In the Bleak MidWinter (Victor/open)(Casual)

[JACK THE RIPPER]

You damn well better thank me, worthless wench, he thought, rubbing his brow a moment, blinking. "No, really, I'm fine. I need to lock up and everything anyway. It wouldn't do any good to just leave you there." He wished she wouldn't smile at him. She didn't know that he'd only helped her because he had to. Even he couldn't live walking away from someone who was literally freezing...given his...situation. The girl would go on thinking he was some kind of saint, when really she was sitting next to the most diabolical creature in New York.

Victor looked out the window as they reached the bar, slowing to a stop next to the small snow bank on the curb. He pushed open his door, at once hit with a blast of frigid air that woke his senses. Hoisting himself out of the car, he held open the door, waiting for Joan to make her way out. He sincerely hoped that there were no customers at present; the last thing he wanted was a tramp as startling as this girl near his customers. Hell, he barely wanted her near him. She disturbed him, to be honest.

He turned and began toward the door of the bar. The sign above their heads lit the sidewalk to the dull yellow of a the white light and the mix of emerald, also making heir faces slightly green in the dark. From the glass doors, one could look in a see the dimly-lit place in all its...splendor, you could call it.

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

"Oh!" Joan let out a soft gasp as she stared around the bar. the lights reflecting off the glasses and bottles dazzled her, and she couldn't look away for several moments. "It's beautiful. Like stained glass." Her grin broadened as she examined the rest of the building. The deep green and black bar stools glittered in the soft light. "You have a lot of performers?" She pointed to the stage as she spoke.

There were very few people in the bar, most seated at the tables set for two. Servers hurried around, taking orders and bringing food and drinks. A gentle babble of conversation filled the room. Glasses and forks clinked.

Joan tried to ignore the tightness in her stomach. Later, she'd ask about food. For now she simply wanted to admire the scenery. Joan didn't often find herself in places like this and she wanted to enjoy it. She half forgot she was standing in a bar, though the smell of spirits kept her partially conscious of that fact. But it wasn't a bar, she decided, still gawking. Not really. More like a restaurant that sold alcoholic beverages. "Why's it called Jack's?"

She wondered if the chairs were as comfortable as they looked, but she couldn't bring herself to go near them. The other people made her nervous. Besides, this place was far too fancy for the likes of her. She was only here because Victor had asked her, and she didn't want to scare off any of his customers.

Her stomach growled and she blushed a deep red. Enough looking, she told herself, time to eat. "Could I..." She bit her lip and looked down. "Could I maybe see a menu?" She wasn't sure she could actually afford anything, but there was always dish duty, if it came to that.

[JACK THE RIPPER]

"Here," he said rather brusquely, leading her to the bar and patting a seat. He angled a chair toward hers and sat himself, watching her. With a simple look up and a hand motion, a waiter trotted over to them.

"Sir."

"Get the lady a menu, kid. And a straight bottle of--" He paused, looking at Joan a moment, thinking over his next word, "--water."

The waiter nodded and started off, to be back in a few minutes, tops. Victor looked back at Joan with a small smile. He seemed happier now that they were inside, where he belonged at least. "Now, you asked why it's called Jack's?" he said, nodding. He'd been asked that before, and had fabricated a rather solid excuse. "Well, you see, my family is originally from London. I felt that the bar needed to have a name as though it was an entity, but I wasn't sure what. In England, "Jack" is the equivalent of "John Doe" here in America. And so, I named it Jack's." Victor smiled a little more.

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

"Thank you," Joan replied, hoisting herself onto the bar stool. She listened, nodding, to his explanation of the name of the restaurant. "I see." It made sense, she decided, in an odd sort of way. She wondered if by his family he meant his ancestors or his parents. Still, neither would explain his reaction to the cold. And hadn't he said something about living in Vermont? IT was cold there too, wasn't it?

'Ah well. Everyone has their quirks.' She had yet to mention her Voices, and she wouldn't, if she could help it. She only told certain people about them and only if others saw or heard her talking would she offer any sort of explanation. Even then she was reluctant. Most people didn't understand her gift. They just thought she was crazy. But she wasn't. Her Voices were real. And they were good. Of course they were. They were Saints. But no one else seemed to understand that. Sometimes, she wondered if Father Robert believed her.

A soft light hovered off to her right and Joan smiled. Sometimes just thinking about her Voices brought them to her. As if they knew that she needed them. But of course they would. They always knew where she was. They were always there, as they'd promised, even if she couldn't always see them. Joan sighed. She'd have to remember that. She knew she wearied them with her constant pleading for them to stay. They didn't understand how unbearably lonely she was when they left her. As if the very thing that made her who she was had gone with them.

"Miss?"

Joan jumped and the light faded. She choked back a growl and turned toward the boy.

He was holding something in his hand, an uncertain look on his face. "I brought your menu." He held it out, eying her warily.

Joan took it, murmuring her thanks. Really, she'd only been thinking. She couldn't look that scary. Gritting her teeth, she turned her gaze to the menu, checking the prices. It wasn't as bad as she thought, but she didn't have a lot of options. Still, a few choices were better than none, right?

The waiter tapped her shoulder and she jumped, almost falling off the stool. "What? I'm not dangerous, you know. By my staff, why does everyone always stare at me?"

He backed away, raising one hand and Joan saw the water bottle. "Oh." She ducked her head, her face growing hot. "Sorry, you startled me."

"No kidding." The waiter set the water on the bar and hurried into the kitchen..

Joan opened the bottle in silence. She wanted to sink into the floor. Taking a drink from the bottle, she stared at it. "Sorry," she whispered, unable to look at Victor. . "I...I'm not usually like that." She chewed her lip, wondering if she should leave or stay. She didn't want to embarrass him any more than she was certain she already had. But if he expected her to stay and order something, since she'd asked for a menu, she didn't want to leave. Besides, it was the least she could do after yelling at one of his waiters.

[JACK THE RIPPER]

On the contrary, Victor was laughing quietly at the waiter's back as he left. "Quite alright, Joan, quite alright. He's a slacker anyway, needed a good whipping into shape." He was entertained to see this small girl growling at his employees--it wasn't as if he cared much for them, no matter how nice he acted toward them.

"So, earlier, you asked me something about performers," he said, brushing off the incident. "You asked if I had many? I usually have live entertainment almost every night, but tonight's too snowy to ask anyone to come out. They're all holed up inside." Victor shuddered a little; he wished he was holed up inside right about now. Damn woman! If it had been any other situation, any other, he would have just passed her, but no. It had to be snow!

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Joan found herself laughing along with him. "I"m glad you're not upset," she said, "Most people don't like it when I shout like that. They think there's something wrong with me. Like I'm mental, or something." She shrugged and looked away, studying the menu again. Finally, she settled on a bowl of soup. It wasn't much, but it was all she could afford. And besides, it was better than nothing.

She followed Victor's finger as he indicated the stage, nodding. "That's nice of you, not to make people get out in this weather." She smiled up at him and ordered her soup. Propping her elbows up on the bar, she surveyed the room again. "I'll get out of your hair after I eat and you can lock up. Thank you again." She still couldn't believe that a complete stranger had helped her out so much. It was wonderful.

[JACK THE RIPPER]

"Nothing wrong with being mental," he said, shrugging. "Sometimes talking to yourself is the only way to maintain an intelligent conversation." Victor snickered a little, and watched her as she ordered her meal. He, himself, wanted a drink, but he had to lock up soon and he refused to do so whilst intoxicated. Joan probably wouldn't approve much of it either.

"What were you doing out there anyway?" he demanded suddenly, looking over at her. He hadn't been asked why he was out there yet, but he genuinely wanted to know. There were homeless shelters, there were churches--places she could go to stay warm and out of a snow storm. And even if she couldn't go to those places, what had driven her to walk in Central Park during a whiteout?

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

Joan took a sip of her water before replying. "I don't know," she aid, "I couldn't think of anything else to do and I was sick of getting chased off of people's porches." Her eyes narrowed. "I wasn't hurting anything. Just sitting there." She ate some of her soup. "And I have somewhere to go at night. There's an old church and the priest lets me stay there. He gave me a key. But I don't go there during the day unless I'm praying. And I don't like shelters. They ask you too many personal questions. Like why you're on the streets in the first place. It's none of their business."

She looked up at him. "Not that I mind telling my friends. They don't think I'm crazy. People at those places, they don't like it when I mention my Voices." Joan bit her lip the second the words left her mouth. Why had she said that? Why? She knew better than to go blurting out her secret until she knew how the person would react. "They're not bad," she added quickly, "They don't tell me to hurt people or anything." Impulsively, she grabbed his arm. "Please, don't tell anyone. Please. I can't go back there." She shook her head furiously. "I can't."

[JACK THE RIPPER]

Victor flinched a little when she touched him; he refused to stand that. He would save her and he would be kind enough, but he couldn't stand her touching him. He shook her off his arm. "Voices?" he muttered incredulously.

He, himself, had never heard voices, no matter how crazy he was; it had just never happened. And of course voices didn't hurt people. Hurting wasn't something voices did, mostly because they didn't have a body attached to them.

Guess that meant she was crazy and stupid.

He had dealt with crazy and stupid before, though. He would just have to do it again. "Calm down, calm down. I won't tell anyone, just be quiet and eat your soup." He sounded likely irritated.

[JEHANNE MARIE D'ARC]

"Thank you," Joan said in a small voice. She turned her attention back to her soup. When she was almost done, she glanced up at Victor again. "They don't tell me to kill people," she said quietly, "Nothing like that." Her gaze flickered around the bar and she continued. "Some people...my voices scare them. because so many people who hear voices do bad things, because the voices told them to. But mine don't. And I don't."

She finished her soup and dug in her pocket. Pulling out her wad of cash, (she'd stashed the mug at the church earlier,) she dropped it onto the table. "Thank you. For dinner, and everything else too." She managed a faint smile. "I hope I didn't weird you out too much." She slid off the stool. "I suppose I should go, before it gets any colder out there. Nice to meet you, Victor." She gave a little bow and headed toward the door.

[JACK THE RIPPER]

"Hey," he said, stopping her, "y'don't need voices to kill people. So I suggest you watch your back out there on those streets. There's these murders goin' on and everything." Victor simply shrugged, picking up her soup bowl and beginning to clean the counter with a rag. He didn't belong here, in this bar, though its popularity had brought him closer to the top of the social food chain. He needed to be somewhere less menial, if you could call it that. That's what it was for him.

He glanced back at Joan again with a blank, dead-inside expression, not taking the money off the bar, and then pushed through a door to the left. It swung after him, giving only one last glimpse of his back before he disappeared completely. It's a strange feeling, if one thinks about it, to know that you'll never see someone again in your life, especially if it's after just one meeting. What will happen to them? What kind of life will they have? Who are they really?

It's even stranger when one knows that they're thinking the exact same thing about you.

((The end! x3))