It's early in the week, so Davy's just isn't too crowded. There's a match on the telly, though, which always draws a decent crowd - it's what the Girls call a 'just right', not too crowded, not too slow. Nobody's likely to go home with hundred euro notes stuffed in their bras, but nobody's going home empty-handed, either.
     The footy lads are crowded around one end of the bar, cheering and scoffing at the telly screen and the commentator. It's a blessing - the bartender can slide pints to them and keep them more or less sequestered from the after-work club grabbing their dinners and unwinding; a knot of them are in a booth nearish the front, the lasses with their high heels half on and half off, laughing and discussing the day's efforts.
     The booths in the rear are largely empty, though; there's one which is marked with a placard saying 'Reserved', but it just hasn't filled up enough for those to get taken yet. The girls are beauties, every one of 'em, wearing their tight Black Jack t-shirts as they bounce from table to bar, pillar to post. "Hallo, there, loves, be with you in a mo..."

     He would be the spitting image of the one who usually sits at the Reserved table, only dialed back a decade or eight centuries, give or take, were it not for the absence of wide-wild grins. Those belong to his father, and to his twin. Aeron appears, from where... who cares?... the telly's on. The first time anyone takes notice of him is when he's suddenly sitting in the back booth -- the best seat in the house -- and moving the Reserved sign out of his way.
     Dark red hair is sweeps across his eyes, the forelocks blending into razor-cut strands. His eyes are a black-green, the deepest sort of green hazel possible. His face is in a word: startling. High cheekbones, defined features, the small nose -- he is a paragon of Brythonic inheritance. A black t-shirt is abysmally dark, fitted like a shadow, same as the jeans. Short sleeves end at muscled biceps, but tattoos of ravens and scripted, scrolled poems in shadows and tendrils extend past the hem on his left side, his right side bare of any marks (that can be seen).
     He tilts his chin and then crooks a finger to a passing girl. "Penderyn," is all he says. That's all he has to say for the best Welsh liquor in London.

     It's not exactly boredom, that has Loki throwing glances at the television from the booth he's claimed most of the way towards the back. It's not exactly interest either, because if he cared enough about the game to watch closely, he'd be watching from much closer in. The remains of a Los Angeles Times from two days back crumpled into an untidy stack next to him at the table just isn't holding his attention anymore.
     Gray trousers, black coat, a button-down shirt so dark and dimly green that it may as well be gray too. There's a smudge of tired around his eyes, only visible because of pale skin and his slouch towards the television he can't really see. The lack of "Hello, Ask Me About Joining My Band" badges on anyone in the crowd mean he isn't giving much attention to any of the people nearby. Soaking up the ambience, maybe, or just getting to know the menu while he prepares whatever it is he means to do when he really gets going. Maybe after another cup of coffee, or another beer.

     Aeron's presence is taken as a matter of course by Maggie, who tells Aeron cheerfully, "In just one minute, love." She swings her hips for the pleasure of having rounded woman's hips to swing, making her way over to Loki's table and bending over to get his attention. "Hello, ducks, what can I get for you? You look like you could use a meal." She tucks her serving board under her arm while she waits, glancing back to Aeron with a wink.

     Loki takes a quick look up at the menu board, and says, "Tonight's special and a cider, if you don't mind." It sounds more like reflexive civility than any deep concern for whether or not she might be especially busy. The sports section is sitting on the top of the newspaper he's failing to read, blaring out something about the Lakers.
     Aeron doesn't seem remotely troubled about having to wait. He looks at Maggie's hips without the aid of a conscience, then kicks back in the booth and watches the order transpire.
     It's bloody riveting...
     If only he had a whiskey.

     "Special and a cider," Maggie chirrups. She tosses brunette curls because they are there to be tossed, giving first Loki and then Aeron a saucy wink. She is a proper minx. "Coming up, then, love. Oh - don't read sports statistics, they'll only depress you!" She laughs, whirling away with her board under her arm as she heads over to Pwyl at the bar. "Penderyn and a cider, honey, and a special from the kitchen."
     The food here has an advantage over other London pubs in that it's not only actually edible, it's actually good. While the kitchen puts together a special, Maggie gets the Penderyn and the cider, flirting her skirt at Pwyl as she heads back to the rear with her board now held properly. Loki gets his first. "You'll let me know if you need anything else, ducks?" she asks him solicitously. She doesn't ruffle his hair, but she looks like the sort who might. "You think about it, I've got another run to do." And she heads over to Aeron with a wink of an eye and a glass of Welsh.

     "Is it from the bottle under the counter?" Aeron queries. His accent is decidedly not English. It is a tangle of smooth running vowels and dancing consonants that, when strung together, make incidental music. They don't even have to work for it, is the annoying thing. He lifts a curious red eyebrow and looks to her as if over a pair of spectacles.
     She's seen that look before. On his own father's face. "I'll have the king's plate," he smiles widely and far too self-satisfied. "With the venison on the rare side. Is the Old Man expected tonight?"

     Loki does not look affronted. Maybe he's entirely aware of his own tendency to seem like a surly kind of lost duckling in need of pats on the head and some watching out for. He goes after the cider before anything on his plate, gaze wandering off at the sound of that voice. Category: musical, not playing on the radio, not a performance. It's all filed away somewhere as he lays off the staring about before anyone catches him at it, to see what good old London cooking has to offer him tonight.

     "Under the counter," Maggie agrees tolerantly, with a roll of her eyes and a flirting of a smile as she gives Aeron a sly glance. "He hasn't called, but he doesn't always, you know that as well as I do." The glass is set down in front of him, and she steps back with a swish of her skirt. "The king's plate it is, then. You're in luck, we just got a fresh haunch today. I'll make sure you get an extra large cut."
     The wink to Aeron is sassy, and paired with an oh so subtle glance downwards. Speaking of large cuts. "Anything else, ducks? Go on, give me more reason to pester you. But I've got to get back to the Yank and make sure he's taken care of if not..."

     "You might as well bring the bottle over," his smile is subtle, but its persuasion is not. Aeron lifts the glass for a drink and returns her look. "Do you have to have a reason to pester me? I thought that's what you call ...customer service." The eyes twinkle darkly, eclipse eyes with a corona of green. "Oh sure... leave me for a tourist. I see how you are, Maggie Mae..."

     The tourist is picking at his food, and going through his cider instead. Maybe the special doesn't suit him tonight. Loki's taken to slouching back with the bottle in hand while he tries to work out through the press of people around the television just what it is that's going on onscreen. Soccer ball called football here, check. Men running about on a lot of grass, check. The nuances beyond that are escaping him.

     "I just go where the money is," Maggie laughs, pleased as can be with the attention. "I'll get you your bottle on my next trip. Or you could go sit with the Yank and keep him company and I'll only have one table to wait on - poor thing," she gives Loki's back a motherly glance, "all alone and far from home. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
     She waggles fingers at Aeron. "Order's up," she tells him brightly. "I'll get you on the flip side, ducks." she hustles for the bar, where the special's waiting for pickup.

     Go sit with the Yank? And leave my table?
     To be honest, I prefer to watch my prey from a distance. Sigh. So few understand the need to hawk and play.
     Suddenly, there is a vision above the booth -- a tall, dark-red haired man -- in the neighborhood of the early 20s -- is standing on the red leather seat, his body leaning against the booth. He looms large there -- and not because he's standing on a piece of furniture. The lad's tall and built like a brick shithouse. The face, beautiful in its evenness, barely ripples in emotion, but his voice lilts with a teasing tone: "I've been instructed to entertain you. I should hope you would prefer I not, out of a sense of pride. Maggie doesn't understand a man's need for isolation."

     Loki looks up. Somehow, when he ordered the house special, he hadn't expected it to come with additional personnel. "I don't know," he says. "Do you juggle? Because if not, I can probably get through dinner without active entertainment. It wasn't on the menu."

     "The best things never are," Aeron notes. Soon he is there, with his glass of Penderyn, hopping over the wall until he is standing on your booth's seat opposite you. He doesn't ask for permission. He doesn't care one way or another. He sits then, arms on the table, glass cradled in between.
     "I can juggle. I just refuse. And do you know any tricks? For all I know, perhaps you are the one who should be entertaining."

     "No clever tricks," Loki says, "unless you have a drum set under your coat." He's going through his cider at a healthy rate, and his dinner at an unhealthy one, assuming he needs some sort of caloric intake other than alcohol to survive. "No, wait, I know one trick involving ordering someone a drink. But you're already set there, so I'm fresh out of entertainment. I can offer last week's sports section of the Times if you want it. The Lakers just suffered a horrible and well-deserved defeat."

     "Caustic," he notes with something of appreciation to his tone. "I don't know who the Lakers are," he drags on. "But I do love a good decimation. That is why god invented rugby."
     Aeron finishes his whiskey in a swallow. He gives a glance for Maggie, who's stuck taking orders from footies. Speaking of rugby. Those dark eyes bend their focus to you, and the hand (attached to the wrist and then the arm) that is marked with those tattoos gives his empty glass a bit of a spin. "A drummer. I am rather musically ungifted. I am an anomaly in my family."

     Loki is thin, pale, looks slightly underfed. No wonder he gets mothered at by strangers. His own gaze wanders more than sticks anywhere specific, and he drinks as if he's entirely unaware of any focus. "Maybe the team would improve if they executed one in ten players at the end of every game they lost. Couldn't get any worse this season, so I'd say it's worth a try."
     He smiles thinly and briefly. "Would you classify drumming with music? Now there's a change of pace from the usual approach. I'm told it's just a lot of hitting things with sticks very fast."

     There is not a ripple of humor or emotion, but then there is a slight smile. "I wouldn't call it dancing." He holds up a finger in a pardon me motion and he is up and out of the booth after another moment. He is able to do what no one else apart from Maggie and her crew can do -- he goes behind the bar. When he returns, he returns with a bottle of Penderyn. He sets it on your table, and he takes up a perch again.
     Aeron looks at you a measuring moment as he pours the drink. "What else do you like to hit?"

     Maggie returns, this time with the bottle, aaand the food. She beams to see the boys playing together nicely (or so she thinks). "And here we go," she says cheerily, tray lowered from shoulder height to hip height as she dishes up plates to the table. "Special, and venison, and a bowl of crisps on the house." She winks saucily, resting her fist on her hip. "Anything else I can get you two lads?" It's just a moment too late. She gives Aeron a look of mock-outrage. "Patience!"

     "Patience is for saints and nuns, neither of which I am," Aeron notes with a slow grin. He looks to the venison and roasted vegetable plate with all the delight of a raven at a slaughter.

     "Too late to deliver any patience, except in a to-go box," Loki murmurs, but has something like a smile when he says to her, "Another cider?" There's a glance to the man across from him at the table that says that question's not getting an answer quite yet.

     "Hmph. You watch him," Maggie tells Loki. "He's a tricky one! Another cider, coming up, then." She sticks her tongue out at Aeron, bouncing off again. Cider!

     The look of innocence is quite convincing. As if he couldn't imagine what she meant by that. But as soon as she is gone, the devil peeks behind the angel's mask. "I suppose I should get your name before I pick apart your life like so many auger bones." Aeron takes a swallow of the whiskey and sets the glass down, his gaze undeterred.
     He cuts into the venison, the blood mixing with the gravy of oils and wine. It's virtually still on the hoof...

     "Loki," comes the answer, no last name supplied, though it's offered with a slight tilt of his chin that says Yes, I know, I've heard all the jokes already, just try me. He adds before the obligatory commentary can be made, "And yours?"

     No jokes. His gaze is unwavering. "Could be worse. Could be Thor," he notes quietly. Aeron is silent through another bite of venison. "Aeron," it would Aaron, perhaps, but the accenting is...different. Maybe it is closer to Erin, as in Erie, as in Ireland. But he doesn't sound Irish. Or look it.
     "What are your plans in London, Loki? Are you visiting, traveling or loitering?"

     "Loitering. I'm looking to join a band." This statement Loki doesn't shrug off as inconsequential, and neither does he linger there while he's picking at his food. "Someone said--more than one person said this was the place to find the right kind of people. Thought I might as well give it a try."
     He settles back, shoulders shifting against the back of the booth without quite finding a comfortable spot, to ignore his dinner and drink more cider. "Beyond that, it's whatever I feel like doing."

     You must be looking for Balthazar. How delightful.
     "There are a few bands who loiter here," his voice lilts low, dragging on his thoughtful tones. "It is the ...official home of Welsh bands, no matter what their musical bent. Try Thursdays through Sundays. You're here on Wodinsday, Loki. You should know better. Thorsday or Freyasday will be better for you, I think."
     Aeron watches you as he takes a bite of the venison. Where would Loki be if he didn't have a raven to converse with, on occasion? "Shouldn't be too hard, now...should it. Hitting a band in London is like hitting the water with a rock."

     There's an actual incipient sneer on Loki's lips before it's covered by a sip of cider and general dedication to civility. "There's bands, and then there's good bands, and then there's good bands worth dealing with, and then out of those, somewhere, presumably, someone needs a drummer," he says. "If I just wanted to find a band... I'd have much lower standards, for one."

     Venison and Penderyn. It is the dinner of kings, and he'd know a little something about eating from a king's plate. At your sneer, there is only a smile. For your consternation, there is amusement. "You are more dour than even I, Loki." He pushes his plate toward you. "Eat some bloody meat, drink some whisky. If you are going to be in a constant state of defiance, you'll need your energy..."
     His laughter is haunting, beautiful, musical. It comes quietly, as much with him seems to do. Aeron rises, standing in the booth again. He leaves the deer and the whisky behind, hopping over the wall and back to the reserved booth behind it.

     Maggie returns, with more cider for the Yank. Things have picked up by now; she only has time to flash a smile before she whisks the empties away. There is the strictly required flirt of her skirts, however.

     Bloody meat, whisky, and more vaulting over the walls of booths than Loki usually sees in a week. He's distracted from a dark consideration of what this all means or if it's really just a way of fucking with his head by the smile and the cider. Strange place, but at least the service is good.

     Loki, Loki, Loki...
     Tricksters have a way of fooling themselves more often than not.
     Though large, it would seem that Aeron has an uncanny ability to blend in and disappear. For no sooner has Maggie arrived than Aeron has disappeared.

Posted by rowan at February 16, 2009 10:03 PM