The Plague {One Direction AU}

5. Niall

San Francisco, CA
December 10

"How're ya doing, lassie?" Niall laid his Irish accent on thick. It helped with tips. And he really needed the tips. This was his only real job, a way to pay the bills while he tried to make a go of music. He was a singer-songwriter, or he was trying to be, anyway. And while he had played hundreds of gigs, even recorded a couple of demos, Niall couldn't quite catch a break. He laid a napkin down on the bar and leaned toward the girl. He had seen her around the bar a few times. Quite a few times. "A Cape Cod, yeah?"

She smiled, nodding. She could be quite pretty, he thought, if she didn't wear so much make up. He tried to imagine what she would look like fresh out of the shower, her hair wet and loose, her eyelashes wet from the tap instead of that black junk that looked like furry spider legs...a towel wrapped loose around her chest. Shit. He was thinking himself into a semi right there behind the bar. Knock it off, Niall, he chided himself. He turned back and set the vodka with cranberry in front of her. "Thanks," her deep voice had an edge to it, like she might always sound sarcastic when she spoke.

"You're quite welcome," Niall leaned his elbows on the dark wood between them. The bar was pretty dead. Only a handful of customers, most of whom were huddled in little clusters around the short tables at the back. "So, how are ya this lovely evening?" He asked again.

She shrugged, sipping her drink. "Oh my god. This is perfect."

"Yeah? Well, t'anks. I tried," he smirked at her.

"People usually put too much vodka. Or water."

He shook his head, "shouldn't be any water."

"I know," she rolled her eyes, draining the last of the pink liquid. "Can I get another?"

He laughed. "Sure, me ould flower." She rolled her eyes at the endearment. He slid a second drink in front of her. "Ya still haven't told me how you're doin..."

"Getting better, thanks." There was a faint trace of a warm English accent buried under her California cool.

He tipped his head to the side. "Where're you from?"

She rolled her eyes again. "Palo Alto."

He laughed. Guffawed, more like. He leaned his head on his arms, his eyes pinched shut. "You sound a bit British," he put on a British accent, once he finally stopped laughing.

She pushed the empty glass to him. "My mum is from Cheshire," she nudged the glass.

"I'm startin to see why they've been putting water in yer Cape Cods, love," he chuckled, taking the glass and fixing her another. Coughing from the back pulled his attention. "You all right, mate?" The guy gave a thumbs up, but kept on coughing and drinking more beer at the same time, which seemed impossible to Niall. How could something go in at the same time something else was being expelled? He shook his head, and turned back to the pretty girl, her bleach-blond hair laying in long tendrils on her shoulders.

"Why don't you have one with me?" Her eyes had taken on that heavy-lidded look of intoxication. "Love," she reached a hand out toward him.

Niall couldn't help but smirk. He placed her fresh drink in front of her and poured himself a shot of whiskey. And another. And another. And so many more. He actually lost track of how many drinks she had, how many he had. But the bottles were nearly drained, so he would guess way too many. Just way too many. "We are completely bolloxed," he laughed. She did too, but she kept resting her hand on his leg, her head on his shoulder. He didn't even remember coming around the bar.

"Absolutely paralytic," she nodded.

"Absolut-ly," he said with a Russian accent, holding up the vodka bottle.