Saffron had always spent much of her time outside - sunbathing, swimming, walking from place to place and the like. The past couple of weeks, though, she’d been outdoors even more than usual. David was hovering more than ever, in plain sight anytime Saffron was outside, more likely than not right by her if there was a place for him to land. It was
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Instead, I stood off to the side, a drink in my hand, only tasted. I wanted my wits fully about me until I knew the people better.
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He didn't expect to see her standing there, drink in her hand as if she'd never left. His gaze was drawn to her as though he'd known just where to find her, even though he'd not had a clue. She stood out, always had, a shining star in a room full of flickering candles. Bill moved toward her, his throat tight, and when he finally was able to speak, it was automatic to do so in French.
"My god, Phedre? Is that really you?"
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"Yes, it is, but I must beg your pardon. I've been told I'm familiar to some here, but I have no memory of you, Sir." I could only hope that my words did not wound him harshly.
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Was there some sort of festival I was unaware of?
Unsure who, or even how to ask, I moved towards what I understood to be the tavern-keeper of the evening and ordered some wine. Of all the strange drinks served here, it was the one I was the most familiar with and one I knew how to handle as I turned to watch the people around me, committing faces and voices to memory as I'd been taught.
[ooc: Phédre is wearing a simple sundress. That the pattern kinda goes with the theme is an accident.]
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"Hello," he said, wondering if she might be who he thought she was. In his time here he'd learned to never assume who a person was based on just how they looked, but that beautiful face was kind of unforgettable.
"Jack Harkness," he said as he offered his hand. "You look like someone who's never been theme night."
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In a situation such as this, I felt that a little more formality might be useful, so at the last moment, I decided to give him my name entire. "Phédre nò Delaunay de Montrève." Adding a slight curtsy, a gesture more familiar, I added, "And what, Messire, is a 'theme night'?"
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"Theme night is, hmm, dress up. One night a month we have a night where we choose a theme- tonight it's cowboys and indians- and all of us who work here put on these costumes. It's just a little fun. Something different," he explained.
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This place for him, though, was a test - a test to see how far he'd come since the day he'd killed himself.
He took a seat near the stage, ordered a beer, and was bombarded by memories of his earlier life, his human life, his mother; and without Ambrose there to fill him with rage, he was able to start to heal, just a little.
Of course, he hadn't a clue they did themes here, and he was dressed the same as he always was, the only difference being he'd changed jeans and Docs for shorts and flip flops. He still had his jacket, and still had his sword hidden beneath it.
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He did notice the guy's face, though, and nodded. "Nice ink."
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Delirium was joking but her face was such concentrated seriousness that it was hard to know that.
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