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Caritas, Sunday

Anders was pacing back and forth behind the bar tonight -- if you asked Tino, it was just to make his life more difficult because moving targets were harder to hit with thrown olives and he really didn't want to have to clean up behind the bottles on the shelves. Anders didn't care if Tino thought that, though; he was really just worried about what was going on with his friends.

Wasn't going to stop him from doing his job, though. Besides, he figured if everything got taken care of before closing time, maybe people could use a drink or two in the aftermath. All part of being Moral Support Guy.

Besides, the zombies had gotten the bizarre notion to try and recreate famous silent film scenes on stage in the downtime. It was a serious trainwreck of fascinating.

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Please, somebody sing something and distract the zombies from thinking they're Douglas Fairbanks, Fatty Arbuckle, Mary Pickford, and Buster Keaton. Or whoever it is they think they are.

. . . yeah, you might need a drink to cope with the zombie impersonation of Valentino.

Lana came in looking a bit ragged. "Hey," she said quietly. "Can I get a Long Island Iced Tea?"

"Long Island Iced Tea, coming up," Anders said. "You, uh . . . you okay?"

"Sure," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "Why wouldn't I be."

Yeah, she so wasn't.

Yeah, like he was going to buy that. "Lana . . . what's going on?"

"I don't want to be here anymore. I made the wrong decision there and I keep making bad decisions here. I'm just... done. Other than that, everything's great." She gave him a bright, but totally fake, smile.

He knew a fake smile when he saw it.

. . . okay, most of the time.

"Bad decisions what now?"

She put her hand out for the drink. "That's going to take more alcohol."

"Okaaaaaay." Anders handed the glass over, but made sure to put a glass of water on the counter with it. "What've I missed?"

She took a long drink. "Nothing except me realizing how stupid I've been."

Anders set the bar rag down and leaned forward, on his forearms. This sounded like a job for The Bartender. "Talk to me, Lana."

"Do I even seem like myself any more?" she asked seriously. "Because I feel like I don't even know who I am."

"You seem like about the same Lana I've known," Anders replied, narrowing his eyes in concern. "What brought this on?"

[[*kicks lack of notification*]]

"Come on, sleeping with some guy I don't even know?" she said, finishing off most of the rest of her drink. "And talking him into continuing to do it? That sounds like me?"

"Okay, not so much," Anders conceded. "But seriously, at our age? We've got a lot more doing a lot of things that don't sound like us ahead of us, probably. Never frakkin' would've figured myself for a lot of the way I've turned out."

"I don't even feel like me any more," she admitted, giving him her glass and gesturing for another. "And I don't like whoever it is I'm being."

"Been there," Anders murmured. "Been there."

"Besides, he doesn't even want to," Lana said. "More stupidness on my part. Can I get another please?"

"I dunno if I want to get you drunk if you're gonna be beating yourself up like this already," Anders said reluctantly.

"I'll just get a bottle and go somewhere else," she said reasonably. "Your choice."

Anders narrowed his eyes slightly. "Are you trying to make it so I worry about you more or something? Because if you stay and get more drunk I'm gonna worry, and if you tell me you're gonna leave and get drunk somewhere else so I worry more, that's not frakking fair."

He'd had a tense couple of days. His reserve of Sympathetic Bartender was a little bit low.

She sighed. "Never mind. I'm fine. I'll go home and read a book or something. I'm sorry I bothered you. Don't worry I'm not going to do anything stupid."

She got down off the stool to leave.

"You're not frakking going anywhere alone while there's craziness going on," Anders said tiredly. "Don't ask me to explain, I don't really know myself, and I can't trust the band to walk you home without going to pieces."

"I'm sorry," she said again. "What do you want me to do? I don't know how to be or do what anyone wants anymore. I just don't. Everything's just wrong."

"When you say what anyone wants," asked Anders, picking up the bar rag again, "does that 'anyone' include you?"

"Probably me most of all," she admitted.

Or hide out in here when the drummer tries to impersonate Lon Chaney. Being the Man of a Thousand Faces is a lot harder when pieces of your face keep falling off.

Don't ask me where that came from. Please, don't ask me where that came from.

Where did that come from?

. . . brat. <3

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Caritas, Sunday

The Stage

The Bar

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The Lounge

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