The bar was never that neat and tidy to begin with, but it was a shambles by the time Huntress and Azrael were done cleaning house. With the thugs beaten and the drugs and gun shipments secured, the two found themselves with a rarity as they waited for the cops to arrive: time to kill. The two sat on the rare unbroken stools, their weapons laid beside them, replaced with drinks in their hand. The cops must have been taking the scenic route, because they got move past the small talk (what little the Avenging Angel was capable of) and moved to their pasts. Worse, their faiths.
“So there I was, in the cave, with the specter of my father on one side, telling me I was failing for not finding his killer,” Azrael said, pausing to drink some seltzer water, “and the other was the specter of St Dumas himself, telling me I was failing the order I had pledged my life to.”
“Damn. And I thought Catholicism was rough,” Huntress said as she took a swig from the bottle of craft beer. “So after that, how do you…you know…”
“Still have faith? It was…touch and go for a while, but…you live your life putting good in the world…it finds a way back in, even in ways you least expect. Does that make sense?”
Her fingers found her earpiece, where Barbara is often barking in her ear. “Yeah, I think it does.” She raised her bottle, towards Azrael, “to finding it again?”
Azrael raised his glass, tapping her bottle, “And the friends we discover along the way.”
“Even if the friends have terrible taste in drinks,” she said with a snicker.
“We are still on duty, you know, can’t do that while under the influence–”
“Spoken like a true lightweight.” The groans of the beaten thugs are drowned by their laughter.