2007-10-28: Social Smoker


Felix_icon.gif Seamus_icon.gif

Summary: Seamus invites Felix over to retrieve his forgotten cigarette case. The two share conversation, drinks, and a love for old mechanical timepieces.

Date It Happened: October 28th, 2007

Social Smoker

O'Malley Auto Shop

The last fading light of the autumn sunset gleams off the windows of the taller buildings, but the street itself is already in shadow, when Fel comes walking up to knock on Seamus's door. He's in his suit and overcoat, having come directly from getting off of work, apparently.

The pause from within is only momentary; soon, the sound of a dozen-odd locks sliding back sounds, and the redhead in question peers out through a two-inch gap before fully opening the door. "Thought ya weren' comin'," Seamus grins, wiping damp hands on a white cloth. "Got th' shop closed up already." Eyes glance up and down the other man. His grin doesn't falter, but one eyebrow does quirk up. "Damn. I'd be a cop, too, if I got t' dress like that." The rumpled blue t-shirt and torn jeans the Irishman wears definitely give a sharp contrast.

Fel snorts at that, amused. "Sorry. Had to stay late, finish a bit of work," he says, voice dry. "I have a good tailor who works for cheap, happily. I figured that if I have to wear a suit to work every day, it might as well fit," he explains. "Though technically, I'm no longer a cop, I'm a Fed."

Seamus shrugs. "You're all on the same wavelength, though." His head gives a quick jerk over his shoulder, directed at the rough wooden stairs behind him. "Y'wanna come in? I'm just washin' up a bit, but you're welcome ta join me for a drink."

He concedes the point with a crooked smirk. "True. All species of John Law. And certainly." And then slips past Seamus to head up the stairs, tread surprisingly light and quiet.

Again, the eyebrow quirks up on Seamus's face, as he watches Felix ascend the stairs. He's certainly impressed — by both the silence and. Well. The redhead suppresses a snicker, pushing the door closed and letting his hand linger just long enough for the locks to roll themselves closed again. "Sorry 'bout the mess," he half-calls up, referring to the clutter of mail, newspapers and empty, stacked pizza boxes. "Don' often have guests." At least there are no dirty clothes or dishes.

"I understand, believe me," Fel says, quietly, glancing around him - not precisely casing the place, but there's the reflexive looking for other exits, anything unusual. "I'm glad you found that thing, and thought to call me. It's got sentimental value," he says, in all apparent seriousness.

If Felix wants other exits, he'll have to go through the fire escape at the far end of the apartment, through the window over the head of Seamus's bed. As for what's unusual… well, the furniture doesn't match, but that's likely more expected of a bachelor pad than not. Probably the weirdest thing is the lack of a telephone, or TV, or in fact much of anything electrical that isn't lights or kitchen appliances. "No worries," Seamus grins, placing a light hand on Felix's shoulder as he, too, comes to the top of the stairs. "I understand how attached people get to their things."

Felix grins, a little wryly, "It was a gift from my best friends in high school. The one of whom never could get me to stop smoking." Another glance around the room. "Reminds me of my first apartment in Greenwich," he says, tone somewhat rueful. "Though I had a roommate."

Seamus can't help but chuckle softly at Felix's explanation. "Tha's a pretty extreme way o' givin' up," he points out, making his way to the kitchen through the farther of its two doors. A very weathered antique cabinet rests there, serving as the home of Seamus's liquor, and the Irishman wastes little time in setting down his dishrag and pulling out a pair of drinking glasses. "I'da bought ya a flask o' mouthwash."

"Or a box of those patch things," Fel replies, still looking a little sheepish. "No, I mean….the inscription on the case, about coffin nails. Sara always had a sick sense of humor." He cocks his head, eyeing the liquor speculatively. "You haven't had any trouble from Babenkov, have you? That punk who tried to beat you up?" he asks, expression turning slightly more serious.

The redhead blinks, only remembering the inscription after Felix makes mention of it. "Still seems a bit off ta me," he shrugs, pulling the stopper from a bottle of Scotch. "An' no, I haven' seen him once since then." Thank god. The Russian is the last person Seamus ever wants to deal with again. …Well, one of the last.

Felix lets his eyes half-lid, amused. "Good," is his only reply. "He's a complete skell. I wish to God I could've gotten his ass put away back when. Ah, well." He paces a little bit, before removing his glasses with one hand, and rubbing at his eyes with the fingertips of the other.

"I wish y'could've, too," comes the return murmur. With two glasses filled, Seamus rights the bottle and glances back into the living room as his other hand blindly searches out the stopper. "Feel free ta take a seat, Felix. My couch doesn' bite."

"His legal defense was always a hair too good. I never did figure out which branch of the Russian mafia he worked for," Fel sighs, almost apologetically. But he shoots the red-head an embarrassed look, and obediently settles on the couch, having shrugged off his overcoat, and draped it over his arm.

"Y'seem nervous," Seamus observes, settling himself next to the other man on the couch and offering out one of the glasses. "Are y'always so fidgety when ya don't have some liquor in your system?" That's… probably a joke!

Felix's laugh is rueful. "Mostly," he says, taking the glass, and lifting it in salute. "Nazdorovye," he says, clinking it against Seamus's.

Seamus blinks. "Ehm. Same ta you, then," he replies, tilting his own glass to meet the other's. "So. Got somethin' up with your nerves? Or're ya just under a lot more stress'n you let on?"

"Just work. And that's the standard toast, though this clearly isn't vodka," Fel says, after taking a tentative sip. "Good stuff, though."

Seamus "ah"s, nodding his head a bit and taking a much deeper sip from his glass. "Sounds like it's not quite worth the suits it buys ya."

Fel slants a very conspiratorial look at the Irishman, over the rim of his glass. "You wanna know a secret?" he says, quietly. "In terms of money, it's not, not even remotely. But I love it, anyhow. I'd never do anything else, 'cept maybe go back to the NYPD." He's smiling to himself, behind the glass. "What about you?"

This time, both of Seamus's eyebrows lift, and after a beat, he chuckles to himself. "Fixin' things brings me a lot o' nothin'. Hence my lack o' fancy suits," he grins, peering into the depths of his glass. "But it's like my art. Painter wouldn' stop paintin'; no way I'd ever stop fixin' things. Cars, boats, clocks. God I'd love ta have a couple hours with an old broken-down airplane."

"Never thought about going into the military, working as a tech on the planes?" Fel suggests, with a quizzical arch to his brows. "And I don't make all that much." He plucks at a sleeve with his free hand. "Like I said… a good tailor who works for cheap." And then he pauses, before wondering, "Clocks, huh? Can you fix watches? I mean, the old mechanical kind?"

"Ehh." Seamus makes a face, taking another draw from his Scotch. "Military's too…" He makes a motion partway between a shrug and a shudder. "Wound too tight. I'm too laid back fer that sorta thing." That, and joining up requires a /real name/ and social security number and all the other stuff Seamus is very much not willing to divulge. He glances to Felix midway through another sip, and when his glass lowers, he's grinning. "Sure can. Dunno a thing about all the digital whatsa-whoosits, but if it runs on its own mechanics I can fix it, no problem."

That earns him a genuine smile, a far cry from Fel's usual tight-lipped near-smirk. "Oh, great," he says, after another mouthful - good enough that it doesn't need to be sipped, or discarded entirely, it'd seem. "I mean, the watch thing. I see your point about the military." He reaches into the pocket of his overcoat, and comes out with a little case of cracked fake leather, the kind jewelry comes in. "Even one this old?" He opens the case to reveal a steel pocketwatch, decorated with a design of hammer, sickle, and star in scarlet enamel.

Seamus immediately sits up straight, stretching out his arm to set his glass down upon the coffee table. His fascination couldn't be more obvious if he were a ten-year-old presented with an air rifle. "May I?" he asks, glancing up with a hand paused halfway to the case.

"Of course. It's a wind-up, purely mechanical," Fel says, setting it gently into his hand. "This was my grandfather's. The insignia on it indicates he received the Order of The Great Patriotic War," he explains, running a fingertip over the enamel design fondly. "It doesn't run any more, and so few of the people who work on watches now can deal with winding pieces."

"My opinion, all this digital nonsense is ruinin' the beauty of th' older pieces," Seamus replies in the distracted voice of one keenly focused on the task at hand. He lifts the watch gently from its case, turning it over and over between his fingers. His eyes are in that place between focus and unfocus as he peers at the details of the watch. It takes a lot of effort to keep himself from opening it up and poking around at the insides right there on the couch, but he remembers in time that he has, ah. Uninformed company. "I'd love ta give this a look, when I've got the proper tools," he says easily, slipping the watch back into its case. "If y'leave it here, I could give ya another call when it's done?"

Felix frankly beams at this. What luck, or so his manner indicates. "Of course," he says, smoothly, even as he finishes the last of his drink, and gently sets the glass down on the coffee table. "I should be getting home, as it is. And there's no hurry, take your time."

Seamus's grin is broad, and he sets the watch down next to the empty and half-empty glasses. "It was good talkin' to ya, my Federal friend," the redhead states honestly, crossing the room to a half-empty bookcase and returning with Felix's cigarette case in hand. "I'd like ta make a habit of it."

That actually prompts a laugh, as he vanishes the cigarette case into his pocket. "Well, that's one of about… four items I'd drag out of my house, if it were on fire. Something of a family heirloom, you know? So I'll definitely be back. You've got my number."

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