Dec 27, 2014
I cannot believe that it is almost the New Year. I swear, yesterday was actually July and everyone's caught in some sort of time paradox.
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I cannot believe that it is almost the New Year. I swear, yesterday was actually July and everyone's caught in some sort of time paradox.
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[Too say that Maeve is excited for Christmas would be an understatement. Although she has adjusted to not seeing them everyday, she has missed her family so much, and the prospect of heading home for a week or so is what got her through this week.
It also has her incredibly impatient, and so she's on the phone with her baby brother, entirely absorbed as she chats to him whilst walking through the lounge. Her head is already back in Ireland, and as totally distracted as she is, she doesn't realize that there's someone else walking near her until she nearly plows them over.] Oh, shite-- sorry, Dillon. Gotta go, I'll ring you back later! [Quickly disconnecting the call, she turns sheepishly to face the person she just smashed into.]
...I am so sorry.
[Perhaps predictably, Lili wasn't in a great mood, aggravated by the fact that there was a chance that this could be her sister's last Christmas, and Lili wasn't going to be there. Things were tight financially for her family-- forget Ciara's treatments, with all the time her mother was taking off to take care of her, the damn house payment was close to not getting paid. It just didn't make sense for Lili to take time off and miss chances at making more money, and then pay for a train home. Her holiday spirit was at an all time low, and when she heard some corny version of "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" playing in the lounge, she couldn't help but grumble.]
I am so bloody sick of Christmas music.
[Johnny sat in his seat at the end of the bar, his head resting on his hand as he alternated playing with the ice in his drink and watching a couple in mid conversation sitting a few seats away from him. He wouldn't have paid any attention or really cared at all if the woman who was trying – and by the looks of it succeeding – to pick up the poor man didn't look so much like Jade.
Muttering angrily at himself for bringing her up he finished the drink quickly before sliding it back to the bartender for a refill. When the glass was a third full again it was placed in front of him so that he could resume playing with the ice that floated in the clear liquid. Hearing someone sit down on the stool next to him broke his concentration. Lifting his head, he spoke roughly] You say somethin'?
I am genuinely concerned by the situation in Australia right now. Those poor people, terrorism touches every corner of the globe, and this is just a reminder of that. [ He sighed and sipped his coffee, turning away from the live coverage ] I cannot imagine what those people are experiencing right now.
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[Denver ducks through the door, the softly lit interior breathing a subdued warmth in counterpoint to the freezing early December rain. a staple of winter in London that Denver can honestly say he's never missed. His hair is soaked, ink made obsidian, and he can feel rivulets working their way down the back of his neck, a cold line slithering down to pool in his collar. Attempting not to drip on the cream Aubusson's is nigh impossible, but he gives it a valiant effort.
He strips and folds the jacket efficiently over his arm, the doorman to his left — who's more built than Denver had even been at his peak and is bleeding honed awareness out his pores like the sharp tang of cigarette smoke — eyeing him. He's an unfamiliar face, and their security is good. There are a few people milling around, sticking close to the bar, and at a glance Denver catalogues each one — freckles, recklessly sharp lipped, perpetually talking with a sneer, never moves with their back to the door, treacle-sweet eyes — memorizing their minute individual peculiarities.
There's a stunning attendant at the front desk, honey brown hair pulled up in a style that speaks of efficiency in a way Denver can admire in a detached sort of curiosity. Her greeting is bright and polite, and Denver wonders what she's like when she gets home and takes down her hair, unbuttons that tight blouse, and cracks a beer.] Denver Kane. [It never loses the way it trips off his tongue. Like a lie that's never been told before, too new to know how to be pronounced.] Apartment 7A. I'm to pick up my key, I've been told? Everything else has already been taken care of.
[He'd had his pitifully small pile of personal effects sent over a few weeks earlier, while Mi6 were still attempting to patch him back together like a scarecrow, and was told the concierge would see them up to his room. A room he'd opted to have furnished, hadn't even bothered to see in person before he laid down the deposit, because anything was better than his dingy tin-can flat where the weight of his solitude and obsolescence threatened swallow him whole.]
[Ain't no party like a Madame Vettra party- he'd missed the classiness of establishment, the tasteful indulgence that left him stimulated instead of disgusted. That balance had been surprisingly hard to find in New York. The glass whiskey in his hand was emptying steadily, but the alcohol didn't stop the soft prickle of hair at the back of his neck from someone's attention on him, normal smirk naturally finding its way to his lips.] Can I help you?
[Maeve rolled her shoulders and leaned against the wall, content and barely covered by the lace that she wore, sipping from the drink in her hand as she waited to be approached by someone she hadn't spoken to yet that night.] Is it horrible that I'm really enjoying myself?