We Are Bulletproof

"So I see." She picked her way around a pool of leather and sheer material and—oh look, there was the shirt Jack had been wearing earlier in the evening. The couch seemed to be the scene of the crime. No condom wrappers. Ooh, naughty boys. Somebody was going to be sore in the morning, and it didn't look like Jack.

Marge turned to Jack with a smirk. "You did good for yourself tonight, you bad boy," she began, but then Jack took her hand in both of his and—"Oh god, no. No don't—Ugh."

She tried, nobody could say she didn't try. She tried to stop him from blabbing out what she knew he was going to say about the sleeping cure for a bad case of blue balls, that he was probably freaking broken inside. Well the broken ones were the best in the sack so he was welcome and—fuck. Marge's expression went from annoyed to judgmental to disgruntled.

"God, why is it always the cute ones?" She groaned as she whipped her hand out from Jack's. It looked like he was going to ask her a favor. That was the posture, the two hands clinging to hers. "Why are the cute ones always batshit crazy, Jack? God!" Flinging herself dramatically onto the couch, she stared up at him flatly. "So he broke up with his boyfriend, boo hoo hoo. That can't be everything, can it? What else happened?"

"Open the goddamn door, Jack," Marge muttered in a vaguely death-threat-like way as nobody teleported to the door to yank it open. But she heard voices coming from inside, and what appeared to be tinny, canned laughter. A TV show? Soon there were footsteps and then Jack was there, pulling the front of his robes closed. Marge patted him on the back as he leapt on her to embrace her, amused by his effusive greeting. Sheesh, somebody was glad to see her.

"Your place was along the way, so I thought I'd bring your things back. Didn't think you'd still be up." She wasn't even trying to be coy as she peered inside to get a glimpse of the young man Jack took home with him. "So the blue balls?" Her grin was meaningful as she stepped inside to get out of the cold, patting Jack's bare chest along the way.

"Everything went well, I assume?"

After her shift, Marge hefted her bag over one shoulder and swept up a coat and wallet and keys that weren't hers. She'd been told to 'hold on' to these items while Jack went off to find someone to bang and then when he did, he just. Left. He left with that brown-haired young man and had the audacity to look over at her but not come pick up his shit.

Which was why Marge took the liberty of buying herself a drink on his card. What? It was a holding fee.

It wasn't hard to find out who he was, mostly because his damn name was on the damn card. A quick search revealed his wallet, which had ID, which let her know where he lived. If he had lived further away, Marge would have left his things at the club's lost and found, but the apartment he lived in was along the way to her place and she didn't mind dropping Jack's things off.

Call her a softy.

And okay she wanted to check up on that brown-haired boy. There was something strangely off about him. He'd been dancing with all the wrong sorts of people so she thought what the hell—maybe Jack could both save him from a bad time and have himself a good time. Not knowing how disastrously her match-making had ended up, Marge arrived at the Sunrise and let herself in through the gate. She marched up to door 1F and knocked curtly, seeing that a light was on inside. Were they still going at it? Marge quirked a smile. Didn't matter, somebody better open the goddamn door and soon because it was cold outside.

"Jack! I have your shit!"

What a fucking tragedy. That a man with needs had to wait an entire week just to play some silly little card game on a Friday night. Mm. Marge did not approve at all, no she did not. She, too, was a sexual being and she wasn't ashamed of that. They all had needs. It wasn't like having feelings for someone meant that they had to cut themselves off from the rest of the world.

As long as they weren't together in a relationship, hey, all bets were off. Besides, cards? Cards? Alone together with no one else watching and all they did was that? It sounded to Marge like the other guy wasn't that interested. She didn't think it was Jack. He didn't look like the shy type exactly, not after lifting his glass to a man dancing with a group of women. That took balls. (Blue balls.)

"Marge." She reached over and took hold of Jack's jaw, physically turning his head back around. "Not him. Uh uh. Bad news if you hate games, baby. Whatever's on this card probably wouldn't cover his tab for the night." But she could see why Jack might be attracted to someone like that--that was a man who knew his worth and expected others to know it too. However, he wasn't for Jack, the man who respectfully let another man lead him around by the nose, and whipped him into playing cards all night.

There was something still respectful in Jack, she thought. And it was respect that kept him from pushing the guy down or forcing himself onto him, wasn't it? By his own admission, that other one was worth something. More than he was willing to let on, Marge would bet. Ah, men. They were so depressingly simple.

"How about that one?" There was a brown-haired young man dancing his little heart out, dressed so scantily that he might as well have been wearing nothing at all. The crowd had parted a little ways, enough for Marge to notice him. Earlier he'd been by to drink his liver rotten. He tipped her a hundred dollars--probably thought it was a tenner--and then swayed off onto the dance floor where the crowd absorbed him.

A whole week and he was climbing the walls already, was he? God, Marge could relate so hard. She shook her head pityingly as he continued on with his sad, sordid tale, downing the drink like it was blue kool-aid. Marge was impressed--not even a cough or a shudder and he'd swallowed about half of it in one breath. She got started on another, anticipating that one pretty blue drink wasn't going to cut it for him--not if he was going to do some damage to some poor little thing later on.

"You played cards. On a friday night." She stopped to level a Stare at him. Yes, it was a judgmental Stare. It was full on judgmental and she didn't care to dial it back. "You. This." Her finger drew an oval in the air, encompassing him and his fine ass figure. "Playing cards instead of fucking. Oh honey. What. Are you doing?" Marge tsked as she slid the second drink over on a coaster. (She'd get the money and the tip from him in a bit.)

"Is he worth all that? He must be one hell of a guy." That or what's his name here was badly smitten.

The drink was starry blue just like the flowers, thanks to a generous dash of blue curacao. It was pleasant going down--not so much coming up. Marge would know. She'd had a few... for research purposes. One didn't seem like it'd knock this fella off his feet, though. Something told Marge he could hold his own.

Apparently he was also quite chatty, which was kind of cute in that it had been a week since he'd gotten laid and why the hell did he wait so long? With those good looks? Marge laughed at his ill luck. Bad fortune? The pining? It wasn't a cackle or anything, she didn't delight in his plight, but the eager way his words spilled out was funny. Marge leaned against the counter and rested her chin on her palm, watching him hungrily eyeing every scantily clad young man that walked past.

"Balls probably as blue as that drink, huh?" she asked bluntly, with another laugh. "If it makes you feel any better, most of them are as horny as you are. Half of them have already come over to hump the bar." Most of them were young, handsome men out looking for a good time. Some were already eyeing Jack like wolves, circling, probably waiting for a chance to get in. Jack was dressed to the nines--they scented money in the air and Hazleton, for some reason, was not short on poor, good-looking young men. There was even some vampire up in a mansion on a hill who kept a harem.

"Why'd you wait so long?" 

(Forget-me-not)

Saturday night and the club was awash in sin and liquor.

Ho
Hum

Marge stood behind the bar wiping a glass clean with a towel, eyeing a cute blond who was making eyes at her from the other end of the bar. She was tempted but he looked too young. Probably got in on a fake ID—the bouncers weren't known to check that religiously here. Pity. He looked like he could be entertaining for a few hours after work—after her work that is. But then again it might be too late past his bedtime.

She actually had a little inward laugh at her own joke, lips curving up briefly. Oh—hello. He was what they called a tall drink of water... in like 1980. In the modern day, he was what Marge called Promising. She watched him approaching and waving his little dollar bills around, ordering a strong drink. Marge whipped the bills out of his hand as fast as anyone could blink.

"Coming right up. One Forget-Me-Not." Which was a stupid name for a drink loaded with enough booze to knock out a horse. But hey—Marge just made the drinks, she didn't have any lessons on morality for these people. As she grabbed various bottles with practiced ease, she eyed him. Shit. Gay. Yeah, that was magical powers for you—couldn't let a girl find that out on her own, could it? She might have at least had a little fun trying.

Gay and pining. Oh, if she had a dollar for every time somebody came through with a sob story like that. Nevertheless, as she slid the drink over to him, she remarked casually, "Going straight for the hard stuff huh? Tough week?" He could've been here for a good time and she could have been wrong, but she wasn't. That was the curse of her abilities. It made her look like a know-it-all bitch.

Well, it made her look like a know-it-all. Marge had the bitch part all covered on her own.