Participants:
| Scene Title | An Innocent Meeting… |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | … between two people, starts the countdown to something that could be deadly for one of them. |
| Date | July 05, 2009 |
Cabin fever. It's not a good thing, when you have nothing to do for a long period of time, one tends to get fidgety. Claire has been holed up for so long, she just absolutely had to get out. Of course, the first place she thought of was Old Lucy's. A flash of her fake ID and Claire is eventually sitting at the bar, though of course it figures the tenders know she's too young. So she's left huddling in her hoodie, looking all dejected with a soda sitting in front of her. She'd personally rather be drinking, it tends to help dull that pain she's always feeling all over.
Aaron had hoped to apologize to Isabelle for his unexplained absence, but she wasn't there. In fact, the last time anyone had seen her was the first. Although it wasn't terribly unusual for her to be rarely scene, only in the shadows, now she's simply missing. Well, at least that puts off having to explain himself to more than Brenda. To his amusement, he missed the first few nights Old Lucy's — like many establishments — was open with its re-extended hours now that the curfew's been pushed back. He's just finished his last set of the night, somewhat earlier than usual on account of the sore throat that made singing nearly unbearable. It just figures that, after coming back from the brink, he'd catch a damned cold.
It's only a moment or two after taking a seat at the bar with his cup of green tea and honey that Aaron spots the unusually dark girl at the other end of the bar. His head tips to the side as he observes her moping, her posturing cutting her off from anyone not willing to inject themselves into her miserable little world. He flags over one of the bartenders to get another of whatever she's drinking and makes his way to the seat next to hers, where he lands himself with his tea. The new drink is slid to the left of Claire. "You look like you could use a refill," he says.
A bit surprised at a glass moves into her view, Claire blinks at it for a moment. Glancing over, a curious blue eye looks at him from around hair and the hood if her sweater. "Hey.. thanks, " she mutters looking away again. A hand, wrapped in a bandage lifts to push the hood off her head leaving somewhat messy brown hair behind. Looking at him again, her voice sounds somewhat defeated. "Heard you singing. Your pretty good." A glance is thrown over her shoulder to the stage.
"No problem," Aaron replies before he takes a sip of his tea. His eyes focus on the bandaged hand for a moment before they go back to the blue eyes that may speak of pain to those who know how to spot it in others — which he's getting good at since his ability lets him cheat — but for him that pain is made apparently in another way. "Should seat yourself next to the stage sometime. Far better show from there," he comments, taking a longer sip of his drink. "What happened to your hand, if you don't mind me asking?"
A small smile tugs at a corner of Claire's mouth as she looks him over, though the smile doesn't reach her eyes. "Maybe next time I come in," she offers non-committedly. Glancing at her hand, her flexes it slowly. "This? Not much. Scraped up my hand in during a self defense class." She pulls the offered drink close to her and lifts it for a sip. When she sets the glass down again she rubs her injured palm with her thumb, there is a bit of a wince as she presses against tender flesh.
"Speaking of which," Aaron says, getting up and leaving his tea whilst he retrieves his guitar in case. "If I leave this thing here, I'll go crazy when I'm back in my little hole in the wall." He takes a drink. "Truth be told, this place makes me weary," he shares, though he's not sure why. He knows why it makes him weary, but that he's not about to share. Instead, he omits a great deal of the reason and compresses it into, "I'm more of a classical person than rock. But it pays the bills — some of them, anyway." He rubs his hands together, "You should wear fighting gloves or something."
Watching him, Claire takes another drink of soda. "Classical?" she asks sounding a touch amused, a small wrinkling of her nose. "Not really the classical type myself." She tucks brown locks behind her ear. "Well.. it's kinda strange," she starts, looking at her hand again. "It wasn't that bad when I scraped it." She pulls away the wrapping a bit, the skin flush under it. "Guess I didn't clean it out enough." There is a shrug, "So how long have you be playing? i think the closest I have ever gotten to music is some Karoke. "
"For about nineteen years," Aaron says, his eyes examining what he can glimpse of the wound. "Well, I started singing at six, did some soloist work in church and school choir, then started to branch out and do competitions. Learned the piano at eight, guitar at eleven, violin at thirteen." He takes a sip of his tea. "It's not as impressive as it sounds. The violin, as beautiful as it is, is a pain in the ass to play. Pardon my language." He spins his guitar-in-case around a bit from its position on the floor.
"It's not that I don't like rock — don't get me wrong, there are some absolutely moving pieces — and classical isn't for everyone. I have fairly eclectic taste and a great deal of respect for the craft, but when you play light rock four hours a day for three or four days a week and you're just not feeling the music anymore, it can get rather cloying. It's the equivalent of doing a job you don't believe in. I started doing Latin choir, love so many Italian operas, a lot of Spanish songs, and the so-called popular opera — popera — that has cropped up in recent years, with the exception of the high school band, rock's never been a big part of my life — and it only was because they wanted it. The lighter music, the greater vocal work, that's what I used to do, and this feels like it's taking me more away from my goal than helping me get there, if that makes sense." He rests the guitar against the base of the bar in front of his stool. His eye goes back to the injured hand as he clears his throat. "You really should get that looked at."
Wrapping both hands around the glass in front of her, Claire listens to him. By time he's done, she is actually smiling. "I'll… have to take your word for it. Though, is the money really worth your happiness?" There is a raise of her brows as she asks it, the drink coming to her lips again. There is a shake of her head at the last thing. "No need. It's only a scrape. I'll pour some more peroxide on it when I get home."
She turns in her stool to look at him, her movement is slow as if her whole body aches. "So.. I mean.. Is it really worth it? If you didn't have to pay the bills." She considers him and leans toward him a bit, as she asks, "..what would you do?" Yes, her attempt to get the subject off her hand.
"That, is the question," Aaron says, finishing off his tea and facing forward, rather than at Claire. "I'm so wrapped up in things right now that I'm not even sure I could write. I used to, and truly I should start doing it again. It's a like a muscle — you don't work it and it atrophies. Of course, without the proper inspiration, songwriting always was like trying to draw blood from a stone."
"Sounds like you need some writing therapy," Claire says with an actual smile. Resting an elbow on the bar and leaning against it, she glances out over the bar as it thins, people starting to head home. "I mean, like you know… physical therapy for your brain." Looking at the bar top, she rolls her eyes a bit and grins. "Sounded better in my head," she states honestly.
"Things often do. You should try writing lyrics. They almost always sound better in your head," Aaron says with a grin. He gives a bit of a yawn, also noticing the patrons thinning. "I should probably head back to my hole, myself." he says before offering his hand. "I'm Aaron by the way. Aaron Michaels."
Claire glance around again and nods. "I should get back too." She looks a bit sheepish, "Staying with some friends. Their gonna wonder where I am before long, I'm sure." Her good hand slides into his, giving it a small shake. "Claire. Claire Bennet." Letting go first she lifts the soda. "Thanks again for the drink." She takes a deeper drink, before setting it down and sliding off the stool, stifling a groan. She still doesn't know how people can live this way every day. "It was nice talking to you. Maybe we'll run into each other again." She motions to the stage with a hand, before pushing both into her jean pockets. "Since you sing here."
"Nice to meet you, Claire, and you can probably count on it," Aaron says. "Sit by the stage next time," he says with a crooked grin before setting his empty tea mug down and pulling his guitar up. "Have a good night."
"You too." Claire says with a little sigh nod, before she turns for the door. She pauses and turns back and considers. "I think you should at least try to write. Before you completely lose it. Cause once it's gone you'll really miss it." That little bit of wisdom given she heads for the door.
Of course, little known to either of them that their simple exchange will probably be Claire's downfall. Even as she walks away the virus is working it's way into her compromised system.
The countdown has started…