The Bear and Barnacle

She's accustomed to being sent to odd places with little warning or explanation. So when the Crown informs her that she's needed in Margate, Mrs Mina Harker raises an eyebrow then starts preparing to move. By the end of the day, she has her essentials packed in a traveling trunk. By the next day she's selected and secured a flat out of the stack of brochures that were brought to her with word of her relocation. She'll purchase most of her furniture when she arrives, actually less expensive and less of a hassle than shipping her existing furniture, as she's discovered; but a healthy selection of her books, lab, and her bed are supposed to arrive when she does.

Early on Wednesday evening, her hired driver carries two small cases up to the top floor flat while she manages the larger trunk in one hand and a large rectangular case in the other hand. She can smell the closeness of the ocean, only a block away, and the fresh paint in the flat. Tipping the driver, she dismisses him and puts the trunk in the larger of the bedrooms. She considers the other case then carries it to the other bedroom and leans it against the wall commenting while brusquely, "Stay out of trouble for now, if you please."

Mina runs one hand over her hair, still pinned neatly up. Her white shirt is clean, the black skirt unwrinkled, and the red scarf still neatly wrapped once around her throat. In her pocket is a torn page from one those regional magazines that publish places to eat, things to see, and people to admire. Then with a final glance at the address that's been circled and the attached map, she leaves her new residence and strides down the street, wondering just what is going on at this pub.

When Spike arrived at work that night, and saw the picture on the board, he rolled his eyes and smirked. Just great. He’ll have to make sure doors are more well locked in the future. Luckily, the picture only featured him, and from the waist up. No need to show off to the whole pub who else was there. How (and who with) he gets his rocks off is no ones concern. He wonders if Dora is at all traumatized from the things she’s possibly seen, based on some of the other pictures.

But then he had a thought about that. If she got pictures like this of people she didn’t live with…

So he hunted her down at her table, and made a deal. A deal with a six year old. A deal which will give him access to certain photos, if he fulfills her request. And really, it’s not so much to ask. Might work out rather well, actually. He wonders about exactly how her mind works sometimes…

Which is how he now finds himself entering Ici, Amour this evening, looking for something very specific...

Spike pulled the last of his clothes out of the small closet and stuffed them in his duffel bag. Now that he has the necessities taken care of...refrigerator, microwave, bed, TV (yeah, that is a necessity), he's ready to officially move into his new place.

It couldn't have been planned better. Basement flat, dark, private. He's got the back bedroom blacked out already, but figures heavy curtains will do in the front room. Just in case, sometimes, someone visiting wants the sunlight.

He figures Holmes probably suspects something is up, he's been there less and less, but he still isn't sure what to say. Thank you and goodbye are both things he's not big on.

If he had known that tips would be this good with just a little bit of flirting thrown into his work, he might have gotten a job ages ago. Now with pay and tips, he's able to start on the list...

First up is his own phone. Can't rely on Holmes' much longer. Not if item two on the list happens. Can't make the call about the advert without a phone, anyway.

So he gets one with the works, internet and texting and all. Music and videos right on his phone. Technology is grand! He programs in the few numbers he needs, the pub, Holmes' main line, and then he pulls out the crumpled napkin that holds the number of the first person he's going to call. After all, he made a promise. He types in the number, presses send, and waits as he hears the ring on the other end.

"Hello? Looking for Dora, actually."

When he comes into the pub again for the first time in (Lady Bright, it must be) months, his smile is not a sociable one, but the serene little closed-eyed Metallium smile that isn't worried about how to fulfill any unexpected orders to kill (or worse, incapacitate) any given person. The pink glasses are not in evidence (they're in a pocket), and neither is the frilly apron with the chickie on it.

There's a minor ruffle in the kitchen when one of the new staff demands to know who he is and where the Dragon-Lady's gone. Only a few moments of being silently and blandly smiled at sees the man re-assigning himself to dishwashing duty, though, and Xellos spends the rest of the evening on the hibachi displays of knifework and blending across from the bar that the pub hasn't seen in a good, long time, during weeks of sandwiches and pastries and pub food, his face in a pleasant mask. He shouldn't be angry with Ivonka-san for letting the place forget what it ought to be, but by the third time one of the waiters asks him what today's specials are, the third time he says (snarls, by this point, however frozen in polite tones), whatever they ask for, he is.

Every so often, he pulls Iago away from the bar, click-clicking away on his new cast into secluded corners, and just folds himself into his arms, breathing him in with their fingers laced until he's steady enough to face all the eyes again, sliding his fingertips for reassurance into the pocket of Iago's apron, just big enough to snugly contain one little hiding cat, just in case. To keep from doing that every five minutes or so, he spends a lot of time with his weight all on his newly re-broken leg, occasionally bouncing gently on it. Sometimes he turns the night before, the night of breaking it, over meditatively in his mind as his hands fly (and, if the truth be known, his ethereal tendrils, because two hands alone, however fast, really can't whip together multiple dishes at once), and sometimes he just laps gently at the sweet, sustaining pain of it.

Anotsu yawns tidily behind his fist. He hesitates before touching the handle, looks up at the sign above the door. He hasn't been out for ages. Not that he forgot; other things have been on his mind. Distraction is not a concept he endorses, even if his mind sometimes loops around itself enough to distract him; he does not need to venture out for that.
The warmth and the smell of a pub, he's forgotten those. The door chime jingles. He almost expects a yelled welcome from the bar until he remembers that this is England: if someone looks up or grunts at you, that means they're going out of their way to greet you. Slipping in unnoticed, it suits him fine.

There are other things he not-forgot: renewing the registration and license of the dojo with the association. This, too, suits him. Things that you forget deliberately... it's beautiful, he thinks, how a simple omission turns into action. How passivity becomes an agent. The sea gently laps at the rocks until they are sand. Speaking of which, he still collects flotsam on the beach, picking up bleached bone and water-whittled wood, rocks to arrange on Makie's orange-crate.

He looks up and studies the new faces hovering around the bar. Names you never knew are names you can't forget.

Sherlock Holmes was not a man who was overly concerned with tidiness. In fact, if you were feeling petty, you’d call him a slob. It wasn’t that his house was dirty, it was just…cluttered. Very. He was loathe to throw anything away, and papers, books and newspapers were everywhere. At least there weren’t any bullet –pocks on the walls of this house. Still, he did keep cigars in a coal scuttle (bought especially for that purpose; no one used coal heaters any more) and his unanswered mail was indeed transfixed with a jack-knife to the mantelpiece. The Persian slipper for tobacco had been forgone, as it was now much easier to smoke cigarettes that had been rolled rather than getting loose tobacco. All in all, his house was a mess, but Holmes didn’t mind in the least. He knew where everything was and could lay his hands upon any document with a minimum of fuss. However, today he was expecting company (not clients; clients had to take as they found), so he felt a bit of dusting was in order. Holmes bounded down the stairs, exceeding grateful that whatever malady had afflicted him last month seemed to have cured itself. He glanced around the lounge and started to gather the newspapers into a neat(ish) pile. As he straightened the papers, his eyes narrowed. He felt as if he was being watched. He’d long ago cultivated the habit and it had never failed him. He had no weapon; he certainly hadn’t thought he’d need one. He could, however, throw the newspapers at the intruder and distract him while he went for the poker. Holmes turned, drawing himself into a crouch, papers at the ready. Instead of throwing them however, he dropped them. He gaped at what stood before him. “Watson?!” he inhaled the name. “I say Watson, is that you?!” He started forward and the shadowy form turned toward him, an expression of bewilderment on the familiar face. “Holmes!” he cried, though the voice was rather faint. “Is it really you?”

Dora wakes slowly- as usual, though the light is streaming around the edges of her curtains. The Minister's perch is empty and she hears nothing outside her room. Everyone must still be asleep. She's about to slide out of bed and make her sleepy way to the bathroom when she sees it. The large, rangy wolf curled on the end of her bed. She starts, eyes going wide. It's not Navarre- the colouring's all wrong. This one is grey and brown. Her hand curls into Teddy's back, closing on her wand, just as the wolf's eyes open- a familiar shade of gold that makes her heart turn warm. She reaches out for him, but her hand passes through him. His head inclines at this then he lowers it in a sage nod. Her expression flickers, hair along with it, and she breathes out a single name, "Moony". They stare at one another for a moment but when his tail picks up a quiet rhythm against her bed Dora giggles and the tension dissolves.

"I'm going to the loo! But you have to stay here! And when I come back we can play," she announces as her feet hit the floor. The wolf gives a soft yap of assent and Dora slips out the door.

Val has been four for rather more than half a year when he decides enough is enough. Each year he ages is one year closer to adulthood ... or as close as he ever got, anyway. Two hundred is maybe not quite adult for a dragon.

First he quells lurking fears by having Jack measure his height and wingspan to ensure that he actually is growing. Lacking any real idea of when he was born the first time beyond "when it was warm," he chooses Midsummer Day to serve as his birthday. In the incredibly convoluted calendar of this locale that falls on the twenty-first of June.

What he didn't expect was Dora's resistance to the idea.

"I'm going to grow up," he said at last, stubbornly, to she who had been five over two birthdays now. "If you want to stay older then you have to grow up too." He added generously: "I'll share my birthday with you this year." At last she agreed.

So a compromise cake was baked, lemon with pink icing on one side and chocolate on the other. The pink side has six blue candles and the chocolate side has five. The whole vast, sticky confection, grimly but perfectly iced by Ivonka, sits proudly in the center of the bar at the Pub.

Val thinks this is an incredibly bizarre way to mark the turning of age, but he's not about to argue with tradition ... or cake.

Zel has managed fairly well to keep himself in practice but he knows that after years of fighting humans, trolls, berserkers, mazoku (including Val and his nearly successful bringing about of the Apocalypse) that he needs more. Jack's too inexperienced and too worried about hurting him to be more than casual practice. And he grows bored defending himself against his own spelled fireballs, rocks, etc. He knows Iago is skilled with a sword- probably not nearly as great as Dora would claim- but the Venetian is too much of an asshole for Zelgadis not to wish to actually injure him and he really doesn't want to have to deal with the fall out of that one. He's seen a few things Xellos is capable of.

So he finally figures "what the hell" and pins a note to the noticeboard in the pub:

Experienced swordsman seeks equal or better for rigorous sparring.
Contact Zelgadis Grayweir
23 Northdown Way

As anxious as Holmes was to test his new formula, he knew that using anesthetic gas on men on ladders and wielding acetylene torches would be detrimental, if not downright dangerous. So he went to the pub. ( Read more... )

Jack walks through the pub, back to the toilets, and comes back out a few minutes later down to just his boxer-briefs simply because he can and he hasn't the slightest bit of shame about it. He tosses out a "Maybe don't look, Dora," before he strolls casually over to the board to pin up a paper as if people in underwear do that all the time.

"Bananas are good," he says. "And so's underwear, and so's what underwear covers up. Does that make it like a banana peel? Anyway, here's an easy recipe because bananas are good."

Baked Bananas
1 banana, ripe or not, either works but it's a good way to use them up

For sauce:
1/4 teaspoon cornstarch
1 tablespoon brown sugar (white works, too)
2 tablespoons water
Big ol' shake of ground nutmeg, cinnamon, or allspice, or any combination
Optional spoon of butter or margarine for more flavor

Scale as needed for more bananas.

1. Preheat oven to 175°C/350°F.
2. In a saucepan over medium-high heat, mix together cornstarch and sugar. Gradually stir in water. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and stir in spice (and butter/margarine if using). You can also heat it in the microwave just until boiling.
3. Place peeled banana(s) in a casserole dish. Drizzle sauce over the bananas. You might need to turn them over some to get them nice and covered.
4. Bake in the preheated oven for 8-10 minutes and serve warm.

I really don't recommend trying to skip the oven and cook this in the microwave. You'll get a totally different texture on the banana and it's almost creepy— the outside stays about the same but the inside cooks up from within and the banana splits open. The outside still holds it together, so it turns into a sort of dissected banana. Not a very appetizing presentation.