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[After Game 6]

Always easy targets, these dives. Plenty of girls out for a good time (and the occasional guy — Shawn wasn't too picky). Even better when he didn't have to worry about keeping his head. Buy someone a couple drinks, get 'em in a quiet corner... let 'em swoon and sleep it off. Easy as pie.

He'd gotten the message from Palmer just as he'd been laying the charm down, but it would still take her some time to get to the place. Shawn scanned the room as he emerged from behind the curtain of the busted photo booth, licking the last bit of blood from his lips. No Palmer yet.

"Neat whiskey," he prompted the bartender as he claimed a stool, counting out enough bills to cover the cost. It'd cost him a bit of his more 'personal' resources to drink, and he wouldn't relish puking it up later... but it'd give him a reason to stick around. And, yeah. Sometimes, it was nice to taste something other than blood.

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This place might have been the worst drinking establishment Palmer had been to on anything other than official business—but not by much, so it wasn't like she could judge. Besides, the whole point of this exercise was family time, not drinking. Had to take the time to catch up where you could get it, these days.

Well, she might do a little drinking.

Craning her head over the crowd, she spotted Shawn at the bar, a mostly-full glass of whiskey in front of him. She elbowed her way through the crowd, and sidled up to take the seat next to him.

"Hey, Shawn. How're you holding up?" she asked, glancing sideways at him as she signaled the bartender for a glass of her own.

"Surviving," was the answer he settled on after swallowing a sip, placing the glass back on the bar top.

It was hard to look at her for more than a second. Too many problems and questions they hadn't hashed out. All the shit with Liv-slash-Vera, which was even more shit by now. The accusations against Buckley. Not to mention the ghost of Julia Remington, still sleeping on Palmer's couch. Shawn hadn't been to see her in a few nights, so he almost asked... but he didn't even know if Palmer had been spending more than a minute at home. Wouldn't blame her if she hadn't.

So instead, he asked: "How 'bout you?"

"Alive. We'll see how long that lasts, anyway, but, you know." She turned to the bartender, who'd swung back their way. "I'll have the same—whiskey, neat," she said, before slouching onto the bar, elbows folded.

"Keeping myself busy," she went on, directed once again at Shawn. "You know what they say about idle hands doing the devil's work. Ha ha ha." It was a mirthless laugh, without any real energy behind it—not surprising, given that she'd barely been getting any sleep.

"Think we may all be doin' the devil's work, these days." The demons and angels were on the same team, after all.

A beat passed. Okay. Right. First topic first.

"She any better?" She. Shawn was used to still calling her 'Liv' in mixed company, but with just Palmer it would've been kinda weird.

"Yeah, she's... she's getting better, I think. The whole experience did kind of a number on her, brought up some other unpleasant stuff that had come up recently to boot." Understatement of the year, but that was a long story. Long story she didn't even know the end of, quite yet. "Ain't the first time she's had to put herself back together after something terrible—" Her mouth twisted into a slight scowl. "But I don't actually think it gets easier on the repeat."

Palmer ran a hand through her hair. "Anyway–Kitty Hawk and I are taking turns keeping an eye on her. It'll be... fine." She shrugged, took the glass of whiskey from the bartender as he slid it across the bar and contemplated it. "But, you know, that's just sappy teenage bullshit. Pretty boring."

Kitty and Palmer taking turns with her was something of a surprise. For a second, Shawn wondered how that all worked... before deciding that he really, really didn't.

Buckley's comment had been kinda harsh, but not unexpected. He'd never been the most touchy-feely sort of guy. Shawn had a feeling Palmer knew that, even if she felt stung by that particular barb.

"Well, at least she's alive." No, he wasn't the biggest fan of Liv either. But she was a good fighter, and that would've been a stupid way to die. "If we'd managed to stake Ozy before she opened her mouth..." But that was irrelevant now.

"Ain't the smartest thing she's ever done, yeah, but far from the stupidest. But, yeah, small fucking favors. For the moment, we're... we're all at least alive." Her frown deepened, as if remembering something unpleasant, and she took a long sip of her whiskey. "I can see why she did it, though. It makes perfect sense if you're her."

"A ghoul with a death wish?" he guessed, wry, as he circled the bottom rim of his glass on the bar. "There are easier ways she coulda done it."

Palmer didn't smile. "Yeah, there are easier ways to try and off herself, sure." She could feel her hackles going up, and paused for a second, swirling the whiskey in her glass gently, letting the knee-jerk reaction fade. "Not exactly about that, though. She's trying to make up for something that went wrong a very long time ago."

She shrugged, her mouth a thin line. "I have a hard time blaming her. You ever have anything in your life you'd die to undo, Shawn?"

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