milliways_bar | (no subject)

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As entrances to Milliways go, this is one of the more unprepossessing. A man stumbles through the door in slacks and T-shirt (a particular brand of underwear showing above his waistband); despite the fairly well-groomed hair and care with his appearance, he still seems a little crumpled and ungainly. The door swings near someone, and he instantly apologises before standing almost straight and looking around.

(Interesting.)

'...oh. Um.

...oh.'

Well, this is new. Jim likes new.

[OOC: Note on playing with Jim here. If more than one person tags, could we please only have one intro thread? Anything after the first will find him either sitting a little nervously at the bar, or gazing in wonder out of the observation window. Thanks! :D]

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Victoria has entered from one of the innumerable Christmas parties she is always invited to, and is thus superbly gowned in red.

She smells of perfume and champagne, and sways just slightly as she moves, as if she's had - not one too many, but just about enough.

(She has always been terribly proud of her drunken stumble.)

She's still holding a half-full champagne flute (Murano, naturally, and Moet & Chandon) when she bumps into him near the observation window.

"Oh!" Smiling. "How clumsy of me."

(The champagne glass is perfectly steady. Art is one thing, but spilling champagne is another entirely.)

'Oh. No, sorry. My fault, probably.'

His self-deprecating smile is perfect, and his art in this scene comes from the impeccable timing of the pull-away-and-turn from the bump, though he could have avoided it by moving earlier.

Nice dress on her. Steady hand: not as drunk as she looks. Not as drunk as she looks: could have avoided bumping him at all.

'Are you OK?'

His accent is flawless London, with a strange depth and almost nasal quality. Tired, clubber's eyes, Sherlock called them when they just met, and he's still in the gay get-up he wore for his benefit.

Honestly, the one occasion she has to leave the Sig-Sauer behind...

(It doesn't exactly go with the dress. Which isn't the same thing as saying she's unarmed.)

"Oh, I'm quite all right, thank you." She smiles at him as she assesses him: sober, mid-thirties, English(?), expensive clothing. Not an obvious threat but not quite right, either.

"Terribly sorry." A rather rueful smile. "Christmas, you know..."

'Oh. Yeah. Is it?'

He looks around, and blinks at the Christmas tree as if seeing it for the first time.

'Oh. I mean - it wasn't Christmas in London when I left. I don't...actually understand how that works. Someone said something about time, but...'

For once, he actually doesn't quite understand how it works, which has not stopped him deducing seventeen separate ways in which it might be very useful this evening. Oh, he gets the 'time runs differently' as a simple explanation, but how and why are the bits that are eluding him thus far. He'll work on them.

'...I'm new,' he finishes, with a hapless sort of shrug.

"So am I, I'm afraid," she tells him apologetically, but permits a hint of motherliness in her smile.

(Even though she's never considered being a mother in her life.)

"Although perhaps not so new as you are. But I've only been in a few times myself."

'Well, that's good! We can be new together.'

Normal people like to do things in groups, don't they? It inspires confidence, even if the other person is a dead weight to carry around (aren't they all?).

'Someone showed me how to use the bar though, so we could get a drink. Though - well, you've already got one, but I could get you a refill.'

She smiles; like most of her expressions, the form is perfect, but never quite reaches her eyes.

"I'd never dream of turning down a refill."

The question is why she's pretending to be drunk, and also pretending to be nice. Does she suspect him of something? But she's dressed up and it's certainly not for here, so she must have arrived from a swanky affair on her own world. There aren't many occasions that require a dress like that, and then, how did she get so good at pretending to be drunk? Who uses such a skillset, and moves in circles that require that dress, good champagne and expensive perfume? Whose eyes remain calculating throughout every move?

He has a few suspicions.

'No problem. Though I'll warn you, champagne's a bit out of my price range. You're more like to get sparkling white.'

He'd be terribly disappointed if he found out it's merely for her own amusement. (Well, and to maintain her cover.)

Or, perhaps he wouldn't.

She chuckles. "There are far worse things to drink than that, dear."

So long as it's not cheap Californian plonk. The Nineties were a very dark time.

Considering he's extending the life of a now defunct disguise, he really wouldn't. He'd kind of admire it. People must find amusement where they can!

'Tell me about it.'

He grins, and heads to the bar. It doesn't take long to ask for something reasonable - there's not a great deal Jim doesn't know about wine - and come back. He himself has a Bud.

'Hope that'll do.'

By the time he returns, she's finished her drink: it's only polite, and if one were to be brutally honest she'd really rather a good strong vodka anyway. But Balfont drinks wine, so sparkling white it is.

She takes the glass from him with a smile, and sips. It's actually not bad; not bad at all. "Bottoms up," she says with a smile, and raises her glass.

(Of course, the other benefit of a clear drink is that it's slightly harder to tamper with. Not that it's her first consideration here, but it will always be a consideration.)

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