There weren't many things quieter than a saloon at sunrise.

Viktor would know. When he wasn't on a saddle, saloons were the only place he dared to set foot. They were a sort of neutral zone, people said. In the end, the truth of the matter was that going into a place like that meant that you were ready to get drunk enough to forget whatever quarrel you had. And if, even after five glasses, there was still tension, it was nothing a good old barfight couldn't fix.

Or at least, that had seemed to be your trail of thought last night.

Honestly, Viktor didn't even want to think about last night. It had been a disaster. A fiasco. Somehow, you had gotten into a petty argument about--about what? Viktor couldn't even remember--with one of the other patrons. A petty argument that had devolved into raised voices. And then a little shove. Then a punch. And before anyone knew what was going on, the whole place was a mess of broken glass, upturned tables, and shouting and yelling and general unpleasantries. He had had to drag you out by the collar of your shirt and dunk you in the watering trough to try and knock some sense into you.

and this morning, you were late. Typical.

He let himself brood about it over a glass of sweetmilk, sitting in a corner of the place with his hat tipped over his eyes. Sadly, the brooding did not last long. A moment later, you burst through the batwing doors, somehow not looking completely hungover. Boots scuffed, coat dusty, hat tilted just right to hide a wicked smirk, you strolled past the card table, tipped your hat to Miss Clara at the piano, and dropped into a chair like the law wasn't three towns behind you.

"You're late," Viktor remarked, leaning back in his chair and tilting his hat up to look at you. "Also, you owe the owner two new chairs and a window."