|
  |
The relentless pace of artistic creativity sometimes drives a man to do foolish things. A muddled mint drink and several gins laid out on the bar mark a highwater moment, while Lucian takes slices of cucumber and rose petals plucked directly from the immaculate flowers. Some are red, others white. A few are pink, delicately staining the air from their bruised petals. He drops them one by one into the infusion, and he waits, fingers stirring up the last of the glasses with shameless abandon.
Sneak-sneak, down the stairs, as light-footed as she can manage in her ballet flats. Thus enters the little lamb known to haunt the recesses of the lurid-bright Lux. In professional's cream slacks and a black blouse complete with knotted bow at her decolletage, she slips into view — holding a container. The sight of Lucian at the bar is more than enough to stop her in her tracks; a door slamming in her face would have been just as effective.
No, stop. It was the liquor. There had to have been absinthe in it. You were drunk and acting silly. For heaven's sakes, the man was probably the one to call you the cab.
She reminds herself of all of this as she minces down the last flight of steps and to the floor proper. The Tupperware is a newer model, different color of lid, and she's less inclined to be as guarded about leaving it here. Inside, freshly-baked goods promised a while back. The steam manages to conceal their nature this time. Still warm! Right out of the oven!
Perhaps she makes it to the bar without being spotted by the barkeep so involved in his glasses with their rose petals. Perhaps she's pinned like a butterfly by the summer-sky blues. Either way, that Tupperware ends up timidly set down and even as she bites at her lip, never looking up from it, she unpeels the lid to reveal…chocolate chip cookies.
"A-As p-p-promised," she murmurs, setting the lid aside. "I b-b-baked them t-today."
Does a red rose taste any different in a gin diffusion than a white one? Can the flavours be conveyed through the floated concoction if he chooses to use a regular mint versus a chocolate? Things that the alchemist of Lucian must consider, and he maintains his focus with concentrated vigor through the six glasses. A few pinches here. A selection of chopped cucumber there. One dram by a spoonful from a bottle of this gin infused by a drift of lime-infused honey, and that one shot by a whisper of lavender, and that third with a ginger take.
He is far too busy to bother with anyone else coming into Lux short of them having a halo on their head and an edict from Dad to bring him home. Not without the sword, they won't, and they won't be wielding The Sword against him, either.
He sprinkles a bit more mint on one glass, swishing it around with a bulb-ended glass baton no longer than his pinky finger.
That means the strawberry blonde at the bar is the first to see Rosemarie coming down the stairs. Her eyes narrow a little and the woman in a swinging mustard-yellow dress that doesn't get even close to her knees leans across the bar, hands clasped together. Her nostrils flare. "Boss…"
He doesn't look up. "I told you not to call me that."
"Lucian," she repeats, and there is an edge of warning. The upward look might skewer Rosemarie collectively to the table, booth, floor, foundation bedrock, mantle, iron core of the planet, and the Sagittarius arm of the Milky Way.
"Good evening, Miss Falcroft." Smooth as ever, bastard. He licks the alcohol from his fingertip, tasting for the finer dimensions. "Glass doesn't give flavour like skin does. A different mouth feel, a wholly different set of chemistry. Reactions like you never imagined, all from a taste. Rather why kisses work or they don't, I suppose."
Forget being skewered. Forget the warning tone in the other server's voice.
Thank god for the bar stool because that voice, saying those things, is really…very… People joke about the vapors, but in that moment, Rosemarie just might have gone a bit glassy-eyed. Her cheeks are a fine shade of red to duel vigorously with the petals in a few of those glasses. Come on, girl, logical response. Play it cool. You're cool, you've got Antarctic water in your veins, ice cubes have nothing on you, you —
"S-Skin f-f-flavor?"
…should have just handed the man a cookie.
Forget everything you learned from your mother. The Devil is tall, bright, and fair. He knows when you are sleeping, he certainly prepares to make sure you stay awake. And his silver tongue…
Witness for herself that. Rosemarie receives a look from Lucian and then he returns to the alcoholic concoctions. He picks up a strange egg-timer with four coloured dials and sets them all, putting down the ticker on the countertap.
"Liquid on the skin is superior to liquid on a spoon or a glass when it comes to understanding the true taste of something. The secret of the elixir can only be sampled by the mouth." He glances at her again. "Have you never tried licking the chocolate smear from a fresh-baked cookie off your skin, rather than a spoon? Try."
With mouth hanging ajar enough to reveal the shadows of her teeth, the librarian glances down to the Tupperware with its piling of baked goods still so heated that they bend atop one another and break. Each cracked cookie reveals the innards in smooth, glistening chocolate chips still molten inside.
Well, it…sounds like a good…idea? Shifting on the stool as if it too is hot beneath her seat, Rosemarie then swipes a fingertip along one of the broken chips. It burns her skin only briefly before she samples it with utmost care to remain polite and proper in society.
It's…sweeter somehow than on its own or, indeed, on a baking spoon, metal or plastic. She cleans it from her fingertip and smacks her lips minutely, never once looking over at Lucian. Hmm — she can guess that it's the natural salt on her skin that gives it an extra depth of saccharine from baking experience.
"It's g-g-good," she murmurs, tongue slipping up along her lip once more.
Truth, Lucifer Morningstar knows what he is talking about. Along with the art of bartending, he may know a thing or two about the fusion of baking and excellent flavours. Concoctions on the tongue are something of a specialty. He offers that mere, thoughtful smile to her.
"Need a light to bring one of them to melting again? I am sure we have some kind of burner or stove coil around here that will work," he comments, dryly regarding Rosemarie instead of the timer ticking away noisily inside its plastic shell.
Proof is in the pudding. Or the whorls of her fingertips. The librarian is left to sample her own wares and comment upon them. He turns back to measuring up the shots. One is pulled aside, another splash of gin added, just enough to cut the flavour.
"Y-Y-Yes…?"
It's a tiny little agreement in regards to the burner or stove coil or whatever the staff of Lux can conjure up from the depths of the club's basement or back cupboards or even the kitchen. Her cinnamon-brown eyes, brave enough to rise from the box of cookies to the barkeep's task at hand, linger upon the glasses. He looks very involved in said task, but still, Rosemarie tries a quiet little song of conversation.
W-What are y-y-you w-working on?" The Tupperware makes a hiss of a slide across the bartop towards him a half inch, the gesture implying that he should take a cookie. There must be some salt stuck to the bottom of the container to make said noise; after all, this bartop is continually pristine.
Yes indeed. The flavour of chocolate is unique. Let her enjoy that much, tempted and fallen to it. Lucian doesn't smirk, and the strawberry blonde at the bar continues her work with the ease and skill of a chatelaine in a castle.
"Working on a special for the coming week. Something better than a tart rose tonic. Too easy to make a rose tonic, anyone can do that." He reaches out for the Tupperware and scrapes his nail carefully over the plastic lid. "Am I to return the container now or will you come astray into my den of decadence and claim your virtue, such as it is?"
How to make a Rosemarie blush: deliver a line just like that. Watch her go. Is he deliberately attempting to draw out the Otherness? The metagenic feather-light touch upon her genes, with its odd sentience, measures chances from a distance within her psyche.
"Y-Y-Y-Y — " Oh dear. She swallows, scratching behind one ear and attempting to hide it by tucking a loose lock away. "Y-Y-Y-You…" Her voice fades out. Try again. "K-K-Keep it."
Wait, no, not keep it. Immediately, she looks at the bartop, biting terribly hard at the scar on her lip. No one's going to use it here. "En-n-n-joy them. The c-cookies." Dammit, she can't meet that lofty and suave delivery to save her life. "I c-c-can g-get it l-later."
Perhaps the mutagens are inspired by cookies and stoked by the fire of absolute truth. There is nothing in Lucian's bearing not utterly truthful, even as he picks up the round egg timer a moment before it starts to rattle. He palms it, making a stifled hum silent in the confines of the club. "There, they should be done. If the muddling is not complete, it will not be any point from now."
Depositing the timer on the inside of the bar, he then picks up one of the shot glasses and sniffs the liquid contained therein. Rose, ginger, mint muddle. He hands it to her. "Try this, then, and tell me what your preferred taste is. This one has a bit of spice and bite, unexpected but balanced."
"Oh." She carefully takes it from him, careful not to brush fingertips, and eyes the glass. She can see the single rose petal within it, bright enough to match the lingering glow in her cheeks and she takes a moment to appreciate the visual nuances of it, at least. Sniffing at it proves to suss out the warm curl of ginger above the cool juniper and coriander of the gin contents. The rose might slip through like a lover's breath, but it's difficult to find.
Like a cautious cat, the tip of her tongue samples it at first. Of course it's not the way to take a shot….but she's never taken a shot. Her brows knit as she considers the drink before her. Aw, hell.
There's no smoothness to the action. None. Half of it goes into her mouth before the volume makes her near gargle it. A little cough, more blushing, and she throws the rest back simply to spite everyone at the bar. And in the room. And basically the world. One last cough and she licks her lips again.
"I like the ginger," she whispers, slowly looking up at Lucian.
What delectable taste of life might be found in the especial pleasures of liquor, a libation made for the joy of the unsuspecting. Lucian picks up one of the other drinks and examines it, then downs it entirely in one go. Unfairness that he can swallow his deliverance thus, untroubled and unchallenged on the whole.
"It helps," he says, "sometimes to breathe before rather than after. A bit of bluster, a little weather. Now, try this one. More a taste of lemon than some. You may like it."
It is with no small parts envy that she watches the barkeep indulge in his creation. Her brows knit again and…is that a miniscule pout? Another shot glass presented to her, this time apparently with citrus notes present overtop the evergreen and brush of rose petal. She eyes it, then him, and then it again with a little sigh.
Ah, peer pressure.
Taking his suggestion in pattern of breathing, she inhales slightly before attempting to emulate him. Less fluster this time around, though yet another little cough that wheezes slightly.
Licking at her lips, she sets the glass down and offers up, as comment, "I l-like the l-lemon. It p-pairs with the g-ginger n-nicely."