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Of all the places in New York for a man like Jean-Paul Beaubier to choose to spend his time — he has chosen Harlem. Considering his appearances in the news lately, it is conceivable that he has a death wish.
Or maybe he just heard good things about the Cigar Factory and doesn't really care what anyone thinks of him. That's possible, too.
Either way, he's perched on a stool at the bar all by his lonesome. Held delicately between his fingers is a simple gold ring, which he is examining thoughtfully while waiting on a refill of his drink.
*
Victor has arrived.
*
"S'mt'ing on y'mind, sugah?" A voice asks him, kind and young. It's source is a waif like girl with dark skin and a massive amount of kinky curls. She smiles to him, sweetly, warmly, and tilts a bottle over his cup, refilling his drink of choice.
She had gotten over picking out how random people were in the bar anymore. During her short time there, there had been a few already. The drink full, she glances up and out toward the room as a whole, visually checking on its regulars before her attentions return to Jean-Paul. "M'sorry. I won' int'rupt y' if y'don' feel like talkin'. Y'tell me if y'need more 'f 'nyt'ing, alright, beau?"
*
Bright blue eyes flick up from the ring, and Jean-Paul offers her a warm smile when she refills his drink. "There are a great many things on my mind, darling. You'll have to be more specific," he replies immediately, his voice carrying a heavy French accent. (Well… French-Canadian. It is an important distinction.)
Before she can even reply, however, Jean-Paul is waving a hand in apology and reaching for his glass. "Pardon. It has been an odd week. This," he adds, raising the ring slightly, "is an attempt to meddle, and I am not even certain why I feel the need."
*
A 'cigar factory' that just happened to be a bar? There's probably not that many more places that would suit Victor to a tee. Smoking couldn't harm him and getting drunk was nearly impossible for the big guy, but that didn't mean he wasn't one to attempt it now and then. Stepping through the doorway he seems to pause for a moment, giving a light 'sniff' of habbit. Most bars tend to smell the same to most people, but for Creed there was always a subtle difference or two. Shrugging out of his coat, the man moved towards the bar where his gaze falls upon the two, spotting the young man he'd not seen before and the dark-skinned woman he was more familier with as he claimed a seat for himself, then tossed his coat down onto the one next to it.
*
"Don' like pryin'." The girl explains gently, claiming a glass or two to dry while making conversation. She motions toward the ring, then, being as it was a point of interest. "Ah, chere. All de world's odd now, but, m'listenin'. What cha mean 'meddle'." A pause, and another smile, she sets a glass down and picks up another. "If y'not sure, why not set it 'side, n'don' worry 'bout it? One less t'ing."
With the arrival of Victor, the girl blinks for a few moments before offering him a dimple-inducing smirk. "Evenin', big-boy. Didn' t'ink I'd be seein' y'gain so soon. What c'n I get y'?"
*
"Nonsense. What good is a bartender who does not pry?" Jean-Paul asks, flashing a brilliant smile at Lynette. He raises the ring slightly to call attention to it again, but then he's sliding it into the interior pocket on his jacket for safekeeping. "A friend of mine, her husband passed away over a year ago. She has a new man in her life now, but she still wears her ring."
Jean-Paul turns enough to regard Victor as he hitches up nearby, and he doesn't appear to even consider it before he continues on. "That would bother you, wouldn't it, m'sieur? I cannot imagine it does not bother her new fellow. So. I am attempting to offer a solution."
*
"I bounce back quickly," Victor chuckles, lip curling up into a small 'smirk of a smile' at the bartender before he glances over the bar past her to the collection of alcohol. "Somethin' strong and cheap," he nods before turning his gaze sidelong at the french-accented Jean-Paul, "Never been married," he shrugs while he awaits his drink. "If it bothers him so much? New man should say it, rather then grumble. Could always just ask her to wear it on the other hand." Did…Victor Creed actually give semi-decent advice? Clearly he needs that drink fast. "Stupid problem to be whinin' about."
*
"Maybe she c'n wear it on a necklace? I ain't one t'rush mournin', 'n dat ain't fair t'ask." Setting a stout glass down, she fills it with scotch and replaces it cork with a 'pop'. "If de boy know 'bout it, too, den he undastand, don' he?" Lynette inquires before returning to her duties of cleaning as soon as she makes sure both men at the bar are comfortable.
*
"Oh, he's not whined about it. I am a proactive meddler," Jean-Paul replies to Victor, sounding almost proud of this fact. And then he's pointing towards Lynette, his expression brightening. "That was my next stop, to find a suitable necklace chain for her old ring. She mentioned that having nothing on that finger felt wrong, that is all, so…" He lightly pats his chest, presumably over the pocket the ring now rests within.
*
Victor's contribution? He grunts and lifts his glass, downing a good portion of it almost immediately and indicating for Lyn to keep it coming. Seems he doesn't deal out more then one bit of advice very easily. "Y'friend might not be the happiest if he found out you were talking this to strangers. People get touchy about the strangest things."
*
"I t'ink y'friend needs t'move when she's ready to. Let her do what she needs t'do." JP gets a refill if he needs it, and Victor gets one as well. "Dis s'mt'ing dey need t'work on dere own, beau. S'nice t'help n'all dat, but, s'ultimately up t'dem, non?"
*
That earns an airy wave of one hand. "Please. If I left them to their own devices, nothing would ever get done," Jean-Paul says dismissively, waiting just long enough for Lynette to top up his glass before he has a drink. "Merci."
*
Victor simply grunts at that again and drains more of his drink, clearly having reached the end of his advice and switched focus entirely to his alcohol. Compared to the previous night's drinking elsewhere? This seemed to be going a fair bit smoother. No broken bones yet!
*
"De rien, cherie." Lynette smiles at Jean-Paul, and turns to Victor, filling his glass once more. "Don' be pushin' it now, dis ain't dat piss y' was drinkin' last night." Reaching into a small sink, she drains its water and starts to fill it with hot water, and new suds. A giggle bubbles from her lips as she looks to JP, all with the quirk of a brow. "Y'gotta be involved den? S'cause y'worried 'bout her, or jus' dat drive t'be involved? I jus' t'ink y'start wit de necklace idea, if 'nyt'ing, but s'up t'her. Let de lady heal."
*
Jean-Paul has no issue with Victor staying quiet. There is a great deal to be said to recommend the strong silent types, after all, and Jean-Paul seems like he could easily be chatty enough for the lot of them.
"If I had my way, I'd be preparing to fly to Innsbruck for the games in January," Jean-Paul says with a wrinkle of his nose. "But that's off the table, so I must do something else instead. Fussing over an old friend seems the least destructive option available to me."
*
Quiet seems the name of the game, but Victor seems to pause after a moment, sniffing the air and lowering his glass as he looks towards the door, the slightest rumble of a growl bubbling in his throat before he stands. "Gotta go deal with something," he says after a moment, turning and heading for the door with a crack of his knuckles and pausing only to glance over his shoulder. "Don't bother savin' the drink, I'll be back for somethin' darker and better tasting later."
With that and an animalistic smirk, Victor pushes through the door and heads out into the night do deal with whatever it was that caught his attention, seemingly unware he'd left his coat behind.
*
Lynette stares after Victor as he moves to exit. Her eyes wide, she glances to Jean-Paul and then down into her sink. "I don' t'ink he meant de coffee…" She murmurs and turns off the facet. Padding her arms and hands dry, she starts to clean up Victor's glass before noticing that his heavy coat of furs and skins had been left behind. "Vict'r! Y'…coat." But, he was gone.
"Y'doin' alright, sugah?" She addresses Jean-Paul once more, using the top of her arm to brush across her cheek to clean away some stray water droplets. "Mean, I ain't one f'bein' self-distructive. De world kinda cova's dat already f'most of us. S'sweet dat y'care 'bout 'friend, dough."
*
"No, I do not think he meant the coffee either." Jean-Paul peers towards the door from his spot with a very slight, thoughtful tilt of his head. Most people might be alarmed by the rumbling, the growling, the cracking of knuckles… but Paul? He just seems thoughtful. If anything, maybe even a little appreciative.
"He seems nice," Jean-Paul muses, his tone almost playful as he turns back to his drink. "But yes, I am well. Thank you for asking. How about yourself?" he asks curiously, leaning forward and propping his chin up in a hand. "Have you worked here long?"
*
"S'nice 'nough. Neva wanna make dat one angry, dough." Shuddering, she starts into her work anew. Her hands in the suds, she cleans glass after glass. "M'alright. Makin' it a day at a time, 'know?" Glancing around, she watches the other tables for a moment before returning those obsidian orbs Jean-Paul's way. "Eh, 'bout a month now? Still new t'New York, truth be told. How 'bout y'? Don' wanna 'ssume, but y'seem pretty, well, bit too nice lookin' t'be in a place like dis."
*
That actually makes Jean-Paul laugh, the notion that he might looks nice. "Only a few days," is what he says instead, his mouth split in a smile wide enough to bring out the dimples in his cheeks. "I am still trying to decide if I am staying, and if so, where. My friend," he lightly pats his chest again, and the ring within his pocket, "has encouraged me to stick around. I cannot fathom why, unless she really does want me to meddle. I'm good for so little else."
*
"S'dang'rous out dere, so, if y'stayin', be careful, non?" Keeping her warmth and kindness, she gives another glance around and down the sink. It was a routine now, habitual almost. "Well, guess dat makes sense. Maybe she like de comp'ny, n'n'ting wrong wit dat." Another brush across her cheek and she gives a puff of hair upward, trying to move a stray curl away from her eyes. "Nah, dat's gotta be a lie right dere. Man like you? Y'gotta have s'm talents. Ev'rybody good at s'mt'ing, honey."
*
"Well. I don't like to brag." That is an absolute bald-faced lie. Jean-Paul loves to brag. Lazily, he swirls his drink around in his glass, treating the perfectly average booze within like a far more expensive and exquisite wine. "I can ski," he muses thoughtfully, nodding his head from side to side. "I could take her on holiday, perhaps?"
*
"Oh wow! Seen pict'res 'bout dat. Seems hard t'do, but I don' handle snow n'ice well. Add speed?" Giving a whistle, she shakes her head, sending curls swaying. As he continues to speak, she grins and nods. "Dat's 'n'idea. Let her get 'way f'a bit? Let her t'ink n' fig're out what she's gonna do?"
*
The mention of speed has Jean-Paul's eyes practically twinkling. "If you ever decide you'd like to try it, I will come and give you a lesson," he promises, raising his glass in a salute. "But it is not for everybody. If you do not enjoy the cold or going fast?" He lets out a breath and shakes his head. "Nnnh-nn. You would be miserable."
*
"Heh, really? Y'teach a lil t'ing like me t'go slidin' down a hill top?" Smirking, she seems to enjoy the idea, and the grin on her face states that outright. "I might take y'up on dat. I like de snow, de cold jus' makes me tired, I s'ppose." A soft bobbing of her slender shoulders and then a voice calls out to her from another table. "Lynette! More beer, baby girl.""Y'gota it! 'cuse me, sweetie." She pads her arms dry and then heads off with fresh bottles to another section of the room.
In that space of time, a rather large, lumbering fellow makes his way up to the bar, slumping against it on his side. His hand grips the neck of a bottle, but his index finger points out, mere inches from Jean-Paul's face. "Hey…don't-don't I know you? You look familiar."
*
"But of course. You have been an excellent host," Jean-Paul tells Lynette cheerfully, then waves understandingly when another table calls for her. Perils of the job, one has to… actually do the job. How awful.
That leaves Jean-Paul with time to sip his drink, and he turns in his seat just in time for his field of view to be filled with the large man and his pointing finger. Blue eyes go momentarily cross-eyed to peer at it, then sliiiiide up to the man's face.
"I am sure I would remember you if you did," Jean-Paul replies dryly. He seems unimpressed. "Enjoy your drink, m'sieur."
*
"No, you don't know me." The man corrects before standing and leaning closer, clearing having no respect for personal space. "It's you. It IS you!" Grinning, he stands up and calls over to one of his friends. "Hey! Jerry! You were right! It's that cheating freak we read about!" Head down, he laughs, sending some sour smelling spittle toward Jean-Paul's face. "Hey, hey, tell me something, Frenchie. Why'd you do it? Normal people just better than you? Need to prove a point?"
Before long, Lynette returns to the bar, and after stepping behind it, she glares at the lumbering figure talking to JP. "S'goin' on here? Tony, don' go pickin' on people, now. Y'drunk, n'I c'n as y't'leave." She warns, only to have newly named Tony to glare her way. "I'm just talking to the man, girl. Stay out of it."
*
Spittle or not, lack of respect for personal space or no, Jean-Paul does not budge. And he still does not look particularly impressed, even when Tony calls for a friend. He just waits patiently for Lynette to return and gives her a tired look, gesturing up at his face. "My reputation preceeds me, I am afraid. May I have a napkin?"
For the moment, Jean-Paul is keeping his temper. But there is surely no guarantee that it will last.
*
"Yeah, sugah." She girl replies, handing him a cloth instead of pressed paper for his face. For whatever reason, she didn't understand what was going on; perhaps she didn't pay attention to sports after all. "Hey!" Tony grumbles. "I'm talking to you, freak! Just answer the question! Why'd you do it?""Tony!" Lynette barks at the man, her face twisting up in frustration. "Don' start n't'ing n'leave de man alone. S'jus' here f'a drink. Go on, now. Get! Jerry! Get ova here n'get y'friend 'fore I kick y'both out."
*
"Merci." Jean-Paul accepts the cloth and wipes his face, slowly turning to eye Tony as he continues to press. He is clearly considering something, that much is clear. Probably weighing how satisfying it would be to do something versus how much it might inconvenience Lynette if he did.
Finally, Jean-Paul sits up a touch straighter. "I will tell you what I told Miss Trilby, m'sieur," he says easily, raising both of his eyebrows at him. "If I had cheated in order to win my medals, I would have won more than eight."
*
Tony glares at Lynette once more, and then back to Jean-Paul, and to his buddy, Jerry, who's slowly walking up behind the pair. That answer, though truthful, was not satisfying for the drunk man. "F-…freaks. Thinking you're better than the rest of us." He grumbles, taking a step back as one hand turns into a fist. "Tony," Jerry speaks up, hand on his shoulder as he starts leading the man back. "It's not worth it. No telling what he can do. It's cold outside, man. Just shut up." Jerry urges, and finally, Tony starts walking away, slurring curses along the way.
Lynette sighs and frowns, turning to face Jean-Paul directly. "M'sorry 'bout dat. Don' usually happen. Y'alright?"
*
When Jerry begins to guide his friend away, Jean-Paul almost looks disappointed. "Nothing for you to apologize for," he assures Lynette, his eyes still focused on Tony's retreating back. Oh, he really, really shouldn't poke the hornet's nest. Not now that things are calming down.
So why, why, why doesn't Jean-Paul lower his voice when he turns back to his drink? "I can understand why he is upset. I am better."
*
Tony freezes in place; he had heard the man as clear as day. Turning around, he lumbers back toward the beautiful Canadian and reaches for his collar. "The hell did you just say?! You think you're better than me?!" Jerry, now, moves up behind his friend, but not in an attempt to pull him away. This time, it's for support.
"Nope!" Lynette begins, putting her foot down and pointing at the trio. "Don' do dis. Tony! Jerry!" She points to JP, and then realizes, she didn't know his name. "Uh…beau. Please, don'. If y'gonna do dis, den take it outside. Luke'neva f'give me f'lettin' a fight break out here."
*
Jean-Paul takes a moment to finish his drink and set a few bills on the bar, far more than his drink costs. A tip, presumably to make up for the trouble. "That sounds fair to me," he says to Lynette with a smile. And then he's just… not there.
He's standing next to the door as if he had been there all along.
"You heard her," Jean-Paul calls, sounding bored as he reaches back to open the door. Is he holding it open for Tony and Jerry? Yes. Yes, he is. "Let us discuss the myriad of ways in which I am better than you out front."
*
The rush of air sweeps through the building, causing hair to flutter and napkins to spill out into floor. A blink later, she looks over toward the door and realizes that when they said 'freak', it was exactly what she assumed. Jerry and Tony blinks as well, trying to find the man that Tony had just reached for, and missed. The door was open, the chill was leaking in and sucking out the warmth the bar.
Glaring, the men head Jean-Paul's way and out into the street.
*
Jean-Paul waits patiently for the pair to head outside ahead of him before he casts a look back Lynette's way. He considers it for a moment before, with a helpless shrug, he slips out after them.
He does not give the two men a chance to set up, or banter. He doesn't even offer that discussion he had suggested they have. All the two men get is a pair of precisely delivered punches to knock them each flat.
Jean-Paul pokes his head back in through the door before the men have even hit the ground. "They will need ice, but they will be fine," he says warmly, then raises a hand in a wave. "My sincerest apologies for the unpleasantness, chere."
*