neverleftharlan | (no subject)

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It had been a while since Raylan had gone far from Lexington for an assignment, the last time being his trip to California, he was fairly sure. Chicago was not his comfort zone, though the stigma of a southern accent did allow for most people to underestimate him. Just another Dixieland moron out of his league in the big city.

He stuck a leg out as his soon-to-be-informant staggered out of a bar apparently owned by a local mafia thug, Marcone, and the man - more of a boy in Raylan's opinion - crashed headlong to the ground and threw up on his way there.

Raylan grimaced. "Now, that just figures. Folks like you never can tell when they've had too much, and can't hold it even if they do."

He kicked the kid, lightly, to make sure he was conscious. The boy groaned and rolled over to show a recently broken nose and chunks of something Raylan didn't want to spend time identifying smeared over his face. Early twenties if that, with ragged brown hair that needed washing and scars from a teenage life of zits and fistfights, if Raylan was any judge.

"Evening," he said, and touched the brim of his hat. The kid stared at him. Raylan waited, then said, "This is where you say hello."

The kid tried to spit at him and Raylan brought the heel of his boot down between the boy's legs. The boy doubled up and rolled back onto his side with a squeaky wheeze.

"I do believe we'll try that again. Good evenin'. I'm Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens, and I would like to ask you a few questions."

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Okay, seriously this was just getting ridiculous. Sure, Lia had come back to Chicago on the off-chance that there might be something to the whole going-back-to-the-beginning thing, but to catch that scent in the old neighborhood? That scent was definitely not belonging this far north.

Never mind neither did she, but that was entirely beside the point.

It was only random curiosity that actually made her follow the trail - could seeing him again make for a bigger shitstorm than Kentucky? And if it did, then the old goat would probably require some assistance in order to keep up the not-being-dead thing he had going on. And Lia was nothing if not a Good S- Okay, fine, that narration can't even be completed with a straight face, not in meta or any other land.

She could hear the impact before she turned the corner to the alley, and she hitched her bag a little higher on her shoulder before stepping around the corner and leaning against the wall. "I'd just go ahead and answer the dude if I was you," she offered casually to the poor prick groaning on the ground. "He can pull the Mr. Rogers shtick all night long - and trust me? It gets super old super quick."

Raylan, still with his foot between the boy's legs and resting somewhere uncomfortable, looks at Lia like she just spontaneously manifested out of the wall. Who knows. Maybe she did. Maybe it's a werewolf thing.

"What on earth are you doing here. You're supposed to be in New Mexico."

Yes, he occasionally checks her cell to see where she is and to make sure she's still on the move. Her staying in one place for too long means she's in trouble, which means he needs to track her down in earnest. He hasn't had that particular need to date, thank the Lord.

The boy tries to squirm out from under Raylan's boot and he leans in again, eliciting a howl. "I don't believe I said you could leave just yet. I'll be back with you in a moment."

"Had a hankering for some deep dish pizza."

She grins impishly and shrugs at him, more than enjoying his reaction. Until she actually registers the second half of it.

"...Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa." Waving her hand to forestall any more crap from either guy - the one on the floor or the one who might be joining him in a minute, she hasn't made up her mind yet - she echoes, "'Supposed to be'? Y-" Her jaw drops and she jabs a finger at him accusingly. "You've been stalking me, you absolute fucking jackass!"

(Never mind she'd thought that the entire deal with the prepaid phone she'd bought after the whole craziness was that it couldn't be traced. That was basically a staple of any crime show - prepaids were auto-dead ends. TV Tropes, that fucking liar.)

When the punk on the ground voices his objections, she doesn't even bat an eye. "Shut the hell up, Zevon, you'll get your turn after I'm done with him."

Raylan gives her a look that would seem better placed on the face of an irate librarian than a lanky deputy marshal. "No, stalking you implies that I've taken the time and effort to see what you've been doing and where you've been staying specifically, rather than generally. Checked your known associates, harassed you, made you fear for your person, et cetera. What I've been doing is making sure a teenage hitch-hiker hasn't ended up in a ditch."

He leans in again as Zevon tries to make another squirm for freedom. "I do sincerely apologize if that concern is unwarranted, Lia, but given that you're a good four years shy of the age on your ID and a woman traveling alone is at a higher risk at the best of times, well."

"Jesus Christ, get off me!"

Raylan looks down, frowning, like he's forgotten exactly why he has this guy underfoot. "Was I talking to you? No, I don't think I was. Now hush."

"You say 'potato', I say 'how about you take a seat over there'. I can take care of myself plenty fine, fuck you very much." And Lia twitches more than slightly at him just airing out her real name like that (not to mention she can't remember the last time she heard someone else say it, which just makes it weird), plus her age. That is just simply not cool.

Her hackles (metaphorical for now) go up, and she's bristling at his... Everything. From him following up on her, thinking she can't handle herself, knowing her name, being here in Chicago, wearing that stupid hat, just. Literally, everything right now is pissing her off.

"I've done pretty damn well for myself so far, and been going that way long before some hick fed decided to start playing Where's Waldo with my life."

She's about to keep laying into him when she finally has it with the schmuck on the ground. To the schmuck not on the ground - "What the actual fuck are you even doing with him?"

"I don't particularly care about your delicate feelings, given that you left me passed out in a hospital bed after being chewed half to hell by your distant kin. And he is about as much your concern as you're apparently mine."

That said, he hauls the man to his feet and proceeds to ignore Lia's existence. Raylan slams vomit-boy against the wall of the bar. "Hello. I apologize for the interruption. If you'd be so kind as to tell me where I might find Harry Dresden or his employer, Mr. Marcone, I'd be much obliged."

"Marcone? Dres- Fuck, man, I don't know anything about those guys."

Raylan makes an impatient face and knees his captive in the balls. "Think hard."

"They weren't my 'kin' - who the hell even says 'kin' anymore? It's like de factor auto-redneck speak. Never mind that you're being totally racist like that."

Oh, and now he's ignoring her. 'Cause that's totally the mature route to be taking here. Well, fine. See if Lia gives a rat's ass - hint: she does not. See how much she does not in how she crosses her arms, and scowls, and mutters under her breath wondering why the hell she even decided to show up here when she could be getting an actual pizza.

Until she hears the name Marcone being dropped. She may have been out of Chicago for a while, and only in the city for a short time, but even she knows that name and it's not exactly the with the best of connotations. She blurts out before she can stop herself, "The hell are you doing looking for Marcone?!"

Raylan closes his eyes, drags in a long-suffering sigh, and gives Lia an impatient look. "No, I'm looking for someone in his employ. Believe it or not, I've been doing this for going on seventeen years. So settle yourself and let me finish this conversation, and we can get back to ours."

He looks back at Zevon the Vomiting Wonder and raises his eyebrows. "Now, you were telling me how you've heard a rumor about where I might find one or the other of them, this time of night. Weren't you."

"Shit," the kid hisses. "Shit, man, I don't - the guy, Dresden, everyone knows about him. He's supposed to be like. A wizard or something."

"I'm familiar. Went by his office today, point of fact, but he wasn't there."

She actually listens to him this time and keeps her mouth shut. But that doesn't mean she's happy about it - Lia's now dividing her time between glaring at Raylan and keeping her ears open and nose up in case Marcone's people suddenly pop up. You don't know that can't happen. From the stories she'd picked up, the guy was basically a mafia bogeyman.

...Raylan's off to see a wizard. The wonderful wizard of Chicago. She snorts to herself quietly because on the one hand, she's got Judy Garland in her head now, and on the other, wizards? Seriously? What even.

Lia doesn't quite grasp the hypocrisy of a werewolf having such thoughts re: wizards.

"Come on," the boy whispers. "Just. Please. I don't want to get involved with those guys."

Raylan smiles, looking very like a hawk about to rip into a mouse. "No, son, you don't want to get involved with me. See, this Dresden fella, we've got a witness and two sets of prints tying him to a little explosion down in Lexington that took out half a city block and three civilians with it, not to speak of this little old military man, owned an ice cream shop in the middle of the blast."

He leans in close enough that the brim of his hat brushes against the boy's sweaty forehead. "I liked him. So as I see it, you've two options. The first, you tell me what I want to know and I send you on your way. And I know you have the information - read over your rap sheet before wandering up this way, see. Second option, well. I try my hand a reorienting your insides before I run you up for possession."

It's getting later in the day now, and Lia is starting to hear the upswing in foot traffic as the regulars start making their way toward their favorite watering holes. Dump though this may be, a few of them probs call it their dump and she really doesn't want to have to deal with more law enforcement types than she already has on her hands.

"You might wanna try wrapping shit up right now or move to a slightly less obvious place to beat the crap out of him," she says under her breath and getting tetchier by the second. "'Cause we're about to start getting some company back here and if you want to turn this into a real party, I'd still rather not."

And some of the voices she's straining to hear are deep and big - no played out old farts and chicks with their prime long past them. And as much as she can take care of herself and has in the past, Raylan should well know that Lia much prefers to run.

Raylan draws one hand back to rest on his belt, two fingers brushing the edge of his star. He holds his jacket back just enough to show the badge off to anyone who might look their way. "No, I think we're good here. Let his known associates see him chatting with the Fed, save myself a bruised knuckle or two on his thick skull."

He smiles at the kid. "What do you think?"

"Fuck fuck - okay, all right, Marcone is probably at this fitness club, really exclusive, that he owns downtown. The other guy, Dresden..." There's a long pause, like he's still not sure he should be saying any of this. "I've heard he likes to hang out at this freak bar, some place can Anals or Flannelly's or something."

"...Anals." Raylan massages the bridge of his nose.

"I don't know, something Irish!"

"Something Irish, in Chicago." He taps one finger against his badge, getting impatient now.

"I think it's... It's like Mac-something, okay? That's all I know! I swear to Christ that's it."

Raylan waits a moment, then brushes the brim of his hat with two fingers and steps back. He lets his jacket fall back and cover the star again. "There now. That wasn't so hard." He glances at Lia and gestures down the block. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go look for a 'freak bar called MacFlannelly's."

He's being sarcastic. It's kind of hard to tell.

Shock of shockers, the badge does little to absolutely fucking nothing for Lia's calm factor. In fact it just makes her grip her duffel strap a little more tightly and try and back up against the wall. She taps her foot impatiently, just wanting this bit to get over and done with so they can get gone. She's so wanting, in fact, that she doesn't even make one snide or sarcastic remark about a bar called 'Anals', even though it's totally ripe for it.

"The hell you're excused," she mutters under her breath and shoves her hands in her pockets. "Going after freaking Marcone by yourself without any backup, I should just let you go 'cause this is just way too stupid for fucking life."

...Yet she makes no actual move to leave him to his obviously well-deserved fate of fuckedness. And eventually she just glares up at him, again with the impatient foot-tapping.

"Well? Start looking already, Sherlock."

He's already got his phone out, and is talking quietly to someone on the other end. He glances at Lia, rolls his eyes and starts walking. "Yes, that sounds right. Thank you kindly. I'll let you know what I find."

Raylan hangs up and pockets the phone, noting the people walking past to the bar as he starts walking away. Vomit-boy is long gone. "I told you, I'm not going after Marcone. I'm going after one of his powder men."

Rumored to be at McAnally's pub. Apparently there are only so many places in Chicago that are 'weird and Irish-sounding' . He unlocks his rental, opens the driver's-side door, and looks at her again. "We'll talk later. You have my phone number, and unless you dumped it since the last time we spoke, I have yours."

"Same difference, man," Lia retorts as she jogs a few steps after him until she's walking beside him. "And same amount of dumb."

There's a moment of staring back until she sighs and rolls her eyes back at him. Wondering when the hell she hit her head and if she qualifies for one of those handicapped parking passes, she walks around the front of the car to the passenger side. Hand on the door, she shakes her head at herself, then looks back and waits for him to unlock the rest of the doors. "And what if I did ditch it? Whatcha gonna do about it?"

This is, without a doubt, the most retarded decision she's ever made in her life.

He shrugs. "I'll get you a new one."

Raylan swings down into the driver's seat without bothering to tell her not to come. She's got her mind set on it, and at the very least it means she's not somewhere else in the city at night, getting attacked by werewolves or something, so be it. He punches the button to unlock the doors and waits for her to get in before starting the car. "If you're coming, you're staying out of the way and if I tell you to hoof it, you go."

"Yeah, but where ya gonna mail it if you can't phone stalk me, Hansen-bait."

There's almost a grin of triumph as she pulls the handle, but it's gone by the time the door's open. Sliding in, she shoves her duffel down at her feet, handle up - just in case running has to happen, there's no fumbling for a grip.

Lia side-eyes him and straps in. "Whatever, man." There's a primo joke to be made about paws versus hooves, but she lets it pass. She's sure that if it gets to push and shove territory, she won't need him telling her to make book given that she's smart enough to smell that time coming a mile away.

...Then again, she is here in the first place. Which just makes her flop her head back against the seat and groan to herself because. Her common freaking sense is not allowed to go on vacation like this. There should be notices and substitutes and. She doesn't even know.

"Well, I was planning on just handing it to you, but if you're determined to be alone and untraceable that's your business."

He pulls out into the Chicago traffic and finds the way to the pub without too many wrong turns. By the time they get there, he's decided he really doesn't like Chicago. It's all towering buildings and unfriendly storefronts and people who look like they think they know better than the rest of the folks they're sharing sidewalk with.

Raylan swings into a parking spot half a block from McAnally's. At least they'll probably have decent drinks, even if this Dresden isn't there. He peers back into the car at Lia. "How useless would it be for me to say you should stay here."

"Maybe it is," she sniffs back, checking out her nails disinterestedly. "S'worked out for me pretty well so far."

...Though she did go and pay good money for that phone. And god knows she hates a waste. So maybe she won't toss it out just yet. But Raylan needn't know such things.

Lia spends the majority of the ride checking out the streets and trying to remember if she's ever been up here before. ...It's been a while, though, and a lot of those days are all blurry, so. Who knows.

She hops out of the car to give him a grade A stinkeye over the roof of the car. "You want a list of just how useless, or just on a scale of one to ten?"

As (bad) luck would have it, Harry's heading into the pub right now, staff in hand, Mouse on his heels. Working a case for the past week may have been good for his ability to feed himself, but... kind of got in the way of remembering to restock his fridge at any point, and he's starving.

Mouse is a little less focused on getting inside as soon as possible - he stops just outside the door, staring intently down the street at Raylan and Lia. Harry stops too, one hand on the door, and frowns slightly. "What? Do we have something against cowboy hats now?"

The tone might be flippant, but that doesn't mean he's not evaluating the pair as a threat. Survive enough Red Court hits, and you start to learn to recognize one coming. They... really don't look it, and it's hard to imagine even the Red Court would take a shot at him this close to neutral territory. And even if they would, heading inside should solve that problem in the... very, very short term. Harry eyes them for a moment longer, and then opens the door, jerking his head for Mouse to follow him. "C'mon."

Raylan shakes his head, deciding not to give more of an answer than that. When they get inside, the hair on the back of his neck prickles in that unpleasant kind of way that tells him there's more going on than he's seeing. The pub itself is nice, clean, well-maintained with a penchant for the number thirteen and old-world decorations. Fits with whole Irish-and-weird theme.

He swallows down the ill-ease, rests a hand on his belt between his star and gun, and wanders up to the counter, keeping an eye on the other patrons and on Lia at the same time. One in particular has his attention, a familiar-looking fella with a dog the size of a small horse.

Raylan nods to the bar tender, touching the brim of his hat in salute. "Hey there. Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens. I'm here looking for a man goes by the name of Harry Dresden - got sent this way when I asked where to find him."

Lia hops right up on a stool while Ray does his law and order dealio and spins to get a good look around the joint. (Oh, yeah, she is the most mature.) Her initial opinion is that it's kinda hokey, definitely hinky, but s'not that bad a place.

Until she sees the giant freaking dog-thing and then it's not a matter of trying not to stare as much as trying to shut her mouth before her tongue dries out. Because seriously. Big is not even the word for it.

She's so stuck on the holy-crap factor that she almost misses the bartender growling something about whether or not she's even old enough to be in here. "Oh, yeah, lemme help ya on that one, guy," she says before fishing out and flashing a damned fine fake ID that says that 'Susie Jackson' is most definitely legal to be here. Pocketing it again, there's not a bit of preamble before she says ever so brightly, "So. Sup with Cujo on steroids over there. That can't be chill with the health inspectors."

Mouse waves his tail gently as Lia looks at him, doing his best to look friendly and harmless. At least... as harmless as a dog that weighs more than she does can look. Harry reaches down absently to scratch behind his ears, listening silently for a moment or two without looking directly at the marshal. What the hell is a US Marshal doing looking for him?

Mac catches his eye, and Harry smiles slightly in apology. He's lucky Mac puts up with him anymore. But hey, at least they're not vampires...

"He's a service dog," Harry answers with a glib smile. "For my anxiety." He rises out of his seat and walks over to meet the marshal at the bar. Mouse stays where he is for the moment, but he's still watching intently. "How can I help you, officer?"

Raylan's eyes travel slowly between Harry and the monster dog, and he nudges his hat back with one thumb to get a better look at the man who blew four people to shit. Seeing him here, apparently at home and waiting for a drink, stirs that particular kind of fury in Raylan that drives cases to a close. Or a fist through someone's face, depending.

"Deputy," he says. "Not officer." Apparently as an afterthought, he adds, "Or marshal. Either one works."

He gestures back to Harry's table. "I do beg your pardon, interrupting, I just had a couple questions I needed answered regarding your potential involvement in a case I've been working. Might I join you?

"Yeah, can imagine he does wonders for the nerves, considering he looks like he can basically eat anything that ends up ticking ya off," Lis says with a snort. She'd be lying if she's not currently thinking that hey, she can probably take this puppy down easy if Tall and Scruffy here (...the second one, the one without the hat) decides to get him working. But no one asks what she's thinking, so it's not really a thing.

...Except then Raylan does that specific kind of polite voice and Lia goes still for a second, eyes flicking between Raylan and this Dresden dude, because. Uh oh.