babyjosephine: (Default)
[personal profile] babyjosephine
Late 1961

It wasn't that she hadn't been invited. It was that she hadn't been planning to go until Mallory and Vi begged her. And the both Mallory and Vi had to work and couldn't make it in time and neither were interested in fashionably late entrances. They wanted to stare at Robert for the full duration. They also wanted Alice to stare at Robert for the full duration because it had been almost three years since they first encountered him and in those three years, Alice had heard of nothing but him. He was almost a mythological creature, really. A name instead of an actual person. She had almost stopped believing he existed.

Her mother hired a driver to take her up to Manchester. Randolf was due at another function with the company and her parents couldn't attend. This would be the first time Alice was going anywhere completely alone without any connections at all, except her name and her family. But her name and her family was somehow relevant to every party. She didn't feel overwhelmed, just nervous. She wasn't interested in being the center of attention.

Dressed in a dark green cocktail dress, with dark green, almost black gloves to match, she looked like the center of attention, in any case. Their family's driver gave her dark red hair a kiss as he helped her out.

"What time do you want me back?" he asked. "I told your mum I'd have you home by midnight."

"Then, um, I don't think I'll be staying long. Two hours, tops."

Their driver nodded and gave her a little salute. "Enjoy yourself, Miss Alice."

"I will!" she called, her heels clicking on the pavement as she entered the elegant hotel and sought out the ballroom.
nabinnebui: (sorrow)
[personal profile] nabinnebui
November of 1911.

If it's spoken in all italics, it's all Irish.


Four rowdy young men singing tunes only meant to be uttered when drunk. Their voices carried high over the sea, clashing with the waves, which lessened as they neared the island, embarrassed to hear the perverse lyrics.

Sailors on shore leave, following the urging of their ringleader, a blond lieutenant whose father had gone on for decades about this place. Said there were blushing young girls—twins, even, with long, red hair. One of them married a friend of his father, the other one, no one knew much about. In fact, no one knew much about the island anymore, except that it had women just like them—a sort of creature that was too difficult to come by. Francis Ryan, for that was the blond lieutenant’s name, had seen all sorts of women in all parts of the world. He’d been on the sea for a good forty years now and loved every minute of it—loved every woman of it. From here to the Caribbean and deep into the Orient. He lived for the ocean and shuffled through the Royal Navy just so he could stay in her temperamental embrace.

“Oi, so what’s this, what’s this, then—so this bloke comes up to me in a pub, yeah? He says, you got a quid or what? I says, I says—what you think, mate? I’m fucking drinking me pint and—what?”

“That’s the dumbest fucking story I ever ‘eard in me life.”

“I ain’t fucking finished with it—”

“Boys, now, this boat ain’t big enough for that bullshite.”

“Who’re you callin’ boy, eh?”

'I can’t help if it he can’t tell a story worth tellin’.' )
yourclaire: (ballet)
[personal profile] yourclaire
Because I can/want to.

27 November, 1982


It was securing a spot in the company that led them to the Ritz for dinner. Claire and her family, all of them dressed in white. It was late November, the air outside was cold, but the air inside the expensive hotel and even more expensive restaurant was warm. They had already ordered, were now waiting for the food that would hopefully come soon.

Patrick was fidgeting with his suit and Louise was staring longingly out the window after a boyfriend who was probably with another girl. Every few minutes she would make a sad, pathetic mewling sound and kick her chair with the heel of her shoe.

How silly, Claire thought, to be so obsessed with someone. )
[identity profile] in-futility.livejournal.com
Spring 2005, I ... think. Definitely 2005.

It was dark, in Soho, which was surprising, consdering the fact that it was Soho, Ryan Bertrand -- Corin Beauregard, rather, at that particular moment, as he wasn't even thinking of himself as Bertrand -- mused, gathering two large shopping bags in his arms and cringing as he put weight on his left foot again. The pain would pass, though, and at some point he'd get back to an area with more light.

The current plan was to get across Golden Square, whose closed shops were disconcerting to him. It wasn't supposed to be this quiet and empty, even on a Sunday evening.

Nothing had happened, though, and this was simple recon, so, he told himself continuously as he walked, keeping the bags high up off the ground as if they contained flash grenades instead of a couple of small and very fragile items, nothing troublesome should happen.

The brim of Corin's cowboy hat fell across his eyes, and he leaned over to push it up, putting down one of the bags exceedingly carefully.

"-- Look out!" The voice and the rumble of the Vespa's engine hit him at about the same time. Fortunately, the Vespa itself didn't hit him, by a full six inches. That was mainly because the man riding it had successfully hit the brakes hard enough to slew it sideways enough to knock it over, to the extent that it was already on its side -- along with him -- by the time it got that close.

The driver picked himself up, after a moment, muttering under his breath something that proved to be some incredibly creative cursing, considering that he was exclusively using English. )
[identity profile] saxandviolins.livejournal.com
Autumn 1996, not that they knew that. Call it 'before Brice knew not to use contractions around Hes, and before Hes knew that her parents lied to her a lot.'

It was a nice day out, as such things went. What breeze there was was from the south, and the sun was shining, and all things considered nobody would have thought a day that nice would stick around for a Calescotian autumn. Brice had found himself at loose ends, after picking the pocket of a lady wearing fur despite the nice weather so he'd have breakfast, and had ended up perched on a balcony half a floor up from the street, watching people go by.

Several of those people looked out of place -- the presence of the odd and confused tourist who seemed to be looking for a directory in the road as if walking through a shopping mall, the woman so pregnant she should not have been walking, and a young girl in a dress of ankle-length, normally improper for someone her age.

The child in the waltz-length dress did not last long, as only moments after she stepped into Brice's line of vision, a much older, taller man in a long old coat snatched her off her feet and dragged her toward a waiting carriage - she shrieked, and then cringed, dipping her head against her own shoulder and seeming to hide from something above her.

Considering the man in question, one Brice thought was an old bastard of a criminal, probably almost thirty, who went by the name of Charcoal Charlie for his coat, well -- he couldn't say he blamed the girl. If Charcoal Charlie were grabbing him, he'd want to cringe, too. He wouldn't, because he'd be too busy sinking a knife in Charlie's ribs, but maybe after, he might.

Anyway Charlie wasn't the sort to be hired by people who could put their daughters in fancy dresses like that for anything nice, like finding lost kids and taking them home, and even if he didn't know that the girl didn't look like she wanted to go anywhere with him no matter what. Thoughtfully, Brice got back to his feet, slipping across the row of balconies to drop back to the road before they could reach the carriage.

Charcoal Charlie didn't notice him, at least not right away -- his entire focus was on the child, who was attempting to kick him in the shins and continuing to fail at it, her balance thrown off. )

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