Gwenog Jones (makeit2breakit) wrote in summerview, @ 2019-02-10 22:51:00 |
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James Byrne &
Oksana Kuznetsovich 2006
LONDON
PG-17
COMPLETE |
The party was Petya's idea which, on its own, was a sign of it being a disaster. Her cousin (twice or third removed, the details were foggy) was on the average 80% bad ideas and 20% cheap booze. Tonight, the percentages were reversed. I hate London, Oksana thought. "I LOVE LONDON!" The girl twined around Petya's arm - the idiot was built like a bulldozer - giggled and held up another glass to his mouth. Oksana watched it empty into her cousin with a tired sense of resignation. "Шуша! Come! Meet my new friend, Tanya!" "Beth," the girl corrected. She didn't too upset about the mistake, though. "Ah, sorry, sorry. Beth!" Petya grinned. He was a good-looking guy - if you liked them big, blond, and hell bent on alcohol poisoning. "Beth, this is my little cousin. My very little cousin! She used to be American, like you." "Hi," Beth smiled. "Are you a transfer student like Peter?" "Nyet, nyet - she does not want school." Petya's voice dropped to a booming whisper. "Шуша is going to study big singers." "Big - wha?" "Singers! Fat ones, yes?" Petya looked at Oksana for help. "I forget the word." Opera was exactly the same in English and Russian, but it was unlikely that Petya would remember his own name in another hour. "Шуша, the word, what is it?" "Jellybean," Oksana said, getting up from her sprawl on the floor. "I'm going to go powder my - something." Beth brightrened. "Oh, if you're looking for refreshment, there's a guy with stuff in the back bedroom, I think. He's so nice. His stash is amazing." "Neat-o," Oksana said and bailed. Getting from one part of the house to another was like crossing the Sahara. The place was huge and there were people - humans - everywhere. Oksana bumped into more strangers crossing the hallway than she’d met on average in a year back in Summerview. And wasn’t that just an ironic kick in the crotch because a year ago, she’d have killed for this. London, people, new things, a change. Something different. The back bedroom, if that's what the room actually was, didn't have any nice guys or stuff but it did have a firescape by the window. Oksana eyed the street below, then the door leading back to the party. Her second night in London, and what did she have to show for it? A Russian ID that proved she was newly 20 years old and a cousin who, three more drinks in, wouldn't know her from Adam. Then again, maybe she had a bit more than that...Oksana reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out a couple of wallets. Narrow hallways and drunk college kids made for easy pickings. It was almost a shame to waste Tulip’s training on this crowd. Oksana emptied the wallets automatically, tossing the IDs and credit cards on the bed. In the end, she had just enough cash to - what? What was she going to do? What the hell was she going to do now? Outside the door came muffled sounds of drunken concern. “Hey, my wallet!” Oksana had one foot on the fire escape and one stuffing the stolen cash into her back pocket, when the bedroom door opened. Son of a -- "This isn't what it looks like." Well, nice was sort of the last word James would use to describe himself. He preferred terms like 'ruthless' or 'sadistic,' because they were compliments in his world. It was a world that wasn't easy to navigate, but one that made you strong - sinewy limbs, scars, a mastery of a gaze cold as the depths of the River Thames. Though he did happen to provide the best in party favours - a bit of the tipple, you see. The nose candy, the sniff bumps. Cocaine was a drug that tended to be enjoyed by the more affluent types - because it was not cheap at all. Far from it, in fact. Rich and powerful fans of the stuff (James didn't touch it, didn't touch any of the drugs he was adept at trafficking) would often use large bills to roll up and get a good sniff or two in - that was what they were doing at this party, and why he was here. To make sure those who would choose to partake also remembered to pay. He wasn't about to be short-changed by anyone, and those who attempted such things either got their kneecaps broken or tasted a little bit of immolation if he was particularly irritated. A sacrifice to the gods of la cocaina and heroin (also something James didn't touch - he never understood that mobster in Pulp Fiction who bitched about a five dollar milkshake but dropped three grand on a wee-sized bag of brown sugar). But he'd collected his dues and was just trying to find a space to make a bloody phone call, when he entered the bedroom and saw a blonde about to make a grand exit out into the nightly atmosphere, that ethereal veil of fog that always seemed to cast itself across London's cityscape. How intriguing. And she’d left the pilfered credit cards on the bed? Why not take it all and really ruin someone’s day? "To be quite honest, I'm not entirely certain what it looks like," he replied, lighting a cigarette because he gave no fucks. It was a lot tamer than the girls doing lines in the loo, off the toilet seat. "But why, what do you think it looks like?" Oksana looked at the man at the door. She looked at the discarded wallets on the bed. She looked at the half-open window. She said, "Would you believe…an emergency tax audit?" Admittedly, the American accent probably wasn't going to help sell that theory. "How about this is all a dream? Inebriated hallucination?" Oksana adopted an expression of deep concern. "And can you be absolutely positive that you are not, in fact, having a stroke?" "Shusha, Шуша, where are you?" Shit, Petya. "Okay, yeah, audit over, gotta go. Enjoy your night. Um, cheers?" Oksana returned to trying to squeeze out of the window. Even half-open the damn thing was just an inch too small to allow her an easy escape. Never mind a graceful one. Emergency tax audit. That was cute. James actually chuckled, a rough sound; the smoking habit had been picked up years ago, as cigarettes bummed off of strangers were a great way to keep warm. It was unlikely he’d quit anytime soon, though the tobacco sticks were probably why his vocal cords were a bit scalded. Still, he put inhaled the first satisfying puff and exhaled dragon’s breath, putting out this cigarette on his hand - it didn’t burn him, and he didn’t flinch or even feel any pain at all. The remains were flicked elsewhere, a surprise for whomever inevitably tried to get down and dirty in this room later. “Here, it’s stuck - let me assist,” he offered, striding forward to yank the window open the rest of the way so the girl wouldn’t have to perform contortionist feats for escape. “You know you can just walk out the front door? There’s so many people here, they wouldn’t even notice that you’d conducted a tax audit.” There, window open - and she had space to jump to the fire escape. The cigarette trick caught Oksana's attention. She wasn't impressed exactly - her own Enchanter's skin could withstand almost anything short of a liquid nitrogen spill or a boiling pot - but she was intrigued. Was it a human trick or something more? It helped that the guy was good looking: blue-eyed and lean as a greyhound, though obviously overdue for a shave. Tall, significantly taller than her ( though, hell, who wasn't?) He didn't look like a college kid and he didn't look like anybody's plus one either. He looked, in Oksana's opinion, like trouble. Another shout of "Shusha!" reminded why she couldn't simply walk out. Whatever her cousin's (many) faults, he was attentive as a bloodhound. "Look, it's nothing personal. I'm sure you're here for great reasons, mazel tov, whatever. But it's been two hours and seven goddamn explanations of what fascinating opportunities a degree in medieval deal people can provide, and frankly at this point the only person I'd be interested in talking with is the blasted drug dealer hiding somewhere in the back bathroom or whatever. At least they're likely to work for a living." Quick as an eel, Oksana slithered out the window and onto the iron firescape. "So fuck taxes, I'm out. God willing there's food somewhere in a five mile radius of this disaster that isn't smothered in vinegar or brown sauce." Eager to escape, obviously frazzled and obviously a thief, plus looking for a drug dealer? Not to mention absolutely lovely to boot (what a pretty face she had, the shape of her cat eyes had him making guesses about her level of naughtiness) with a Yank accent that tended to attract trouble such as himself? Of course James would follow. Out the window and down the fire escape he went - it wasn’t difficult since he was adept at running by now, and that held a few connotations. But let’s save the psychoanalysis for later, shall we? He was out of the house and one with the night, the fog and the pedestrians wielding umbrellas for the drizzle of rain that may or may not come; but it was London. Thus, the rain usually did come. “He does work for a living,” James spoke up. “So he’d be open to making a deal. And he knows the best place for a late-night, brown-sauce-and-vinegar-free snack. Or I do, actually, because we’re one and the same.” So why scoot off so soon, beautiful?” Trouble, Oksana thought. Of course, Dad was going to completely - - nothing. Dad was going to do nothing because Dad wasn't here. Instead, he was bottled up in Summerview like a goddamn genie nobody was ever going to use. Fuck Dad, then. And fuck Summerview, too, for good measure. Oksana was better off halfway across the world, making nice with drug selling strangers. "I'm going through a transitional period," she said, her smile bright as salt. "Specifically aiming to transition the hell away from here so - what kind of deal?" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "And so help me baby Jesus if you make any sort of reference to your pants - or trousers whatever- and the contents thereof, I will kick you right off this fire escape." British boys, Oksana had unfortunately found out, were a long way off from Mr. Darcy. Feisty, wasn’t she? But she needn’t worry. James didn’t need to charge in drugs to get laid - while he wouldn’t be opposed to a romp with the pretty American girl, it wasn’t going to be in trade or as a result of a deal. “I was thinking cash, actually,” he replied, beginning to make his way down the fire escape steps - it was a twisty, turning sort of journey but one that they could traverse quickly, especially if she was in a transitional period. Ha. “Though sometimes I let my clients pay with other sorts of goods - or in favours. Not involving the wedding tackle, as I said.” He had hackers pay him in the form of data cards before, other entrepreneurs just trying to make it paying in other stolen treasures that he could turn a profit on; it just depended on what he found useful enough at the time. “But we can discuss that, hm? Follow me if you’re hungry.” He hadn't offered puppies in a van, but it was still probably (definitely) a phenomenally stupid idea to follow the guy, alone, into a city she didn't know in the least (aside from Dr. Who episodes). But the rattling of the steps was pleasant under her feet, the iron good against the skin of her palms, and if something was going to happen - good or awful - then let it happen now, tonight. "Lets save the wedding talk until after dinner," she said, sneakers squeaking against the damp pavement. Why was everything in this country permanently moist? She hiked a thumb back at the party. "What kind of favors do you get out of that lot? Everybody in there is useful as legs on cabbage. Some of them want to be poets. Professionally." It was an unkind thing to say, especially from a girl who had once staked her hopes on Juilliard. “Aye, they may be as useful as a shit-flavoured lolly, but their parents are rich,” James replied. “And if their offspring with big dreams to make it as poets want to spend their ‘allowance’ money on nose candy, who am I to judge?” The smirk he wore had a smile trapped beneath - maybe he’d even let that smile out, if this proved to be a special enough occasion. Dinner, then wedding talk. He led the way to a late-night pub, and it was quite British - seedy and dimly lit, and seemingly from another era entirely. Cool and black, midnight mystery - the red on the interior was faded, and the windows were tinted. No shitty beers found here, just good whiskey and bourbon and delicious staples like bangers and mash. The best places looked like dives, yet served the tastiest food. James fit in though, with the ‘vibe,’ and it was obvious he’d been here before - his leather boots maybe needed a polish, but the black he wore was lint-free and he smelled of soap and his hair had been disheveled from their party breakaway; it resembled a tidal wave of night. “Just going for the usual table, Nut,” he called to the owner, who nodded. “This is - “ He turned toward the blonde. “Sorry, lovely, I didn’t catch your name?” "Sun--Oksana. It's Oksana." There was a jerk in her shoulder, the reflex to shake hands immediate and immediately arrested, but ultimately both hands stayed in her pockets. She did smile very nicely at "Nut". Like any Enchanter, or at least any Enchanter in Oksana's acquaintance, curiosity outranked caution. She looked around the pub with open interest. Her nose didn't quite twitch in appreciation, but appetite sharpened the narrow bones of her face. Tulip would've liked this place, Oksana thought. Then again, Tulip liked nearly anywhere because she could fit in anywhere. Oksana, with her sneakers and not-quite-loose-or-tight-enough jeans and accent, had been floundering in the role of "tourist" for months. It didn't help to have so many people, humans, constantly around her. She wasn't used to being outnumbered 24-7. Kitty always said it - Oksana's stomach clenched in a now familiar burning-cold fist of feelings, none of them pleasant or mild. She nodded at the bar. "Buy you a drink?" After a pause, she added with deliberate emphasis and a thing edge of irony. "Dearie." First time he had been called dearie, and James was surprisingly into it. “Aye, sure,” he chuckled, picking out the whiskey he wanted. Earthy and caustic was what he was in the mood for right now. Something with that oak taste, that went down smoothly and incinerated his insides like incense and kerosene. He had that drink plus an ashtray, settling in his seat - the requisite bleached white tobacco vice he craved was procured, and he lit it with a snap of his fingers. Smoking in the pub wasn’t exactly frowned upon - it was nothing compared to what often occurred in the back room. “How about a Welsh rarebit?” he suggested. “Basically cheese on toast. It’s actually not Welsh. No vinegar or brown sauce either.” A beat, and he knocked ashes off his cigarette. “I’m James.” Growing up on island meant you learned to make your own fun - and to adopt a flexible attitude on things like legal drinking age. It helped to have an Enchanter's resistance to toxins (and a father who believed that drinking yourself sick was its own rewarding lesson.) Add to that an emotional year in Moscow and, well. Simply put, Oksana could drink. "You got any Caol Ila?" she asked the bartender, lingering while her newfound "pal" stepped away. "Not the twelve year--wait, there. There, is that Caol Ila Moch?" She dug out her makeshift "earnings" and put notes on the bar. "Tip it out, neat. I'm serious, no ice. I see ice, we'll have words. Oh, and double up on whatever my pal in black is drinking." Her drink secured, she followed the guy - James, apparently he was a James - to their seat. Just in time to see him light his cigarette with a snap. Well. That changed things a bit. "Nice trick," Oksana said. Her tone was very, very careful. "Can you do it with your sleeves rolled up?" What an odd question, but alright. One of James’ eyebrows poked upward, another puff taken from his glowing cigarette, the exhale billowing out away from the lady’s face. Because otherwise, that was just rude. “Certainly,” he replied, smoke drifting up toward the ceiling in ghostly tendrils. “I’ve got a few tricks, not all of them up my sleeve. And yourself?” He paused to assess, watching her with a squint to those icy blues. “Not fire. Your scent is different.” Magic could smell smoky, like with him, or sweet or earthy - now, he was getting something that had a clean scent, like jasmine and fig. It wasn’t very sweet. If there was sweetness, it was understated. It didn’t bother him either, to discuss this sort of thing. What was she going to do, kill him? Please, go right ahead. At least let him eat that Welsh rarebit first (he’d put the order in, he wanted it, thanks). What were the odd of going into a college party and leaving with a - well, whatever James was. (She was betting on witch; he had that telltale swarm.) Oksana, being quite good at math, felt impressed with her own luck. Or at least surprised at the happenstance. Still, it would've been nice to know for once without having to shown. She was really going to have to think of a workaround for this whole "lack of sensitivity" thing. It hadn't felt like such a problem at Summerview, but now... "No, not fire. No wind, water, or earth either," she said. "No elemental hijinks at all, actually. More of the hands on type.” She shrugged. “You need it, we make it.” “Ah, interesting. And what brings you to London, exactly?” James wanted to know, picking up his drink so he could begin nursing the whiskey. “Your accent says you’re not from around here.” It was a long way to go, but Oksana mentioned the transitional period. He was in a sort of transitional period himself - meaning, he never quite settled. His work took him to many different places - work that wasn’t solely focused on drug trafficking, mind you. There was forgery and theft as well. Maybe even a paid hit or here there, to send a ‘message’ for high-paying clients. My sister died in a rich idiot's daddy's pool and my dad deported me after I tried to kill the said idiot (and his friends), thought Oksana. Aloud, she said, "The perils of higher education. I'm finishing up my apprenticeship over in Moscow, but thinking of doing the journeyman thing over here somewhere. Madrid or Florence if not London." She mirrored James and picked up her own whiskey. It tasted sweet and sooty against the cheek, like the aftermath of a good bonfire party. "So what about you, Jimmy?" she asked. "Selling chemical party favors to college bunnies doesn't quite scream 'local boy makes good'. You're too old to be doing this shit by accident - if you'll pardon my saying so." She was probably the only person in the galaxy who could get away with calling him Jimmy. Still, James couldn’t help but blanch at the nickname - how godawful, really. He just wasn’t a Jim, or a Jimmy, or whatever else. Maybe a Jamie or a Jas. Definitely not a Jimbo. “People like me don’t make good anyway, love,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette in the pilfered ashtray when Nut brought by two plates of Welsh rarebit, then silently left them to their own devices. The food looked and smelled divine - hopefully the taste would be up to snuff. James wasn’t picky, but perhaps Oksana was. “I’m originally from Belfast. Been on my own since I was a lad, so, none of this is an accident but I can’t exactly go to law school now, eh?” For now, what he was doing had to suffice. There may come a time when he had a goal and worked to achieve it, but at the moment his only goal was ‘stay alive.’ “But alright, speaking of chemical party favours - were you after something for yourself?” "I've never been on my own before," Oksana said bluntly. She looked down at her glass and, with a wincing frown of anticipation, emptied the lot in one long gulp. It went down like a brisk sterilization. "Is all your stuff mundane or do you doctor anything with – " She wiggled her free hand. "A personal touch. I'm not really looking to share in the college experience." Her mouth twitched. "Frankly, I'd more willing to shell out for a hashbrowns than hash." James snorted a laugh at the idea of doctoring up the drugs he sold. “No need for a personal touch - “ The high-class, ‘good’ cocaine came from South America, and often went through ports in Belgium to get into Europe. The trick (well, one of them) was to have skilled hackers in your back pocket - if they got into the port’s system, there was no check and no confiscated nose candy. “People pay quite a bit for even a gram. They know what they want and like, so...” He shrugged, taking another swig of whiskey before picking up his fork. “There’s hash but also ecstasy, heroin, pills. I deal in it all. Personally don’t go for any of it myself though,” he said. “I’m simply a black market connoisseur.” A few bites were taken of the cheesy goodness before he asked, “And so how do you like being on your own, then?” Oksana shrugged and picked up her own cheese-toast-bit-thing. It looked safe enough – even the English couldn't do anything too heinous to cheese and bread, right? "I don't." She looked at James, blue eyes direct as a bullet, then back at her would-be dinner. "But you can get used to anything if you don't have the means to feel otherwise, right? Honestly, the weirdest thing is how ordinary everything feels. It's like, you know when you're a kid and you imagine any kind of disaster, you always imagine something massive? Planes falling, lava, quick sand. You think of the bad things as big things. King Kong catastrophes. You don't think of flat tires or sitting alone on the metro." She seemed vaguely puzzled by her own words, like a tourist repeating directions. "Why drugs?" Oksana asked suddenly. She lifted her empty glass to the bartender in a clear request for a refill. She had yet to touch her food. "You're – what you are. You don't have to deal with – people." Humans. James mulled over her words - they seemed to make sense to him. He didn’t particularly like being on his own either - what he really wanted, perhaps deep down in the dregs of his swampy heart, was someone who looked at him and didn’t just see a one-nighter to use, or a means to an end, or someone who could bring about that quick fix. The way people looked at him, the way he looked at himself, told him in neon scrawl that he wasn’t worth getting to know. By now, he had begun to believe it too. “I know what you mean,” he said, fork turned in that European way (upside down for the Yanks), to take another bite (and it was good, you really couldn’t go wrong with any kind of cheesy sauce). “And you want to be an adult, but then when you get there you realise it’s kind of godawful.” To be fair, things had always been godawful. But at least when he was a wee sprog, he still believed he could fix things. Make it better somehow. Ha. “Why drugs?” Well, those and other bits and bobs. He was a real Renaissance criminal, this one. “You said it yourself - you can get used to anything if you don’t have the means to feel otherwise. I don’t know anything about my own magic - where it comes from, what having it means, nothing. The only training I’ve got is from other ruffians like me who also didn’t know shit about their own magic. We just sort of went with trial and error together. I never went to Hogwarts,” he smirked. Then nudged Oksana’s plate toward her a little. “You need to eat something, alright? Let it soak up the booze a little.” Especially if she was going to keep drinking. Because there was another whiskey, delivered to the table for both her and James. “What did they do to you?” he asked then. “People.” Humans. “They ruined Halloween,” Oksana said, her stomach cramping again. But she was ready for the pinch this time and kept her equilibrium. The whiskey helped. A little. “And I fucking loved that holiday.” She pried off a piece of cheese draped toast and tried to fully grasp James’, er, situation. More than London or rarebit or black market connoisseurs, the idea of having magic and being untrained was utterly foreign to Oksana. She had always know what she was, and had always - always - had people willing to explain the particulars of it. To show what worked and what didn’t. To allow experimentation because there was someone on hand to put out the fires. If you never trained, then how could you play? Yet James seemed comfortable with himself. He seemed competent. He didn’t look ignorant or lost, or at all upset by the missing Hogwarts diploma. (Kitty and she had tried to make a Sorting hat when they were twelve; it had resulted in sunburnt ears and crewcuts.) So, yeah, okay, maybe James wasn't exemplary - dude was selling nose candy at frat parties - but he seemed...okay. Oksana had magic and every advantage regarding its use, and she hadn't been okay in months. What the hell was the point of sanctuaries, of Summerview, if someone like James got to be okay and she didn't? "Do you like them?" she asked suddenly. "People, I mean." And then because, fuck it. "Humans." He had a feeling they’d done more than ruin Halloween, but James didn’t dismiss that answer (it was also true in a sense, because really, what the fuck even was Halloween these days - something quite strange in the States, he knew that much). “I don’t hate them,” he replied honestly. “Don’t really see a point to that. No matter what you are, there's so much on the surface, good things that are true, good things that live within us. And then there are the dark things we find it deplorable to acknowledge but they're also a part of us - a part of everyone. Acting like humans are the only ones with darkness in them is incorrect. That being said," he lifted one shoulder. "I don't particularly care for them either." He recognised how destructive humanity was. How dangerous they could be, with concepts they didn't understand. What would they do if they found out the monsters from bedtime stories actually existed? That magic was real? Likely nothing good. Just look at how they treated their own kind - people with different skin colours, of differing sexual orientations. “You don’t like them?” James guessed. "I didn't use to think it mattered," Oksana said honestly. She looked at her whiskey, mildly surprised that her second glass was lighter than it had been on arrival. "It didn't use to matter. It's just, well, look: I grew up in a place where I pretty much knew everyone and vice versa. Many of those people had the tools to be dangerous. Like, our favorite babysitter could've eaten us. Theoretically. There was never any real chance of him doing it, but my Dad still explained what Sto--what the man could do. How he was made." "I don't think he was trying to deliver a lesson in racial diversity or empathy," she said. "He simply thought it was important to know what existed in the world. I mean, I think he thought that not knowing about vampires was like - I don't know, not knowing about London. Sure, maybe you'll never go but you should still know it exists. You don't have to like it and its terrible food - the cheese thing isn't bad, by the way, thanks - to appreciate the fact of it being there. Or not appreciate exactly, but..." Oksana trailed off, puzzled and vexed by her own inability to pinpoint the proper word. The whiskey was down to half a glass now. "Anything made to act upon the world has the right to be known," she said finally. The words had the weight of a quote. "Otherwise it's all just - bad manufacturing. Rubbish." James’s lips quirked up in a little smile when the observation about the Welsh rarebit was thrown in there. Very philosophical, wasn’t she? This differed quite a bit from the usual conversations he had. He found that he welcomed the change. “I think there’s truth to that,” he agreed. “I don’t want to hide, exactly. But the problem lies with humanity trusting the supernatural community - they don’t. Not as a whole.” Perhaps some did - after all, there were alliances made when you got to the high-powered level (he was certain the military had units and special ops groups comprised of supernaturals with useful skills, all kept very hush-hush) and relationships formed; that was how hybrids were created. That was how magic got passed down, and how humans with extra abilities came about. He let out a sigh, twisting the whiskey glass in his grasp. “Co-existence might be nice, and possible, but trust? Don’t know about that.” All he knew was that they couldn’t force humans to trust a community which held power over them; some species even used humans as a food source. It was very hierarchical, and ‘man’ had never done well with the idea of not being on top of the chain. "And otherwise?" Oksana asked. "Do we just put the whole matter - co-existence, acceptance, progress, evolution - on a shelf somewhere and wait until another meteor changes the status quo? Consign ourselves to a flawed design?" It wasn't the whiskey talking, but the year-long boil of frustration. Oksana had never needed to be convinced of the pointless and waste of Kitty's death, but as weeks turned into months she'd become grindingly aware of the awful ordinariness of the set up. The feeble cruelty of the boys at the pool, the idleness of the bystanders, Summerview's sympathetic but ultimately useless silence, even Dad's stubbornness - all of it was awful, so awful, but none of it was new. It was if Kitty had fallen between the gears of a decrepit, old machine and the only thing it amounted to was a tick on a tally. It was maddening. "The people back at the party," Oksana said. "What's the point of any of them if they're going to be exactly like the lot before?" “Of course not. If people didn’t fight for change, it would never happen,” James said. In the States, women would still be barred from voting or even from getting jobs outside the home - ridiculous things like that didn’t get obliterated unless there were enough voices to dissuade the status quo, and push back. “But if we’re talking something like the complete eradication of humanity - that’s not exactly going to do much good either.” He wasn’t really on that end of the spectrum. If Oksana was angry enough, perhaps she was, however. There was something about her expression, the look in her eyes - humanity had done her wrong. It hurt, whatever had happened. “The slash and burn philosophy, and extremism, makes you - I mean general you, not you personally - just as bad as the ones who continue to oppress. But as for the idiots at the party, who knows what their point is - “ He swallowed the remaining whiskey in his glass. “Christ, I don’t think I’ve talked to anyone about this before. How long are you in London for, anyway? And where are you staying?” At some point Oksana had sat down her glass in favor of gesturing with both hands. It was an old habit, and one of the few quirks the twins hadn't shared; Kitty had always been more likely to shout than flail "like a scarecrow in a tornado". More exasperated than embarrassed, she lowered her hands and picked up another slide of toast. "Two weeks," she said, pulling a string of cheese free. "Petya has to do a bunch of meet-and-greets with the local guild. I'm supposed to watch and, like, mingle? Network or whatever." Her tone clearly illustrated Oksana's feelings on that nonsense. "We're staying at - " She paused, considering. "Do you honestly have nobody to talk about this shit with? There's a sanctuary city somewhere around here, I thought." James chuckled roughly. “Not really, no. It’s not like I’ve been actively searching either.” He just did what he had to do, shuffling along - in fact, he would classify it as surviving and not really living. Or seeking out important discussions regarding the future of the supernatural community - what the fuck did he care, when he had his own uncertain future to contend with? “Two weeks though, alright - “ Or as they said in British-ese, a ‘fortnight.’ He rummaged in his jacket pocket for a shimmering gold twisty tie (he had a few spare ones, since he'd dropped off his wares in plastic baggies tied closed tonight), then reached across the table for Oksana's hand. The twisty tie went around her finger. "Hopefully we'll run into each other again, but if not, you've got something to remind you that you owe me a wedding talk." Or just a talk in general. Oksana considered him again, attaching her first impression - handsome, trouble - to the aftertaste of their conversation. The ending result was not unappealing. She considered the "ring" on her finger with a lot less analysis and a lot more humor. Instinctively her eyes were drawn to the ashtray. There wouldn't be much there but - Oksana touched a grey flake with her fingertip. A spark, the merest whiff of fire, ran up her nerves. The energy was barely enough to warm her fingers, but it was enough. She took his hand with the same brand of insouciance he'd reached for hers. Carefully, she pressed one warm fingertip to the same spot where he'd extinguished his cigarette back at the party. A thin line of script, lit the color of a live ember, spilled onto James' hand: a phone number. Ultimately it wasn't that much different then scribbling on his wrist with a pen, but hey: it glowed. The “ink” faded into ordinary darkness when she released his hand. The sensation of warmth clung to her fingers. “So,” Oksana said, “got any plans for the rest of the night?” |