(no subject)

[notinthebook]

 Well, the day could have gone better.

Maybe she's not exactly proud of the way she'd acted at work, but Graham hadn't seemed keen on talking, and she sure didn't feel like she had much to say to him, so it was what it was, and now it's over, and she can at least not worry about it for a few more hours.

...Ish.

Honestly, the night in -- Chinese food, ice cream, and chick flick -- with Mary Margaret helped more than she'd be willing to admit out loud...but now the food is in the fridge, the ice cream is gone, the movie's over, and Mary Margaret is in the bath, nearly pushed there by Emma, who'd then glanced through the linen closet looking for anything containing the words "lavender" or "aromatherapy" before handing them through the slightly-cracked bathroom door and ordering the occupant to stay, dammit, and relax.

The problem, of course, is that leaves her at loose ends, and she hates loose ends.  Being there gives her a distinct and unwelcome sense of instability.  She needs something to do, someone to talk to, something to think about that isn't the sadness in Mary Margaret's eyes or the guilt in Graham's.

Well...she pauses in the door to her room, considering.  There's one errand she'd put off last night, but she may as well get it done, right?  It's something to do that isn't going back downstairs and raiding the takeout leftovers.  Slipping on black ankle boots and a light, loose black knit sweater over her tank and jeans, she grabs the envelope on her bedside table and heads back into the hallway.

"Open sesame," she says, and a glint of light shows through the crack of the linen closet door.

Inside, she makes for the bar, puts the wad of cash down.  "Okay," she says.  "Here's five thousand.  Go ahead and put a thousand on my tab, a thousand on Mary Margaret's, and put the rest on Michael Westen's, will you?  Maybe this way he won't get himself killed in another universe scraping together rent."

The money disappears, replaced by a note that Emma reads, before giving the bartop a skeptical look.  "Do I look like I care if he wants it?  Just don't say where it came from."

A receipt.  She glances over it, and then pockets.

"And one more thing.  While I'm here, go ahead and blow some of that tab for me.  One bottle of Johnny Walker, blue."

[OOC: Slows will be necessary.]

Comments

[gorgonfondness]

Hey look, it's Mia. And she's waaaaay less pregnant than the last time Emma saw her. (Heck, the trip to Tartarus probably worked the excess weight off fast.)

No baby with her, though. And no sign of her older son, either. Instead, she's looking through a catalog of carpets.

After turning a page, she spots Emma out of the corner of her eye.

"Silver piece for your thoughts, Emma?" she asks from her nearby spot.

[notinthebook]

"They're not worth that much, believe me."

She looks over one slouches shoulder, arms crossing in front of her on the bartop. "Hey, Mia." Her glance slants down, back up again, with a faintly stronger curve to her lips, lightening her expression by a fair amount.

"I guess congratulations are in order, huh?"

[gorgonfondness]

Mia smiles back.

"They are, thank you. He's a healthy little boy and the family's happy to have him. We named him Scorpius, after a young man of the same name we know here."

Another turn of the page in her catalog.

"Want a distraction, then? I went on a trip not long ago and my flying carpet got wrecked. I need to pick a new one, possibly two."

[OOC: Y'know, it might help if I actually look at the posts I tag to see if there are any responses instead of relying on email. XD;]

[notinthebook]

"That's great, Mia." Her smile's pretty warm, but she can't say she's really thinking, entirely, of a boy named Scorpius who she's never met, as much as she is of Ashley and the relief on her face when she was told she could keep her little girl.

It makes her think of Henry, too, adding an edge of fondness that's been lacking for most of the day.

"A new flying carpet?" She glances at the bar, dubious.

"Is that something you can get, here?"

[gorgonfondness]

Mia wouldn't be slighted if she knew. Babies are babies and, if asked, Mia would say all of them and the children they become are reasons to be glad.

"I'm not sure, but this catalog is from home."

She gets up to show Emma the catalog. The book is thick with new parchment, detailed illustrations, and what look to be handwritten descriptions. As far as the descriptions go, carpet dimensions, materials used, and colors available are listed.

"I've never really been carpet shopping before. They're durable enough to be passed through generations. I doubt mine was new even when my grandmother had it."

[notinthebook]

She makes a face as she glances through the catalog, fingers unfamiliar on parchment when they expect paper.

But the book is sort of lovely, in a way she wouldn't expect from a catalog: the illustrations and handwritten notes and thick parchment are a pretty far sight from the glossy magazines she's used to.

Henry would probably love it.

"Jeez, it must've been a hell of a trip. Where were you going?"

[gorgonfondness]

"Tartarus. I was helping a friend here escort the guard of the gates back home. At one point, we went through a cave full of literal fireflies. We didn't figure out how to stop them until my carpet was already beyond repair."

She shrugs.

"It's just as well. Now that we're a family of four, we've been thinking about finding a bigger carpet."

[hoochedseal]

There is an older man sipping (okay drinking Sam doesn't know the meaning of sip.) a Beer at the bar when his head snaps up hearing Michael Westen's.

Doing what Sam does best he puts on his best smile and turns to her.

"Hello."

[notinthebook]

The bottle, when it arrives, gets set aside on a free seat, untouched and unopened, which means Emma's facing away from the older guy who suddenly decides now is a good time to make introductions.

Which...okay, is maybe the reason why she came in tonight, so once the bottle's down, she glances back over her shoulder, settles herself on the barstool, arms crossed loosely in front of her on the bartop.

"Uh, hey."

He's got a nice smile, that she eyes a little warily. Who's that happy to talk to a perfect stranger? "Do I know you?"

[hoochedseal]

"I don't think so but I heard you talking to the bar, I believe we have a mutual friend."

He said and then smiles.

"Michael Westen?"

[notinthebook]

That gets her attention, and she sits up a little straighter, but only marginally, while she reconsiders her new acquaintance with about fifty percent more interest and a healthy dose of caution.

Hell, you just never know with people who're friends with Michael; herself included.

"You know Michael?"

She gives him a once over. Middle aged, run more than slightly to seed, slouching shoulders, easy used-car-salesman smile. "From here?"

[hoochedseal]

"Yeah, you could say that I'm one of his best friends. I'm Sam."

He said softly figuring that would be the name that Mikey had used for him. That Chuck wouldn't come in to play. But he could have been wrong worse case he'll fake it.

[notinthebook]

Recognition widens her eyes just a hair, but doesn't show anywhere else -- of course, if this guy really is a friend of Michael's, the one he says he is, he'll probably catch it, anyway.

You've got to be quick to hang around that guy.

"Hey. Sam. Yeah, I've heard of you."

A decision is made; she turns in her chair to offer a hand to shake. "Emma Swan. Don't worry, I won't take it personally if you haven't heard of me. Michael kind of plays things close to the chest, you know?"

[gavin62truck]

Tommy had caught a glimpse of blonde hair and red jacket on his way out, and there was no way he was going to walk on by.

"Blue, huh? Any more top-shelf than that and you'd need a cherry picker."

And with that, he comes up next to Emma at the bar, grinning around an unlit cigarette which he shortly plucks from between his teeth.

"Ain't seen you since you were a bird. How's it goin'?"

[notinthebook]

Now that's a familiar, and, okay, yeah, welcome sand-paper voice and smartass remark, and she's turning to look for him even before the second comment comes.

"You surprised I've got taste?" she says, putting the bottle aside, unopened, before flashing a quick, quirked smile, shrugging one shoulder easily. "Fine. I see you've shrunk back to your normal size. You have fun as a giant robot?"

One boot settles on the rung of the next stool over, and she shoves it out in invitation, one eyebrow lifting. "Got a minute? Ginger ale's on me. Or whatever."

[gavin62truck]

"Had a blast as a giant robot, but there was only so long I could go before the craving for a cheeseburger kicked in, and I wasn't about to chug a barrel of crude oil as a substitute."

Considering her offer for all of two seconds, he bobs his head in a nod and takes the stool and sits himself down, all long and loose-limbed. "For you, I could spare more than just a minute," he says, folding up his sunglasses and hanging them on the collar of his shirt. Time in Milliways works in mysterious ways, and it feels as if it's been forever since they talked. Frankly, he's missed their conversations.

"And of course you got taste -- you're talkin' to me, for starters."

And he's sure she's missed his lines.

[notinthebook]

"Is that taste, or a decline in personal judgment?" she wonders, out loud, but her cheeks are dimpling and, hell, it's good to see Tommy. He's just the kind of person she could use a talk with, today.

If nothing else, he's a fantastic distraction, and about as far from being like Graham as a guy could be. And she likes the way he slouches into the offered seat, like he'd just been waiting for one to appear, all long legs and lanky build.

"I know the feeling." She adds it as she puts in an order to the bar for her usual hot chocolate, before arching an eyebrow at him, tipping her head towards the polished wood in a question. "When I started seriously considering eating worms, I figured it wouldn't be so bad to change back, you know?"

[gavin62truck]

He pulls a mock-hurt expression. "A decline? Aw, honey, a lapse, maybe, not a decline." But his crooked smile comes as easily as they both get back into the swing of things.

"Jeez, worms," he chuckles, shaking his head at the idea of having to live off that kind of stuff. "Yeah, when it comes down to it, bein' something else entirely was an interesting experience, but I enjoy having basic human needs and impulses just fine. Like, y'know what, I think I'll have a ginger ale after all."

[notinthebook]

"Maybe if it was once, it'd be a lapse." She's arguing, sure, but those hazel eyes are sparkling despite it all. "But I keep talking to you by choice. So either you're more charming than you seem, or I should start questioning the company I keep."

Which, considering that bottle and who it's for, might not be a bad idea, but then, when has something not being a bad idea been all that ringing of an endorsement? Besides, she likes Tommy. He's not so bad.

Most of the time.

"Good thing it was just for a few days, huh?" Her hot chocolate arrives, sprinkled with cinnamon and with a puff of cream floating in the center, and she pushes his ginger ale over towards him. "Too bad you couldn't go back and scare the crap out of some New Yorkers while you had it though, huh?"

[hey35andholding]

Clementine is an a-grade evesdropper. It comes from being a little sister to too many older brothers, and too many years of being a cop. The words "Michael Westen" ping her interest.

She glances 'nonchalantly' at the woman, remembering (READ: obviously) over her shoulder and gives the girl a once over.

Yep - it's the same girl she met before!

Now to let the good times roll.

"Have you seen either of them?" she calls.

[notinthebook]

She looks up at the call, digs for a name. "--Clementine. Hey. Uh."

Her brow furrows in a bemused frown. "Either of who? I just saw Mary Margaret. I think Michael's upstairs. Why?"

[hey35andholding]

"Yeah, either. And I meant Mike...or, y'know his best friend, right? Sam? Him." She's keeping tabs, secretly.

[notinthebook]

"Oh."

She considers, glancing up at the ceiling, before looking down at the empty envelope on the bartop. Her lips purse, briefly.

"I don't know about Sam, but I, uh...was gonna go see if I could check in on Michael. You want me to tell him you're looking for him?"

[hey35andholding]

"Ohh." Clem looks sad for a moment. "I keep trying to pump Michael for info on Sam, but his lips are sealed."

[notinthebook]

"Sorry," she says, not unsympathetically. "I'd tell you if I knew anything, but I don't. I haven't even really seen much of Michael since, uh..."

She trails off, aware of a crumbling conversational edge under her feet and not sure whether to backpedal or push ahead.

"Well, last time I saw him, he'd just come back from shooting a bunch of mutants. That guy needs to find a better way to pay off his bar tab."