milliways_bar | (no subject)

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You know the best thing about being stationed in England?

Train travel. You get yourself a pass, you're out, bam, goodbye, Aldbourne. London, Edinburgh, wherever, you better watch out, you got paratroops on the way, and you know how they can be.

Bill's looking sharp in his dress greens as he swaggers through the door. Ladies, broads, dames, you watch out too: he's 20 years old, it's 1943 and he's waiting to go to war. (To be fair, he was expecting the beverage car, but this? This is much better.)

[tiny tag: joan holloway]

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It's been a long time since Joan's seen a man in uniform.

Granted, it's 1960 for her, and the last time there were any walking around, that was a good seven years ago.

Doesn't mean it's not a welcome sigh.

Praise God, if this isn't the most gorgeous thing he's seen since he's had eyes to see with, Bill's as good as an atheist. He slows down, then makes a beeline for the lady -- who wouldn't, with attractions like that?

"Somethin's not right with this picture. A girl like you, all alone in a place like this? People don't know a good thing when they see it."

"You wouldn't be alone in that thought," she agrees.

She's in the middle of pulling a cigarette out of her purse; the second that's accomplished, she moves for her lighter.

Bill's already there: it may not be the fanciest lighter in the world, but Bill's a sergeant, he ain't one for Alton More's sticky fingers. He's got responsibilities — and an Army-issue lighter that someone carved jump wings onto.

"It doesn't help that most people don't know what they want," he says, and takes his own pack of Lucky Strikes from a breast pocket. "Got to feel sorry for anyone like that."

"Sorry, indeed," Joan agrees, taking note of the popular brand with a faint smirk on her lips.

"It's nice to see a familiar sight," she adds, motioning to the pack's logo.

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"Oh, of course they do," Joan answers, chuckling, the sound coming off as something akin to a tinkling of bells.

"It's just rare to see them in here."

"Like I said." He smirks around the stick. "Some fellas just don't know what's good for them. More fool them. But not me. Bill Guarnere, Philadelphia. 1943 last I checked." He gives the dame an appreciative nod. "Where're you coming in from, sweetheart?"

In 1943, Joan would be fifteen. But it's a little ways down the road, and her real age hasn't become common knowledge around Sterling Cooper yet. (She tells people she's twenty-four.)

"Joan Holloway, Manhattan, 1960."

She offers a sweet smile.

It's only through many years of practice that Bill is able to keep his head straight when faced with a sight like that.

"And not speaking German, huh? Always glad to know the Krauts get what's coming to 'em. You been coming here long?"

One would be inclined to wonder just how many years of practice something like that would require.

"Not long enough, according to some," she admits, discreetly blowing smoke through pursed lips.

"But this isn't exactly my first time."

He ain't old. He was just a precocious child. Caught on quick, understand?

"According to some? Jesus Christ, I didn't know it was a contest." He nurses his smoke. "Me, it don't happen often, but when I do swing by, it's always perfect timing." Case in point! "Unless, of course, there's an officer waiting for me. Then I gotta behave myself."

It's a refreshing change from those who don't have all their marbles.

"Well, I don't see any officers around right now," she points out.

One end of the cigarette glows upon her inhaling, and her mouth leaves a lipsticked halo around the other before she pulls back.

"Do you?"

"Not a one. I scoped out some out-of-the-way places in case one should happen by, though." It always pays to be prepared. Let any man who looks slyer or more pleased with himself come forward: Bill will cheerfully punch his lights out.

"Oh? Were you a Boy Scout before you became a man in uniform?" she teases.

They're all about preparation, really.

The manner in which she lets her forearm fall forward to flick some ashes off the end of her cigarette is as artful as it is subtle.

"You know what would have happened to a Boy Scout in South Philly? And it would have been me doing it, let me tell you." That's one thing: he'll never claim to be something he's not. Bill knows what he is and so will everyone else.

Joan's little moves ain't escaping his notice either. Not much does. "Nah," he says, keeping his eyes just where she wants them, "I'm more of a self-starter."

Better than not knowing what you are or pretending to be something you're not. Then again, maybe he's in the right place for that. Manhattan's just full of people looking to escape their previous lives, but one thing Joan has never been and ever will be is this: a phony.

"I imagine you wouldn't need much incentive to take the lead, then," she murmurs.

"I got eyes." A wag of the brow. "I came over here, didn't I?"

"That you did."

A pause, then her gaze flickers toward the bar.

"Would you care for a drink?"

"I always care for a drink. With you, sweetheart, anything you want." He crooks out an elbow, his expression wry. "I got the uniform on, might as well go by the book."

A slow smile accompanies her rising to her feet, at which point she stubs out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray. She'll likely light up another later on, but that one was starting to shrink.

Her arm slips through his elbow, pale fingers resting against the inside of his forearm.

"I have to admit, it's been a long time since I've seen anyone with a uniform on. Apart from your everyday postal worker, of course."

Bill actually laughs at that. "I'd invite you back to London, place is crawling with 'em, but it's also crawling with presents from the Luftwaffe. Trust me, you like it better your way."

The uniforms, to be honest, are a pain in the ass for the most part -- heavy olive wool, boots and jump wings shined to within an inch of their lives. But it makes a difference. They do attract attention, why certainly. And the ladies love to wear 'em -- he's found that out too. He glances down at her hand and gives himself a moment of imagining Joan in his jacket. It's a hell of a vision.

A vision that may or may not have the opportunity to become reality, if certain cards are played right.

(Joan's feeling optimistic.)

"I bet London this time of year would be delightful," she says, "but only if you skipped ahead a few years to the year I'm coming in from. Things right now are - well, messy at best, I'm sure."

Unless he's very much mistaken -- and he could be, he'll own up to that, since he likes being surprised in some ways more than others -- Joan wouldn't think much of the places in London Bill and his boys from Easy frequent.

"Don't have to say that twice," he mutters as the come up on the bar. He pulls up a seat and waits for her to sit. "You been to London?" he asks. "Or is New York enough?"

She shifts her hips in order to settle herself on the high bar stool, setting her purse down on the open one by her right side while still leaving her other free and open for him to seat himself.

"I studied abroad while I was in school," Joan admits. "In France. But I've never been to London. I'm sure I would've enjoyed the trip."

Another cigarette makes its appearance after she requests a drink from Bar, unlit between her fingers as she swivels in her seat to face him.

"In school?" Bill blinks. He's impressed. "You went to college?"

France, well. He expects he'll be seeing France whether he likes it or not, depending on how fast Ike and Patton get their acts together.

He lights her cigarette without hesitation, and another for himself too. Whatever she's drinking, he ain't heard of it: he goes straight for the simple things, and beer it is. He doesn't want to get drunk too fast.

Joan wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't; it's a simple cocktail, likely created in the restaurants on Madison or Park, and its purpose is as such - to take the edge off when needed.

She crosses her legs at the knee, one high-heeled shoe propped up on a lower rung to keep herself poised as she murmurs a quick thanks for the lighting.

"I did," she says. "But I'm an office manager now. Sterling Cooper - it's an advertising agency in New York. One of the best."

"Is that right?" Bill keeps a steady eye on her face. Yeah -- on her face. "And what would that entail?"

1960, Jesus Christ. That's 17 years from now. One thing at a time, sure, but he's a curious sonofabitch, and he may not be around to see it.

It's not as though she would hold it against him if his eyes happened to linger elsewhere.

"Mostly keeping an eye on the girls in the steno pool, making sure they're not running around like chickens with their heads cut off. And keeping an eye on other things, too."

Now that -- that makes his mouth curl up, totally amused. "We're not so different, you and me. I got myself a squad full of you-don't-even-want-to-know-whats. No manners whatsoever. Like living with a pack of wild dogs. Good guys, though."

Bill isn't particularly worried about offending anybody. Not on his end, anyway.

"Not so different at all, it would appear," Joan agrees.

And then a thought occurs to her, and she chuckles softly.

"Can you imagine if your boys wound up in here with my girls? Bunch of dogs in the hen house, I'm thinking. Maybe it's better off just being you and me."

"No maybes about it. I think we got ourselves a nice arrangement like this." He leans closer. "Hate to see what would happen if you had to lay down the law."

With what space she's given, she takes a drag from her cigarette.

"You seem like the kind of man who knows how to take orders."

"Sweetheart, I'm a sergeant. I give 'em and I take 'em. And believe you me," here his bearing goes totally, meaningfully, very serious, "it takes one hell of a something to get paratroopers to listen."

Okay, maybe he's inviting a laugh on the inside.

"Well, I'm all ears," she promises, her own tone just as intent.

When her drink comes, she picks it up without dropping her gaze.

"I think they generally frown on that sort of talk in public."

He's very close, close enough to run one hand over her leg. She ain't slapped him yet.

She won't protest or get squirmy; instead, she downs her drink in one long sip, setting the empty martini glass on the bar shortly after.

"There are rules that frown on that - at least in the bar."

She doesn't flinch or squirm away; instead, she downs her drink in one long sip, setting the empty martini glass down on the bar.

"There are rules against certain kinds of conduct - in the bar, at least."

"To hell with the bar. I've seen it." He jams the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and taps the bar counter: an old-fashioned, wrought-iron key appears at his fingers. He holds it up. "Fancy that, a new room just opened up."

"Fancy that," she echoes.

A pause, only to grab her things, and then she's on her feet, suggestively brushing past him as she moves in the direction of the stairs.

That's no suggestion, that's a signal flare.

And Bill? His hand is already snaking around her waist and snaking down as he keeps in step. He's not waiting up, not one moment longer than he has to.

Bill crooks an eyebrow. "That right? They don't have Lucky Strikes where you're from?" He lights his own smoke and takes a deep drag. "I've met people here who don't like smoking period. Supposedly it isn't polite anymore. Future's a funny-looking place from where I'm standing." He whistles. "You, on the other hand..."

There are no words good enough. He just grins.

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