It's like paradise, spread out with a butter knife :: [OPEN]

[bonhomme7h.livejournal.com]

Who: EVERYONE
What: Réjean has decided that more people ought to celebrate and help raise a bit of dosh for one of his favourite bars. See: flyer.
Where: The Apache.
When: Misdi night and into the wee hours of the morning.
Warnings: Discussion of Pickman's manky feet.

The Apache is much the same as it always is: dimly lit, with the jukebox playing in the background, and the bartender serving whatever's on tap. Tonight, the bar is packed with people from all across the city, different cantons and cohorts, all out to celebrate surviving the fungal plague. Patrons are encouraged to buy tickets for a door prize with the proceeds going to repair the damage tunnelling ants made to the cellar.

Comments

[alan_shore]

Alan can be found admiring--if that's the word (it isn't)--decor that looks as if it's been hand-picked by Ted Nugent and nursing an unexpected pang of homesickness to go with his scotch. This, he suspects, would be Denny Crane's bar of choice were he to find himself inexplicably transported to a city presided over by gods and suffering from all manner of pest control problems.

He has a ticket for the door prize in his pocket and some very impressive bruising under his impressively expensive suit. He will not be dancing this evening.

[aldabeyoun.livejournal.com]

"Hey you, how's it going?" Njoki isn't one to dance either, but she will gladly buy Alan a drink to thank him for his bravery in the face of magical idiots.

[alan_shore]

While Alan wouldn't describe himself as a new--in light of recent events, "none too gently used" might be more fitting--arrival to Baedal, familiar voices are still something of a rarity. "Ki," he says, turning away from knives and various grisly trophies and looking perfectly delighted. "Much better, thank you. Although it does still hurt to laugh, so I'm afraid I'll have to implore you to avoid being funny for the duration of the evening. And how've you been?"

[aldabeyoun.livejournal.com]

"Good enough and I'll do my best to be as dour as possible," she says with mock solemnity and a gentle, non-contact almost-shoulder-bump. Shoving is how Njoki shows affection and she's decided that Alan is a pretty good guy for dealing with the weirdness of the Candlelighters without having a giant fit. "I could talk about tax rates, if that would help?"

[alan_shore]

For a perilous instant, eyebrows raised as if to say Could you really?, Alan appears poised to take her up on that offer. Another moment, though, and the danger subsides.

"I don't know that discussion of tax rates ever helped with anything," he demurs. "Perhaps if we could find some happy medium between uproarious laughter and the exquisite torment of taxation..."

[aldabeyoun.livejournal.com]

"I thought it a fair counterpoint. If laughing could kill you, then the only other certainty would be taxes, but for you, Shore, I will gladly compromise and talk about the weather, local sporting teams, or whatever makes you smile but not laugh." That's probably the longest speech anyone in Baedal has heard her make. It's possible that Njoki is talkative, but she chooses to stay quiet.

[gotbottle]

"Alan. Hello."

She won't lie, she'd hoped to see the rest of her team here tonight, if only to give each one a good eyeballing and make sure they were recovering nicely, still in one piece, and so on. And then, once the welfare check was over--to join them in a celebratory drink.

She gestures at the empty seat near him, smiling. "May I?"

[alan_shore]

Alan smiles in return. He's not drunk per se, but the scotch has begun to take effect, soothing certain aches, prodding him, every so often, into startling displays of sincerity. "I'd be honored. As would the chair, I've no doubt."

[gotbottle]

Rachel smiles, her gaze dropping for a moment. "Thank you. That's kind of you."

She settles into the chair, curling her hands around her drink on the table. "How've you been, since our quest?" She looks over at him, faintly appraising, not an open checking-for-wounds or anything. "Well, I hope?"

[alan_shore]

Well. The look may be mild, but those two questions are about as subtle as whipping out a tongue depressor and a penlight.

"I'm sitting upright," he offers, a trace of reproach in his smile. It'll be--at the very least--another glass or two before he's able to endure being clucked over by a woman half his age without suffering a twinge of embarrassment. "And how's our fair city been treating you?"

[gotbottle]

She may not know how not to fuss, but she does know how not to press something that bothers someone. "Fair enough," she replies with a smile, dropping the matter.

"And the city's been treating me all right, I guess. Things are back to what passes for normal around here. All in all I can't complain."

[cailisairgid]

For all that Sol dresses well these days - tailored, well-cut clothes in good fabrics - it somehow still manages to have the air of sartorial laziness. (Various ex-girlfriends helped hone his look over the years and he leaves it at that, sticking with what works because otherwise he's indifferent to the whole thing. Wouldn't it be nice if he could be a nudist? As far as he's concerned, yes.)

On the other hand, without jacket, shirt-sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone, the effect of his overall look with the tattoo, earring and assorted visible and semi-visible scarring- well, it's more 'European gangster' than 'highly paid lawyer'. Can't be helped.

"One of our recent mission heroes?" If asked, he will claim he's just that attentive to ginger body language, but he can actually tell the bruising is there with senses Joe Average does not have.

[alan_shore]

Alan chuckles, though it creates scarcely a ripple in the noise of the crowd, then winces--the merest twitch at the corner of his mouth--and raises his glass to his lips for a healthy swallow. "Not so loud," he cautions, taking in the man's appearance but withholding judgment for the moment--he'd learned that lesson quickly. "You'll sully what little reputation I have."

[cailisairgid]

Sol makes a quick lips-zipped gesture, amused. "Your secret's safe with me. Solomon Koenig- unwanted by Ceith," in other words, not on any of the missions, "but I can console myself with the fact Sir Hellsing likes me." Because he works for her. (And reminds her worryingly of her father - he's like the lost Hellsing, it's bizarre.)

[alan_shore]

"Alan Shore." He shifts the scotch to his left hand and extends the right for shaking. If his curiosity hadn't been piqued before, it is now. "And I hope for your sake Sir Hellsing's affections are expressed more gently than Ceith's."

[cailisairgid]

Sol's grip is firm and friendly - no pissing match here - and his hands don't really say 'desk job' to anyone. "Not much," he says, candidly. "Paramilitary doesn't really do 'gently'."