milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Another day, another city. He's not sure how long he'll be in this one - weeks, maybe a month or two, if he's lucky. He hasn't been lucky for a half-year or so now, but there's nothing to do about that except stay ready, and move when he needs to.

He'd picked the apartment because it was high up in the building. He prefers it that way; it lets him watch from various angles and lines of sight when he needs to, and gives him quick access to the roof and escape.

Not that he can see much from inside at the moment, of course, having just finished taping newspaper -- multiple thicknesses -- over the windows. It helps; the lines of text and distortion of blurry newsprint photos disguise any shadows that he might cast from within.

James takes a moment to look around. It's got everything he needs; sleeping bag unrolled on the cheap mattress in the corner, the windows (now covered), washroom no bigger than a closet, kitchenette barely bigger than that, even complete with the unimaginable luxury of a full-size fridge...

... ah. Food. Right.

He's not hungry, but food's the fuel that's necessary to keep going. It's too late to go to the market now, though. Instead, he goes to the apartment door, and opens it into Milliways.

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A woman with cool blue eyes is at the bar, a basket of freshly-cut garden flowers set in front of her.

(If he looks too closely at its contents, he may realise by the glint of almost-covered metal that flowers aren't its only contents.)

Certain things are difficult to miss, for those who share a particular type of training.

The only sign is the half-flicker of an eyelid as he spots the hidden contents of the basket.

He nods a greeting, in silence.

Once upon a time -- well, to say she used to go places unarmed hasn't been true in about forty-five years, but at least she'd leave the Sig-Sauer at home most days.

And then Milliways decided to make a habit of turning up at her kitchen door, so heavy weaponry it is.

She nods back, politely: there is almost no extraneous movement, which could be the result of childhood deportment training or could be the product of a different kind of education entirely.

"Good evening."

She's orienting herself by the light from outside, and positioned herself to have the best possible view of entry and exit routes without making it too obvious she's done so.

"Good evening."

His accent is American, at least in English. He studies her with care, the way that he would a target, assessing everything that he can while giving as little away as possible.

It's professional courtesy, after a fashion.

He hesitates before he continues, but this is Milliways, and there are some things he has to learn ... or re-learn, as the case may be.

"Buy you a drink?"

He's receiving the same careful professional assessment in return: after all, she didn't survive long enough to retire by ignoring the basics.

(She also doesn't trust this place. At all. As entertaining as she finds it, it will never have her trust.)

That particular question, however, is that rare thing: unexpected. It makes her smile, and the expression very nearly reaches her eyes. She's accustomed to being almost invisible to men of Bucky's (apparent) age, and while that definitely has its benefits she does miss being able to command attention as she once could (and did).

"Well, that's certainly the best offer I've had all night." Her tone is dry and amused, but she doesn't miss the hesitation: she doesn't keep him hanging. "I'll have a gin and tonic, please."

"You heard the lady," he says to Bar. "Make mine a stout, if you would."

He places a few bills on the wooden surface with his right hand as he adds his thanks... in Russian. "Спасибо."

His left arm is hidden by the hooded sweatshirt that he's wearing open as a jacket, and his left hand by a black leather glove ... save for the metal visible at his wrist.

Those two things together will be enough, if she's as professional as she seems ... and if she's from the same world as him. Better to find out now, if he can.

Professional: most definitely. From his world: thankfully (for both their sakes) no.

~~Although the narrative may have to write that fic. Anyway.~~

The Russian makes her raise an eyebrow, and her glass. "На здоровье."

Her Russian is flawless, if a little colloquial.

(The metal on his wrist doesn't raise a reaction, although she certainly doesn't miss it. It's rude to stare, after all.)

He lifts his own glass in return, turning his body just enough that he's facing her full on.

"Which would you prefer? Language, that is."

Her lips quirk in a faint smile.

"I can get along quite happily in either. Although the Russian's a little rusty, so I can only apologise now for poor grammar."

"No apology needed."

He takes a sip of his beer.

"I don't remember seeing you around here before."

This time she does smile.

"Oh, you'd find it quite hard to see me if I didn't want to be seen, dear. But I'm not here often."

She sips the drink, thoughtfully. Really she'd have preferred neat vodka, or perhaps champagne, but gin and tonic is what her current personality drinks, so she does too. (And really the gin's not bad at all.)

"If it comes to that, I don't believe I've seen you here before, either."

It takes a second, but he smiles back - open and amused.

"Same goes. On both counts."

It's... interesting, to both see and be seen. It fascinates and concerns her at the same time -- and so she keeps coming back, but brings the heavy arms with her.

Her own smile up at him is probably real, but far less open; everything about her is cool, composed... controlled. Perhaps the product of that stereotypical English reserve - at least, in part.

"I'm Victoria, dear."

"Hi, Victoria. I'm James."

She's interesting, that's for certain, and when it comes to a certain skillset -- it's a good idea to get to know everything you can about those who have it, when possible.

Of course, in a place like Milliways, that can be a little different process than usual.

"A pleasure to meet you."

And indeed it is a pleasure: a game, of sorts. Poker with no cards, but a drink at your elbow and a very interesting way of cashing in your chips.

He's clearly had extremely extensive training, but he also doesn't seem entirely comfortable in it. It's... curious.

She offers a hand, polite and self-assured.

Curious indeed. A few years ago, he was far, far more comfortable -- but that was then, and this is now.

Or so it seems.

He meets her hand with his right one, with no visible sign of hesitation.

"Likewise. So, how did you happen to come across this place?"

A quick - if slight - smile, and he adds,

"It's neat to hear the different stories."

Is that left arm a prosthetic? He's certainly very protective of it, but it doesn't move quite like any prosthetic she's ever seen.

Well. She's a born sniper: she'll watch and wait and see.

The smile is boyish and rather charming, although goodness knows how sincere it is. Some people bring more of themselves to their characters than others; still, she's always had an eye for a good-looking ~~well-armed~~ man.

"For some reason, it seems to keep appearing at my kitchen door." She taps the basket of flowers (yellow and white roses; calla lilies; the scents of an expensive and almost painfully ~~boring~~ tasteful garden) illustratively. "Not very interesting, I'm afraid."

Although anyone who attempted to follow her back through her door would rapidly find their life full of interest.

"And yourself?"

"I've heard people say it's a persistent kind of place. Sometimes."

He takes a drink of his beer, lifting the glass with his right hand - although that could be because he's facing her and it's convenient, rather than any reluctance to use his left. It's hard to say.

"Me? Someone I know brought me to his local. This is where we ended up."

It's not even a conscious decision to leave Steve's name out of it.

"It certainly seems like one," she agrees, with mild long-suffering, and considers him as she sips her drink.

She's tempted to enquire about his accent, but the thing about looking too hard at other people's backstories is that it tends to encourage them to return the favour.

"I imagine it must have been rather a shock, finding this place on a pub crawl."

"You could say that," he agrees, without correcting her impression of it having been a pub crawl versus anything else.

"It can be shocking on an almost daily basis here, for that matter."