"Could I buy you a drink?"
The HellHound - or Louis, as he has been calling himself for the past few months - pauses for a moment, the brandy half way to his lips as he glances towards the American grinning at him. He's young and cocky, all smile and deep blue eyes and both human and very much not terrestrial. Not from the Nevernever, 'tho, even with the way he smells of pheromones, the way those make his cock stir.
He's a human, but not from Earth. Louis has encountered a few like that during his five hundred years. Although he does wonder just how long he has been in here, if he's making come on's to men as well. Pretty boy's gonna end up with a broken nose at least, if he keeps on. Then again, it's not really his business.
"Already got one," he says, affecting a deep French accent, throwing a leer and a smirk. His mark is part of the French Army, and it had taken him long months before he was close enough. No-way he's gonna throw it out just for a fuck.
The man's grin widens as he leans closer, and this is just a seedy-enough bar that no-one will say a thing. Won't like it, and Louis will have to find another bar, but he isn't thinking of staying here more than he really has too, and that's not going be long, now. So when the man's hand touches his wrist, leaning up and close to his personal space, he doesn't move.
"Then could I buy the next one? "
He considers his options, before he swallows his whole drink as an answer.
The Hellhound - no more Louis, and he still hasn't decided where to go to create a new identity for himself - doesn't expect to see his one-night-stand again, three days after he finally offs his mark. He curses at first: he no-longer has the uniform, he already dyed his hair black and he already secured a way via Nevernever to get off this damned continent until it decides to stop having a war (he used to like battles, but these days human wars are more about killing tha winning, and that isn't fun).
He's about to flee when he actually pauses and sees at the American. He's still wearing the uniform, his face looks the same but... his scent. He still smells like an outsider, but now there's an Earth scent mixed with that, death and rebirth and the normal human stench. It's almost familiar. The Count used to smell like that, back in the old days.
It's a different bar, if just as seedy, full of immigrants and refuges and people trying to flee. He wonders which one the American is. His curiousity picked, the Hellhound moves over the bar where the man's nursing some brandy, his eyes distant and empty. He sits by his side, putting on a thick French accent, probably risking it, but deciding to take a chance.
"'lo" he greets, offering a grin. "Can I buy you a drink?"
The American blinks as he looks at him. There isn't even an inch of recognition in his eyes, and, this close, while the Hellhound can smell lots of human - and not so human - scents on this man, his own scent? All but gone, and that doesn't happen in short three days, no sir.
The man smiles then, his smile just as lecherous as it was the other day, but he wonders just how long it has been for the American, for a moment. He waves his brandy glass a little, making the auburn liquid dance against the glass.
"Already got one."
The Hellhound leans closer, just a tad intrigued. "Then I can buy the second one, yes?"
"... I guess you can, at that," the American says, and then he swallows his drink whole.