𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐑 - MCU

III. RUINS AND RUINATION

III. RUINS AND RUINATION
__________

"And when I'm lying in my bed
I think about life
And I think about death
And neither one particularly appeals to me..."

Luna grumbled, and gestured for the bartender to refill her glass. She downed it swiftly, a burning sensation in the back of her throat. A sense of relief washed over her when a burly, grey-bearded man walked up to the jukebox and changed the song to one with harder beats, faster lyrics and less depression. She liked The Smiths, really, but only in moderation and not when she already felt like shit. Which was almost always these days.

She looked at her knuckles wrapped around the glass. It had been almost a year, but her knuckles were still red and sore. She hadn't let it heal yet. Then the memories flashed through her mind, like they always did, and she beckoned the bartender again. The bartender, a man who looked too old to still be having to work, didn't ask any questions, didn't even ask for an ID.

That was the thing about the slums of Edinburgh; nobody cared what you did, and nobody recognized her.

Luna knew the group of fat, old men were eyeing her from their pool table. Let them try, she thought, I need something to punch.

"Another?"

Luna pushed her glass forward, and the bartender filled it. She knocked it back. The bartender filled it again. This time, she sipped it slowly. She could feel herself getting drunker—too drunk. She'd still have to get herself back to the apartment. Not that anyone was waiting for her there. No, it would be empty when she arrived. It's been empty for weeks.

"Rough day?"

"Fuck off."

"Alright... Give me a shout if ye wan' another."

The bartender walked to the other side of the bar. Luna watched him from the corner of her eyes; he was talking to one of the fat, old men. The man was gesturing to her, and the bartender nodded. A minute later, the bartender put down a beer in front of her.

"From the bloke by the pool table."

Luna eyed the tall glass, foam spilling over the rim. She normally didn't drink beer, it tasted like piss, but she was too drunk to care. She took the glass, turned to the pool table at the other side of the pub, and raised it appreciatively.

When the beer too had been finished, she put her jacket back on and set out of the pub. It was cold outside; it was the middle of the night and winter was well underway. The streets were empty, all the lights were out. This part of the city barely had streetlights, so she had to strain her eyes to be able to see anything.

"Oi!" The door to the pub opened behind her. "Where're ya goin', lassie?"

Luna closed her eyes, her fists tightening in her pockets. "None of your business."

"Oh, come on! Don' be like 'at! Not even gonna say thank ye for the beer?"

She turned, and, surely, the fat, old man stood there in front of her on the pavement. His grey beard was wild and unkempt, much like his eyebrows. There wasn't much of any hair on his head, except for a few wispy strands at his neck. His skin was red with decades-old sunburn, his jean jacket fit too tight around his shoulders, and couldn't be zipped up even if he tried.

"Don't even like beer. You can go back inside, now."

"What're ye doin' all this way 'cross the pond, 'Merican girl? C'mon, me and my mates are just 'bout to start another game." He walked closer, wobbling on his unsteady legs.