ᴡɪᴛᴄʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ (arcane) wrote in summerview, @ 2018-12-06 13:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | julius fírinne, player: lyddia, zjames byrne |
two rabbits runnin' in the ditch
Who: James & Jules
What: IRISHNESS. And smoking. And leprechauns staff. At work~
When: Thursday night
Where: In Vino Veritas
Rating: Low
Status: Complete
When it came to one of the busiest and most difficult industries, James was self-taught - working in a kitchen, that is, as a chef. Not drug running or theft (though he’d essentially taught himself that too). But he’d learned a few things during this stint - Monday was usually what he considered the weekend, his dinner was consumed around 1:00 in the morning, he doubled as a butcher and fisherman too. Nothing beat burning himself in the face when kernels popped out of a corn-fed bird or something, and thus exploded in the insanely hot oil - it was good he kept healing potions handy, let’s just say. He had enough scars, everywhere - mucking up such a delightfully rugged complexion would be a shame. By the way, don’t order ‘off the menu’ or hit him up for a freebie. Those were two surefire ways to get on his shit list. During a particularly busy night (it wasn’t a huge town, but this restaurant was popular and he recognised the orders of most regulars by now), he was craving nicotine but couldn’t take a cigarette break until there was a lull - and, cripes, finally. He pushed open the back door to the kitchen and stepped outside, leaning against the building. A flicker of flame, a sizzle of paper and the heavenly, glorious scent of tobacco clouded around him when he lit the cigarette. Aaaaaah. Just because In Vino Veritas was the fancy bar, at least in comparison to Maeve’s place, didn’t mean Julius had gone out and hired a bunch of stuffed shirt types to fill the vacancies before he opened. First of all, you’d be hard pressed to find someone requiring the sanctuary of Summerview who didn’t have a little… Backstory. A little blood on their hands, a little dirt under their nails, skeletons in their closets, etc. That sort of thing. Some just wore it openly on their sleeves like a badge of honor, and some liked to let things unfold a little more quietly. Slowly. Whispered over several very strong drinks. Or never. Never was also good. Anyway, that was the difference between Julius’s place and Maeve’s place (among other things, of course, but that was one of the glaring ones), but also there was James. Julius had lucked out on that hire, and not just because his crab cakes could give any chef on the East Coast a run for their money. One of the bartenders had called in “sick”, so while it wasn’t his normal night, Julius was working the bar in tandem with one of the other (non-sick) bartenders, and by the time there was finally a moment to breathe, he wanted the exact opposite. He already had a cigarette in his mouth before he even got to the kitchen door, but apparently his lighter was in his other jacket. The sharp turn of the weather had forced him to switch to the motorcycle jacket he’d… acquired in the 1920s, but apparently he hadn’t had the presence of mind to swap his lighter from one jacket to the other. “Got a light?” He asked, slipping easily from the flat, American accent he’d developed over the years (Irish to English to Transatlantic to that generic American accent used by actors and newscasters) to Gaelic. “For you, I’ve got much more,” James responded - Gaelic, of course, tacking on a cushlamochree at the end there, which was a mish-mosh of words that had evolved through a spin cycle over decades (as this fucked up language tended to do) that essentially meant ‘vein of my heart.’ But he had the lighter too, and flicked the wheel to get the small flame going. There, now Jules had his very own cancer stick burning cherry-red at one end. “That fucker who called in sick - I hope the real reason is something good, like their dog is having a mental breakdown or they fell asleep on the loo and stood up, breaking their ankle.” He’d actually heard that one before. Dangerous times, sitting too long on the toilet. The term of endearment elicited a broad, toothy grin from Julius. “Thanks, kid,” he said, tacking on a wink for good measure. Cigarette lit, he took a long drag, exhaling a cloud up toward the street lamp. “Sick was the only explanation I got from the front of house manager. It’s her call.” He shrugged. But honestly, he was hoping the same thing. If only because he was salty he was working tonight. It was his own fault though. “We could have called someone in, but I was already here, so.” Another shrug. “Surprised you made it out here in one piece.” It stood to reason that if it was that busy out front, it had to be murder in the back of the house. Kid, what the fuck. There was that nickname again, amusement flickering somewhere within his eyes, sharks swimming in the open sea. “You know you sound like a sexual predator when you call me that - or call anyone that, really,” James snorted, around the edge of a (literal) smoky laugh. “But yet somehow you make it work for you, darling.” Ah, to be a kid again - he hadn’t been one in quite awhile, or at least it felt that way. Living hundreds of years seemed like a bloody curse though, if you asked him - he couldn’t imagine what it felt like to live for even longer than one of his kind would happen to exist on this shithole planet. “Aye, it’s busier than usual it seems,” he observed, tapping his cigarette to knock the ashes off with his thumb. “Perhaps it’s the holidays. Everyone wants to get drunk. And not do any cooking. I won’t be out here long, I just needed a breather - “ And to, ironically, fill his lungs with tar, as one did, “...feels like I hardly get to see you, mate. Have you been finding trouble lately?” Julius laughed--a real one, genuine. With the crinkles in the eyes and the head tossed back and everything. “How do you know I’m not?” He asked, eyebrows wiggling for effect. He wasn’t, of course. Children honestly freaked him out a bit. But being more than a couple hundred years old made everyone under a century feel… So very young sometimes. But there was also a delightful energy about people who hadn’t seen quite as much as he had, so there was also that. “Hmm,” he hummed, nodding at James’s take on the situation. “Probably.” The might have been better off taking on extra help for the holidays, but Julius hadn’t exactly expected things to pick up so much. An oversight, perhaps. Ah well, they knew better for next year now. It wasn’t as if they were drowning, anyway. He took another drag, lips curling into a smirk around the cigarette. “Hardly have to look, it’s been finding me on its own.” It meaning trouble, and trouble usually meaning Maeve. He exhaled in a smooth curl of smoke and a roguish grin, sharp and shiny, was unable to be helped. "Does it now?" James was watching Jules with ever-so-rapt attention. "How so?" Please, regale him with the details, darling. His life was so bland in comparison, working long hours to pass the time (though granted, that always kept him on his toes), often coming home to pass out on the sofa after drinking his dinner. The dregs of a whiskey bottle, quite healthy. “Dear, sweet Maeve,” he replied in Gaelic, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Showing up at odd hours in odd places.” Nearly getting him eaten by a dragon… Alright, so it was a couple weeks ago now, but he was still a little angry. Long memory made for long held grudges. He kept the dragon bit to himself though, since it wasn’t… Exactly Maeve who’d taken the dragon’s egg. Her little trick made things excessively complicated. “Let’s just say I need stronger wards on my house,” he added, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette. “Or some Ancient Egyptian level booby traps.” Maybe there were some ancient Vamps around that might have an idea on how to set something like that up. But knowing her, she’d probably have a work around. “What about you? Keeping your nose clean?” “Oh, Christ.” Say no more, friend, James knew that name well. The look on his face was pinched, like he’d smelled a rotten egg, the dwindling cigarette held between his index finger and thumb. He might need a whole pack at this rate. “She seems a bit obsessed with you, that one - I’m surprised you haven’t come home to a boiling bunny on your stove yet.” Or had he? Maeve seemed the type to do such a thing. James liked crazy as much as the next fellow, but putting your dick into it was always a gamble - he wasn’t sure he could handle that particular brand. He stubbed out the cigarette, ashes flicked to the winds. “I know a fair bit about protective charms though. Wards. I could look into it for you.” Not like James was particularly ancient, but he had studied hard and learned from whom he considered the best - those New England witches also knew their stuff, like the back of their spell-casting hands. “As for me, it’s utterly boring and I need some spice. Let me know if you’d like to engage in a sultry interlude sometime.” He laughed again, quieter this time, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s her style. More likely to find my furniture nailed to the ceiling or a few bottles of wine missing.” And she probably wouldn’t drink them either. Just hide them only to bring them out at a later date, like the cuff links. Though she hadn’t exactly been Maeve when she’d taken those, but it was all starting to blur for him anyway. He just wished he had a better idea of who the others had been. “There’s a history,” he added, a certain heaviness hanging from the word. One that she had the upper hand in since she remembered all of it. Ah yes, see that was the benefit to having a witch for a chef. Better wards. Keep out the thieves. “Could you?” He’d never been good at them--better at breaking them than setting them, and even then his skills were a bit touchy--and apparently it was about time he did something about it. “I just restocked my whiskey, I could probably make it worth your while,” he said with a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. Could he? Well, naturally - James didn’t mind doing a favour for a friend. He didn’t even need anything in return (he wasn’t some selfish little gnome that had to bargain for everything) but since Jules was offering... “Whiskey from your stock? Indeed, it sounds like this’ll be worth my while,” he drawled. The brogue was telltale, an Irish lilt to his words - though a bit posh, with hints of the green, lush countryside. Such was the staple in Belfast (and let it be known that Northern Irish accents were voted the sexiest in the United Kingdom). Get him drunk enough, however, and it would all sound garbled, most likely. Plus he needed something ‘exciting’ to do. More practise never hurt either, and James was always looking for an excuse to do that - especially with charms and potions, since they weren’t what he was predisposed to be drawn to, not quite a natural sort of element. “Give me a few days and I’ll have something. The leprechaun staff is surprisingly effective,” he said. It had a few other names, but the magic in its warding qualities tracked back to Scottish and Irish druids. Luckily for James, the only other language Julius had ever managed to pick up was Garbled--both the English and Gaelic dialects--so unless he started speaking in another language altogether, Julius could translate. And he had in his possession more than enough whiskey for things to slide into that territory, if the wards were up to snuff. “Done deal,” he said with a nod, though it wasn’t a deal exactly, not the sort of binding thing his kind was known for. Just an agreement. His eyebrow quirked at the bit about the leprechaun staff, however. “The leprechaun staff?” He asked curiously. This place. So full of strange and delightful magical objects. “It’s a symbol,” James elaborated, with a rough chuckle. “Also called the Italian horn. But it’s been around awhile, and is connected to druid magic - that may be why I find it somewhat easy to work with in terms of charms.” He had history there, perhaps - though granted he was still researching his own bloodline. No matter what, as promised, he’d have something solid for Jules. “But alright, I better head back in before the kitchen misses me too much,” he winked. They were competent back there but when it was extra busy the stress tended to turn everything up a few notches. “Watch that furniture, darling. Hope you don’t find your bed on your ceiling when you get home.” Though that could be fun too. Ah, witches. He’d never understand the way they did magic. “I look forward to seeing this mysterious leprechaun staff in action,” he said, flicking the butt of his cigarette down the alley. With a sigh, Julius nodded, knowing he probably should get back to the bar, himself. “I’ll send a drink back for you,” he said, “you know, to keep you sane back there.” Since he’d probably have at least one himself when he got back inside. He laughed again at that, the very idea both horrifying and amusing. “If I do, I’m calling you to help fix it.” |