barbara kean

The other woman explained they usually opened later, and Isabella turned to where she gestured at the stage. "Ah," she said, and she was about to apologise and leave, when the woman offered her a drink anyway, and headed to the bar. Isabella didn't often drink, but she followed the other woman there anyway and sat down. It was the polite thing to do. "Thank you," she said. "I'll have whatever you're having, if that's easier for you." She didn't want the other woman to go to the trouble of getting something for her when they weren't even open, and she wasn't fussy about what she drank. Edward had a much more refined taste than she did.

She took up another wine glass, slender fingers grasping the delicate stem as she set it on the bartop, pouring a glass of white wine. Babs put a napkin down in front of the woman and set the glass on it. She didn’t bartend every night -- if she wasn’t in her office, she would wander around the club, making sure everyone was happy and just socializing. It was one of her favorite things about her job, especially because it enabled her to bask in flirtation and adoration from her patrons. Which really only counted after the male curfew and it was just women. Who cared what men thought, anyway?

She was taking a sip of her wine when the woman said what her name was. Babs barely managed to avoid choking, swallowing a little harder than necessary. She tried to remember if Ed had ever told her Isabella’s last name -- the Isabella that had been run over by a train, that is -- but she couldn’t. “Funny, a friend of mine had an ex by that name,” she said. “You kinda remind me of her, too.” The way an eggplant reminded people of an aubergine. “Barbara Kean,” she added, holding out her hand for the woman to shake. “I own the place.”

“ i am agitated, ”  he replies, voice sharp. though he rolls his eyes at the guesses at his unrest, he can’t help but utter: “ the availability of my hair products is none of your concern. ” 

he watches carefully as that nonchalant demeanour persists, the swinging of a leg, the nearly lazy raise of a glass to lips. he can’t tell if that burning anger in his chest is jealousy or exhaustion.  regardless, a friend is a friend ; it would be unfair to judge based on common mannerisms. think about it, oswald — who likes a weasel?   “ in terms of friendship, allyship - i hold you very dearly, you’re aware of this, yes? ” he begins, the pressing together of his lips interrupting his  attempt at a smile. “ but you have caused me a great deal of trouble. that man, last week —  the one you had your butcher of a business partner kill, was incredibly important to business, ” he’s trying to very hard not to  rise his voice, and yet—

“Mhm,” she said, drawing a finger around the rim of her glass and smiling at him again. “You know how much your friendship means to me, Ozzy.” She put her head over her heart as though to illustrate the point. She widened her eyes ever so slightly, as if to say that she was politely shocked that he was raising his voice to her. “Oh, that?” she said. She waved her hand, brushing away Oswald’s anger like it was a cloud of troublesome gnats. “I think butcher is a little dramatic, but…” She laughed softly, grinning at him. “Can’t really expect anything less from you, huh?”

Babs stood up and stepped behind her desk, unlocking a drawer. “Look,” she said. “Maybe your guy wasn’t the paragon of business that you think he was, okay? Before you come barging in her like a toddler who spilled his juicebox, you might wanna consider I did you a favor.”

The sign said closed, but that didn't stop her from trying the door anyway, which she found open. Perhaps she'd gotten the date wrong? Or the time? She walked in, and saw the place was indeed empty. She was about to apologise to the woman sitting at the table, when she spoke first. She asked if anyone had told her she looked like a dead girl, and Isabella almost baulked. She thought of the train hurtling towards her, the scream of wheels on the track, the bright white light. Something truly awful had happened. And, in an instant, it was gone. Never mind.

"Yes, people do keep saying that," she replied with a gentle laugh. "If I had a dollar for every time someone said I looked like Kristen Kringle, I would be... three dollars up." She smiled. "I was supposed to be meeting a friend here, but I must have got the time wrong. I'm sorry for barging in like this." She felt a wave of embarrassment. "You're obviously not open."

She shrugged delicately as the woman apologized. “We’re usually open later,” she said. Babs made a vague gesture toward the stage where the repairmen had left their tools; they were undoubtedly on another smoking break, though she hadn’t been paying that much attention to them. Kean genes demanded that she overlook anyone doing menial labor. “Well, you’re here,” she said, glancing over at her again. “Do you want a drink?” She stood up and made her way behind the bar. Regardless of what the woman said, she was going to pour herself a fresh glass of wine. With the new glass in front of her, she leaned her elbows on the bar, glancing at the Kristen clone.

“So what’s your name?” she said, feeling oddly like she should know. She knew Kristen had been Ed’s girlfriend before she gave up the ghost -- or, if she was being accurate, before Ed rather forcefully encouraged her to give up the ghost. Hadn't there been another girlfriend after her? Something with an I. “If it’s actually Kristen, I might have to ask you to leave. I’m not messing with ghosts.” Especially not ones attached to the Riddler.