undergrounds | [open] somewhere after midnight

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[open] somewhere after midnight

I. Drinking, Conversation & Light Blood Sport

It's not strange for Natasha to end up in a bar at some point in the evening. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later, but at least a couple of times a week she ends up in one. Tonight is notable not because she's found herself in a new bar—that could be any night—but because she breaks out of her routine of taking a seat at the counter and nursing a drink or two for hour or so, maybe chatting with a regular, then going on her way.

This time she's found herself in a bar near the institute, and she has a drink sitting on the a table off to one side, sure, but instead of sipping it without appetite, she's standing facing a dart board, throwing set after set of darts and landing them in tight clusters in the cork. First around the bull's eye then the triple twenty, the triple nineteen, eighteen, seventeen... and so forth.

Maybe she's relaxing. Maybe she's getting used to being in London and the new job. She'd like to think that's the case, though mostly she's been keeping her head down and her eyes open.

It might be going a little too far to say she's in a good mood, but she's starting to feel a little more outgoing. Enough to turn to someone near by and ask, "Care to give me some competition?"

II. Light Blood Sports & A Drinking Problem

Another night, another bar. This time Natasha is more to her normal script. Or at least, she was for about the first third of her whiskey sour. That's when a disagreement down the bar turns violent. At first, Natasha isn't too worried about it. It isn't her problem, just a couple of drunks knocking over stools and raising their voices.

Then one of them pulls a switchblade and it goes from not her problem to to very much her problem in a matter of a fraction of a second when the blade slides through the other man's jacket and into his forearm. The smell of blood fills the bar room, stronger and more intoxicating than any of the alcohol on the shelf.

It's been over two months since Natasha had human blood, and all in a rush it seems like every second of it was screaming at her. For a moment she freezes, afraid of what she'd do if she moved, afraid of what someone might see if she drew their attention. Her jaw tightens and her nails drag across the top of the bar in a slow, tense scratch. She stares at nothing, her attention narrowing to pin point.

The fight doesn't last from there. The bartender yells at both of them to get out, the bouncer appears. Both of them are kicked out.

And Natasha covers her mouth, shaking.

III. Streetlights, Shadows & Night Owls

Let's call it work. Natasha thinks of it that way. It's not exactly patrolling—nothing that formal. It's more just being out, keeping her eyes open, paying attention and being around. Most nights, it doesn't lead to much. Not wasted time since she's getting used to the city, but she doesn't accomplish a whole lot.

Sometimes, though, she runs into something interesting. Someone she can help? Who knows.

IV. Wildcard

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He doesn't pay a huge amount of attention to the vampire at the bar - vampires exist, and as much he might like to, Eames can't do anything about that. And besides that he had meetings to attend to, information to exchange. Things to think about other than how annoying it is when the closest thing to one of your natural predators is in the room.

His contact has left and Eames has relocated to the bar when the fight breaks out. Mostly he looks annoyed by the whole thing, it's annoying and ruining his attempt to wind down after a long day, but his eyes aren't on the obnoxious neanderthals knifing eachother when blood gets spilled.

Eames watches Natasha out of the corner of his eye, and the way she reacts is extremely telling. Hasn't had blood in a while obviously - at least, not human - and she's clearly putting her all into not giving in to the bloodlust. And it'd be better for everyone if she didn't, which is why he orders her a gin and a slice of lemon once the bartender's attention is free. He figures it's probably not quite enough to block it out entirely, but gin has a strong scent, something more pervasive than other liquors. It'll help dull things a little, at the very least.

Simon has been watching his new...comrade? Associate? Coworker?...throw a perfect game of darts for the better part of half an hour with a not-quite-present expression on his face. It's almost soothing, the way she seems utterly in control of herself as she throws, and his mind is wandering back to his long-neglected dissertation. In just a matter of weeks, he will be a university graduate. Not that he'll end up doing much with his degree; he's long since disabused himself of the notion that he'll be doing anything in science or biology. No, he's stuck as a supernatural policeman until he can prove his incompetence once and for all and end up as a statue in Sylvia Redbright's office.

It's not a comforting thought.

Still, he's sufficiently occupied with his thoughts about chromosome abnormalities that Natasha's offer comes completely out of left field and he chokes on his drink.

"Fuck, no," he splutters, laughing. "Not really my area of expertise."

Kyle wanted to enjoy a nice beer in the chill pub not far from his place, to have some time to himself this evening before returning home to wake up to another day of frustration and confusion with the whole damn city. His desires are interrupted when a fight breaks out between the two guys beside him. He minds his own business until the blade comes out, at which point he jumps up with a couple other guys to start breaking up the fight, dragging the unarmed drunkard away from the antagonist that the other guys are grabbing. He passes off the guy as soon as the official security is there, all too grateful to return to his drink.

That is, until someone- something down the bar catches his attention. The woman is a complete stranger, but he recognizes the slight widening of her eyes and the way she seems to react to the fight, not afraid of the conflict but of the result of it. Kyle grabs his drink and walks over, taking his seat beside her instead of where he was.

"You should probably go," he says easily, looking behind the bar instead of at the woman as he takes another sip of his beer. It's as amicable as he'll get with what he's pretty damn sure is a vampire.

Jean-Claude has been a creature of the night for a long time. He recognizes the sort of look about her even without really knowing who she is or what she's doing exactly. There are those who have a mission, out and about at this sort of time. Those who are out to pick up their newest trick, those who are on the hunt for something more. She does not strike him as the sort of type for that.

No, there is something more casual to her than that. And yet he knows without having to ask that she is vampire. Not new -- she would look hungrier, more desperate if she were. But vampire nonetheless. She is a curiosity. And exactly the sort of thing that Jean-Claude himself is out for a stroll on the intention of bumping into.

"It is a beautiful night, is it not," he comments, as he steps from the shadows towards her. The air is still crisp, and thus he has a velvet frock coat mostly buttoned over his customary laced-front shirt. Though he is still baring a decent amount of chest, not to worry.

She tries to keep to herself, most of the time -- not so much shy as guarded. Work, home, sleep. Some drinking and dancing with strangers is peppered into that routine, but she tries to keep them just that: strangers. The anonymity is nice.

But she, too, is getting more used to things in London. She's starting to be able to change who she thinks she is. Effy Stonem, a human. Effy Stonem, a faker. Effy Stonem...a fae. It doesn't sound natural --it doesn't feel natural-- but it does seem a little less foreign. She's no longer looking over her shoulder for a doppelganger ready to destroy her and take back their own name. So she allows a faint smile to cross her face as she watches the woman --familiar, she realizes, though she was pissed at the time-- at the dartboard.

An even less faint smile at the invitation.

"You want me to follow that?" She nods at the board. "I'd be more of a joke than competition."

Connor goes out precisely to have exciting things not happen. This? This display of male superiority and dick comparing? Uncool. Some people are trying to avoid their problems, here. Some people are not looking to get caught in someone else's drama. But at least the guys are kicked out pretty quickly, small blessings.

Natasha does a pretty good job of making herself seem, well, missable. But she saved his life, hers is going to be a hard face to forget. He slides into the chair next to her, reaching over to place a hand on her arm. Maybe that's a bad idea. Maybe he should've announced himself with how wrapped up in herself she is. But he doesn't.

"Hey, uh -- are you alright?"

There's no harm in stopping for a drink on her way home from Redbright -- most days, Gaby finds herself staying late, shifting through her books and lesson plans like it all means something... like her father might have done, once, when he was still teaching alongside his research.

The best thing that can be said about the bar she enters is its cheap drinks and the fact it hardly seems overcrowded. Gaby saunters up to the barkeep, bats her eyelashes and emerges with two half-price drinks and some comments she'd rather forget were ever said.

Her plan? To empty both the glasses in quick succession and be on her way. But that plan is interrupted when she notices someone throwing darts (showing off, more like)-- and she smiles when she realizes she recognizes the person.

"That is very impressive," she comments as she walks closer, not bothering to speak any louder than her usual, conversational tone.

With Redbright the way it is, Matt doesn't have to act so much when he's in the area. Most people know there's folks out there who can do more than the usual, and no one asks questions when he stands and cuts around people without so much as having to bump anyone with his cane. He'd heard her from across the bar, of course.

"Sure," says the blind man, but they both know there's more to him than that. "Maybe I'll get lucky."

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1. let's call this a late date