It's the end of a busy evening. The sun set hours ago, leaving the pub to be a beacon in the dead of night. Outward movements have been slowly, but steadily becoming the trend in the room as the night's guests eventually head on home. Empty glasses and bottles begin to be piled up behind the bar, being separated into two groupings -- one for the kitchen dishwasher and one for the bottle returns.
Una can be found wiping off the bartop with a soaked dishrag so hot that steam rises from the areas she washes in the cool, damp air. The tavern is always cool after the hearth fire is doused. A couple of last-minute stragglers still linger, carrying on the ends of their drunken conversations.
"Well, Finnegan'll 'ave t' clean up 'is act if'n he wants t' marry th' lass," one drunken man with a large red nose says with a loud chortle. His companion nods and slaps the other on the back, laughing raucously as he says, "Aye! I dinnae know how he e'en thinks he stands a chance wi' her!" The two men kind of sway a bit as they slowly make their way through the room to the door.
You know his ways...
Even when you and he were an official item -- and that's not now? -- he was often clandestine. Now, he takes short and intermittent phone calls, makes a run to the nearest town, returning only to go back out again. And in his spare time, he cleans his guns. Such methodical motions, it is a meditation for him. The clank and slip of metal, his mantra.
It's late now, and he's been gone all day today. In Dublin. Meeting or making a connection. He's still a spy. There's still work that has to be done, despite his desire to be discreet beyond discreet. When he left, there was the usual Nothing. You are familiar with this. You wake to find him gone. A little note: I will be back. Back in the old days, that could mean days, weeks, months. Sometimes even years. But nowadays? Travel's easier, if nothing else.
So are you surprised at all when Nicu ducks back in the tavern, tall frame nearly taller than the doorframe. For most of the Irish there's plenty of headroom. Not so for Orozco.
He's nicely shaved and nicely and warmly clothed in blacks and greys. Pale eyes go immediately to the bar, the quiet, expectant look of: She Should Be Here...
Your Irish lass might not have noticed the door opening for you because of all the people slowly trickling out of the tavern -- if not for that sensation that all Immortals learn to pay heed to. It is so difficult to describe; it is just something you all know. The Quickening. Some have described it as a tremendous jolt of electrical sensation running from the base of their spine to their skulls... others have said it's more of a strong and very sudden numbness or tingling... and still others have had other ways to describe it.
Una has never described it to anyone, but instantly experiences it as you walk in, momentarily overwhelmed by it. The rag in her hand freezes on the bartop. A mere heartbeat later, her emerald gaze flickers up and over toward the door, looking for the source.
The sight of you brings a wide, warm smile to her lips. Warm and inviting. The two men leaving suddenly break into a wobbly, off-toned rendition of "O, Danny Boy" and press by you through the door. Only staff remain with you both, bustling to get the place tidied.
He could pick their pockets if he thought about it. He got good at that in Budapest. All part of the service. All part of the job. But Nicu only moves as he and the catterwauling Gaels share the doorspace for a moment. And then the door closes, and he is still standing there a moment.
If he had to put it into words that 'feeling' would be the very cataclysm of Life meeting Death, in a thunderbolt going from tip to toe and back again.
Of course, with you, it also comes with a second sensation...
And this causes pale eyes to twinkle and the head to tip a bit. "How's the whiskey tonight?" he says, his Eastern accent still tripping quasi-slavic despite the time he's spent here with you. He really has to work on that. When in Rome, afterall...
Nicu pulls up a seat at the bar, exhaling, running a hand through short blonde hair and then leaning forward, arms on the countertop you've just wiped down. And grinning. Invitation accepted. "Free and flowing?" he wonders. Nicu turns his head slightly, eyes cast over a shoulder to see whom else may be remaining. "Care to take a bottle or two up to the room..."
And with the way you look at her, a blush against her milky-white cheeks is almost always sure to follow. Tonight is no exception. She gives you that devilish grin of hers, trying hard not to look show her reaction. She has no reason to be shy, but she has never been one to try to show something like 'female weakness'...at least not in public. Alone with you, that's a different story entirely.
At least the countertop is clean where you lean. Maybe a little damp still, but clean. She is meticulous about how this place is kept. Finishing up the wipe-down of the bar, she glances away to put the rag in the sink, then glances back at you. "Anytime... you know that," she murmurs, her grin turning into something a little less devilish as her staff disappear into the kitchen with the last of the dirty glassware.
"I feel like taking a world tour tonight," he remarks, arms folding against one another as the rest on the counter. "We can start in Ireland, cross over to Scotland, jump the cold seas for Scandia and Russia, and then France and lastly, if we have time, America." When he says all this, his eyes make their own little journey, ending at last at your eyes. Nicu smiles. "A shot glass for each country." And he seems settled on that, arms unfolding and body in motion, leaving the stool.
Now, you and he have been sharing a bed for a month, and like an old married couple you feel into such an arrangement easily. But it's still been rather horribly platonic.
For whatever reason. You each have a handful, right? You could look at one another and say: This isn't a good idea. So, this suggestion, how does it strike you? Devil may care...
Nicu comes around the bar, looking for said glasses, his eyes lifting to pour over the stock of whisky. Irish. Scotch, single malt. Norweigian vodka. Russian. French. Even a little bourbon, god bless you. "Sorry for spiriting off," he thinks to say. "But I got you something." Old habits die hard.
"Mmm... world-wide travel in one night? Just like that, hm?" she asks, wickedly playing coy. It's habit for her. When she's not entirely sure what's about to happen, it puts her a bit off-balance. To compensate, she acts confident or even nonchalant about whatever is eluding her. Tonight is no exception for this, either. She's not exactly sure what you're up to, and perhaps that makes her nervous. Not nervous in a bad way...but an anticipatory way. She doesn't try to pry too much, hoping that you'll reveal your plans.
Or will you just keep her in the dark? It wouldn't be the first time.
Chuckling, she opens a cupboard where the shot glasses are kept and starts pulling some out. She starts by counting them, then says, "Oh hell," and just grabs for the bag of disposable ones. Less dishes, unless you object -- she even holds up the bag to show you, waiting to see your reaction. If you insist on glass ones, she'll get them, but she has to try.
Are we drinking whiskey tonight? Something else? Many things? She waits and watches you as you check out the bottles. Just what do you have planned? However, she can't help but ask, "Oh? What do you have for me?"
The lights in the kitchen turn off. The staff have left through the back way.
He just smiles. Is that for the glasses or for the surprise? He pulls down bottles. Irish whiskey. Single malt scotch. Vodka. Bourbon. In each large hand, he holds three bottles each. Now, he surely can't mean to drink all of this, right? Well, you'll notice that the bottles he's chosen have already been opened, for one. They are not 'virgins', still with their labels and caps intact. "Yes, all in one night," he says quietly. And then the lights go out. "I'll tell you about my trip to Dublin along the way." But not here.
Holding up the bottles, Nicu grins and veers, heading toward your loft. "Oh... yes... and give you your surprise. A little something I picked up..." Annoying isn't he. He with all his secrets and 'holding all the cards'. Is it as endearingly infuriating as it used to be? And he strides off humming idly...
Shutting off the light in the tavern as she follows on your heels, she can't help but be curious. "A surprise? Really? For me?" She calls after you, following you as quickly as she can while tossing her apron aside and locking the doors to the tavern behind her.
You can hear his weight, his feet pounding on the stairs to your loft as he vaults his way up them. And his laughter. "Yes, my darling red rose," he croons out in Romanian, an odd romance language as it is, "...something for you. Come and get it..." A laugh and you hear him open the door to the room you now share.
All this, and not a single drink poured as of yet...
She bursts through the door, immediately seeking for you with her eyes. Have you turned on the lights, or have you left her to seek you out in the dark? She pauses just inside the room, letting the door close behind her...
One light is on and he is in process of setting the bottles on the bedstands. Yes, the bedstands. And as you rush in, Nicu grins, spreading his hands, then crooking a finger your way. Come and join me. Besides, you have the glasses...
Nicu does not yet remove his coat, though that is coming. Instead, he reaches in with a hand, reaching for something. Your surprise, no doubt. "I will try to keep the days you wake up alone to a note, to a minimum..." That almost sounds proposal like, though you know better. When his hand withdraws from the inside pocket of his very fine wool overcoat, it is balled into a fist. What it contains is still not visible.
Both hands come out, one empty, one full, both reaching for you. "First this," Nicu whispers, "...then we will... drink the best of Ireland..."
Spotting you, she grins and moves through the room more calmly and with a purpose. Kicking off her sneakers, she pauses halfway through the room, and then finally closes the distance to approach you.
Tilting her head to one side, she smiles with a little confused expression on her face. What can she say to that, other than the quiet little, "Okay," that actually slips past her lips. Standing before you, she looks at the outstretched hands, finally focusing her gaze on the full one. Slender fingers outstretch and touch yours gently as her gaze flickers up to your face, silently asking you for the gift...whatever it is. She won't take it before.
Well, it's not a ring...
But it is jewelry. The slink of a chain tells you that. Gold links easily collapse when he transfers it to your smaller hands. The pendant is green amber, particularly prized in Eastern Europe and Russia. And the color that suits you best. Just slightly darker than his own eyes, the sizable chunk of polished green amber has been shaped into an oval.
"I found it in Dublin. I discovered a Danish import shoppe while I was there. I ...thought its home should be against your skin." He always had a way with the pretty words. When he speaks them, that is. His hands slide away from yours and with a smile he shrugs out of his overcoat. Beneath it, a sweater over non-descript khaki-like trousers.
Her mouth opens in silent shock and wonderment as the necklace is dropped into her hands. As your hands pull away from hers to remove your coat, her hands spread a bit to hold it up to the light. "Oh, Nicu... it's... it's beautiful..." she whispers nearly breathlessly, moving the gold chain a bit so that the pendant catches the light differently.
Pulling both hands, and therefore the chain, to her chest, she turns her gaze back to you as she exclaims, "Oh, it's so wonderful. You shouldn't have." Pure excitement and pleasure passes over her features as she holds the necklace up to her neck. She cranes her head a bit to try to see it against her, resting where her v-neck shirt shows flesh. "Help me put it on?" she asks, her emerald eyes flashing as she looks at you again with a warm smile.
The coat is tossed on the bed, and his hands move against yours, the chain dripping over fingertips easily. He smiles. Of course I will. The stone lies against your skin, warm from having been in his pocket all day, and the cool of the chain settles against you as he clasps it around your neck. It lands in a perfect setting, just where the v-neck dips. "Do not worry," Nicu says with his Romanian inflection flaring, "it is not a bribe...no strings attached." And he laughs. But you know, sometimes in the past where there have been gifts, there have been sacrifices.
His hands brush your hair over your shoulders, then as he turns they cup your face. And he kisses you. "You are welcome, bella." Nicu's hands draw away with a final stroke of your cheek, and then he grins, his finger crooking at the v-neck of your shirt, and in that hooking, tugs it ever-so-slightly downward. And his eyes follow suit. "See how well it sits? It was made for you in the wilds of Russia, I have no doubt."
The shirt springs upward as his finger lets it go.
"Now," Nicu proclaims, "... a drink. A celebration, eh? No mourning tonight. Tonight, we live, we drink, and we love."
Her eyes focus on the green pendant against her chest as her fingers touch it, holding it there as you fasten the clasp behind her neck. She releases it, even as your finger hooks into the v-neck. Her lip curls up at the corner, forming a slanted smile. A long ringlet of coppery hair slips forward over the untouched cheek.
There may be no strings attached, you say, but it means a hell of a lot to her.... especially considering the sacrifices in the past. You may say there are no strings, but... She leaves that for now.
Her lips purse as you check out the area at her v-neck, and then release the fabric. Once more, her cheeks flush with colour. The toss-away shot glasses are still held in a bag in her hand. "A drink sounds lovely..." And as you mention 'love', she arches an eyebrow, almost afraid to ask. The bag of glasses is handed to you, instead.
It means a lot to him, as well. Emotions are harder for Nicu, but you have a subtle understanding of how the man thinks, and of what moves him. You could tell that in the kiss. There are strings, and then there are Strings. "Well, a drink, many drinks," a shoulder rolls and his cocks a grin. What is the difference? He takes the ... bag of glasses -- faux glass! -- and he chuckles. "Get comfortable, bella. I will handle the pouring..."
He sets out two 'glasses' per bottle. But before he pours, he plops down on the bed and begins to remove his shoes. Better to get them out of the way now. Slipping them under the bed, he reaches over and pours two glasses of Irish whiskey. Two of scotch (MacReedy's). Two of Skky. Two of Stoli. Two of Grey Goose. Two of Johnnie Walker.
And then he stands. "Alright, bella, it is time for the first toast. The blood of Ireland, in toast to how good Ireland has been to me. To return me to the woman I love," will that cause whiplash? Nicu holds out the glass of Irish whiskey to you.
So much alcohol... she's definitely going to have a headache in the morning. Oh, but will it be worth it? From the mood you're in, perhaps...
She looks about to see where she shall 'get comfy', but then stops as she hears your last comment.. the toast. Her snaps back so quickly that perhaps she would have whiplash -- complete with the jaw on the floor. Both eyebrows are lifted in surprise even as her hand reaches out for the whiskey slowly, as though in slow motion.
Love? Did you say love? As you once said so long ago? She lifts her jaw a bit, so that her lips remain just barely parted and takes the glass from your grasp. It is then lifted. She does not bother to hide the colouring in her cheeks this time. You are both alone, of course.
She cannot speak. You've truly shocked her. What has happened recently for such a dramatic change of events?
That's the thing, bella: things never did change. Not really. Time and distance makes fools of us all. Did we not agree that night I showed up out of nowhere?
Nicu holds his glass up and out in salute and then he drinks the whiskey down until it is gone. Sealing the deal. So to speak. "I am going to get drunk," Nicu pronounces, crumpling up the first of what shall be many glasses tonight, "...I am going to loosen my tongue and I am going to set my heart free." He reaches for the Norweigian vodka. "I do not care what it costs me. For we live today, bella. That is what matters. And if a man loves, then a man should admit it, if he is a man..." The vodka is lifted up to you. "And I am a man who has never stopped loving you."
You've seen this before. When he gets so drunk he just starts wailing. Truth be told, he got a headstart in Dublin...
Very true... you both did agree to that, certainly. So, what else can she do, but raise her glass and down it as you did yours.
She sets this aside and reaches for the vodka, matching you. "Alright then," she murmurs softly, raising her glass to you. "Then this is to love that somehow manages to survive time..." she begins softly. After a brief pause, she adds, "...and that is mutual."
Time never erased what she felt. If you're willing to stop fighting it, then so is she. What harm could it be, to let go for an evening? And so what if it extends past an evening? Ah, but she gets ahead of herself. She then quickly tosses down the vodka, discarding the second 'glass'.
Maybe it's all the dying lately that's just hammered it home. Hammered it home that he should never have just left like that. That he never should have just let time intervene like that. A few heads go by the wayside, and it changes a man's perspective. Even if love among the immortals is risky business, even without the espionage. In the end, it will end badly for us all...
The vodka is downed. And Nicu is grinning. "Mutual." He wasn't sure. He lifts the Russian vodka, the old Stoli standby. "To our first fight, whenever it happens," he chuckles, recalling the tempestuous nature of it all. "I shall cherish it all the same, no different than the first time you sigh in my arms again." A pause and he lifts the Stoli, pronouncing with a grin and with his voice, "To letting that be tonight..."
You've both seen a lot of heads roll over the years and more than once she's even thought that one of those heads could have been her own. There have been a lot of close calls over the centuries and times when she thought for sure that she would finally find out what happens once you lose your head.
But, she's been fortunate so far. With the recent mass killings of Immortals across Europe, perhaps she's been feeling much the same as you. Tonight, you have her undivided attention, when when in the past perhaps she's been too distracted.
Drawing in a deep breath, she matches your moves, grabbing for the Stoli. "Yes, mutual," she murmurs, finding it a little difficult to look up into your face without blushing. It's difficult for her to admit to her true feelings sometimes, hard for her to open up.
"To tonight," she echoes your toast, knocking the Stoli back. Swallowing it with a wince, she then looks back up into your face.
He's felt the blade at his throat before. Somehow, he's managed to escape the Finality of it all. He's been shot, stabbed, run through. You name it, he's probably either done it or experienced it. He wondered in those years you were separated if he'd hear about your death. He drank himself sick on a few occasions, worrying about it.
Nicu smiles and he lifts the French vodka, the world's finest: Grey Goose. One for each of you. And there are no words this time. No toast. Pale green eyes settle on you as he drinks it slowly down. His hand just as slowly crumpling the cup, discarding it in a growing pile. And a hand reaches for you, landing at your elbow, moving up your arm and then losing itself in your red hair. You blush. He's flushed. And with all this alcohol, all the pent up attraction is about to explode, then end of the month-long flirtation.
As you hold onto the glass of the Goose, Nicu draws you to him, lifting you and swinging you around toward the bed. But he holds you, cradled for a moment. And he is strong. As strong as you are, he lifts you easily.
She draws in her breath and nearly holds it as you pull her close. So close, can you feel her gentle breath slowly being released? Her eyes shine like two emeralds as they look over every detail of your face before resting upon your own gaze.
But then she is in the air, being held by your strong arms. She can't help but giggle momentarily, not expecting this. The glass of Goose is downed quickly, the glass crumpled and tossed to the floor. This leaves both of her arms free...
...to wrap about your shoulders as she leans in, pressing her lips to yours in a sudden, fierce kiss. It seems she's not the only one ready to burst. Sleeping next to you without really touching has been nearly torturous as old feelings quickly awakened.
He would smile, but his mouth is too busy. The kiss is an eruption. An explosion of a month-long agony. Every night he has slept beside you, careful to leave space between you. On more than one morning, he found himself with you in his arms. You had to know what it did to him. His need to shower before you, drenching himself in ice-cold water. And still it was not enough. But somehow, you and he managed. For a month.
But that's over now...
The bed sounds as your doubled weight sinks into it, and you immediately become a tangle. The vodka and whiskey backing the explosion, like gasoline.
He had forgotten how well you kissed. The softness of your mouth, but then the boldness. You are no shy flower. You are more like hardy heather, a wild rose. A woman to his own liking. You and he fall into the pattern of well-practiced pleasing. It is easy to remember what you liked. What he liked.
There will be no regret. He will wonder, instead, what took him so long...
Posted by rowan at March 01, 2001 07:58 PM
