What did you expect to find on a Friday night at Davy's, but a bar full of weekend warriors and band-mongers? The booths are completely full, even the one usually marked Reserved. Instead, the Reserved sign has been moved to the bar to hold a couple of places front and center and to one of the tables nearby.
     It's a bustling night, for sure. University students from London (and likely Oxford and Cambridge and possibly Cardiff) crowd some of the tables, while regulars and hipsters drape on barstool and booth.
     The stage is noticeably bare, however. There's not a band in sight -- no mic, no kickstand, no kit. Usually by this time on Friday night a band's already set up and ready to go. Sometimes there are three bands in one night, and not just folk or neo-Celtic-folk-rock. Mostly it's pop bands from the West Country getting a foot in the London scene courtesy of the official Welsh stand.
     The owner wouldn't have it any other way.
     The girls are harried; they're working overtime. Pints and pitchers are floating overhead on deftly lifted trays. It's a dance, but one they know all the steps to. And no one but no one sashays like Davy's Girls.

     Gillian's shown up a little early, with Loki in tow. She's dressed up a little for the occasion, with the self-consciousness of someone who knows herself not to be likely to entirely fit in. It's a black cashmere turtleneck, just a little on the fuzzy side, with tailored tan slacks and dressy short black boots. Her hair is cooperating halfway, in a somewhat sulky bun on top of her head, and she wears a camel coat with matching bag. "I suppose we'd be better off grabbing the first table we can find," she tells Loki doubtfully. "Did you eat before, or shall we get some dinner?"

     Loki's dressed in tidy gray and black, a little too preppy in fashion to be edging towards the appearance of gloomy youth. He surveys the crowd, and says, "Table might be optimistic. I had a late lunch, though I should eat more if I'm going to be drinking much." His gaze wanders to the empty stage. "So when does the music start? Or is it one of those avant-garde the music is in the lack of music things? Ballsy, if so."

     "You must be Gillian. Be with you in a moment, dear," a red-haired waitress -- that's the effervescent Blithe Gwyn -- passes you by. "This'uns for you, unless you want the bar. Oh!" She smiles and reaches into her waitress utility belt -- a pouched belt wrapped tightly around her tiny waist -- and pulls out an unmarked envelope for you. "And this....back in a moment!"
     Blithe Gwyn swerves to miss another girl, laughing with ...well... blithe delight as she moves to grab another two pulls. She's dressed in the uniform -- one of them, rather. A highwayman shirt and a pair of skinny dark jeans. Her cheeks are typical Welsh apples, more so with all the running around! Lovely and bouncy, like Davy likes them.
     She appears at your table with a grinning exhale. "Very well then, what'll I do you for? You hungry at all?"

     In the envelope is a simple note. The revolution begins at eight. Sharply.

     "For me?" Gillian blinks and turns to Loki with a glance again. "Well, it looks like we've got a table, anyway." She opts for the table and not the bar - she likes a little bit of space from the madding crowd. She doesn't immediately tear it open, tucking it politely into her lap while she studies the menu. "I'm going to get something to eat. Lunch feels like it was a really long time ago. There should be music. He said there would be."
     She settles back in her seat, tucking one leg over the other. Before she has time to think much, there's the waitress again. "Maybe some sort of appetizers? Starters? Whatever you call 'em. I'd like a Lady 52 if you serve 'em here." Gillian grins at Loki. "And whatever my friend wants, of course."
     Gillian slides the note across to Loki to let him read it, meanwhile...

     "I think we can manage it," Blithe smiles, looking to Loki with expectation. "And you, love?"

     Loki reads the note, and says under his breath, "Not so avant garde as all that. Good." He looks up towards Blithe, half-distracted in his own thoughts, and says, "Oh, a cider, I suppose. It seems like a good night for that."
     He shifts about at the table across from Gillian, trying to work out how he can get a decent view of the stage. "Looks like there are perks to knowing the right people." Not as if it's not always that way, and it's friendly commentary, not criticism.

     "Here, I'll leave this with you then. Let me know what you want, I'll get the drinks goin' in the mean." Blithe smiles and deposits a menu on the table as she pirouettes back to her other nearest table and then the bar.

     Gillian looks half-embarrassed. "Well, it isn't as if we're dating," she mumbles. "...Yet, anyway." She fiddles with her glasses, then leans forward to take the note back. "Do you have a match or a lighter on you? And sit next to me, you'll get a better view."

     Loki switches places, and says with something that's just barely approaching a smirk, "No, not dating yet." He digs through his pockets, and comes out with novelty lighter more or less in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. "So what does the not-boyfriend do when he's not in a band? Or is it a full-time gig?"

     The main music just now is the sound of conversation. The tellies are on, but the sound is switched off. Wouldn't matter anyway -- no one but the bartenders are paying attention to the matches, but only in glances between fast and furious pulls and cocktails. It's a full bar, despite being -- mainly -- an ale and cider pub.
     Down a few tables, there is a gathering of girls brightly laughing and talking. One is mostly listening, her chin propped up on the heels of her hands, her foot lightly tapping against a dark case.

     "Ohstop." It's one word, the way she says it, and she blushes, taking the lighter and flicking it on. Experimentally, she waves the note over the flame, careful to keep it from catching fire. "He tries to come up with ways to trick me, I think." Gillian lowers the lighter, closing it and sliding it back. "It's pretty full tonight, isn't it? Is this normal, do you know?"

     "It wasn't so full last time I was here," Loki says, and shrugs as he continues, "but there wasn't music expected that time, either. So I don't know. Seems like it's smart to show up early for a good table if any other band's playing." The lighter disappears back into a coat pocket, sparing those at the table from being subject to its tacky souvenir existence any longer. "Or is it usually this full at the places the not-boyfriend is playing?"

     Blithe returns with the drinks. "Lady Fifty-Two," she says, setting the concoction down, "...and a cider. Welsh special that. Straight from the country. Let me know how you like it. Had a chance to look yet?"

     Some of the crowd doesn't appear that excited about the possibility of music. There's an older man -- older than the girls at any rate, though hardly old, maybe 50 -- seated near the stage, reading a Times...

     "I should have, but I got distracted! I'm sorry." Gillian is immediately contrite, picking up the menu and studying it. "...Would I be a brat if I asked you to pick for us? I don't have any allergies, I just try to eat healthy. Loki, you don't have any food problems, do you?" She looks to him instead, then back to Blithe. "Is it always this crowded, or just when Oxford Comma are playing here? He," she sticks her tongue out at Loki nonchalantly, "wants to know."
     She glances down across the tables curiously, at the girl with the case, at the crowd in general. "It's certainly a mixed bag in here."

     Loki says with the slight defiance of this being a request that's rebellion against the dictates of someone who isn't actually in the room to appreciate or be offended by it, "I could go for something with some real beef in it." And in a more conversational tone, "Or whatever you suggest. I'm not too picky."

     "Oh, love, it's a typical Friday night around Davy's," she says blithely. With the tilt of her head, she seems momentarily confused. "Hmm... I don't know," comes the coo, when you mention Comma. "The singer's a friend of Davy's, but the bar's a bit small for them now. But you never know," she smiles.
     "And sure, I can pick the best for you. Makes it easy all the way 'round. And you'll have no trouble getting meat here, love," she laughs to Loki. "... We even have venison if you'd rather. I'll put the order in straight way. Just raise your hands and wave if you need anything. I'll be back now and again to check on you..."

     "Good to know, anyway," Gillian answers cheerfully. She nods thoughtfully, settling back with her drink in her hand. "If we need anything, we'll wave. Thanks a lot!" She gives Blithe a smile that is open and generous, then sticks her tongue out at Loki again for the pleasure of doing so and no other real reason. "So what do you think of the crowd?"

     The bartenders move to the side areas of the bar, moving their pulls to different taps. It's all part of the rhythm of Davy's on a Friday night. They glance, now and again, to the tellies, and both smile a bit.
     Wales must be winning...

     Loki tries his cider, and makes a small appreciative noise. Then it's time for crowd-watching, to answer the question posed. "It's not exactly a mob of raving fangirs, is it? I'd bet that a good chunk of them are regulars, and they'd be here whoever was playing, or if no one was." His smile's private, over the next touch of cider. "That's the best kind of crowd to play for."

     The man near the stage lowers his paper. He takes the time to fold it and set it aside. He glances at his watch.

     "There's a few who might be. I don't know. The girl with the case interests me." Gillian discreetly points with her napkin. "Mostly because I'm being consumed with curiosity about what's in that thing. My imagination's going crazy. Is it boring? Makeup? Sneaking food and drinks in? Fireworks? Tarantulas?"

     Loki tries to catch a discreet glimpse of what kind of case it is. "If that's for a violin, we should be ready to dive under the table during the obligatory gunfire. Just in case. Or maybe she plans to leap onstage mid-performance to join the band."

     "That's a possibility." Gillian lowers her voice to a hush. "Actually, the current drummer's the guy by the stage with the newspaper. Now I'm curious how many more are scattered through the audience. Cover me?" She twists in her seat, scanning the crowd and hopping up and down a little in her seat. "...I have to hit the girls' room, actually. I'm going to rush it so I can get back in time!"

     The quiet girl with the laughing friends just smiles, her foot tapping slowly. She glances over her shoulder, looking behind her. Maybe she sees someone she knows.

     In the back of the pub, behind the bar and not far from the darts, a man is crouching down and messing with a plug near the boards. It wouldn't be the first time that a drunk kid stuck a fork in there...

     Cover me is not something Loki's entirely sure how to interpret under the circumstances, but he nods to Gillian to agree he'll throw himself in the line of fire if a sudden gunfight does break out in the pub. Or something. He's more interested in the man with the newspaper now that profession has been indicated, but not so impolite as to stare.

     The older gent doesn't seem to be in any kind of hurry. He smiles to Maggie (Loki will recall her) as she brings him a refill. She lingers a moment, then leaves him be with a brushing touch to his shoulder. He's dressed nicely, like he's been in the office but left his jacket in the car.

     Gillian rushes to the restroom, praying and hoping there won't be a line. Of all times for nature to intervene...!
     ... The line isn't long, but there is a line. It is, after all, the women's restroom...

     Loki drinks his cider, and drums out an idle rhythm line on the table with his fingers while he waits.

     She's almost tempted to use the men's loo. Alas, she's just a little too well-bred. Instead, Gillian fishes out her phone, checking the time and sending Loki a text message.
     Do you see anything?

     There is something happening. It's not obvious, but people's conversation lifts in subconscious reaction to the energy they feel, the source as yet unseen...

     Loki digs his phone out of his pocket to text back, Not yet. I think there will be soon. Hurry?

     In one of the booths against the wall, to the left of the bar, there is a shifting of seated partners. There is laughter.

     A stall! A blessed stall! Gillian dives for it. It's not very long at all before she's popping back out, even as three stalls down there's a wail of 'where's the bloody paper gone?' She washes her hands hurriedly, dumping a handful of paper towels over the wailing stall (not to be confused with the Wailing Wall) and rushes back to the table, breathless. "I didn't miss anything, did I?"
     In her rapid flight of transit, her bun has come undone, and her hair is singing the song of Elsa the Lioness to itself with an almost visible smirk.

     The man near the stage takes a swallow of dark stout. He sets the glass aside and glances to the left and to the right. There is a recently gathered pocket of girls, college age or thereabouts. Most are wearing long swing coats.
     The man smiles and nods his head. One of the girls can be seen to bend as if to scoot over something heavy. Or cumbersome.

     Again, not a smirk, but a smile for that appearance. It's fond in that kind of Awww, kittens way. "Not yet, except maybe for growing anticipation. If waiting is half the fun, I'm ready for the second half now." Loki looks towards the stage, fingers still tapping on the table.

     "This from a boy who I've never seen with a girlfriend," Gillian teases, "or boyfriend, for that matter. Always in a rush for things to start so they'll be over faster, Loki? Okay. Thank goodness I didn't miss anything." She exhales, fiddling with her hair to try and recapture it. It works about as well as one might imagine, and she gives up, running her fingers through it to shake it out instead. "I should just cut it short already," she grumbles. "I hope the food arrives soon. I'm hungry all of a sudden, and that drink is going to hit me if I have any more without something to buffer it."

     The waitresses seem to be moving a bit faster. Suddenly there's a Blithe with a tray of food. "Alright then, I've the Beef Wellington for you," she pushes the plate to Loki, "...and for you, Miss Gillian, there's the Cornish Hen tarts and a bit of a salad. Hope that's alright. An' I've been instructed to tell you to keep your money in your pockets. So enjoy your night. Another round?" Her eyes are opened a bit wider. The excitement's contagious.

     Defensively, "I've had -- well. Maybe not exactly a girlfriend. Not long enough to bother introducing to anyone." Loki tilts back his cider, eyes closing a moment to enjoy the drink while there's still no music to interrupt that particular type of appreciation.
     The bottle of cider's more than half gone. "Another of the same, please," he says to Blithe. "Good drinks shouldn't be allowed to get lonely."

     Blithe smiles. "Another of the West Country for you. And another Fifty-two for you, love?"

     "Another Lady 52. I shouldn't - but I'll bend the rule tonight, yes, thanks." Gillian grins at Blithe, eyes sparkling. She is not immune to the contagious excitement. "It looks perfect, thanks. I'm sure it'll be delicious."
     She grins at Loki, though with more sympathy than teasing, now. "Maybe you're just going for the wrong type? I could set you up with my roomie, if you like. She's a sweetheart. And your dads would have trouble giving her a hard time, seeing as she's studying to be a doctor and she's from India. Mustn't offend the culturally different, right?"

     "Right-o, back directly," Blithe all but sings. And she's a lovely voice at that...

     The pace of the waitresses picks up again, a rush to get all the drinks delivered before the mayhem...

     "My dads," Loki says, half a sigh to it, "would be happy if I started dating a transsexual stripper with one leg. They're all for diversity. I suppose an introduction couldn't hurt?"

     "We'll have lunch together or something. At the very least, it'll be one more person you can know in the area, and that can't be a bad thing." Gillian once again rearranges people's lives with ruthless efficiency and cheer. "I wonder why he wrote it as a revolution?"

     Loki says with an expression full of sharp hope, "Maybe the beheadings are about to start."

     Blithe appears, the Lady 52 and West Country cider delivered with precision and ease. A hand on Gillian's shoulder she bends down low. "I'll be back in a bit... hopefully this has you set for a while." Her way of saying, without saying, that things, whatever they may be, are imminent.

     Gillian tenses slightly, though Blithe gets another cheerful smile paired with a nod. She glances to Loki sidelong. "Hopefully not, but it seems something's going to." She lifts her wrist, peering at her watch. "Just about eight o'clock London time..."

     Loki picks up a fork, though he's not looking at his plate when there's imminent revolution to watch for on the stage. "Tick, tick, tick..."

     The bartenders pull at the taps but they're starting to turn, to move out of the way...

     "Tock, tock, tock," Gillian chimes in, on the downbeat of each tick. She grins at Loki, eyes sparkling, then looks over at the bar expectantly as she spots the bartenders moving.

     Loki takes a snappy bite of the food that's been delivered to him, meat-filled and all, and hushes to join the watching and waiting.

     And the seconds wind down to a sudden sound, unmistakable and loud. There is the sound of an electric guitar so close, it sounds like it's right behind you.
     Because it is...
     And the opening strains of Revolution are played bar-top, and from around the bar there is the sudden swell.
     The swing-coated girls hold the drum kit in a semi-circle around the drummer and his beer...
     The disruption in the booth to the left of the bar comes from the rhythm guitarist...
     From somewhere in the back, near the darts and projected outward, the bass...
     And behind you, on the bar rigged for sound, is the lead guitarist and vocalist...
     They're all dressed in suits like sons of the House of Lords on Holiday.
     The crowd was caught mostly by surprise -- apart from the accomplices. There is a swelling of attendance at the doors from passersby, and the noise and energy level pops.
     At the center of this man-made electrical storm is Balthazar Davies, walking on the top of the bar and giving The Beatles what-for. He's tall -- on the bartop he looks like a bit of a giant -- with a somewhat familiar face (very familiar to Gillian) and a shock of bronze hair.
     The sound is tight, well-practiced musicians are these...

     She lets out a laugh, though it's drowned out by the music, and her smile spreads from east to west (how appropriate). Turning, Gillian gives Loki that blazing smile, then turns her attention back to the musicians. Fabulous! Even with having noticed the cues, and having known where to be looking, it's still quite the show. She smiles, tapping her foot and lifting her glass in a salute too that lead singer. She resists blowing him a kiss; the glass is lowered, lips puckering demurely around the mixing straw.

     It's still a surprise, and it's tightly planned one, the kind you don't get with slipshod freeforming. Loki sinks back in his seat, food neglected in favor of cider again, as his gaze slips from one part of the band to the next, measuring as much as enjoying. Drums, bass, guitar...
     He hitches to a stop at the singer, eyes narrowed for an instant and then shaken off with a Must be coincidence and more cider. With music like this, better to enjoy the performance and analyze what they're doing with it than pick apart peripheral details.

     Balthazar Davies walks across the bar as he plays, singing to all sides of the bar courtesy of the wireless mic. Occasionally, he makes a slight motion to the drummer, Charlie, and Charlie responds with a flash of snare.
     And the girls crash the symbols.
     "You say you'll change the constitution..."
     "Well, you know..." Balthazar grins, "We all want to change your head..."
     "You tell me it's the institution..."
     "Well, you know..."
     "You better free you mind instead..."
     He looks to Gillian, giving a wink in transit.
     "But if you go carrying pictures of chairman Mao..."
     "You ain't going to make it with anyone anyhow..."
     "Don't you know it's gonna be all right...
     "...all right, all right..."
     If The Beatles were just a bit edgier versions of themselves, versions that had not only created punk but dove back in arm-in-arm with The Kinks, it'd sound like this. Respectful, but new. A nod and a wink, a playfulness, but setting fires all the same...

     Loki says under his breath, barely pitched to carry as far as Gillian, "Good grasp of the classics." He looks at the lead singer again, and back to the woman at his table. He might have mouthed Not-yet-boyfriend at her, but it's a brief thing, and who's paying attention to that kind of thing in the midst of the music, anyway?

     Gillian is - or enough attention that she tugs out the mixing straw and tosses it at Loki. Not very violently, though. It brings pink into her cheeks, and she looks up to watch Balthazar, going pinker at the wink. She sticks her tongue out - first at Balthazar and then at Loki. "Quit being mean to me or I'll tell Pres. Worse - I'll tell your dads."

     The quiet girl with her laughing friends stands up, her electrified violin to her chin, and one by one, they follow suit, dressed in their school uniforms, the mark of the London Conservatory on their cardigans. When Revolution ends, another song begins without a break. The violins lead the way, melodic but stacattic. For a moment, it is just them and the drums, a rhythm almost military, bright and tinny.
     At the booths, the rhythm player is now playing at the keyboards hidden under the table, at least that's the presumption since there's sound like a harpsichord.
     The people in the crowd know it, the girls acting as drum holders know it. The audience is an active participant, in bouncing to the familiar rhythm.
     One of their own songs, presumably, as you might not have heard it.
     It's melodic, complex and the lyrics are literary but without self-consciousness. It's how the university set all over the world speaks, with or without irony -- and there's a hefty dose of that.
     Balthazar's voice gives it an arched sound. It's a smooth tone made purposely rougher, but the sweetness is unmistakable, no matter how occasionally disguised. It has a plaintiveness. If this were acoustic, it would be soulful and a bit haunting, like all good Celtic voices.
     The style of play is irreverent but highly proficient. It is bright and quick.
     He stands on the two seats left vacant. He grins at the table nearest, singing to it for a moment, before looking slyly to the side and swerving the seats with his feet.

     Loki ducks too slow to dodge the straw, and gives Gillian a rare, wicked grin. Right up until the threat of parental oversight comes up. "You wouldn't dare," he says, wounded, and quiets again at the violins. He's slouching in his chair, stalwartly resistant to emotional drives, but his fingers tap along the cider bottle the same way the crowd is bouncing.

     She gives a look over the rimless rims of her glasses - then relents. "I really wouldn't," Gillian admits. She looks up at the girls playing violin, expression intrigued. It's apparent that everybody else knows what's being played, but for her own part, she has no idea. She turns to keep Balthazar in her line of sight, picking up her fresh drink and swirling the straw in it before taking a sip.

     The song is a quick and sunny blast, melding into the next as seamlessly as it had erupted at the edge of Revolution. There is something of the 60s flavor that permeates. Not in a swoopy, hippy way, but in a strange musical optimism. From The Beatles to Oxford Comma to The Kinks. The information passed is subtle and unconscious. This is where we come from. This is who we are.
     You Really Got Me...
     "Girl, you really got me goin..."
     "You got me so I don't know what I'm doin..."
     "Yeah, you really got me now..."
     "You got me so I cant sleep at night..."
     Balthazar stands front and center on the bar, his attention sent to the middle of the room, the energy from his guitar flooding the street through the open, and now crowded, door.
     He may be looking to one girl in particular, but as far as the rest are concerned, he's looking at them.
     "Yeah, you really got me now..."
     "You got me so I don't know what I'm doin, now..."
     "Oh yeah, you really got me now..."
     "You got me so I cant sleep at night..."
     "You really got me..."
     The violinists take a seat again, sitting patiently and waiting for their next cue.

     There may be foot-tapping going on. Loki would never admit to it, and under the table, who can see? He's watching the lead singer too, even more than the drummer. Not in the way Gillian is.

     Gillian would totally ask what way that is, if she were aware of it, but as it is, she watches with a bright-cheeked, bright-eyed attentiveness. she hasn't lost sight of the crowd, though; she glances round every now and again to track Balthazar's adoring fans, though she doesn't count them up on a tally sheet.
     There is the first clean break -- a half-second sigh -- and the violin girls rise, stacatti notes with the stacatti drums and bass-line starting again. Their sound is defined, it is their own.
     The guitar has a galloping sort of gait, something U2 would use but didn't. It has a strangely old canter to it, wholly Celtic.
     There is curious attention, and rapt. This is a new one given the crowd's slight shift toward the Unknown.
     "She twirls her hair..."
     "And makes me guess..."
     "The names and schemes..."
     "Of long dead kings..."
     "I follow her..."
     "And I confess..."
     "To stupidly..."
     "Enjoying tests..."
     There is humor and warmth in his face and on the tones of the song. Balthazar walks along the bartop, casually stepping over the beers of the assembled guests.
     "She quizzes me..."
     "I quiz her back..."
     "She sips her drink..."
     "And I lose track..."
     "She twirls her beads..."
     "I'm on my knees..."
     "You're too good..."
     "Lady Fifty-Two..."

     Gillian is caught with her drink halfway to her lips, expression suddenly startled into self-consciousness. She reddens by degrees, from strawberry to rose, and hurriedly she puts her drink down, covering her mouth and nose with both hands. "Oh. My. Gawd." It's muttered, not squealed, and she's fighting not to burst into laughter; not entirely successfully. A hand goes up to push her hair back; it's snatched back to her lap and she turns in her seat to face Loki. "I can't look. Tell me he isn't coming this way."

     Snickering? No, Loki hasn't reached that point yet, but it's all the way to a smirk now. "But I've always been so honest to you before," he says, and has a quick pull on his second bottle of cider. He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "I'm not always the best at picking up on these kind of cues, but I think he likes you. Just this feeling I'm getting."

     They haven't heard it, but they like it. It has a playfulness, a romantic cant. It's singable and danceable, which makes it an instant hit. This one will have legs by the way everyone is reacting.
     "She left her shoe..."
     "Without a note..."
     "A sketch, a place..."
     "Without a trace..."
     "A little clue..."
     "To follow to..."
     "Now what am I..."
     "Supposed to do?"
     "She quizzes me..."
     "I quiz her back..."
     "She sips her drink..."
     "And knocks me flat..."
     "She twirls her beads..."
     "I'm on my knees..."
     "You're too good..."
     "Lady Fifty-Two..."
     Balthazar walks around the entire circuit of the bar, even walking over the broad separation from one side to the other. It's a good thing he's tall. He's having a melodic conversation, and everyone is listening.
     "She orders drinks..."
     "With complex notes..."
     "And teases me..."
     "With hist'ry quotes..."
     "She runs a circle..."
     "...'round me thrice..."
     "And sips the milk..."
     "Of paradise..."

     "Shut up," Gillian hisses at Loki, still blushing. "...It's a good thing I didn't order a Sex On The Beach when I first met him." She picks up her drink somewhat defiantly, taking a definite pull at her straw and setting it down again. She sneaks a look over her shoulder. Where has Balthazar gotten to?

     "I don't know, I'd love to hear the song he'd write for that one." Loki may be enjoying this just a little too much. The music helps.

     There is a mic'd chuckle behind her -- maybe his mic picked that up, or maybe he's seeing the commotion at the table ahead of him. He comes to stand on the bar front and center once more, grinning as he continues:
     "She quizzes me..."
     "I quiz her back..."
     "She sips her drink..."
     "And I lose track..."
     "She twirls her beads..."
     "I'm on my knees..."
     "You're too good..."
     "Lady Fifty-Two..."
     It repeats once... twice... and then tumbles to a playful conclusion.
     "Thank you to the violin section of the London Conservatory. And to the girls of St. Mary's back there letting Charlie bang them...the drums, I mean. Let's not get the drummer arrested. Reggie on bass, back in the corner... and good William, Prince Billy, Jones in the smoking section...I see detention in his future and mine. Balthazar Davies... and this interruption has been brought to you by Oxford Comma, with special thanks to Blithe and all the girls...One more... One more?" he queries the crowd. And then he's looking at Gillian. "One more?" he chuckles. "Can you even hear after all that. Alright," and as soon as the 'T' ends, the drummer, bassist, and two guitarists are playing another galloping tune, one of their own that the crowd again knows. There is clapping, singing along, and standing on the booth chairs.

     She is still blushing, though it's settled to a steady, even glow rather than an intense interrupted hue. "Detention," Gillian mutters ominously. "I'll detain him, all right. What do you think of the music, though?" She turns a curious look onto Loki. "You're the expert, not me."
     Her attention doesn't stay on Loki, though; she refuses to applaud, primly sitting on her hands rather than applaud a song which seems, after all, written for or at least about her. She sticks her tongue out again, though this time so quickly it mightn't be seen at all.

     "It's good," Loki says. "You can tell when a band knows how to practice. The whole jazz improv thing doesn't work for most groups. Tight coordination, good communication, but not so locked in they couldn't work with guest additions on the violins." He sprawls lower as he drinks, fingers drumming on the bottle again. "From a strictly musical standpoint, I give your not-boyfriend-yet high marks."

     It is a bit of a jam session, this last bit, but it ends as suddenly as it all began. There is abrupt silence filled with a swell of ovation. "Thank you, thanks." He kills the mic with a tug and unshoulders the red and gold guitar. It is a 12-string electric, completely custom, with a burnished finish that would make Les Paul seethe with envy.
     Balthazar sits on the bar, feet on the seats as the performance ripples out to a close, and he hands his guitar to Reggie who appears, suddenly, behind the bar. And then the lead singer of Oxford Comma is making himself comfortable at one of the tables, as if the performance had never occurred.
     "Hi, you must be the drummer friend. Balthazar," he says offering his hand. "Pleasure." He looks to Gillian. "Glad you came. You should be able to hear your advisor come Monday." Looking between you both, he leans in. "I live upstairs. The lads are going to load up the instruments. Care to join me up there. It'll be a bit more quiet..."
     He's quite right. After that, this crowd has become hyperactive approaching rowdy.

     "Keep teasing me and I won't use my pull to get you a job with him." It's a threat, but not a serious one; she knows it, Loki undoubtedly knows it. Gillian smiles, picking up her drink again. The blushing begins to fade - until suddenly Balthazar's sitting with them. Color returns in a rush, but she does her best to remain cool and collected. Years of prep training come in handy for that.
     "Oh, hello, Balthazar," Gillian says casually. "I didn't see you arrive. Loki, this is Balthazar.. Sure, should we get a waitress to smuggle us up?" Cool as a cucumber, and just as nonchalant. Save for a lingering bit of pink.

     Loki has one last look of mock affront for Gillian before Balthazar arrives. He leans forward and takes the offered handshake, saying, "The same." For going upstairs, he defers to Gillian's decision, and does not indulge in an arch look wondering if she'd prefer to head up there alone. He's just thinking it.

     "I only just got here," he notes with a smile. It isn't smug -- it is simply aware of its own energy, and the source of its own mirth. "And no smuggling is necessary, though perhaps it would be in keeping with the coup d'etat theme." He rises, turning to say thanks to a pausing passerby. "We'll be at the Roof tomorrow, yeah. Please do. Alright," he says turning back to you both, his hands on the back of Gillian's chair. A finger steals a glance against the cashmere. "It's in the back and up the stairs. You ready?"
     He glances up to Loki with a slanting grin. She's going to kill me for that song, isn't she. She's going to use her bookmarks like nunchakus. He chuckles to himself and straightens. "This way." And he turns to head toward the direction of the backroom and restrooms.

     She takes up the camel coat and the leather bag, rising to her feet unhurriedly with a shaking out of her hair. Serve him right if it hits him. She doesn't say a word. Balthazar gets an almost librarianly look from over the rims of those glasses. Loki gets the same look. And with all the dignity of a Kennedy, Gillian heads to follow Balthazar with an Onassis smile that was patented some centuries before by a Mrs. Giaconda.
     Any number can play this game...

     There's a universal look of sympathy for Balthazar--Yes, she definitely will--and Loki slides out from his place at the table, taking the cider with him. Even moving through the crowd, he takes the time to brush a wrinkle from his coat and twitch the collar of it back into shape. Tidiness is next to musical perfection, or something along those lines.

     He leads you past the Staff Only sign into the backroom, where the assorted band members are relaxing for a bit. They're in no real rush and the girls don't mind it. There's a flight of stairs, hard to see at first, just past the entrance to the backroom.
     The jingle of the keys sound and Balthazar lopes up the steps, unlocking the door and holding it open for the sweep of camel (which will no doubt hit him again) and the tidy stride of Loki. He holds it open with a gallant flourish, smirking as she moves past him in with a starlet's flair for drama.
     "Make yourselves comfortable. There's a full bar here. If you want something from downstairs, we can give Blithe a call. It's no trouble." He closes the door behind him as he enters last.
     Not on stage, he's still a sight. He's six-foot if he's anything. His face has the high-cheekboned structure of the Welsh, a small nose and cinnamon colored eyes. His skin tone's a bit off for a red-head; there's not a freckle in sight and he has a slightly caramelized tone about him. He may be the only Welshman capable of holding a tan. His suit's a navy blue with the subtlest sort of pinstriping in a slightly lighter blue. The shirt is white and the tie quite prep with its Oxford stripes.
     Balthazar rolls out of his jacket and drags a hand through his hair, making the thick layers of it shift their artful disarray into creative confusion.
     He grins as he steps into the living room -- very mod, tastefully so. "I think I may have overplayed my hand," he lilts good-naturedly. "Hmm... well, she will forgive me," he whispers in an aside to Loki. "As soon as she gets even."

     Loki murmurs back to Balthazar, not low enough to escape Gillian's hearing by any means, "It may even be worth it."

     Gillian follows silently, moving to drop her coat and her bag on the nearest available surface. She ignores both men with a lifted, stubborn chin, moving to promptly begin prowling the flat and searching it very efficiently. She heads past them into the kitchen and begins opening cabinets and drawers, and then, with a determined glean in her eyes...
     She wouldn't...
     She would...
     She starts down the corridor to the bedrooms. All without a word.

     Loki mouths to the other man, "Doomed," and has a swig from the cider he brought with him.

     Balthazar smirks to Loki and then takes a lean against the wall, chuckling. "Miss West, may I help you find something?" His voice takes a leading, teasing tone. He shares a look with Loki, the grin unwavering.
     The apartment is incredibly clean. There are three bedrooms, but only one is in use. There are no indications -- or evidence -- of any other woman, or women, here but the one combing through his belongings. One bedroom is used as a music room and office. There is an assortment of guitars, a very expensive, quality keyboard, and a Wurlitzer.
     The other guest bedroom is a basic guest bedroom. The master bedroom is large, but it's not a bachelor pad in the traditional sense. The bed doesn't vibrate or rotate. It's all standard issue, but quite nice. He has taste. Or someone does anyway.
     "I wonder if Shakespeare had girls to whom he dedicated odes going through his house looking for..." Balthazar pauses, grinning and looking down the hall. "What are you looking for, by the way?"

     She doesn't answer right away, returning only when she's done a fairly thorough if somewhat cursory sweep of the premises. "Just making sure that you hadn't any other surprises up your sleeve, Mister Davies," Gillian answers primly. The look she directs over the rims of her glasses is deliberately and definitely librarian-like, the blush now under control. She moves to take a perch on the arm of a sofa, folding her hands daintily in her lap. "Such as being a white slaver. If you were, I'd throw Loki at you and run."

     Loki drawls, "Curse this pale skin of mine. You know, Gillian, most white slavers don't invite young ladies to their rooms with a chaperone in tow." His movement further into the room is more like a wander, a little curious about the decor and not showing any inclination to start poking through bedrooms himself.

     "I do realize it's a little out of order, you coming to my apartment before you even allow me to ask you out to dinner... again...but consider it a date," he smiles, "...but I didn't want to scream, and we were going to get pestered if we stayed downstairs. So... I'm not a white slaver. I'm not any sort of a slaver. Apart from rehearsals and practice. Beer? Cider?" He crosses over to his kitchen, partially open to the dining and living room, and pulls out a couple of bottles of each, just in case. He keeps a bottle of cider for himself. It's the same West Country brand as downstairs.
     "So... I hear from Gillian that you are a beat in search of a melody." He looks to Gillian suddenly, "... Is it alright to talk shop now? I should have asked. My apologies." Horribly polite, isn't he. "Here, Madame Cinquante-Deux." He hands her one of the ciders. "Don't hate me too much. Just enough," he murmurs with a smile, tipping his bottle to chime against her own. His attention turns to Loki then.

     "I don't mind if you talk shop," Gillian answers easily, "as long as you don't mind my being a proper pest. Because I am. As Loki can tell you!" She gives them both a bright-eyed look that dares them to defy her statement and takes the cider. She only goes slightly pink about Just enough.
     "He's insufferable," she tells Loki. "If you end up working with him, I'll sic Pres on you if you take his side all the time."

     Loki finishes his second cider with an eye towards the bottles out there. He's relaxed since he first entered the bar, and it can't all be from good company and good music. "You have the melody," he says to Balthazar, "but you also seem to have a good beat accompanying it. Your drummer's as good as I am." So he's not the type for false modesty. "I don't suppose he has some terminal illness? Recent job offer in another country?"

     Gillian receives one of those sharp, fast smiles. "You know me. Since when do I agree with anyone constantly?"

     "He'll be contractually obligated to take my side if I'm paying him," Balthazar notes in his own aside, leaning in toward Gillian, "But I won't hold him to it. Charlie is amazing," he continues to Loki as he takes a seat on the chair next to Gillian. He's within arm-reach. "He's a fixture in London music. Sadly, we're cresting right as he's wanting to retire. At least from touring. He's going into predominantly studio work. His wife is pleased. She wasn't really looking forward to him traveling. He has kids, the whole lot. So... we are going to need a replacement. And Charlie would just as soon have it be now, before we start recording more heavily. I haven't advertised yet. I haven't wanted to face it," he smiles wryly. "I'm in denial."
     He looks to Gillian, "I look forward to the pestering. I can only imagine the next test will be graded most stringently."

     She sips her cider - it's technically her third drink of the night, which for her, is quite a lot. The flush in her cheeks is not entirely embarrassment or the like. "Well, I seem to have given you a gift, then," Gillian tells Balthazar cheerfully. "Loki can be your drummer and you'll neatly solve each other's problems. On top of which, he's staying in London. You don't have a drum set up here, which is a pity, or he could play for you right now. I don't suppose you remembered to bring an audition tape, Loki, did you? I should have reminded you."
     She looks regretful. She slipped up on organizing lives. "Oh, well. Since you both live in London, it shouldn't be too hard for you to arrange a proper audition if need be. Let's see, Loki, you're heading back to L.A. beginning of the month, so that gives you ... a little under two weeks. Balthazar, what's your schedule like?"

     Loki looks a touch bemused at Gillian. "I didn't expect to be auditioning tonight. However, with you in the room, I expect you'll have the whole thing scheduled out for me before I have a chance to finish this bottle, so I'll leave you to that."
     The same sharp smile is turned on Balthazar now. "My choice of sides to take can be bought, though the music will do a better job of it than the contract."

     Balthazar chuckles, "Well... send me a demo when you have a moment. Here, let me check." He removes a ...gasp... phone/mp3/pda/whatever-else gizmo from his pocket. This one is new. "If Monday's not too soon, let's try for that. We can play around, see what the chemistry's like. That's most of it, really. Then just see where it goes from there..."
     "And... Miss West," Balthazar continues, his voice lifting in tone just slightly. "I seem to have an opening on my calendar in need of filling." He puts the PDA away and leans in toward her. "What do you say, finally. A date. I'm asking you, drinker of the milk of paradise know as Lady 52, to allow me to take you to dinner. Juliet's Bower on South Waterfront. Can you spare me some time? Say...Sunday night? Or would you prefer later in the week. I know you have a meeting tomorrow morning. That should probably be your last cider. I'd hate for you to have something to blame me for in the morning." He smiles at that and at her. "God knows..."

     "...All right. I don't have anything Sunday night. Or Monday morning, except for my usual swim date." She should probably be coy. Her mother might tell her to be coy, but it's just not her style. Gillian bounces her head in a nod, hair bouncing as well. "I can swing dinner. I don't know where Juliet's Bower is, but sure. Why not?"
     She self-consciously does NOT look at Loki. And yes, the cider should be her last. She's swaying just a little more than she usually would as it is.

     Another phone/PDA/whatsit appears for schedule coordination, but it's mostly a token check on Loki's part. Oh no, I'll have to reschedule my busy day of wandering through bookstores and coffee shops on Monday. "Monday it is, and if Gil's kind enough to give me your contact info, I'll send along a demo beforehand."
     He moves a little nearer Gillian as he puts the phone away again, but he's not doing the big brother protective thing. Much. More offering a shoulder to grab if she trips over her own feet suddenly.

     There's a warm look there and he leans back. "As much as I hate to call the night short, and without so much as a wild goose chase, I think I should let Cinderella get back to her castle. School calls." Balthazar rises, offering his hand to Loki. "I look forward to it. You can send it to my attention care of Black Jack Davy's. It'll get to me."
     He looks to Gillian then, "Meet me downstairs on Sunday. I'll drive us from here. It's not terribly far," Balthazar says quietly. He holds his hand out to take what's left of her drink. It's a bit of a drive or a train trip -- whichever -- to Oxford. "Are you driving," he looks to Loki, "...back to Oxford tonight? Or did you take the train?"

     There's still half a bottle of cider. She just isn't that heavy a drinker - two Lady 52s and half a bottle of cider are a potent combination. "Which is it, beer before wine, everything's fine, wine before liquor, never sicker?" Gillian asks distractedly. Trust a scholar to get hung up on getting quotations right. "Oh, I took the train." She looks over at Loki and Balthazar. She's a bit flushed. "We took a cab from the train, didn't we, Loki?"

     "Right, a cab," Loki says. He's almost finished his own bottle of cider, but sets it down as it is after the handshake. "Just as well, seeing as neither of us ought to be driving right now."

     "Good," Balthazar murmurs. "And yes," he grins, "... I was hoping. I'll walk you out." There's a glance to Loki. It's not that you can't get her downstairs, you see, but a matter of sheer necessity. He can't help himself really.
     "You have it correct. Liquor before beer...you're in the clear." Stepping to the side, Balthazar gestures for her to go ahead, his other hand skimming her side.
     It is clear, it could not be clearer, that he does, in fact, care for her. The motion is at once protective and sheltering as it is gallant and polite. He was, at the very least, raised right.
     "Thank you for coming. Did you enjoy it, even though I embarrassed you?"

     Loki falls back a few steps to follow, not looking at all discomforted by it. Not her boyfriend yet? Right. He snags a last swig to empty his bottle of cider as he follows, and twitches his coat back into place once more. It'd be tidier if it weren't a half size too large for him.

     She rises, pulling on her coat and picking up her purse. Her hair remains messy as anything, but her clothes show that there can have been no real molestation going on. "I enjoyed it," Gillian agrees, "but Loki's right; I will have to get even with you. Meanie." She sticks out her tongue, then gives Balthazar's arm a brief, affectionate hug. She is, after all, tres Americaine.
     She moves ahead of the boys on her heeled boots, shaking out her hair. "I probably didn't get as much out of it as Loki did. You two should stay and talk," Gillian says over her shoulder. Her look does have a little mischief in it. "I can get to the train station on my own, you know."

     Balthazar laughs, "Nice try. Not going to happen. It's ten o'clock, or thereabouts. Your parents and your brother and your friend would kill me. I like being alive," he notes as he opens the front door.
     He holds the door open for you and Loki to pass through, and he follows you both down the stairs. "I mean, I have to pay rent if I'm alive, but you have to take the bad with the good."
     There's a back door in the backroom that leads outside. That's where he's heading. It's closer to the taxis. "I will call you tomorrow," Balthazar says. "And you," to Loki with a smile, "I will see you on Monday. I might have Reg join us. Always good for the bassist and drummer to click. Kind of hard to do it without it..."

     Loki adds to Balthazar's explanation, "And then after I killed him, you would kill me, if Pres didn't get to me first for letting you walk out of here alone. Which leaves someone who's probably too nice for the job with all the corpse cleanup."
     He steps out into the night, and buttons up his coat against the cold. "If the bass and the beat aren't on the same page, it's not much of a song. So I'll hope he can make it."

     Gillian mock-pouts, stepping outside. She looks a bit sleepy. Two and a half drinks and it's about her bedtime...

     "If not, we'll arrange something." Stepping out onto the street, he whistles and waves for a cab. And, yes, he opens the door. He's nothing if not consistent. "Alright... have a good night, safe travels, yes?" He chuckles a little. Poor Gillian.
     "Night, Loki," he says. And he steps away from the door and the cab. You can see her safely from here. Without his coat, he folds his arms against his chest, hugging them in. Shite, it's cold. But he stands there and waits for the cab to pull away before he backs his way back into the pub...

Posted by rowan at February 20, 2009 10:00 AM