Late Night

Late Night
(During the Rough Days of BfA)

The lone night elf in a tavern full of long-coated, burly and bearded and hairy humans sighed softly into his beer and downed another swig before he slapped the mug onto the table and leaned back in his chair, closing his amber eyes and lifting his face to the wooden-beamed ceiling. He flopped an arm across the top of his chair, wincing slightly at a twinge from the sore muscle in his shoulder, and went still, listening to the drone of accented conversation around him in drowsy and drifty peace.

“Well, don’t you just look like rot, kiddo? Rough night?”

At the familiar voice, he blinked his eyes open and lifted his head, surprised.

“Lash!” Rhese’s formerly dour face broke into a wide, pleased grin as the raven-haired demon hunter slid into the seat beside him.

His mate, her teal braid dripping over her shoulder, perched a hip on the corner of the table by his elbow and folded her hands across her lap.

Rhese’s smile only warmed. “Mirra… So you two are still alive and fighting. I’m glad!”

The male beside him smirked and reached out to steal the younger elf’s beer. “Of course we are,” he announced before taking a swig and returning the drink to its owner. “And so are you, I hear. Fighting, that is. Alive is obvious enough that even *we* can see that. You look like fel. When’s the last time you slept?”

The druid snorted and smirked, unaware of the resemblance between his expression and the ancient demon hunter’s. “I look as handsome as ever, I’ll have you know. And how can you even tell, blind old bat?”

Mirra giggled and turned her face toward her partner. “He’s got you there, Lash.”

Rhian shook his head. “I’m not nearly drunk enough to attempt to explain the capabilities and limitations of fel sight to an exhausted young cub.”

Rhese laughed, a rare sound of late, and waved at the barmaid. “That means we need more drinks.”

“Oh, as if you could last long enough to get me drunk, kiddo,” the demon hunter chuckled in answer, folding his hands together on the table. His lovely, blind mate reached out and rested her hand over his, a casual, natural caress even as her face stayed trained on Rhese.

“I’m already a couple of mugs ahead of you, Lash,” the young father retorted after he’d ordered another trio of drinks. “You’re going to have to catch up.”

Mirra’s voice was gentle as she said, “Maybe you’d like to tell us why you’re alone in a tavern in the seedier part of Boralus in the middle of the night, Rhese? I doubt it’s for the company or the quality of their watered-down beer. And from the low ebb of your energy, you could really stand to be sleeping.”

The druid sighed and wrinkled his nose. “If Lash doesn’t have to tell me about his felsight until he’s drunk, then I don’t have to tell you about my insomnia.” He softened the refusal with a little forced smile and a wink.

Mirra resisted the urge to sigh back at the stubborn man and instead smiled. “Well. How fortunate, then, that I’m a patient creature. I can wait until your tongue feels looser.”

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