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Splurging is a new concept to the librarian. A gift of a rare text has all but set her up for…goodness, life, if one considers the magnitude of the payment in return for the book's ownership changing hands. If she continues to be a spend-thrift, she'll retire with relative ease.
Not a car. Not a boat. Not a home. Nope, a bottle of rum, a very high-calibre bottle that should probably have gone in a glass over in a Christmas cookie recipe. Mind, the old adage about "a splash for the cookies, a splash for me" applied there. So, tucking an errant strand of hair beneath her knitted hat, Rosemarie makes her way down the stairs of Lux, club of the most shadowy and interesting affairs. Another sweater-dress, lined leggings for warmth, boots, and a warm winter pea-coat overtop. The rumballs are hidden away beneath plastic wrap on a very festive red-and-cream plate, from Rosemarie's own dinner-ware.
At the bottom of the step, she pauses, ascertaining whether or not Maz is present — if so, the usual deference applies with tucked chin and soft greeting and her inquiry as to whether or not the Boss is present. If not, she simply scans the room, looking for that incredibly singular man.
Does anyone actually honestly believe Christmas is celebrated at Lux? Only if Michael sneaks in a few boughs, and they may be ashed before anyone else knows about the fact. On the contrary, the theme here is decadent and almost Versailles Court, mirrors set up practically everywhere and a few pieces of magnificent statuary in decided golden gloss of Apollo and bronze musculature on display. Look at the heroes and heroines of the ancient world, cavorting in place of fat Santas and prepubescent elves. No one need complain too loudly about the quality of drinks, either, or desserts. Nor the chorus line, a few girls of late employed by the Radio City Music Hall — and fearing their jobs — seated on a plinth together, belting out absolutely lovely songs in, you guessed it, French from the time of Louis XIV. Trust Lucian to know the right melodies.
He himself is wearing a frock coat and blond curls down to his chest, as are a few of the other servers. Maz is nowhere to be seen, probably napping or torturing someone in the dungeon for information on the Dutch. Ana at the bar laughs, madcap and bright, as she watches the impromptu performances. One of the 'shepherdesses' opens her basket and a stuffed dog head pokes out, which probably works for the story about some thwarted lord calling her a bitch, and her being proud to say she is loved by her pack, you awful cur.
He himself is aware of those who come and go. It's light at this time of day, and this is very much a practice run though the girls are skilled dancers. Four shows a night, they ought to be. All the same, his expression changes when the tug on his entrails calls him to attention, too, he better not fail to take note of that. Curiosity flickers at whatever she might carry, though a deeper assessment will follow afterwards. He doesn't want to get kicked in the face by an overeager 'French' noble woman singing to the crowd. Time to test the limits of propriety and slide along the bar, then, since no drinks are in the way, and hop off in front of Rosemarie. "Bonjour, mademoiselle."
One can't fault her for being utterly distracted by the frivolity of the dancers, can they? Rosemarie is guilty on all accounts of her jaw hanging slightly open because, indeed, that's French and what on earth, a stuffed dog? Madness, absolutely, but the best kind — because here comes the lord of the dance (er, piano?) along the pristine surface of the marble-top bar.
A giggle escapes her and she gives him a little cursty, holding up a pinch of her sweater-dress's skirt for good measure.
"Bonjour, monsieur. Biscuit?" That much of the foreign language, she remembers, as she peels back the translucent barrier between questing fingers and rumballs. The plate is offered forth in case he should want to sample. Ignore the thin parcel tucked beneath her other arm…for now.
Embroidery and damask are in abundance around here, ridiculously so. The abundance might be cause for concern but for the fact that everyone in their finery at this time of year stands out. Sometimes it's glitter or velvet. Others have hideous pop art prints. And then there's the gentleman with the turned back cuffs, the filmy linen shirt that ghosts against his fair skin as though unabashedly concealing him from licentious looks that could bruise his utter virtue and purity. Right? Totally pure. Completely pure.
Total lie, what purity? He's the Devil on hiatus. A nod and he returns the light inclination from the waist, straightening again. His hands cuff behind his back, so terribly purposeful and observant.
"A biscuit? Non, madameoiselle, ce sont des bonbons." See, bonbons. He knows his stuff, especially regarding the plate and the treats and the hidden thing that he can read as a wisp of mischief, and mischief is nearly his province.
Rosemarie blushes and keeps her smile to herself as best she can. Keeping in mind the fact that she can be playful about him now, she takes up a rumball and holds it up between two fingers.
"Ce sont bon," the librarian informs he of the basically nonexistent shirt and then takes a bite. Umf, indeed they are good, a weakness of hers. The plate is lofted an inch higher and back down again, clearly inviting him to take one. But wait, no, mind changed…because she can.
The bonbon in question is held up before his lips and isn't just a daring little moue of pursed lips on her part, brows lofted in expectation even as the flush beneath her freckles deepens a hue.
"Bonbons," he repeats, adding the double use of the word and plural. French is easy for the man who supposedly taught humanity all its languages at the shattering of Babel, though whether that's entirely true is a matter to ask elsewhere. Not of the man, anyways. He nonetheless eyes the fat morsel that is obviously not falafel, or he's in for a terrible surprise, and considers Rosemarie in turn.
Interesting, this. Rich and moist, those chocolatey blandishments on a plate. Well. He doesn't even raise his eyebrows. The chorus back there, Rockette girls all, sings en francaise, "«Oh me, oh my, that country girl dared to try / sway the prince with a pure white smile / quiet down, quiet down, all the ladies in waiting couldn't tell you why / she hooked what she did without feminine wiles."
He'll figure out how to make this happen after a moment and wraps his fingers around her wrist, taking a bite of that morsel. Hopefully it's not poisoned.
The rumballs are rather heavy on affection, this is true, hopefully not too sweet in turn for it. Therein lies the poison, perhaps, a heavy swirl of kindness. She can't help but gasp just the slightest as she watches his mouth claim a portion of the dessert round.
"Oui, bonbons," she says with an airy laugh, a-twinkle for his acceptance. Hopefully they're as sinfully delicious as her grandmother's recipe implied. "Oh, I have s-something else for you t-too." Perhaps a little odd, leaving her wrist where it is within his light grip, but she sets aside the plate on the bartop in order to retrieve the package stashed beneath her arm. It's not too thick, a rectangle in shape, about a half-inch in depth and…squishy beneath the thin wrapping of white tissue paper, all carefully taped and decorated with a small silver bow. This is offered out to him and there's the shift in weight, the shy shuffle in place as she looks up through her lashes.
Preferably they don't explode and if they don't explode, more for him. Lucian chews lightly and he does not make a noise doing it. Ye gods no, he is respectable.
"Much better," he agrees, licking his lips clean of chocolate while Rosemarie is right there and the heaving morass of Rockettes giggle rather madly at their own song. They are back to spinning around one another, and the stuffed dog in a basket is passed between them. Watching Rosemarie is never hard, and he rests his elbow on the marble. "What is this now? You are hardly obligated to bring me things, though I am not going to complain that you do." Who the hell brings him presents that aren't goat sacrifices and burnt candles, stinking incense?
No explosive bonbons, not this time. The sweetness is sugar, not glycerine. She does want terribly to kiss him and see how much the dessert lingers about his mouth, but propriety and all — plus, the dancers would probably titter.
"It's a gift," she replies softly. "I didn't feel obligated, I felt like you should have something." Considering that he might not take it from her hand, she then places it on the bartop and slides it towards him. Still, nothing explosive.
Peeling back the wrapping will reveal a multi-layered folding of …a hand-made, self-knitted scarf in a lustrous cream. Cashmere was hard to find, especially as yarn, but the result, at least to her touch, was sumptuous. He seems like he's always warm, yes, but it might keep the worst of the seasonal chill from slinking down his winter coats. Little tassels are quaint things, a whim on her part in the end.
Sweetness in glycemic indexes could well be explosive. Bam, deal! He chews thoughtfully and swallows. "That is very good. I have no doubt that… mm, yes. Fifteen year, something out of Tobago?" Throwing darts for alcohol is an unfair matter when his conspirator in alcohol is literally a goddess of the waters, and she probably knows the exact composition of the rumballs. Oh yes, Ana does.
He nonetheless looks a bit oddly at the tissue weight offering Rosemarie brought, and far be it from him to show any signs of rudeness. Instead, he picks up the papery creation and pushes his hand down to test the texture before opening it. A neat tear splits down the tape, if any, and then he is tearing in rather like a cat after something stringy and feather. Omnom robin. No, he does not have the scarf in his mouth, nor does he watch the world with huge eyes. Because rum and baking oils will not help keep cashmere in pristine condition.
"Is this your way of saying I'm a randy old goat?" It's a muffled question since he pinches the soft fibres in his fingers. No, he is not grinning.
"Something out of Tobago, yes," replies the librarian, visibly impressed. Realizing too that this must be his forte as a barkeep, she then nibbles briefly at her lip before simply smiling again. "I was told that it was a good year." The swallowing seems proof of unspoken agreement that she's chosen at least a passing-good bottle with which to make the confections. Then comes the unwrapping.
And the question. Putting a hand to her lips, Rosemarie closes her eyes against an incipient giggle comprised of part mortification, part honest-to-god appreciation of the pithy humor. The blush doesn't go away afer all.
"Lucian." The name, deliberately picked and carrying a dusting of teasing reprimand. She plucks a rumball and bites into it, indulging in her own baking for once. "I would never imply such a thing…at least about goats," she mumbles, her tongue slipping distractedly out after a smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. Mmm, yes, distracted. So sue her and those big brown doe-eyes considering him.
Or the fact he forgets nothing from the taste of a prune to the time an eel tried to bite his hand and discovered he could bite its tail and throw it at Jophiel, who was hiding in sheer terror from the wrath of the Morningstar. Never doubt a man who can and does bend physics to make what he wants to happen happen. He flashes one of those sudden smiles and coils this new eel around his throat, fancy as a boa, minus backward pointed teeth. Gnar Gnar.
It has a name, though he won't tell her that yet. Naming implies understanding, and better for him to look like a Parisian man about town from twenty decades ago. "Am I wearing it right? Should I tuck the end in?" He fluffs the ends out, flashing them in the air. "Or would it be better to let them flow past me?" So he walks, his flounce to the step and the boing of those very real wheat blond curls the envy of any aristocrat or actor stuck with /horsehair/. Yes, no.
"Would you imply I am not an old goat, but a spring lamb? Should I gambol about?"
Take that, big brown eyes.
Another dip of her head to hide a bright smile and Rosemarie rests her knuckles against her mouth again. In her other hand, the rumball lingers, but only for another forlorn moment more. Nom, down it goes, and lucious it is. More for her unless the flouncing angel and his entourage get over here.
"Absolutely, gambol. You are the epitome of grace, Monsieur Venere." She curtsies again even as she takes a seat at the bar, upon one of the stools, and crosses her feet at the ankles primly. "It looks good on you." That's a far more quietly-spoken admission, no less true for the fact that she doesn't trumpet it on high.
A rumball can wait. He has important work to do, like eat delicious food and consider delicious food and generally appraise delicious possibilities. Look at his fancy shmancy cashmere scarf with pompoms, girls. They shake. The appreciative dancers laugh, and the bartender shakes her head. More for him to make mouthwatering for Rosemarie. Would she rather eat her baked good or appreciate his excellent sartorial sensibilities?
"Then I shall mince and gambol to fine effect." Or gamble. Maybe he'll go to a casino this way. "It does look splendid, but then so would a paper bag and a newspaper for a hat. It is the truth of the world, and I imagine you would probably be fetching even in a wet barrel."
The comment in regards to a wet barrel gains the fine barkeep, in his cashmere scarf and oddly-appropriate frock, a reel of laughter from the librarian. She stifles half of it away, but mind how it manages to slip forth in the rest of her expression, effervescent about her apple-cheeks and sparkling eyes.
"I think it'd be a rum barrel, wouldn't it?" That's her attempt at a clever response, the other wee little lamb pronking about in far less grandeur.
Rosemarie in a wet barrel, Lucian with a newspaper hat (and cashmere) must surely seem odd, but not untoward. He makes one more circuit for her pleasure to assure the gift looks its best, and seizes upon another ball, holding it out half an inch from her lips like a diamond ring. Pinch of the middle and let her consume worlds, a tiny feathered Galactus. "My lady?"
Wouldst she dare?
"It would be rum, a stormy sort, preferably washed up on the shore. Dare."
Oh yes, the gift looks fine-so-fine on the barkeep and she can count herself pleased as pie that it was accepted as well as flaunted. Preen-preen, as quietly as she can, even the Warbird eyeing the man with only mild disinterest. Ah, the courtship of the winged, ever strange in its minute ways.
Holding those impossible blues as best she can, Rosemarie leans in and nibbles a small bite from the proffered rumball. "Dare," she replies in a near whisper, her hands disappearing into her lap to clutch up handfuls of fabric. Oh dear. This can only end interestingly, if the master of light himself chooses to act. She's never taken a bath in rum before. Maybe it's good for the skin?
Gift horse, mouth. Mouth full of white feet, friendly white teeth. Lucian is an innocent, honest. Or not at all because innocence didn't know him from the hour of his birth. Here, winged creature. He twirls the rumball on his fingertip, spun in a way to defy gravity because his expertise is such. Eye contact is forfeited; that is too easy when he can swallow the enormity of space in his gaze, tarnished sundown sky and a ring of stars around his blacker than black pupils.
"That is hardly a dare," he notes as she takes a bite, and until it is done, he offers Rose her due. See, rose of the world, tasty treat you baked. His fingertip is not, pressed against her lower lip.
Another nibble turns into a far more aggressive bite; no teeth brush his skin, she's certain to avoid that little insult. Quite rude to bite the hand that feeds one, y'know.
Reminded of past circumstances, the flush travels from her cheeks and into her ears, down to the triangle of her neck visible through the parted collars of her pea-coat. Chocolate is irrevocably ruined in the best of ways now, rest assured. Rum can be ticked off as such far earlier. In combination? Nothing but trouble now.
His fingertip receives the benediction of a kiss, lips purling against the whorls. Slip, there's the tongue to clean what she can of the confectionary's outer coating in one swipe. "Is it?"
An aggressive bite, oh! What's this, is she getting beaky? Peaky would be the wrong suggestive statement. Lucian laughs, but the laugh is a cadence of a note from the bottom of a well, the height stretching out the ripple through the acoustics of Lux. The flesh cannot produce that warm timbre by itself, and yet it does. Proof he is not right, and the haunted melody of that voice can terrible things to people even now.
"Indeed," he answers Rosemarie, like for like, and withdraws his hand. A flounce and he throws the tail of the scarf boldly over his shoulder. The turn emphasizes the gesture. The singers are laughing, into another number, their dance on the plinths showing off agility and balance. "Now, shall we circulate and see what manner of angle is finest for the night's performance? I am not satisfied I have them on the best stage unless someone is shooting at me."