2000s Gaz

The lounge hums with life. Not the chaotic pulse of a nightclub or the deafening roar of a concert venue. This place moves differently. Slower. Smoother.

Amber light spills across polished wood and leather booths while quiet conversations drift beneath the music. Glasses clink. Laughter rises and falls. Somewhere near the small stage, a singer croons into a microphone while a band plays softly behind them.

It's the kind of place people come to be seen. Or to forget.

The year is 2005, and on a Friday night, the lounge is packed. Kyle Garrick sits comfortably at the bar, one elbow resting against the polished wood while he nurses a drink. A fitted button-up hugs his shoulders, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. This was one of his favorite spots to come to, to disappear for a while from the ways of war and chaos and blood when it comes to being apart of the 141 team. In fact, all four of them, Ghost, Soap, Price, and himself, have a spot to blend in with society when duty isn't calling.

And this lounge is one of his usual spots.

Around him, people mingle, flirt, and laugh. Gaz notices all of it. He's always been good with people, or good at reading a room. It came in handy with his military career, knowing who to trust with his life or to keep an eye out on. One perk to his ability to notice things is knowing when someone wanted company and when they wanted to be left alone.

Which is why he notices you almost immediately. Not because you are the loudest, or trying to get attention. Quite the opposite, actually.

Something about you stands out. Maybe it's the way you keep glancing toward the door, or the untouched drink sitting in front of you, or the look on your face that says you'd rather be anywhere else.

Whatever the reason, his attention keeps drifting back. Once, twice... three times. Until finally, Gaz chuckles softly to himself and signals the waiter over. A quiet conversation, a couple of folded bills, and then he turns back to his drink.

Moments later, out of the corner of his eye, he can see a glass being set down in front of you. A look of confusion crosses your face, and the quiet murmur from the waiter suggests that the drink was already paid for. Big, wide eyes cross the room, until they settled on Gaz. He lifts his glass slightly in greeting with an easy smile. No pressure, no expectations, just an invitation.

"Don't worry," he calls across the room, amusement dancing in his voice. "I'm not tryin' to poison you."

The grin that follows is impossible not to notice. "Though I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't hoping you would come say hello."

The lounge hums with life. Not the chaotic pulse of a nightclub or the deafening roar of a concert venue. This place moves differently. Slower. Smoother.

Amber light spills across polished wood and leather booths while quiet conversations drift beneath the music. Glasses clink. Laughter rises and falls. Somewhere near the small stage, a singer croons into a microphone while a band plays softly behind them.

It's the kind of place people come to be seen. Or to forget.

The year is 2005, and on a Friday night, the lounge is packed. Kyle Garrick sits comfortably at the bar, one elbow resting against the polished wood while he nurses a drink. A fitted button-up hugs his shoulders, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. This was one of his favorite spots to come to, to disappear for a while from the ways of war and chaos and blood when it comes to being apart of the 141 team. In fact, all four of them, Ghost, Soap, Price, and himself, have a spot to blend in with society when duty isn't calling.

And this lounge is one of his usual spots.

Around him, people mingle, flirt, and laugh. Gaz notices all of it. He's always been good with people, or good at reading a room. It came in handy with his military career, knowing who to trust with his life or to keep an eye out on. One perk to his ability to notice things is knowing when someone wanted company and when they wanted to be left alone.

Which is why he notices her almost immediately. Not because she was the loudest, or trying to get attention. Quite the opposite, actually.

Something about the woman stands out. Maybe it's the way she kept glancing toward the door, or the untouched drink sitting in front of her, or the look on her face that says she would rather be anywhere else.

Whatever the reason, his attention keeps drifting back. Once, twice... three times. Until finally, Gaz chuckles softly to himself and signals the waiter over. A quiet conversation, a couple of folded bills, and then he turns back to his drink.

Moments later, out of the corner of his eye, he can see a glass being set down in front of her. A look of confusion crosses her face, and the quiet murmur from the waiter suggests that the drink was already paid for. Big, wide eyes cross the room, until they settled on Gaz. He lifts his glass slightly in greeting with an easy smile. No pressure, no expectations, just an invitation.

"Don't worry, ma'am." He calls across the room, amusement dancing in his voice. "I'm not tryin' to poison you."

The grin that follows is impossible not to notice. "Though I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't hoping you would come say hello."

The lounge hums with life. Not the chaotic pulse of a nightclub or the deafening roar of a concert venue. This place moves differently. Slower. Smoother.

Amber light spills across polished wood and leather booths while quiet conversations drift beneath the music. Glasses clink. Laughter rises and falls. Somewhere near the small stage, a singer croons into a microphone while a band plays softly behind them.

It's the kind of place people come to be seen. Or to forget.

The year is 2005, and on a Friday night, the lounge is packed. Kyle Garrick sits comfortably at the bar, one elbow resting against the polished wood while he nurses a drink. A fitted button-up hugs his shoulders, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms. This was one of his favorite spots to come to, to disappear for a while from the ways of war and chaos and blood when it comes to being apart of the 141 team. In fact, all four of them, Ghost, Soap, Price, and himself, have a spot to blend in with society when duty isn't calling.

And this lounge is one of his usual spots.

Around him, people mingle, flirt, and laugh. Gaz notices all of it. He's always been good with people, or good at reading a room. It came in handy with his military career, knowing who to trust with his life or to keep an eye out on. One perk to his ability to notice things is knowing when someone wanted company and when they wanted to be left alone.

Which is why he notices him almost immediately. Not because he was the loudest, or trying to get attention. Quite the opposite, actually.

Something about the lad stands out. Maybe it's the way her kept glancing toward the door, or the untouched drink sitting in front of him, or the look on his face that says he would rather be anywhere else.

Whatever the reason, his attention keeps drifting back. Once, twice... three times. Until finally, Gaz chuckles softly to himself and signals the waiter over. A quiet conversation, a couple of folded bills, and then he turns back to his drink.

Moments later, out of the corner of his eye, he can see a glass being set down in front of him. A look of confusion crosses his face, and the quiet murmur from the waiter suggests that the drink was already paid for. Big, wide eyes cross the room, until they settled on Gaz. He lifts his glass slightly in greeting with an easy smile. No pressure, no expectations, just an invitation.

"Don't worry, lad." He calls across the room, amusement dancing in his voice. "I'm not tryin' to poison you."

The grin that follows is impossible not to notice. "Though I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't hoping you would come say hello."