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The evening's affair at Lux begins early. Earlier than many clubs, anyways, especially one so exclusive in ways. Servers navigate the main floor and mezzanine, assuring every exact requirement is met. They help discreetly stock the bar with the night's herbals and elixirs, rare liqueurs found few or no places else. A tiny woman with wild black curls, 4'9" tops, stands in front of a silvery microphone at the hub of the place. A melodic croon pours out from her, twice her height. Listen too long and the story is one of regret and ruin, however, a fusion of soul and Italian pop. Almost no one is present to be her audience unless otherwise engaged in another task.
The man facing her on a chair is the exception to the rule. He has one leg crossed over the other, a look of profound concentration. White shirt and black slacks marks him as staff, the cigarette in the corner of his mouth giving off a grey vapor probably less so.
"Good. You're out of sync with the music in the last thirty seconds. Stop rushing ahead of it," he tells her. The posh accent is definitely English, but all good devils come from England. Just ask the French."
*
And at the bar, looking idly back and forth, is Carol. Wearing a blue dress that seems to shimmer, she leans against the bar, a bit of an irritated look in her eyes as she seems to be waiting for someone. She absently listens to the singing, not paying much attention as she seems a bit lost in her own thoughts.
*
The bartender is a rarity: a woman. Tall, too, somewhere around 5'11" and in your face sort of lithe, the build of someone who might personally punch people out. Dusky-skinned and dark-haired, her Mediterranean extraction does nothing to make her expression any friendlier. The burning sultry looks of fiction don't quite apply here. She is, however, very good about making drinks precisely and promptly. Should Carol order anything, she will not receive a judgmental comment."
*
Carol looks at the bartender, and sighs a bit, "Sorry, I'll take a Coke, please. With ice." She glances around, still seeming remarkably tense, at least for the moment, though that might be why she's stopped by the club so early in the first place.
*
The singer takes a deep breath. She tries again and signals someone or something with her hand. Filtering through the speakers comes the sound of a violin traveling along the jazzy, snappy music. It swings slowly into the moment.
"If you see me walking down the street,
And I start to cry each time we meet,
Walk on by, walk on by."
The blond keeps time with her, tapping his finger against the arm of the chair to help audically count the beat. "Better," he says. A nod encourages her to take a breath, and the chanteuse holds out her hand, tilting the microphone down to her lips.
"Make believe
That you don't see the tears,
Just let me grieve
In private 'cause each time I see you
I break down and cry."
*
Coke. With ice. Judgment is not present as the woman turns to scoop up ice from a regularly replenished supply. Pop gets poured into a glass already filled, proper order for things. The glass comes with a straw, a slip of paper over the end.
*
Carol hmms, listening to the music and smiling a bit to herself, finding the music rather appropriate, all things considered. She takes off the slip of paper, sipping from her Coke as she glances over at the singer, and her… coach?
*
The arrival of someone likely not expected, at least on a work night, is announced by the silhouette behind the green platings of decorative glass that line the entry stairwell. Rosemarie's barely dressed to fit the scene as is, in a dark-blue argyle skirt that reaches just past her knees, work-appropriate black flats, and a blouse in a light blue to compliment the crisscrossing pattern. About her neck, a little tied kerchief, a flare certainly not usual on her person.
In her hands, a tupperware container about the size of a dinner plate. Its contents are blurred for the thickness of the plastic, but she handles it with care as she descends the steps to the floor. The brunette looks to the bar first, expectantly, and one can see her wilt a little. Well, shoot. Maybe he's not around this evening. She should find…Mak. Mav. Maz?
To the bar she goes, giving the woman in the blue dress a fleeting smile of awkward greeting before she sets the tupperware on the perfectly-clean marble surface.
"Excuse me, I'm looking for Lucian. Or…Maz?" The name is offered up so very carefully, apology written all over her tone and body language alike should it be incorrect.
*
Lucian listens for the hook piped through the speakers, and whatever quavering imperfections come through with a whisper of static irritates him. Profoundly irritates him for that. He swings his foot down, and the next second is on his feet. Polished leather, as it happens, barely giving off noise. He walks around past the singer, giving her a wide berth. The reason is simple as he reaches the bench of the Steinway piano marking the omphalos of the world of Lux.
"Let me remember the tune." Long fingers spread across ivory keys. He stops for a moment, and then settles into the chorus. Where restraint is king he has no rush, but the complexities of the melody are a bit like hearing Mozart decide to do the Beatles. Some kind of flourish is always going to get in there. She obliges immediately:
"Walk on by, don't stop,
Walk on by, don't stop,
Walk on by."
Maz, bartender in question, looks at Rosemarie with equal amounts disinterest and passive regard. She taps her finger and nudges her head at the Morningstar playing the piano. Like you do.
*
Carol takes another sip of her Coke, glancing curiously at Rosemarie, but not saying anything to her. Just a simple nod, then she glances down at an elegant watch on her wrist, her nose wrinkling just a bit.
*
It's a close call as to what makes Rosemarie half-turn on the spot towards the Steinway: the sudden ring of the keys or the directional gesturing of the silent barkeep. Either way, she utters a quiet gasp before trying very hard — and failing — to hide a small smile.
"What a treat," she murmurs, pitched loud enough for Carol to hear. "And she sings so beautifully too." Settling on a bar stool, the librarian leans an elbow on the marble and her chin on her palm as she watches and listens. Boy, that smile is a little on the silly side now.
*
Carol hmms, "That she does." She smiles a little, glancing over at Rosemarie, "Sorry, guess I'm just lost in my own thoughts right now. Rough day at work." Which, well, par for the course, especially with what she does.
*
To his credit, Lucian does not initiate a jam session. He does not pay the least bit of attention to anyone else around him except the dark-haired singer, whose name rhymes with Fion. The white shaft of light trickles down through the focused lights overhead to make her skin gleam healthily.
His fingers flare across the keys and twinkling notes pour out their contributions to the music. As it should happen, the woman stops singing. She can't. A simple performance cannot usually hold people's attention. On the other hand, the glittering chords building up from the Steinway's deep, vibratory approach do part of the work. The other instrument is the man himself, but he halts after another bar or two when the singing ceases. That's the end of the point.
"Ah. I see, we've begun too late." He gestures, turning at the bench. "Back to work for me. You can use the back room for practice." Time to note those who are there at the bar as he moves to replace Maz, who herself is happy to run off into the dark.
*
"Hmm?" It take Rosemarie a moment to tear her eyes from the piano player, but she does manage it to glance over at Carol. Her brows draw in a concerned frown. "Oh, I'm sorry. That's never a good thing." Like a moth to a flame, her attention is drawn back to the Steinway and its handler. "Maybe he'll keep playing. It helps me when I have a bad — oh." A lilt of disappointment in the short exclamation as the man disengages from the instrument.
Followed closely by a little quiver. A hand moves to settle on the tupperware container even as she turns to face the bar. It's absolutely to hide the blush, but that will inevitably be a failed effort for the entirety of her life. It will never matter the cause — the flush strikes hard beneath the freckles. The barkeep — oh, she's gone now, which means…oh dear.
At least she can deliver the news! And her present.
*
Carol looks between Lucian and Rosemarie, then quickly hides a grin as she goes back to her drink, as nonalcoholic as it is. She doesn't say anything, but does observe the interaction with a bit of curiosity.
*
The buzz of conversation never travels far in a club, even with as good as acoustics as these. Somehow the murmurs don't descend from on high. They don't rise to the upper levels. His long stride gets Lucian to the marble and granite bar sooner than later. Sweeping around the side is easy, and he opts to take a white cloth left by Maz. His bartender is seamless with fading into the background, a blessing for him and a curse for anyone else who wants to contend with a Lilim warrior.
"Satisfied with your drinks or would you like to make an order?" The question is friendly, a touch reserved. The high from playing can't last forever, after all. In the shadows, his concoctions gleam like gemstones saturated in watery vases and odd, old bottles chosen explicitly for a neat shape. "We are meeting your exacting standards, ladies?"
*
Carol smiles politely, "Very much so, really. I'm definitely enjoying the music, and the atmosphere." Still, she doesn't sound all that enthused. But as Lucian might have overheard, she had a rough time at work.
*
Nibbling at the little scar on her lip for all of a second, Rosemarie looks up and across the bar to the barkeep. Clearing her throat and straightening on her stool, she attempts cool composure despite the redness lingering about cheeks and ears.
Carol's comment gains a nod of silent agreement from the librarian and her gaze travels back to the man behind the counter.
"I w-w-would — " Okay, nope, come on. Her tongue slips out to dab her upper lip before she tries again. "The piano playing was wonderful, as always. I would like a shot of rum, please." Her fingernails catch at the edge of the lid of the tupperware and she draws it back towards her more, into her personal space. Uncertainty shadows her intent now. "Were you meeting someone here?" This is asked of the woman in the blue dress. Not many people come alone to the club, so this is the librarian assuming things entirely.
*
The bit about meetings is clearly directed at Carol. Lucian resumes his duties, though his companion apparently did such a fine job scaring off the clientele present he hasn't much work. More come down the stairs, dressed to the sixes, many to the nines. The undulating wall of glass panels in seafoam green renders their silhouettes blurry until they emerge from the stairs.
Lucian has no trouble finding a bottle of rum from the chest beneath the bar, bending to grab it by touch alone. A tumbler follows, and he pours out the drink. A block of ice or two ends up in there. "A bit of practice. Pay attention to her, not me. She will go somewhere with that talent." His prediction is an easy thing to make when someone has heard Miss Dionne actually open her mouth and practice those pipes. "Thank you. We do strive to make the place memorable."
*
Carol glances over at Rosemarie, and smiles a bit wryly, "I /thought/ I was… of course, he's probably tied up at work, again. So much for a nice night out." She sips from her coke, looking briefly at the tumbler of rum before shaking her head a bit to herself. "And she is very good, that's for sure. Much better than anything I can manage."
*
"Me too," Rosemarie adds quietly in terms of her own ability to sing, her attention centered on the glass of rum before her. She wonders if it's one of the two she tasted last she visited Lux. It seems like a terribly long time ago, but then again, life is like that.
"I'm sorry that your date never showed." Carol is given a sympathetic half-smile, the librarian's cinnamon-brown eyes profoundly softened for the understanding of being alone in a new place. "It's a shame that he chose work over meeting you here. You dressed up so nicely too." She hates seeing someone bummed-out, even if they're doing a good job of hiding nearly all of it. The freckles perk a little more as she adds, "I'm Rosemarie, by the way. I work at the National Library."
Her gaze slips to Lucian for a second before returning to the woman in the dress. The news can wait.
*
The terrycloth towelette does a fine job abosrbing any liquid. Lucian wipes down the bar while the conversation engages the women. Eventually he gets an order from another server, which he fills; two glasses, a bottle of beer, and a thick layer of cinnamon spice put on the latter for no clear reason. But then nothing here is served straight. Oh, they can ask. They just don't get it.
"His loss, truly. Someone putting in the effort speaks to sincerity. And not everyone has the time to walk halfway across the city," he adds his two bits in support of Carol. His attention lies on the Tupperware container. Is Rosemarie going to ask him to a party and make her fortune on a luxury club buying plastic goods?
*
Carol smiles at Rosemarie, "Thanks. I mean, I can't complain /too/ much.. my own work schedule has been crazy the past few weeks, so I probably stood him up a few times too. Just the hazards of our respective jobs I guess." She nods at Rosemarie, and grins a little brighter, "Carol. It's nice to meet you. Both of you." She gives Lucian a glance at that, "Guess it's a bit slow this early in the evening."
*
Social niceties include mirroring and Rosemarie dimples now. "Carol." A nod and lingering once-over of the woman's face links it to the name. Not indelible fusion, but it'll do. If she ever sees the woman in passing, she'll at least recognize the face and probably be able to guess the first letter of the name. "All's f-fair in love and w-war?"
Therein slips the stutter and the librarian doesn't quite sigh in rueful acceptance. Instead, she buries her lips in a sip of the rum. Cold, spicy, sweet…it'll do. She wishes for a lack of ice cubes in hindsight, but there's that old saying about it being twenty-twenty and oh well. She's not about to send the drink back across the bar to the barkeep with the leonine blonde hair. Nope. Not brave enough for that.
Glancing to him again, she catches him eyeing the tupperware. Is that…a teasing smile on her mouth, half-hidden behind the glass as it is? Stand there and wonder, sir. At least for a little longer.
*
"Somewhat. The show isn't billed until ten, which gives us another two or three hours. Not common for the set to show up until then," says Lucian. He taps his finger lazily against the bar, and listens to some quiet refrain over the speakers. Crackling activity rightly implies someone is playing with the sound system. Probably an engineer in a black shirt somewhere. It isn't obviously him. "I'm not one to mind. Attentiveness is important, after all." Another string of servers slip by, none in any particular dresscode other than tasteful.
*
Carol glances over at Rosemarie, "Well, not /everything/ hopefully, but quite a few things seem to be." She doesn't seem to notice the stutter, or more likely just doesn't seem to care, giving Rosemarie a wry grin, "But, while the cat's away, the mice will play." Not that she looks remotely like a mouse, but still…
*
Not even one little bit like a mouse. If anything, the mouse is the librarian, very much the odd one-out in the room with such well-dressed cats around her.
"Y-y-yes, they will," comes the reply with a mildly-breathy laugh. Another mouthful of the rum puts her more at ease — or will fairly soon. Low tolerance, this one.
Alright, now comes time for bravery. Rosemarie sets down the sweating glass on the counter, is very aware of the ring of condensation it's going to leave on the pristine surface, and meets Lucian's eyes. "S-s-sp-peaking of attentiveness." Gulp. "Y-your account is settled. The f-fee is p-p-p-paid." The tupperware is shoved towards him with sudden speed, as if it's burning her palm and she needs must put as much distance between it and her as possible. "F-f-for y-you."
Red. So much redness, she looks sunburnt.
*
Lucian takes the container in question in both hands, and then slips it behind the bar. He does not open up the contents yet, though he could probably peer inside. Then he would be thoroughly distracted and such smacks of a kind of rudeness.
"Is it? Excellent. I hate having an outstanding bill anywhere." An easy crook of his shoulders gives the blond something like a passing sense of amusement. He tries not to grin as Rosemarie turns the colour of her namesake flower.
*
Carol gives Rosemarie a knowing look, unable to hide a smile as the librarian turns such a bright red, turning back to Lucian, "Actually, another coke on ice, if you please. Hopefully he'll turn up shortly.
*
With both hands now clutching her glass of rum like it's some emergency floatation device, the librarian manages to nod, even if she can't find the courage to hold his eyes anymore. Those starchy collars on the shirt. Yes, those are safe. Safe in the choppy waters of Stutter-ville.
"N-n-n-no outst-t-tanding b-bill, y-yes. I m-mean, all t-taken c-care of. Those are c-c-cookies. F-f-for you." Drat, she already said this.
"Ihopehedoestoo." It's all one blurred sentence aimed at Carol, half-mumbled into her glass as she imbibes about…half of it in one sitting. Somehow, she doesn't choke. Magic!
*
Carol grins, "Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go chase him down since he's probably still in his lab. That'll be a fun surprise." She chuckles, and places cash on the counter for Lucian, "Sure I'll be back again. Have a good night." Plenty for both the drinks as well as a hefty tip, as she turns and sashays out of the club.
*
She's beginning to feel the rum now. Carol is given a friendly, if stilted wave along with a brightly-flushed awkward smile.
"N-n-nice t-to m-m-m-meet you! Y-you too…" The last word is more whisper than audible, considering it barely leaves Rosemarie's mouth. Jealousy is a familiar green tint to her inner dialogue and the smile fades as she returns attention to Lucian.
All out of bravery now.
"Th-thank y-you for the d-dr-drink, b-but I sh-should g-g-g-go. K-keep the c-container." A quick dive of her hand into her purse retrieves the bills needed to pay for the unfinished rum. They're pushed towards him and she's equally as fleet of foot to leave the club. Just a little wobbling…a bit…but she can call a taxi from a payphone outside. Eventually, she'll find herself back in her apartment, nursing a cup of tea and a growing headache and a wonder at why on earth she felt cookies were the answer. At least her apartment smells lovely. Lola approves.
