06-27-2015, 10:40 PM
He wasn't sure if it had counted as a second date, but it had been as disastrous as the first. A fire had run them out of a high end restaurant, but the night had gone well after that, at least as far as he could gather. The second had been far worse; she'd called him for lunch because she was uncomfortable about her fellow cafe patrons, and he had left at the drop of a hat when he'd received word of the attack at the market. Only to leave her to be witness to an attack by something that had very likely been in the cafe before he had even left, from what he could gather.
Luckily, one of his men had been there to keep things from getting out of hand, and the police response time in Moscow was among the best in the world. It was a matter of some self-conflict that he had been so unaware to the threat at hand, but he had to admit to himself that he had been distracted by the company he had been with.
She had missed the Christmas dinner at the British pub he had mentioned on their first date, but the place was never entirely quiet. Churchill's Pub was located in the basement of a strip of old storefronts, sunken even further below street level as it occupied a space that had been first built some two centuries prior, and while it's location hadn't changed much, the road outside had steadily been added to and repaired, until the few windows in the pub were found in deep wells along the sidewalk's edge.
The interior was rich woods and rough red brick, the tables of an open arrangement rather then the more secluded booths found in most restaurants; it was a communal hall more then a mere pub and restaurant, a place where people came to meet friends old or new, although there were a few secluded booths. The place smelled of rich pipe smoke and lager, the shelves behind the long oak bar were lined with a dizzying array of scotches and whiskeys and ports. And a selection of vodkas, of course. Twenty tap beers lined the bar itself; no bottles or cans were stored in the back or in gaudy coolers behind the bar.
Drayson was dressed much as he usually was, minus one feature. His tie hung from a hat rack next to the door; the barkeep at Churchill's frowned on the work-atmosphere suit-and-tied patrons brought. He stood at a table where two old men were apparently arguing over some past imagined slight between them, apparently involving a fishing trip and a woman on shore. The details were not often touched on in the argument, as both men had been having the same one for going on sixty years. Details didn't much matter to them anymore.
Besides the pair of old men, there was a scattering of other patrons, but so early in the day the brunt of the pub's regulars were still pretending it was too early in the day to drink. Drayson of course only held a cup of coffee, as he was among that group who felt that the crack of noon was too early to be tipping back your first pint.
Luckily, one of his men had been there to keep things from getting out of hand, and the police response time in Moscow was among the best in the world. It was a matter of some self-conflict that he had been so unaware to the threat at hand, but he had to admit to himself that he had been distracted by the company he had been with.
She had missed the Christmas dinner at the British pub he had mentioned on their first date, but the place was never entirely quiet. Churchill's Pub was located in the basement of a strip of old storefronts, sunken even further below street level as it occupied a space that had been first built some two centuries prior, and while it's location hadn't changed much, the road outside had steadily been added to and repaired, until the few windows in the pub were found in deep wells along the sidewalk's edge.
The interior was rich woods and rough red brick, the tables of an open arrangement rather then the more secluded booths found in most restaurants; it was a communal hall more then a mere pub and restaurant, a place where people came to meet friends old or new, although there were a few secluded booths. The place smelled of rich pipe smoke and lager, the shelves behind the long oak bar were lined with a dizzying array of scotches and whiskeys and ports. And a selection of vodkas, of course. Twenty tap beers lined the bar itself; no bottles or cans were stored in the back or in gaudy coolers behind the bar.
Drayson was dressed much as he usually was, minus one feature. His tie hung from a hat rack next to the door; the barkeep at Churchill's frowned on the work-atmosphere suit-and-tied patrons brought. He stood at a table where two old men were apparently arguing over some past imagined slight between them, apparently involving a fishing trip and a woman on shore. The details were not often touched on in the argument, as both men had been having the same one for going on sixty years. Details didn't much matter to them anymore.
Besides the pair of old men, there was a scattering of other patrons, but so early in the day the brunt of the pub's regulars were still pretending it was too early in the day to drink. Drayson of course only held a cup of coffee, as he was among that group who felt that the crack of noon was too early to be tipping back your first pint.