You're a shit, did you know? [ of course you did. which doesn't make him any less ready to at least marginally profit off the near inevitable drawing out of his own misery ] See you there.
[It's a gay bar in the new quarter, oddly (or perhaps not, given how flexible the city's intake seem to be) one of the only establishments of its kind. A rainbow flag flies over the door and the obligatory Minogue classic filters out into the street. The drag queen at the door has six inch stilettos and a full beard. She raises her eyebrows in bored recognition at John's name and nods him through with a sigh of Grecian 2000, darling. Your temples will thank me.
Freddie's at the bar, kneeling up on a stool and leaning halfway onto it, laughing with a shot glass caught between his teeth. He spots John the way you'd spot a black sheep in an ivory herd, and swallows the drink with a backward tilt of his head.]
[ spend enough time living in central London and being tiredly advised by a drag queen to do something about your hair stops being anything you're going to take to heart. he passes her with a nod and a smile, makes a mental note, makes another mental note to ignore his mental note, and carries on inside.
he's out of his depth. of course he is. his wardrobe varies from oatmeal jumper to black and white thick horizontal striped shirt and right back around to the coveted shirt/cardigan combo. recently, downtime has consisted of crossword puzzles and drinking whisky alone at his kitchen table. he absolutely doesn't have a place here.
but if there's one thing John's particularly good at, loves, it's being just the right amount of out of his depth. out of place - most importantly, out of routine. here, it pulls him up a little taller. his back's straighter, chest wider, chin held and proud: confidence goes reflected, as it often does, in old habits, the dull echos of a soldier. he's still John Watson as he makes his way across what's left of the distance towards Freddie, still dad shirt and jacket and jeans, but he's easier. has a sense of some tightness come loose and starting to re-coil in a more comfortable shape.
any earlier frustrations are forgotten. but it's the principle, isn't it, and it's that principle which John holds onto as he comes to a halt at the bar, one eyebrow already raised in reprimand - the whole thing negated by the crook of a smile at the corner of his mouth. ]
[The cardigan's the perfect touch. Most people in here are just the right side of trashed to take him for the oldest hipster in the world - that's the ones who notice him at all. It's impressive, the internal filter some people operate: it's as if anyone over thirty doesn't exist. Freddie only pretends to function the same way, though the grin he gives John as he joins him could completely fuck up his reputation.]
Don't worry, I saved some for you.
[Three glasses clink between the splay of his fingers, ever so carefully held in balance through the upheaval as Freddie twists off his knees to sit somewhat less precariously on the edge of the stool. It's clear why he's being plied with drinks just to show up here, and it's not because he fits, either, because people who fit just blend into the crowd and Freddie's entire existence is an abrupt refusal to blend.
He's bait. He's the bright light luring little minnows into the mouth of the big fish. And John's probably not what the club owners had in mind by way of minnows, but here he is.
Freddie raises his eyebrows expectantly.]
Though, I wasn't sure you'd actually show up. [But it's a point in his favour that he did: a shiny new badge of merit to add to all the others won in service. One more thing Freddie, in his way, likes.]
You put the words "free" and "drinks" next to each other. I'm a cheap date. [ if it's got him to meet and greets, it'll get him down here. that's not the all of it, of course, but it's the first part of a job well done, and maybe John should be paying attention to those warning signs, alcohol and you're there, John, but you're 25 anymore. maybe. but that wasn't the all of it. bigger was the lure of the new, of the somewhere else to be. spontaneity doesn't crop up as often as he's used to it and there are worse people to step into unfamiliar territory on the summons of than Freddie Baxter.
considerably worse people. John nods his head with raised brow in Freddie's direction in recognition of the neat balancing act just performed (well done, bravo) and then reaches out to pluck up one of those carefully delivered shots. it's necked back immediately, glass abandoned to the bar - he takes a pew himself, perched in a way that's infinitely more pub than club, but what can you do. ] It was this or a crossword, and seven across is giving me grief.
[ true or not, it's play. he was happy to get the invite. for better or for worse, Freddie's company sits in a sparely populated space: he wouldn't have come over here at just anyone's offer. ]
[The crossword line makes Freddie laugh, as no doubt it was designed to. And predictable lines get a predictable response - they've all got to play their parts here, after all.]
The crossword, Jesus Christ. So like, biologically, is there a day when you wake up and you're like... that's it, my life's over, it's all crosswords and gardening and radio 4 from here on? Just a slow crawl to the cemetery? I need to know so I can shoot myself the night before. Next one.
[Shot two, held on his palm like the laying out of weaponry for a duel. He drinks it that way, too, dipping his head to press a kiss to the glass and tip it back hands-free again. There's nothing more embarrassing than sipping a shot. He bites down on the glass, worrying it for the last drop before setting it down. His yes are bright, focus perhaps a little soft.]
[ John bounces the chuckle back at Freddie's parried response, and not for the first time wonders why his wiring's so finely hooked up to make the slightest thing horrible. he can pinpoint his day down to the date. can feel the weight of the gun in his hand, too.
still grinning, fresh from watching Freddie's shot sent down the hatch, John plucks up his own and sends it back - just a quick tilt of his head and flick of his wrist, none of your fancy hands free lip service. ]
'Fraid there's no easy answer. You're just going to have to get old like the rest of us. [ it's not all bad. getting old like the rest of us, in some cases, can be an incredibly exhilarating experience. it does get him to thinking, though, and one elbow is lifted to rest on the bar so he can settle his chin into the fingers of one hand, get a good angle for squinting at him. ] Wonder how middle age will look on you.
It won't. [See, there's a very simple answer to that - and it's not intended to be fatalistic, exactly, Freddie just doesn't think in futures and, if he did, one that saw him getting old would be unthinkable. What's middle age, anyway, two decades away? That's ages, he'll be done with living by then.] Never going to happen, John, I'll just stop.
[Well, if anyone could it might be the boy who already looks close to a decade younger than his actual age, given the right light. He skips the third shot for now, swiping at a beer bottle standing sentinel over the rest of the glasses and taking a swallow to wash the burn of the last one down.]
Thirty-five, though, I could go to that and still be fit. [There's a question in that statement, but he won't ask it directly. It says something, though, that this is what he marks the duration of his life in.] I mean actually fit, not deluded, sucking in a paunch and clipping my nosehair fit. Like some of these.
[An elbow casually gestures toward the remainder of the bar. Present company excepted, John, of course.]
Thirty-five's not a bad age. Forty's not a bad age, for some people, if you're not trying to be something you're not. That's what I like about you.
[He bites his lip, the taste of liquor still overpowering the beer.]
'Course you will. [ and perhaps he might. some people are born to. not him: too much of a cockroach to slip out quietly at the given hour... but Freddie? he can't tell. maybe. right now it's almost a probably, but he's got a lot of time between now and then.
John scoffs; at I could still be fit, at the sweeping knock down of every last sorry sod unfortunate enough to exist in the vicinity. less because it's funny, which it is in its own way, but more because he's relentless. absolutely relentless. onwards and onwards and on, no room for apology. fresh air, but a gust of it. so much that it goes swallowed instead of inhaled. ]
Oh yeah? [ a quirk of one eyebrow doesn't quite bother to be offended, a roof for his ghosting smile. ] That's a flattering assessment.
[ "not sad". that's a statement and a half. a whole host of potential meanings to be eked out of two words and - genuinely flattering, perhaps, in that any one of them means a battle fought and won. from what he's learned of him Freddie doesn't do flattery, not in the way some people do, not sad being a perfect example and not completely its perfect follow up, and so it's that much easier to trust.
somebody thinks he's got his shit somewhat together. always good to hear.
... he shouldn't ask. there's a hanging half-breath of silence in which he knows he absolutely shouldn't ask - ] What am I, then?
[ other than a merry subject of the things I absolutely shouldn't do. ]
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Couldn't say. You'd have to check with our sexual health team.
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I don't know, might take two gallons. What do you think?
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See, now I'm rethinking water based.
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When did you become an official orgyniser?
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Freddie's at the bar, kneeling up on a stool and leaning halfway onto it, laughing with a shot glass caught between his teeth. He spots John the way you'd spot a black sheep in an ivory herd, and swallows the drink with a backward tilt of his head.]
John! Come over, I've been lining them up.
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he's out of his depth. of course he is. his wardrobe varies from oatmeal jumper to black and white thick horizontal striped shirt and right back around to the coveted shirt/cardigan combo. recently, downtime has consisted of crossword puzzles and drinking whisky alone at his kitchen table. he absolutely doesn't have a place here.
but if there's one thing John's particularly good at, loves, it's being just the right amount of out of his depth. out of place - most importantly, out of routine. here, it pulls him up a little taller. his back's straighter, chest wider, chin held and proud: confidence goes reflected, as it often does, in old habits, the dull echos of a soldier. he's still John Watson as he makes his way across what's left of the distance towards Freddie, still dad shirt and jacket and jeans, but he's easier. has a sense of some tightness come loose and starting to re-coil in a more comfortable shape.
any earlier frustrations are forgotten. but it's the principle, isn't it, and it's that principle which John holds onto as he comes to a halt at the bar, one eyebrow already raised in reprimand - the whole thing negated by the crook of a smile at the corner of his mouth. ]
Yeah? Finished them all yet?
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Don't worry, I saved some for you.
[Three glasses clink between the splay of his fingers, ever so carefully held in balance through the upheaval as Freddie twists off his knees to sit somewhat less precariously on the edge of the stool. It's clear why he's being plied with drinks just to show up here, and it's not because he fits, either, because people who fit just blend into the crowd and Freddie's entire existence is an abrupt refusal to blend.
He's bait. He's the bright light luring little minnows into the mouth of the big fish. And John's probably not what the club owners had in mind by way of minnows, but here he is.
Freddie raises his eyebrows expectantly.]
Though, I wasn't sure you'd actually show up. [But it's a point in his favour that he did: a shiny new badge of merit to add to all the others won in service. One more thing Freddie, in his way, likes.]
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considerably worse people. John nods his head with raised brow in Freddie's direction in recognition of the neat balancing act just performed (well done, bravo) and then reaches out to pluck up one of those carefully delivered shots. it's necked back immediately, glass abandoned to the bar - he takes a pew himself, perched in a way that's infinitely more pub than club, but what can you do. ] It was this or a crossword, and seven across is giving me grief.
[ true or not, it's play. he was happy to get the invite. for better or for worse, Freddie's company sits in a sparely populated space: he wouldn't have come over here at just anyone's offer. ]
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The crossword, Jesus Christ. So like, biologically, is there a day when you wake up and you're like... that's it, my life's over, it's all crosswords and gardening and radio 4 from here on? Just a slow crawl to the cemetery? I need to know so I can shoot myself the night before. Next one.
[Shot two, held on his palm like the laying out of weaponry for a duel. He drinks it that way, too, dipping his head to press a kiss to the glass and tip it back hands-free again. There's nothing more embarrassing than sipping a shot. He bites down on the glass, worrying it for the last drop before setting it down. His yes are bright, focus perhaps a little soft.]
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still grinning, fresh from watching Freddie's shot sent down the hatch, John plucks up his own and sends it back - just a quick tilt of his head and flick of his wrist, none of your fancy hands free lip service. ]
'Fraid there's no easy answer. You're just going to have to get old like the rest of us. [ it's not all bad. getting old like the rest of us, in some cases, can be an incredibly exhilarating experience. it does get him to thinking, though, and one elbow is lifted to rest on the bar so he can settle his chin into the fingers of one hand, get a good angle for squinting at him. ] Wonder how middle age will look on you.
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[Well, if anyone could it might be the boy who already looks close to a decade younger than his actual age, given the right light. He skips the third shot for now, swiping at a beer bottle standing sentinel over the rest of the glasses and taking a swallow to wash the burn of the last one down.]
Thirty-five, though, I could go to that and still be fit. [There's a question in that statement, but he won't ask it directly. It says something, though, that this is what he marks the duration of his life in.] I mean actually fit, not deluded, sucking in a paunch and clipping my nosehair fit. Like some of these.
[An elbow casually gestures toward the remainder of the bar. Present company excepted, John, of course.]
Thirty-five's not a bad age. Forty's not a bad age, for some people, if you're not trying to be something you're not. That's what I like about you.
[He bites his lip, the taste of liquor still overpowering the beer.]
You're not sad. Well. Not completely.
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John scoffs; at I could still be fit, at the sweeping knock down of every last sorry sod unfortunate enough to exist in the vicinity. less because it's funny, which it is in its own way, but more because he's relentless. absolutely relentless. onwards and onwards and on, no room for apology. fresh air, but a gust of it. so much that it goes swallowed instead of inhaled. ]
Oh yeah? [ a quirk of one eyebrow doesn't quite bother to be offended, a roof for his ghosting smile. ] That's a flattering assessment.
[ "not sad". that's a statement and a half. a whole host of potential meanings to be eked out of two words and - genuinely flattering, perhaps, in that any one of them means a battle fought and won. from what he's learned of him Freddie doesn't do flattery, not in the way some people do, not sad being a perfect example and not completely its perfect follow up, and so it's that much easier to trust.
somebody thinks he's got his shit somewhat together. always good to hear.
... he shouldn't ask. there's a hanging half-breath of silence in which he knows he absolutely shouldn't ask - ] What am I, then?
[ other than a merry subject of the things I absolutely shouldn't do. ]
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