John Barrister

[Barrister] So: it's a Wednesday night at the pub. Not really the night to go barhopping, true, but Lakeview has an old and celebrated tradition of open mic Wednesdays. And Thursdays, and Sundays. And sometimes Tuesdays and Fridays and Saturdays too, but that's neither here nor there.

Point is, open mic night at the Fox and Feather. Some semi-decent impromptu group is up on stage, jammin' away. There's a fiddle, pipes and a guitar. The music is vaguely celtic-inspired, but largely, to be perfectly honest, open chords and noise. There's enough chatter and ambient noise for it not to matter. At the bar, two men, mid-thirties, both in sweaters and jeans. One has a hard soldierly look about him; the other is larger, broader, thicker, hairier, hunkered over his drink, mostly listening and nodding, sometimes smiling the way one does at a fond memory.

Eventually the first gets up to go. The second stands as well. They shake hands and embrace like brothers -- there's a lot of macho back-pounding, a firm clinch -- and then part. The military man gets his coat from the coat check girl and leaves. His friend stays behind at the bar, and orders one more round for himself.

[Barrister] (very funny *LMAO*)
to Bainbridge, Baldwin

[Bainbridge] (( There's al'ays a Baldwin brother ... ))
to Baldwin, Barrister

[Baldwin] (I saw the B's and couldn't resist popping in with one of my own. LOL)
to Bainbridge, Barrister

[Barrister] (*LOL*)
to Bainbridge, Baldwin

[Baldwin] (Lord, Bainbridge, Baldwin and Barrister sounds like a Law Firm.)
to Bainbridge, Barrister

[Barrister] (it's cuz Barrister is a type of lawyer in the UK! *LOL*)
to Bainbridge, Baldwin

[Bainbridge] A man leaves; the door is open, the air is cold and full of the taste of snow. It is November in Chicago. Enter, Dr. Bainbridge: a woman in her thirties, not old, but hard to place, with a wild fecundity of black curls, which stray from under a cap pulled down low enough to warm her ears. After a glance around, which causes her to smile (warmth, there; her eyes crinkle up; it's almost audible) as she notes the impromptu musicians, she walks to the bar, not far from the man who was left/who stayed behind. She orders herself a drink. "Dust off my tab, Sam." Her accent is crisp, Britonnic; British: precision, but warm and soft. The accent of restraint.

There are people in this world who are shy; there are people in this world who are not. There are people in this world who like people; there are people in this world who do not. Avery is one of the former breed.

And while the 'tender busies himself getting her drink, Avery pays a moment's (real) attention to the musicians. And it's only a matter of time (or, say, posts) before her attention turns from the music to the other patrons who are not playing music.

[Barrister] Let's get this out of the way, shall we? John Barrister is not a man who goes to bars to pick up women. Perhaps he was in his youth, but marriage, or responsibility, or the sheer passage of years have leached that out of him. These days, if he goes to a bar, or a 'pub' as this one liked to call itself, he goes to meet an old friend, or to put up advertisements for one of his many side jobs, or simply for the ambiance.

Still. Enter Avery Bainbridge. Enter her particular brand of warmth, which you can almost smell: like cinnamon, nutmeg, rich chocolate. Enter her accent, which could be cold and precise, but is not. And Barrister turns his head.

"That's a rather lovely accent." As far as lines go, this one is terrible. Then again, there's no such thing, really, as a good line. And Barrister is perhaps not trying to make one. After all, he has his hands wrapped around his heavy stein of some pale-ale or other; they are large hands, coarse, bigboned, dusted with dark hair, and on the left ring finger winks a very evident gold band. "English? London?"

[Bainbridge] And her gaze switches from the musicians to J.B.; she smiles. Again, there's something in that smile. There are little lines around her eyes and, yes, it is the taste of Mexican hot chocolate, and, yes, her eyes are the warmth of honey in hot tea, and it is cold, cold, cold outside, and yes, Avery is a detail-orientated creature, and she notices the wink of gold on J.B.'s left hand. Does not disregard it. Does not stop, however, the smile, which is followed by: well. She takes off her cap, and her hair is in even more tumble disarray, and takes off a glove, and offers J.B. her hand. "It's Avery Bainbridge, and thank you; you've a nice one yourself, but you yanks never seem to believe it."

[Barrister] "Johnathan," he says, and then seems surprised at himself; uncertain why he gave his full name. Perhaps it was some latent poetic instinct to match the syllable count of hers, which her british accent lengthens into three subtle but distinct syllables where his american would slur it into two. "John," he amends, "Barrister." And he shakes her hand. His palm is warm; it bears the callouses of a manual laborer, though the quality of his clothing -- though plain, and neither designer nor tailored by any stretch of the imagination -- says that he has a comfortable nest egg.

He smiles when she compliments his 'accent'. "Thanks," he says, "but you must be mistaken. I'm only speaking English the way it's meant to be spoken." And his smile becomes a grin -- lines at the corners of his eyes, bracketing his mouth. His is not a hollywood 35; his is a weatherworn, outdoorsy 35, and he looks like he's worn his skin well for all thirty-five years of it. "Can I buy you a drink?"

[Bainbridge] "You can;" and, here, spark of humor, a note of the conspiratorial: "And I wouldn't send it back." Beat. "What brings a man like yourself to a pub like the Fox and the Feather?"

[Barrister] Barrister turns to the tender: "It'll be on me," he tests the name -- "Sam." -- and receives a mild glance for it, unimpressed. JB wilts a little. Clearly, two appearances does not make him a regular here, worthy of calling the bartender by name.

Turning back, he offers a rueful little shrug as commentary on the exchange. Answers her, "Just meeting a friend. I was here a few months ago. The open-mic was a bit better that night. A particularly good singer/fiddler, I remember -- a redhead, I think, rather reserved in person."

[Bainbridge] "Really?" Interested. "That might have been my friend Genny; she's fiddles like the devil and lives round here." Avery flicks a glance at Sam, and then -- with the ease of a true regular -- sits on the bar-stool next to J.B.'s, and takes off her coat. The gloves and the hat are on the bar top. And it must be said, Avery does not do it on purpose, it is an intrinsic part of her personality, of who she is and was born to be, and I might run with wild blood, and I might wear horns, but there's this way to how she takes off her coat. Even though she's fully dressed beneath, and there is not a proliferation of bare skin (--it's winter!), it's suggestive. "Do you play?"

[Barrister] "I'm sorry, I forgot the name. I'm not sure it was Jenny, though." Avery strips -- er, that is, Avery removes her coat; J.B's eyes flicker down, ever so briefly, and then as quickly away. To disguise the glance, he looks into his stein, not because he's going to steal another glance later but because he's rather embarrassed to have stolen the first. Really; he's not seventeen anymore. You'd think he'd have the dignity not to gawk at a strange woman in a bar.

"No, no," there's a certain hurry to his reply, as if to gloss over the past minute and a half as quickly as possible, "I don't play. I make." He regains his normal rhythm: slow, deliberate, thoughtful. "String instruments. Mostly cellos and violas. Sometimes, anyway; I'm not very good. It's a hobby. Yourself?"

[Bainbridge] Lo, her drink has arrived, and the lady is drinking whiskey straight-up. As she prepares to take her first sip, she crosses her legs, knees turned toward her new(est) friend. "I do, and a couple of instruments; haven't touched anything but a bodhran lately." Here, whiskey-sip, she closes her eyes, enjoys. Then: "Don't play, as in you choose not to? Or 'don't play', as in you don't know how?"

[Barrister] "A -- sorry, a what?" He doesn't even try to pronounce it again. If he saw it spelled, he'd pronounce it bod-ran. As in, the woman with the hot bod ran down the street. All along, he's sat hunkered over his drink, apart from when he extended his hand to shake. Now he half-turns toward her, slightly. The hand nearer her drops to his thigh. Body language analysts would have a field day. And, "Don't know how. I never learned." Pause. "Why, do you teach?"

[Bainbridge] "A bodhran," she repeats, and there's the intimation (husk: smoke) of a chuckle in the back of her throat. (Cinnamon: nutmeg: to taste. Spice.) "Bow-rahn." Then, another smile; slightly wider. "Why, looking to learn?" There's an invitation, there; but she tones it down in her next line. He's wearing a wedding ring, after all: "There just seems something strange about a fiddle-maker who can't even play the simplest reel."

[Barrister] Looking to learn -- his smile widens with hers. "Maybe," he says. There's warmth in him too; a slow and quiet sort of charisma.

Then, a brief and short inhale, a sip of air that he follows with a sip of his brew. "Well," he says; his eyelashes shade his eyes, and both are dark, and he looks to his wedding ring without quite realizing it, and certainly without trying to hide it, "my wife was a fiddler."

Ah, baggage.

[Bainbridge] Quiet, for a moment. (Baggage. Who doesn't have it?) "That's a handsome ring," she says, and her voice is softer; tea, now, instead of spiced chocolate; caramel tea, perhaps. Or Russian Caravan. "She doesn't play any longer?"

[Barrister] The smile he slants her: it's wry, astute, and it says he knows she's smarter than to need to ask; it says he knows she knows. It also contains something of appreciation -- gratitude for going through the paces anyway.

"My wife passed a year ago." He looks at the ring again after she'd mentioned it, and this time he sees it, "I just wear it to ward off the she-wolves." It's an awkward sort of joke. It's only after that he hears the implications behind it, unintended. He drains his stein of ale and catches the eye of the bartender, nods for a refill.

[Bainbridge] There's this smile he slants her; wry, astute. Attractive. Tug. There's this smile she answers him with, after just a second: slow, and maybe rueful. "Does it work?" And, "That one's on me, Sam."

[Barrister] Another man -- another kinsman, precisely -- might answer this with a bitter private joke of a comment, whether or not the listener were in a position to understand and empathize. Of course not, or what do you think? They're wolves.

JB grins again, brief, a flicker. "So far."

And a glance toward Sam, who most definitely did not give Avery Bainbridge a mild, unimpressed sort of look. Back to her: dark-haired, wildblooded woman: "Equal opportunity imbiber, I see. Excuse me -- "

Alcohol in the blood warms him, and he pulls his sweater off, manages to do it without knocking anyone over. The hour's growing later and the crowd is changing subtly. The musicians are packing it up. The open area that served as a stage has become a dance floor, though no one's brave enough to lead the way just yet. The DJ spins danceable rock, some top 40, some underground, though not so loud that it becomes hard to converse. The clientele is shifting more toward drinking and socializing, and the bar is getting more crowded. Barrister reseats himself, folding his thin sweater under himself for a cushion. He's pulled the barstool a little closer.

"So -- is it a cliche if I ask whether you come here often?"

[Bainbridge] Let's just get this out of the way: Avery? Avery is frank in her appreciation of the male form. Very frank. And appreciative. And she appreciates Johnathan Barrister's, in particular, when he takes off his sweater; takes a good long swallow of her whiskey in a sort of private toast -- or because she wants to order another drink.

"I am delighted to say that, yes, it is a cliche -- and yes, I come around often enough to be a familiar face. Ah, 'scuse me," that, to someone leaning over her to order their drink, bumpage occurs, it happens, and her response is offhand. Then: "Tonight's a bit of a surprise, tell you the truth, but I just had to get away from the bloody Geats."

[Barrister] The sweater off, he's more relaxed, particularly after he undoes his collar and his cuffs, rolls the latter up to his elbows. He notes that the lady has emptied her whiskey, and notes also to put the next round on his tab when she asked for it.

Often enough to be a familiar face, she says -- he laughs, mostly at himself. "Yeah; I should've guessed that. The bartender," and a little gesture to encompass the entire room. The grin that comes out of the laugh is easy, self-deprecating. Something about her frankness, or perhaps that certain sensuality of her being that cannot quite be disguised, but would not be politely reacted to immediately, had intimidated him at first. A little. And Barrister is not a man easily intimidated. Fortunately, that seems to have passed. He's settling into himself, the rhythm of the conversation. "I guess what I'm asking is -- " bumpage occurs, Barrister puts a hand out to steady her, polite, he touches her elbow, contact maintains for a beat longer, more than polite. Then bumpage ends, he draws back, picks up his stein to occupy his hand. Continues, " -- are you planning to come back here?"

She mentions the 'bloody Geats'. He's momentarily confused. "The Geats? Extinct, aren't they? Or is it merely Swedish now?"

[Bainbridge] Her lashes shade her eyes; they're dark, where her eyes aren't; but her eyes are a muddied color, and tea can be clear or opaque, depending on how it was brewed. Then she laughs, casual, easy: husk, again. Her laugh is French cocoa, rich, creamy: tongue, swirl. "With that Beowulf monstrosity out, they're keen to get some new translations and some audio. I've the tongue for it and patience with voice-work, even academic voice-work, but it's like anything, you work too long on a project, and you need to take a break before the project breaks you." A beat, and then back to the original: "I do plan on returning. What about you? Can I look forward to it?"

[Bainbridge] ooc: Erk, not British enough. May I look forward to it.

[Barrister] "Is that what you do? Literature?" A brief scrutiny; a sense that Barrister might see a lot, if he tried. "You don't seem the type."

And, "Yeah." His smiles are easy and plentiful. "I'd like to. Soon."

[Bainbridge] "Really?" That, to the you don't seem the type. "Well, I'm just getting back into the field. Dead languages have been a hobby of mine." Then, she has ordered another drink; she has even glanced at the D.J. Says, "Well, maybe we can coordinate; I've a telly number, excuse me, a phone number if you'd like. In the meantime, can I ask you a favor?"

[Barrister] Really? "Yeah." The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. "Not pretentious enough." It could come off as a blatant, get-in-your-pants compliments. It doesn't. It's not. She's just getting back into the field, she adds, and he laughs -- "Well, be patient. Maybe it'll develop with time."

Another drink, which J.B. nods onto his tab. She offers her number and he shifts on the seat to get out his wallet; feels around for a pen and comes up empty.

A glance as she asks a favor. His eyes are dark. In the right light they're blue, deep dark blue; in this light they are merely dark, possibly brown, possibly black. "Certainly."

[Bainbridge] "Hmm. I don't think I'd peg you as an academic, then, even if you do make violins and cellos in your spare time. Maybe a - " There's a pause. Then: "Well, it'll come to me."

He agrees to a favor; she smiles. Understand this: She isn't overpowering sexuality. She isn't. But, still: How there can be the faintest hint of innuendo, kept (to the American ear) restrained, tame, by the proper British lady accent: precise, crisp, overlaying the smoke. How Avery, who is devourable, whose voice can be hot chocolate or wine, whose eyes can be honey or tea, etc. etc., whose fingernails can probably be almond chips, if needed, and a freckle or two -- they're molasses or paprika or.

"A dance?"

[Barrister] He winces, "Oh, I'm a terrible -- I have absolutely no -- " subsides. A beat. Then he drinks a draught of his brew and stands, hoping no one will steal his sweater, or push it on the floor, or even worse, spill or vomit on it. "All right, one. To humor you."