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

[fixedroll.livejournal.com]

Hey, Arthur is secure enough in his apparent love affair with alcohol to drink from a cocktail glass, especially now that he's already had a few. The staring's a little weird, but he assumes it was just for effect. So far, to him it seems like everything this guy does is designed specifically to make people wonder (and/or want to punch him in the face a little, depending).

Still, he does look at Alan without actually moving his head. It's a fantastic side-eye moment that everyone else should be sad to have missed.

"Somehow I didn't expect to see you here."

[alan_shore]

To be fair, had Arthur swiped the scotch, Alan would have sipped the cocktail without complaint (with, in fact, some appreciation for the maneuver--he can take it as well as dish it out).

"No?" he asks with polite interest, raising his eyebrows. "I'm sorry to disappoint."

[fixedroll.livejournal.com]

If he knew Alan very well at all he may have done just that, just to make some kind of point, even though he actually prefers cocktails to whisky.

"Actually, it's more of a surprise. To be frank I didn't expect you to make it out of that house in one piece, either." Technically, this is a compliment. Sort of.

[alan_shore]

Alan smiles at that--not an elaborate production, just a twitch of the lips. "While the prevailing opinion," he says, taking a parsimonious swallow of scotch, "seems to be that those of us selected were the chosen few, I wasn't entirely certain--right up to the end--that we weren't the discards."

Truth be told, he'd been more at ease with that notion than the idea that a god would hand-pick him for anything.

[fixedroll.livejournal.com]

Heh. Arthur's confident enough in his own abilities that such a comment doesn't raise his hackles even slightly—and besides that, he's feeling easygoing tonight. Neighbourly, even. (The drinks almost certainly have a lot to do with it.)

"I'd be surprised if our names weren't just drawn out of a hat at random. Wasn't exactly the team I'd have put together, given the choice... but we didn't make out too badly, the higher-ups got what they wanted, so..." Shrug. He'd toss back his drink here, like liquid punctuation, but with a Sidecar that would be wasteful and look kind of silly. So he doesn't.