Busy, busy... Some days, it is amazing she has time to turn around. This has been one of those days - up at eight to go swimming with her roommate (a lovely girl from India, majoring in medicine), showered and dressed and attending a lecture by nine-thirty; at the library an hour later, deep in research for the next two hours, followed by a meeting with her advisor at one. It is now three o'clock and Gillian West's stomach is growling loudly enough to be her alarm clock as she darts in through the doorway of the tea shop.
     She doesn't look slapped together, to give her credit; she's wearing a crisp, tailored linen pantsuit, the sort that Katharine Hepburn was always swanning out in; the look is perhaps a little dated, but timeless all the same. Strawberry blonde hair is pulled back messily, having always a life of its own thanks to the constant over-saturation of water. Rimless lenses balance on the tip of her nose, and she wears a woven thong bracelet around one wrist as she looks round for a table, occupied by a Loki or not. "Hi, yes, table for two?" she offers to the server just past the doorway. "I'm expecting someone... tall, thin, American, like me..."

     Tall is arguable. Thin less so, and there's no escaping the "American" from voice alone, even if he could pass on looks as a local. Loki arrived a few minutes earlier, time enough to be seated at a small table for two. He could have walked out of a photograph from last year, or three years ago; he hasn't changed since high school, though he did finally give up on trendy haircuts for something simple and professional. Gray, navy, and gray from the scarf hanging loose around his neck down to the one shoe visible propped at an angle below the table: he's still taking fashion tips from his father's secretary.

     "Oh, there he is." Gillian flashes a perfect, American smile at the waitress and makes her way over to take a seat across from Loki. "Hey, stranger! Glad to see another Yankee yet? My Georgian grandmother would roll in her grave, if she were dead. How've you been?" She divests herself of her coat and her purse while she asks, smiling sunnily. "Did you order yet?"

     Loki looks up from his sober contemplation of the menu--it's offering the same things as any other tea shop in a ten mile radius, but you never know--with an actual smile, if a quick, wan one. "Aren't the yankees supposed to be the ones in the north-east? I'd have to live in Hawai'i to get any further away from them, and here I am, a Yank just like you."
     He sets the menu down in front of him. "Not yet. I've been running on nothing but milk in my coffee all day. As for 'how', that mostly involves impolite language about the weather. And how about you? The studies eating your brain in a properly zombie-like fashion yet?"

     "Over here, we're all Yanks. I've never quite figured out why, but it isn't as if they mean any harm by it. Well, most of them," Gillian amends, brushing her messy hair back over her shoulders. "Most of the fam's from New Hampshire, so by their lights, Yank is right; just Granny Kay who says if she were going to be a Yankee, she'd have to give up peach cobbler, and they'll have to take her cobbler away over her dead, cold body and even then she'd give 'em something to think about."
     She picks up her own menu, giving it a once-over. "I'm doing pretty well. Maddie was worried I was going to be the total bookworm, but believe it or not, I actually have a little bit of a life outside of studying." She smiles, cheeks going a bit pink. "One of the local boys is trying to get me to date him, I think."

     "Is he doing a good job of convincing you?" Loki asks, the slightest note of teasing in there. It's certainly not outright curiosity. "You've got to spend some time away from the books, or that's four years of your life turned into marked up paper. Which doesn't mean you have to give the local blokes the time of day, but it's worth considering." Saying this looks to have cheered him up in some small way, though that may just be the prospect of a good cup of tea arriving soon.

     "Not too bad," Gillian admits, the bloom deepening on her cheeks. "He's - well... he's good at getting on my level, and you know, that's not very common." There is nothing snobbish about the way she says it; but it is certainly a definite belief, in her own powers of intellect - one validated, perhaps, by her current position. "We'll see. We only met about a week ago, to be honest, he rather picked me up. I'm sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop. He seems too smooth to really stick around me for long, y'know? I'm smart, but I'm not cool."
     The waitress does indeed come over, pen poised over her pad. Gillian looks up with a bright smile. "Hi! I'd like a pot of the rose tea, and the shrimp salad with cranberry scone, and honey." She looks back over at Loki again. "Anyway, what about you? What've you been up to? I didn't even know you were over here til I got Pres' mail. ...Did he say anything to you...?"

     Loki gives one more cursory glance to the menu, and tells the waitress, "A pot of the lapsang, and the walnut salad." That being handled, his gaze is back on Gillian. More fond than appraising, in that 'little sister' way that doesn't hold any particular presumption of more to it. "Cool is overrated, but if he's quick enough to keep up with you when you start going off about academic topics, he may be a keeper. Hard to say about anyone at one week, I guess."
     The mention of Preston gets a short head shake. "I haven't heard much from him since I left the states. Email or a call here and there, but about all he said last time was how to get in touch with you. Has he been keeping busy?"

     "Well... he hasn't tried that, not exactly. But he did well enough to find me when I left a clue for him, so I gave him my number." Gillian grins a little, looking down at her hands. "And then he left a - not exactly scavenger hunt, but he left clues for me, to find him, later in the week. We met here, actually. He's very gentlemanly, and - it's just nice, is all, to meet someone who doesn't seem all about trying to rush into getting me out of my clothes or something. We'll see, I guess."
     She's visibly embarrassed, and grateful for the change in topic; though then her eyes go wide, and for a moment, she's silent. "...Oh. I - thought he'd tell you, if he'd tell anyone, but ... I guess he was serious, when he said he didn't want to talk about it." She catches her lower lip between her teeth pensively, looking at the table and then up again. "Well ... I'll tell you, but Pres should have told you himself. He - had an accident."

     The general amusement at gentlemanly suitors interested in playing games drops when the last sentence hits. "Fuck," Loki says, and drops his voice slightly once he realizes that came out loud. "How bad? He didn't sound like he wanted to talk long when I called last, but I just figured he was broken up over some romantic drama he didn't feel like going into."

     "Pretty ... pretty bad." Gillian looks down, face a bit crestfallen. "It was about a year and a half ago now. We were on summer break down in the Caribbean when he got bitten by a four foot long bull shark, Loki. It - well, it's just good we were coming out of the water when it happened. But it... took an actual bite out of his thigh." She swallows, paling slightly at the memory and looking a little ill. "There was an EMT crew already there because of a near-drowning, which is the only reason he's alive. He lost over thirty percent of his blood."
     She looks down at her hands where they rest at the edge of the table. "The doctors were able to save his leg, and he's had a lot of luck - they said it was almost miraculous how well he's done in recovering. But he walks with a limp now, and on bad days, he needs a cane or a crutch. On - on really bad days, sometimes, a wheelchair. Mumsie and dad fought about it - just about the only time I've ever seen them really fight. She's tried to cheer Pres up, pointed out FDR was in a wheelchair his entire life, but ... you know Pres. He's ... not the same as he was."

     Loki sucks in his breath, and then just stares at the table as the details come through. "Fuck," he says again, under his breath. "Some fucking friend I turn out to be, not knowing any of that." He slouches back in his chair, looking back to Gillian. "I haven't been in touch so much the last year and change. So I guess it wasn't just me, the way I stopped hearing from him much. I'd say 'Poor Pres' except he'd rightfully kick me for it if I dared try that kind of condescending bullshit on him."

     She tries to smile, and almost makes it. "You know Pres. He'd give anyone the shirt off his back, just about. But he's really pulled away from people since the - the accident. He won't let us call it an attack, mumsie tries to and it's the only time I've seen him really react, get angry, passionate, anything, since then. He insists it was an accident, and told mumsie if she said one more word about it, she'd tell granddad to turn his entire college fund over to dad for shark conservation research." Gillian sighs. "There were a lot of fireworks in the house that night."
     The salad and scones arrive, along with the tea, and for a few moments there's no room to talk for all the arranging. When the waitress has again fled, Gillian says quietly, "He broke up with Sandy after it happened. He wouldn't tell me why, either - I know she was crushed, but he's just pulled away. The only thing he's really been strongly about was us going on with our lives as normal - he pushed me and Maddie to keep swimming and surfing, he pushed me to go ahead and come to London. He won't talk about it. He's at UCLA right now - it was the 'compromise school' to shut mumsie up, I think. As it is... she's really hurt by how far away he's gone."

     "Now I feel like a right bastard for laughing off A&M," Loki says, fiddling with the makings of good black tea. "He'd probably be happier there. UCLA isn't anything bad, but--it's not where I'd go. I'm not Pres, maybe he's good with that place, but it doesn't exactly sound like things are good with him right now."
     He picks up his tea with a sudden fierce grin. "He doesn't have any good reason to tell me not to stop by and say hello the next time I get back to Los Angeles, though. And I haven't seen my dad in months, not since we met up over in Venice. I can't fix anything, but I can let him know I haven't gone and forgotten about him, when I get back there."

     "I'd feel better if you did," Gillian admits. "I feel like he's trying to wall himself off, and - well, he's my little brother, you know? Maddie laughs it off - you know how she is, she'd laugh at her own funeral. But she's worried, too. We're planning a trip to Hawaii for over spring break, to try getting Pres to come with us. He still loves the ocean. He just..." Her voice breaks a bit, and she picks up her napkin quickly, dabbing at her eyes behind her glasses. "I'm sorry, I'm a bit of a mess about it. It's okay now."

     Loki's already through his first cup of tea. It's a coping mechanism. "You've got good reason to be a mess. Pres sounds like he's being stupid about all of this, and maybe he's got reason too, but that's a reason, not an excuse. I'll get a flight booked back to Los Angeles in the next few months."
     He tries a reassuring smile. It doesn't exactly fit on his face, but there are points in there for effort. "Isn't like I'll be missing anything here, right? I don't have classes to skip."

     "Still." Gillian gets the stubborn look on her face - the one Loki knows all too well. "You'd be doing me a favor, so the least I can do is do you one in return." She gives him a shrewd look. "Let me guess. Your dad's footing the bills, but he hasn't exactly upped your allowance, has he? Not because he's being cheap, but because he hasn't eaten out except for his fruity-vegan-cheesy places in the last five years. Is he still macrobiotic? The least I can do is chip in for your airfare."

     Loki says in a spot-on imitation of his father's accent, if not quite the man's voice, "But they serve chicken that's been raised in inhumane conditions in that restaurant! Going there would be implicitly condoning the brutal practices of the mass-market livestock corporate machines!" He grimaces over his tea. "Which is to say, yes. Fortunately, his housekeeper believes in real food and bread you can chew without beating it into submission with a hammer first."

     That gets a giggle out of her, and she smiles, shaking her head. "So he has no idea what things really cost," Gillian answers, taking a sip of her tea. "So it's agreed. I'll pick up the cost of the ticket. My advice - send Pres an e-mail right before you get on the plane, that you're going to be staying with him. He's too polite to make you find somewhere else to stay, which means he can't duck you the entire time you're there. Mumsie got him a car that he can drive even when his leg's bad, so he can pick you up at the airport."
     She nods, satisfied; everything's been arranged, at least in her own mind! "What about now? Are you doing okay?"

     The swift and brutal organization of other people's lives for their own betterment gets a brief look of admiration from Loki. "I'm doing okay," he says, with a shrug. "Having trouble meeting people in the music scene who aren't utter nuts, but maybe I'm just not trying hard enough. Never really been the make friends and influence people type, and the cultural gap is weirder than I expected. I could fake the accent, but then it'd just be weirder when I don't have the dialect down."

     "Musicians all are rather nutty, aren't they?" Gillian asks with an air of mock innocence. She then grins. "Well, if you want, I could introduce you to my maybe-boyfriend. He's in a band, actually. Surprising, I know, considering I can barely tell the Beach Boys from the Beastie Boys." She wrinkles her nose, then smiles again. "They're kind of popular, locally. That's how I met him."

     "Couldn't hurt," Loki says, which is as good as admitting he's running out of ideas himself. "I'd ask if they need a drummer, but I know better than to overreach when I haven't met them or heard their music. I can handle musician levels of nuttiness so long as people show up to rehearsals and don't try to perform high or pissed."

     "I don't know if they need a drummer," Gillian admits, "but if you want, I can tell you what little I do know. For one, I don't think Balthazar'd put up with drunk or stoned bandmates. He's ... really rather organized. He takes it seriously." There's a hint of admiration in her voice; she isn't the sort to find the rock and roll lifestyle terribly attractive, ordinarily. "He plays guitar and is the lead singer. They were playing in the pub where I stopped for dinner when I was last in London."

     Loki admits, "Organized is good. Whether it's coming from the lead singer or just a really pushy girlfriend, it's what turns good garage bands into bands that have real futures." He empties his pot of tea into his cup. "Whether or not they need a drummer, I ought to come to one of their gigs."

     Gillian nudges her salad discreetly to the side. "Well, just look for Oxford Comma. He's the front man for them. Or, as I said, if you like, I can introduce you to him." She smiles a bit impishly. "Tell you what. Find out when and where they're playing next, and we'll show up together. I can surprise him, then introduce you after the show."

     "I've heard the name before, even if I don't remember where," Loki says. He raises his cup of tea with one of those thin smiles. "I have to admire men who feel that strongly about punctuation. I'll look them up and let you know when and where to meet."

     "Actually, it comes from the title of some other band's song. He mentioned the band's name, but I forget just now," Gillian admits freely. She grabs her bag. "Here, I'll pick up lunch. You have my number and my email, right? I'd better get back - I'm meeting my study group in thirty minutes. Let me know when and where they're playing, and we'll make plans for it."

     Loki drains another cup of tea, and moves to stand up as well. "Can do. Have fun with all that studying. Someone should, right?"

     Gillian laughs, standing and going to the front. "I like it, actually," she admits cheerfully. "Talk to you later, Loki. Try to stay sane in a crazy world, huh? T'care." She trades a glittering platinum card over, gets receipt and card back, signs, and is gone.

     There's most of a salad left on Loki's side of the table, but somehow he's not in the mood to try to get it boxed up. The tea's gone, Gillian's gone... He buttons up his coat on the way to the door, and then he's gone too.

Posted by rowan at February 16, 2009 07:09 PM