Six Months Ago
Aug. 6th, 2013 07:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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birthright_rpgHolly didn’t understand the usefulness of this event. Okay, so it was for her dad’s friends and family to gather and pay respect to him, or something along those lines. Except he didn’t have very many friends, and his family were so fragmented and disjointed, many hadn’t been invited out of sheer forgetfulness. She picked up the slightly grimy mug that sat in front of her, and took a bitter sip.
Gregory Pirner had been a secretive, mysterious man. Despite having been the one to name her, he hadn’t spent a lot of time being a focal point in her life. After her parents’ divorce, he fucked off to London and became an insufferable workaholic. She didn’t get close to him again until she went off to university.
Now here she was, at his makeshift memorial. It was being held at a pub that had the audacity to call itself a restaurant. A soggy salad and chips didn’t constitute a restaurant, in Holly’s mind.
Fuck me, he thought, scanning the crowd for any familiar faces he’d need to hide from.
He hated funerals. They reminded him of just how long his life really was. The less people he had to mourn, the better. But Greg. He was one of the few that slipped under the armor, someone that Whistler dare called ‘friend’. Even after his blowout with the Council, the bridges he’d burnt, the physical threats uttered should the stodgy idiots tried anything, Greg never disavowed him.
Soon, his colleagues would recount tall tales of the man they’d come to toast. And they’d brush off the rust of their lives, paint over the ugly bits, and present Greg like he was a saint, and dammit, and the Devil had better hope he didn’t show up at the gates of Hell because he’d raze the place in less than a day.
Whistler knew the truth. And the truth was, both men were far from saints. And maybe that’s what bonded them together. Ex-soldiers fighting a dirty war with even dirtier tactics. Soaked in blood up to their elbows. Only he’d had the better sense to quit before it killed him, whereas his friend couldn’t walk away.
He drew a small circle from the Guinness spillover when someone Whistler was desperate to avoid bumped into him.
Holly spotted someone in the crowd who didn’t quite...fit, in a good way. She stood up from her seat and parted the crowd, if only because she was the Dead Guy’s Daughter. This came with benefits, but also whispers and sidelong glances that got under her skin.
“Hi,” she said simply, blue-green eyes taking him in. “Did you know my dad?” She was on her third beer, and her tongue was getting a little loose. Pretense was not in her arsenal right now. One hand was absently trying to smooth a crease in her dark violet dress, the other holding an unlit cigarette.
Even before she’d spoken, Whistler recognized the brunette. It was the blue-green eyes and angular face, inherited from her father. The soft brown hair, he’d assumed, came from her mother. Gregory had grey hair as long as he’d known him.
Did you know my dad? Such a loaded question. Whistler went with a simple answer. “He and I used to run together, back in the day.” He gulped his dark, warm beer. “And you’re Holiday, all grown up. My condolences.”
She tilted her head slightly, tendrils coming loose from her swept-up hair. Her grandmother had insisted she wear it up. Why the woman even cared, or why Holly had even listened to her, she didn’t know. “You knew him, then, really knew him? Because I don’t think anyone else here did.” Possibly even me, she added to herself.
The woman searched in her tiny handbag for a lighter and came up short. “You can call me Holly. He just really liked having days off work. Back at his old job, I mean.”
It took a moment for her to realize this man had an American accent, and that intrigued her. Not that she hadn’t ever met Americans, but she wondered how he would know Gregory.
Instinctively, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a zippo to light her cigarette. Just because it was the ‘80s, it didn’t mean chivalry was completely dead. Fashion sense maybe. The lid tinked over the din as it flipped open. Whistler ran his thumb over the metal and sparked a flame.
“Yeah, I knew him. Enough to know this grubby bunch of assholes aren’t doing his memory any justice.” He pulled out his soft pack of Lucky Sevens from the same pocket as the zippo and shook one out for himself. He took a long drag and exhaled. “He talked about you a lot.”
Holly took a grateful drag, and while she had been inhaling second-hand smoke for the past hour, this was the real deal. She glanced over at where her grandmother was standing, holding court in a corner of the room with a cigarette, giant glass of wine, and handkerchief. She was slightly impressed at the elderly woman’s skill at holding all three without setting something on fire.
She let out a giggle at the idea that Marjorie Pirner was a member of the grubby assholes club.
“He did? I mean, I loved him, and I know he loved me, but it always seemed...well, work was more important to him. Whatever his actual work was.” Holly then saw an opportunity to get some answers. “Did you...work with him?”
Whistler followed Holly’s glance and spotted the matriarch. He owed the old cunt a few words, but in return she’d bring the full attention of the Council down on him. The last thing he wanted today was to restart hostilities.
“We did a few jobs together,” he replied, carefully omitting specifics. “He was pretty driven, didn’t like delegating. Said it was important to know he was making a difference.”
Whistler grimaced. “I know he wasn’t there for you, after the divorce. It took a small toll on him. But he wanted to make sure the world was a better place for ya, Holly. That’s the takeaway, if there is one, from today.”
Holly arched an eyebrow, taking these words in. Even in her tipsy state, they raised even more questions. Making a difference? “Dad told me he was a researcher. Something to do with history. I don’t...” Before she could finish her sentence, a man who reeked of vodka came up to them and put a heavy arm around her shoulders.
“‘Ey, girl. Sorry about the old man.” He was Gregory’s step-brother, much younger than her father, the result of Marjorie and Husband Number Three’s union. He was constantly hitting on her, the intent thinly-veiled. She shrugged him off with a grimace.
“Not now, Timothy.”
“History can be dangerous,” Whistler uttered, before being interrupted. While he was pleased the subject had changed, he wasn’t comfortable with the why it had done so. “Timothy? I’ve heard of you. Greg had a few choice words, which I won’t repeat in polite company.”
The drunken man snorted, but took a step away from Holly. “Greg had a lot of things to say, dinnee? Doesn’t mean people should listen to them. No disrespect to your father, of course, Holly.” He looked at her, then grinned at Whistler.
“Sorry for intruding. I always knew you liked the older ones.” He nudged her with his elbow and retreated to the bar. Holly let out a deep sigh.
“And this is why dad never had them ‘round,” she told Whistler, finishing her cigarette. “Listen, could I maybe get your number? It’s good to meet someone who was actually his friend.” And I might have more questions for you.
“And this is why some family trees need to get pruned,” the man muttered under his breath. Still, out of the lot, Holly seemed the most... level-headed.
Marjorie stirred in her seat. Either she was about to stand up and propose a toast, or planning to work the room. Either way, it was a cue for him to slip away. But first, he dug out a pen and wrote down a very long series of numbers onto a dry napkin. “It’s my service,” he offered. “I don’t tend to stay in one place long enough to have a permanent number, but they take and hold my messages. Usually check in once a week unless I’m... otherwise engaged.”
He handed Holly the napkin, took a large swig of his Guinness, and then reached for his hat. “Whatever they tell you,” he thumbed at the stodgy bastards in the corner, “don’t believe ‘em. Your dad was a good man, and died with his boots on.”
She took the napkin, stashing it in her purse. Her skin was prickling in a rather curious way. It felt as if she were surfacing. Holly realized this was validation; her suspicions had been correct. There was more to her father’s story than anyone had cared to share with her, and if anything, Whistler was a key component.
“Well...thanks,” she said. “I’d better go, you know, she wants to put on the proper appearances.” She nodded her head toward her grandmother.
“It was good to meet you.”
Gregory Pirner had been a secretive, mysterious man. Despite having been the one to name her, he hadn’t spent a lot of time being a focal point in her life. After her parents’ divorce, he fucked off to London and became an insufferable workaholic. She didn’t get close to him again until she went off to university.
Now here she was, at his makeshift memorial. It was being held at a pub that had the audacity to call itself a restaurant. A soggy salad and chips didn’t constitute a restaurant, in Holly’s mind.
Fuck me, he thought, scanning the crowd for any familiar faces he’d need to hide from.
He hated funerals. They reminded him of just how long his life really was. The less people he had to mourn, the better. But Greg. He was one of the few that slipped under the armor, someone that Whistler dare called ‘friend’. Even after his blowout with the Council, the bridges he’d burnt, the physical threats uttered should the stodgy idiots tried anything, Greg never disavowed him.
Soon, his colleagues would recount tall tales of the man they’d come to toast. And they’d brush off the rust of their lives, paint over the ugly bits, and present Greg like he was a saint, and dammit, and the Devil had better hope he didn’t show up at the gates of Hell because he’d raze the place in less than a day.
Whistler knew the truth. And the truth was, both men were far from saints. And maybe that’s what bonded them together. Ex-soldiers fighting a dirty war with even dirtier tactics. Soaked in blood up to their elbows. Only he’d had the better sense to quit before it killed him, whereas his friend couldn’t walk away.
He drew a small circle from the Guinness spillover when someone Whistler was desperate to avoid bumped into him.
Holly spotted someone in the crowd who didn’t quite...fit, in a good way. She stood up from her seat and parted the crowd, if only because she was the Dead Guy’s Daughter. This came with benefits, but also whispers and sidelong glances that got under her skin.
“Hi,” she said simply, blue-green eyes taking him in. “Did you know my dad?” She was on her third beer, and her tongue was getting a little loose. Pretense was not in her arsenal right now. One hand was absently trying to smooth a crease in her dark violet dress, the other holding an unlit cigarette.
Even before she’d spoken, Whistler recognized the brunette. It was the blue-green eyes and angular face, inherited from her father. The soft brown hair, he’d assumed, came from her mother. Gregory had grey hair as long as he’d known him.
Did you know my dad? Such a loaded question. Whistler went with a simple answer. “He and I used to run together, back in the day.” He gulped his dark, warm beer. “And you’re Holiday, all grown up. My condolences.”
She tilted her head slightly, tendrils coming loose from her swept-up hair. Her grandmother had insisted she wear it up. Why the woman even cared, or why Holly had even listened to her, she didn’t know. “You knew him, then, really knew him? Because I don’t think anyone else here did.” Possibly even me, she added to herself.
The woman searched in her tiny handbag for a lighter and came up short. “You can call me Holly. He just really liked having days off work. Back at his old job, I mean.”
It took a moment for her to realize this man had an American accent, and that intrigued her. Not that she hadn’t ever met Americans, but she wondered how he would know Gregory.
Instinctively, he reached into his jacket pocket and produced a zippo to light her cigarette. Just because it was the ‘80s, it didn’t mean chivalry was completely dead. Fashion sense maybe. The lid tinked over the din as it flipped open. Whistler ran his thumb over the metal and sparked a flame.
“Yeah, I knew him. Enough to know this grubby bunch of assholes aren’t doing his memory any justice.” He pulled out his soft pack of Lucky Sevens from the same pocket as the zippo and shook one out for himself. He took a long drag and exhaled. “He talked about you a lot.”
Holly took a grateful drag, and while she had been inhaling second-hand smoke for the past hour, this was the real deal. She glanced over at where her grandmother was standing, holding court in a corner of the room with a cigarette, giant glass of wine, and handkerchief. She was slightly impressed at the elderly woman’s skill at holding all three without setting something on fire.
She let out a giggle at the idea that Marjorie Pirner was a member of the grubby assholes club.
“He did? I mean, I loved him, and I know he loved me, but it always seemed...well, work was more important to him. Whatever his actual work was.” Holly then saw an opportunity to get some answers. “Did you...work with him?”
Whistler followed Holly’s glance and spotted the matriarch. He owed the old cunt a few words, but in return she’d bring the full attention of the Council down on him. The last thing he wanted today was to restart hostilities.
“We did a few jobs together,” he replied, carefully omitting specifics. “He was pretty driven, didn’t like delegating. Said it was important to know he was making a difference.”
Whistler grimaced. “I know he wasn’t there for you, after the divorce. It took a small toll on him. But he wanted to make sure the world was a better place for ya, Holly. That’s the takeaway, if there is one, from today.”
Holly arched an eyebrow, taking these words in. Even in her tipsy state, they raised even more questions. Making a difference? “Dad told me he was a researcher. Something to do with history. I don’t...” Before she could finish her sentence, a man who reeked of vodka came up to them and put a heavy arm around her shoulders.
“‘Ey, girl. Sorry about the old man.” He was Gregory’s step-brother, much younger than her father, the result of Marjorie and Husband Number Three’s union. He was constantly hitting on her, the intent thinly-veiled. She shrugged him off with a grimace.
“Not now, Timothy.”
“History can be dangerous,” Whistler uttered, before being interrupted. While he was pleased the subject had changed, he wasn’t comfortable with the why it had done so. “Timothy? I’ve heard of you. Greg had a few choice words, which I won’t repeat in polite company.”
The drunken man snorted, but took a step away from Holly. “Greg had a lot of things to say, dinnee? Doesn’t mean people should listen to them. No disrespect to your father, of course, Holly.” He looked at her, then grinned at Whistler.
“Sorry for intruding. I always knew you liked the older ones.” He nudged her with his elbow and retreated to the bar. Holly let out a deep sigh.
“And this is why dad never had them ‘round,” she told Whistler, finishing her cigarette. “Listen, could I maybe get your number? It’s good to meet someone who was actually his friend.” And I might have more questions for you.
“And this is why some family trees need to get pruned,” the man muttered under his breath. Still, out of the lot, Holly seemed the most... level-headed.
Marjorie stirred in her seat. Either she was about to stand up and propose a toast, or planning to work the room. Either way, it was a cue for him to slip away. But first, he dug out a pen and wrote down a very long series of numbers onto a dry napkin. “It’s my service,” he offered. “I don’t tend to stay in one place long enough to have a permanent number, but they take and hold my messages. Usually check in once a week unless I’m... otherwise engaged.”
He handed Holly the napkin, took a large swig of his Guinness, and then reached for his hat. “Whatever they tell you,” he thumbed at the stodgy bastards in the corner, “don’t believe ‘em. Your dad was a good man, and died with his boots on.”
She took the napkin, stashing it in her purse. Her skin was prickling in a rather curious way. It felt as if she were surfacing. Holly realized this was validation; her suspicions had been correct. There was more to her father’s story than anyone had cared to share with her, and if anything, Whistler was a key component.
“Well...thanks,” she said. “I’d better go, you know, she wants to put on the proper appearances.” She nodded her head toward her grandmother.
“It was good to meet you.”