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"…and I can't believe she said that to Tillie!" She being the raven-like, brooding, and incredibly-overbearing Mrs. Ketch, head librarian and bane to all of good cheer. "Tillie wasn't doing anything wrong," Rosemarie continued, rather hot under the collar for having watched it all go down and being stymied for interacting with a patron at the time. "Lindon, she's terrible."
The brunette huffs and scratches behind one ear. It seems to mollify her even as she opens the outermost door to a certain club with a certain name. "Come on, this is the place. Lux. They have good rum and I want at least…one shot," she grumbles, leading the way down the stairs. The nearly-translucent green-glass wall allows little light past and it takes rounding the stairs to the usual pause point on the landing for the view of Lux's main floor to show. In business slacks and a light-weight periwinkle-blue button-down blouse, she's clearly just come from work, like a few of the current attendees. "The bar is there, come on," she murmurs, glancing at Lindon with a cajoling little smile.
Maybe…just maybe…they'll reach the stools and immaculate marble surface without running into Mazikeen.
…but luck's never been on Rose's side here.
"One of her cats is sick," Lindon says. "Which doesn't excuse it at all, but that's what's precipitating her being worse than usual." He follows along with Rosemarie, so very easily led by the friendly coworker who seems willing to put up with his general weirdness. Without trying to marry him off to someone.
Awkwardly, he adds, "I just got two kittens." then, "I've never been here. You go here regularly?" He looks around the place, wide-eyed. He's such a staid and, well, boring man usually. Places like this? He's dressed for work, lacking any sort of glamour, and the way he moves, he's not sure what to actually do with his body in timespace.
The bar," he say. "Yes, I think I could use a drink."
A pretty young woman in a very short, sparkling gold dress the sort usually found nowhere outside vaudeville rests on a piano bench. Next to her is a man, tall and fair, the two of them fascinating in their own right. They're something of a cultural experiment: beauty versus talent, charm versus grit. She, of all things, is singing while he, blindfolded, plays. It might seem an unfair combination to go on with. The torrential flood of melodic notes shimmer off the walls and the rooftop, the acoustics of Lux superlative. They're the sort of thing achievable due to a remarkable Steinway piano likely to have people sacrificing their firstborn and eye teeth for, if they're any kind of musician. He strokes the keys as intimately as he might trace the contours of a lover's back, the intimacy of the player and the instrument all the more given he goes by touch alone. A slinky, slithering blaze of music that rolls up is accompanied by her shockingly smoky voice. Once, she might have been some kind of torch singer in a lounge. Here, she's something else.
She's vibrant and ferocious and harsh.
"He's five feet two and he's six feet four,
He fights with missiles and with spears,
He's all of thirty-one and only seventeen,
He's been a soldier for a thousand years."
The petite woman in that dress is no blonde, no figment of a library, and certainly no Mazikeen. But Maz shares something: war, and rage, and defiance. With black hair and copper skin, she's a stamp apart from whitebread WASP culture. And, say what you will, but she can /howl/ in fury and dreams.
Rosemarie nods, but it's distracted. After all, she's trying very hard not to feel a stupid amount of admiration for the man playing said piano blind-folded. Forget the torch singer…though that is a short dress and the librarian's eyes do wander appreciatively, but it's a passing note lost to a veritable folio of music.
"Not too regularly, but…often enough," she hedges, giving him a quick glance. "We'll drink to Mrs. Ketch's cat getting better so we can finish a shift without being loomed over — or yelled at — or generally harassed," says the brunette to Lindon before taptap-ing down the stairs in her flats. Over to the bar stools she goes and sits down with an ease that betrays her familiarity with the place. She pats at a stool beside her after spinning to face the piano. "Lindon, here! Listen, he's amazing." There's a good portion of excitement in her loud whisper and a blush touches the tops of her cheekbones.
Forget rum, this is a better way to forget the woes of the day. Ah, music to soothe the tortured soul.
Lindon swallows when he sees the pianist and his singer. "They… they're good," he comments. He sits upon the patted seat, his hands folded before him loosely. He too faces the piano. "I've never heard anyone like this before," he admits. Then he's quiet for a long, awkward moment.
Finally, he says, "It's the ginger short-haired tabby. It had some sort of misadventure, I'm guessing a car was involved. Broken limb. Should be okay." He glances at Rosemarie sideways. "She has fur on her sweater, more ginger than the other kinds. There's a smudge of plaster dust ground into the threads her sweater, I imagine from holding the animal before the cast set fully.
Yep. Just sitting at the bar, talking to his friend. He bites his lower lip, then says lightly, "So they've got drinks here. I think I'll have a whiskey sour."
Forget the usual addition of a guitar for acoustics, the piano notes soar around her voice, jabbing and spiking harder. The little singer taps her foot on the ground while Lucian, hands to the keys, provides the melody in a jagged minefield of crackling couplets that give the duet an angry, sharp edge that its native performance out, say, in Washington Square Park would never have.
"He's a Catholic, a Hindu, an atheist, a Jain
A Buddhist, and a Baptist, and a Jew,
And he knows he shouldn't kill,
And he knows he always will,
Kill you for me, my friend, and me for you."
No wonder there's no Mazikeen to be seen but instead a strawberry blonde of roughly twenty-five manning the bar and largely fulfilling orders, not paying any heed to the Native singer or the blindfolded bartender. On the other hand, she does give a good deal of attention to the twin libraries. Librarians. Her gaze is a patchwork affair, measuring both of them, considering desires and needs. Her hip bumps against the marble bar, and if it's by chance that a silhouette ghosts along the upper reaches of the mezzanine to safeguard the vulnerable god from ill-meaning guests, so be it. Those below are welcome to drink, as drink they will. "We don't serve standards," she points out, gesturing to one of the menus and the 'No Dull Drinks Served Wanted Worth The Money' drawn onto a chalkboard, the two crossed out lines in totally different handwriting. "Live dangerously or richly."
Startled by the voice behind the counter, for she had only eyes for the musical magic in the central portion of the floor, Rosemarie turns on her stool with hesitant speed. A little laugh followed by a clearing of her throat and she glances to Lindon.
"They're good drinks," she offers up with a sense of an apology for his want being denied. "I'll have a Rosa M-Mundi." Oh, the stutter! She drops her gaze to the countertop, that blush coming on a little stronger. "I-I also w-want to know h-how you know about the p-plaster," she murmurs for Lindon's ears. A squint of intrigue follows. "Y-You're like s-s-some…detective."
Lindon regards the woman behind the bar for a moment. Rosemarie stutters, Lindon goes deer-in-headlights. "Uh, then I'll have an Epiphany." He half-smiles, aware of the play on words. "Thank you." Then he slowly looks away, back to his friend and coworker.
"She was wearing her sweater when she came in, and I was at the desk. I saw it before she took it off. The dust had the consistency of, um, of plaster." Then he laughs a little and shakes his head. "No, no, I'm not a detective. It's just what I saw." His gaze strays toward the musicians, captivated despite himself.
|ROLL| Lucian +rolls 1d100 for: 37
The flow of motion behind the bar follows as the strawberry girl goes to recover the ingredients necessary for that particular elixir. One that's already prestocked in a way through the witch's shelves of various mixed infusions and components that a simple taste won't distill, short of chemical mastery over everything. Bottles and jars are pulled down, measured out into a shaker, and poured thus. The act of shaking, straining, and mixing is an art of itself, as fine as dance, and the woman on her toes might well have the role of a ballerina on the stage somewhere prominent in the city.
The musician pauses as the notes taper off, and she shakes her head. "I don't think I like the next part. It needs more work and won't match." Her hands are steady at her sides. No telling why, but the musician flashes a grin. "Pass me the cigarette, Buffy?" Yep. That's her name, believe it or not. The stick is handed over, and the light, which she applies after he takes the cigarette and puts it in his fingers. Then to his mouth, a measured arc. The last notes fade out in the dim, rippling bronze shadows of the club. The exhalation of smoke matches the first of the glasses prepared behind the bar. The second is just being poured out, muddled by a glass stick..
Some impression of the silhouette above moves away. Not of interest. Moments later, a tangible force connects with the back of Lindon's scalp and nape, like the broad side of a pool noodle woven in leaves and ivy thwacking him. It's got force enough to jar him forward or worse if he's not paying attention. The strawberry blonde says, "Here's your epiphany. And for you, Rosa Mundi…" The pause is pregnant with anticipation. Or possibly silence.
"You're r-r-eally p-perceptive," she stutters quietly to Lindon, glancing between him and the bartender. Hearing a familiar voice means turning her face towards the piano, over her shoulder, and she watches Lucian digress about the piece of music itself, though she can't pick out individual words overtop the fading rings of piano keys.
Some sort of reaction happens beside her, with her coworker, and it gives her cause to flinch and utter a quiet 'eeep!' She blinks a few times at him before realizing that she's being addressed by the bartender. Indeed, her drink, but…oh dear. Those cinnamon-brown eyes are awfully wide as she stares across the bar at the strawberry-blonde, feeling all too well the hanging potentiality of the moment and trying exquisitely hard to not itch for it.
Lindon's head jerks forward at the smack, and he immediately rubs the spot where he's been hit. He whips around to look and, upon finding nothing, he studies the bartender, the bar itself, every detail he can take in while that super brain racks itself for details as to the cause. His dark eyes move as though he were reading something in the air. Whatever conclusion he draws, he leans back, taking his drink, and he says slowly, "Thank you."
There's a subtle shift in him, a higher alertness, though there's a sense of the familiar, too. Mystical fuckery. He's come to know it well. He studies the drink, then takes a small taste. Everything promised is present, and if there's magic in it, well. There's alcohol too, and after the day he's had…
"To a better work day tomorrow," he says and, still cautious, he drinks.
"Y-Y-Y-Yes, a b-better w-w-work d-day," Rosemarie hesitantly responds, lifting her own drink in a toast. It seems like no one's poisoned her corworker's drink and it'd be impossible to taste anything in hers. The rum is perfectly spicy-sweet, the bourbon clean, and the cirus fruits blend beautifully with the teasing overlay of — you guessed it — rose petals. Licking her top lip, she sets down her drink and considers it before glancing over at Lindon again. "D-Do y-y-you notice l-little things l-like the p-plaster all of the t-time?"
Lindon finds the drink acceptable. Good, even, but his expression is often one of gentle acceptance and resignation. This is his life now. It includes a tasty drink and rubbing the back of his head. He lowers his drink as well, and he tilts his head as he studies Rosemarie. He's noticed the stutter, of course, and he's starting to piece together when she does it and when she doesn't. "Often," he tells her. "It's hard not to notice them."
Rosemarie nods, folding her arms and resting them atop the bar.
"C-C-Can you…t-turn it off?" Her brows shift between neutrality and a frown, reflection of the fight she makes to keep the stutter from fracturing her words to pieces. "O-Or is it something that j-just…is? Does it d-disturb your work?" Sweetly-simply curiosity bids her to inquire further, always watchful of possibly stepping on delicate feelings. Her cinnamon-brown eyes reflect the lack of guile. Even the blush beneath her freckled cheeks has all but gone away.
Lindon shakes his head, glancing down at his drink. There's an air of weariness to him, but good humor as he smiles faintly. "No, I can't turn it off. It's just thinking." He rubs the back of his neck, an awkward habit, and says, "It actually helps my work. I can read fast, it's handy for cataloging, and being being able to draw conclusions quickly means cutting corners, but doing it with an acceptable measure of accuracy." He admits in a low tone, "I spend a lot of time looking for more work to do, but I don't want the boss to see what I can do."
"Ah." There's a wondering appreciation in the single word and her pink lips curve into a smile. "I w-wondered if y-you were a genius, b-but now…" A little laugh, self-remonstrative, and she sips at her drink as she considers words. "You're v-very smart, Lindon. I can tell. I can…always f-find m-more for you t-to do, if you're bored." Rosemarie wrinkles her nose faintly, though the quirks at the corners of her mouth don't fade. "I know w-where a l-lot of unfinished p-projects exist in the library. You c-could…get into very g-good standing with Mrs. Ketch w-with a few of them." Her eyebrows flick up and settle into a thoughtful frown. "Or Bart, in Archives. Th-The more complicated t-tasks are there, I'd bet."
Lindon's smile broadens when Rosemarie invokes the 'g' word, and he ducks his head, trying to hide his pleasure behind another drink. "I get a little bored sometimes," he admits, "and it never hurts to get in good with the resident tyrant." He perks up when the Archives are mentioned. He's still just a baby in terms of time on staff goes. They haven't let him do the good stuff yet. "If you could get me into the Archives, I'd owe you one. I transferred to this branch so I'd get the chance to get in there someday."
"Bart w-will probably listen to my suggestions. We recently became…g-good friends." The laugh is kept behind thinned lips, but only for so long. It's a quick peal of giggling and thus, the blush returns lightly. "I r-recently brought him a very r-rare book. He holds m-me in great esteem for this." A side-glance twinkles at Lindon even as she takes a bigger swig of her drink. Already, a lassitude is beginning to suffuse her mind and it's so very welcome after the day they had.
"You know how to get on a guy's good side," Lindon says, and his smile grows in confidence. The alcohol is helping to loosen him up, and besides, he's more or less comfortable around Rosemarie. About as comfortable as he gets around other people, anyway. "Are you nervous?" he asks. "I'm good with facts and figures, but not people. I can't figure them out." At least he has the grace not to outright ask 'why do you stutter.'
Her grin flashes teeth. Oh very good, she's made someone happy. Daily check off her list. "I'll talk with Bart." Lindon asks a perfectly pertinent question and she's hard-pressed to answer for a few seconds. "Nervous?" Her shrug rattles ice cubes against the walls of her glass. "I suppose you c-could put it that way. I've al-al-always stuttered, so I'm used it it. It happens when I get f-flustered."
Leaning to one side brings Rosemarie close enough for a truly conspiratorial volume of voice. Their arms don't touch, but one shift could make this true. "Th-This is a g-good place to practice my inner peace. I m-meditate every day. It helps calm me, b-but…one must try to remain c-calm in real life too, you know?" Retreating back to a proper sitting alignment, she swallows another sip and sighs through her nose. "It's a challenge," she murmurs, a smile flashing by her lips.
Lindon glances to the scant space between them, poignantly aware. Then his gaze flits to her. That smile comes easily. "You're not flustered by me are you?" he asks as though the concept were baffling. He's just Lindon. "I bet it's the bar. This place is snazzy." After another drink, he says, "You meditate? That's great. It's part of my morning routine."
He considers for a moment. Then he admits, "I've always been kind of shy. I never stuttered per se, but it's always been hard to meet people and relate to them. I don't mind, though. I have books."
"I understand, b-believe me." Her gaze resting on him is empathetic. "I'm a l-librarian for a similar reason, though m-maybe more…more that I have…gosh…only a c-certain amount of t-tolerance for people. They m-make me weary sometimes." Only half of her drink remains now and on an empty stomach, it's making her rather loose-limbed. Her normally correct posture, composed and even withdrawn, has given way to a firm lean on the bartop with one arm while the other holds her drink above the surface. "Flustered by you?" Rosemarie gives him a grin. "No. You're kind. You're sweet. No, you don't fluster me." Note the complete lack of a stutter. 'Tis a compliment somehow, assuredly. "You meditate too though? I thought I was the only one embracing such a…New Age…thing?" Her tone wriggles upwards in a questioning pitch.
Lindon's cheeks color a bit when he's called sweet, and he ducks his head again. "You're sweet too," he says. "I like talking to you. You're nice, and you don't seem to mind it too much when I babble about, uh, brains and stuff." He shifts his attention to his drink, takes a drink, and says, Um, yeah. I meditate." His lips twitch at a half-smile. "It's rather old age, if you think about it. People have been doing it for centuries, and it works, so…"
"It does work, yes." Her small exhale speaks of a resigned acceptance to its need. "I don't think you babble though. I think it's like my stutter, maybe. So much that you want to say, but it comes out differently. Not wrong, differently," she emphasizes with a little wobble on her stool and a point of her finger from the hand holding her glass. Another big sip and she coughs. That much bourbon in one swallow, smooth or not, tends to tickle.
Another lean towards him and her voice drops to a loud whisper again. "You know who m-makes me stutter? Lucian." She nods firmly, loose tendrils of her hair swaying at her shoulders. The bun didn't quite survive the work day. "He's w-worth st-t-tuttering over."
Lamont arrives from Out <O>.
Lamont has arrived.
"There are all these thoughts in my head," Lindon says with a low laugh, and he shakes his head wryly. "Busting to get out, and I… I like people. I just don't communicate very well with them. So I want to share all this interesting information, but let's face it, it's eating brains."
Rosemarie and Lindon sit at the bar, each nursing a drink. "Careful," he says when Rose coughs. Without thinking, he pats her back. He leans in to listen, and he grins at her. "The guy on stage? I thought so. He's, uh, I can see why someone would think he's handsome."
The pat on the back is appreciated, rest assured. Rosemarie's too buzzed at this point to notice too much oddity.
"At the p-p-piano, yes." She dares a glance over her shoulder and boy, does that blush hit her sideway like a rogue wave. "H-H-He has v-v-very b-blue eyes." Man, it sounds lame in retrospect and she laughs, tucking her chin to her chest. "N-N-Never m-mind m-m-me. L-Like I m-mentioned earlier." She swallows hard, licks her lips, and gets out, "It's good practice not stuttering."
Huzzah! Worth another sip. Ooh, tingly fingers.
And then there's Lindon's shadow, the Shadow. Not that he's really resumed that identity in this era. But Lamont's in one of those beautifully tailored suits in a steelly blue-gray. He comes sauntering towards the bar, calm and reserved as ever. Save for the gleam in the gray eyes. He settles himself at Lindon's other side without awaiting an invitation. Surprise, Lin.
Lindon grins more broadly. For once he's not the most awkward person in the room! "You should go talk to him," he says. "You're pretty. He's be an idiot not to like you." He glances toward the pianist, and it's a risk, outing himself, if he were to say what he really thought about the man. Instead, he relegates his opinion to, "He might be really nice."
Lindon is in his clothes from work: a button shirt with a tie, pressed slacks, sensible yet polished shoes. His hair is combed back neatly with the help of pomade. When he spies Lamont, he perks up noticeably, and he says, "Rosemarie, may I introduce Lamont Cranston? He's my housemate."
"Y'think so…?" Sounds like someone's not convinced. Lindon gets a pair of fairly wide doe-eyes from his coworker. "M-M-Maybe I should…" Another risky glance over her shoulder towards the piano, but it seems someone's also too chicken to do it. Maybe it's the presence of the torch singer still at the piano bench. That all-too-short golden dress is so much more attractive than her own dark brown slacks and periwinkle-blue blouse.
But then, distraction! Saved by the sudden appearance of…Lindon's housemate? Rosemarie leans forwards to look past her coworker and gives Lamont a wary smile. "Nice t-to m-m-meet you. We w-w-work together," she informes the man in his suit who looks entirely appropriate to be attending such a place as Lux.
Lamont holds out a hand to her, with the tiniest of smiles. "A pleasure, Miss Rosemarie," he says, agreeably. That's a fancy New York accent, but he doesn't seem the least bit stiff. Exerting himself to be pleasant. A glance at the pianist, and then back. "I've found the musician to be amiable enough," he notes. Rosemarie's not the only one to spend an evening gazing longingly at Lucian, let's be honest.
"If he doesn't like you," Lindon says, "He's an idiot, and you can do better." He glances to Lamont. Back him up here, man. "Rosemarie here is the one I told you about," he says to his… housemate, sure. "The one who listened to me babble about the brains? She's my favorite person at work." As evidenced by how comfortably he sits and drinks with her. That's not his usual M.O.
It's hard for him to remain simply casual around Lamont, but he leans hard on his natural awkwardness to keep a healthy, plausible distance. "You come here?" he asks. "This is my first time. Way too snazzy for me, but the drinks are good."
The squeeze that Lamont's hand gets is moderately strong, if not a bit wet from the condensation on her drink that's nearly done. Only but three big swigs left in the warmly-hued liquor. Thankfully, she doesn't accidentally smack Lindon when bringing her arm back across his personal space and into her own.
Her coworker's support is enough to make her wiggle in her seat and giggle faintly. "Thank you, L-Lindon, you're t-t-too k-kind." Her lean overtop the bar to continue observing Lamont brings her rather obviously into view past Lindon. "The d-d-drinks are v-very g-g-good." She lifts up her glass in a toast to such a compliment upon the establishment. The mostly-melted ice cubes tink against its sides.
"I've been here several times," Lamont allows, still wearing as pleasant a look as he almost ever gets. "I do like it. The drinks are good, so's the music, but it's never so noisy it seems tiring, if that makes sense." Surely it will, to a pair of librarians. His hand's warm and dry….and has gunman's calluses on it. Perhaps not entirely a man of leisure.
"I shouldn't be surprised," Lindon says to Lamont. "It's your caliber of place. Rosemarie brought me here because we had a rough day at work." He raises his glass to Rose, swirls his drink, then swallows the last of it. Setting the glass down, he adds, "It's a lot better now.
"Lamont's a nice guy," he tells Rosemarie. He has a feeling the stuttering isn't directed at his Shadow, but one does like to reassure. "Remember how I told you we got those kittens? He's a total softie for them. You should come see them sometime if you want."
The reassurance gains another quiet giggle from Rosemarie. "A s-softie for kittens? Who's not a s-softie for k-kittens? It's been f-forever since my Lola w-w-was a kitten…" Her head flops heavily into her hand as she sighs and swirls her drink. "Flame-point, in c-c-case you're c-curious," she adds.
"But I haven't ever s-s-seen y-you before here, Mr. Cranston." Her cinnamon-brown eyes level on him, somewhat glassy for the liquor's touch. "What d-d-do y-you usually d-drink? Oh, b-but y-yes, Lindon, the k-kittens. I'd love to see them." Her coworker gets a big grin. Kittens are enough to distract her entirely from the piano-playing barkeep, apparently.
"It would take a much more hardened soul than I have to resist kittens," says Lamont, innocently. Nevermind that this is more or less Art Deco Dexter. "I'm here occasionally, as the whim takes me. Ah, I haven't a regular drink. I'm slowly working my way through the list of obscure and creative cocktails here," he says. Hey, it's a hobby. "And you're welcome to come see them. They are appealing. Lilac, I think, is the term for their color?" He looks at Lindon, as if in search of a prompt. And resists the temptation to wink at him.
"A flame point, how cute," Lindon says. He's not at all sorry to sound sappy for kitties. He nods to Lamont and says, "Yes, they're lilac-point." Then, to Rosemarie, "Balinese. My sister won't admit it, but she's allergic, and these produce only a small amount of the protein that triggers allergies."
He waits until the bartender in her strawberry-blonde glory comes over to the trio again and he orders a Rus. "I had an Epiphany and something smacked me on the back of the head," he says. "Hopefully this won't summon a Russian Viking horde."
"Oh, Balinese! Y-Yes, I know the breed. How c-cute. I'm happy to c-come over and see them. Y-You let me know when." She twinkles when she smiles truly, freckles and all, and the shyness fades away to reveal that warmly-sunny interior that composes her core nature. Yes, a wallflower, but a sweet one nonetheless.
Lindon mentioning the earlier impact is cause for a cloud to cover said expression and she frowns. "I w-wasn't hearing funny things? Something actually smacked y-you? Oh." She considers her own drink, nearly gone, weighing the chance of getting another. "I'll h-have to mention that to Lucian. It's rude." Oh yes. She'll talk to him about it.
Lamont turns a bemused eye on Lindon. "Smacked you?" he asks. AS if he's not at all sure he's caught that.
Lindon waves a hand vaguely and says, "Something like air with some force behind it." Like it's just a natural thing to get whiffed by nothingness enough to jerk your head forward. He's quick to add, "I'm fine. It was startling more than anything." And, no, it didn't occur to bring it up at the time. Because Lindon.
"Maybe you could come have dinner at the house some night, Rosemarie," he says. "You might even meet my sister if she's around that night. She's a sweet kid."
"I'd l-love that, Lindon. Y-You let me know w-what would b-be a g-g-good day and I'll bring over dessert. I m-make a mean apple pie," she announces with another twinkling grin. "It's w-won awards before. I r-recently b-bought a new mixer and it d-does a very good job."
She's rather proud of the thing, to be honest. It's the most expensive thing in her apartment currently save for Lola. Good breeding and all.
"Y-Your sister? I d-didn't know y-you had a sister." She takes one of the last three sips. Down to two.
"I'm a decent cook," Lamont volunteers. The idea of playing at domesticity….it's kind of hilarious, really. To have any at all. He's come a long way from being the stereotypical rich playboy. Surely he has staff to cook for him, or….something. "Let me know what you'd like, I'll see if I can make it."
"Apple pie? I love apple pie," Lindon says. He smiles the at Lamont, and it's a rather friendly smile, punctuated by a downward glance. "Lamont and I cook dinner together a lot. I, uh, I know a lot of recipes." He taps the side of his temple. "So I can cook a bit, I guess." More like he could be a chef if he could handle the pressure and people in a professional kitchen.
"Oh! Yes, and any food allergies or religious prohibitions," Lindon adds on the tail of Lamont's words. "There are so many dishes out there, it'll be no problem finding one we all like."
Rosemarie nods and throws back the rest of her drink. No coughing this time. Someone might be proud if they weren't busy at the piano.
"I have n-no allergies. No prohibitions." Hey, she got that one with no stutter or slurring. Bonus points. "I'm f-fairly easy. J-Just…no tripe." She grimaces, flicking out her tongue momentarily. "P-Please, no tripe."
That has Lamont suppressing a smile. Which is something he is very, very good at. "I will remember," he says, easily. Nursing some sort of herbal thing, it seems. And they do cook dinner a lot. No need to always depend on the part-time cook's leftovers.
Lindon receives his new drink and takes a swallow. Ooh, yes, this one agrees with him. He leans against the bar, still more or less in possession of his wits. He's not as petite as Rosemarie. It takes more to get him tipsy. "No tripe," he agrees. He lifts his glass to his lips, then says, "What about calves brains. I know at least a dozen recipes." Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth just then. He just looks at them both guilelessly.
Another drink? Hmm… Her fingertip taps atop the edge of the empty glass even as she considers, resting her jaw once more in the palm of her other hand and elbow atop pristine marble bartop.
"Calves brains?" Rosemarie manages to hide most of her rolicking giggles behind her hand, her entire body committed to channeling the amusement. "Oh, oh-ho, n-no calves brains, Lindon, blugh. We're n-no starving p-pioneers here!"
Lamont has a masterful pokerface, and he brings it to bear now. For all the world like those stone statues of the pharaohs at the Met. Still working on his drink - he'll stretch this one out all night. Pleasant company, and Lucian before him. Though to his credit (one hopes), he's kept his gaze on his companions.
Lindon smiles slowly, then laughs. It's a quiet thing, more seen in the trembling of his shoulders than heard. "If you're sure. I mean, anything tastes all right if it's fried." He takes another sip of his drink, and without thinking about it he pats Rosemarie on the back again, not that giggling is a coughing fit.
He asides to Lamont, "I was archiving some old Southern cookbooks from pioneer days. You wouldn't believe the things desperate people will eat."
And Rosemarie, buzzed enough to order a second Rosa Mundi in a fit of good spirits, returns the pat-pat on Lindon's shoulder. Silly friendly social gestures.
"Oh y-yes, Mr. Cranston. Calves brain and - and — oh, Lindon, what was the other one? Not t-treacle, was it? I've, hee-hee, had t-too m-much to drink to r-remember."
"Having travelled to China and the Himalayas, my friend, I assure you, I can," Lamont deadpans. But the gray eyes are alight…..and he managed to not call Lindon 'my dear', in public. "Treacle's all very well in its place," he adds, glancing down into his drink, demurely.
Lindon grins at the pat-pat. Human contact! Oh God, it really is good for people. Lindon has been getting a lot more, recently, but there's still so much to catch up on. "We'll make sure you get home all right," he tells Rosemarie as she starts in on her second drink.
Then he laughs and says, "Blackstrap molasses for horses. It's nutritious though. It's what's left after you pull all the sugar out. I wouldn't want to eat it, but apparently horses love it." He grins at Lamont, and that lowering of lashes might as well be a peck on the lips for how affectionate it is. "I like sweeter things, too."
Rosemarie makes some noises of disgust and sticks out her tongue again before giggling. "The horses c-can keep that molasses. And the treacle. I'll s-stick with my apple pie."
Another rather large swig of the next Rosa Mundi drink goes down easily and she hums to herself, a few bars of an elusive melody, before glancing over at the two gentlemen. "I d-do appreciate you coming along w-with me, Lindon, and you for showing up, Mr. Cranston. It's v-verrah nice to h-have company here. Easy to practice not stuttering, y'know." They're saluted with her drink and another mouthful goes down. Ooh, everything practically glows now, how nice. She's extra slouchy, managing to sit up straight only when actively considering it, which admittedly takes more of her mental faculties than usual at this point. "But y-your sister. I didn't know y-you had a sister!" This exclamation is for Lindon. "B-Baby sister, you said? Will I m-meet her at dinner then?"
Ah, the short term memory loss of drinking.
There's one of those fractional little smiles from Lamont, meeting that look. A fissure in that reserve. "Molasses and treacle aren't always synonymous," he protests, as he takes another sip of his drink. "Some night I'll make you treacle tart, and prove it." He offers the suggestion of a bow from his seat. "You are more than welcome, miss."
"I wouldn't mind tasting that treacle tart," Lindon says. "Just the sound of it is tempting my sweet tooth." Still, he's thinking about that impending apple pie. Award winning? Hey, the man likes his desserts, not that one could tell, given how lanky he is. On the top of his sister, he admits, "I hadn't seen her for a long time. She came out to New York to see me, and I think she's going to stay." He sighs a little. Big brothers and their woes. "You might meet her if she's not out galavanting around. She's been here less than a month and her social calendar is fuller than mine has ever been."
"I look forwards to meeting her if she's around then," Rosemarie replies with as much diplomacy as she can muster doing her subtle weaving in place on her chair. There's a little lisp now, indicative of the fact that she's quite comfortable where she's at. "But treacle tart? Blugh." Yep, she looks like kindergartner being shown brussel sprouts.
But don't toddlers act like drunk adults from time to time anyways?
"You'll say differently when you've had a chance to try it," Lamont's tone is assured. "It didn't sound appealing to me when first I heard of it, but if it's properly made. I remember the first time I had it…." And then he's pausing, marshalling his story. For it won't be the truth, if they ask him where that was.
"Yes, treacle's just a sugary syrup," Lindon says. "Except it's not. Somehow, the ingredients transform into something that's greater than the sum of its parts." He does give Rosemarie a rather amused look, though. "Maybe I just like sugary foods in all their forms."
He glances at Lamont, and the question is right there in his eyes. But the man who's not good at people? He's getting a lot better at Lamont, and he doesn't ask. Instead, he says, "I don't think I've ever had one. I just know the taste. From extrapolation."
"Well…" And Rosemarie draws out the word as only the inebriated can do. "I'll try them…I guessh." There's still half of her drink left, but she looks down upon in with an expression of uncertainty. "I think…I've had enough to drink for now." She smacks her lips before attempting to dig through her purse for cash. "Who was walking me home again?" she asks rather plantively, looking between Lamont and Lindon after she slides the fee across the pristine bartop to the strawberry blonde. "I gotta feed Lola. She'sh going to be mad at me for late dinner. Ehn." The shrug nearly unseats her but for the grab on the marble surface and she giggles, not fazed at all for liquor's light-hearted grip on her mind.
She'll go wherever they lead her, even if she stumbles all of the way.
"I think we both are," Lamont says, mild as milk. And then he's paying for bothof their drinks. "Later," he mouthes at Lindon. It'll be confession time later. He's been lying all along, after all.
Lamont has left.
"Of course, let's get you home," Lindon says, and he smile at Lamont when he pays for the drinks. Well, now Lindon will just have to owe him. He get to his feet and steadies Rosemarie. He's a tall fellow, only a little tipsy himself, and despite the slenderness, he's solid enough to help a young woman stay on her feet. Rosemarie is in a rare category of people Lindon can put his hands on and not turn into a stammering, apologetic wreck. Just a steady hand on her back to steer her as they walk.
To Lamont, he gives one of those slow, subtle looks, toe to tip, and a smile at the end of it. That's what made Maximus flip out because it looked like flirting. Look at all the stuff he's learning!