[J.B.] The Fox and Feather! A convenient start for all purposes. Let's say it's a few hours earlier than it really is now; 1am sounds good. Nearing closing time, not quite there yet. Let's say the band's good tonight, but not too loud, and the crowd is lively without being overcrowded. Let's say the bartenders are charming and know how to hold a conversation, and, against all odds, there's a chess game in the corner, under a large poster advertising some minor indie celebrity (is that an oxymoron?) who's coming here to sing in a few weeks. Behind the white pieces is one John Barrister; behind the black, no one, because the hour has finally gotten too late, the music too modern, the crowd too young, for the old-timer of a regular who'd just stood up from the game and gone to fetch his coat.

J.B. didn't start this game, himself. He'd sat down after the last guy left. And the old-timer -- well, he might've, but no one here right now remembers that far back. Alcohol makes years of a single night, or so say the fairy tales.

Anyhow: John, now alone and ripe for the Other Character of Interest to approach in this scene, catches the bartender's eye and nods for a refill on his mug of whatever's-on-tap. The F&F is the sort of establishment that hearkens to old school pubs, or tries to. It has tables, chairs, waitresses -- call them barmaids if you will, a small stage for music, and almost no room for dancing. Still, certain inebriated patrons will do their best in the bare modicum of floorspace in front of the stage. Most chat (or brood, or snog) over a drink (or seven).

[A. Bainbridge] "Did you want some opposition, Johnathan?"

The voice is clipped. The vowels, the consonants, British; it doesn't matter how often, how long, she spends on this side of the pond these days, the accent doesn't fade. The voice is, also, low, husk, suggestive and smoke. The voice is, also, belonging to one Dr. Avery Bainbridge, who has just entered the scene, after having leaned up against the bar and summoned up a drink with a glance. They know her here.

"Or are you throwing in the towel?"

[J.B.] Barrister, like an elephant, never forgets a face. Or a voice, for that matter. No, that's not true; he forgets all the time. This one, however, has managed to leave enough of an impression that when he looks up, it's with a broadening smile.

"Well." Well! That sort of pleased, surprised tone; you know it. Well! it says, I haven't seen you in a while. But what he says is: "I'll take what I can get."

J.B's mug is refilled. The house beer isn't bad, here -- a pale, yeasty ale, with a vague summery twist of fruit. The chess game looks to have progressed considerably. A handful of pieces is left to each side, but there's no clear advantage. Black holds a slight territorial advantage, controlling the center with castle and knight, a queen ready to swing out from behind the formation into attack. White, however, is well-barricaded behind pawns and doubled castles, with a scavenging queen on the flanks of the board. This somehow suits J.B.; he seems the type who would play defensively and carefully. Or would, if he were sober. Which he isn't, quite; that was far from the first mug of beer all night.

"It's your move," he says, "but we can start over if you like." The board is smaller than the table; he leans his elbow on the empty space, his cheekbone propped on his fist, and smiles tiredly, buzzed-ly at Avery. "I don't know how much longer I can keep a clear head, though."

[A. Bainbridge] "Brilliant," she says, and she smiles at J.B. Her eyes (as warm as tea, as warm as honey) crinkle at the corners. "You'll be easy prey."

This said, a dark eyebrow lifted, a question. Which she does not yet verbalize, but will amount to, rough times? You drinking alone, again? Instead, Avery takes a seat at the table in front of the black pieces, and she props her elbow on the table, cups her chin in her hand, and studies the board. Avery is not a deliberate player. Avery plays best on the offense, and is likely to make some truly stupid moves, that set her up for very nice ones indeed, later on. While she's studying the board, though --

well, she could be any kind of player. Then she does make a move: bold, flamboyant.

[J.B.] A little booze takes some starch out of J.B. Which isn't quite the right phrase either, because J.B. is decidedly un-starchy. He's down to earth, earthy, in ways that have mostly been lost and forgotten by the modern world. Still; he's a bit of a straight-shooter, isn't he, without much room for mischief. That's what the drink dulls. It bends his straight edges just a little, and puts a crook into his returned smile.

"Oh, really," he says; his tone says, Try me.

She makes a move; bold, flamboyant. He straightens up a little, looking at the board, studies it for a silent movement. Then he brings one castle away from the other, broadens his defensive perimeter, a check to whatever assault she may or may not be planning. Whatever assault he thinks she may or may not be planning.

"So," leaning back to watch her make her move, "Avery. You play the bodran, study ancient literature, and mount a mean endgame offensive. What else don't I know about you?"

[A. Bainbridge] He studies the board. And Avery has leaned back, to drink her pint (what passes for a pint, anyway) and watch J.B. as he makes his move. Then: Her eyes crinkle up, again. There's a smile, there. See? It's even expressed in the curve of her (promiscuous) mouth. And there's also a chuckle. It's chocolate, you know, spiced Mexican cocoa, cinnamon. "You should come home with me."

Her next move? Well, let's see. He's broadened his defense. That leaves her with one option: break it down. She makes another reckless move. Planning? Hmm.

[J.B.] The comment (offer?) takes J.B. by surprise. So too, the move, so quick; reckless. He frowns at the board for a moment. Then, without sitting forward, brings his queen into play -- a triangle of power on his side of the board, guarding his ensconced king. This accomplished, he regains his equilibrium, looks over the board at Avery.

"Was that an invitation?"

[A. Bainbridge] "I believe it was," Avery says, and the smile has stayed. Just this: a slight curve of the lips, a little lopsided. He looks over the board, and we'll say their eyes meet; she holds his gaze for a full second (really, it was) before her attention turns back to the board. Her eyebrows draw together in concentration; as she concentrates, she takes another sip of her pint. Then -- well, this next move is careful. A sacrifice, see: you have to take this bishop, and when you do, you're mine, and if you don't, well, you're mine in a couple more moves. Maybe.

[J.B.] See now; another man would likely bound up and out the door, Avery over one shoulder, caveman-like. J.B., however --

Their eyes meet. There's something bold about her, bold like strong, smoky coffee; expensive, hearty whiskey. A second. Then she makes her move, and he, with a muffled harrumph of concentration, leans forward to study this new development. It's a gambit, to be sure; a trap, in other words, but Barrister was feeling a little reckless tonight, himself, and he thinks maybe, just maybe he could weasel out of it. If he takes the bishop with the rook, not the queen. And played his pawns carefully. And...

Pieces click into place; he moves the black bishop off the board, setting it respectfully by its fellow vanquished. Then, he drinks deeply from his mug. Then, and at last, he answers her. "I drove. Should I follow you, or did you want a ride?" He thinks he got the tone right, casual, without being jaded. Or gauche.

[A. Bainbridge] Pieces click into place. Avery studies the board, again. When you take this bishop, you're mine. Does he, inebriated, buzzed, see something she doesn't? If he does, she can't make herself see it. The game isn't a Magic Eye puzzle, and looking at it different doesn't help, so she continues with the plan -- and hopefully, his king is checked.

"I'll take a ride," she says, after she's moved her last piece, and she's running her fingers through her dark, dark hair, and she's taking another sip of her pint, and her voice -- really -- it's something you can just taste on the tip of your tongue.

And it is good, see.

[J.B.] Maybe he has something up his sleeve. Maybe he, inebriated, buzzed, has tapped into the holy grail of chess, and knows something she doesn't. Or maybe -- J.B. has just lost.

She moves another piece. He makes a small, querying sort of grunt low in his chest, and sits up straight. Bends over the board. Studies it. Frowns, then un-frowns. At least he still has the presence of mind to know a fatal checkmate when he sees one; doesn't go through the humiliation of moving his pieces in bold and brassy ways only to find his king taken at every turn. No; J.B., while he may not be much of a chess player, is a good loser. He topples his king on its side and drains his house ale, and then smiles across the table, eyes crinkling.

"Easy prey," he quotes back to her, not without a touch of irony. He sets the mug down with a click. Almost closing time, anyway. And then, the million dollar question: "Do you want to get out of here?"

[A. Bainbridge] Avery is genuinely surprised when J.B.'s white king is toppled. This isn't because she wasn't trying, but because she's not usually very good. She has her moments, of course. She just didn't think this would be one of them. Then: the million dollar question. Avery reaches across the table and she cups her hand against J.B.'s jaw. As she does this, she tilts her head to the side. Contemplative, almost. Except that Avery is a creature of the senses, remember? And right now the sense that she's using is touch. She smiles at him like she already knows the shape of his mouth, the taste of his mouth. Then: "Cheers, then," she says, and her hand falls away, and she drains her pint dry, and she stands up. "Let's go."