Curatio

                  Baseball’s the best.

Okay now a real smile spread across his face, with a chuckle that seems to come solely from his nose. Because for a second, it’s easy to believe he’s getting a glimpse of the woman behind the professional. The woman that used to be a little girl, sporting a baseball cap far to big for her. Cheering on the sport and the team she loves, because her family does. Because she was brought up saturated in it. So he chuckles, because that part…that part he can understand. Because despite the millinea that have passed. He too was once human. He too was once young. He too had once loved things because he had been brought up to do so. And in some places…still loved those things.

And there she goes…playing the card he perhaps hadn’t expected of her. The stabby little teases about soccer verses football verses baseball. And he takes another drink of his beer. Tongue fiddling absently with the tooth pick. Letting her finish before he jumped to his own defense. Something almost mischievious in the way two toned eyes catch the light fixture over head, as he leans forward a little on the elbows of now staggard arms.

            “Oi’dunna moi’nd i’lass, oi’jus’dunna much kee’uh’ wi’d i’.                     Oi’dunna much kee’uh wi’d any spor’.                  Oi’guess oi’be o’bi’ o’a me’sfi’ e’n d’at regard.                      Bu’ as fer toleratin’ i’….s’wha’ d’ese be’fer  mos’days.”

Fingers tapping against the headphones set on the table between him and Allen. Another good natured smile. Something to assure her she’d made no error. That he’d gotten the joke, and there was no ill will. Because the truth is were he born later. Born in this era of the human race, who’s to say he wouldn’t have been enthralled in it as much as the next person? Speaking of which—and he’s turning away from his company. Voice projected over the celebrations.

            “Oi’! Je’mmy! What were d’stakes o’gain?”

                   Round house for the Yankee fan’s if they won, boss.

            “Well ge’t’i’, lad. D’lo’ dunna ‘ave all noi’ght!”

And he’s turning back again, gaze tracking to the book. A small noise in the back of his throat as a hand rises. Blunt nail scratching a bit hesitantly behind his ear; before it’s moving to lift it from the table. Hold it out to her to take, as the answer comes rolling far more smoothly off his lips than anything else has thus far. At first anyway.

             “Les Essais de Michel de Montaigne.”

             “…be d’original o’dition. A’lo’ ge’s los’ in translation, I d’ink.                          S’oi’prefer readin’ d’ore’genals when oi’be able t’foi’nd ‘em..” 

She was not sure if he was showing off or not, but MJ would have been slightly embarrassed to admit it was not at all what she had been expecting from him - though just what she had been, she was not sure. Philosophy was not necessarily enjoyed universally and certainly not books on it by a dead French man from the Renaissance. MJ was impressed, and the smile on her face did not falter a moment despite being so surprised. The Essays of Michel Montaigne were not completely foreign to her, either. She had not read the works in their entirety but Medical School was more than just learning bodies - it was about learning how to care for people in the way that their profession would allow them to heal beyond the body, which had also drawn the young doctor into physical therapy studies in addition to orthopaedic surgery. Scientific method was as much a part of this as bedside manner, and as such they had studied Montaigne’s essay on the concepts on constancy, truth, and concscience  and how it could be applied to their treatment of patients as well as medical and scientific processes. It had not been particularly interesting to MJ, but it was necessary, and that the mysterious bar owner seemed so comfortable mentioning the fact he was reading such a challenging text (in it’s original language, at that) was more than a little intriguing. Allen, evidently, was not as impressed as she was as MJ could practically feel her brother roll his eyes as he took a long, few slugs of the new beer ‘Je’mmy’ brought over but she ignored it. He had never been the book sort though she had always thought him to be one of the smartest people she knew.              “ A straight oar looks bent in the water; what matters is not              that we see things but how we see them. I always wanted to              go back and read more of his stuff when I was done school              and now I just feel guilty. ” A secret, salacious voice at the back of her head that only seemed to appear once she’d had enough to drink whispered that she should ask him to teach her French some time and she very nearly giggled. Enough was enough, it seemed, as confident as she was she knew when to draw the line with beer and if the giddiness she was choking to keep down in the face of the rough looking but handsome stranger was any indication she was verging on morning hangover territory. As if on cue Allen finished the rest of his beer only to knock over the glass when he attempted to set it down on the table. His hazel eyes - more green than brown, unlike her own - were glazed and unfocused, and MJ knew it was time to get her brother home before he started making an even bigger fool of himself (and of her). Leaning forward to reach into the back pocket of her jeans for her cell she was already thinking of whatever poor taxi driver would have to put up with him on the way back to his apartment.                  “ But it looks like I should be getting my brother home before                   breaks one of your glasses - shit, Allen did you see what I did                    with my phone? ”

There’s a shifting of his jaw, to keep his eyes forward. Keep his gaze on MJ instead of shifting to her sibling when corrected. Why? Because he’d been speaking to her, not Allen. Even though he gets the sentiment; the idea behind why the correction was made. (Allen is proud of her. Luka can scent that, even over the smell of alcohol in the human’s system.) The immortal has no intention of allowing his attention to be pulled from the woman. So he holds his tongue. He holds his tongue and he waits.

But that doesn’t mean he’s waiting idly. An easy expression held on his face as he studies and he watches. The flickers of emotion and thought that pass over the young lady’s face. The way her eyes roll at her brother’s interjection. The way she caves into herself, either beneath his gaze or out of some subconscious movement of thought. The way she passes off her apparent success with words that hardly do that. Because he might not be the best at gauging age, but even he knows she’s a bit on the young side to carry the title of Doctor. 

And he’d been about to comment. To attempt to build her back up in some way, to draw her back from the shell she seemed to be slinking into—when she did it all on her own. She straightened up. Shoulders squaring themselves. And for a moment she might have even been able to fool him, that she could carry mountains upon them. As she offered her place of work, her place among the staff. And Luka in turn offers her an approving sort of frown.

           “Aye, s’no a d’ing t’sniff a’lass. Y’bro’dder be roi’ght t’be proud.”

A bit of a smile, that precursors another drink from his glass. One that says he will not be telling how he knows for dead certain that was the intent behind Allen answering for her. But also one that says he means no harm, and to drink her beer. To enjoy herself. Let that tension that’s so suddenly wound up in her frame go. That she has nothing to prove her, least of all to the two men sharing the table with her. 

And as easy as the glass is picked up, it is set down again. Luka fishing about in the pocket of his jacket a moment, before a toothpick is set between his teeth. Tucked into the corner of his mouth, like it belongs there. Something that only just so eases the way his leg has begun to bounce. He’ll need to excuse himself in a minute. Step outside for a smoke. And maybe he internally curses at that one particular ‘advance’ in human society. Even if he gets the point of it. Though a sudden rise and fall of cheer in the pub pulls his attention for the annoyance; and he’s chuckling again as his gaze sweeps over the room and back again to his company.

             “Oi’guess d’at be meanin’ ye lot won?”

              “Ye be havin’ t’fergive me bu’ oi’ne’er really                         understood t’fasination wi’d watchin’                                     lads run round in o’circle.”

There was a small moment of relief as Luka complimented her on her choice of profession - MJ was proud, but she had developed an insecurity that had grown from men losing interest in speaking with her when discovering she was a doctor. It was a high power field and she was as competitive as she was intelligent which the young doctor made no attempt to conceal, an intimidating thing apparently. Not that she considered Luka to be like the men she would occasionally speak to in bars. There was no flirting happening (so far as she could tell) and truthfully she was enjoying it. Ben, the youngest of her brothers, as well as her father had seemed to be putting a fair amount of pressure on her as of late to ‘settle down’ and MJ had no feelings of the sort. She had only just reached an important career milestone and a goal that she had set for herself, and she had no intention of shifting her focus elsewhere. Luka’s observation over the outcome of the game drew MJ’s attention back to the televisions and an unabashed grin spread across her features as Allen gave a small, victorious shout just in time to see Brett Gardner hit a two-run home run to pull the Yankees ahead of the Rangers. She knew that not everyone understood baseball, but it was rare to meet someone in New York who would admit out loud to not having any interest in the sport. For her, it was a part of her way of life as much as her faith was, in a way. She had grown up with it - her father, her father’s father, and her great grandfather had all been baseball players and Yankees fans, and MJ and her brothers were no exception. On Sundays after church, as ritualistic as any Communion, they would gather together while her mom grilled hotdogs and made pasta salad (she was Italian, after all), settle in front of the television either in the living room or on the back porch of their little brick house. Allen would be forced to adjust the antennae while the rest yelled directions until the picture was clear enough (proper cable and a new tv simply was not a priority for the household). Baseball was family, comfort, and warm memories of much simpler times.                 “ Baseball’s the best, ” There was no little amount of enthusiasm in her statement and Allen nodded as he hummed loudly in agreement.                “ But I’d say the same for other sports, like soccer. I can’t say I                      find watching a ball bounce up and down a field while the                players roll around like they’ve been shot for hours on end. To each                    their own - but if you have a bar in New York City it’s probably                a good idea to at least be able to tolerate it. It is the home of the best                       team in the world, after all. ” It was a small tease, one intended to lighten up the mood but the moment she said it MJ wondered if it wasn’t all that funny. Her sense of humour when it came to sports was limited as she took her love for the Yankees so seriously, and despite his sombre demeanour she hoped that he was at least amused by the statement.                 “ What are you reading, if you don’t mind me asking? ”