Baby I've been here before

I've seen this room and I've walked this floor

-Leonard Cohen

The woman down the table from him has three empty glasses in front of her and is more than a little intoxicated by the flush of her face, if not by the fact that she is swearing loudly and gesturing rudely like a pirate. The poor bartender - a new face - standing before her looks at her helplessly, and for reasons unknown to himself, Roy rises and walks over to seat himself heavily beside her.

"I'll have a Laphroaig 10, please," he says to the bartender, who takes his order readily, glad to be rid of this rowdy customer for moment.

The woman tilts her head to glare at him. Frigid blue eyes meet his green ones. This close, Roy notices her long lashes and fine eyebrows, and her plump red lips, the kind just asking to be kissed. She has smooth pale skin, and from her head flows pale blonde hair, almost white like snow. And she is young - he wonders if she is even old enough to be drinking, and three glasses at that.

Roy's first impression of this girl: She is a beautiful creature, and an awful drunk. He feels strangely irritated as he lightly drums his fingers on the tabletop.

"Who the hell are you?" She spits out, eyes narrowed into daggers.

He ignores her, instead choosing to say "thank you" as the bartender slides him his order.

"You're welcome, sir. Enjoy," the bartender replies, and Roy takes a sip of his scotch, allowing the taste to simmer on his tongue pleasantly.

The girl leans forward aggressively on the counter towards him and proceeds to jab an accusatory finger at him.

"You!" She all but growls, "I'm talking to you! How dare you ignore me?"

She is riled up; Roy is slightly regretting the incoming tirade, yet also anticipating it with glee. He turns around to face her with the biggest smile plastered on his face and asks in an as fake polite tone he can muster, "What can I do for you, Miss?"

"Answer my question! Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Roy Mitchell."

She is a little taken aback by how quickly he supplies an answer, as if expecting he would refuse, but quickly regains her previous drunken composure.

"Why the fuck did you set down next to me?"

"Because I can." Roy knows how to be infuriating, and revels in it.

The pretty blonde knits her eyebrows and purses her lips. "That's a shit answer."

Roy raises an eyebrow, then turns his profile to her to show how much he cares about their conversation.

She observes him for moment through hooded eyes, then gives him a shit-eating grin.

"You're not my type," she grounds out, and in her eyes flicker triumph, as if she has gained an upper hand in something, "I prefer older men."

Roy snorts as he nurses his drink.

"That's good. You're not my type either. I like my women older." He quips back as he turns again to face her with a condescending smirk.

That lights a fire in her eyes, and Roy sniggers inaudibly. Perhaps it's not so bad to play around with someone younger this time...

Luke, the saint that he is, stares down at him calmly, but Roy can see the hard grit to his jaw and how tightly clenched his hands are. Perhaps he has finally managed to ruffle the saint's feathers - Roy can't help but loose a smile.

"Roy." It is a disappointed voice that Luke uses, like that of an adult speaking to a mere child.

Roy expected anger, an outburst, even a rare caustic remark. He doesn't expect this, anything but this. He hates this tone Luke uses, it reminds himself that he is forever a child in the other's eyes; he can't ever argue back, it kills his mood. The vindication has been sucked dry out of him already, and he hasn't even edged in a single word yet.

"Roy, when are you going to grow up?" Luke chides, then sighs as he brings his fingers to knead his temple.

Fury reignites within him - he's twenty one years old, dammit! Who does he think he is? Roy thinks as his smile disappears and is replaced by a sneer. It's you - It's you! You've always - He isn't able to complete the maddening thought when Luke cuts in:

"I know you dislike me, but I didn't expect you to dislike me to this extent.

"I don't know what it is that makes you dislike me so much, after all I've done for you.

I am rather sad for us to reach this point, I don't know where it all went wrong.

Very well. Since you've so clearly shown how much you wish to have nothing to do with me, I'll let you go. You'll be free to do whatever you desire, and be free from me.

I'm disowning you, Roy."

Slowly, Roy drags the cigarette out from mouth and exhales, surrounding himself in a haze of smoke as he leans against the cold glass window and gazes down upon the city nightlife, bright lights flashing like a mask of glamour. The girl on the bed is sound asleep, her mind lost to dreamworld as his remains rooted to reality.

He pulls away from the window and walks back over to the bed; on his way, he snuffs the cigarette in the bowl on the nightstand.

It is absolutely silent in the dark, cold room of the hotel. Roy considers turning on the thermostat, but decides he wants to feel the cool tiles of the floor beneath his bare feet. He can feel the chill travel up his legs and worm its way into his chest, then extend through his arms and into his splayed fingers. He will not be staying long anyways.

For a brief moment, he stands over the sleeping girl, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, moving like gentle, rolling waves. How utterly different she appears now, with her long hair swept behind her and exposing a pale slender neck, her eyes closed and her mouth opened slightly, breathing lightly, everything about her relaxed and at peace. There is no trace of that obnoxious, disorderly drunk she was earlier.

Bianca Durrant, it sounds like such a posh name. Roy will not pretend he didn't go through a woman's purse to find her identity. Her driver's license gives him the information he wants, and he is surprised to learn she is only a year younger than him. Twenty-one years old, likely in her last year of college. He was in her shoes once, not too long ago.

He doesn't want to sympathize with her, though.

Carefully, Roy sits on the edge of the mattress and pulls on his socks quietly, so as to not disturb the sleeper. He puts on his other discarded pieces of clothing before shrugging on his trench coat. Once he has gathered his belongings, Roy escapes for the door. He leaves a wad of cash on the nightstand.

As he steps out into the hallway, Roy glances back towards the slumbering girl. She has yet to stir from her unconsciousness, oblivious to the world around her. He closes the door with a small click and strides down the hall with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets, the collar pulled tightly over his neck like a shield.

He didn't bother leaving his number.