(no subject)
Who: Byrons Watts & Hale (THE SWINDLERS), Napoleon Hart (THE EMPEROR), Jessica Winters (SLEEPING BEAUTY)
What: Punches in the face are unexpected birthday presents.
When: Backdated to Watts' birthday party (Friday, February 8th)
Where: The Art Bar
Rating: PG-13 violence, R language?
Hale: Hale was always as much a spectator as a participant in any sort of party, but this one was small enough to be manageable, and it could be said with some truth that he was managing it. The smirks, the lingering. It was a very different sort of party than the one ringing in his own entry to the ranks of twenty-eight-year-olds, but neither of them would have it another way; the Art Bar was a fantastic hit, he was pleased that he'd carried the secret off, and he was pleased that it had been received so well by their guests and by the guest of honor. He was drinking only lightly, but remembered now--he sometimes forgot it--that thing where crowds were energy to be fed upon. It was his original intention to share this with Watts, but every step of approach made it sound sillier.
"It didn't come in on time, but I got you a coat," he said instead, nodding more in the direction of their guests. They were closest to Jessica, who'd apparently taken up with the man that lived below them, and though there was no accounting for taste he wasn't disappointed to see her more comfortable. An absent scan of the crowd made him even more content. As he watched, he was pressing a thumb against the rim of his water-glass, absently, like the motion might break it for science, or leave a glossy print, or detonate something elsewhere. It was a movement completely without logic or particular motivation. He bumped him on the shoulder with his own and continued, "You don't have to wear it, but at least then I can say, where's that coat I bought you? and you can pretend you didn't give it to River." This story was already being related in the same pleasant amusement which usually followed, not proceeded, such speculations.
Watts: A laugh fell into a snicker, then settled into a grin, making it clear that there was no possibility that Watts suffered anything less than the sotted influence of pretentiously named mixed drinks. The Art Bar wasn't quite tilting around him, the plush sofas and low, dangling chandeliers remained stationary, but the blur of paintings and people had become dizzying against the muted thrum of Echo and the Bunnymen wafting from the front room. Something called an Espressotini resided in his left hand, and while he had no idea what it was other than gaudy and ridiculous, the heart palpitating shock of caffeine slicing along the edge of his buzz indicated that it was probably going to kill him. It was a small price to pay for a lavish birthday party, and he propped one shoulder askew against the brick wall to better accommodate his view of Hale and the small, bright crowd beyond their corner.
"Is it a dashing coat?" he inquired with great interest, as if Hale had not known the state of his wardrobe for the better part of a decade. Though he'd only been against the wall for approximately ten seconds, he pushed away again, belatedly returning the shoulder bump. "Maybe," he began brightly, sinking back into lounging stillness save for his adrenaline death drink, which bobbed and swirled in his lazily gesticulating hand. "Maybe I didn't give it to River." At this, Hale earned a haughty look, a look that suggested he was grievously insulted by the suggestion that he would give away a birthday present, never mind that it may have happened in the past. Certainly he would not give away a present now. The hauteur dissolved with a sly twist of the mouth. "Perhaps you just aren't clever enough to see it."
Hale: "Almost unbearably dashing," he retorted with a hand of caution, though what he actually did was lift the Espressotini (not technically removing Watts' hand) and take a careful sip. He made a face of surprise and appreciation. It was visible in his expression for a while after he swallowed it, though; had quite a zing, though he restrained himself from scrambling over to get one right away. Instead of escalating their nudging into a full-on shoulder brawl--which would have been unsporting, he was a good deal soberer than Watts--he stood so their shoulders were flush and they could watch the crowds on parallel. One step away from the wall was enough that their conversation now dueled with the beats of both Echo and Bunnymen, so he spoke a little louder. The people who were walking before them wouldn't be able to tell anyway. "I think I'm plenty clever enough to see where the coat goes, thank you. Unless giving you presents makes me a stupid swindler, in which case I'll make sure to stop." His grin spoke to utter adoration and unmistakable smug pride.
Watts: The thought of an unbearably dashing coat was almost unbearable itself. Maybe it was calvalry coat. Or -- no, Hale would never surrender his good sense long enough to buy a waistcoat, not when a cravat would inevitably follow and haunt him. Watts bounced on the balls of his feet exactly twice, then surrendered to the overwhelming press of gravity and shifted his weight imperceptibly against Hale. Hale, who was apparently impervious to the oppressive force of the atmosphere that was trying to knock him on his arse or into another Espressotini. He preferred the latter. "You're not stupid," Watts assured Hale with wild, drunken sincerity, gesturing palm-down with his hand, as if this floor bound motion in any way indicated just how excellent a swindler he was. His returning grin was utterly shameless, and his voice brash and pleased. "You'll never make the ranks of nude royalty, so I suppose you'll have to soldier on with the gifts."
Napoleon: The evening was going decidedly less well than Napoleon had planned. A triple threat of hangover, jet lag, and a severe lack of sleep was threatening to tip the balance into dangerous territory, but he figured he could make up the difference with copious amounts of alcohol. Perhaps not the most sensible course of action, but so far, so conscious.
Napoleon swayed slightly, eyes kept blearily half-open, as Jess continued in her tirade about just how much Taledom sucked. Try as he might, his thoughts were beginning to wander inwards, to his own stupidass story and how much money he would conceivably pay to have the whole Atheneum thing wiped from his life. In this lifetime alone, he had endured ill-humoured jabs at his ego, cries of Vive l'Empereur! and other assorted shenanigans. And that was just the people referring to his regular name, not even knowing he had been indecently exposed to an entire country in a past life. Napoleon himself admitted he was probably more self-conscious than most, investing several thousands of dollars in tailored suits with the names "Armani" and "Boss" sewn into the collar. His public image was certainly no exception -- so much so that he refused to go by any other name than Emerson outside of the Atheneum. In fact, it was probably high time that he just went ahead and changed it completely with due process of law...
It was at this point in Napoleon's fevered musings that his ears pricked up at the words "swindler" and "nude royalty." His memory, shot as it was with liquor and fatigue, brought up the recollection of having promised the Art Bar to someone this same night. On the Compendium. To another Tale. The puzzle pieces snapped together in an uncomfortable blur, and Napoleon put a hand to his forehead. They'd finally shown, the Swindlers were in yet another life, and there was a fucking conspiracy to be had here. Without another thought, Napoleon found the fingers of his right hand curling together of their own accord and so his fist connected solidly with the elfin curve of the offending person's jaw.
Jess: On Jess' part, she'd eventually fallen into a sort of wallflower rhythm as the party progressed, sticking to sides and tables and a couple of drinks until she could make a reasonable excuse to leave. When Napoleon had shown up, she immediately latched onto him so she wasn't so blatantly on her own; any moment now, she'd casually sidle over to the Byrons, make her polite goodbyes, and get the hell out of Dodge. Her drink was almost gone, anyway.
The tirade was really more of a few less-than-calm sentences berating Anser and the general Tale community. Jess wasn't really given to long-winded rants, especially when the listener wasn't really listening. But attempting to keep his eyes open was at least keeping Napoleon standing, because she'd really hate to have to drag her semi-unconscious boss home to make sure he didn't get kicked to death by muggers or something. Again. The Byron's conversation floated in their general direction, and Jess cast a vague look their way over the top of her drink. She knew they were the Swindlers, of course; it was one of the first conversation topics that had come up between her and Hale. And really, their pride in it couldn't be faulted; tricking some rich idiot into wandering around naked? Even if it probably left mental scars on half the populace, the satisfaction must have been amazing.
And then there was Napoleon. "Think I'm gonna get out of here soo--what are you looking--Emerson. Em--OH MY GOD."
Watts: Apparently it was neither Espressotini, nor atmosphere trying to knock Watts on his arse, but rather a more tangible opponent. Fortunately, it was difficult to flatten a man of his height, even when drunk and lounging, so he got by with a snap of the head to one side and a stagger. Growing up with three elder brothers, his response was immediate and reflexive; his fist slammed into right back against Napoleon's face with no pause for questions or recognition. Only after his knuckles began throbbing did he have a moment's harsh hesitation of what the merry fuck, followed by the vague acknowledgment that his drink was down his pant leg, Jess was yelling, and their creepy downstairs neighbor had just punched him in the face for no apparent reason. And bloody fucking ow. With all the rationality of the adrenaline-hit inebriated, he drew up again, fully prepared to deliver another blow.
Hale: Suddenly the entire room--the parts of it which were visible to him--rose up in a flurry of arms and exclamations, the organic thuds and gasps that slid so quietly under the beats of the music. He could no more explain the throwing of punches than he could the plot of a movie he'd never seen: here were dramatic motions occuring somewhere and of that he certainly knew, but Watts was bleeding and then punching before Hale could even react. After delivering to Napoleon one distancing shove (which was unsatisfyingly far from the blow he wished, himself, to deliver), he pressed the hand against Watts' chest, partially in concern, partially to restrain him, and very partially because he could feel the vapors coming off them both and thought his friend capable of toppling over, though he didn't give half a damn if their fucking psychopathic downstairs neighbor did.
"What's your fucking issue?" he demanded. Angry and bewildered but not himself inclined to a brawl, he tried to break the chain of violence, at least a little because he wanted to join it. The setting of crude knuckles on a swindler's jaw set the tale itself in motion for all players involved, and that feeling of strong, obtuse dislike--the reason they nearly collided in hallways and nearly spat at each other over it--became something uglier and more intense, appropriately eternal ill will.
Napoleon: Jesus Christ, when was the last time he'd been hit? Granted, Napoleon never been one to pay someone else to do his roughing up for him, but he'd always managed to get out of the way before his punch had been returned. Or the bodyguards had intervened by then, whatever.
His first instinct was to blindly answer Watts blow for blow, some deeper intuition needling him to go for the eyes, but paused as he suddenly realised that Jess was tugging at his arm. Her voice and Hale's came rushing back into his ears with a roar, and it was all he could do to sway there, blinking sleepily. After a moment, Napoleon raised his fingers to his mouth and felt the split in his lower lip where the blood was beginning to trickle down. "Fuck." Ignoring Hale, he glanced towards the door. The crowd had parted ever so slightly, a couple bouncers looking on expectantly, eager for some action.
Without another word, Napoleon decided this was as good a time as any to make his not so graceful exit. Wiping the blood against his shirtsleeve, the Emperor staggered away from the Swindlers. He didn't particularly expect them to give chase.
Jess: What the HELL was going on? Jess was jumping in between the two men before thoughts full coalesced, acting on instinct and gut reaction to a dozen bar fights at Orgasmic and more. She ducked under elbows, planting her own into Napoleon's stomach and pushing him back while Hale saw to his boyfriend. It was a complicated little dance, but half a second later, the Emperor and the Swindler had ceased, and Jess was tugging at her dress, shoving her hair back, staring up at her boss in disbelief.
What had just happened?
Napoleon turned on his heel and left. Jess stared, dumbstruck, at the space he had occupied. "I--um. Shit. Sorry, I'm sorry," she said awkwardly to Watts, not quite meeting either his or Hale's eyes. "You should--um. Ice. I have to go." She bobbed something of a nod and apologetic half-bow in their direction, hands at her forehead as she stalked out after Napoleon, small purse dangling at her wrist.
Hale: He didn't say goodbye, merely gave Jess a steely look which couldn't be credited with any real design, as he was too busy checking and supporting Watts and casting vehement glowers out the door. In that moment, at least, she was a stronger ally to the problem than the solution, although he couldn't have painted a clear picture of either. He had no idea what had just happened, at least what had happened in the seconds before the fight had happened. Now, at least, he was more concerned with the moments following it. When Napoleon crossed the threshold he might not have existed at all, except through the handiwork that marked Watts' jaw. The music hadn't stopped, but the chatter mostly had, and now it had adopted a totally different tone. People who'd been in the other room now leaned through the doorway and fixed curious, concerned glances--why had a bleeding man just stormed out?
"Can somebody get some ice?" he demanded of the room at large, and it sounded harsher than it was; really, it was permission to react, to stop staring, process the spur-of-the-moment violence that had erupted in a room full of birthday revelry. He looked between them and the bar, and back at Watts, and decided that surprise parties were no longer the way to go.
What: Punches in the face are unexpected birthday presents.
When: Backdated to Watts' birthday party (Friday, February 8th)
Where: The Art Bar
Rating: PG-13 violence, R language?
Hale: Hale was always as much a spectator as a participant in any sort of party, but this one was small enough to be manageable, and it could be said with some truth that he was managing it. The smirks, the lingering. It was a very different sort of party than the one ringing in his own entry to the ranks of twenty-eight-year-olds, but neither of them would have it another way; the Art Bar was a fantastic hit, he was pleased that he'd carried the secret off, and he was pleased that it had been received so well by their guests and by the guest of honor. He was drinking only lightly, but remembered now--he sometimes forgot it--that thing where crowds were energy to be fed upon. It was his original intention to share this with Watts, but every step of approach made it sound sillier.
"It didn't come in on time, but I got you a coat," he said instead, nodding more in the direction of their guests. They were closest to Jessica, who'd apparently taken up with the man that lived below them, and though there was no accounting for taste he wasn't disappointed to see her more comfortable. An absent scan of the crowd made him even more content. As he watched, he was pressing a thumb against the rim of his water-glass, absently, like the motion might break it for science, or leave a glossy print, or detonate something elsewhere. It was a movement completely without logic or particular motivation. He bumped him on the shoulder with his own and continued, "You don't have to wear it, but at least then I can say, where's that coat I bought you? and you can pretend you didn't give it to River." This story was already being related in the same pleasant amusement which usually followed, not proceeded, such speculations.
Watts: A laugh fell into a snicker, then settled into a grin, making it clear that there was no possibility that Watts suffered anything less than the sotted influence of pretentiously named mixed drinks. The Art Bar wasn't quite tilting around him, the plush sofas and low, dangling chandeliers remained stationary, but the blur of paintings and people had become dizzying against the muted thrum of Echo and the Bunnymen wafting from the front room. Something called an Espressotini resided in his left hand, and while he had no idea what it was other than gaudy and ridiculous, the heart palpitating shock of caffeine slicing along the edge of his buzz indicated that it was probably going to kill him. It was a small price to pay for a lavish birthday party, and he propped one shoulder askew against the brick wall to better accommodate his view of Hale and the small, bright crowd beyond their corner.
"Is it a dashing coat?" he inquired with great interest, as if Hale had not known the state of his wardrobe for the better part of a decade. Though he'd only been against the wall for approximately ten seconds, he pushed away again, belatedly returning the shoulder bump. "Maybe," he began brightly, sinking back into lounging stillness save for his adrenaline death drink, which bobbed and swirled in his lazily gesticulating hand. "Maybe I didn't give it to River." At this, Hale earned a haughty look, a look that suggested he was grievously insulted by the suggestion that he would give away a birthday present, never mind that it may have happened in the past. Certainly he would not give away a present now. The hauteur dissolved with a sly twist of the mouth. "Perhaps you just aren't clever enough to see it."
Hale: "Almost unbearably dashing," he retorted with a hand of caution, though what he actually did was lift the Espressotini (not technically removing Watts' hand) and take a careful sip. He made a face of surprise and appreciation. It was visible in his expression for a while after he swallowed it, though; had quite a zing, though he restrained himself from scrambling over to get one right away. Instead of escalating their nudging into a full-on shoulder brawl--which would have been unsporting, he was a good deal soberer than Watts--he stood so their shoulders were flush and they could watch the crowds on parallel. One step away from the wall was enough that their conversation now dueled with the beats of both Echo and Bunnymen, so he spoke a little louder. The people who were walking before them wouldn't be able to tell anyway. "I think I'm plenty clever enough to see where the coat goes, thank you. Unless giving you presents makes me a stupid swindler, in which case I'll make sure to stop." His grin spoke to utter adoration and unmistakable smug pride.
Watts: The thought of an unbearably dashing coat was almost unbearable itself. Maybe it was calvalry coat. Or -- no, Hale would never surrender his good sense long enough to buy a waistcoat, not when a cravat would inevitably follow and haunt him. Watts bounced on the balls of his feet exactly twice, then surrendered to the overwhelming press of gravity and shifted his weight imperceptibly against Hale. Hale, who was apparently impervious to the oppressive force of the atmosphere that was trying to knock him on his arse or into another Espressotini. He preferred the latter. "You're not stupid," Watts assured Hale with wild, drunken sincerity, gesturing palm-down with his hand, as if this floor bound motion in any way indicated just how excellent a swindler he was. His returning grin was utterly shameless, and his voice brash and pleased. "You'll never make the ranks of nude royalty, so I suppose you'll have to soldier on with the gifts."
Napoleon: The evening was going decidedly less well than Napoleon had planned. A triple threat of hangover, jet lag, and a severe lack of sleep was threatening to tip the balance into dangerous territory, but he figured he could make up the difference with copious amounts of alcohol. Perhaps not the most sensible course of action, but so far, so conscious.
Napoleon swayed slightly, eyes kept blearily half-open, as Jess continued in her tirade about just how much Taledom sucked. Try as he might, his thoughts were beginning to wander inwards, to his own stupidass story and how much money he would conceivably pay to have the whole Atheneum thing wiped from his life. In this lifetime alone, he had endured ill-humoured jabs at his ego, cries of Vive l'Empereur! and other assorted shenanigans. And that was just the people referring to his regular name, not even knowing he had been indecently exposed to an entire country in a past life. Napoleon himself admitted he was probably more self-conscious than most, investing several thousands of dollars in tailored suits with the names "Armani" and "Boss" sewn into the collar. His public image was certainly no exception -- so much so that he refused to go by any other name than Emerson outside of the Atheneum. In fact, it was probably high time that he just went ahead and changed it completely with due process of law...
It was at this point in Napoleon's fevered musings that his ears pricked up at the words "swindler" and "nude royalty." His memory, shot as it was with liquor and fatigue, brought up the recollection of having promised the Art Bar to someone this same night. On the Compendium. To another Tale. The puzzle pieces snapped together in an uncomfortable blur, and Napoleon put a hand to his forehead. They'd finally shown, the Swindlers were in yet another life, and there was a fucking conspiracy to be had here. Without another thought, Napoleon found the fingers of his right hand curling together of their own accord and so his fist connected solidly with the elfin curve of the offending person's jaw.
Jess: On Jess' part, she'd eventually fallen into a sort of wallflower rhythm as the party progressed, sticking to sides and tables and a couple of drinks until she could make a reasonable excuse to leave. When Napoleon had shown up, she immediately latched onto him so she wasn't so blatantly on her own; any moment now, she'd casually sidle over to the Byrons, make her polite goodbyes, and get the hell out of Dodge. Her drink was almost gone, anyway.
The tirade was really more of a few less-than-calm sentences berating Anser and the general Tale community. Jess wasn't really given to long-winded rants, especially when the listener wasn't really listening. But attempting to keep his eyes open was at least keeping Napoleon standing, because she'd really hate to have to drag her semi-unconscious boss home to make sure he didn't get kicked to death by muggers or something. Again. The Byron's conversation floated in their general direction, and Jess cast a vague look their way over the top of her drink. She knew they were the Swindlers, of course; it was one of the first conversation topics that had come up between her and Hale. And really, their pride in it couldn't be faulted; tricking some rich idiot into wandering around naked? Even if it probably left mental scars on half the populace, the satisfaction must have been amazing.
And then there was Napoleon. "Think I'm gonna get out of here soo--what are you looking--Emerson. Em--OH MY GOD."
Watts: Apparently it was neither Espressotini, nor atmosphere trying to knock Watts on his arse, but rather a more tangible opponent. Fortunately, it was difficult to flatten a man of his height, even when drunk and lounging, so he got by with a snap of the head to one side and a stagger. Growing up with three elder brothers, his response was immediate and reflexive; his fist slammed into right back against Napoleon's face with no pause for questions or recognition. Only after his knuckles began throbbing did he have a moment's harsh hesitation of what the merry fuck, followed by the vague acknowledgment that his drink was down his pant leg, Jess was yelling, and their creepy downstairs neighbor had just punched him in the face for no apparent reason. And bloody fucking ow. With all the rationality of the adrenaline-hit inebriated, he drew up again, fully prepared to deliver another blow.
Hale: Suddenly the entire room--the parts of it which were visible to him--rose up in a flurry of arms and exclamations, the organic thuds and gasps that slid so quietly under the beats of the music. He could no more explain the throwing of punches than he could the plot of a movie he'd never seen: here were dramatic motions occuring somewhere and of that he certainly knew, but Watts was bleeding and then punching before Hale could even react. After delivering to Napoleon one distancing shove (which was unsatisfyingly far from the blow he wished, himself, to deliver), he pressed the hand against Watts' chest, partially in concern, partially to restrain him, and very partially because he could feel the vapors coming off them both and thought his friend capable of toppling over, though he didn't give half a damn if their fucking psychopathic downstairs neighbor did.
"What's your fucking issue?" he demanded. Angry and bewildered but not himself inclined to a brawl, he tried to break the chain of violence, at least a little because he wanted to join it. The setting of crude knuckles on a swindler's jaw set the tale itself in motion for all players involved, and that feeling of strong, obtuse dislike--the reason they nearly collided in hallways and nearly spat at each other over it--became something uglier and more intense, appropriately eternal ill will.
Napoleon: Jesus Christ, when was the last time he'd been hit? Granted, Napoleon never been one to pay someone else to do his roughing up for him, but he'd always managed to get out of the way before his punch had been returned. Or the bodyguards had intervened by then, whatever.
His first instinct was to blindly answer Watts blow for blow, some deeper intuition needling him to go for the eyes, but paused as he suddenly realised that Jess was tugging at his arm. Her voice and Hale's came rushing back into his ears with a roar, and it was all he could do to sway there, blinking sleepily. After a moment, Napoleon raised his fingers to his mouth and felt the split in his lower lip where the blood was beginning to trickle down. "Fuck." Ignoring Hale, he glanced towards the door. The crowd had parted ever so slightly, a couple bouncers looking on expectantly, eager for some action.
Without another word, Napoleon decided this was as good a time as any to make his not so graceful exit. Wiping the blood against his shirtsleeve, the Emperor staggered away from the Swindlers. He didn't particularly expect them to give chase.
Jess: What the HELL was going on? Jess was jumping in between the two men before thoughts full coalesced, acting on instinct and gut reaction to a dozen bar fights at Orgasmic and more. She ducked under elbows, planting her own into Napoleon's stomach and pushing him back while Hale saw to his boyfriend. It was a complicated little dance, but half a second later, the Emperor and the Swindler had ceased, and Jess was tugging at her dress, shoving her hair back, staring up at her boss in disbelief.
What had just happened?
Napoleon turned on his heel and left. Jess stared, dumbstruck, at the space he had occupied. "I--um. Shit. Sorry, I'm sorry," she said awkwardly to Watts, not quite meeting either his or Hale's eyes. "You should--um. Ice. I have to go." She bobbed something of a nod and apologetic half-bow in their direction, hands at her forehead as she stalked out after Napoleon, small purse dangling at her wrist.
Hale: He didn't say goodbye, merely gave Jess a steely look which couldn't be credited with any real design, as he was too busy checking and supporting Watts and casting vehement glowers out the door. In that moment, at least, she was a stronger ally to the problem than the solution, although he couldn't have painted a clear picture of either. He had no idea what had just happened, at least what had happened in the seconds before the fight had happened. Now, at least, he was more concerned with the moments following it. When Napoleon crossed the threshold he might not have existed at all, except through the handiwork that marked Watts' jaw. The music hadn't stopped, but the chatter mostly had, and now it had adopted a totally different tone. People who'd been in the other room now leaned through the doorway and fixed curious, concerned glances--why had a bleeding man just stormed out?
"Can somebody get some ice?" he demanded of the room at large, and it sounded harsher than it was; really, it was permission to react, to stop staring, process the spur-of-the-moment violence that had erupted in a room full of birthday revelry. He looked between them and the bar, and back at Watts, and decided that surprise parties were no longer the way to go.