[open] if you pinch me i swear to god...

[reticence]

A. GRUMPY IRISH LUNCHTIME
Being an Irish ex-patriot for reasons Faolan really tries not to get into in everyday conversation if he can help it, Faolan puts a lot of effort in being nothing more than the average Londoner. And for the most part he can just blend in and hardly anyone bats an eye when he opens his mouth and continues to sound like he is who he is despite having lived in the city for over ten years now (that is to say, a boy who grew up on a farm in the suburbs of Belfast).

But today, he can't get away from it. It's assaulting him on the streets, in the form of the drunken revelry of the pub-crawlers, who started just before noon and seem to still be going strong. In the amount of green and shamrocks and "Kiss Me I'm Irish" that had been thrust in his face on the way in to work that morning. Even the plate of soda bread that someone had brought in and placed in the communal kitchenette area at the offices gives him pause. (And no, he doesn't take a piece. He learned his lesson with free food after the fiasco with the tea.) The first person to comment to him on the holiday in the building itself nearly gets their head ripped off, never mind the fact that he's drinking coffee out of the mug Sylvia had gifted him a few months ago.

By the time that lunch rolls around, he's worked himself into such a mood, he knows he needs to step out and take a break. And so he does, grabbing his leather jacket, stuffing his hands in his pockets, and hitting the streets to hopefully walk it off. It's about the time that he's passed the same storefront for the third time that he realizes he should probably get himself something to eat if he doesn't want to return to the Council building in an even worse mood than he'd left it.

In retrospect, he probably should have given a bit more warning before he'd stopped dead on the sidewalk as he'd done. A lesson he learns the hard way as he finds himself nearly bowled over by the person traveling behind him...


B. GRUMPY IRISH PUB CRAWL
At some point during the day, Faolan gives up not only on holding back his temper, but he gives up on trying to avoid the holiday as well. And so he follows in the footsteps of many an Irishman before him, and finds himself seated at a bar, a drink in his hand, and absolutely no plans for the rest of the night save several more drinks and a drunken stagger back home, or back to Hillingdon House, or god knows where else the night may bring him, he really hasn't thought ahead that far.

What he has thought about is that he'd like to get himself drunk enough so that everything should start to fade around the edges, so that he can forget about any romantic struggles he may or may not be having, and so that he can forget about being Faolan O'Neill, Head of Hillingdon House, or Faolan O'Neill, Guardian of the Night Council. He figures he's owed at least that much by this point.

There just so happens to be an open seat beside him, if anyone cares to join. Though he's hardly giving off that welcoming of an aura, truth be told. Just because he's given in to Saint Patrick's Day doesn't mean that he has to like it.


C. HERE COMES TROUBLE
What better way to end such a day than with the feeling that one is being followed. And with as much alcohol as Faolan had consumed trying to forget his troubles, he's rather slow on the uptake. Unsure as to whether he's actually really catching on to something or whether his senses of perception are just skewed thanks to the drink and thus a sense of paranoia settling in. He attempts to make his way down the street in as calm and collected a fashion as he otherwise might do, which is to say that he's got his hands stuffed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the cool of the night.

But Faolan doesn't exactly make an imposing picture. Standing 5'6" tall at full height on a good day, he's built lean and wiry, for speed and dexterity. Not necessarily for taking a man down in a fight. And certainly not another creature besides that.

He could chance a glance over his shoulder, but he's pretty sure that if he spots anything he's entirely not equipped to handle it at the moment. He digs through his pocket in the vague hope that he might find something of use -- a knife, his gun -- but he's left it all back at his flat for the evening. The only thing his fingers clasp around is his mobile, which he holds onto like a drowning man to a life raft, as it very well might be the only thing to save him, if this all goes pear-shaped.

He thinks about splitting into a run for a second, but he's hardly sure he can walk in a straight line anymore, let alone sprint. So he settles for the next best (or possibly worst) idea.

"I know you're there."


D. CHOOSE YOUR OWN (GRUMPY & IRISH) ADVENTURE
Have another idea? Feel free to go for it and/or plot it out with me via PM/PP at lycanthropy101! c:

Comments

C

[tearmeanewone]

Hrk. Whoops.

It's dark outside, and while Elizabeth hadn't been certain she'd seen this person around the Night Council the few times she's been there it was worth giving it the benefit of the doubt. After all, he'd come out of the bar making Celtic knots with his walking, maybe he needed some help home.

Though a college-aged girl asking a very drunk man if she could escort him home had more connotations to it than Elizabeth really wanted to wade past, so she'd settled on just following him to make sure he didn't bust his face on the pavement. But now it looks like he's holding something in his pocket-- maybe a knife or other weapon-- and he clearly feels threatened. All bad things.

"Sorry! Sorry, I was just trying to make sure you got where you're going safely...!"

[reticence]

It's not a voice that Faolan recognizes, and whoever she is, she could be trouble. Or he could just be paranoid. Which he'd fully admit that he is, under normal circumstances.

Faolan whips around to face her stumbles slightly at the suddenness of the movement. He really shouldn't be doing things like that, not if he wants to stay on his feet. He struggles to catch himself on the side of a building and only barely succeeds. He should have probably called a cab. He should have probably at least called a friend to walk him home. But he's bothered Lancelot enough, and short of that...

"You were following me," he half accuses, half questions of her.

[tearmeanewone]

"...yes, that's what I just said."

Well, implied. But apparently implying things to this man isn't going to get her very far with how blitzed he is. He almost ate street whipping around like that.

"To make sure you were safe? Do you need a taxi home?"

[reticence]

It boggles Faolan's mind that someone should care enough to go so far for an absolute stranger such as that. Not without an ulterior motive. Not that he hasn't been treated kindly without an ulterior motive in the past before, but the fact remains that he himself would hardly ever track down a drunk's movements on the streets to make sure that they got home safely. Does she want something from him? Does she know who he is? Did Lancelot set her up for this?

"I'm fine," Faolan lies, waving her off. He never has been a very easy man to deal with even at the best of times.

[tearmeanewone]

Elizabeth is pretty good at telling when people are lying to her, but in this case she doesn't need to question it in the moment-- she knows he's not 'fine' from the way he's weaving about.

"Oh, well, good to hear," she smiles brightly and jogs a little to catch up. "Then do you mind walking with me? I didn't realize how many drunk people would be out..."

Now the question is whether or not his alcohol intake has made him so irritable that he'll wave off a young woman asking for help.

[reticence]

Faolan may be drunk but he's clever, and he can see something of what she's trying to do here. There are a lot of drunk people about causing trouble, though. And she is on her own...

Perhaps the real question is whether Faolan is so stubborn as to keep insisting that he's fine and risk the pair of them getting mugged, or suffer his pride and admit that he might not be much good in a fight right now at all. It's lucky for her that Faolan may be stubborn, but he's not stupid.

"Unless you want me to throw up on them, I'm not sure how much help I'll be," he grumbles softly, although it's admitting defeat if ever there was defeat to admit.

D+A?

[anniesgonemad]

Before Faolan can get out of Hillingdon for lunch, there's Annie. Annie from Innishaan, one of the Aran Islands. If her red hair and sea green-eyes didn't give her away....

Honestly, Annie isn't celebrating by getting drunk. She doesn't like being drunk, most days. But she celebrates in other ways- her green dress, the little bit of irish creme in her coffee (just a little!), and by spending most of the days leading up to the celebration by cooking all manner of traditional fair and giving it to everyone they could. Which meant that Annie had comeby with a large amount of soda bread, corned beef, bundt cakes, whatever, on her way over to Finnick's. It didn't seem right to ignore Hillingdon.

Because some people may not know that she'd brought food over, Annie made it her business to inform people, however casually. It was better than seeing food go to waste, after all. Which meant she had to talk with Faolan.

She knocked on his office door, before poking her head in. "Faolan? Sorry to bother you- just wanted to let you know that, ah, I made a bunch of food for everyone to eat. It's on the counter, in the fridge, take as much as you like...?" Because of course it was nearly a question. Of course.

[reticence]

He glances up from the paperwork he's been glaring at for the past half-hour as he struggles with reports and budgets and honestly nothing that would help improve his mood, and is honestly grateful for the interruption. Though it takes him a moment to process just what exactly she's said.

"Don't worry about bothering me. The door's open for a reason. A...bunch of food, you said?" he asks. Because it's a sensible question. Food could mean anything really. And now that he's thinking about it, he probably should stop for lunch. Maybe he'll go down to take a peek.

[anniesgonemad]

"Tons," she tells him cheerily. "My grandmother and I spent most the week cooking. Brought some to some of her friends, people I know, and I brought some here, too. There's soda bread, some corned beef in the fridge, a bundt cake..." it's easy to list them off.

"Just letting everyone know. You don't have to eat any, if you don't want to. I just, ah, don't want it to go to waste. And if you're anything like me, ah, you get so involved in work that you just, er, forget to eat." She's done a lot of it.

"I could bring you up a plate, if you wanted. A little of everything."

[reticence]

Faolan quirks something of a smile at that. "You see right through me," he says. Certainly, he's been shut in the office all day and hasn't thought to break for food until she'd knocked on his door just now.

He's surprised at the offer, and he honestly has to think about it for a moment. Is it taking advantage of her if he accepts? She did offer, after all. And he is hungry and doesn't particularly feel like being all that social right now. Certainly not as social as he might have to be if there's food to be had.

"I, ehm. Yeah. Please. If it isn't too much trouble." His smile twists up again slightly. "You're welcome to bring something up for yourself as well if you like. If you don't have to be getting away, that is." He'd understand of course, if she had plans. It is a holiday, after all. Not everyone is as lacking in family and friends as he is himself.

[anniesgonemad]

Annie has to laugh, ducking her head again. "I just, uh, know how it is."

It isn't taking advantage of her, and Annie readily agrees. "Of course. No- no real plans. I'm not one for drinking." Therefore, she was the worst Irishwoman ever. She'd have a glass of wine or two, but getting drunk for the sake of it was never a good option for a girl like her. She worked hard to stay in control of herself, and losing that control voluntarily wasn't a welcome sounding experience.

Also, she's lacking in friends and family.

"I'll be right back."

And true to her word, Annie returns no more than five minutes later with two plates laden with food, one balanced on each arm.

"And here we go. Got as much as I could. You look like the sort that can afford to eat more."

B, because I can.

[outstandingbalance]

Natasha slips into the bar late in the evening. On St. Patrick's day, it's mostly full. She gets a little attention—drunks asking if she's Irish, eyeing her hair—but not too much. If she'd been thinking about the day more, she probably would have stayed in tonight, avoided the crowd and the temptation that came with it. But she hadn't been thinking about it, had perhaps been avoiding thinking about it, so here she is.

When she spots an empty seat next to someone quiet, she doesn't hesitate to take it. She slides into the space smoothly, glancing at her neighbor briefly before she signals the bartender for an Irish whiskey.

"Might as well be the spirit," she says, half to him and half to herself. Her accent is light, but not unnoticeable, and not Irish that's for sure.

[reticence]

Faolan glances aside at her, and for a moment he wonders whether she is addressing him or not. There doesn't seem to be anyone else other than herself that she could be talking to though, so after a moment he raises his own drink in something of a salute.

"So long as you don't order the green beer," he comments, his own accent gently lilting and unmistakably Irish. "Not only isn't it an authentic choice, but it'll dye your teeth."

[outstandingbalance]

She laughs at that, just barely audible, a tiny bit more than a snort. "Very in the spirit," she murmurs, less to him than to herself. But why not. She was the one who decided to come out.

"I never drink anything green. Especially not beer." She smiles a little as she says it, giving him a sideways look. She should probably leave it there. She didn't come out because she wanted company. She came out because the thirst was burning her throat in a way that animal blood wasn't soothing and she convinced herself going out would. Maybe that was why she didn't let it go.

In a way hunger was an easier reason to accept than the fact she might just want to be around other people.

"Would regular beer be better?"

[reticence]

Faolan makes a sound as if to suggest 'yes and no' as he swirls his lager in his glass and shrugs slightly. "Depends on what you'd order, I suppose," he answers, honestly. "Though to your credit, the whiskey is the more authentic choice." He glances aside at her before quirking something of a smile himself.

"Don't let me stop you, of course. Order what you like. Who am I to say anything one way or another, in the end?" He quirks something of a smile in return. "Just because I'm an Irishman doesn't mean I know any better than anyone else how to spend the holiday."

[outstandingbalance]

Natasha's smile comes a little closer to her eyes when he responds. "No, I don't suppose so. That's unfair of me expecting you would."

She says that, but somehow it doesn't sound apologetic. A little rueful, maybe, but more amused than regretful. Maybe just a little playful.

"In that case, I'll stick with the whiskey. At least for a while. Feels like that kind of night anyway."

B

[whatmatters]

"How many do you need to forget who you are?"

Ringer slid into the seat beside Faolan. She caught sight of him outside and followed him in here, watching for a minute before finally coming to speak to him. She wasn't normally the type to be found in bars, especially when there were crowds about, but she was cared about the man more than she liked to admit even now and wanted to ensure he wouldn't pass out in some car park somewhere.

She shook her head when the bartender asked what she wanted, dismissing him entirely, and returned her gaze to Faolan. The scruff, the way he held his drink. It reminded her of her father in a very unpleasant parallel and she had to force it from her mind to avoid flinching away from him.

[reticence]

Faolan glances up at her, trying to understand what she's doing there and whether she's there as a friend or to be cross with him for something else she feels he's done wrong. It's certainly been more of the latter as of late, or so he feels anyway. He shrugs slightly, hunching further over his drink and into the bar in turn as he does and tries not to feel a bit pathetic about the image he's sure he's making in this moment. Drinking away his sorrows and all.

"More than I've had so far," he tones in reply, as neutrally as he can, before tossing back another swig of the whiskey he's got. He's definitely going to be needing a refill soon if he wants to keep this up though.

[whatmatters]

Ringer nods, slowly, trying so very hard to keep the judgment from her expression. She succeeds for the most part, looking surprised if anything. Her friend - and she does begrudgingly admit to herself that's what he is after their last talk - is clearly not doing well and she has no idea how to help. If there's one thing she learned, it's that people who seek to lose themselves in drink can't be found by anyone else.

"Come over tonight," she replies, half surprising herself. She doesn't mean it like that, of course. But she does worry about him. As if to cover for her concern, she adds a hasty, "If you need company or have nowhere else to be."

[reticence]

Faolan can't help his surprise at that himself. Of all the things he had been expecting to hear from her, it certainly hadn't been an invitation. Not that it wasn't welcome, of course. And not that he's going to turn her down by any means.

"Nowhere in particular, no," he admits. "Probably shouldn't stagger back to Hillingdon like this, the idea of stumbling back to my own place is just depressing, and..." He's paid Lancelot enough surprise visits as it is, without appearing on his doorstep drunk and somewhat melancholy. This holiday always reminded him of his home, and of his past, and of what might have been. He shouldn't be imposing that on anyone who didn't ask for any of it.

"I'm not sure how much company I'll be, whether I want it or not," he admits honestly, swirling his drink slowly in his glass.

[whatmatters]

"You're worried I'll want to talk too much?" She asks dryly. Faolan knows her better than to think Ringer wants more than simply his presence, the company of proximity rather than conversation or bonding. Or he should know better, at least. Even if she understands what he means, that his mood continues to plummet with the more alcohol he consumes and oblivion can't come fast enough.

Ringer sets a hand on his on his drink, glancing at the liquid before looking up to him again. "If you're going to keep drinking, use the shower and sleep it off before you talk to me at all. I don't like drunks."

A

[growsowngoats]

The problem is mostly that Siohban was jogging to catch up with him, so she's moving a little too fast to break successfully when he decides to suddenly stop. He's not a particularly large man, but she is an even smaller woman so the impact leads to her falling on her ass on the sidewalk.

It's nothing new, she's hardly the avatar of grace even on a good day so she has gotten pretty good at landing without hurting herself too badly. She might get a bit of a bruised butt for this one though.

"Hello Faolan."

[reticence]

Faolan may be little and wiry but he is solid and fit, and even caught by surprise he's less likely to go tumbling over than the average man. Or woman, in Siobhan's case. He spins in place, both in response to the collision as well as the fact that whoever bounced off of him seems to have recognized him. Wincing as he recognizes her and remembers the last time they had seen each other. Not one of his better moments himself, to say the least.

"Siobhan," he says, perhaps one of the few people in the city who truly pronounce the name the way it should be. "Are you alright?" He reaches a hand down to help her stand.

[growsowngoats]

Her name does have an especially nice ring to it when he says it, she won't deny that fact.

She takes his hand and gets to her feet, offering him her usual carefree smile.

"Aye, a wee tumble like that won't do a thing to me."

[reticence]

Faolan raises an eyebrow at her, as if trying to figure out whether to actually believe her or not, before he shakes his head. She seems fine, at least, and if she weren't than he hopes that she'd let him know. The least he'd want to do is find out he'd injured her or something after the fact.

"I'm sorry," he says, still feeling awkward about it. "I wasn't. I didn't think anyone was so close behind me. My mind was elsewhere." If she'd called out to him, he definitely hadn't heard it.