to find what none could sell you.

i. (hawaiian shirts + dashing charm)

One early spring evening at about seven o'clock, the doors to the drugstore slide open and Grace automatically turns from the sale ad she is blandly memorizing to greet this newcomer. The fake-voiced greeting gets stuck in her mouth, though, when her green eyes land on this customer. It is her black-clad whiskey drinker, which in and of itself is in no way unusual. No, the differentiation of this visit is that he seems to have... brought a friend?

This friend is tall, though just a tiny bit shorter than the taller blonde wearing all black, and wears a Hawaiian shirt that every style-forward individual she knows would like to see promptly set on fire. Even with this fashion travesty, the pants he's wearing clearly display taste and an understanding to how clothes ought to fit one's body, and his mustache and hair are well-groomed. He's wearing a bright, charming smile and he gives her a nod, breaking off for a moment from whatever low-voiced conversation he and the tall blonde have been invested in to say, "Hi there, darlin'," to her, which makes her swallow and nod in return. That is a much brighter greeting than she's used to getting. He's probably about thirty-six, she thinks, so that's certainly not an avenue she's taking anywhere- but she can enjoy the moment.

As the two walk past her counter, she can overhear some of what they're saying. The mustached man is speaking to the older blonde, much more serious in expression than he had previously been. "...and all that's left for me is the background check. And hell, last time I broke the law was with you, old dog, so if they're lettin' the likes of you into their midst, I guess I don't have anything to worry about there." At the last, he breaks back into the charming grin, and the blonde shakes his head, cracking a small, surprisingly genuine-seeming smile that she's never seen before.

"You trying to say you've cleaned up your act, Buck?" Ah, so the man of the mustache has a name, and that seems to be it. She scans the ad more intensely, very determined to feign her concentration to a believable degree. It would hardly be polite or professional to be seen trying to eavesdrop on her regular and his friend.

She still can't believe he has a friend.

Buck throws back his head and laughs, elbowing the blonde in the side just a bit too hard as they move past her hearing range, and instead of being annoyed, the black-clad man rolls with the punches, although his pretend offence is certainly amusing. "Nothing so drastic as that," Buck quips, grinning. "Just a little less breakin' the law, is all. A cop's gotta keep up a reputation but you know, that rule book doesn't say nothing about having a good time with the ladies."

Grace can hardly believe her ears when the black-clad man laughs- actually laughs!- as they round the distant corner to the alcohol isle. Is this a fever dream? She's always imagined what the whiskey man must do when he gets home. She's imagined him sitting alone in his living room, a shot glass in hand. Or, worse yet, stood before his kitchen window staring blankly into the night, holding the entire bottle. She's always felt a sort of a dark cloud around him, every time she interacts with him. Like Charlie Brown's own personal rain cloud from the Peanuts cartoons, a shroud of the void he's dressed in that pools at his feet and splashes onto her hands sometimes when she reaches to scan the whiskey's seemingly innocent barcode. A barcode she's envisioned getting blood on its hands someday if he didn't slow down his drinking.

Eventually the two come back towards her range of hearing. "...we'll get access to the office space on Monday," the blonde is saying. "and you're officially retired from the force by then, right? You'll be free to start getting your government checks."

Buck nods and chuckles. "Never thought I'd be dippin' into Uncle Sam's pockets," he comments, glancing at his friend. "So then we just, what? Build the team? Sounds simple enough."

"I don't know," the other says thoughtfully, and by then they're reaching her counter once more. "Gonna be tough to find the right people. I've been told I don't always play well with others."

Buck places a six-pack of beer on the counter, and the taller man puts a bottle next to it. "Hell, Chris," Buck is telling him, "that's the understatement of the year. You don't always put your best foot forward."

And just like that, Grace has attached a name to the tragic regular she has known to be shrouded in mystery for almost two years of her life. She moves toward the pair, dropping into her automatic script for customer interactions. Hello. Did they find everything okay today? Is there anything else she can help with? Do they have a store card? No? Would they like to get one? She notes that the six-pack of beer is clearly the influence of Chris' friend, and that Chris, for his part, has chosen the same whiskey he always chooses, but in the smaller sized bottle this time. Somehow, that seems like character development. She much prefers the idea of the black-clad man and this Buck fellow sitting about drinking beer and talking about old times than of Chris drowning alone of the brown liquid pain reliever.

They depart from the store still talking and laughing, and for some reason, Grace feels a little bit lighter after- even if Chris still doesn't want a store card.