ooh la [mary]

"Oh?" Frank eyed the cocktail slid across the bar to him suspiciously, shifting his gaze briefly to the stranger whom he was told sent it. A bleach-blond man at the end of the bar winked enthusiastically. In return, he nodded and swiftly brought his attention to anything else— his hands would do.

What in the hell was going on? Maybe these people in London could sense that he wasn't from around here, or maybe they heard his accent when he was ordering, but he was definitely getting more attention than he ever had before— and he wasn't just being paranoid, that much he was sure of. In all of his years of drinking, not once could he recall a drink ever being sent to him. That was the kind of thing people only did no-maj films, anyway.

Maybe it was poisoned, he thought to himself before taking a sip anyway.

The drink was deceivingly colored, a fluorescent blue with a little magenta flower floating on the top, but it tasted sour. Frank had been fully prepared for it to be sweet but was pleasantly proved wrong. His face that had been ready to contort in disgust instead pulled into something like amusement. He took another sip and shifted in his barstool as someone approached to order.

"You should get whatever this is," He pointed to the martini glass in front of him. For Frank, sharing his opinion was not something that he could control. It was then that he noticed the men behind her as they attempted to, from what he could tell, suck the souls out of each other via mouth. "Now that makes sense," He spoke more to himself than to her.

So, maybe 'Pete's' was a gay bar.

Mary had lost Alex three rounds ago, and she suspected he had perhaps found a better way to end his night than with his female colleague. Well, Mary wasn’t a stranger to making her own fun -- she often outlasted her coworkers on nights out, and she hadn’t yet accepted that there was potential for that to be a bad thing.

On her way to the bar she was momentarily waylaid by a six-foot-something man shimmying at her in a silver-sequined suit. Mary had opted for something a little more demure -- by comparison -- a turquoise (regrettably sequinless) womens suit. She stopped sharply, wiggled her shoulders back at him and mouthed “Love that,” with a sharp point at his outfit, jealous awe plain on her sharp features. She was about to ask him where he had got it -- a sparkling suit seemed very much like something she needed in her ‘going out’ wardrobe -- but he gave her a quick twirl and continued through the crowd before she had the chance.

“Drink,” she commented to herself as she recovered, slipping between writhing bodies on the dancefloor. She practically slammed herself into the bar, as though she had crossed some great distance and overcome grand obstacles to be here. The Arabian witch pulled a sticky menu towards her--

She turned her head sharply to the man beside her. Her eyes went wide in an attempt to take him in properly because he was rather handsome. Mary looked him up-and-down, then took half a step back to be able to look all the way down. She sighed, what a waste, and then leant in close to peer at his drink. “And what is it?” she asked, her hand reaching halfway to grab the glass to taste it (they were all friends in a gay bar) before she drew back and looked over her shoulder at where -- or rather, whom -- he was staring. “Well, for you maybe,” she replied, missing his meaning, her eyes still on his drink.

A bartender appeared on the other side of the counter and Mary pointed at his cocktail, “I’ll have what he’s having,” she said, then turned back to the man. “If this is horrible you can pay for it,” she told him.

The voice that cut through pumping music brought Frank back to present and he tore away from openly staring at the men. That wouldn't look good, no matter what the circumstances were.

In truth, he was mystified that it had taken him so long to figure it out— that he'd stumbled upon a gay bar. The stares when he walked in (fresh meat, pun intended), the drink from the blond, and now this. Not to mention that now that he was thinking about it, he was pretty sure someone had grabbed his ass.

Frank was almost mad that it had taken him so long. He liked to think that he was more with it than that— progressive or whatever.

He couldn't possibly care less who people liked to rub themselves against when the night came to an end— so long as they weren't a prick in the metaphorical sense, the details of sex mattered little. Men, women, aliens (bar anything criminal), it was all the same to him. In another life, he decided that he would have been great at being anything other than straight. He reminded himself that he could still try, either way.

The little flower in his drink burst into flames right on time as Mary leaned forward to grab it, and it sent blood-colored liquid down in the electric blue glass. It was almost as if it was on the same page as he was. "I have no idea," He relaxed as soon as he realized she wasn't going to actually just take a sip like some kind of monster. Protectively, he took another sip.

"You'll have to find out," Frank nodded astutely to the same bartender who had presented him his gift just moments before. "Hmm, no," He settled back into his barstool in thought, looking ridiculous with the multi-colored martini in hand. "Your fault for trusting someone you don't know," He said matter-of-factly. And he meant it, too. This woman's order was her responsibility and she would have to live with it either way. He watched with interest as the bartender dropped the mystical flower atop her drink and handed it over.

He watched intently her first sip, gauging her reaction in the same way that he did when people were trying his food. He looked for the familiar wrinkles of the skin, involuntary twitches, that would give away how she felt about it. "I was right," He folded his arms over his chest smugly reached his conclusion.

Mary moved her head back half an inch as the flower inside the glass burst into flame despite being submerged in liquid. “Heavens,” she muttered to herself, eyes wide. Her gaze followed the drink as the man lifted it to his lips to drink from (no offer for her to have a taste, very rude). Thankfully, as enthralling as the drink was, the man was just as tantalising to look upon -- tall, dark, handsome, unavailable.

“No?” She sighed dramatically. “A girl can try,” she explained as she clambered onto the stool beside him. They were friends now, for better or for worse. “Oh.” The witch laughed. “Going to spike my drink?” she asked bluntly, still grinning. “This is a safe place,” she stage whispered behind an upheld hand, eyes darting to their surroundings; where could she be less at risk, other than in her own home? “Think he’s more your type, isn’t he?” she said, gesturing to the blonde man at the end of the bar, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of Frank the entire time.

Mary’s drink -- all her own, no need to share apparently -- was set down before her and she placed her many ringed-fingers around the bulb of the glass, waiting (im)patiently for the barman to drop the flower in the top. “Mm,” she hummed, eyeing the drink curiously. “Bottoms up, cheers,” she said, lifting the glass to her new companion before sipping at the liquid cautiously.

Her eyes lit up, thick eyelashes fluttering as she let out a noise of appreciation. “That is good,” she agreed, turning to face him with her free hand placed on the bar for balance. “Name?” she asked ambiguously; she could easily be referring to the drink or to him.

Spike her drink?

Frank nearly fell out of his chair craning his neck to look at her suspiciously, but was met with a grin. These foreign wizards had a strange sense of humor. And that was coming from him. He followed her attention to the man at the corner of the bar who gave a faux-coy nod in return.

Contemplating it— his type— he tried to imagine what that would look like. If he were into men he figured he might prefer someone a bit milder. The mesh (and completely see-through) top just wasn't doing anything for him sexually. "Uhh," Frank thought aloud as he often did, openly gawking now. "Nope," He declared, not unkindly, as he turned back to the stranger next to him. As with most things, Frank was matter-of-fact and unapologetic about his opinion.

"See, maybe you should trust strangers more," He nodded, only slightly visibly pleased as he took another sip of his own drink before settling back into his seat. "Frank," He placed a hand over his chest before gesturing to the drink. "No idea about that one," He shrugged distractedly, now finally getting a good look at the woman. She didn't look as odd as her comments had come across.

"You with the birthday party?" Frank assumed, gesturing to the circle of people dancing over his shoulder, one girl head to toe in an over the top glittery dress and yelling something about her favorite song. He couldn't help but move a little himself. The place had one hell of a drink, that happened to be free, and they played the classics. He did have a knack for finding the hidden gems— perhaps Pete's was no different.

Mary watched the man curiously. “No?” she probed, her dark eyes mischievously alight. Her attention darted to the other man at the end of the bar and she flashed him a beats me sort of expression -- big eyes, mouth downturned comically -- before he appeared to get the hint and returned to the dancefloor to find someone who was his type.

The wizard beside her spoke again and Mary turned back to face him. “Hm, maybe,” she conceded, having another sip of her mystery-drink. “Frank,” she repeated, smirking at the hand on his chest and the way it somehow reminded her of Tarzan and Jane. He was a bit gorilla-ish, wasn’t he? In the good way. She laughed then. “Well, maybe that’s Frank too,” she teased, having another sip. “Mary,” she offered in turn, mimicking him and pressing her own hand to her chest in parody.

“Frank from…?” He was definitely not from here, at least. She was hopeless with the whole American or Canadian thing though, and didn’t want to cause a hubbub over it (they always got so offended, didn’t they?). 

“Hm?” Mary glanced over her shoulder, gripping his forearm for stability when her stool wobbled precariously. She let go (reluctantly) and shook her head. “No, just joined in,” she smirked again, sipped again. “I was here with a friend, but I think he’s found somebody else to boogie with.” Her accent practically dripped with Queen’s English on boogie, something she’d never quite shaken.

“And you? Forgive me for judging a book by it’s cover, but you don’t exactly blend in,” she said, leaning in as thought divulging a secret. “Testing the waters?” She drank again, eyes glinting with the grin her glass was hiding.

He couldn't tell if she was serious— maybe this was just the way everyone from London was— but the skeptic in him decided not. Frank watched her, Mary as she clarified, in an attempt to figure her out, his dark brown eyes alit with the fluorescents from the bar. Maybe she was just one of those people. One of those people who were perfectly comfortable being themselves around anyone and everyone. One of those terrifying kind of people.

Frank ignored that he too fit nicely into that box— unable, for the life of him, to censor most of the things he did.

"That obvious?" His mouth curled into a somewhat disappointed smile. And here he thought he fit right in the with locals. "Frank from America," He confirmed, the harshness of accent again surprising him. It was strange how he had only now, thirty years into his life, realized that he even had an accent at all. His was unique; bred in Pennsylvania, that one of kind twang, but made sharp from his life in New York.

So she wasn't with the birthday party, either. What a surprise. Frank cast a glance over his shoulder at the group again, speaking as he turned back to her, his eyes falling to her hand on his forearm. "Oh— uh, nope," He said with a shrug, not in an unkind way. It wasn't that he was uncomfortable with the idea, though, hell, he'd probably be back next week. Cheap drinks, and attention that he could avoid. What more could you ask for?

 "I actually didn't know—" Frank began, gesturing to the bar, stopping short of saying it out loud. "I was drawn in by the allure of ABBA..." His voice, despite his spoken excitment was dry as usual He took another sip from his drink, sitting back a bit more casually now.