Pretend all the good things for you

[shifting]

WHO: Sam Merlotte, OPEN
WHERE: De Chima & other places
WHEN: Throughout the month
WHAT: February catch-all with open starters for his bar. Action or prose welcome!
WARNINGS: TBA


Morning
[given the recent whirlwind of blackout and bullshit (the least of which involved a guard dog role he got more grief than reward for, and the most a body to hide), Sam's downright ecstatic to lose himself in work for a few days. Even with the week's worth of lost revenue, Merlotte's is doing well. Word travels fast in De Chima, and at least for now the good food and imPort novelty has meant steady business.

Sam tends to reserve the mornings for interviews he may have scheduled, happy to chat with a potential hire in a booth or in his office, whichever they prefer. Each applicant gets a handshake, a grin, and the offer of a cup of coffee on the house. This early in the restaurant's life (and with a long memory for the high-turnover troubles at his place in Bon Temps), Sam hardly turns anyone away before he's had the chance to chat with them first. He's got his fingers crossed for more imPort hires in particular, but the ads he's placed online are careful not to mention that. He wouldn't want to look discriminatory.]

Afternoon
[De Chima's a place of businessmen and tech innovators, which means a swarm of quick customers for the lunch hour. So Sam already has both hands full when a weasel-eyed journalist for some sensational periodical strolls in to try and goad the shifter into an impromptu interview. Every time Sam crosses within earshot, here's this little asshole flashing a slick smile and the ugliest gator-skin loafers Sam's ever seen in his life, tossing out boisterous questions: How's Sam's love life? Anybody warming the sheets lately? The papers know he gets around. Guess he's giving the word 'dog' a new meaning, right? And hey, since he let the cat out of the bag - excuse the pun - on that shapeshifting thing, does he mind going into detail on that? Give the people a little taste? And is that a health concern, a guy who turns into animals working in a restaurant? Why hide it for so long in the first place? Or himself, for that matter? Good-looking guy hoping to run his own business, poster boy for a vineyard, and then that run for Ambassador even, and he's never reached out to a single media branch. Does Sam have any answer for people thinking that's kind've weird? You know, they say it's the quiet ones for a reason; they say they're the folks with something to hide. Those are the sorts of rumors people start, he wouldn't believe the shit that gets published these days, and if he'd just sit for a quick interview, they could jump in front of them...

Sam ignores the bastard until the exact moment he can't anymore. He whirls around in the middle of the restaurant to step into the other man's space, barely-leashed anger cording up his forearms and into the set of plaid-dressed shoulders.]

You want some words for your article? Huh? You really want some goddamn words from me?

[the journalist's unperturbed, shit-eating smirk suggests maybe that's exactly what he wants.]

Evening
[the closer the restaurant gets to closing time, the less hustle and bustle left to slog through. Tonight's seen mercifully smooth dinner service, guests coming and going in easy streams. Sam splits his time between his little back-office and the bar, mixing cocktails to get away from inventory orders and sales numbers.]

Get you somethin' cold? [is the little greeting he chooses for the next body to sidle up to a stool, offering a beverage napkin and a friendly smile.]

Or hot, if that's more to your tastes. No judgement. I mix a pretty damn good hot toddy.

Comments

[shifting]

Sam picked up on it. Some things could be done for show, but not the acrid, sour curl of fear which came off Will. Luckily, the dismay in Sam's glance went unnoticed. John had already shifted his attention down, chortling like the Rottweiler's fear was the best thing he'd seen since he put down his magazine. He bent to unhook Will's collar with a grunt, hooking his hand beneath it with the intention of picking him up full-bodied to shove him in the cage. Willingness clearly wasn't an issue here.

"C'mon, you crybaby. You think you got reason t'whine now then whooowee are you not gonna like - "

Whatever he planned to say next garbled off into pained surprise as Sam got an arm around the man's thick neck, the crook of his elbow choking off John's air. Immediately the barn was a flurry of barking, rows of captive dogs giving their input to the two men's tussle. Through bared and gritted teeth, Sam held with a bull-rider's strength as John lurched this way and that, scrabbling at the shifter's arm with nails bitten down too short to do much harm. The man's eyes rolled, his face a splotchy mess of color. Metal rattled as he threw his weight back to pin Sam up against the wall of howling cages, something jabbing painfully between his shoulders and eliciting a curse. Still, he held on.

Eventually, those struggles lessened, and then stopped altogether as John lost consciousness. His heavy weight slumped in Sam's arms. The Southerner released him then, his own chest heaving for breath, and he cast a look for Will.

Whoops, it said.

"We... can put him in one of the bigger cages," he swallowed, wincing.

"I didn't want him to be yellin' for help."

[infomodder]

Will can't bark as it is, but he watches, braced, dark eyes narrowed in a manner that suggests anticipation and perhaps enjoyment rather than anything else. He won't be making a move to stop whatever it is Sam chooses to do. If he lets loose before it's too late or doesn't, Will won't be stepping in.

Aw. Maybe some other time.

Willdog looks at the slump of man for a moment, then Sam, then casts a glance at a cage with two vicious-looking dogs all but frothing at the mouth. We could put him in there, lingers, implied, briefly. He wouldn't, really, would he? He'd just think it. These dogs have no people to come home and be horrified by what they've eaten, though, and likely all have very empty bellies...but no. No, no.

This is the last persondog Sam has to explain his violent actions to. He is that he is and nothing less, nothing more.

Will steps back so Sam has easy access to the cage Will had almost been shoved inside. It's big enough but not spacious; it'll do, won't it? The least this man deserves is to wake up in sheer discomfort. Yes. That is best.

The rottie moves around to the unconscious man's bottom without hesitation or show of disgust and nudges him forward with a might headpush. Sam is bound to get the hint. But hey, maybe he won't, or he needs a second, and Will won't be bothered at all by making sure this guy wakes up with face and arms and every bit of exposed skin possible scratched and sandy.

Wait — Will isn't actually a dog.

Realization hits him as said notdog takes a step back. Then another, then he's changing, a sort of lurching, stretching motion Sam's bound to recognize. As soon as paws sprout anything remotely finger-like, they go to the muzzle, and it clatters to the floor as a naked Will Graham reaches to peel off the man's shirt for his own. The pants...he may have to go without. Or find something to serve as a belt. He ignores the additional barking that fades into curious silence.

"How serious are you. About them not getting away with this." Casually asking how far Sam is willing to go while naked, as one must do when shapeshifting provides no clothes. "You and I, right now. What're you thinking?"

[shifting]

Sam recognizes the issue and casts a look around. Eventually his eyes return to the chain hanging from Will's neck. ...Not exactly stylish, but that could work as a belt until a better substitute could be found - or until pants were no longer needed. He stoops to strip their unconscious friend of his, pretending that he never noticed the stare Will gave to the hungry hounds one cage over.

"Pretty damn serious." Not looking up as he works to maneuver John into his new kennel. The man's breathing is dangerously shallow but that's not on Sam's list of concerns right now. He kicks the door shut, grimacing. "This ain't the first time I've been to one of these. ...My birth parents were pretty much scum of the earth. Woman who had me was a shifter too, and her husband had her fight in dog rings for money 'til they decided my brother was old enough to take over that for her."

He can remember the first time he saw Tommy shirtless, his scars deep and jagged and too numerous to count.

(Will reminds Sam of him sometimes, in that way.)

"I managed to find and pull him out the last time they made him fight. The very last time." He'd been firm on that. "There wasn't time to round up the fuckers runnin' it then."

Sam stands, wipes his hands off on his thighs and takes a step in. He raises his hands slow, watching the his friend's eyes to make sure there's no objection before he slips the choke chain over the curls of Will's mussed hair and free from the man's throat altogether. He offers it and the jeans wordlessly. No pressure - they could always find Will something else. Or not. The nudity hardly bothered Sam.

"I want some people to pay for it this time. I put in a call back at the other shed, and there should be some people headin' over. But either way, I want the earth to fuckin' open up and swallow this place whole. Like it never was. Send a message to anyone else who might get the idea they can just start this up again later.

"...We've got a lot of cages here." Casual, his eyes on the dogs inside. Surely they'd prefer to be stretching their legs. "I'm thinkin' you help me fill them up."