The tattoos were one of the first details Luke noticed beyond the bartender's size and age-- a riot of color and lines, all faded and settled deeply into the skin.  Classic choices, skulls and snakes and swords and all, and some more specific ones, the numbers and the brilliant blue of something peeking out under the man's shirt.  The poppies were unusual and lovely, surreal as they melted into their canvas.  The sword looked familiar in a way, though Luke couldn't place it, and he couldn't help but admire the shifting movement of muscle beneath the image as the man put down his drink.<br/><br/>Luke stopped staring as soon as the bartender turned his head, not wanting to be rude by ogling the stranger (even if he liked his tattoos).  He watched the vague curiousity as he was sized up; he was kind of a mess, he knew, and probably not much like the usual patrons.  The affirmation and the question made him smile, just a quick quirk of the lips and a flash of teeth, a dimple appearing among the freckles.  Relief showed in those pale, bright eyes.<br/><br/>"I'm older than I look.  Promise."  He'd show the guy his ID if he asked for it (Luke had to do that plenty of times elsewhere), but this didn't really seem like an ID kind of place.  The young man hopped up onto a stool, glad to be farther from the rain and the chill seeping in from outside, and pushed his damp bangs back from his forehead as he glanced at the shelves of liquor behind the counter, trying to decide how hammered he wanted to be.<br/><br/>"Um, what's the strongest thing I can get for a fiver?"  He should probably pace himself... "Screw it; what's the strongest thing you've got?  I'll take one of those."  Luke leaned into the counter, elbows perched on the old, polished surface and hands open, fingers tapping idly at the wood.  Freckles had found their way there too, just the softest spattering across his knuckles and wrists.