[With tankard in hand, he settles into a seat like his lack of an arm isn’t the only thing that ails him. The bonus of genuinely missing the limb is that tricking others into thinking he’s some disabled, drunk beggar drowning his troubles with some ale and a show is easier than anything else. People naturally averted their eyes anyway, not wanting to be asked for coin, and the only thing that scared away people more than a beggar was a handicapped one.
At his convenience, he smears some grease from the underside of the table onto his face to add to the disguise and mumbles idly to himself as if he were somewhat mad. For all intents and purposes, the camouflage works, the usual workers at the tavern not paying the slightest attention to this side of the room as usual. It’s no wonder these guys picked a table here.
While he does take some time to enjoy Sorcha’s performance, his attention is mostly on the table next to his. In the end, it’s good that Sorcha—or whatever her real name is—noticed them because there’s a fair bit to take away from what he hears. He shelves it for later as he tends to do and plays his part, thumping his hand or tankard from time to time as if drunkenly enjoying the entertainment and whistling in approval at the closing of a few random songs. But then the show is nearly over, and he sees the theft being plotted.
Rattling the tankard, which he’d been carefully spilling about him rather than drinking from, he wobbles to his feet and mumbles about the pretty lute girl deserving the last of his coin, making his way over toward the pouch. When he’s within range, he stumbles and knocks heavily into one of the men while emptying most of the contents of the rest of his tankard on the other. He blithers woefully at his mistake, how his gammy legs don’t do well these days, and pleads and blubbers until the two are repulsed into departing.
Once he’s certain they’ve gone, he totters over anxiously to the pouch, as if perhaps ashamed of his existence as a disabled beggar again, and shakily drops a coin in before huddling away like his presence would offend any others. The withdrawn behavior keeps onlookers from staring too long, and he makes it out the back door without a second glance from anyone.
Given that he used the rest of his cover to take care of that little situation, he knows better than to head back in. Not until people forget the scene that happened tonight. Likely it could take a while, but it hardly mattered for Bucky. A tavern was a tavern was a tavern. At least he could help Sorcha out this time.
Whenever she finally heads out the back, she’ll find him leaning against the wall, waiting for her patiently with grime still smudged on his face and his clothes still rumpled.]
no subject
At his convenience, he smears some grease from the underside of the table onto his face to add to the disguise and mumbles idly to himself as if he were somewhat mad. For all intents and purposes, the camouflage works, the usual workers at the tavern not paying the slightest attention to this side of the room as usual. It’s no wonder these guys picked a table here.
While he does take some time to enjoy Sorcha’s performance, his attention is mostly on the table next to his. In the end, it’s good that Sorcha—or whatever her real name is—noticed them because there’s a fair bit to take away from what he hears. He shelves it for later as he tends to do and plays his part, thumping his hand or tankard from time to time as if drunkenly enjoying the entertainment and whistling in approval at the closing of a few random songs. But then the show is nearly over, and he sees the theft being plotted.
Rattling the tankard, which he’d been carefully spilling about him rather than drinking from, he wobbles to his feet and mumbles about the pretty lute girl deserving the last of his coin, making his way over toward the pouch. When he’s within range, he stumbles and knocks heavily into one of the men while emptying most of the contents of the rest of his tankard on the other. He blithers woefully at his mistake, how his gammy legs don’t do well these days, and pleads and blubbers until the two are repulsed into departing.
Once he’s certain they’ve gone, he totters over anxiously to the pouch, as if perhaps ashamed of his existence as a disabled beggar again, and shakily drops a coin in before huddling away like his presence would offend any others. The withdrawn behavior keeps onlookers from staring too long, and he makes it out the back door without a second glance from anyone.
Given that he used the rest of his cover to take care of that little situation, he knows better than to head back in. Not until people forget the scene that happened tonight. Likely it could take a while, but it hardly mattered for Bucky. A tavern was a tavern was a tavern. At least he could help Sorcha out this time.
Whenever she finally heads out the back, she’ll find him leaning against the wall, waiting for her patiently with grime still smudged on his face and his clothes still rumpled.]