You don't normally come here this early. In fact, you don't normally come here during the week. You've been going to The Shrieking Shack with your friends ever since you moved to the neighborhood, but only on Fridays and Saturdays and sometimes for Wednesday night trivia. But on a Tuesday at 4? You're the only person in here, considering they opened only a half hour ago, and your friends would probably laugh at you if they knew you were here alone. But today was unquestionably shitty and all you want is a cold pint and some peace and quiet.
Well, this is maybe too much peace and quiet. There is no one at the bar to take your order, which is kind of defeating the reason you came in.
"Excuse me," you yell. "Can one of you assholes get out here and give me a beer?" You flop onto a stool and plant your face in your arms on the bar. It smells like cleaning spray. You don't actually know who works Tuesdays, now that you think of it, but you figure you know everyone who works here by now. "Remus? Potter? C'mon, are you asleep in the back room, or something?"
There's a thud and the slam of a door and a curse and then you hear someone walk up behind the bar. It sounds like they're wearing heavy boots, which is a bit strange, since the boys are prone to gross sneakers and sometimes loafers, if James is late for work. You don't hear the thud of a pint glass on the bar top, like you expect, so you rise from your pathetic position and find yourself face to face with a guy you've never seen before. "Sorry, I was changing the keg --"
"Who the fuck are you?" you say. Okay, not your best introduction. But you're tired and mad and you just want a drink.
He raises one dark eyebrow. An eyebrow that has a piercing in it. In fact, he's got a few. A gold hoop through his nose and each earlobe as well as what is most certainly smudged eyeliner on his lower lash line. He's wearing the bar t-shirt but the sleeves are cut off to show inked arms, intricate patterns from his shoulder to his wrist. He looks like the kind of bad boy people write books about.
"I think I could ask you the same thing," he says. His voice is gravely. He flicks a curl that didn't make it into his top knot from his face and frowns. "Coming on a bit strong for half past four in the afternoon...on a Tuesday."
You groan. So he -- whoever he is -- is hot and a bit of a dick. Just want you needed today. "Look, I thought Remus or James or one of the people I know would be working here. I've never seen you before."
He shrugs and picks up a pint glass. "Your lucky day. What do you want?" You tell him your usual and he pulls it, whistling as he does so. You really wish someone would walk in right now.
No one does. "Aren't you supposed to wear a name tag, or something?" He sets down your pint and looks at his chest and curses. He holds up a finger and saunters -- no, seriously, he saunters -- to the back before returning with a square pinned to his chest that reads SIRIUS. Oh, fuck. You know who this is.
"You're Sirius?" you say. "The mystery third part to the trio of idiots?" You've heard about him from James and Remus. Though you're acquaintances at most, they've come out with you and your friends a few times and you chat when you see them at the supermarket. You were starting to think he wasn't real.
He smirks. "Sure am, sweetheart," he says. Is he making fun of you? Maybe, but why does the name sound good coming from him? He starts to unload some glasses from the dishwasher. "They've told you all about me, it seems?"
"Except for the fact that you work here," you say. You sip your beer and look at him as he puts the glasses away. Black jeans, ripped and just as you thought -- motorcycle boots. You wonder if he's got a bike parked out back. He's quite different from his friends -- Remus, all buttoned up and cheeky, and James, a whirlwind of jokes and charm.
"I've just started a few weeknights, nosy."
"What, did you get kicked out of a biker gang, or something?"
Sirius scowls at you. "Not very nice, are you?"
Is this flirting? "I'm perfectly nice," you say, primly. "Just ask your friends. I'll bet I'm their favorite regular." He crosses his arms and leans back on the counter.
"Well, I don't have favorites yet," he says. "And they aren't here. So you're just another customer."
"I had a bad day," you admit, though you don't apologize. Truthfully, you hardly feel the bad day anymore. It's as if the intrigue of Sirius and his slightly flirty banter -- unless you're being delusional -- have brushed it all away. Not what you had in mind when you came in here, but not a bad thing by any means.
He nods and clicks his tongue. "Been there," he says. "Tough shit." He fishes a toothpick from his picket and sticks it in his mouth. Your face feels hot. What the fuck?
"Tough shit," you echo. "I don't usually come in this early. Or during the week, actually." You don't know why you're justifying yourself. He works at a bar. Even if he didn't look like he's gotten into trouble himself, he's probably not phased by you.
Sirius flicks his toothpick end over end with his tongue. You have to look away and take a large gulp of your beer. "So when do you usually come in?"
You swallow. "My friends and I like to come at the weekend. Trivia, sometimes."
He nods, nostrils flaring. He smirks. "Are your friends hot, too?"
You almost spit out the sip you're taking. "Excuse me?" you say between coughs. He chuckles and starts to fill a glass of water.
"Sorry," he says, not sounding very sorry at all. "Too much?"
He hands you the water and waits patiently for you to take a sip. Okay, so he's for sure flirting with you. "No," you reply. "Not too much." But you think it's best to quit while you're ahead. You down the rest of your beer and start to dig through your bag for some cash. "I'll be off, though," you say. "Work night and all that."
A glance at the clock shows you've hardly been here a half hour, but you think if you have to sit under Sirius's gaze much longer you'll spontaneously combust. "Shame," he says, picking up your glass. "On me this time."
You look up. He's looking at you with those deep eyes and they feel a little less teasing than they did moments ago. "Thanks," you say. You gather your things and head for the door.
"Hey," he calls after you. You turn. "What's your name?" He's leaning on the bar and he does that thing with the toothpick again and you're sure his eyes run up and down your figure.
"Ask me next time," you tell him. The bells on top of the door ring in time with his laugh as you leave.