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Farrel's is a pub. A proper, honest-to-god, unapologetic pub. There's nothing like a pub once you've been to one, a place where you can get good old-world lagers and fried foods and maybe a friendly punch to the jaw for hitting on the wrong man's date.
The downside to this is that pubs are a gathering hole for like-minded folks, for blue collar workers who want a comfortable home away from home that's just a little rowdy and colorful without getting out of control. And mostly full of fellow blue-collar types.
So, Roberto da Costa, heir to the wealthiest family fortune in Brazil, in his starched high-collared paisley shirt and sky blue jacket and bell-bottom trousers, looks a /bit/ out of place, sitting at the bar.
It seems the young scion of the Da Costa fortune has found his own niche in this bar full of surly vets and hard-knuckled policemen knocking off after a long day on shift, because he's half-sitting on the bartop leading a rousing rendition of 'Drunken Sailor', swaying back and forth with two strapping recruits in a haphazard attempt at a barbershop trio, the entire bar joining in the song. Seems the round of drinks he ordered for New York's finest, and a lot of bald-faced charisma, has given him a pass in this most sacrosanct of places: a cop watering hole.
*
Farrel's was a place that Carol was growing increasingly fond of, since rejoining the workforce at SHIELD. Prior to that, she preferred dives - places people could disappear into, and gave off enough of a 'back off' vibe to stay mostly unharrassed at places like that - mostly. A few broken arms (which were admittedly a bit uplifting on their own) given out to people who couldn't understand the meaning of 'no' paved her way for acceptance there.
But… Farrel's just… felt nicer. The people were more her speed, and she appreciated the usual set of patrons.
So when she enters to the sound of 'Drunken Sailor', well - there was a smile that perks up onto her lips. A grizzled man near the front, a beat cop in blues, lifts his eyes from his hamburger as Carol enters, and gives a little wave to. "McMillan - hi," she says to him, getting a nod in return.
Tapping the bar - the smiling bartender breaks away his meager addition to the chorus to lift his chin to her, and Carol replies to him, "Lager. Make that… two," she says, sliding a few bills across the bartop.
Another moment. "Who's /that/ guy?" she asks the bartender, glancing towards Roberto.
*
The bartender grins at Carol, taking her money, counting out change quickly, and laying a few bills and coins back in front of her. "Two lagers, we've got a good one from upstate you'll like," he tells Carol. Despite his lack of singing skills, he's got a relatively mellifluous voice, which goes well with his slender frame and oddly cerebral skull shape— but is quite incongruous with the rough and tumble of the bar he owns. A few pictures of a much younger version of himself, grinning like a fool atop a Nazi fortification, bely his foppish exterior.
"No idea who he is. Roy… Robert?" he tries, tugging on the taps expertly, not even needing to look as he pulls a pair of drinks for Carol. "Came in here looking for Mick's daughter Stacy. I thought Mick was going to deck him one, then next thing I know he's ordered a round for the whole bar and they're about to start dancing on the tables."
He slides the lagers towards Carol with a flick of his wrist, glass gliding on lacquer and both stopping in front of her with a precision that'd put him on a world-class shuffleboard team if he were so inclined. He meanders down the bar to take another order as the singers break up. The jukebox kicks on with a lively Sinatra tune, and the sea of uniforms, off-and-on duty, dissolve around Roberto, leaving the foppish young man a moment to breathe. Seeing the bartender's busy, he shifts his hips onto the bartop and leans back to rummage around before coming up with a bottle of rum and pouring himself a few measures over some ice and cola.
*
Gathering up her change, Carol leaves a tip - a couple bills, behind. Catching sight of the photographs causes a smile to spark up on Carol's lips, her attention flickering back towards the bartender to take a further measure of the man - but only for a few moments. "It's a Ro-~something~, I can work with that," she says, flickering a wink towards the bartender briefly, before glancing down the bar a ways towards Roberto.
A sharp laugh comes from her as the story was told.
"Well, he's brave, then," she says. "But… if he's alright by Mick, he's gotta be alright by everyone, right?"
A beat.
Snapping up her hand to catch that lager, she tips the top of the bottle towards the bartender in a brief little salute - keeping the other one nearishby her. Keeping an eye on the drinks was something that was important for her, but…
She wanted to have a couple on hand, so people would feel ridiculous buying her another. Typically it was just the recruits that bothered her in a place like this, but old habits? Died hard. "You're going to pay for that - right?" she speaks up towards Roberto, lifting her chin down the bar towards him. Her tone was light - not really accusing just yet. And she knew he would be /dumb/ to try tomfoolery in a place like this. Right?
*
"I never pay for anything. I leave an open tab, and trust—" Roberto turns an eye towards Carol, and gives her a thoroughly unapologetic up-and-down, a grin cracking his swarthy features. "-that the bartender will render an honest accounting," he concludes. His accent is strong without being thick, and there's a hint of that British/French colonialism in his English that marks him as someone highly educated, but not a native speaker of the tongue.
He hops off the bar, leaving the bottle where the 'tender will surely see it, and takes a sip of his cola while somehow grinning at Carol out the corner of one eye. "But, I'm sure he appreciates your attention to detail, senorita. It's always good to have friends we can trust. Roberto da Costa, at your service," he tells Carol, offering her a gentle handclasp. He turns it into an elegant leg and brushes his lips against her knuckles before straightening from the bow, without a trace of self-consciousness. "A regular here, are you? You seem… loaded for bear, as they say," he says, glancing at the refill she's clearly prepared to dual-wield against any sudden attacks by sobriety.
*
A tightening of her jaw at the obvious up and down, but… Carol doesn't let any of that reach her features, keeping them carefully controlled. "Well, you're in luck - I think the bartender here is the one of the best in the town. So I wouldn't want him cheated," she says, her tone bearing a note of mild authority. Just a mild one. She chases that away with a smile.
"Mr. Costa - I'm Carol Danvers," she says, offering her hand as he turns it into a charming brush of his lips against her knuckles. A click of her tongue, she looked mildly flattered by it, inclining her head to him. "A student of the old traditions as well, I take it?" she asks, her hand returning to her lager.
Clutching her fingers around it, she bites her lower lip.
"But yes, as a matter of fact, I am. Good people here - good folks. It's a good environment to get sloshed in," she says with a wryness to her lips. "New in town, then? Or just new to this bar?" A pause. "I'm Carol Danvers," she adds, briskly.
*
Roberto laughs easily, grinning at Carol and lounging a bit indolently with his elbows resting on the bartop behind him and his drink dangling from his fingertips. It's a supremely confident posture, one that probably served him well in endearing himself to the local police force. "What, being gentlemanly to a new lady acquaintance? That's hardly old tradition, that is merely being properly polite," he tells Carol. "Only in America is it acceptable to flirt with a woman by clubbing her over the head." He clucks his tongue scornfully.
"Not new in town, no, just new to this bar. I was, ah, looking for a friend, but she's very much not here, so— I find myself suddenly at loose ends, and I think to myself, 'ehh— perhaps, make new friends, eh?'" he says, sipping his cocktail. "Nothing like a rousing song and a few cold drinks to make the hellos flow more smoothly."
"So— Miss Danvers. You come to the bar here to ah, get sloshed, as you say? In Brazil, that is bebado— estupificado, if you're too gone to do anything but look at your own shoes when you walk," he says.
*
It was a confident demeanor, and Carol inclines her head to the man, lifting her lager up to her lips to take a long draw from the thing. "I can tell you that I've never been flirted with with a club," says Carol, a bit of awryness touching the edges of her lips. "And that the whole club thing? It only works with young, dumb women. Which sadly… is what most people are interested in," says Carol, with a shrug of her shoulder.
"I /heard/ about your friend. You're playing with fire, trying to woo ol' Mick's daughter," says Carol with a slyness. "But I think he likes you, so you're safe," says Carol, a little bit more of an edge starting to slip from her demeanor. "You must do this a lot where you are from, right? You, at least - seem a natural at it," she says, gesturing with her bottle around the room proper, before taking another swig of her drink.
"Brazil, then," she adds, when he explains that, a smile sparking onto her features.
"I do. And hey - I think getting a little el stupid is half of the reason people go to bars, right? You have a different view upon drink, I trust?" she asks.
*
"Ahh, I think Stacy is more enamoured of a foreigner than of me myself," Roberto says with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "I meet her here for a drink, but she is gone, and her father is here— she is, I think, hoping to scare her father with me? Fortunately, I am good at turning tables." He winks roguishly at Carol and takes a sip of his drink, then straightens and offers her a seat at the bar with another courtly gesture.
"Come, sit, join me then— dare I hope, /Miss/ Danvers? And please, call me Roberto if it pleases you," he says, sliding into a stool and pivoting to face her obliquely.
"Ah you see in Brazil— everyone is beautiful," he tells her, conspiratorially. "Is the best secret of Brazil. So it is not enough merely to be handsome or pretty, you must be clever, or strong, or witty— we learn early on to be bold and brazen, because life's short and lovely women do not wait for a man dithering on the edge of his courage," he says, that grin dancing back and forth across his lips. "And drinking— well, there is something to be said for even the strongest heart needing a, ah, little step up to help now and then, si?" he inquires, clinking his glass against Carol's.
*
"But you don't seem to mind her enamored, after all," says Carol with a knowing little grin, lifting her lager up to kinda tilt towards Roberto. "But that is sad - to be used as a young woman's weapon against her father - rather than to be valued for you yourself, Mr. Costa?" asks Carol, a sly little smile at the edges of her lips as she tilts her head a bit to one side.
Tapping a long fingernail against her spare bottle of lager, she steps closer to the offered seat, sliding into it there. "I have some time," she says. "And very well, Roberto - you can call me Carol - or Miss Danvers, as you please."
A few moments more. But there was wryness again in her smile. "You use it for courage - when your brazen boldness doesn't come on its own?" she asks, tilting her head just so to one side. "It sounds like the women in Brazil lack patience - I'm not going to say that American women are paragons of the same, but… I think we know how to wait around for just the right man," she says, with a wink.
"So, what brought you to the city from Brazil? Business? Pleasure?" she asks, tilting her head to the side. "I work in the area, you see," she says.
*
"Ah, well— no man is perfect, eh?" Roberto says, with an incorrigable, unapologetic grin. "It's no coincidence every culture on Earth has developed the art of fermentation and distillation," he remarks, with a knowing look.
"Well, Carol— I could talk of the women of Brazil, but the women of America are, at the moment, far more interesting to me," he informs her, watching the way she winks flirtily at him. His grin broadens, then he tilts his head curiously when she makes a personal inquiry, brows lifting in a pleased manner. "Ah, si si— I am here on work, mostly, though it's hard not to find pleasure in this amazing country," Berto explains. "I am Vice President of the De Costa corporation— I am here helping to cement some of our overseas shipping operations. We export a great deal of aluminum to America, you see, along with some rare earths and precious metals. And, in return— we purchase refined technical goods. So, America gets our palladium, in exchange, we get television sets and electrical engineers," he says, shrugging one shoulder. "It's a good deal— Rio is explosively progressive, and we've vitalized the coast as a hub of shipping and commerce."
*
"No man, and no woman," says Carol, there with that wryness still. She had an almost callous way of dancing around the issues, even as she looks towards the man. "…even if some women still enjoy men denying their imperfections at every corner, ha," she says, her eyes half closing. A handful of moments more, and she gives her hair a flick.
To say her wink was playful would be true. Flirty? Perhaps not.
Perhaps jaded would be a good descriptor of her humor. "There's quite a bit of pleasure to be found in America - but to hear you speak at length about such things from Brazil, and your corporation - is that pride in Brazil that I hear in your voice?" she asks, tilting her head to one side. "Or is that pride in the corporation that holds your name?"
*
"Can it not be both?" Roberto asks, fingers spreading along with a grin. If he's deterred by her weary cynicism, it doesn't show at all. "Brazil is a place where it is better to be different than bland, to be loud and outrageous and even boorish— anything but boring."
"And, yes," he says, sipping his cocktail. "I take much pride in my family's corporation— Da Costa men have helmed us for three generations. Mi padre, my abuelo, /his/ father— four generations ago, we were immigrant pig farmers. Now, international business. I think, that is worth some pride, si?"
"You did not mention though, Carol, what you do. You work in the area, you say? For whom do you work?" he inquires.
*
A little smirk touches the edges of Carol's lips then. His bouyant optimism was infectuous, after all - and he didn't seem to be minding the way she was being bitter about the whole thing. So she was fine with it. With another swig, the first lager was down - and Carol reaches out a hand to grasp her second, offering the empty bottle back towards the bartender.
"You see," she says, dipping the tip of the bottle towards Da Costa, "I like boring, and bland. A lot of times - my life - my work, gives me excitement enough," she says. "A man - strong, dependable, capable - I'll take that over someone flashy and exciting any day of the week," she says, listening to his story - a nod coming from her.
"From pig farming to… international trading in metals. That is quite a job - and that's worth all the pride," says Carol, with a grin. "My own family has a lot of military in it - not so much my father, but my grandfathers on both sides, and otherwise. So I joined the Air Force - did that for a little while, now I'm here. I work for the government, mostly. Nothing exciting though. Technically, they call me Agent, but…" she shrugs her shoulder. "They even call IRS people agents nowadays. It's lost its secret charm, right?"
*
Roberto clucks his tongue symapthetically. "Ah, you see, you've missed the point of a man with style. It's not to make your life more exciting by creating trouble— is more like dancing, you see. Lead you into little moments of surprise where you discover something new about yourself. That, I think, is much more fun that flash in the pan, eh?"
He throws back his cocktail and slides the drink away, giving Carol a speculative look as she laments the downfall of the glory days of agency. "Perhaps they need a new term for you, then?" he suggests, in a tone of playful banter. "The French might suggest 'la femme fatale'," he says, the words pouring off his lips like honey. "Dangerous, alluring, but— still feminine in the extreme." He spots someone waving at him from across the bar and makes a regretful sound.
"Ah, and as they say, c'est la vie— a friend is here, so, I must excuse myself. Vaya con Dios, Carol Danvers," Roberto says, grinning again at Carol as he straightens himself up. "Hopefully, we meet again soon, si?"
*
"A femme fatale - I'll take it," says Carol. She was subtlely using suggestion to give the consideration of that she was a secretary, perhaps, for some economic department. Without actually lying and denying she was a SHIELD agent. Either way - that second lager is given another swig from. "I might agree with that," she says. "What you are doing is helping women explore themselves - and explore yourself as well, huh?" she says.
A beat, and Carol leans back against the bar - to look towards the friend waving towards him. There was a return of that sly look, and she looks back towards him. "Hopefully - I'm here a lot - so if you meet a lot of friends here…"
"I'm bound to be here eventually," she adds, tipping her bottle his way. "Take care of yourself, Roberto."
*