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Sinjin has been in New York long enough that he has 'his' table at the Black Cat during the day. When his apartment grows oppressive, he packs up his portable typewriter, throws his notes into a leather satchel, and sets off for the dark, humid haven of the jazz club. He blows in from the street with a swirl of air that smells like an impending storm, cigarette in hand, his mood sharp and restless.
He gets two steps into the club, scanning it for threats, when he changes his plans for the afternoon. World-worn bastard in a decent suit getting drunk at eleven o'clock. Sinjin knows that stare, that one that goes right through the bartender, the mirror behind the bar, and off into some place a man would rather not remember. He abandons the briefcase with his typewriter on the bar as he slides onto the stool just one away from David. Space. Space matters.
"I know that look," he says to David, without actually looking at him too closely. "Can I buy you another?" He gestures to the bartender to get on it.
*
David North is definitely a world-worn bastard. His suit: decent. But he is not, much to his eternal chagrin, getting drunk. He can't. Just one more thing Stryker's ruined for him, really, when one gets down to it. Still, a little thing like a healing factor won't stop him from giving it the old college try.
When he's joined at the bar, he doesn't bat an eyelash. David only looks up when he's actually addressed. "…well. I know better than to turn down a free drink," he says wryly, inclining his head to John.
"Fair warning, though. I drink purely for the taste."
*
"It's a matter of principle." Sinjin points the bartender at David's glass. "Same again for him and a Coke for me." Now, he actually smiles at David. "I'd join you but that's also a matter of principle. They get cranky here when I ask for tea." Drinking is best left to others, unless Sinjin has anything he needs to drown, like a bad memory. He's guessing that's why David's here.
"St. John Allerdyce." He offers David a handshake. "I haven't seen you around before. I'd remember."
*
The corners of David's beard turn up in an amused smile, crows feet forming near his eyes. He considers it for a moment before he reaches over to accept the offered shake. Why not. "David North. I haven't been in town very long." He pauses for a moment and laughs as he reaches to take the glass from the bartender, not bothering to check and see what's in it. He stopped paying attention a while ago. "Well, not out and about in town, anyway."
*
Sinjin's hand is a little warm, surprisingly worn and strong for such a fae-looking fellow. The handshake doesn't match the foppish exterior at all.
"I've been here a few months," Sinjin offers. "Half a year? A little more? Long enough to know my way around, not long enough for the law to know my name. The sweet spot. It's just chaotic enough it almost feels like home." He takes the Coke that comes sliding across the bar, returns the straw with a sigh. "I've had enough of straws, thanks," he mutters.
*
David's eyes follow the straw on its trip back across the bar, but he makes no comment. He just raises his own glass slightly in a salute, instead.
"Sounds like you're doing things right," David muses, raising an eyebrow at him. "I wasn't here a week before I stuck my nose where I shouldn't have. Still picking up the pieces a little bit," he murmurs, lips twisting to one side as he looks down at his glass. Hm. "Need a new job."
*
"I'm a dilettante of sorts," Sinjin says shamelessly, returning David's salute with the glass. "Or I'd try and help you out on that front. I've never had a proper job. Amazing how much work there is in not being gainfully employed. Not that I don't make money. I'm one of those filthy writer-types that's ruining America. But you look like a man who's accustomed to a paycheck." He pauses, leans back to take David in. "Or a man who's good at looking like he is. What's your line of work?"
*
"I break things," David replies without an ounce of hesitation, his eyes still trained on his glass. "It's what I'm good at. I did the, ah…" He gestures with one hand, snapping his fingers a few times as he tries to decide on which title he's least cynical about today. "…mercenary thing for a long time. May need to go back to that now," he says with a resigned sigh, finally bringing the glass up for a long drink.
When he sets the glass back on the bar, it's empty but for the ice. David gives Sinjin a thoughtful look as he reaches for a napkin. "What kind of writing do you do, Sinjin?" he asks lightly, and he does not botch the pronunciation.
*
"I used to be a journalist. Novelist. Went places. Wrote important things." Sinjin shrugs one shoulder, shoots David a crooked grin. "Stuck my nose where I shouldn't have a while back. Now, I write trashy romance novels. Better than drinking, I suppose. Worse for my career than the alcohol, though. Don't know why." He shakes his hair back and exhales sharply. "Can't seem to stop. People buy them, though. So. Keeps me in tea and sodas and out of jail."
*
That gets another wry smile tugging at the corner of David's beard. "Out of jail is good. If you were still writing important things I'd offer you a story, but I think I like you too much," he muses, reaching across to pat him on the shoulder. "Trashy romance novels sound like much more fun, anyway."
*
"Fun is relative." Sinjin stabs the last of his cigarette out in the ashtray, then pulls from his jacket pocket a very worn brass cigarette case with a scene of a little village — Japanese, maybe, or somewhere around there — etched on the front of it. He takes another cigarette, offers one to David. They're unfiltered Chesterfields, a reminder of the kind that came in army ration packs. "If you ever want to tell me, well. I can get it in print, one way or another. Standing offer. It's been a long time since I took my chances on anything that mattered."
*
David reaches out to accept the offered cigarette almost without realizing he's doing it, as if it were muscle memory. Probably the smell more than anything else. "I… it wouldn't be safe," he says lowly, suddenly looking less like a world-weary bastard and more a very uncertain one. "For you, or for whoever you got to publish it."
*
Sinjin flips open an old Zippo to light David's cigarette, then his own. "I spent a few years in Korea and Vietnam, chasing down the drug trade, to try and understand what happened to my father. Not for anyone else, not even for him. Pure self-indulgence. Putting my ass on the line on a whim is kind of my thing." He pauses, then gestures vaguely with the cigarette. "I'm not stupid enough — not anymore — to say I can handle the consequences. But I can accept them, if I decide to do a thing."
*
The more David realizes he's seriously considering this, the more grateful he is for the cigarette. He tucks it between his lips before the wafting smoke can give away the fact that his hand's started to shake, immediately clasping both hands together and resting them on the bar with a pensive set of his brow.
"…I'll need to ask someone first," David finally says, the words coming slowly and a touch hoarse. "But if I can get her blessing, then I'll have documents for you to do with as you like."
*
Sinjin nods solemnly, not looking at David, a little like a priest hearing confession. He takes it that seriously, too. "You can leave me a message here. Or…" He finds a card case in another pocket and pulls out a plain cream business card with blocky black print. "My last agent made me get them printed. Number's still good. So's the address." He sounds almost surprised at that. "If you want." He leaves it on the bar between them. "If anyone asks, there's worse you could be doing with that than sharing secrets," he adds wryly.
*
That actually gets a short laugh out of him. "I'll bet." David stares down at the card through the smoke for a very long time before he reaches out to take it. Damn it all. "If we do this, I'll do whatever I can to make sure you don't regret it," he says lowly, tucking the card safely away inside his jacket. "I'm really tired of the people I know getting screwed over by my bad choices."