What a difference a Monday makes...
     While Davy's can never be said to be slow, it is relaxed. There's a half crew of girls with Blithe firmly -- and blithely -- in command. Behind the taps, just one tender tonight; the other's out back taking deliveries for the rest of the week and restocking. It's about half full compared to a Thursday night. It's just down to the regulars.
     And the grandsons of regulars...
     The table with the Reserved sign is left empty tonight, but not far from that booth, another has been laid claim to with a copy of the Reserved sign that bears the Sharpie scrawled handwriting of a comic: Son of Reserved.
     His hair still damp from his post practice shower, Balthazar Davies commands full 1/2 of the booth, his back to the wall and his long legs stretched out upon the leather. He is clothed in a thin knit, soft crushed sweater (midnight blue), with a violet scarf and wool trousers (navy blue). His shoes are strictly Converse (also navy, size twelve). His hair isn't tussled out but left to go as it wants to go, drying naturally, a bit of a wave to it when it isn't sticking out everywhere. It curtains his eyes as he writes something in a small leather-bound book.

     "A'right then," Blithe smiles. "A snakebite with the country. An' the order's in. Just wave me down when the others arrive, yeah?"

     Glancing up, Balthazar smiles. "You're a peach, Blithe... diolch."

     Gillian's running late; she comes bolting in the door at a full Yankee stride, hair still damp despite the train ride. It's been braided back to keep it out of her eyes, and her clothing betrays how full her schedule's been today. There's the distinctive outlines of a black one-piece swimsuit under her clothes, though she's oblivious to it, over which she's tossed on a pale pastel wrap-around skirt in blue shading to green. Black flowers form a border print from her ankles halfway up to her knees around the circle of the skirt, and an off the shoulder loose knit white sweater over that. She's her purse over one shoulder along with a backpack as she struggles her way in through the door, baby pink ballet slippers on her feet.
     "Sorry I'm late," she's apologizing to anyone and everyone, even people she doesn't know as she looks around for Balthazar and Loki. "The pool was jammed. I'm amazed nobody drowned due to an elbow to the face. I didn't have time to get home and change, even. I hope you don't mind. How did practice go?"

     Loki's pulled back on the long charcoal coat he leaves off during practice, a little too heavy for indoors and pooling around him on the seat as he taps his way through something on his phone. He's a small gray smudge where he sits, with only his face and hands pale counterpoints to today's choice of warm clothing.
     "No one ended up impaled on a drumstick or suddenly forgetting how to play an A chord," he says, tugging absently at his earpiece as he catches sight of Gillian, though it's left in place after a moment. "So I'd say it went well."

     His mother raised him right -- and his two fathers. Balthazar sits up as Gillian enters and barrels her way over to the booth, removing his feet from the cushions and then standing, tucking the little book in his back pocket. "No worries," he grins. "We're just pondering food and drink. Well, I've ordered anyway. I have a salad on the way and the Ploughman's. But if you want something else, Blithe is happy to accommodate."
     The Not Quite Boyfriend -- or is it Not Yet Boyfriend -- gives his Should Be My Girlfriend By Now a greeting hug -- which is to say a bit of a passing hug, brief, however warm, and he waits for her to sit before he returns back to the booth. Pivoting, Balthazar gives a wave to Blithe.
     ".... On my way!" she replies with a smile.
     "Practice went well, I think. We're working on some new songs. Loki'll have his first show set this weekend. We'll be at the new neighborhood locale, Shepherd's Bush. Will you be able to make it on Thursday?"

     Balthazar gets a smile and a passing hug in return as she flops into the booth. Bookbag and purse thud to the floor under it, ignored for the moment. "Thursday," Gillian answers distractedly. "Thursday. What am I doing Thursday? I think I can make it. Let me check my phone before I say yes for definite." She grins at Loki and pops down under the booth, scootching until she can snag the strap and haul her purse up into her lap.
     "Shepherd's Bush. Is it a pub or something else?" Gillian inquires, pushing an erring lock of hair behind her ear. "I'm glad nobody got impaled. I know you've got a mean temper, Loki. Oh, did you talk to Parvati yet about that research? - Thursday should be okay. I'm meeting with my advisor, but that's at three, so it depends what time you want me to be there. If it's before seven, it's iffy, but seven on is doable."

     "I sent her an email," Loki says, after confirming on his own phone that this ever made it off his to-do list. "You said she's pre-med, or was it biology? So I don't expect a snappy answer."
     "It'd be great if you could make it Thursday." He's not looking nervous about the prospect of his first show with the band, wisely or otherwise. A little digging through his pockets reveals a folded white envelope that he holds out to Gillian in passing.

     "Shepherd's Bush Empire is less a pub, more a theater," Balthazar explains. "The ticket sales have been brisk. I think this may spell the end of our pub playing days." There is an excited shine to his eyes at that, the brown sparkling cinnamon. He smiles as he watches (and listens to) Gillian bounce from subject to subject. "It'll be after seven. We start at nine o'clock. There's an opening act, we're second act, sort of co-headlining with Last Man Standing."

     "Sorry for the wait, dear hearts," Blithe coos. "All this relaxation's getting to me. The Ploughman's and salad is coming up. You want anything else? Your drink special, Gillian? What about you, Loki, dear?" she says as she puts a hand to his shoulder. She's like the big sister we all wish we had.

     "Just water for me, actually," Gillian grins apologetically. "I skipped lunch today. And - something filling for dinner, maybe? But balanced. Y'know. Vegetables as well as protein and carbs." She bounces a little in her seat, just like from topic to topic. "I leave it in your hands beyond that, Blithe."
     She turns to look between Loki and Balthazar with that tennis spectator twist of her head. "Okay, I should be able to get there around seven. Just make sure I can get in, I guess. She is pre-med, Loki - hm? Oh!" She leans forward to take the envelope, looking puzzled but curious.

     Loki nearly jumps at Blithe's touch. Must be the audio input in one ear making him less aware of his surroundings. "Cider, and...the ploughman's, I suppose." He offers a thin, brief smile to her, slipping off the earpiece with his opposite hand. Not cold, only unpracticed.
     To Gillian, he shrugs off the look with, "Those tickets. Easier to carry them around for the next time I saw you than try to remember on the right day. Another batch just came in the mail today, but unless one of you two really wants to go to a two-man show about the necessary meaninglessness of the critique of the post-post-modernist performance art subgenre, those are probably going in the trash. I think they're for Thursday, anyway, which makes them a no-go."

     "Right-o then," Blithe smiles. "I'll bring you the daily special and a water for you, and a cider and Ploughman's for you," to Loki. "The rest'll be right up."

     "You'll be on the list," Balthazar assures with a chuckle. "I'll make sure they know to seat you at our table. You might want to bring an extra pair of shoes, just in case you decide to leave a few behind." A red-brown eyebrow lifted at the passing of an envelope, but before his curiosity can shake off of his expression and onto his tongue, Loki reveals it. "Theater tickets? Ah... I'll pass on the two-man show on post-post modernism. I prefer escapist theater. Like Chekov and jugglers." He pauses to grin. "Or Chekov performed by jugglers, that's always interesting. I've been thinking about catching an opera..." Cinnamon eyes look to Gillian (as they so often do). Interested?

     "Tickets for Rent," Gillian informs Balthazar cheerfully. "If you're busy or it's not your thing, I'll drag Parvati. She complains every time I drag her anywhere, but she always has fun. I should try to drag her on Thursday too, but she says she doesn't like noise. Then she puts on her headphones and blares jazz out through them until I want to strangle her with the cord."
     She pulls one leg up to tuck it under herself, folding her hands primly on her purse in her lap. "I only did that the one time," she protests, reddening a bit and sticking her tongue out at Balthazar. "I do like opera, actually, but it depends on which one. I might have to rent an outfit - I've got a dress but nothing that'd go with it, not for opera." She looks to Loki. "I forget. Do you like opera or was it you who said it reminded you of cats in heat on a bad day?"

     A salad is brought for Gillian, Blithe assumes, a couple of Ploughman's and water and cider. "I've put in an order for the cornish hen special, love," Blithe says to Gillian. "It'll be just a few moments for that..."

     "Depends on the opera," Loki says, sinking back into a sprawl that's comfortable and tightly wound all at once. Something about the way his fingers keep tugging the lapels of his coat back into nice straight lines. "Opera sung in English is the cats in heat. It's just not natural. Give me utterly incomprehensible Italian over another round of Nixon In China any day."

     Blithe acquires another of those there-and-gone smiles as he takes the cider. "If you're interested in something specific, I can keep an eye out for ticket arrivals. No juggling Chekovs yet, but the month is still young."

     "Rent sounds lovely," Balthazar says. "I'd like to see it, actually. I've not had the chance. And do bring her. Tell her she can bring a tiny flashlight and do her work if she wants. We won't mind unless she starts taking calls." He chuckles quietly at the memory of the shoe left behind by this American Cinderella. "It was a good chase," he notes.
     He leaves the rest off for now. "When is it?" he nods to the Rent tickets. "I prefer bel canto as well," Balthazar notes to Loki. "I don't like the caterwauling of Wagner, though his overtures are amazing. I'll let you know ... I'll take a look and see what's on about town. Any Shakespeare tickets available?" Cinnamon eyes glance to Gillian again. As they so often do.

     "I'll let her know." Gillian looks satisfied, settling back and swinging one foot freely in an absent back and forth. "We can see Rent, then." She goes a bit red for some reason, at the mention of Shakespeare, and says rather loudly, "Loki and I were just talking about literature the other day, as it happens."
     And oh, look! Salad! she picks up her fork and deftly spears a cucumber wedge.

     Loki gives Gillian a very slightly alarmed look, and says, "On Shakespeare, I have..." He pulls out his phone to find his list of tickets. "...nothing that hasn't already gone by except for an off-off-off-West End Production of Cymbeline. I don't even remember what that one was about."
     He takes refuge in cider and dinner. "I suppose it has to be good. Shakespeare."

     Balthazar glances between the two of them with a hovering smile. "Oes?" That funny sounding Yes again. He chuckles, a slight shake of is head. "No, if it is Shakespeare, it isn't necessarily good. It is always poetic, however. King John was a bit of a letdown. Both figuratively and literally according to history, I think. So what was the topic of the conversation? American, British or some other literature tradition?" Off-stage, his accent lilts musically. It makes the warm sound florid.
     "Cymbeline is obscure but good. Of course," Balthazar grin brilliantly, "I would say that, being Welsh."

     "I think I'll have a drink after all, if it won't bug Blithe too much." Contrary and prone to changing their minds, that's women for you. Gillian does take a large swallow of water. "What does your being Welsh have to do with liking Cymbeline? I don't think I read that one. Not my period."
     She shoves her salad aside; it's been two-thirds eaten and the rest picked at. She's saving room for the Cornish hen. "We were discussing... what was it... the father of fantasy, wasn't it? Well. Father of Tolkien's fantasy, anyway. I forget his name now, it's just been too long a day. There was a girl who collapsed in the library," she adds, matter of fact. "It was very distracting."

     "The production bills itself as having not cut the dramatic descent of Zeus scene, unlike many, which doesn't fill me with confidence that it'll be full of deep literary value," Loki says, "but it might overcompensate with spectacle instead. I can dig up the tickets if you're interested. I wasn't planning on going to that one."
     Gillian's comment gets a cocked eyebrow. "Too much studying claims another victim?"

     "There aren't that many Celtic characters with top-billing in English literature. That whole issue on subjugated race," he slants a smile as he takes a swallow of the snakebite. "But then, Shakespeare is the Tudor playwright and the Tudors were Welsh. Sure," Balthazar says to Loki, "... I'm up for it. Care to join?" he says to Gillian.
     And then there's the collapsing girl topic. "Sleep deprivation will do that," he notes. "And so does skipping lunch," he winks to Gillian.
     On cue, there is the cornish hen. "Anything else?" Blithe wonders. "Good for the now?"

     "Oh, yes. I've changed my mind about the drink," Gillian tells Blithe with that apologetic smile again. She doesn't cringe, but she does look guilty for some reason. "If it isn't any trouble, I mean? But other than that, nothing. It looks great, thanks!"
     "Welllll," she turns back to the boys, smiling mischievously, "I suppose I could join, if there's enough tickets, but I wouldn't want to cut into your bonding time. You know. All fifth wheel." She laughs, picking up her fork and knife again. "Actually, I don't know what made her pass out. She just - did. It'll be talked about for a few days, so maybe we'll find out."

     "I'm not anticipating this show selling out fast," Loki says, and out comes the phone again for another quick note. "It doesn't conflict with any scheduled shows for the band, either. Greek gods interacting with Celtic characters almost sounds interesting now. Not enough that I'd get between the two of you and some Shakespearean bonding."

     Blithe looks to Gillian and smiles warm and wide. She's such a cheery girl, really. "Oh no trouble, love. So one of your specials. I hear that one got you a bit of a serenade..."

     Balthazar falls back against the red leather of the booth, which doesn't do anything to hide the blush as he rolls his eyes heavenward. "I'm never going to live it down. It's a good song..." he protests, and around people of his own Nation, his accent thickens to lilts and sing song, his inflection lifting.

     Blithe's delighting in it of course. Laughing, "It was a good song. Boys with their poetry for girls they fancy. I'll be right back then..."

     "Bring me a coffee, cream and sugar, and one for Loki too. We're all going to change our drink orders for that," Balthazar quips, color starting to return to normal. He can't help it that his blushes are a bit noticeable. He looks to Loki. What? No help for a brother? "I mean to say that I'm fine to go with. Loki sees me about... what... five days a week now, he might want to do with a break. No one's a fifth wheel." Balthazar exhales, his body against the leather again, his smile twisting. "I would like to see Rent," he says after another moment. "We'll play Cymbeline by ear..."

     Loki does not actually hide the tiny smirk at Blithe's comments. He's allowed to be amused when it's not him being embarrassed, in either regard. And he's not being paid quite enough to support Balthazar on this front yet... "There is no such thing as too much coffee," he notes, to confirm the sudden drink order revamp. "This is one of my unshakable beliefs in the constants of the universe. Gravity, entropy, and caffeine."
     He thumbs through a list on his phone, between sips of cider. "People send my father all sorts of tickets. It's convenient at times. Mostly when a sudden urge to go see Shakespeare performed hit. A pity they never send him movie tickets, but I suppose you can't have everything."

     She is as red as Balthazar, but with more of a pinkness to it, and an air of I don't know what you're talking about. It's the prep way. You don't make news; you only appear in the paper at birth, marriage and death. And this is none of the above. "At least it might popularize the drink," Gillian answers as demurely as she can pull off. "Makes it faster to order it in other places."
     She works on her Cornish hen, the tips of her ears a shell-like pink as she bends over her food. "You could start a rumor that he's doing movie reviews now, Loki. See what happens."

     But at least it has saved him from trying too hard. Who ever said that embarrassment couldn't be a saving grace? Balthazar falls into watching and listening, mostly. As a middle child it's something of a skill... and a habit. "So what does your father do that he gets so many tickets to plays?"

     "Finance them," Loki says, with a wry smile. "He more often invests in the large flashy productions, but once or twice a year he'll pour enough money into some bizarre little play that most of the theaters try to grab his attention. Except they don't seem to realize he's in the city maybe two days a month, so he almost never uses the tickets. He also writes reviews of whatever he sees, but they're not really worth much. He can find something nice to say about any production, no matter how awful. I think someone would have to write a play where the hero was clear-cutting rainforests and eating endangered species for breakfast while denouncing equality in all forms to get a bad review from him."

     Blithe returns with a Lady 52 and a serving of coffee, cream and sugar on a tray borne on one hand and a pot to pour in her other. She refills Loki's cup, then sets the pot down long enough for her to distribute Lady 52 and the coffee cup, cream and sugar for Balthazar. She doesn't make any commentary. She just fills his cup but leaves him plenty of room for cream. "Let me know if you need anything else, loves."

     "Thank you," Gillian absently tosses in Blithe's direction - she was raised to be polite. "Loki's dads are funny, but I'd totally go nuts if I had to live with them. Either of them. He is really positive, though, it's true. Remember that play about the angel of wrecked cars?" She covers her face. "That was so bad. But he gave it a positive review anyway. What did he do, praise the set design? I forget."
     She picks up her drink, taking a small sip and sighing. "I really shouldn't, it's so bad for me. But I guess I can bend a rule once in a while."

     Dads? There is a slightly astonished look on Balthazar's face. "Two dads by marriage mishaps or are they, like mine, together with each other?" he wonders genuinely, dropping cubes of sugar into now creamy coffee.
     "Angel of Wrecked Cars? Was that the title of it? I think, officially, the Angel of Wrecked Cars is Izzael, patron saint of insurance." He winks as he takes a sip of the coffee. That's much better, much more suited to his taste and timbre tonight. The snakebite is forgotten.
     "There's nothing the matter with a little indulgence, really. Now and then, Gillian. Interesting," Balthazar says at last, back to the subject of dads and theater. He grins grandly. "I don't think he and my grandfather would get on. My grandfather is an avid hunter of small furry things."

     "The one with the whole anti-atheism rant during the intermission? Set design and lighting. Oh, and he said that the sound technicians were able to recreate extremely realistic car crash noises." Loki has another tiny smile for Blithe as well before she goes. "Which is half a step up from complimenting a play on being so very good at starting on time."
     He fortifies himself with more coffee before explaining to Balthazar, "Married to each other, though not anymore. They split up back before I recall, but at one point they had the whole legal union and the rest. Convenient for me, as it means I got dual citizenship without any effort on my part." The casual explanation is a touch forced, but less so for having had a moment to assimilate the like mine from Balthazar. "My local father is, and I say this in the most affectionate spirit of filial respect I can, a complete fruitcake. Very much the tree-hugger at heart. But the nice kind, so there's that."

     Gillian's eyebrows rise as she listens. This is new. Something she didn't know, in fact. It's filed away silently, and she sips her drink with a thoughtful expression. "He is," she agrees. "He's wonderful, and so nice, and friendly, and he tries to be generous, even, but he's totally out of step with the real world. I think he'd just about cry if he saw a dead sparrow. Though I might too," she adds in all fairness.

     "Dual citizenship is convenient," Balthazar grins, glancing to Gillian for her reaction. Good, no fainting. "I sort of have that. My father's Welsh and my other father is Irish," he chuckles.
     Sipping at his coffee, Balthazar looks at each of you and both of you. "A member of PETA then?" he says to that. He can't think of anyone more out of step with the real world, apart from reality TV stars. "Do they get along at least? Or are you sort of tugged in between? I guess I'm one of the few in the world who've not experienced divorce. My mother is still very much in their lives and in my own. I suppose that's a bit odd to most."

     "PETA, Greenpeace... If it puts pictures of animals or trees on its promotional materials while asking for money, my father's probably contributed," Loki says. He spins his spoon around in his coffee. "They're... They get along fine. In short doses. We used to do winter holidays together, somewhere with skiing, until I went off to college. They're not very much alike, but one of them means well and the other is actually pragmatic, so things work out in the end most of the time." He doesn't really look up as he gives a small shrug. "My biological parents aren't in the picture at all. Not relevant. But that's modern families for you. They come in all flavors."
     With some effort, he reaches for something more like cheer. "And it can be handy that whatever one of them says no to, the other is as likely to encourage."

     "Mumsie gets along really well with his Hollywood dad," Gillian contributes, stirring her drink with the mixing straw. She shifts, tucking her ankles underneath the seat of the booth. "We spent a lot of time together when they came down to consult with my grandfather about the yachts, and he flew us out so Loki could play with us out in L.A. while we were all out there."
     She grins at Loki, but it is not without sympathy. "Though usually it ended up being boys against girls. Loki and Pres are closer in some ways."

     "How long have you known one another?" Balthazar wonders, taking another sip of coffee. "I really only associated with my uncles...who are not that much older than I and my brothers. My sisters traveled with mom, mostly. Sounds sheltered? It was," he chuckles.
     He twists about and gives a wave for Blithe. "Either of you want anything else? Would you like coffee or tea, Gillian?" There is a certain added warmth to his voice when he's being polite and considerate to her.
     Balthazar nods to Loki. "Sorry to get personal, really. It's just... I don't really meet many other people with two fathers in this way. Father, step-father, sure, but not two dads. It's a weird thing to have in common, mind you," his mouth tilts in his smile. "Hollywood dad. Well... we know who to call then if we ever need agent contacts in Los Angeles. I can't imagine, but relatives can be handy."

     "Years and years, though not forever. I think I remember Maddie trying to tie braids in my hair, the first time I met her." Loki has melted into an almost comfortable sprawl with his coffee so close at hand, the occasional flick of his coat back into line barely an interruption. The cup does go up in hope of eternal coffee refills.
     "Personal is fine. It's not often I meet someone either who hears 'two dads' and doesn't feel obliged to start asking about my 'real' parents." He does not go for finger quotes, but his sarcasm on the adjective comes through quite clearly nonetheless. A twitchy little shrug to throw off the irritation of things said by no one in the room. "From what little I know about the big recording industries in Hollywood, my first advice would be to run and hide from any that come calling. But that may just be my dad's business associates. Which is useful to know, so that's relatives being handy right there."

     "Maddie was ... eight? I think. Which means I was twelve and you were thirteen," Gillian thinks. "It was about a year or two before they shipped me off to prep school. Maddie was on a big unicorn kick back then," she recalls, grinning. "Everything she wore had unicorns on it, just about. She tried to get Pres and Loki to wear unicorns, too. That was the first battle of many."
     She waves off the offer of tea or coffee. "I'm good, thanks. Your dad's the only person I know with Hollywood contacts, though." She lightly kicks Balthazar's ankle. "I told you I had a Hollywood contact when I met you, remember?"

     Cinnamon brown eyes sparkle at the kick and he grins. "Oes, but you didn't say who, Miss West," comes the playful drawl. "How was I to know he was sitting right there."
     Blithe smiles as she pours another round of coffee. She doesn't interrupt this time. The bar's filling up with the after dinner crowd.
     His foot is as deft as his guitar hands and his wit. Beneath the table there is a merry little war, as Shakespeare would say. Not kicking, exactly. More like a clever de-shoeing.
     "I have a relative formerly in the music business locally. It's come in handy. It's a large, extended Welsh family, really. So that's been a great help so far. You never know. It's usually the friend of a friend of a friend who can make a big difference."

     Loki has coffee, dinner, and complete obliviousness to wars beneath the table. It's not a bad position to be in. "Unicorns, and ribbons. She did a better job than my dad ever did in convincing me to get a proper haircut." His fingers tug briefly at a strand of short black hair at the memory.
     He's still caught in a slight frown for the whole matter of contemplating the music industry around Los Angeles. It's not good for optimism about the universe in general or human nature in particular. "Between my father letting me crash at his flat and Gillian introducing me to a band worth playing for, I couldn't agree more."

     That obliviousness is doomed not to last. Gillian lets out a shriek and kicks with more force than intended, banging the side of her foot against both Balthazar's shin and the bottom of the booth. "Ow, ow," she giggles and complains at the same time. She makes one small fist, bopping Balthazar in the arm. "Darn you anyway, Balthazar Davies! You made me lose my shoe!"
     She is very pink now, trying not to look flustered, blushing brightly. "I didn't do anything. I just put you two in a room, you did the rest. Balthazar, find my shoe, it's your fault! Honestly, I'm going to start thinking one shoe off is a thing with you."

     The expletive is colorful and foreign and rides high upon his laughter. "See there? What happens when you kick? Hey!" That bit for the punch to his arm, though it wasn't hard. This could easily devolve to a tickle fight or other somesuch wrestling between two people who are obviously into one another, but they are far too dignified for that.
     "I didn't make you lose it. I took it off," he grins. "It's right where I left it, surely." His inflection dances, lyrical, poetic, as he chuckles. "You're forgetting that you were the one to start the removing of shoes."
     There is a bit of motion beneath the table, not that the table minds -- it's more than solid -- as he tries, apparently, to fetch the shoe without crawling underneath the table. His feet are deft as his hands, after all...
     Balthazar grins at Gillian, that grin carrying over to Loki, "Well, that's what friends of friends do. Who knows. I'm hitting my relatives up as well. I have one who wrote for music zines a few years ago. She might have some fresh London contacts..."

     "Who knows," Loki echoes, halfway to amiable, even if he is sliding slightly away where he sits so as not to get caught in the Great Shoe Battle of the evening. "Do you remember which zines?"

     She is about as red as she's ever been, short of severe sunburn. "I only took it off the last time because I was able to get a replacement pair!" Gillian sputters. She grabs her drink protectively. Surely he wouldn't dare make her spill. "And anyway, it worked, didn't it? You followed me."
     She takes a sip, then settles down for a moment - then lets out a shriek, dropping her glass.

     "I did," Balthazar chuckles, "...and I thank you for that. If I hadn't come looking, look at what I would have missed." He is bending to fetch the slipper when she shrieks and drops the glass. Hand full of pink ballet, he can't catch it before it falls.
     All he can do is watch it drift in slow motion, his hand about two seconds too slow.
     Fortunately, it's a sturdy glass and does not break...
     The drink sloshes but doesn't spill, not much anyway, and he's quick to catch it on the rebound, his hand scooping what liquid there is. Shoe on his lap, hand stopping the pooling of Lady 52, Balthazar looks to Loki. "I'm not sure, but I can find out. I'll call her. She was pretty well known in London circles. Even worked for one of the larger, official magazines...hand me a towel?" he says to Gillian. "I think it's better to drink it than wear it...see what happens when you hit? God hates hitters," he teases with a laugh.

     Loki twitches back and away at the falling drink. Before Balthazar can get to "towel" he has a handkerchief out to offer--so some people do still carry those around, even in this day and age--while keeping a dubious eye on the spill. "I subscribe to a few, but I can't say I've paid much attention to the bylines..." He sounds distracted. There's a mess. Of course he's distracted. Even if it's just a little one.

     "It's your fault," Gillian mutters at Balthazar, grabbing her napkin. She's not as fast as Loki is. "You have an enormous family, haven't you? Even mine's not that big." She mouths a Sorry across the table at Loki, taking her glass back from Balthazar and holding onto it very tightly. She pulls her foot away from Balthazar ostentatiously.

     "Yes, it's really quite big. I don't think I've even met all of my cousins," he notes mopping up the drink. "I'll order you another one. It's the least I can do." A hand comes up -- a gesture made for Blithe. He then presents Gillian with her own shoe, like Prince Charming to the feet of Cinderella. "I think this belongs to you. Let me borrow your foot, and I'll put it back on. No hijinks, no tickling, I promise." And he crosses himself, using her ballet slipper to make the motions.
     Brown eyes glance to Loki. "I haven't, but should. Anyway, I'll do some more checking around. And, yes, Gillian," he notes warmly with a slant of a smile. "I'm sure it is." He murmurs sorry near her ear, but he's grinning. One can apologize, and mean it, yet enjoy the fruits of one's own guilt.

     Loki gives Gillian's apology a little twitchy shrug. Somewhere between apology accepted and just not being too fussed about the matter in the first place. "Quite the wealth of family," he says, not entirely without envy in his voice. "It must keep things interesting."

     She puts her drink down, one hand shifting back under the table. "Give me my shoe, you. I'm going to have to go clean up. Or borrow a shirt." Gillian tosses her hair back from her eyes. "Loki, didn't you hang out with a guy who worked for Keerang! or some other magazine? Maybe I'm misremembering. Back in L.A."

     The shoe passes hands, and hands pass hands. "I'll have Blithe bring you a Davy's shirt. On the house, or rather...on me." He looks around to find Blithe...
     "I'm coming, I'm coming, I see you..." She seems a bit breathless, running around for the growing crowd.
     "Another Lady 52, and can you bring Gillian a shirt?"
     "Oh, oes," Blithe coos out and she looks to Gillian. "What size, love? They fit a bit on the small side, just a warning. This is a medium," she notes to her own. It's not super snug -- she usually wears a small.
     One hand remains under the surface of the table. "Oh, and a refill of coffee too, Loki? Want another?"

     "Dwayne whats-his-name, right. He did reviews for Keerang!, and some other fanzine of his own. I went to some of his parties, but he wasn't exactly a close friend," Loki says. "He'd probably remember my name if I rang him up."
     To Blithe, "Always." He tries an actual hopeful look even as he's downing the rest of his coffee to make room for more.

     "If you mention you're in London," Gillian says brightly, "I bet he'll remember. London's exotic to people in L.A., and he probably knew who at least one of your dads was, so that'll work in your favor, right now." She turns to peer at Blithe, setting the empty, messy drink down and bending and squirming to pull on her shoe.
     "Oh! Um... I really don't know what size I'd be," Gillian admits. "I'm bad at the conversions. Whatever size you think will fit me best? I trust you."

     "Will do then. Another drink, another round of coffee and a Davy's girl shirt for Miss Gillian," Blithe repeats. When she says Davy's it does sound like Davies.

     Balthazar crooks a smile at the double meaning of that. "Keerang? I've not heard of that. It's an L-A publication? We have a demo. We need to head back to the studio soon, that way your sticks are on the tracks."
     Balthazar glances to Gillian as Blithe heads off and as Gillian bends to pull on her shoe. His grin widens, curling at his mouth. How he does like watching her...

     "He's the type to remember names," Loki says, and somehow it doesn't sound exactly like a compliment. But he only looks thoughtful while sipping his coffee. He nods towards Balthazar, with a curious, "Where do you rent the studio space? I haven't done any recording in London yet, and I'm not half so familiar with how it's usually handled here as in L.A."

     "I just remember the name because it sounded like a pot and pan set falling down a flight of stairs." Gillian straightens up, pulling her hair back through both hands. She goes quiet again, watching the two men talk with lively interest.

     "There are a group of studios in Shepherd's Bush," Balthazar notes. "One of the reasons I'm moving there." He chuckles regarding the pots and pans comment, looking to Gillian as he does.

     Soon Blithe is back, coffee pot in one hand, Lady 52 in her other, with the black shirt draped over her arm. "There you go, Miss Gillian. I think this'll do you. If not, just let me know and I'll grab you a different size..." Coffee poured, she turns to another table...

     "We need to record the newest songs anyway," Balthazar notes, "...it's worth the cost. I'll have another new one probably by the end of the week." He glances to Gillian, a smile for the new shirt. He picks up his refreshed cup of coffee with one hand; his other still beneath the table, resting on the seat of the booth perhaps. "I think it's about the same," Balthazar smiles, "...exorbitant."

     Gillian grabs the shirt, then pokes Balthazar in the ribs. "Move, you. I've got to go change. No stealing my drink while I'm in the restroom." She grins at Loki. "Besides, you two need some time without the fifth wheel." She's a bit pink again.

     Balthazar chuckles and slides out of the booth, letting Gillian move past him for the backroom. "But there are only three of us... how can we have five wheels?"

     Loki lifts his hand for a tiny wave at Gillian, just with fingertips, before she can escape. "That sounds just the same," he says to Balthazar. "If they didn't charge and arm and a leg for studio time, people might start wondering what exactly those producers are doing to earn their cut."
     One hand on his coffee cup, the other tapping out a silent rhythm along the edge of the table. Lady 52, as becomes apparent when he reaches the bridge and the drum line changes accordingly. "I've done some musical composition, but I never had the ear for lyrics. What's the new song on?"

     He recognizes the rhythm of his own song, the cadence. He recognizes it played with fingers on a tabletop, or tapped by feet on the floor. Balthazar settles back against the red leather of the booth. "The usual universal theme. Girls. Or... in this case... a girl."
     Three guesses, says his smile. You'll only need one.
     "I'm still working on it. It's mostly here," he taps his temple with a finger. "But I think the lyrics and the first arrangements will be ready this weekend. We'll flesh it out in practice next week. I'm averaging one to two a week right now. I have a couple that I want to revise before we start picking it apart in practice."

     "There's a lot to be said for sticking to the classics, in musical inspiration." Loki reaches the end of the song, and draws his hand back. A little flick at the hem of one sleeve that caught up on the edge of the table, to lay it flat. "Maybe I'd write more music if I tried those."
     Not actually to boyfriend and girlfriend yet? Could've fooled me.

     Gillian emerges in skirt and the Davy's t-shirt, wrapping her sweater around herself closely. "Sorry about that," she offers. She gives Balthazar a tiny smile and motions with her head. Get up so I can sit down. "Hope I didn't miss anything too interesting..."

     Tried what? Girls? He doesn't voice it. He just smiles a bit. Gillian's back before he can remark. He was already on the way to rising by the time she gestures. His hand comes out to place a light touch against the small of her back as she moves passed him to take a seat in the booth. Once she's settled, he slides in.
     "We were just talking about next week's practice sessions. I have some new songs to iron out. I told Loki that I'm averaging one to two new songs per week. Lately."

     Loki rests one ankle across his opposite knee, the next rhythm line that's running through his head concealed thereby underneath the table. The smile's missed his gaze or gone over his head while he's caught up in another piece of imagined music. "Nothing like practice for working the kinks out of a song."

     Gillian picks up her drink, taking a demure sip. She seems to be ignoring Balthazar's gaze entirely, or trying to, now. "One to two a week? Is that a lot? It sounds like it, but - you know I'm not musical like you guys are. For all I know that's average."

     "It's a lot for completed works, arrangements and so on. But I guess everyone's different. It's higher than average for me at any rate," he crooks a grin as he lifts his cup with his left hand. "We have a good fourteen or so original pieces. We'll have at least twenty by the time we do another demo. We've released a few as EPs for online purchasing, MySites, AmazonUK, and on CD. We're pretty much reaching album stage. I think we may have two albums worth of material in the next month, the way it's going."
     There's a little smile that tugs at the corners of his mouth. Balthazar sips at his coffee again. Though she's avoiding looking at him, he glances at her now and then (and now) in the course of conversation.

     "Prolific," Loki agrees, with another small shrug. His coffee level has reached a point where he's finally giving the dregs of his cup a considering look for whether or not he really wants another refill to keep him wired at this time of the evening. The answer will probably be yes, eventually.

     "I should probably pack up to go to the station soon," Gillian mentions. She looks a bit reluctant. "Not to break up the party, but if I'm going to catch the last train..." She glances to Loki and Balthazar. "Since you two are so inconvenient as to be all the way in London..."

     "Station," Balthazar warmly scolds. "As if I'd let you. I'll drive you." There's a glance for Blithe. It's amazing how at Davy's no money ever changes hands. It's one of the main reasons he meets you here. All is taken care of.
     Turning his head toward Gillian, he murmurs. "Are you ready now or do you want to finish your drink?" Balthazar glances to Loki. "Do you need a lift as well?" There are no extra wheels here...

     Loki shakes his head, setting down his empty cup. "I'm in the mood to get some fresh air. Thanks for the offer, though." With a half smile towards Gillian, he adds, "And this way I don't get Pres glaring at me for letting his sister walk around alone at night. He can do quite the glower through email."

     "I'm not sure he'd be happier for knowing you're sending her off with some British guy!" Gillian teases. She pushes her drink away - I'm good - and begins picking up her purse and her other belongings. "You're sure you don't want a ride, too, Loki?"

     Balthazar grins as Gillian correctly uses the term British versus English. But then she should know better; she's the history scholar. He is standing, letting Gillian slide out of the booth after him, his hand offered to her graciously in assistance. "We're gentlemanly. And I'm not some British guy, am I? Am I so random?" he teases quietly back.
     Brown eyes glance to Loki, "It's no trouble, really." It's neither meant to encourage or discourage. It's a simple offer, simply made.

     "Perfectly sure," Loki says, sliding out of his seat. Brushing his coat back into straight lines is too habitual to require looking while he does it. "Call me odd, but I like the walking, some nights. And even public transit." The half smile turns on Balthazar as well. "Gentlemanly might even reassure Pres, but at some point he's just going to learn to cope with his sister having a social life."

     "Well... as long as you're sure." Gillian grins at Loki, standing and sliding out with Balthazar's help. "You're not some random British guy," she tells him teasingly. "But you're a guy. And you're British. But ... no. Not so random." She pinkens again, and sticks her tongue out at him as she straightens to turn to the door. "Pres is going to have to learn to cope. A lot."

     Pres will have to cope. I do believe that makes me the actual boyfriend. Not the sort-of boyfriend.
     "Night, Loki. See you tomorrow. Give me a call whenever you're vertical."
     Public Displays of Affection for upper crust, northeastern American girls is a bit different, say, from girls who originate from Miami or Houston. There is due consideration given, as Balthazar leads her out. The hand, as it so frequently is, rests lightly against the small of her back as he holds open the door. There is a lean and a whisper with a smile.

Posted by rowan at March 04, 2009 07:42 PM