Starring:
Date: October 4th, 2009
Summary:
Simple, everyday life.
"A Taste Of The Mundane"
The Den - Brooklyn, NYC
Passing weeks and word of mouth, it is these things alone that have managed to breathe life back into the Den of Iniquity. Advertising dollars hadn't been an option. Not after their beloved bar had become their only source of income, and it was in desperate need of operating dollars to weather the storm that had come of months and months of neglecting the business. It was something to focus on: the bar. It was something to distract. Something to wear out a body enough to make it a little easier to sleep at night. Regular hours to help turn insanity back into the whirrings and chirrings of a regular life.
In the mid-afternoon slump today, there's only one hopeless alcoholic sitting alone at a corner table. It means that, aside from the occasional running of a glass of JD and bussing the empty glass away, it's been a very quiet afternoon. Quiet's good. Trina's therefore been left mostly undisturbed, standing behind the bar in her heels, leggings, flounced black knit skirt, black lace-trimmed camisole and puffed-sleeve black bolero shrug to lean on the bar and watch the small battery-operated handheld television with rapt attention. A news network, the volume barely more than a mumble of syllables.
On the customers' side of the bar, Jack folds his newspaper untidily and lays it down next to his Shirley Temple. That's right, a Shirley Temple. Extra grenadine. The old man's grown fond of them since he gave up on drinking. A haystack of cherry stems next to his glass is a testament to how many he's had today.
A quick glance at the television brings a frown to his already lined forehead. Between mending his evil ways and getting the pub back in order, life has begun to take a toll on the Irishman. A touch of gray is visible at his temples and scattered through the stubble on his face, which has grown more careworn as the days pass. Though he's still in decent shape, a hint of growing stomach around his belt is proof that he spends far less time picking fights and dodging through the shadows.
"Terrorists," he grumbles under his breath. "Is that what they're calling us now? I think I liked 'freaks' better."
Trina frowns, and noir-limned blue eyes lift to regard her fiance. "They ain't callin' us /anything/," she retorts quietly, her voice only a whisper. "So long as they keep not callin' us anythin', we're fine." Straightening, the dark haired woman stretches out her long fingers to turn the dial on the handheld in order to click it off. That hand then reaches up to sweep long black strands behind her shoulder. "They stay over there, we stay over here. Long as the sides never meet, we're golden." A cajoling smile turns her lips as she folds her arms on top of the bar so she can lean over it and properly tempt her loverman towards a kiss. "Don't give it any stock. That just gives 'em power that they didn't already have."
Jack shakes his head wearily and leans forward to suck up the dregs of his drink through a straw. When he's finished, he pushes it forward and lets out a puff-cheeked breath. "We can't hide forever, y'know," he repeats for the thousandth time, his voice low and gruff. Still, the offer of a kiss is too sweet to pass up. He cups his hands lovingly against Trina's cheeks and presses his lips to hers, savoring the softness of her skin and the smell of freshly washed girl.
When one remembers to not take a moment for granted, the gentleness with which Jack touches her is an exquisite sensation. It lulls Trina into a contented silence as she rocks up onto her tippy toes and returns the affection, communicating unspoken fondness through that kiss. She murmurs after the kiss ends, lingering near his lips with her own. But then her eyes open to look at Jack with that distant sadness that seems to just linger between increasingly sparse respites. "Why can't we?" she asks of him for that thousandth time, her brow crinkling. "We're happy, ain't we? You and me. We got stead money comin' in now, a /house/, cars, and you and me." Lowering herself more squarely onto her heels, her hands move to collect his. "People can be happy with less."
Inhale. Exhale. It's not frustration that gives Jack pause so much as resignation. "I guess I'm having a hard time with just being ordinary," he replies, shrugging his broad shoulders. "Of course I'm happy. But this…" he waves a hand at his discarded newspaper. "And that…" another wave, this time at the television. "It's not right, and ignorin' it makes me feel small as a mouse's diddy."
"I don't think anyone would ever accuse you of bein' ordinary, sugar." Trina assures with a small smile, squeezing his hands. "Not anyone who knows you." Then it's her turn to shrug shoulders, smaller and more delicate. "I mean, think about all of the good things that have come of it. A whole year, and we ain't seen any trouble. No hospitals. No midnight visits from unlicensed doctors. No weird people in back alleys, other than when Joe comes around." Ah, Joe, the homeless harmonica player who always seems to know when Trina's working and that she'll have /something/ to give him when he comes 'round. "It's been so /good/," she pleads. But even that feels like a lie until she amends, "I mean, okay. We gotta keep a few secrets. That's nothin' new."
Jack smiles crookedly and rubs his thumbs along Trina's knuckles. "I guess you're right," he mutters unwillingly. It's the agreement of a man who knows better than to argue with the missus. He exhales again, this time an audible 'whoosh' through his nose. By the set of his jaw and the flash in his gray eyes, his mental gears are still turning on the subject. He lets go of his lover and nudges his empty glass forward with one long finger. "How about another Shirley? Two cherries this time?"
"You got it, babe." Plucking his glass up from the counter, Trina doesn't hesitate to dump out what ice is left swishing around it, the ice pounding against the steel sink. She'd tell anybody that she is never more proud to mix a virgin drink than she is mixing one for him. She would; she has. Grenadine and ginger ale, mingling for the sparkling innocuous glory of Jack's continued sobriety and crowned with the double maraschinos that he asked for. Okay, so things aren't perfect. But she means what she said. So much freedom from worry, for what seems such a small, small price. The thoughts that churn up as she thinks about the numerous times she's nearly lost the Emperor of Derexia are all far from pleasant, but that doesn't stop the smile from turning up brightly as she sets down a cocktail napkin and then the glass in front of him. "I love you," she breathes airily. Her round-about way of saying she knows he's not entirely happy about this. That she knows it's not easy. She knows, and she's grateful. Deeper down, she knows this can't last forever.
"Love you, too," Jack mumbles. It's not that the sentiment isn't heartfelt. It is. But he's as used to the cold feel of a weapon in his hand as he is a gentle, caring touch. His method of solving problems might not be neat, but they do get solved, and the problems do still exist. And instead of fixing things the best way he knows how, he spends his days in the Den. Putting on weight and drinking Shirley Temples. He takes out his frustration on one of the cherries, biting it angrily and adding the stem to his ever-growing pile.
No, this can't last forever. Not by a long shot.