Happy Hour

[lady_bols]

Alex had only intended to come down for a pot of tea and a plate of Garibaldis.  Maybe a book or three.  Instead, she's greeted with a napkin.  'I'm sorry, you want me to what?'  

Another napkin appears, this time, with a strange glyph that implies maternal concern.  'I'm not turning into a hermit.   I just -- it's been a difficult few weeks.'  To say the least.

Another napkin appears, this time, invoking the tried and true: Guilt.  

'Oh all right.  If it's only for a few hours, I suppose I can manage without mucking it up too terribly.  You go on and have a nice nap.  I'll mind the shop.' Another napkin implies gratitude and indicates where the specials board is.

'Right, then.'  Alex looks a little lost as she slips behind the bar.  First things first, an apron.  And then a white cotton towel to drape over her shoulder like a proper barman.  Taking up the chalk and board, she thinks for a long moment and then writes out in a careful, flowing hand:

Specials

Red or White Wine
by the glass or carafe

Boddington's Ale

Scotch whiskey

Pot of Tea or Coffee

She makes herself a pot of tea, and sends one of the rats off for her biscuits.  'Happy hour is up, you wretched hive of scum and villainy.'

It's said with all due affection. 

[ooc: Happy hour is up!  I'm in and out because I'm doing laundry, and I may decamp to a coffee shop later, but have at!  I have to call slow for a bit.  Back later.  Enjoy! Thread hop! Do what you do best, M'ways.  <3]

Comments

[lady_bols]

Alex sets the bottle down, and wipes her hand on her apron, waiting.

'Verdict?'

[cook_the_rude]

"Interesting," the man says, putting the glass back on the bar counter to be filled properly.

[lady_bols]

Alex smiles, and nods, taking a moment to fill the glass. Clean towel in one hand, she carefully wipes away the drops that threaten to spill down the bottle.

'Anything else I can do you for? Would you like to see a menu?'

[cook_the_rude]

Before he answers, the man takes another sip of the wine, followed by another pause with half-closed eyes as he visibly savours the wine, all his attention on it.

"You keep a civilised bar," he says. "I would, thank you."

[lady_bols]

'Thank you. It's my very first time.' It's clear she takes the compliment to heart. It takes her a moment, but she shuffles through a stack of menus until she finds one in French.

'I think this is the one you're looking for.' He seems the type. 'The rats will be around in a few to take an order. Lady Bar seems to be having a bit of a kip. Hence...' She gestures to the apron around her waist.

[cook_the_rude]

He studies it.

"I've done a shift or two as well," he says. "I find it entertaining; but then, good food and drink are a passion of mine."

[lady_bols]

'It's -- interesting,' she says, smiling as she repeats his observation back to him.

'People watching is a passion of mine. The food and drink is a nice perk, though, I'll give you that.'

[cook_the_rude]

"Watching people while they enjoy my food is a special perk," the man in the suit says.

[lady_bols]

'Oh, do you cook?'

She's tidying as she talks, keeping her hands busy with quiet efficiency.

[cook_the_rude]

"Another one of my passions," the man in the suit says, taking another sip of his wine.

[lady_bols]

'Well, I suppose if one likes to eat good food, no better way to get the full experience than to prepare it to yourself.'

Alex has always enjoyed cooking but not for herself. She sees it as a way of taking care of the people she loves. She's very much a mother in that regard.

[cook_the_rude]

"And then, to have friends for dinner and see them enjoy my work," the man says. "It's the natural consequence."

[lady_bols]

'Ah, so you're the type of artist who needs an audience, then?'

She smirks, leaning on the bar, wiping her hands.

'What good is a performance if there's no one there to see -- or rather, eat it?'

[cook_the_rude]

"I have acquaintances who enjoy just watching me cook, as part of the experience," the man says, smiling. "Calling it 'Dinner and a show'."

[lady_bols]

'I imagine it's quite the production.'

Something about this man sets her teeth on edge. He's very -- polished. Very self-contained.

Something. She can't quite put her finger on it. Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

'Can I get you anything else?'

[cook_the_rude]

"I try my best," the man says. "And thank you, I am good. It was nice to talk to you."

[lady_bols]

She smiles again, and nods, genuinely pleased for the conversation.

'The pleasure was all mine, Mister...?'

[cook_the_rude]

"Lecter," he says. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter, Ms...?"

[lady_bols]

Alex goes still. Completely and utterly still.




For a long moment, she eyes the man across from her, aware that she is under scrutiny as well.




'Alex Drake.'

She doesn't know if this man is who she thinks he is, but if he is, then she has to proceed with extreme caution. As a criminal psychologist, she's interviewed men like him before. She's aware of the dangers of revealing too much.

She pronounces the next phrase with exquisite precision. 'Detective Inspector...Alex Drake. Metropolitan Police. Though I'm well aware that title is meaningless here.'

[cook_the_rude]

Dr. Lecter just kept quiet during her moment of stillness and scrutiny, a small smile on his sleek, polite face. He kept quiet as if allowing her curiosity as a matter of courtesy.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Detective Inspector. From London, I take it? I myself consult with the FBI at home, and have some inside experience of law enforcement. You're from the 1980s?"

[lady_bols]

'2008,' she corrects, lightly. 'By way of 1983. It's a long story.' Her hands are folding the sack cloth bar towel, precisely, without a single crease. In half, and half again. And half, once more. It seems a self-soothing gesture.

'Though I did spend six months on secondment at Langley, in 2003.'

He would recognize the name. Home to the CIA, Langley, Virginia is not that far from the US Marine base that houses the FBI Academy, usually referred to as Quantico. They're both just outside DC, and about forty five minutes by car from Baltimore. It also places her on a level above the usual detective, even in the Met.

'And you?'

The towel serves as a resting place for her folded hands now.

[cook_the_rude]

"I didn't know the CIA had invented time travel, DI Drake," Dr. Lecter says, with a little smirk that clearly indicates he is joking.

Pause.

"It might well have, in your world. In Milliways, we must expect the unexpected. I am from early 2013."

[lady_bols]

Her lips twist in a sad smile. Her Molly would be sixteen this year.

'If only it were that simple, Dr. Lecter.'

Maybe this isn't the same man she knows from fiction. The movie came out in the early nineties, and the man from the film was older, much older, than the man who stands before her.

'Please, call me Alex.'

[cook_the_rude]

"Your time travel is much more complex, then, Alex?" he asks, looking at her with calm interest. "What happened?"

[lady_bols]

'I was shot. Killed in 2008.'

She reaches under the bar and pulls up a glass of wine she's already poured for herself. This isn't wise, sharing details with a stranger, but it's nothing that isn't already common knowledge.

'I woke up in 1981. I lived another three years. And then, I came here.'

There, nothing too personal, she thinks. Save for the part about dying. Twice. She turns and casts a glance at the large man sitting at the end of the bar, drinking whiskey and smoking.

'It's for the best, really. We don't all get the second chances we so desperately hope for, do we?'