Acceptable, At Best :: Galen

5 Jan 1924
7:30pm

Rain.

Of course it was raining.

Not the gentle coastal mist Brittany had been known for, but a full London downpour. It seemed determined to soak through even magically dried robes. Everything felt damp. Best get used to it, she thought.

By the time Odette stepped beneath the awning of The Silver Cork, she'd already decided England had far too much weather and not nearly enough sun. And it had only been two days.

"Mon Dieu..."

The words escaped beneath her breath as her umbrella folded in on itself, shaking all water as it went. The day had been one long disappointment after another. One cottage had been impossibly small. When you can’t open the oven door and the bathroom door at the same time, it was a problem.

Another was far too close to Knockturn Alley for her liking. A third had somehow managed to have both a leaking roof and a massive asking price.

Nothing suitable. Not for her and certainly not for Coralie.

With a quiet sigh, she removed her gloves one finger at a time, setting them on the bartop before removing her simple wool hat. Her hair was in a simple loose bun at the back of her neck, perfectly in place. Taking off her cloak next, she hung it up on the coat rack at the end of the bar. Her hands made one final pass over her shirt and skirt, smoothing wrinkles that weren't there. There were none, of course. Habits, however, were difficult to break.

The warmth inside the bar was a welcome change to the damp London streets. It smelled of oak, old ale, and the distinct scent of wine. Pleasant, like home. Although, it was... loud.

Odette's blue eyes swept across the room looking at the patrons and waitresses flowing between tables. It was like a dance, while balancing breakable glassware on small flat trays.

There were a few empty tables, a roaring fire in the hearth, couples cuddling and businessmen discussing… whatever it was that business men discussed. At the bar, there were a few empty seats, including the ones next to her.

Taking out her leatherbound notebook, Odette looked over the list of six addresses in beautiful handwriting. Three had already been crossed off. Assessing the other three, she crossed off a fourth after remembering the drafty windows, loud neighbors and smell that even after muttering a few spells, remained pungent.

"Enfin."

There had to be a suitable home somewhere in this country. Preferably one that didn't leak, smell, or threaten to collapse every time the wind changed direction.

Until then, she intended to enjoy one quiet glass of wine before returning to her hotel, then starting the day out fresh tomorrow. Maybe two glasses.

”Hello Miss, what can I getcha?”

Giving the woman a reserved smile, "You're house Merlot, and the cheese board, s'il vous plaît. Merci. "

With a sigh, while waiting for her dinner, she continued looking through the paper for more homes to see the following day. Consumed by the listings, she didn’t notice the stool next to her gaining an occupant.

---

OOC: she speaks perfect English in a thick French accent
Mon Dieu: My God
Enfin: Anyway
s'il vous plaît: Please
Merci: Thank you

The Silver Cork was not his usual establishment, which was exactly why he chose it tonight.

Galen pushed through the door, shaking rain from his coat without particular care. He was not a man who minded the weather as a rule, but tonight it felt pointed. He left his coat on out of habit and found a seat at the bar, one stool away from a woman who appeared to be making decisions about a list of some kind.

Just before sitting, someone took that stool. So Galen sighed and misdirected, sitting right next to the woman instead.

He did not look at her directly. He looked at the bar, at the bottles behind it, at the amber of the whiskey the man two seats down was drinking.

“Scotch,” he said when the barmaid came. He didn’t specify further, which was not something he normally did.

The glass arrived. He turned it once on the bar, the way he always did, and did not drink it immediately. The evening sat on him: the dinner, his father’s voice, the silence that had followed it. Duncan MacLean had never needed to raise his voice to end a conversation.

He became aware, gradually, that the woman beside him smelled of something French and was crossing items off her list with the dissatisfaction of someone having a worse day than him.

He said nothing, and picked up his glass.

Odette was two glasses in, with half the cheeseboard gone. The wine warming her with a mix of fruit and spice. She could feel the subtle tingle of tipsy fighting to take hold. Her body needed more than cheese and crackers, but it was too late for a heavy meal.

As the stool next to her gained an occupant, she felt him before her eyes took him in.

”Scotch.”

His voice was low, gruff and held the mix of accents that she couldn’t place. English? Maybe Scottish?

Odette kept to herself, sipping her wine and taking another piece of cheese. They paired beautifully. As she reached for a cracker on the decorative board, a small red grape fell off the side and rolled straight toward the stranger before bouncing neatly into his lap.

Odette wanted to reach for it, but withdrew her hand seconds before making a very forward and very inappropriate invasion of his personal space.

”Je suis vraiment désolé! Oh, I am so sorry.” Odette said as an apology in a deep French accent. She was more embarrassed by the near touch than the fruit assaulting him. Especially after turning towards him and noticing many things all at once.

He was older than her by several years. Broad shoulders and a rugged build filled out his jacket well… Very well.

He had strong features, deep blue eyes, and a defined jawline covered in the day’s stubble. For a brief second her mind went to him needing a shave, but on second thought… Perhaps not.

Offering him a small awkward smile she tried to apologize once again. ”I am very sorry sir. I didn’t mean to… throw fruit at you.” She smacked her head internally, thinking maybe two glasses of wine were enough for the evening.

---

Je suis vraiment désolé: I am truly sorry

The grape landed in his lap with a dignity it hadn’t earned, almost as it if had chosen that specific spot.

Galen looked down at it, then up at her.

She was already apologizing, first in French then English, and her expression was caught between mortification and the helplessness of someone watching a situation unfold that they could not stop. He regarded her for a moment, unhurried, then picked the grape up between two fingers and set it on the bar beside his glass with the same deliberateness he applied to everything else.

The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile. Close enough that he noticed it and did nothing to stop it, which was unusual.

He blamed the events before stopping at the Silver Cork.

It had been a long evening. A grape in his lap was, objectively, the most interesting thing that had happened since he left his mother’s table.

“You didn’t throw it,” he said. His voice was even, the Scottish undertone more present than it usually was. “It rolled.”

He picked up his glass and drank a bit more than his usual amount in one pull, and set it back down.

“There’s a difference.” A beat. His blue eyes moved briefly to her wine glass, her notebook, the crossed-off list beside it. “Are you having a worse evening than me, or does it only look that way?”

The knot in her stomach loosened slightly as he picked up the grape, setting it on the bar top without making it an issue.

“You didn’t throw it. It rolled.” The faintest smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. His accent was still hard to place. Scottish was there, but it was more than that.

”While that is true, it was mine to control and I obviously failed. I will attempt to better control my fruit from this point forward.” She said, turning away from the man. Color blushing her cheeks, embarrassed at the events thus far.

“Are you having a worse evening than me, or does it only look that way?” Her eyes followed his to the notebook resting on the bar. Four addresses were crossed out, bringing a sense of dread. It had been a rather brutal day.

Odette exhaled a quiet breath through her nose. She considered his question before answering. ”I have spent the entire day looking for a home. Four viewings. Four disappointments.”

Turning back towards the stranger, she shrugged. ”One cottage was so miniscule that the oven door and bathroom door couldn’t be open at the same time. And that was the most charming of the four.”

Her fingers closed around the stem of her wine glass, lifting it to her lips for another sip. ”Mine does not include assault by produce, so I fear I’m probably winning.” She said with a smile as she emptied the glass.

Making eye contact with the bartender, she lifted the empty glass, signaling another.

Should she have another glass? Absolutely not, but for the first time since arriving in England, she was actually having a good time.

"Assuming your poor evening started prior to entering the bar, I doubt it has anything to do with oven doors."