(directions blah blah how the fuck are they texting in 1899 anyway)
[Even though Keane's Saloon sat in the shadow of its competition down the street, Arthur considered his past misadventures at Smithfield's before recommending it to Godfrey. His jaw ached, and the sensation of splintered glass made his hair stand up at the memory. No, a used up watering hole with three items on the menu, and about as many stools, would better suit reintroducing a priest to the elements of debauchery.
This came with a few benefits, at least: the bartender didn't flinch the moment Arthur walked through the door, the air wasn't hazy with a noxious mix of cheap cologne and perfume, and the slightest movement on the old floorboards let out such a creak that no one could catch him unawares. Not while sober, at least.
It was late afternoon, and motes of dust danced in the golden light pouring through the windows and reflecting off the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Arthur ordered two beers and waited. If Godfrey didn't show by sundown, he'd simply have a second drink to keep him company instead.]
[ It's a strange thing, to feel his own feet slow where other men's quicken.
Were Godfrey a man of less self-awareness, he might scapegoat the sucking mud for that, for there are no paved or cobbled streets in Valentine; the very ground is a dark and hungry slurry of mud. Godfrey has often feared it may swallow his boots on particularly rainy days, if he fought its grasp too hard.
No, it isn't the suction force of mud fighting his every step. It's simple force of habit that draws him to a slow and miserable stop as the building comes into view. Before him squats a peeling, tired-looking old box, neighbours with an equally exhausted little chapel. Faded lettering behind the leering and half-drunk patrons hanging their elbows from the balustrade above the entry proclaims this place Keane's Saloon, home of Liquor and Hot Food.
Put your finger on a regret in England, Godfrey has found, trace it back - and you will hit a place like this. And yet, not like this. It's something he has come to notice about the Americas; that so many of the towns he sees look temporary, built from the same slatted wood, and yet older and more tired than the brick-work pubs of his own home rock. Keane's Saloon appears to him four walls lashed together in a fit of desperation; it also appears to have stood here through a thousand storms. There are pubs in England said to have been frequented by Robin Hood that appear younger to the eye than Keane's Saloon.
Cultural, Godfrey thinks - or related to the climate. To a fair-complexioned Brit like Godfrey, both seem poised to grind a man to dirt. Why would it not be so with their architecture?
But, of course, he is dilly-dallying. The gentlemen watching the road from above are beginning to look at him, exchanging words. He's had no reason to doubt his new friend yet - why does he tarry now? Godfrey takes a breath, empties his thoughts, and pushes forward, mounting the front steps, pulling one of the batwing doors aside for a wobbling (and incredulous) patron as he stumbles back out.
And just like that, here he is - standing in a cramped little alehouse, dressed cleanly groomed, his golden waves tied tastefully at the back of his neck. Helpless and out of place, even as he catches sight of his guide for the evening. Smiling as easily as he can, Godfrey creaks his way through the bar and its cloying reek. ]
Arthur, [ He speaks, as always, softly, ] how good to see you. You've not been waiting long, I hope.
[Valentine and all its surrounding hovels have stood in defiance of blizzards, tornadoes, and maybe even a war or two. However, while Godfrey saw miraculous endurance, Arthur could only imagine the encroaching black smoke from the stacks of the oil refinery down the road, carried ever closer by an expanding railroad track. All the grit that pulled it through so far would face inevitable, if not outright compliant, bulldozing. The name "Valentine" might remain, but if he lived to see the place in ten years' time, Keane's and Smithfield's both would be a forgotten memory of the brick and mortar laid out over their torn remains.
Those maudlin thoughts encircle Arthur's head in the wreath of cigarette smoke he's produced while waiting, when they would be better drowned in the bottles of beer the bartender finally places before him. Before that temptation can take full hold, all heads in the saloon turn toward the new face at the door, though Arthur is the only one to do it with a smile. He plucks the cigarette from between his lips and dashes it to the floor while waving away the plumes he'd left lingering in the air around him.]
There he is. Pull up a seat. [He pats the stool next to him and snorts at Godfrey's concern.] Nah, the place needs help lookin' busy anyways.
[The sidelong glance he shoots over his shoulder at the bartender is not returned as mirthfully.]
[ If he has a particular opinion about Keane's Saloon and what help it may or may not need, Godfrey does not betray it. He smiles warmly, and lowers himself into his seat with care.
Curious this, too, that he already should have a seat. Arthur means nothing by this, of course - how strange would it be, to invite him out only to impassively sit at opposing corners of the place? - but there is nonetheless warmth in being expected. Godfrey has not felt it in some time; the slot he had thought the world kept for him has long since rejected him, and so has the country underneath it. A longing for this, he thinks, must be why he has allowed the lie to take root and prosper for as long as it has. There's shades of it in being called Father, even though the title has rebuked him.
The stool creaks dangerously under him - which fits, he supposes, after some thought. Godfrey self-consciously adjusts his perch. ]
Thank you, my friend, for the invitation. [ There's trepidation welling in him still, yes. But also a certain precipice giddiness which he expects most men have outgrown by now; the sensation of trying new, of perching oneself at the edge of an experience that cannot ever be taken back. ] I'll do what I can to keep myself from embarrassment. This is mine--
[ He takes the glass neck of the bottle nearest to him gently, shifting it nearer with his fingers - before glancing quickly toward Arthur. ]
[If the creak of Godfrey's stool is audible, it just joins the chorus coming from every other strained wooden surface in the bar, Arthur's own seat included. He takes about as much notice of it as the hairline cracks in the shot glasses and the sticky spots on the floorboards-- all part of the decor.
Godfrey's little nervous tics catch his eye instead. Arthur had seen them before, though more often in someone taking a wild horse for a gallop, or a kid about to draw a gun on a bank clerk for the first time-- not a grown man sitting down for a beer. It proves oddly infectious as Arthur's thoughts take the time to catch up with his actions. He's seen disgraced clergymen go to seed before. He even he shared a camp with one, but he wasn't responsible for the reverend's degeneracy. This is a bit more proactive of a step, but--
Arthur chuckles, more at himself. Hell, it's one beer, and there's worse things on his conscience.]
'Course. Not one to stiff a man on a drink.
[He lifts his own bottle and knocks it against Godfrey's with a dull clink. Arthur takes a swig, but sinks it slowly. Keane's was an armpit, but at least the ice box kept the drinks cold enough to be refreshing.]
[ He feels that clink in his fingers and lifts the bottle to his mouth, but holds for a thin moment - his first instinct is to take a perfectly civilized pull from the bottle, but he knows from his flashing periphery how wrong this is already.
The drink Arthur takes is certainly more reserved than those he sees others taking - perhaps for Godfrey's own sensibilities, he can't say. Regardless of what has inspired this more sensible swig, Godfrey appreciates it; he's not sure he would be able to drink half so deeply and with nearly so much fortitude as the other patrons.
Fortified, Godfrey tilts the bottle against his lips. The cold fizz needling his tongue and tender throat startles him, though mildly. There's a bitter freshness, an edge that is hard but not overbearing. And also...
Godfrey lowers the butt of the bottle against the table and, contemplating, licks the roof of his mouth. ]
[Beer always struck him more as a utility than a drink-- a means of cooling off in summer, warming up in winter, or dulling nerves sharpened to a razor's edge. Arthur takes another sip, this time actually considering the taste in a way he hadn't since he was twelve years old.]
S'pose it does. [He furrows his brow.] That good or bad?
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Well, if you'll have the patience for me, what harm? Where shall we meet?
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[Even though Keane's Saloon sat in the shadow of its competition down the street, Arthur considered his past misadventures at Smithfield's before recommending it to Godfrey. His jaw ached, and the sensation of splintered glass made his hair stand up at the memory. No, a used up watering hole with three items on the menu, and about as many stools, would better suit reintroducing a priest to the elements of debauchery.
This came with a few benefits, at least: the bartender didn't flinch the moment Arthur walked through the door, the air wasn't hazy with a noxious mix of cheap cologne and perfume, and the slightest movement on the old floorboards let out such a creak that no one could catch him unawares. Not while sober, at least.
It was late afternoon, and motes of dust danced in the golden light pouring through the windows and reflecting off the bottles on the shelves behind the bar. Arthur ordered two beers and waited. If Godfrey didn't show by sundown, he'd simply have a second drink to keep him company instead.]
no subject
Were Godfrey a man of less self-awareness, he might scapegoat the sucking mud for that, for there are no paved or cobbled streets in Valentine; the very ground is a dark and hungry slurry of mud. Godfrey has often feared it may swallow his boots on particularly rainy days, if he fought its grasp too hard.
No, it isn't the suction force of mud fighting his every step. It's simple force of habit that draws him to a slow and miserable stop as the building comes into view. Before him squats a peeling, tired-looking old box, neighbours with an equally exhausted little chapel. Faded lettering behind the leering and half-drunk patrons hanging their elbows from the balustrade above the entry proclaims this place Keane's Saloon, home of Liquor and Hot Food.
Put your finger on a regret in England, Godfrey has found, trace it back - and you will hit a place like this. And yet, not like this. It's something he has come to notice about the Americas; that so many of the towns he sees look temporary, built from the same slatted wood, and yet older and more tired than the brick-work pubs of his own home rock. Keane's Saloon appears to him four walls lashed together in a fit of desperation; it also appears to have stood here through a thousand storms. There are pubs in England said to have been frequented by Robin Hood that appear younger to the eye than Keane's Saloon.
Cultural, Godfrey thinks - or related to the climate. To a fair-complexioned Brit like Godfrey, both seem poised to grind a man to dirt. Why would it not be so with their architecture?
But, of course, he is dilly-dallying. The gentlemen watching the road from above are beginning to look at him, exchanging words. He's had no reason to doubt his new friend yet - why does he tarry now? Godfrey takes a breath, empties his thoughts, and pushes forward, mounting the front steps, pulling one of the batwing doors aside for a wobbling (and incredulous) patron as he stumbles back out.
And just like that, here he is - standing in a cramped little alehouse, dressed cleanly groomed, his golden waves tied tastefully at the back of his neck. Helpless and out of place, even as he catches sight of his guide for the evening. Smiling as easily as he can, Godfrey creaks his way through the bar and its cloying reek. ]
Arthur, [ He speaks, as always, softly, ] how good to see you. You've not been waiting long, I hope.
no subject
Those maudlin thoughts encircle Arthur's head in the wreath of cigarette smoke he's produced while waiting, when they would be better drowned in the bottles of beer the bartender finally places before him. Before that temptation can take full hold, all heads in the saloon turn toward the new face at the door, though Arthur is the only one to do it with a smile. He plucks the cigarette from between his lips and dashes it to the floor while waving away the plumes he'd left lingering in the air around him.]
There he is. Pull up a seat. [He pats the stool next to him and snorts at Godfrey's concern.] Nah, the place needs help lookin' busy anyways.
[The sidelong glance he shoots over his shoulder at the bartender is not returned as mirthfully.]
no subject
Curious this, too, that he already should have a seat. Arthur means nothing by this, of course - how strange would it be, to invite him out only to impassively sit at opposing corners of the place? - but there is nonetheless warmth in being expected. Godfrey has not felt it in some time; the slot he had thought the world kept for him has long since rejected him, and so has the country underneath it. A longing for this, he thinks, must be why he has allowed the lie to take root and prosper for as long as it has. There's shades of it in being called Father, even though the title has rebuked him.
The stool creaks dangerously under him - which fits, he supposes, after some thought. Godfrey self-consciously adjusts his perch. ]
Thank you, my friend, for the invitation. [ There's trepidation welling in him still, yes. But also a certain precipice giddiness which he expects most men have outgrown by now; the sensation of trying new, of perching oneself at the edge of an experience that cannot ever be taken back. ] I'll do what I can to keep myself from embarrassment. This is mine--
[ He takes the glass neck of the bottle nearest to him gently, shifting it nearer with his fingers - before glancing quickly toward Arthur. ]
-- or so I hope.
no subject
Godfrey's little nervous tics catch his eye instead. Arthur had seen them before, though more often in someone taking a wild horse for a gallop, or a kid about to draw a gun on a bank clerk for the first time-- not a grown man sitting down for a beer. It proves oddly infectious as Arthur's thoughts take the time to catch up with his actions. He's seen disgraced clergymen go to seed before. He even he shared a camp with one, but he wasn't responsible for the reverend's degeneracy. This is a bit more proactive of a step, but--
Arthur chuckles, more at himself. Hell, it's one beer, and there's worse things on his conscience.]
'Course. Not one to stiff a man on a drink.
[He lifts his own bottle and knocks it against Godfrey's with a dull clink. Arthur takes a swig, but sinks it slowly. Keane's was an armpit, but at least the ice box kept the drinks cold enough to be refreshing.]
no subject
The drink Arthur takes is certainly more reserved than those he sees others taking - perhaps for Godfrey's own sensibilities, he can't say. Regardless of what has inspired this more sensible swig, Godfrey appreciates it; he's not sure he would be able to drink half so deeply and with nearly so much fortitude as the other patrons.
Fortified, Godfrey tilts the bottle against his lips. The cold fizz needling his tongue and tender throat startles him, though mildly. There's a bitter freshness, an edge that is hard but not overbearing. And also...
Godfrey lowers the butt of the bottle against the table and, contemplating, licks the roof of his mouth. ]
It tastes like... bread.
[ Somewhat. ]
no subject
[Beer always struck him more as a utility than a drink-- a means of cooling off in summer, warming up in winter, or dulling nerves sharpened to a razor's edge. Arthur takes another sip, this time actually considering the taste in a way he hadn't since he was twelve years old.]
S'pose it does. [He furrows his brow.] That good or bad?