Don't apologize

[Quentin Doyle] It's a Sunday. It's also the New Year.

Surprisingly this place isn't closed, but plenty of the staff are being paid extra to be working in the holiday season. Pubs are best kept open when people have nothing better to do then drink away their hard earned cash. This sort of pub is a great place to head out, grab some dinner, and sit around talking by the fire with a few good friends. It's a time to unwind. These are the reason why Doyle keeps it open and doesn't take vacation time himself. The only days that it was closed were those that the council ordered none to be opened, or over the two days over Christmas and the first half of New Years Day. The rest had kept regular hours and he'd raked in a good deal of extra business because of it.

Now he's short of a few of his regular staff, but there are others more then happy to take up extra shifts, and Doyle himself doesn't mind working behind the bar when there's a need for it. Sunday is one of those days, but after the dinner rush has come through things settled down in the kitchen, and he was able to step away from the bar and leave it adequately manned. Throwing the bar rag under the counter, he heads through the back door into the kitchen to clean up in a back bathroom.

It doesn't take him long, and by the time he's made his way back through the kitchen, grabbed himself something to eat, he moved back to the front of the house and found himself a corner stool at the far end of the bar. Closest to the kitchen doors, leaves him a view down the length of the bar and towards the door and windows. It's a place that's out of the way. People tend to avoid where the traffic of staff come to and fro, even now that the kitchen is closing down for the night. The sounds of crockery and cutlery being moved around is audible from where he's sitting, even over the din chatter of people enjoying a beer and the low music playing over speakers.

[Emily Littleton] The wind outside is bitter cold, and it toys with the few locks of her hair that have escaped the pins that hold it up, pinned to the back of her head in a simple bun. Emily does not bother with a hat; it is not that cold tonight and she does not intend to be long in the shadow of the night. Her long winter coat hangs open, defiant is she of the wind and the city tonight. Somewhere there is a pale sliver of moonbright rising ever higher. Somewhere there are stars, behind the blanket of the sky.

Her bootheels click on the pavement. Even her footfalls give away small clues that she has been Other, that she has been Away all this time. She wears dress slacks and a lavendar blouse that drapes in pretty, faintly feminine ways, under the press of that heavy coat. Her scarf is soft, softer than lambswool against her skin, and it's wrap conceals the faint glimmer of silver at her throat. She is wearing gloves, but by the time she steps into the pub she's slipped them off, is putting them into a pocket. Emily's messenger bag has been replaced, for today, by a small black leather purse that she keeps close to her side, straps over one shoulder and body tucked between her arm and her ribs.

It is too late to hope for a meal, as the kitchen is winding down. Well enough, then, as the Singer is not sure whether she'd want for breakfast or dinner. The time difference had her muddled, skewed to somewhere over the Atlantic more than here.

All the same, her accent is unmistakably foreign as she leans into the bar a little and asks one of the 'keeps if it was too late to pour. Well then, might she have a Newcastle please and possibly some chips, if the kitchen's not closed.

She says Cheers instead of Thank you. She means fries but will probably get some crisps. This is the befuddlement that always follows her home. Emily unwinds the scarf from her neck and settles her coat over the barstool beside her. She rests her elbows on the board and tips her head from side to side hoping that -- ah, just like that -- some of the tension of an hours-long flight would give way, would relent, and let her come a little bit closer to home.

[Quentin Doyle] The jeans he wears are simple, faded and fit him well. They aren't the stiff denim, but treated and worn so that its not uncomfortable across the thickness of thighs and fits well on his hips. His shirt strains across the shoulders and chest. If he were to buy a size too big it would look wrong on him, too much fabric for around his middle. But the white shirt, with the outline of the sleeveless undershirt, isn't necessarily small, it's merely that Quentin has a big, muscular build across the upper torso. It's part genetics and plenty of weights. Sleeves rolled up, they are folded and pushed to above the elbow, leaving bare dark hair and a faded summer tan.

He spots Emily. It's been awhile. But he rarely forgets a face, especially one with presence. He doesn't immediately go to her, but leaves her to unwind at the bar. Crisps would have been given had she not asked if the kitchen was closed. After checking to see if the fryers were not yet washed up for the night, she was told that some could be cooked, and that it wasn't a problem. Her Newcastle came long before her fries, but when they came in a large bowl on a plate with some condiments supplied, the fries were crisp and hot.

By then, Quentin had finished his chicken steak sandwich and had his dishes cleared away. And by the time Emily is plucking at her fries, he pushes out of his stool with a glass of stout and makes his way around to where she's sitting. He doesn't try and blindside or sneak up on her. His tall, broad frame isn't meant for that and it's not his intention anyway. "Emily," he greets her. "It's good ta see you."

[Emily Littleton] She's been away, but not dead to the magical world. Emily knew there was a fair chance she'd run into Quentin if she came here, but that was not a thing to be wary of, just now. She knew that setting foot in the Hung, Drawn and Quartered, by contrast, opened her up to a host of other familiar faces. Given the choice, she sat exactly where she wanted to be.

Plucking is a fair adjective. The Briton takes her chips with brown vinegar and salt, nibbles them one at a time with almost birdlike care, and dabs the salt and grease and sour from her fingertips onto a napkin between each one. The fingers of her other hand rest along the bar, not toying with the glass of her pint tonight. Comparatively, Emily seems at rest to when he'd seen her before. She's relatively still, and quiet. Keeping still is the harder of the two.

She can feel his resonance slide up against hers before his voice finds her. There is a sharpness to it, a ferocity not felt in normal people, in humbler souls. Still she waits til he greets her, and then turns to meet him with a smile. It's warm enough, rides that line between perfunctory and genuine gregariousness. "Quentin," his name is cradled in the Otherness of her accent, and it's a warm thing, a welcoming thing. "Happy New Year."

She gestures to the stool beside her, the one unoccupied by her jacket and scarf.

"Join me for a spell?" she asks, all diplomat's daughter and easy grace tonight. "I've just gotten out of O'Hare and a friendly face is a good thing just now."

[Quentin Doyle] Her warmth is welcoming, and a little unexpected. The last that he remembers of them hadn't been the fondness of times. It's not that they parted on particularly bad times either. They both had things they were working through, issues pulling at them from either side, and Quentin had been rightfully wary of the Magi that had come to see him. He'd been suspicious and defensive. He still has some of that, but now it's on his terms. It had turned out not what he expected and that had relieved him enough to push all that, frankly, bullshit aside.

For all that he could reach out and touch the world around him, with the awareness similar to her own, Quentin doesn't. He leaves it, instead, as a woman and a man, rather then a Magi and a Psychic. It's much more pleasant that way. Easier, too. Unlike many, his magic doesn't make him who he is. It works differently for those like himself. They are will workers in another sense. Similar but yet not the same, still rolled up in the same world.

"Happy New Year ta you too, love." His own smile takes the edge of, at least in the way he offers it to her now. Closed lip with creases around his eyes. Sometimes when he bares his teeth, even smiling, it can be intimidating without him ever meaning for it to be. Something to do with presence.

Joining her by the bar, he eased onto a vacant stool and settled his forearm on the counter, leaving his glass under the wrap of his fingers. His other hand comes to rest on his thigh, opening his body language towards her rather then blocking her out. Its the same way his head turns, regarding her and the way she exudes a softness in the choice of clothes, the way she wears her hair of even eats. Briefly he wonders about the boy. "Spend yer holidays well?"

[Emily Littleton] It's a relief when he comes over to join her and does not immediately drag conversation down into any of the many morasses and craven places that Awakened chit-chat often frequented. With Quentin, perhaps only with Quentin these days, she could be assured that some Old World mannerisms and niceties would be kept. They asked about family, about each other's well-being. They said please and thank you. This natural cadence, learned and reinforced through practice and expectation, made coming back to the city easier for her. Lifted an unseen thing from her shoulders. Warmed the corners of her eyes just so.

"Aye," she replies, feeling the tug of his accent on her own and letting that easy affectation curl her mouth a little more wryly. "I've been away," she admits, easily and openly, leaning her side into the bar so that she can face him when they speak. Emily nudged her chips into the common space, indicates that he should help himself.

"Just landed, actually. Sometimes a little change of perspective's a good thing." She gives away little, but what she shows is collected and calm, darkly enigmatic but without any burn or bite. "And yourself? Have the holidays treated you well?" There is always hope behind this question, that the answer will be a smile and not a demure disinclination to answer. Emily does not press, but her tone is gently seeking.

[Quentin Doyle] "Oh aye?" His smile increased as he took in her expression with a warming of his cool coloured eyes. "The trip went well then? You're lookin' good." This is with a quiet appraisal rather then a leering eye. He meant it more about her spirits and demeanor then he did about the way that lavender blouse fit across her frame. Maybe younger years would have him act differently. But he's a matured man and his mother had a heavy hand in raising him right. He wasn't born into the riches he has now, and hard work makes the man.

Lifting his glass he took a slow drink of it, making sure his lip was clean with a subtle brush of his other, before he had set the stout back down and returned his gaze to her. "I can't complain. Took a quick trip to see the family, spent a night thare before comin' back." He considers in a pause, and gives the briefest shrug of a single shoulder. "Yeah, I'd say it's done me good. But I'm keen te see the New Year into a nice solid routine. It's good to keep things running smoothly."

[Emily Littleton] She pulled from her pint as well, with a slowness crafted of long travel weariness and careful consideration. She made something of a habit of taking a pint shortly after landing, turning in early (or often very late) after an international flight. Emily maintained it helped her acclimate to the time change. Habit was a comfort, whatever the reason.

"To the New Year, then," she says, raising her pint a little in salute. Sipping again. setting it aside. "I'm looking to make some new beginnings, resolutions if you will. Maybe by the end of this year, I'll have hit along a nice, solid routine of my own," she tells him, with a little wistfulness to it.

Emily isn't sad, no. But she is hopeful and wary, all at once, of whatever may come. It's an interesting place to be, on the cusp between years, neither home nor yet still abroad. There's enough potential there to make a girl light-headed and moonstruck, enough solemnity to keep her grounded and anchored down tight to planet Earth.

"Has business been good? I hope the pub's doing well. It's one of my favorites," she tells him, with a sidelong glance as she reaches for another chip. It's a bit of fondness, but not overt flirtation.

[Quentin Doyle] Lifting his glass a little he nodded his head in her direction, sharing her cheers for the New Year. His sip is slow and measured, too. He's not in a rush to finish his drink. It's something to chase down dinner with. Or rather, it is part of dinner, a drink to complete a meal.

"I'm sure you will," he tells her, without a doubt. She doesn't strike him as someone that is rather whimsical or impulsive. He's confidant that she has the drive to get wherever it is she wants to be, and not easily led astray. But he doesn't know her. He doesn't know a single, concrete thing about her, and had been surprised in the past. "I don't see you easily turned from yer path."

The smile he gives her is quick and with a side glance. Her fries have been left untouched. A small lift of his fingers had waved the offer off. He'd already ate but doesn't explain that, or that he'd eat salad over fries, despite being a so called manly man. Unless he was having a weekend bender, and then all sorts of thoughts about diet and gym routine flies out the door. He can drink a dozen beers, a bottle of scotch and a whole pizza to go with it just like most men.

"Business is good." Glancing from her to the bar, he looks along it and watches the bar staff. "Wasn't sure it was goin' to kick off the ground, but I've made some righ' choices. And keeping it open fer the holidays worked well. Had more business than usual walkin' in through the doors."

[Emily Littleton] She chuckles at that. It is a warm and resonant thing. It wells up from her middle, while still seeming restrained. The mirth in it dances at the corner of her eyes, which are dark in this light. A deep grey blue, often cast further toward shadows.

"Ah, I can imagine," she says, with that levity touching each word, gilding it slightly. "Whether you're alone or over-run with friends and family, sometimes a night at the pub seems precisely the right remedy." Her fingertips toy with the rim of her glass for a moment, before she picks it up and sips again. Emily sounds like she speaks from experience, though Quentin hasn't really known her to be surrounded by people, not to the point of being overwhelmed.

"I'm glad things are well for you. You deserve it," she says, with a firm surety and simple veracity. "Hard work being it's own reward is all well and good, but it's always nice when good things happen to good people."

And this is Emily's brand of holiday cheer, a sense of justice, a belief that things are right in the world when the good guys tally up more wins than losses, when a year can be laid to rest without overmuch regret.

[Quentin Doyle] "That's exactly why I kept this place open. Many times 'ave I wanted to go to a pub when it's the holidays. Back when I was workin' in the shop, couldn't wait for the break to come around, and wanted nothing but to sit back with a cold beer, with a nice band playin' and a couple of friends." The conversation flows easily. His deeper voice fits somewhere under hers, and the sea of voices around them. His tone is even and quiet, but not quite flat. Deep, fitting for a barrel chest, but not painful or graveled.

He's looking around his own place. There's a fire going, more for looks then warmth, since the pub also has heat coming out vents to keep it at a steady temperature. He has fans too, for the summer, as well as a proper cooling system. It's all about appearances. Making this place comfortable and appealing. He had an eye for some details and atmosphere. Irish, whether from Boston or the Isles themselves, have always made business out of beer. It's no surprise it runs in the family.

"I deserve it do I?" A playful lilt catches in his words, and as he focuses green-blues back towards her, he raises his brows higher over them. "Why Miss Emily, I don't know if ye know me well enough to be sayin' that. But I'll take it as a compliment none the less an' try not prove you wrong."

[Emily Littleton] She takes up a fry and gestures with it lazily as she talks, walking him through her logic with a diffident sort of grace. Wherever she has returned from, Emily has been remoulded in her role as the diplomat's daughter, she takes to this type of conversation with ease and a sort of panache that isn't oft seen in her Awakened life. It comes easily; it rolls off her. Perhaps that's why he feels he doesn't know a single certain thing about her.

"Mmm, lessee then. You're a gentleman, but not without a temper albeit one you keep in check -- I'd wager that you're loyal, and that you protect what you see as yours. You work hard for what you have, and yet remain humble. You've chosen a life of service," she says, indicating the establishment around them, but also keying in on other professional choices he's mentioned in the past. "Not many do. I think I've heard enough to say, with passing surety, in an off-the-cuff and friendly sort of manner, that you've earned a bit of good luck and good cheer."

And how's that, then, for a pleasant little oration. He challenged her, with the look in those blue-green eyes, with that hitch in his brow, and who would she be if she didn't deliver. Emily's mouth crooks faintly into a smirk, but only on one side. Now she eats that chip she's been gesturing with. Reaches for her pint. Waits on his reply -- and oh, yes, this is a challenge in its own way, a gentle push and easy banter. There's nothing at stake, though; she's not ventured overmuch from her steady and centered places.

[Quentin Doyle] "Oh, yer good," he tells her, nodding his head along and swallowing back the smile from his mouth but does nothing to try and hide it from his eyes. They are bright and shiny with it. Changing the way he holds his glass, he slides his fingers across the top, much like she had done earlier but not with such a feather touch, and proceeds to drop his hand down on his other thigh. It leaves his elbows resting back, tucked in to his sides comfortably so not to elbow her or anyone else accidentally. "But yer leavin' out a whole lot of other."

Banter like this is welcomed, and there's a present undercurrent to his voice of with held laughter that could be light and low. "Lessee," his brows jerk up, and his grin is quick flash when he mimics that one phrased word, "I'm born an' raised in Boston. I 'ave large family o' Irish roots. And as well as we're known fer our temper, we're also known for very ungentlemanly like ways." At this he tilts his head, raised brows daring her to challenge him otherwise.

Before he goes on: "I've got me knuckles dirty more than just under the roof o' mae car. Had a few broken teeth in my time, and am not as finely tuned as you make me out te be, dear Emily. Surely you can look at me and see tha' much."

"Not that I'm disputing the fact I damn well believe I've earned me good cheer," his laugh comes then, easily and openly, "but I'm also a little more'n arrogant. So who's te say?"

[Emily Littleton] "We are our own worst critics," she allows, her tone still easily imperious (mock elevated [not so very high]). There is, too, a brightness that touches her eyes. Emily's eyes smile more than her lips ever will. It is her eyes that often give her away as warmer than she seems, not quite as separate as she wishes.

"And I have heard tell of Boston, though --" she pauses, leaves that conjunction held aloft for a moment, waiting, full of anticipation until she catches up to it again, "I've not met a curr or chav from there on my own." She shrugs a bit, as if to suggest that the South-Boston Archetype might be a touched played up, larger than life, much the way she felt about the Green's trumped up reputation as a bad part of town.

"But the Irish," she says, tipping her pint glass just so. As if there, now there was a point to concede. And if she says it in her best Northern accent, that crisp Manchester clip, well, then it's more for show than anything. "This Irish I will have to give you. There's no arguing with that, I'm quite afraid."

She tuts, quietly, just the play of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. It's a pert dismissive sound. It can be playful, when wielded by someone as deft and mischievous as this Miss Littleton.

"Though I'd wager I'm neither as dear nor as fine as you may think me to be. Perhaps it is better when others see our brightnesses and not our shadows." She glances at him again, and again it's a side-long and curious thing.

[Quentin Doyle] By the time she is finished, he is leaning against the bar again and his smile is no longer concealed. His laughter had threaded through and under her words, showing, clearly, how he enjoyed her company. Anything is in the past is forgotten - well, no. In this moment he is remembering her dance, and smile, and laugh, and even for a moment he recalls a toy store and leggo, with strange conversations to go along with it.

All of it is brought to a very simple, honestly raw: "It really is good ta see you again, Emily."

The look he gives her is solid, and simmering with an intensity that hadn't quite been to the surface before, but she knew lingered under the surface. He doesn't own her. Has no claims on her, and nor is he about to change that. But he can appreciate that possibility that came and went, a missed opportunity, in which he had been a gentlemen and stepped back. He let her see that brief glimpse and nothing more, because it is good to see her, aside from all that, and to know that there's still laughter to be found in the simplest of things.

He, too, had a new years resolution and it had a lot to do with brightness and keeping back the shadows.

[Emily Littleton] This is where a kinder person might ask about whatever it is that lingers, that make that simple statement also so raw. But Emily will not go down in anyone's memory as the kindest of people, or the most gentle. Her grace is that she is oft willing to look the other way, so the smile she offers him is not entirely shaded, it is not without regret or something that tugs down her memories of the last year. There has been great sadness for her since they last met, but it's behind now. She's leaving that behind her now.

"It's good to see you too, Quentin."

It's equally resonant, this simple thing. Emily does not weigh it down with more than it can bear. There are thoughts in her of what might have been, but they are not as poignant or close to the surface just now. It's the laughter and warmth, a sort of kinship between acquaintances; this is what she clings to when the nights are long and the distance between friends and family so deep.

"I'm sorry it's been so long. I've had something of a Winter, so far," Emily fails to provide an adjective, but the way she pushes past the thought supplies enough gravitas. "Things will be better from here on out."

She smiles. This is a promise, not to Quentin but to herself. It rings with sincerity, not hope. It is a surety. Emily will create that peace and steadiness of her own volition if she has to. Things will not continue on as they were.

"Was there much snow?" she asks, of Boston. "I heard everyone here had quite the Christmas storms." This alludes to the reality that her version of away was farther flung that most. It also turns their conversation back to easier things, weather and incidental truths. It doesn't delve deeply into either of their psyches. He may be a psychic and she a mage, but some times they were just people trying to get by, trying to make ammends. Sometimes it didn't do to press just for stubbornness's sake.

[Quentin Doyle] "Don't apologize." This comes quick. He had shook his head and lifted a hand as if to brush it off physically, but he heard her out. "Please, you have no need ta apologize to me. Nothing to be said for it." She owed him nothing. Nothing at all. Two adults instead of something younger, can leave anything unsaid. These are reasons why there's no pressing or delving back into the past. But he had only left an acknowledgment, an appreciation, that had meant to flatter not drag either down.

Finishing his drink he pushes his glass to the other width of the counter and leaves it for staff to take. He shook his head, swallowing down liquid, when asked if he wanted another, but had gestured with his fingers to Emily's glass, making sure that hers will be full for the rest of the night or until she indicates otherwise. "Can't say I took too much notice. Snow enough that the chilled snap touched about everywhere, I'd think." It had been a cold, snowy Christmas, and that worked fine with him. No better time then to sit around the fire with family and friends.

"Traffic was a ... problem." And other words too. "But that's Christmas fer ya." The stool creaks oh so softly as he shifts his weight, straightening out his spine and leaving his hand to draw off the bar and back onto his thigh. A foot that had been resting on the rung now sits firmly on the ground with its brother, the shoes a simple leather, lace up, rather then boots or loafers.

[Emily Littleton] "I spent Christmas Eve flying. It's quiet that way. Most people don't want those flights, and there aren't as many children. Of course it makes it hard to stay awake at mass the next morning..." she says, letting that smirk color her smile again. Emily did not make a habit of falling asleep in Church, but there were times when it was a sheer act of will to keep her eyes open long enough to grab another cup of coffee and wade through the liturgy.

"I guess that's Christmas for you," she says, echoing his tone if not his accent. They've had very different holidays, but each fond comfort and familiarity in what might be strange to the other. She politely refuses a second pint, covering the mouth of her glass with the flats of her fingers for a moment. A second and she might not make it back to her Lake View flat without incident. It took her a moment to count up the number of hours she'd been up, chasing the sun westward today.

"You'll let me know if I'm keeping you from closing, won't you?" she asks, but it's a politeness, not a way of ushering the conversation to a pre-emptive close. She'd had to ask if the kitchens were open. It seemed right to make sure she wasn't keeping him from his home for the evening.