The door settles shut behind the storm as an old man walks in and is met with a greeting from Skip.
Not with force this time—just a heavy click that seems to sink into the walls rather than echo off them.
For a few moments, nothing really changes.
The room breathes as it had before, low voices, chairs scraping along with the steady clink of mugs against wood, the rain continues its quiet assault against the windows, distant thunder rolling through it in long, tired waves.
Quinn lifts his mug and takes a short sip, the burn isn't as bad as the first time but it's still not what he is used to, all he can do is expect it. He stares at the brown liquid and debates another sip before setting it down on the table with an exhale.
Across from him, Pierre eats at a slow pace despite him essentially guarding his food, Johann sits beside him, posture relaxed but imposing, one arm resting against the table, fingers loosely curled around the base of his mug.
Richard leans back slightly in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, speaking in a low tone with Augustus.
"…told you the angle was off," Richard mutters, half a grin tugging at his mouth as he looks at Augustus. "You can't compensate like that mid-shot. You'll overshoot every time."
"I didn't overshoot."
"You did."
"I adjusted."
"You corrected after overshooting."
Augustus exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh.
Quinn listens more than he speaks, it's easier that way.
He picks at the piece of chicken in front of him, tearing away a smaller portion and putting it in his mouth, chewing as he lets the conversation move around him instead of through him.
This is manageable, he still wishes to return to his world but for now this is almost something he is used to.
Stay like this, he thinks. Just for a bit so I can think and breathe.
Before he finishes the thought the door swings open again, not as subtle as before, its loud and abrupt, interrupting conversations and drawing stares.
Wood cracks against the frame as it swings too far inward, wind forcing it the rest of the way. Rain follows in sheets, cold air spilling across the floor and crawling up through the room, the sound of laughter comes with it.
Seven figures push inside without much hesitation; they shake water from their coats and boots as if the space belongs to them. They don't pause or look for permission, they move straight in.
They arrive at the nearest table—already occupied—and it is claimed without a second thought. One of the men grips the back of a chair and drags it aside, the legs screeching against the floor. Another knocks a half-finished drink off the table with the back of his hand.
The mug hits the ground, and the ale spills out as it cracks and the handle breaks off.
The thought of apologizing clearly never crosses the boy's mind.
"Move." The boy says with a grin, clearly hoping they refuse.
The people at the table don't argue, they gather what they can and leave.
Quinn's gaze lingers.
The Bracken Family, something in the back of his mind supplies—not a memory, not quite, but close enough to feel like one. The name sits heavy in Quinn's mind, like it's something he should know more about, but when he focuses on the name, he is met with a wall which swiftly turns into a headache, causing his focus to disappear. Quinn rubs his head as he continues to watch them.
They spread out across the table like it was always theirs.
Boots up on chairs, elbows wide, and voices louder than anything else in the room now—not because they need to be, but because they can be.
Skip doesn't smile when he looks up, he watches them as he cleans the bar.
One of them notices and snaps his fingers with a grin like he is the most important thing in the world.
"Food."
Skip doesn't move or pay them any mind and continues cleaning.
Another leans back in his chair, tilting it onto two legs as the others chuckle.
"Are you deaf you old bastard?"
Skip pauses for a moment before he turns and heads into the kitchen without any argument or protest.
Quinn watches as he picks at his chicken.
So they are some sort of gangsters.
Across the table, nothing changes.
Pierre keeps eating.
Johann takes a slow drink.
Richard continues speaking.
Augustus nods along, glancing down at the table like the conversation hasn't shifted at all.
"…and I'm telling you, if the wind shifts even slightly—"
"It didn't," Richard cuts in.
"It did."
"You're compensating for something that isn't there."
Augustus scoffs. "You're just mad I'm right."
Quinn smiles and lifts his mug again, taking a few sips and setting it back down, the warmth of the ale dulls his thoughts and the ache in his bones, causing the tension in his shoulders to loosen just a tad.
Across the room, the Bracken boys grow louder.
A joke lands—badly—and they laugh anyway.
Another drink gets spilled.
A chair tips.
No one intervenes and no one looks too long.
They practically own the room, Quinn realizes.
Not officially, but effectively
A waitress moves between tables carefully, tray balanced, steps measured to avoid drawing attention from the boys, her eyes never stay on them longer than they have to.
She approaches Quinn's table with three fresh mugs.
She sets one down in front of Richard, another in front of Augustus and the last is given to Quinn.
"Thanks," Augustus says lightly.
She nods once with a smile before she turns and starts back towards the counter.
One of the Bracken boys looks at the waitress before he reaches out with a mischievous grin.
His hand nearly lands where it shouldn't.
But it was intercepted by Johann's hand. Johann's fingers clamp around the boy's wrist before he could even reach the waitress, his grip is firm and unyielding, it is accompanied by a glare, one that is of a man who is about to discipline a child.
The boy blinks and looks down at his hand before he looks up at Johann with disgust on his face as his other hand raises to strike him.
"Oi—"
Pierre moves, no warning or windup.
His fist drives forward and connects with the boy's face; the sound is like that of a whip cracking.
The chair beneath him snaps backward as he's thrown from it, crashing into the floor hard enough to shake the table.
Johann chuckles at the haste of Pierre and rubs his wrist, not having been able to release the boy before he practically got sent flying.
After that silence follows, not complete but close enough.
Augustus is already moving, guiding the waitress back, one hand steady at her shoulder as he steps between her and the table without making it obvious.
Richard's chair scrapes once as he stands, hand finding Quinn's arm and pulling him up.
"Come on," he mutters under his breath.
Quinn moves with him, the room tilting just slightly as he steadies himself.
They put distance between themselves and the table—not far, just enough.
Enough to not be in the way of what's about to take place.
The boy on the ground groans and rolls a bit before he pushes himself up.
Blood spills from his nose, dripping onto his shirt, his lip already splitting as he bares his teeth, three of them missing and scattered on the floor.
The other six are standing now, their chairs pushed back and feet planted as they prepare for a fight, some chuckling as they stare at Pierre.
The room has goes still until Pierre steps forward while adjusting his cap, once he is done his arms rest at his sides as he looks down at them with a look of superiority and disgust.
Johann rises beside him, the chair creaks as he stands and rubs his back, he stares at the boys as he itches his beard, his other hand resting at his side.
The 6 boys start chuckling and joking about Johann and Pierre.
"Do you idiots really think you'll win?" One of the boys says as he steps toward Johann, puffing out his chest to make himself look bigger.
Johann simply stares before wiping off his face. "A warning for the future, don't get too close"
"Wha-"
Before the boy can finish speaking, he is headbutted by Johann and sent stumbling backwards, his nose now flat against his face.
Richard, Augustus, Quinn and the rest of the bar simply watch as the fight begins.