after all, a certain number of places that were recommended to the squadron, and it had been one of them. 

"Hallo, Grey," O'Neill nodded, and received silence in return. Nary a glance.

The bartender was much more congenial. "Well if it isn't yourself!" Malloy grinned. "Where've you been, under a rock? You used to be round here right regular like."

"The war got in my way, I'm afraid. You did know we're at war?" O'Neill returned with a smirk.

"Leave it all at the door, man!" Malloy laughed. "If you can, that is. It may have its ups, but I tell you a man can't run his business properly with it on. One of these days I'll have to hang a sign on the door- 'Bring Your Own Glasses'."

A wave of chatty new customers, freshly arrived from a show began to trickle into the pub.

O'Neill raised an eyebrow. "You were saying about your business?"

"Half of what I'd see before the war!" Malloy shook his head, but he was eager enough to go and tend to his new customers.

O'Neill glanced over at Grey. A shadowy foreboding that had no business being there made his stomach turn. The foreboding was confirmed by the way Grey's hand shook as he picked up his glass. O'Neill sighed- and realised as he did so that either he had been a little too loud, or Grey's hearing was a little too sharp. The object of his observations glanced over at him, frowning in sudden surprised recognition, but said nothing.

O'Neill tried a nonchalant smile. Grey would have nothing of it, and looked away. A strange emotion began to stir, deep within O'Neill, so deep that he was at first hard pressed to put a name to it. Concern was the closest word, he decided at length, and that revelation surprised him. He glanced at the lanky, brownhaired pilot.

Here was the kid who'd succeeded like none other to date. Succeeded in  nearly breaking him, O'Neill, down. A week ago he'd succumbed to a brief fit of hysterics after Grey had stormed out of his office. He'd had to acknowledge things like Fee's death and that had been painful. It had been something he'd fought to avoid as he'd fight to avoid being killed- because it was death in one sense. And now, here was the kid who had wanted to hope. He was sitting at the other end of the bar, drinking the parting glass to those dead hopes. To a dead youth. To those faces and voices that haunted him. To those whose names he knew and still couldn't save.

And here he, O'Neill, was- the one who encouraged him to casual despair, to a quiet, detached acceptance that he was unable to hold to even as he advocated it. Because Fee's death had left a mark O'Neill could not deny. Wordlessly he saluted Fee and sipped his drink. Time slipped by, inexorably. He did not drink as much as he wanted to, and refused two somewhat intoxicated offers of a good time. He was too busy thinking, something he did not always enjoy doing.

"Closing time, ladies and gentlemen, if you please," Malloy called at last.

There was the usual grumble, the usual response, and things moved in the customary manner. There was a general exodus in the direction of the door. O'Neill couldn't help but notice that his unfortunate squadronmate  Grey was drooping over the hard wood of the bar, like a week-old cut flower.

Malloy shook him once or twice, to no avail.

"He's one of my mob, Malloy," O'Neill said patiently, not quite sure why he was willing to claim responsibility, but unable to simply pay and leave. "How much does he owe you?"

Malloy named the sum, and O'Neill shook his head. "No wonder you're in such a sorry state," he muttered. He searched out Grey's jacket, found his wallet, paid his debt, and pulled the unresisting dreamer into a half-carry half-drag, to get him outside into the cool night air. With any luck he would sober up from the walking. O'Neill looked up at the overcast night sky and mentally blessed his luck. In Grey's current condition, getting to an air-raid shelter in a hurry would have been difficult.

Grey stirred slightly, showing the first sign of independent life that he had in a half-hour or so. "Whaa...?" he began an incoherent question that he did not finish. He appeared to make an effort to focus on O'Neill for a moment and the confusion was replaced by serenity. "Oh..." he seemed contented, nodding once. "S'right." The trust, although drunken, seemed to be absolute that some Providence was looking out for him.

"You know, I don't think I know anyone quite like you," O'Neill muttered, letting a tinge of irritation creep into his voice. "I could be Sweeney Todd for all you know right now- and even if I was I wouldn't lay odds that I'd succeed in cutting your throat. People who take your attitude in life either die young or live for nearly forever," he finished bitterly. "I couldn't live like that, I don't see how you can. I won't always be here to do this for you, you know?"

"Thanks."

A coherent word, soft, slurred, but it showed that some part of Grey was keeping up with the conversation at hand.

"Let's get you safely to your own bed," O'Neill sighed.

****
Alternate version follows
****


Grey had been sitting at the bar for too long, he knew, but they had not called closing yet, and he would sit where he was until they did. Some aura about the brown-haired airman sent invisible signals of warning to those in his vicinity- Stand well clear. The barman was tolerant of his silent presence, polishing glasses between customers, refilling at Grey's occasional signals, showing no apprehension for the young man's sobriety as he appeared to be on a mission to intoxication, a difficult, long term one for he had mechanically eaten a very good dinner not too long ago.

It was pure coincidence that his flight leader ended up in the same bar- or nearly pure coincidence, O'Neill later thought. There were after all, a certain number of places that were recommended to the squadron, and it had been one of them. Before the war, it had been one of O'Neill's favourite casual haunts, a place where he could relax and talk to friends. Now? Now it was something different for him. It was an illusionary escape, a place that tricked you for a little while into thinking there was nothing wrong outside. He nodded an acknowledgement of Grey, took a seat nearby without crowding him and decided on beer and salted nuts. The barman hailed him as a prodigal returned, albeit temporarily, and then left him at a influx of chatty new customers, freshly arrived from a show. He glanced over at Grey, a shadowy foreboding that had no business there turning over in his stomach. A foreboding confirmed by the way Grey's hand shook as he picked up his glass.

O'Neill sighed- and realised as he did so that it was a little too loud, or Grey's hearing was a little too sharp. The object of his observations glanced over at him, frowning in surprised recognition. O'Neill tried a nonchalant smile. Grey would have nothing of it, and looked away. A strange emotion began to stir, deep within O'Neill, so deep that he was at first hard pressed to put a name to it and when he recognized it as concern, he mentally raised an eyebrow at himself.

Here was the kid who'd succeeded as no one else had done yet in nearly breaking him down- something he'd fought to avoid as he'd fight to avoid being killed- because it was death in one sense. Here was the kid who wanted to hope, drinking the parting glass to those dead hopes. To a dead youth. To those faces and voices that haunted him. And here he was, the one who encouraged him to casual despair, to a quiet, detached acceptance that he was unable to hold to even as he advocated it. Because Fee's death had left a mark he could not deny.

So when the barman called closing, and Grey was drooping over the hard wood of the bar, like a week-old cut flower, O'Neill was the one to search out Grey's wallet, pay up his debt, and half-carry, half-drag the half-asleep dreamer outside into the cool night air. The blackout laws were in effect, so the street was shadowy, the cloud cover overhead was a blessing. With any luck, they would not have to get to an air-raid shelter any time soon.

Grey stirred slightly, showing the first sign of independent life that he had in a half-hour or so. He seemed confused to find that O'Neill had his right arm over his shoulders and held him to his side with his left. But the confusion was momentary, the trust absolute that some Providence was looking out for him. That was why O'Neill was both fascinated and repelled by him. Fascinated because his simplistic view of how things ought to be allowed him such easy trust- easily abused! and repelled because he could never own that same trust. For O'Neill knew that if he were to abandon himself to such thoughts, he would die, probably painfully and before his time. But Grey was both charmed and cursed, to live.