all of the stars are fading away

FIND ME @theasteriae INSTEAD!  💜

More details when I can get to a computer, but I just wanted to give you all the heads up before I go ahead and start setting things up.

@lordcarlisle wrote:

Harry had always enjoyed a night out at the theatre, and living in London allowed him to go to the West End whenever it tickled his fancy. The closing show of a long run of Macbeth had been incredibly good and he felt enamoured with the play anew.

It was afterwards, however, in the pub near the theatre, when he saw her. The actress was looking surprisingly fresh and layed back for someone who had been drenched in blood not an hour previous. Harry fixed his tie and smoothed out his lapels before heading over to the bar.

“Might I buy you a drink?” He asked. “In congratulation for your performance.”

The Swan was busy tonight—but, for once, the press of bodies inside didn’t bother Alexandra as she moved between them, slipping away from the rest of the cast ( who’s wrap party was well-underway by now ), and squeezing around different groups of students and theatre-goers and a hen party doing shots, on her way to the bar. The adrenaline she always got off a live performance acted like a safety cushion; she barely even felt the sharp elbows, the bumps from behind.  

The man at the bar who asked if he could buy her a drink was older—the same age as Richard, perhaps—and very smartly dressed. Suit, tie, the whole works. And he had crinkles round his eyes, which were kind and green. Her uncle had always been cautious, wary, you should never accept anything from a stranger, sweetheart, and ( usually ) her own paranoia was enough to put her off, but—after tonight’s final curtain—she still felt like she had static electricity zinging through her veins. Her guard was down, and her hands—finally clean of that damn spot—were shaking slightly as she accepted, “Why not? Mine’s a Diet Coke—lemon, but no ice, please.”

@lordcarlisle wrote:

Harry’s eyes often lingered just a little too long on the Yard’s new on-call translator. She was interesting to him, having seemingly appeared out of nowhere. There was something about her that also seemed familiar to him, like maybe he had met her before now.

“Do you speak Welsh?” He asked one day, having run into her in the small kitchen on the floor he worked on, intent on making some tea. “ Only, I want to see if I’ve got any competition to look forward to.”

“I’m afraid not.” Electra shut off the tap, and turned to look at Harry over her shoulder. “Why, is there someone waiting? Let me just-” She ran a hand through her hair, checked her reflection in the chrome surface of the kettle; even though she’d been up since before dawn, she had not so much as a curl out of place. “-Oh.” Relieved, she replaced its lid with a metallic click and carried it back to its stand. Switched it on. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint—if it’s Hindi you’re after, or French, or Russian, or Greek, or Arabic, even Latin, then I’m your woman—but Welsh, no. I’d say you’re safe there.”  

@thepropertyofalady wrote:

A gala was the perfect place to pick up the information that he needed. Making a beeline to the bar he ordered his signature drink, Vodka, Martini, shaken, not stirred and settled against the top as his eyes scanned around. Quickly he had a good idea of all the blind spots and potential exits though the intelligence given to him hadn’t revealed his target as of yet. Even so the night was young and given time Bond was certain that his target would soon pop up.

The sound of the cocktail shaker turning from a rumble to pour gave him his cue to turn around, accepting the drink as he turned back around again. Slowly he sipped at it and waited which happened to be the worst part of all.

“What year’s your Dom Perignon?” the dark-haired woman beside Bond wanted to know. When the bartender made his reply—“We have a 2002, Madam, or a 1975.”—she pursed her lips and pretended to deliberate before telling him, “I’ll have the 1975, I think. Bring over a glass, but keep the bottle corked and on ice for me.” She’d won big at the blackjack table, why shouldn’t she splash out on an expensive bottle of champagne?  

The heavy diamond choker around her throat suggested she could probably have afforded it regardless—but Kate hadn’t been wearing that when she arrived at the gala ( some charity casino night for she didn’t know what cause ) an hour or so earlier. Nor had she been in possession of that particular credit card, with which she was now opening up her tab for the evening.

The women to her left were deep in conversation, and their chatter was punctuated with raucous bursts of laughter as they drained their giant, fishbowl cocktails and ordered another round. The man to her right sat alone, sipping a vodka martini with the ease of one well used to events and establishments such as this. His face was lined, but still handsome, and he looked fine in that suit, which had obviously been tailored to his exact measurements. Around his wrist was fastened a heavy gold watch. It glinted invitingly in the low light emanating from the bare bulbs hung over the bar.