eva v. the world.

Calden White

Well, Eva let Calden pick the spot this time, and that is why they are not at a classy, discreet, subtly luxurious whiskey bar. They are, instead, at a blues joint where the music is loud and live and always excellent; where the air always seems a little smoky smokeless-bar-laws notwithstanding, where the furnishings are a little on the dive side and the clientele runs the gamut.

They are not by the stage, where some sultry middle-aged bluestress is bawling her heart out over dirty bass, slow drums. They are not by the bar, either, where patrons jostle for precious space and the bartender's attention. They've found a happy medium: off to the side, under an old photograph of the place circa 1970, sharing a small table with wobbly legs.

There's a well-stocked bar here. There's food, too: what passes for food, anyway. Microwaveable nommables, chips, maybe some salted almonds. Calden has a generous glass of scotch on the table. He has a plate of BBQ rib sandwiches, too, the meat unrecognizable, the bread imbued with that characteristic texture of freeze-thaw.

Eva

"Interesting choice," Éva greets Calden with the faintest of smirks as she finds the table, dark eyes rising with a distinctly wry expression to touch on the photograph over the wobbly table, then sweeping downward to take in the less-than-appetizing appearance of the freeze-thawed bread. Someone's moving after her from the bar, a shadow behind her that resolves into their waitress or possibly the tender as she removes her jacket, drapes it over the back of her chair, and slips in opposite the Fiann.

That's her drink, ordered at the bar and delivered before she has even managed to sit. Whiskey, not Scotch. Local whiskey too, neat, along with a small bowl of smoked almonds. It seems that she will not assay into the realm of the microwaveables, and prefers salty bar food when actual food is not available.

"How are you?" She asks, taking up her whiskey as the waitress leaves. Glancing down at the play of light across its surface. A brief pause, then - with a sparing directness. "Heard anything more from or about your recent guest?"

Calden White

"Best blues bar in the state," Calden replies, utterly unashamed. He rises, of course, as Eva sheds her jacket. He is a gentleman.

They take their respective seats. She has smoked almonds; he picks up one of his sandwiches and demolishes a third in a bite. For a little while they are occupied by the thanking and tipping of the waitress, and then by the simple pleasure of settling in.

She inquires of his guest, then. And Calden smiles, brief and fond, wiping his fingertips on a napkin before folding it across his mouth.

"She's down at the Caern now," he says. "Basic training. Every other weekend they let her come home with me. I usually swing by after I drop the cattle off. We go up to the ranch and the boys spoil her because they're trying to make it up to her.

"I furnished up the spare room downstairs for her. I was going to put in frilly pink, because that's what girls like, right? But she wanted raw wood and pictures of horses. So now her room looks like my dad's, and they both seem pretty happy with that.

"Maybe when she's got a better grip on her temper," he adds, "Ellie can come up and play with her."

Eva

"Girls are always more surprising that you might imagine." Éva returns; quietly.

Lifting her whiskey and taking a few smoked almonds up into one elegant hand. Sifting some of the excess salt from her fingertips as she cups the nuts themselves in her palm. There's a frission to her expression which is subtle but mostly supressed. An echo of his fondness, more distant, overlaid with that complex matrix of awareness and quietly attenuated empathy that framed her response even on the night they first met Tenderfoot.

Then, a quiet nick of her tongue against the roof of her mouth. This resolution where her focus pulls in: on Calden, in this precise moment.

"I think she's lucky she found you. And I'm glad you're able to give her - " a pause; a brief inhale. " - someplace to be home." Not call: be. She is a trial lawyer; the choice of words is deliberate, precise. " - though I'm not sure that she and Ellie will really be able to play together. Is she really a child anymore? Perhaps it's not fair to say otherwise but - "

The change is a stark one.

"I wouldn't mind them meeting. Knowing one another, but I don't know that they'll ever play."

Calden White

More surprising than he might imagine: Calden's smile widens briefly, turns a touch rueful.

"I have to admit I don't know much about them. I have four brothers and a lot more male cousins than female. I suspect you weren't the frilly-and-pink type either, though."

A small pause, then. Another bite of his sandwich, and another, and then the first is gone. He looks at the second one. Doesn't start in on it yet.

"Truth be told," he says -- with care, and with his eyes lifting to Eva's, "I sometimes suspect Ellie won't be a child for very long, either. It might be good for her to have someone like Jill around. And Jill, to have someone like Ellie."

Eva

"You're better off not to think of girls as girls," her voice is low; her eyes gleam in the faint light. She picks up the glass by the rim and lifts it to her curving mouth. Inhales; see. Draws the scent of the whiskey over her palate, then drinks. " - but as individuals. Makes it easier."

Is she teasing him? She may well be; there's no correction to be found in her tone, just a certain lilt that is not as poignant as rue, not so pointed as sarcasm. Call it: bemused.

That bemusement stills and then dies on her mouth and in her eyes as she continues. He can perhaps see a certain sort of door - well - closing. A certain composure asserting itself.

A brief breath, sharply indrawn. "I will protect the sanctity of Ellie's childhood until I have no other choice. I want her to have time. As much time as she can. And I'll fight the world for it, if I have to."

Calden White

Girls are individuals too. That's basically what Eva just told Calden, who is now wearing the faint smirk of someone who has been subtly and rounded schooled and knows it.

The conversation moves on, though, and with it that smirk. They are serious now: they are talking about her daughter. They are talking about the destiny that they both, it seems, suspect lies in store for Ellie. Eva is quietly ferocious; Calden would expect nothing less of her. Calden, however, is more measured. He is quiet a moment. He sips his scotch. He sets it down and he looks at the way the light refracts through it, scatters across the tabletop.

"Maybe if it's just the world you have to fight, you'd win," he says after a while. "But I think in the end you'd have to fight Ellie, too, if you wanted her to just stay a child a little longer."

Eva

This is not the moment where Éva gives in; perhaps there is never a moment where Éva gives in. Her eyes are subtly flashing and there is a rather steely determination to the set of her jaw. There is no concession in her face or manner; just a mild shift of her gaze, from his features, to some far corner of the room.

Then back; a lilting glance. The glass of whiskey is still held lightly in her right hand. She swirls it, an elegant motion of her wrist.

"Did I ever tell you that I met your royal?" An arched brow. The subject change is deliberate. "At a legal aid fundraiser at a gallery in Sante Fe. I was impressed.

"With her not the art."

The conversation shifts; expands; contracts, changes. They finish their drinks.

They each order another.

He is a gentleman: he walks her to her car.

She is a gentlewoman: she then gives him a ride back to his.

So it goes.