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

[rhinemaid]

"Remy!" It's that same slightly too loud voice, but- hey, in a bar full of people, loud is better for everyone else trying to hear her. She collides with him smelling of alcohol, cigarette smoke and perfume, but it's not a stumble and she proves as much when she throws her arms around him before releasing him just as quickly. "You aren't dead, I'm glad."

[bangyoudead.livejournal.com]

"Ilde!" (His accent still doesn't quite get her name right, he says the e funny- ) Remy snags her around the middle with one arm as she torpedos into him, practically a dancer's spin, easily detangling when she does. "Me too, fancy that, no? You look like you made it out too, fille."

[rhinemaid]

"The bruises are healing," she says, lightly, touching her throat where they're hidden; she's not going to bring up the nightmares in a hurry, doing her best at the moment to manage them with that most effective method of repress, repress, repress. "We got what we went for, anyway. Did you?"

[bangyoudead.livejournal.com]

It's not like he's a great therapist, anyway. (And thank hell he's not out to try.)

"They do that, it's the nice side of bruises," he tells her, in what surely amounts to sage advice from a not-really-drunk Cajun lunatic. "Got the job done, so good enough, no?"

[rhinemaid]

"Good enough," she agrees, only not rocking forward on her toes because it's a bit more precarious a proposition when combined with the drinking and those shoes. "What were you going for?"

[bangyoudead.livejournal.com]

Ladies and their shoes. (He'll never understand; in his professional male opinion, everyone's ass looks just as hot in flats.)

"A lantern." His flat tone says he thinks it should have been less of a pain in the ass, really.

[rhinemaid]

Look at how small she is and look at all the tall damned people she spends her time with, Remy, it's not that complicated. (Well, all right, it's not just that...)

"With Arthur," she realizes, holding her hand up for a series of gestures apparently intended to convey 'small', 'square head', 'super serious, I'm not a hypocrite for pointing that out'. "I startled him. He likes my shoes." ...two separate thoughts.

[bangyoudead.livejournal.com]

"He is a tiny, angry man," Remy says, agreeing with her hand gestures. "Good to hear he's got a pulse somewhere."

[rhinemaid]

"He wasn't expecting my face." ...her real face, she means, sans-glamour, she didn't loom distressingly over Arthur. However, she isn't all out of the stickers she applied earlier to Réjean and she takes this opportunity to solemnly offer one to Remy.

Let her stick a unicorn to your shirt, sir.

[bangyoudead.livejournal.com]

"Your face is beautiful, fille, he should feel honored." He's still smiling, but he's dead serious about that, of all things. And then he sees what she's got and laughed, and lets her have her way with him.