Work Text:
“Dear Sunday,”
Gallagher had been staring at the blank sheet of paper for almost an hour. He tapped the eraser of his pencil against the marble countertop of the bar before setting it down and picking up his flask and taking a swig. He looked away from the paper, rubbed his eyes, then looked back, as if the simple action would magically solve the problem he’d been dealing with for the past week.
He didn’t know what to write. Gallagher wasn’t a fan of hello’s or goodbye’s, but he knew he owed Sunday that at the least. He’d already written a letter to the Trailblazer, Woosley, and Siobhan, the few people he could call friends. He leaned back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling and sighed.
Gallagher stared at the wooden planks, silently counting them as he pored over what he could possibly say that wouldn’t leave Sunday hating him. He rubbed his eyes. Why did he care about what Sunday thought? It didn’t take this long to write anyone else’s letter. Hearing the old wooden door creak open, he sat up.
“Bars clo- Sunday?” Gallagher quickly snatched up the blank piece of paper and shoved it into his pocket.
The Halovian looked out of place as he walked up to the counter. Sunday glanced around the dimly lit bar, his eyes wandering over the folded chairs and freshly wiped tables.
“Closed?”
“Yeah.” Gallagher replied as he pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, ignoring Sunday’s disapproving squint.
“Can I have a drink anyway?”
“I mean…I guess…” He made an exaggerated show of being annoyed at the request as he stood to grab a glass. “What can I get ya?”
“Something sweet, please.” Sunday sat on one of the stools. Gallagher rolled his eyes.
“Well duh. You act like anything remotely bitter would kill you. I meant be specific…like…Sweetened mood, Resplendent Rendezvous, Wintry Garden…” He trailed off at Sunday’s confused look.
“Surprise me.” The Halovian eventually said. “I don’t come here often enough to know the menu.”
Of course not. Gallagher thought to himself before picking up the menu and looking through it. He looked up at Sunday, then back at the menu, then back at Sunday. Nothing came to mind. It was frustrating. First he couldn’t write anything, and now he couldn’t even make the man a damn drink.
Meanwhile Sunday was silently inspecting Gallagher’s disorganized uniform. The loose tie, the ill-fitting shirt, and the unlit cigarette perched between Gallagher’s fingers. He squinted.
“I’m not fixing it.” Gallagher muttered without looking up, already knowing Sunday’s grievances. The man made a point of commenting on his uniform every time he saw him.
“It’s not professional.”
“Shh.”
“Dont shush me! I’m still your boss, you know. Really, is it so hard to find a shirt that fits?”
“SHHHHH. I’m reading.”
Sunday grumbled something under his breath and stopped complaining. Gallagher flipped the menu back over and started again. He’d read it front to back twice and STILL couldn’t find something he thought Sunday would like. It’s not like he had time to experiment with the other man’s tastes.
Gallagher set the menu down and lit the cigarette, slowly picking up a shaker. This would likely be the only drink he ever got to make him, and here he was, winging it.
He glanced up at Sunday, who was now distracted with the array of posters on the wall. He noticed the subtle fluttering of his wings as he tilted his head to read some of the more faded writing. The piercings at the base caught his eye. He wondered why Sunday had them, what the story behind them was.
Gallagher put the shaker down and pulled out a tray of ingredients from under the counter. It’s not like he had time to ask. Lost in thought, he dumped ice into the cup. Time. He was running out of it. What else would he ask, if he had the time.
Maybe why Sunday always wore gloves. He filled the shaker with different liquids. Maybe why Sunday was so obsessed with Gallagher’s uniform. Shake, shake, shake. Perhaps why Sunday thought his idea of paradise was the only way to bring order to the world. He poured the drink into a rounded wine class. …or he could ask why his eyes were so pretty.
Before he knew it, he had a glass filled halfway with a bubbly, bright purple liquid, and a layer of foam on top. Gallagher cleared his throat to get Sunday’s attention away from the poster board and slid the drink over.
“What’s this one called?” Sunday picked it up, swirled it, and took a sip. Gallagher blanked for a third time as he watched Sunday inspect the purple drink. He seemed to like it at least.
“…doesn’t have a name.” He muttered as he cleaned out the shaker.
“What do you mean it doesn’t have a name?” Sunday frowned. “Everything on the menu has a name.”
“This isn’t on the menu.” Gallagher rolled his eyes. “You said surprise you, so I did.” He frantically racked his brain for something, anything. He couldn’t understand why it was so hard to come up with things all of a sudden. His whole thing was being creative, but whenever it came to Sunday, either he turned up nothing, or nothing was…good enough.
Sunday finished the drink and slid the glass back over. Gallagher tossed it in the dishwasher. He’d take care of it tomorrow.
“Sunday…” He started. “I gotta…well…I gotta get something off my chest.” He said awkwardly.
Sunday squinted suspiciously as Gallagher walked around the counter and sat on the stool next to him. His eyes flicked to the loose tie before moving back up to Gallagher’s face. “Well? What is it? Let me guess… you were drinking on the job? Again?”
Gallagher almost laughed. “No…” Just say goodbye now. It might be easier in person, he probably won’t even take me seriously. He put out his cigarette and looked over at Sunday.
“I-“ The words caught in his throat as he met Sunday’s expectant gaze. Instantly a million more questions flooded his mind. Time. Damnit, why can’t I have more time??
He didn’t ask any of the questions he had. He reached a hand towards Sunday, pointing a finger at one of his golden lapels. “You got somethin’ on your..” When Sunday glanced down, he flicked his forehead.
“I- you- how immature!” Sunday hissed, a hand coming up to rub his forehead. Gallagher snickered, trying to ignore the sharp pang of guilt he felt at lying. It felt like that was all he did. Lie.
“Is it really my fault you’re so gullible?” He stood up. “Come on, get movin’ I gotta close the bar.”
“Hmph.” Sunday slid off the stool and walked past him, grumbling something about “insubordination”. He stopped in the doorway and turned around.
“Gallagher?”
“Yeah?”
“Is that really all you had to say?”
.
.
.
Tell him.
.
.
.
“Yeah. G’night birdie.”
He would have written the letter tomorrow.
But he ran out of time.
He tossed the crumpled piece of paper in the trashcan and made his way out of the bar, locking the door behind him.
“Perfect Enemy.” That’s what he’d call it.