Molly Toombs
As
of recent events, Molly has stopped going out to the bar with her
college friends on Friday nights. The last time she had the hard
realization that she couldn't genuinely socialize with them on many
levels anymore, not since she'd waded waist-deep into the River of the
Dead, so to speak. The whole thing ended in drunken sadness and the
prelude to betrayal. She wasn't interested in repeating that again.
She
didn't go out to bars with her college friends anymore, but that didn't
mean that it was impossible to find Molly at a bar these days. Take
tonight for instance-- it's a Tuesday night, and the day had been warm
and beautiful with skies bright blue and the sun shining bright. Molly
had grown restless in her apartment and spent most of the day outside,
taking the puppy along with to stretch her legs. When she'd returned
with the exhausted pup she stuck around the home for perhaps two hours
before wanting to be free of the walls once more.
So, she'd dressed up and taken herself out on a date.
This
brought her to where she was now-- sitting at the end of the bar
further from the door, sipping some tequila drink or another. The bar
itself was one of many in the Downtown area, not much different from the
rest. Decorated in tones of wood and red with soft lighting-- not the
type of bar with a pool table in the middle of it, but rather with a
patio and string lights and such.
Thus far Molly's eyes being on
the back of a menu and keeping her body language inclusive had done a
fine job of keeping her left alone. That could only be a matter of
time, though.
Finch
Places like these are filled
with débutantes high on whatever designer drug was presently flooding
the streets. They were easy to spot by the way they danced with abandon
or their obnoxious and jittery behaviour. Their pupils either swollen to
devour the iris or drawn small into pinpricks. While Molly understands
her limitations and tries not to exceed them, Finch is all about pushing
them. Which is what he's doing tonight.
Albeit not intentionally.
Molly
likely doesn't even see Finch at first. The dapper young man in the
always pressed fine suit with the neatly quaffed hair would be the thing
that alerted the human to his presence. But he isn't that tonight.
She's at the end of the bar, furthest from the door and Finch is at a
booth with a brunette and a red head.
The talk at the bar is about
that particular booth and the things that might be happening within it.
And out of curiosity should Molly look she'd see a dishevelled man that
looks a whole lot like Finch. The jacket is missing, the suit shirt is
there though unbuttoned. His hair is a wild mess of dirty blond spikes
of hair.
Eventually he climbs out, the brunette flops back in the
booth and the red head is tugging on his hand, her voice lost beneath
the chorus of voices and beat of music.
Finch's walk is unsteady.
He buttons up his shirt, but the holes and buttons aren't aligned
properly. His lips are ruddy red and his skin faintly flushed but mostly
pale. The pad of one thumb rubs at his eye as finds solid safe ground
at the bar. Leaning in, he says something nearly slurred to the woman
behind the bar, not even having noticed Molly just yet.
Molly Toombs
There
were always sloppy women to be found in bars, and Molly largely made a
point of ignoring them. They didn't ever seem to be interested in her
so she didn't have to worry about fending them off or keeping them at
bay, and she didn't particularly seek their company out either, for
social or romantic reasons. All in all she just kept her eyes on people
if she felt them staring at her too long, but that didn't seem to be an
issue tonight.
She was minding her own business, really, until a
familiar profile came into view at the corner of her eye to her right.
Not immediately to her right, no, but a couple of stools down. She
glanced at first, then did a double-take and studied the face. The
hair, build, dress clothes all matched, but he looked something of a
mess. Unsteady, leaning against the counter, hair mussed and tie either
askew or absent with his shirt untucked.
She herself was dressed
like she respected her public image. She was taking herself out, after
all. She wore a form-fitted black dress with capped sleeves and a
hemline that stopped mid-thigh. Pale pink heels and jewelry to match,
with her hair done back in a neat up-do. Her make-up was neat as well,
present but not overwhelming. She looked dolled up without being decked
out. She was a classy girl that way.
But she still looked moderately confused when she leaned to the side, staring at the side of Finch's face, and asked: "Finch?"
Finch
He's
at the bar out of habit. Once there the woman behind the bar doesn't
even know what he wants and can't understand what he says. She parts
ways with a, hey buddy you probably should call it a night. He
isn't paying Molly a lick of attention, not until she leans in and
studies him then says his name with more than a hint of disbelief
infecting her tone when she says it. His head swivels quick, too quick,
to pin her with a gaze that says something isn't quite right. Red polka
dots colour his collar and he stares at Molly long and hard before his
brain tugs out who she is from a collection of recently formed memories.
"Molly!"
Her name comes out exaggerated, like he's not entirely sure if that's
the proper response to seeing her, but goes with it anyway. "My, you
look...very lovely tonight." A hand tries to put order to that unruly
head of hair he has and from there he attempts to sit straight his
shirt.
"I must...say..." he starts, chin dipped toward his chest
as he continues to slide the button in the correct hole. "...I am
quite...glad to see your..." A pause as he just smooths it down and
gives up on the buttoning.
"...face."
Molly Toombs
"Ordinarily
I'd expect to be able to say the same about you," was Molly's answer to
Finch's compliment about her appearance. She raised her eyebrows at
him, expression surprised and watchful both. She noticed the dots at
his collar, the red to his lips, but didn't say anything (of course she
didn't, they were in public with many people around them). She did slip
down off the stool onto her high-heeled shoes and pick up her drink so
that she could walk to stand nearer, though.
It seemed that
whatever note their last conversation may have ended on hadn't left a
sour note in her ears. Or she was pretending that it hadn't for the
sake of safety and alliances and networking. It was really sometimes
very difficult to say what precisely motivated this oddly informed
mortal woman.
She came to stand a few feet away and sipped her
drink from the delicate margarita glass before letting it rest on the
bar counter beside her. She had yet to see where he came from, so she
didn't look back to the table of women-- hadn't noticed them at all.
She was looking at Finch like she wasn't sure if she should try to offer
to drive him home or if she should be treating him like he was caught
with his hand in the cookie jar.
So, she sufficed for asking: "Are you okay?"
Finch
His
eyes take all of her in more thoroughly as she stands up, dainty drink
in hand. The shirt is no where near buttoned right but he just keeps
smoothing it down as if he were some sort of magician and after enough
passes of his hand, voilà - it would be corrected.
"You're
glad to see me too?" Finch's mouth twists into a sly, charismatic smile
like the man who sold the world. "I know, I think..." He begins, frowns
and then looks up at her face again. "I think maybe my meal didn't
agree with me." There's little concern for the sheep around them, for
any that might question the little red drips on his collar or the
brunette who's slumped over in the booth because Finch had just a little
too much. She'll live and be just a little worse for wear. Not that
he's concerned, or at least he's only concerned in so far as it may
effect him.
"Do you have a date, Molly?" He asks her with a cock of his head to one side, curious. "Did you come with your special friend?"
Molly Toombs
The
inquiry as to whether she was glad to see him or not was met with a
sound that was neither affirmative nor negative. Simply a 'Hmm' that
she didn't expound upon. He smiled and confessed that his meal may not
have agreed with him while he was still smoothing his shirt over and
over like he hoped it would fix it. Each time he looked up to her face
he'd find a new flavor to it, a new cast of expression. She seemed
concerned when she noticed his fussing with his shirt accomplishing
nothing, but when he glanced up again she looked skeptical, suspicious
once more. That was after he'd confessed about his meal.
At this
point Molly glanced over her shoulder, looked around the bar with a
quick cursory sweep of clear blue eyes. The woman slumped over in her
booth wasn't hard to miss. The nurse's eyebrows hopped up at that
discovery, and she turned to look back to Finch once again. At this
point he was inquiring about her date.
Though she heard the
question, she chose to ignore it and instead reached for her drink,
closed her eyes, and tipped her head back for a good long drink-- not
enough to kill it, not chugging, but easily halving the contents of the
glass before she chose to abandon it on the counter. A ten dollar bill
pulled free from some pocket or hidey-hole for belongings in the dress
was tucked under the glass, and she waved a brief thanks to the
bartender before addressing Finch at last.
"I brought myself. May I walk you out?"
Finch
"Molly..."
His tone takes on a coercive tone, like a child scorned by a parent
who's hoping to weaken their ire. The shirt isn't fixing itself and
whatever the woman imbibed has left Finch both vulnerable and out of
sorts. "You only just arrived and you look so pretty." he doesn't pay
much attention to her eyes as they take in the bar or her brows as they
hitch up, aghast at the idea of what he might have done.
"Come on,
I'll walk you out." Because that's the male's part in any interaction
with a female. He holds the door open for her and lets a soft ahhhhhhhhh go when the light of the full moon hits his skin along with a rush of cool night air.
"One
of these days." His hand steadies him on a nearby lamp post and he
shakes his head. "One of these days Molly, I'm gonna give it all up." Is
said with a wave of one hand, like he could wipe whatever 'it' is away
with the motion.
Molly Toombs
There was a moment
of lament for Molly's choosing to leave so early, what with her nice
dress and how well it complimented her body type and how pretty the pink
earrings and shoes were-- how she'd wisely opted for a pale coral shade
of pink rather than anything bright, for she knew how pink behaved with
red hair and freckles. It was as fickle a beast as those that Molly
walked beside in the night for reasons that stumped and frustrated
friends to the point of giving up on her.
The offer was turned
about-- he would walk her out, not the other way around. Molly nodded,
apparently fine with playing along with that idea as well, and
accompanied the young vampire while he escorted her down the bar and to
the front door.
Once out on the sidewalk, Molly glanced left and
right both, scoping out the sidewalk. It was a Tuesday night-- they
weren't completely alone because that was difficult to accomplish
Downtown but the nearest people were a ways up the block. No one else
was hearing Finch wax poetic to the full moon and mortal woman about
giving it all up. Fewer ears and less attention out here, which was
probably a good first step given the undead man's condition. She flexed
her eyebrows in a frown and folded her arms overtop her stomach, but
her heels still click-clicked on the pavement as she stepped slowly
nearer to Finch and his supporting lamp post.
"What, do you mean
shuffle yourself off the immortal coil?" She sounded skeptical, like
she didn't believe it was at all likely that was what he was referring
to. Her right hand extended, but not low enough to be reaching for his
hand. She looked like she was asking for his elbow instead. Planning
on taking him someplace, off the sidewalk and away from public probably
given his state. "Come on."
Finch
If he had it in
his dead heart to feel bad, he just might. He might feel downright
awful for ruining Molly Toombs night. But as it is, his heart and the
emotions in it are often as dead as his body is, animated only by force
or extreme moments of anger...or times like these when the consumption
of tainted blood made him feel all together human again.
He even wills blood to course through his veins and pump through his heart, flushing him further and warming his skin.
"We
aren't capable of that." He says with a little fondness. "Self
preservation rides us like a monkey on our back. I might want to take one last walk in the sun, but my body won't let me." A pause as she
reaches for his elbow or arm. He crooks it, allowing this. "No, I
mean...this...fucking addiction. You think in death all that leaves you? It doesn't. The body changes but the mind doesn't."
"Each man has a way to betray the revolution. Maybe this is mine."
Molly Toombs
With
the elbow offered after that brief pause of consideration, Molly
slipped her fingers into its crook and started walking. The heels
shortened her steps, so she wasn't moving particularly quick. It was an
easy enough pace to accompany. Hell, it could even look like they were
out for a casual stroll from a distance, but then you'd get close
enough to realize that the light-haired gentleman was actually being
humored and guided back out of the public eye. Perhaps too drunk, or
something like that.
She noted the warmth through his shirt
sleeve, but didn't speak to it. She knew this was a trick vampires
could use. She didn't question an inebriated man's motivation for what
they did, so there was no sense in wondering after his reason for
putting forward the effort to feign life right now. It was better to
talk-- Finch was in a talking mood tonight, after all, and Molly was
always willing to listen (for what could be gleaned from what she was
told).
"Ahhh," she vocalized, expressing understanding. Noting
that vampires apparently physically couldn't end their own lives, and
also noting that they could suffer addiction. More to the point, that
Finch did apparently. This had her looking up at his face while she
walked him up along the sidewalk, considering him almost sympathetically.
"So,
a lush in life translates to a lush after life." Her lips pressed
together and she was thoughtful for a moment before continuing. "How
does a man like yourself kick such addictions, then? I'm sure they
don't exactly make a Chantix for this."
Finch
They
walk, he manages and is grateful that Molly has heels on and isn't
walking particularly fast at the moment. Despite all of his lacking
faculties at the moment, he doesn't believe for a moment that Molly
Toombs gives a fuck what happens to him. He was, at most, an
inconvenience and this seemed to be acceptable to him because he hasn't
drained her dry or worse.
"Yeah." But he adds quickly, "But what
do I know? I don't know shit, Molly." That makes him laugh and he cocks
his head to look at her. "Willpower? Age? I don't know. Maybe I can't."
The thought makes him frown, the idea of being weak and vulnerable only
deepens that frown.
"Whatever that girl took, I don't think it was
good." The heels of his hands rub at his eyeballs, his feet stopping
their movement while he has a moment to steady himself.
"Thanks
for letting me walk you out, Miss Toombs." He says, smiling wide and
letting her see the faint peaks of his fangs. "You really do look very
pretty." And just like that Finch is gone. She can see the blur of him
moving with astonishing speed from where he once stood to a corridor and
disappear into the dark passageway.
No comments:
Post a Comment