 |
 |
| Serendipitous | |
|---|---|
| Participants | Alison, Scott |
| Synopsis | An old flame is reunited. Crazy. |
| Location | Boar's Head, Lower East Side, New York City |
| Time | December, 2015 |
| Posted By | Scott |
New in town. It's a gross state of mind to be in. But Scott Summers can rock it, especially in a city like this. New York allows for such anonymity, which suits Scott just fine. The hustle, the bustle, the crime, the shadows. Sure, it's like a Frank Miller comicbook sometimes. But who's complaining? It just sets the mood that much more perfectly for a low-income, scruffy bastard like Scott. Clinton is Scott's burrough of choice, so journeying through the Lower East Side isn't a stretch. In fact, it's become more and more frequent for Scott in the past couple of weeks, since stumbling across this dive. The Boar's Head. It's got an eerie sense of familiarity about it, like deja vu. And it, too, works for Scott. Who is presently hunched at the bar in a worn, brown leather jacket and well-worn jeans. Contact lenses, too — though that's not immediately obvious. And it's longnecks for Scott tonight. Bud Light. Looks like the fourth, maybe.
Try as she might to fit in with the downtrodden and, well, grimy, Alison has a knack for standing out, especially here. She's dressed down, just a pair of designer jeans and a funky shirt, but the outfit still probably costs more than some people pay in rent around here. A poorboy cap upon her head ain't foolin' anyone, and it doesn't do a whole lot to hide the corn silk hair of hers. Still, it isn't with any lack of confidence or with any apology for being here that the young Miss Blaire pushes through the door and makes her way into the establishment. After a cursory glance around, she heads straight for the bar, like an old pro, snagging herself an empty stool, and managing to perch herself atop it, despite the fact that it's missing a leg. That might prove problematic once her equilibrium starts to go, but for now, it's easy enough to keep it balanced on the remaining three. Drumming long fingers upon the bartop, she waits for the barkeep to come back along this way.
Scott isn't girl-crazy, but any means. Promise. But when the door is blown open by a leggy blonde, there's not a red-blooded American man who wouldn't notice. Not that Scott is quick to do so. Takes a minute. And when Scott does look, it's a bored sidelong glance — momentary and, to all appearances, entirely disinterested. But in that glance, Scott drinks in the details. By the time Scott's attention is back on the half-empty Bud, the impression is made. Whether unfair or not, Scott walks away thinking another rich girl floozy is slumming it tonight. Heh. Problem is, Scott can't decicde whether or not to be derisive — or turned-on. Trust fund babies can be fun in the sack. All uptight and prudish on the outside, but fucked-up freaks in the bedroom. It's the Daddy's Girl Syndrome. And so Scott mulls over this impass for the moment, rolling that bottle's edge along the beaten counter. Rooooll. Roll. Rooooll. It makes a horrible grinding noise.
Of course, Alison is rather used to getting noticed. Maybe if she'd honestly wanted to fit in, she'd have done a better job of it - or maybe she really is incapable. Chances are, even she doesn't entirely know herself. Has she noticed Scott? It's possible. Certainly, once he starts up with that horrible noise, she's inclined to give him a second look, cool and sidelong with an arched eyebrow as if to say 'really?' But before she can get into it further, the barkeep is heading past and she turns back to face front, reaching out a long arm in an effort to snag his attention, for he must be one of the only ones here who hasn't actually noticed the fish out of water in his bar. Her order is refreshingly simple - scotch neat, the most expensive they have, though she's not expecting that to be … much. She's feeling nostalgic, and hell if she didn't get her start swigging bottles of it out of daddy's liquor cabinet.
Scott is just as accustomed to not being noticed, not right away. And once again, it befits his worldview nicely. Who wants to stand out in a crowd? Not this guy. So expect no personal resentment, when Alison doesn't immediately start drooling. He further ignores that incredulous glance, as it all the better pleases Scott to appear both obnoxious and ignorant. Quite the impression Scott creates. But even in the relative hubbub, it's difficult to miss when she speaks. Drink orders always catch Scott's attention, if only as a private source of amusement. He finds them telling. But for all his presumed worldliness, Alison's drink of choice takes Scott off-guard. Huh, scotch. He didn't see that one coming.
It's possible that Alison is actually more complicated than meets the eye. Or less complicated. She's just doing as she does and making no apologies for it. Once the order is actually placed, she sits back slightly on her stool, trying to get comfortable despite the odd angle at which it forces her to perch in order to stay upright. Finally an elbow propped on the bar solves that particular problem, and leaves her sitting at a sidelong angle so that she can give this place a proper look. Though there's really not much to look at is there. Not grossed out or disappointed, more she just seems a little … bored. So it's with some gratitude she takes her drink when it's delivered.
Scott could respect that do-and-don't-say-sorry attitude — if it were immediately obvious. But Scott's no telepath, so he's certain the drink selection must mean something. And right around the point where Scott's analytical mind is trying to puzzle out just what statement this blonde chick's trying to make by ordering scotch, Scott realizes he's thinking too much. Specifically, he's thinking about some richie too much. And that just won't do, mm? He flinches, pursing those lips together — chagrined, really, at having allowed his thoughts to wander into inane territories. Straightening, the man waves down that same bartender with a swish of a now-empty bottle. "Switch it up. Jack on ice." Can't be outdone by a blonde, after all.
Alison is oblivious to Scott's puzzling about her, especially as she's a little too busy eyeing that chipped and dirty glass warily. Then again, if she hasn't managed to get some deadly disease yet, well, why start worrying now? Still, she uses the hem of her shirt to carefully give the rim of it a wipe down to get rid of the worst of the stains and water spots, before she dares the take a sip. It doesn't go down as easy as something she could score up in her neck of the woods, but still, it goes down all the same. She sets the glass back onto the counter and glances over at Scott when he puts in his new order. Hm.
The whiskey-on-rocks is slow in coming, which does nothing to soften Scott's moodiness. Four beers in, he's almost tempted to say something unkind to the surly 'tender — but smartly chooses not to, just in time. When the drink does arrive, it's a bit light for Scott's taste. So the disapproval mounts, even as he settles back into a slouch. And it just so happens that, in raising that glass to take a much-anticipated sip, Scott shoots another sidelong look down the bar to its only female patron — and catches her glance. If their eyes meet, serendipity. But if they do, Scott's dark brows twitch closer together. Not a scowl, but an indication of a frown. "What. You expect me to pay for your drink, too?" He doubts it. But it's fun to be antagonistic.
What else can Alison do but laugh? It's not a belly laugh, not one of true amusement, but just a quiet sound of disbelief. "I've learned to keep expectations low, a place like this," she assures him, not bothering to lower her voice any, lest such comments offend the proprietor or regulars nearby. She doesn't blush, doesn't hurry to avert her gaze and pretend she wasn't looking. No, in her own good time, she turns her glance back to her drink, picking it up once more from the bar for another swig. She can tell its watered down, but whatever. It's cheap. She'll just have to buy more. In fact: "Why don't you just keep these coming?" she suggests to the barkeep as he stomps past again.
Scott is intrigued by her lack of forgiveness. Brave, reckless, and stupid. Who knows who she might offend, speaking so derisively of the company this dive keeps. Heh. So Scott plays devil's advocate, just to see how she responds. Swilling the tumbler's contents, Scott takes another sip, enjoying the bite. Jack is so smoky. Nothing like it. "Place like this," Scott echoes, unable to keep the dry drawl out of his voice. He lowers the drink, eyes kept ahead — unseeing as the bartender passes by to cater to Alison. "Go on, will you? What about a place like this makes you think anyone here's incapable of spotting you one?" His voice is even-keeled, unaggressive. With just a hint of either genuine or affected curiosity.
Alison gives the man a sidelong look at that, now again faintly amused herself, though it shows only in a slight, wry smirk. Incapable? An interesting interpretation of what she said. Not that there wasn't some assumption on her part, but she was thinking more … disinclined. Perhaps because the few dollars these guys manage to scrape together seem to be quickly going into their own bellies, is her thinking, granted. Her answer doesn't come immediately as she takes another good sip of her own drink and then sets the glass down for that refill. "What? You offering?" She nods thanks to the 'keep, before turning back to Scott again, amused and slightly challenging in a 'go right ahead and prove me wrong then' sort of way.
"No." The answer isn't rushed either, but it's the first thing Scott sees to. Followed by another draught of Jack Daniels, but of course. He remains so hunched for a moment, chewing on his next move — which, as it turns out, involves movement. With a slow, almost laborious air, Scott pushes off the counter with one hand. The heels of Scott's boots slip from their perch, the creaky rung of his chosen stool, and tap the floor heavily as Scott stands. Cue the approach, with the kind of swagger to his step that's entirely unintentional — not performance, just nature. It's probably intended to be nonthreatening, that cross down the number of stools that provide Alison safety-through-distance. But something about Scott is just damn predatory, no matter what the intention. He stops a stool away, slumping against the counter to prop an elbow there, glass in the other hand. And still, Scott doesn't make direct eye contact — so there's no recognition, yet. "But say I was. Why would that surprise you?"
At his initial answer, Alison just lifts her eyebrows and cants her head, very clearly saying, 'Well, there you go then', without actually saying anything at all. She's not disappointed, nor particularly vindicated. Low expectations lend themselves to neither. So the only real surprise is when Scott pushes himself up to his feet. By this time, she's already turned back to the bar, eyeing her watery scotch through the glass. The movement is quick to catch her eye - well, that and she never fully took her attention from him. But she's cool enough not to move too quickly, taking advantage of his slow movement to sedately turn again on her stool to watch him venture nearer, her eyebrows lifting slightly as she waits to see what this is all about. She runs a hand back through her hair, pushing it out of her face while she considers the question. "Like I say, I keep my expectations low. For a reason." Her gaze flickers over him briefly, but there's no penny dropping just yet.
Scott makes a face. It isn't a grossly comical expression — more like a flinch, one that momentarily shows an emotion other than frowny or neutrality. Not a grin, though. But it's close, like its derisive twin. But not cruel enough to be a smirk or even a grimace, either. Frustration, maybe. But it's gone before a thorough study is possible, with Scott swilling that drink in midair. He's indicating. "Yeah, I get that. Fits with the whole jaded youth thing you've got going," Scott returns, dismissing the answer as insufficient. "But it doesn't answer my question, not directly. You don't look lost, so you obviously mean to be here. Which means there's a reason you're here, choosing the company here over, I don't know, say the 10021. Which means it's got to be better than what you're used to. So why, if I bought that drink or even the next five, would you be — " In saying so, Scott turns to offer Alison a look that's almost exasperated. Lowered brows, narrowed eyes, a finger that points out from the others wrapped around that glass of Jack. And in that, Scott gets the first close look at her. Which is where the pause comes in, and something provokes that look to soften. Uh. "— .. surprised?" He hasn't quite placed it, but the hiccup's there.
"Oh, I've got that going, have I?" Alison replies, not offended by the interpreted implication that this is all some put on jaded act of hers. Instead, she just seems to find it rather amusing, really. In that same dry, cynical way, of course. She props her elbow back on the bar, the better to keep the stool perched on its three legs, now that the warm tingle of the scotch is beginning to trickle through her veins. She looks down into the glass as he tries to get to her actual motives for being here, periodically lifting her gaze to look at him without raising her head. She actually seems to have an answer ready, something as offhanded and indifferent as her previous ones, but his own pause gives way to another pause from her and her brow furrows just slightly. That went … weird. She hasn't put any of it together yet, but it's enough to earn him a second look. "Well, for one, you already said you weren't offering," she replies, after having to think of it for a long moment.
He's lost track of where this was going — if it was going anywhere, really. But it doesn't seem like convoluted come-on logic. A potential good sign. Rather, Scott probably was going somewhere with it, but now that brain's switched gears. It's in what-the-fuck mode. Unfortunately, Alison's look is not one easily forgotten. Even with a couple years, as it's obviously been, there's something familiar. What Scott can't figure out is why, where, when. Couldn't be television. Scott doesn't watch enough. So who the hell is she? This all triggers an open stare from Scott's part, made more obvious by the accompanying silence. He's not firing back, not arguing the point home — just staring. Again, she might be used to it. She might even think it exhausted, another guy pulling the struck dumb act. He doesn't care. He's actively spinning possibilities, that pointed finger still paused in her direction. It wags slowly, once. "Wait a second.."
Alison is clearly expecting some sort of rejoined or comeback here. Her look of wry amusement slowly starts to shift to one of bemusement as he just continues staring rather than actually saying anything. Eyebrows creep up and up the longer the moment drags on, and bemusement starts to shift to impatience. Nothing terribly overt or put out, but as if she's losing interest in this game if all he's going to do is stare. She lets out a little sigh, dropping her gaze back down to the dregs of drink in her glass, about to ask him if he likes what he sees or to say something to get him to come back around to wiseass rather than starstruck or whatever this is. But he beats her to it with his slowly wagging finger and request that she wait a second. Her gaze flickers back up and she meets his gaze again, now just confused beyond all else. "…Waiting?"
It's coming to Scott. He doesn't much care that it's becoming a bore for Alison to wait, to stew in silence as Scott figures it out. His early show of asinine witticism, if it can even be called that, might have been inadvertantly entertaining — but that was never Scott's intention. And it isn't now, either. So the steady transformation from amused to unamused doesn't concern Scott. He's tracing those features back through the memory banks. The nose and the eyes, specifically — those haven't changed much. And yes, there is it. Right on the tip of Scott's tongue. A name. "1998 Porsche Boxster," Scott blurts, volume hitched in what can only be described as rare excitement. He got it. So what if it isn't her name. Those are so unimportant. A bit of smug creeps into Scott's expression, taking a triumphant swig of Jack. "Red, leather interior. You fucked up that transmission good."
Alison is really just not a patient person. Not in a Type-A way, but in that she is always looking for the next thing to keep her mind off of, well, everything. Sitting here being studied by a drunk in a seedy bar isn't quite cutting it for distractions, even if it is leading to some confusion and a hint of curiosity. So she takes advantage of the long pause to get herself another refill, though even that isn't quite as satisfying as she'd hoped it'd be. And then finally. He speaks. Though the car make and model don't mean anything to her at first. Not being a car person, the automobile has blended into dull tableaux in her memory. But as he goes on with a few more details, it begins to form, hazily through the liquor now and the cloud of liquor and drugs back then. "Yeah, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time…" That seems a safe answer. Whether she means the actions that led up to the fucked up transmission or what followed, well, perhaps it's a safe answer for a reason.
"It wasn't," Scott provides. And there's that same safeness to the answer — perhaps providing a double-response for her double-statement. Obviously wasn't good for the car. And, well, what followed — probably not a good idea, either. But Scott doesn't push it, nor elaborate upon it. He seems more than satisfied to have figured it out. A regular Sherlock Holmes, basking in his own genius. He doesn't seem quick to pursue whatever their past was, which should probably come as a relief — but Scott isn't disappearing, either. Definitely sticking around, polishing off the dregs of that first Jack. The whiskey warms him much more than the beers were, so it seems only appropriate to wave for another. Never mind the adage about 'beer before liquor'. He looks at Alison again, now. "Maybe I should be asking you to pay for me. If I remember right, money's not much of a problem." Moreso than your standard Upper East Side chick, even.
Alison just makes a quiet noise of agreement, a hum in the back of her throat, to concede the point that no, in hindsight, not the best of ideas. Either of them, really. But now she's gone back to looking vaguely amused about the whole thing, shedding that earlier impatience just as quickly as it's come on. She's not sure what this is, but at least it's not boring. An eyebrow arches as he looks back at her again and makes that lovely suggestion. Smirking to herself, she doesn't answer immediately, but takes a long draw of her drink, making herself more comfortable leaning sideways against the bar as she does. "Then maybe you should follow my advice about keeping expectations low, a place like this." She lifts the glass just slightly to indicate the seedy bar, but doesn't take her gaze from him.
Scott doesn't know what this is, either. But like her, he's more than willing to roll with it 'till it proves either boring or disastrous. In the meantime, there's nothing wrong with milking the company. Made better by both the alcohol, and the absence of the male mantra that so often plays nonstop when in the company of a woman: 'I wonder what she looks like naked'. Scott doesn't need to wonder. He sets the empty down, just in time to receive the next one. Jack's always better with fresh ice, so Scott again takes the opportunity to drink. Buying another second or two to answer. "Or maybe we drop the whole weight-of-the-world thing we both got going. And I best your low expectations by buying your drink." Whoa, whoa, a gentleman's move? He eyes Alison again. And there's something to there. A small expression of equally dry amusement. If she called it a grin, he'd deny it. "But you buy my next two."
There's really nothing to do but laugh as Scott calls them both out on their respective world-weary acts. Not a free and boisterous laugh as he may have had the honour of hearing during their shared history, but a quiet chuckle, at least, as Alison bows her head in granting him that point. His offer brings first surprise, and then … a look of 'a-ha', as he finishes with his cleverness. She takes her time considering that deal, wrinkling up her nose slightly as she weighs the pros and cons. "Mm. Somehow that doesn't seem quite right," she points out, not quite managing to keep her dry amusement in check. Eyebrows lift as she gives him a look, waiting to see his reaction to that.
The booze must be influencing Scott now, because the android dullness is cracking. The don't-give-a-fuck thing remains, in the way that Scott avoids sincerity. But there's now a suggestion of warmth to those eyes. Not in their color — that remains the same deep, close-to-demonic red that they always were. But in the lines around those eyes, almost giving the indication that Scott used to laugh enough to develop laugh lines. He leans more heavily on that propped elbow, posture terrible as he continues to give Alison a hard time about this fair business. He misses the difference in her laugh. But the nose wrinkle, Scott notices that. No comment, of course. "Well don't make me say it," Scott counters, as if it's obvious. He motions. "I was going to make it up to you. With breakfast."
But the don't-give-a-fuck thing, well, they have that in common anyway. It's easy enough when you feel you've got nothing left to lose, after all. "Oh, is that how it works?" Alison muses with a grin, perhaps finding that funnier than he'd intended. "Well, let's tally here. That makes one drink, plus breakfast against two drinks." Plus the pleasure of her … company. Of course, this is really just a bit of a stall tactic as she considers the options. But then, if you have to think about these things too much, you're not doing it right. Another quiet laugh then. "I guess that sounds fair." Beats being bored alone, anyway. She shifts a little and her stool wobbles, causing her to put more weight on her elbow to steady it. Yep, this three-legged stool thing is becoming considerably more difficult.
Yeah, predictable and Scott are close friends, more often than not. And the whole loner thing can only go so far before the abstinence part gets tired. The opportunity is just too good to miss. As Scott remembers, she wasn't half-bad — even if she did have a penchant for drug use. And things were casual. Light, carefree, unemotional. What better, for two people so world-weary? And they're older. Which hopefully means they're that much more in control, that much more disinterested in drama and emotion. Right? But Alison's onto something, not thinking too much. He tends to do that, sober. But the beer and whiskey make things move far more smoothly, with more action than thought. He eyes the wobbling stool, making a point. "Or we skip your next drink and my next two — and you just get a free breakfast as soon as possible," Scott suggests in turn. "Of course, that'd put you in my debt."
"It's missing a leg!" Alison points out with a chuckle, defending herself without any real ire. She caught that look at her stool, but it's more of a 'I'm not that drunk, really!' than truly defensive. As if to prove her point, she makes a show of getting the three remaining legs all settled back onto the ground. Fine. See? Just fine. Takes more than a few glasses of scotch to have her falling off of stools, even if she has lost count of how many are in a 'few'. "I don't know. Being in your debt seems a rather dangerous place to be," she points out, though it's still borne more of amusement than her having the good sense to actually be wary.
Scott's eyes take in the stool situation again, looking down without moving his head. Made easier by the slouch, of course. If there's a twitch to that faint expression, one that might turn upwards in something close to amusement, Scott blames the whiskey. It's the booze's fault, yes. "Yeah, it is," Scott agrees, switching the drink to the bar-propped hand. He shifts his weight, too, sliding a leg out at a longer diagonal — so that its toe clips one of those three remaining supports beneath Alison. He nudges, though not enough to send her toppling. Probably. "But so is staying in that stool. Just imagine if you happened to lose your balance. I'd have to catch you. And then you'd be doubly in my debt." He forces a brow up, eyes on Alison. "Can't have that, right?"
Alison just laughs again as his efforts to nudge her leave her grabbing quickly for the bar with her free hand. It's enough to keep her from going over, but neither the grip nor her tipsy dexterity is enough to get her back on balance, leaving her clinging there for a moment. "No, we definitely can't have that," she agrees, before she finally cedes defeat and slides from the stool to set a foot on the floor, still kind of half-perched upon the troublesome seat. "I suppose if I'm destined to be in your debt either way, breakfast is a better price than falling on my ass." Hey, that's about as pragmatic as she gets!
He doesn't reflexively move to help, when that nudge forces Alison to cling to the bar. Scott's sure she can handle it — and he's right, as luck would have it. Because the plan certainly wasn't to have her actually in double-debt, but to use the threat of it to precipitate moving things along. Looks like it's working, too. Though Scott's no real mastermind — this is as much Alison's fault. But the two probably know that, deep down. That this was going to wind up with breakfast one way or another. It's just about how they get there. And for Scott, how fast. "And what an ass," Scott echoes. Yeah, he went there. And to make matters characteristically worse, Scott doesn't hesitate to use that now free hand to swing low, catching the half of Alison's posterior that isn't perched on a troublesome stool. Hello, inappropriate.
She certainly is an expert at manufacturing her own downfall, yes, but Alison is good enough at it to not even realize when she's doing it. If she bothered to think back on how this went from A to B, surely she'd see it, but that would involve thinking back. And that's a slippery slope. Plus he quickly gives her a few excuses not to hark back on these decisions, since there's so much going on right here in the now. "Yeah, yeah. Flattery will get you everywhere," Alison replies, rolling her eyes at how cliche it is. Everywhere except there, apparently, since she just blinks slightly as he grabs her ass - before rather smoothly reaching out to take him by the wrist and nudge that hand a little further north, to waist or hip, depending on how much resistance she meets.
Scott can be negotiated with. So she's sure to find only begrudging resistance in moving that hand of his — it is a nice butt, after all. But Scott concedes, willing enough to bypass hip for waist, keeping that palm close to the curve of her side, rather than the middle of her back. He's sure she won't be so modest in bed, so it's more than okay with him that she transforms the inappropriate gesture into a more acceptable one. You know, in public. "I seem to remember that," Scott points out, once again at the expense of their history — which is just a blink of the eye, in hingsight. Another experiment in self-destruction, for the both of them. But it's winning Scott a chance to get some, now. And like Alison, now is way more important than then. The hand doesn't leave her side. "I hope you like scrambled eggs."
She's not a big fan of games, but sometimes these games must be played. Self-destruction is all well and good, but what's the fun if he doesn't have to jump through a few hoops here. So the hand goes on the waist for now. While they're in public and hormones are still somewhat in check. It's not a power-struggle, just a give and take. Because lord knows there will be enough giving and taking later. But now? Well, now is pretty interesting as well. Eyebrows go up as he again brings up their history, but it isn't as if she can really deny it. Alison looks at him, head canted slightly to one side as she considers this offer of scrambled eggs. "Yeah, they'll do." It's cute how she tries to pretend she isn't so easy. But hey, home cooked meals are a rarity!
But Scott already knows he's in. It's not cockiness — okay well, that's part of it — but more an awareness. There's a certain comfort in being so in control of a situation. And while the booze is one factor steering this towards the near-inevitable, everything still seems so manageable. So Scott'll jump through those hoops, if only for the novelty of it. They're pretty easy obstacles, really. And because they're touching now, Scott can more fully enjoy those things that are 'cute' about Alison. Like the way she tilts her head, as if scrambled eggs are really a point to consider. Almost like.. Heh — that's the whiskey talking, again. "So you can flag down the cab. Something tells me they'll stop for you." Another hokey compliment, in a way. But hey.
There's something to be said for keeping things simple. Setting a few bars so low he can step over them, and then they both don't have to go home alone, if only for the night. Sometimes these things just fall into place and the trick is not to fight them. Or something like that. Alison isn't inclined to get into philosophizing, well, ever, but especially now. She doesn't mind the hand staying where it is, and in this new closeness, she also gives him a closer study. Her own memories are still a bit hazy - drugs'll do that to a person - so she tries to remember which parts are the same, which parts have changed. "They usually do," she grants, as to the cabs. There's a faint smirk at that, not quite gloating, but not denying the compliment either. "I guess we should … head that way then, hm?" She's good, but even she'd have trouble getting a cab to notice her still inside the bar.
And Scott fits right into her philosophy of keeping things low — including standards. With that scruff, Scott certainly isn't the most well-kempt man. But then, that's part of the appeal. Not that she's really slumming it, not quite. They've done a dance close to this before, so there's a modicum less danger than there would be with a complete stranger. Like one of the other regulars here. But hey, they never really spent the time to get to know each other back then, either. He could be something much worse than a greasemonkey. She probably remembers the eyes, if anything. A holdover from Hollywood, maybe. They don't outright give him away, since they're clearly contacts. Could just be a wannabe, trying to fit in with the locals. This is quickly becoming a mutant burrough, isn't it? "We should," Scott consents, jogged to action. He releases Alison, using that hand to dig out a wallet. He drops a couple twenties on the counter, emptying that final glass. "Don't worry about yours. You can pay me back," Scott adds, indicating the money — which should be enough to cover both their indulgences tonight. He's clearly expediating the process. Women take forever with money.
The eyes, yes, those certainly are recalled, even through hazy memories. And they do raise a few questions around these parts. But then, she quite willingly ventured into this neighbourhood too, which could raise questions in turn, so she isn't about to start asking. Sometimes it's better to leave the unknown … unknown. Going off with a stranger, even a familiar stranger, she doesn't seem the least bit worried. The drink helps with that, as does an inability to think through consequences of anything. She'll just take it as it comes, and assume for now he's not some psychotic murderer or white slave trader. She gives another little laugh as he so readily pays for the drinks now, whether because of the idea of ending up even more in his debt, or simply that she's noticed how quickly his tune has changed now that there's a sure thing in the works… She straightens up, sliding fully down off the stool, which rattles back onto its legs. "Oh, I can, can I? You're just going to get me into all sorts of trouble, aren't you." Threat or promise, either way.
And all without names. Sure, Scott might've had it back in the day. He might even have known that she was the daughter of someone interesting. Probably made the whole fling that much more exciting. That and she was just eighteen, or something close to that. But that was five and some years ago. The details are gone, including her name. He doesn't make a further issue of the money. Even if she doesn't return the favor some day, it's a non-issue. Sure, Scott ended up spotting all the drinks — but certainly not in some over-used gentlemanly means to get into her pants. He accomplished that through some other variant of luck. His attention is drawn by the word 'trouble'. Briefly tabling the journey outside, Scott takes the chance to push in close to the now-standing Alison. Front-to-front. "Oh, you don't know the half of it." Teasing, now. He maintains that closeness for a beat, tempted. But in the end, it's Scott moving away again — to the door, expecting her to follow.
