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JANUARY 5TH: HILLINGDON

It's a new year, but it's the same old routine for Arthur. The holidays barely register as a thing for him anymore, and while everything gets a bit cozier and cheesier over the holidays, he's glad for the return to infrequent parties and fewer social expectations. He doesn't have that many friends and family to connect with over the holidays anyway, and it wasn't a good time for him to go home to Chicago for a visit.

So it's no surprise that he can be found in the halls of Hillingdon house in early January as if none of it had ever happened, looking for quick and easy bounties to pick up as he organizes a few supply orders. One day he can be found speaking in a hushed but urgent down into his phone at the end of a hallway.

"Two weeks ago you said you'd have the black ironwood. No, I'm not settling for desert, that's not the same thing. I'm almost out and now I'll have to go to someone else - yes, I'd rather pay a bit more than be dead, thanks. Jesus..."

The conversation continues like this for a minute or two longer until he hangs up with a curse, a look on his face like he misses the old days when one could literally slam the phone down to end a call.

JANUARY 8TH: THE BAR

So the man isn't really one for birthdays. He's never made it a big deal, and it barely even came up in the past few years while he was too busy traveling to realize it had come and gone. Today the plan was no different. He ran his errands this morning, had a business meeting over lunch, stopped in at Hillingdon to check in and see if there were any bounties worth picking up, and finished with a lovely dinner catching up with a couple associates. There were a couple glasses of wine ingested at this dinner, but nothing too over the top, and they don't even know it's his birthday when they part ways and he heads home alone.

On this walk, however, he thinks on it a little bit and feels that something is missing. He is turning 30 after all, and it would be a shame not to mark the occasion. There's a popular bar he's stopped into before on his way home, and tonight he spontaneously decides to have a few drinks. It's barely an hour later, after striking up a pleasant conversation with the bartender and introducing himself to the patrons next to him, that Arthur's grinning widely with flushed cheeks, animated and excited at every topic of conversation that comes his way.

He is, of course, uproariously drunk.

JANUARY 11TH: THE PURGE

Arthur's been watching Daybreak. He's been watching them move throughout Croydon, pushing out the dark magic like this is their divine mission. Arthur's not a huge fan of magic that hurts anyone, but he's also not a fan of Sylvia Redbright's apparent directive to bring peace to the London underground by controlling the whole system.

This, though, this has Norrell written all over it, so Arthur's been tracking one Daybreak witch all morning, watching him come and go and hoping that he'll lead him somewhere useful. It's an odd, perhaps creepy thing to do without any promise of a paycheque at the end, but Arthur's as covert as he can be and he's obnoxiously patient. Currently he's watching this witch speak with a defensive shop owner, from across the street in a small deli, passively hoping that it'll turn into a real fight since he's so unbelievably bored.

Threaded | Flat

It was always funny, the way Nancy's life was so filled with coincidences. Today was one of them: she'd been out working, and had ducked into a pub to try to pick up another customer before the end of the night, and it just so happened to be the very pub where one Arthur No Lastname was celebrating his birthday. She had only the vaguest idea of his birthday, having once taken a look at his license when she'd gotten the opportunity to look at his wallet (she'd placed it back, without taking anything), but once she saw him in the crowd, drunk as all hell, well. It didn't matter what it was. He looked like he was having fun, and screw it, she could use some fun what with everything that's happening.

She ordered them each a rather large glass of whiskey, and in no time at all is making her way through the crowd to the birthday boy.

"Hullo, you!" She said, sashaying over to Arthur and garnering a few looks from other patrons. She held him the glass. "Bought you a drink." He had no choice but to drink it, because otherwise she'd have it for both of them, and she'd already had enough to drink tonight as it was. "What's got you in such high spirits?" She didn't bother to ask if she could join him and his new friends.

Call it a flaring of a latent territorial streak thanks to recent tensions, or maybe stretch it as far as friendship, the point is Eames has a gift for Arthur on this, the day of his birth.

It's the wee hours of the night, when most pubs are closed, when he politely knocks on Arthur's door instead of just letting himself in. (Call it a birthday present.) And he waits patiently.

Arthur doesn't strike him as the celebratory type, but he'll leave if there's no answer within a few minutes. No way is he waiting around for hours just to wish Arthur a happy birthday.

It's no surprise that Faolan can be found in the halls of Hillingdon house in early January himself. For all that he did enjoy himself over the holidays, once they're over it's back to work, both at Hillingdon and with the Night Council. And work it is, especially with these new laws enacted. He's hoping to get as much as he can settled here today -- who knows how quickly this is going to pick up, in the end. Norrell's literal witch hunt.

He's just making his way back from the kitchen towards where he's set himself up with his most recent bout of paperwork when he happens upon Arthur. And Arthur's phone conversation. Which he can't help but overhear part of, as he turns into the hall and happens to be heading right toward him. He tries to act casual, tries to just keep going, but as the conversation ends with a curse, he pauses with one hand cradling his mug of coffee, the other clutching the door handle before him, before he makes a decision that he should probably say something.

"...you alright?" he asks, as casually as he can, glancing up at the other man warily.

the PUB not BAR gosh

happy birthday nerd

HILLINGDON