[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

[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."

[reticence]

Faolan offers a nod, returning to his own drink for a few moments before deciding that he should probably be more social than that. Even if he's not particularly compelled to it one way or the other. It's a holiday, she's a pretty girl -- though he has to admit, he's getting the vibe of something cold and other off of her. Too bad he hasn't perfected his newly developed abilities yet. A point in her favor.

He glances up at her, before offering his hand. "Faolan," he says, by way of an introduction. It's been a whiskey night for him as well, come to think of it. He's been there and had quite a few more than she has so far, however.

[outstandingbalance]

A brief hesitation, then she takes his hand with a smile and shakes it. Her grip is firm and steady, professional. "Natasha. A pleasure."

If she seemed cold and other, her touch won't dispel the feeling. Her skin run a little cool, and there's something about the way she moves and her expression that's just a little too smooth. As vampires go, she's still young enough not to have become too alien, and she's never quite developed the attitude of superiority that some of her kind effect; but the sense of strangeness is undeniable.

Most people don't notice, though. Natasha continues with the same confidence she started with. "I hope you don't mind me joining you?"

[reticence]

Faolan does feel the cold and the other about her, but truth be told he's still adapting to his new abilities, and so he doesn't know how to interpret what he's feeling from her. Just that there's something to feel. It makes her a curiosity, but it makes it a lot easier to talk to her than it would be if he knew he was talking to a vampire. (Faolan may or may not have a complex about them although to be fair, he has his reasons.)

He shakes his head at the question. "I'm not expecting anyone," he responds. "So you're doing me a favor, I think. Getting drunk at a bar like this, at least I'll have company now. I've a reputation to hold after all," he quips.

[outstandingbalance]

His joke gets a smile out of her, and a considering look. Her tone is light as she fires back, "Really? Are you something of a lady's man, Faolan?"

That's the kind of reputation she'd expect someone like him to have. Or maybe not with ladies, depending. He's attractive, and he's got that brooding aura that a lot of people fall for—want to draw out and comfort.

[reticence]

He lets out a brisk laugh, equally surprised, amused, and self-deprecating at once. A lady's man? Him? Perhaps he has all the makings of one, but it's his attitude that scares them away in the end. Both genders, for that matter. In his experience, at any rate.

"Hardly," he responds, swirling his drink in his glass. It's clear she doesn't know his position, Hillingdon or otherwise, despite the feeling that he's getting off of her. Which is fine with him, really. It will be good to just be Faolan at the bar for the evening, really.

[outstandingbalance]

"So you're a mystery. I can respect that." She says it lightly, willing to leave it that way if he's not in a rush to tell all his secrets to a strange woman at a bar.

When she continues, her tone is still casual, still airy. It would take a good ear to catch the slightest bit of wistfulness. "Let's say for the evening, both of us get to put our reputations aside?"

[reticence]

Faolan glances at her out of the side of his eye, trying to garner just what she might want from him. Does she really not know who he is, or is this some sort of a trap? But no, he doesn't think that she's got the sort of air about her that would suggest she's after anything but company.

He quirks something of a smirk at her, raising his glass. "I'd say you've got yourself a deal then. Natasha, wasn't it?"

[outstandingbalance]

"You remembered right," she agrees. She really doesn't know who he is. Before she came to London, she hadn't devoted much time to looking into whose who here. She'd made the decision to move in transit and arrived without strong, trustworthy contacts.

She does wonder though with the way he talks... but for this evening, she'll let that stand.

"Natasha Romanoff. Nice to meet you."

[reticence]

Oh, she'll find out soon enough. And then probably reflect on this conversation and wonder about it, to be sure.

For now Faolan will enjoy just being Faolan with her, though. A luxury he has with few people these days. He inclines his head at the introduction and raises his glass to her in turn. "Do you come here often, or are you celebrating the holiday with the rest of them?" he asks. It seems a good starting point, at least.

[outstandingbalance]

"Not here in particular, but out." There's a little bit of a laugh in her voice when she answers him, warm and flirtatious in a sort of directionless way. It's an act she's good at and one she enjoys, especially if they're not worrying about the past. And she doesn't much expect there to be a future. "When you're a new girl in town, you need to find somehow to spend your free time. I actually forgot the holiday until tonight."

Forgot might be the wrong word, but she never thought about it in particular. Certainly not to celebrate it.

[reticence]

Oh, it's certainly a holiday, even if most of the people here in the bar aren't celebrating it in the way that it's meant. In the way that Faolan remembers celebrating, growing up. In the way he's trying to forget celebrating it, because it does remind him of growing up and such memories of long ago are best left forgotten.

He nods slightly in response to her explanation. He'd been new to the city, once. Of course, his life then had probably been a lot more rough than hers seemed to be now, but he understood to a certain extent. "New from where? If you don't mind me asking," he says.

[outstandingbalance]

"Before London?" She sips her her whiskey, considering whether or not she wants to tell the truth, whether or not she wants to be specific. The way he asks acknowledges that he might be prying leaves her a way out but also inclines her to say something.

"Moscow," she says after a pause. Whatever he is, he's not a vampire, and there's not many of their kind left there. She'll take the risk. "It was time for something new."

[reticence]

Faolan nods slightly, raising his glass in something of a toast to that. "I hear you on that one," he says. Though he doesn't elaborate on the point. He has his reasons for wanting to get out of Ireland, and they aren't happy ones. Part of the reason that he doesn't ask her why she might have wanted out of Moscow, for that reason. Sometimes it's better just not to ask.

"Here's to life in the big city, then," he says. "I hope she treats you well."