multiversallogs | I made wine from the lilac tree, put my heart in its recipe

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I made wine from the lilac tree, put my heart in its recipe

Who: Jules and you
What: Booze! Feelings! Drowning sorrows is classy.
Where: A bar! You can pick what kind of bar if there's something in particular that'd be more ic for your dudes and ladies; Jules is familiarising herself with the city via the wonders of alcohol.
When: Givdi, Veerdi and Sukkadi (Thursday-Saturday) afternoons right through to the little hours. Just let me know~*~*~
Notes: :9 let us make cr and deliciousness! We can just go from any point of their drinking together, too - just do whatever tickles your fancy, really.
Warnings: Feelings, dark thoughts, etc. Possibly language. Possibly some violence, if a bar fight were to break out? Anything crops up, I'll edit it in.

It's been a long week. A long month, two months, however many hours and days and other little bunches of times have all clocked up to however long things have been utterly miserable for. And ever since she got here, Jules has been going on with her masks and her smiles, until this week things started to teeter and fall apart like a rusted-out engine.

She could work with car problems, though. This she didn't know how to work with, and she stares at the bottom of her glass as she swirls the deep red wine around it, accusing, as if it's meant to be telling her something and very thoroughly letting her down.

"I need another drink."

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Sitting at the bar with the remains of a pint, Mitchell is similarly trying to drown his sorrows. Or at least sulk over them vaguely while he wonders whether or not he should ignore another girl making eyes at him from a little way away (how easy would it be to chat her up, go back to her place and-- no, stop it).

When he hears someone nearby him start to speak, he looks over and regards Jules with a mild look. It's good to hear a familiar accent. "Rough week?" He sounds pleasantly Irish and like he's been put through the ringer himself.

"Rough week," she concurs, tipping back the last of her wine. "Rough while, really."

Out of habit, some part of her wants to put a positive spin on it, make it pretty and shiny and like everything is fine. Thankfully (some part of her feels that thankfully is important) the alcohol in her system and the general accumulation of absolute and utter crap that currently defines her life makes her rather eager to disregard that little spark of optimism. Optimism, positivity, all good things felt a bit like stupidity, just at the present moment.

So, she turns to the stranger, gives him a bit of a nod. "You too?" Even as she's speaking, she's gesturing for the barman. "Do you need another?" A moment. "Drink, not rough week."

Mitchell could sympathise, if he knew. Which is why he retorts with, "Yeah, just a bit. I'm new in town."

He's used to keeping up a guard whilst discussing life with (what he assumes to be) humans. When the barman comes over, he looks up, startled at the question. Drink, alcohol. Yes. "Oh. Yeah, another of the same, thanks."

"I'm Mitchell, by the way," he says on returning his attention to Jules.

That wins him just the slightest of smiles. "You, too? It seems like there's a few of us floating around." With a final inspection of her glass to make sure there's nothing left, Jules allows herself a little more of a smile. "I'm not sure what point we really stop being new, to be honest."

Jules considers her glass, then shrugs and asks for a cocktail - "something stupidly colourful and full of fruit" - and the bartender gives her a brief look that certainly seems to ask are you serious? before shrugging and continuing on his way.

"Jules," she replies easily, swivelling her chair to face him a little better. "Now, you sound Irish, but are you from Ireland or somewhere with a similar accent from a world nothing at all like Earth?"

She was getting familiar with this game, oh yes. "Don't feel obligated to specify what Earth, because the variations appear to be countless."

He chuckles at the specifications. They're necessary, but it doesn't make them sound any less ridiculous. But then Baedal is a ridiculous place. "I come from Earth, twenty-first century. Planes, cars, The Simpsons and Jammy Dodgers. The full works."

"And I do come from Ireland," he says, shifting a little bit in his chair. "Although I've lived in Bristol for a large part of my life. How about you?"

"Earth, a while after yours, I think, or a world similar sounding - twenty second century, but sometimes there's debate here and there about what year it really is." A breath, mulling over the specifications. "There used to be planes, there are still are but hardly a person really uses them anymore. Cars, yes, The Simpsons... I've never heard of, Jammy Dodgers I have no idea, but they sound like criminals." This is easier, as well, banter. Jules is taking the easy option with everything at the moment. Almost nonchalant, she shrugs. "Things went a bit pear-shaped, let's say." And yet she's so very casual about it - it's the only kind of world she's known, so there's no reason not to be, but generally her sentimental side and sensitivity make her tiptoe just a bit more cautiously.

"England. Oxford, for a long time, but... after that I moved around. Driving around Europe a fair bit, actually."

Twenty-second century. Mitchell is almost tempted to wonder if they've ditched the planes in favour of hover-somethings, until Jules clarifies on the state of her world. As a result, he explains, "The Simpsons is a cartoon series. It's run for like...twenty years from where I'm from. Sorry, I was trying to think of something to do with pop culture."

He's a vampire, their idea of keeping up with the times is skewed at best. "And Jammy Dodgers are a biscuit. Although a good name for a criminal gang. Kind of retro."

A little smile. "Don't apologise. I'm sure it would have made perfect sense to someone from one of the different Earths." She chuckles, and then her absurd cocktail with different fruit spears sticking out and an umbrella perched on the top arrives, a terrifyingly bright looking creation. "Ah. Perfect."

After only a moment of consideration, she plucks the umbrella from the drink and starts spin it between her fingers.

"It's definitely a catchy name. If I'm ever reduced to a life of crime I'll make sure to keep it in mind."

"You'd be surprised how often the opportunity comes up in life." It's said jokingly because that, at least, is one thing Mitchell hasn't done in his life. ...yet.

Hs own pint is delivered shortly after, and he finishes the remains of the old one in front of him before pushing the glass back in favour of the new. He eyes Jules' concoction with something between a laugh and a smile. "I'll hand it to you, that is a drink with style."

"Really? I'll make sure to keep an eye on my purse, then." She grins a bit, giving Mitchell a look of exaggerated suspicion. "Try not to look so shifty."

Given the juxtaposition of their drinks side by side, Jules can't help but laugh at that before just shrugging casually. "Not everyone can drink this and pull it off, certainly." Grabbing one of the pineapple spears and idly twirling it between her fingers, Jules carries on entirely too serious, "in fact, they can be rather dangerous. Poking your eyes on a vindictive piece of fruit is a nasty business."

Up at the bar sits Don, ashtray at his elbow, glass in his hand. He sips slowly and deeply, eyes now and again falling shut. Here is a man who knows exactly what to expect from his drink.

At first the words seem to breeze by him; he reaches to spin the ashtray with an idle twitch of his fingers. Then he glances up and over at her. "You might be right about that," he concedes after a moment's silent consideration, his smile confined to one corner of his mouth.

He signals the bartender--it's a matter of the tilt of his head, an arched brow, an unobtrusive gesture. Quietly he informs the man that her next drink's on him.

Quietly, yes, but not too quiet for a hybrid's hearing. She glances over her shoulder towards the alcohol-donor, quirks an eyebrow, and manages to offer something of a smile before briefly turning her attention back to the bartender to order her drink.

And, with that done, she makes the effort to relocate herself a little close to Don, dragging a cigarette out of a battered looking packet. "Thank you. Do you mind if I share your ashtray?"

It's been a long day, but it never hurts to talk to people. Right?

"You're welcome." With sudden nimbleness Don scoops up the ashtray, sets it midway between them. "I don't mind if you don't," he says. His voice is low without being hushed, his words swaying to a rhythm removed from the jazz drifting through the bar.

He plants his cigarette back in his mouth. "Light?" By the time he's asked the question he has a Zippo in hand.

"That would be brilliant, actually." See, this was already going brilliantly. Jules leans over, cigarette held between her lips, in the hopes that Don will light her cigarette for her. She is feeling many things today, and one of them is lazy.

"I don't think we've met. I'm a slightly new arrival." A little smirk of a smile, hand idly running through her hair. "Jules Grumley. And your very generous self is--?" Her tone rises with the question, eyebrow arched curiously. In her experience, generosity usually comes at the hands of those interested in seduction, with the genuinely generous a slightly hard commodity to come by, in her world, regardless of whether they know what she is, or not. Considering this place isn't that, however, and she has encountered some people who seem genuinely nice, she's willing to assume that this guy probably isn't after anything specific, and he's just generous.

It's done in one seamless motion--flame drawn from the lighter and touched to the end of her cigarette--that absorbs him completely. Then with a metallic snap the lighter closes and Don settles back, raising his eyes to meet hers. "I'm Don Draper."

He drags on his cigarette, expels smoke in a slow stream. "Slightly less new." There's an almost companionable ruefulness to his tone. "Looks like you're finding your way around okay."

No matter how grim she might be feeling, the smile she flashes is bright - genuine. "Thank you very much, Don Draper." So far as first impressions go, he's certainly gaining points fast.

"I've made an excellent study of some of the city's establishments. This one is rather nicer than a few of the others I managed to wander into." Leaning back, she shakes her head a little, fingers running through her hair as she thinks. "Though really, I'm a bit inclined to think that we'll always feel a bit new, here. It's one thing to move to another city or country, but an entire different world?" No, she's not sure she can get used to that, but her tone is relaxed enough. "At least we're making the most of it."

By drinking. And smoking. Oh, dear.

“Don,” he says, quietly insistent, smiling as she repeats his name with scrupulous formality. He reaches for his glass, his grip relaxed. Careless. His orange-tinged drink sways to one side, close to slopping over the lip. He takes a long swallow; a momentary stillness overcomes him.

“Really.” He looks at her, a measured glance. Bemusement lurks at the edges of his expression, in the slight arch of his brows. He taps ash into the tray. “Sure about that?”

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I made wine from the lilac tree, put my heart in its recipe

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/crawls out of bed

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