Nellie’s Pub and Eatery [open]

The place sat mostly vacant on a short street in central London, tucked away behind a faded façade and a paint-chipped sign with the bar name in scrawling, Romanesque type face that looked like it would have fit better in a Dickensian London rather than its rebuilding, 21st century counterpart. Despite being a pub, it looked like more of a coffee house - a wooden bench lined the length of the establishment, broken only when it connected with the bar counter, directly adjacent to the entryway, and again broken only when it came into contact with the front door. Dark cushions lined the bench, and scattered along its length were tables, many of which, at this hour, were unoccupied, although they still held the glasses and emptied beer bottles from the crew of men who had departed into the night a few short minutes ago. Other tables and booths, all of which were unoccupied save for two tucked away in the far corner, were scattered throughout the place, all of them in view of whoever stood behind the bar.

Róisín yawned from her stool on the other side of the bar counter, running a hand down over her face before straightening to get the kinks out of her spine. The clock was chugging slowly along, indicating that it was no more than a few minutes past two in the morning. Róisín fought back a groan; this was going to be one of those nights, she realized with a smattering of dismay.

So she poured herself a glass of whiskey, swished the swill of alcohol in around the glass, and sipped it gingerly. Good stuff, she decided with a glance to the bottle. Good year, too. She took a mouthful and then tucked the glass beneath the bar before once more turning her attention to the television tucked away in the far corner, hanging from the ceiling on a small platform. Nothing but informercials and late night news broadcasts. God she hated the stuff; all the good shows were on during the daylight hours so, of course, she missed most of those, and then when the good primetime television was on, she was waiting tables before playing bartender between midnight and five in the goddamn morning.

Pushing herself away from the bar and grabbing a washtub from beneath the counter, Róisín tucked the tub beneath her arm and then threw a dry washcloth over her shoulder, stepping out from behind the bar and heading over to the tables. God, humans left such awful messes behind them, the vampiress lamented internally, turning up her nose at one of the tables where the surface was slicked with a concoction of spilt beer, whiskey, and some fruity rum beverage she couldn’t even stomach the smell of. Didn’t anyone teach their children, or even at least practice, decent table manners? Back in my day I would’ve been beaten black and blue if I ever left a mess like this behind, she thought grimly, picking the empty bottles and glasses up off the table and settling them down in her tray. She took the heaping ashtray as well and tucked it beneath one of the bottles.

“Maybe I’m just being archaic,” she muttered to herself as she began soaking up the booze on the table’s surface. “God, I sound like such a grumpy old bat right now.”

Momentarily pausing in her work, Róisín glanced over her shoulder to the two occupied booths. The groups of men in either of them were chatting amongst themselves, and the vampiress was eternally grateful that they weren’t like some of the rowdy groups that flowed in at this hour. She was the only one working at this hour, the other bartender having left around one-thirty, and frankly, she hated having to kick people out of the bar.

Not that she was incapable of it; it was just awkward to grab a full-grown man by the scruff of the neck to throw him out on his ear while his friends looked on, positively floored by a ‘dainty little lass’ like her, as she had been called once before, so blatantly showing him the concrete, not so much as showing him the door.

Then, as though expecting someone else to come wandering in, Róisín turned her attention to the door for a moment before busying herself again. The street beyond the smoke-smudged glass was mostly vacant, at least from her perspective.

It was a quiet night, and God, those were the kinds Róisín hated the most.

Róisín wasn’t entirely sure which was more of a mess: the black apron she wore over her gray and green flannel shirt, or the rag she had been using to scrub the table tops. Both smelt royally of alcohol, both linens soaked through with spilt booze. Peeling the apron over her head and ringing it out with a grimace, she let the liquor pour into the washtub with the rest the swill. She did the same with the rag, grimaced unpleasantly at the new, reddish-brown colour of what was once an off-white dishcloth, and then she decided to throw that in with the dishes as well.

Glancing down along the row of tables, she almost ran a sticky hand through her hair before catching herself at the last minute - too many times she had done that, and too many times she wandered home at six in the morning, hair stuck off even worse than what it usually did, and smelling like a keg and an ashtray all rolled into one heaping mess. Róisín instead wiped her hands off on the apron in her container as she made a mental note of the tables that remained to be clean. There was only four others with glasses and bottles still on the top, and the other five probably only needed a light spray of cleaner; as far as she could remember, no one had been sat there all evening, or at least not since the other waitresses who had worked during the evening’s supper rush had last cleaned them.

A cool draft of air breezing through the bar, accompanied by a soft jingling of bells that Róisín swore up and down she heard some nights in her sleep, snapped her out of the half-daze she had fallen into and she glanced briefly over towards the man who had walked into the bar. Oh, thank God; cleaning the tables was something she usually left for around four in the morning, once most people had finally evaporated from the pub and were in the process of stumbling home. Two hours ahead of schedule, Róisín needed a distraction, whether it was a fight breaking out between patrons or someone showing up to have a drink. Frankly, she’d take anything at this point. Propping the washtub on her hip and, after a quick wander around the side of the bar she had yet to finish and collecting a few stray glasses and bottles on the way, Róisín made her way back to the bar. She tucked the mess of bottles and rags beneath the counter and then moved to scrub her alcohol-sticky hands.

When they were scrubbed raw, she stepped away from the sink, wandering over to where the man sat, reading. She hesitated a moment, drying her hands and scanning the cover. Maybe he didn’t want to be bothered? She studied him a second or two longer. Ah, shag it, she decided.

“Evenin’, hun,” she said pleasantly, tucking the towel into the hemline of her jeans. She leaned her weight on the counter, a foot or so away from him. “Anything I could get you?”

The smile Róisín wore verged on sympathetic at his reaction and she nodded. So many times she‘d had something like that happen to her - sitting at the bar, somewhere in downtown Belfast, or maybe in Galway or Dublin, depending on where business had taken her, engrossed in a novel or the latest headlines, only to have a bartender approach and nearly frighten the life out of her. Sometimes it was a relief to be startled from whatever she was reading, other times it had made her want to pitch the damn book at the bartender’s face. Or whoever sat around her laughing, whoever she’d get in less trouble for throwing a book at.

“Sure thing, hun,,” she said. Just a beer, she thought, wandering away from the man and pulling the towel from her waistline, tossing it beside the sink only to have it land in amongst the suds and water. She muttered a curse, quickly backtracking to haul it out of the bubbles before it began to sink into the man. Well, she’d give him something nice - and by nice, that meant the beer she drank, of course. Grabbing a glass from the rack, she tucked it under one of the beer taps, pulled on the lever and filled it with a dark beer until a rich-looking foam sat level with the rim of the glass, some puffing up over it. The vampiress grabbed a butter knife and shaved the excess foam from the top.

Wiping the foam that managed to stick to her fingers off on her jeans, cursing again when she realized she hadn’t put on another apron, Róisín picked up the glass and headed back over to the man with the book.

“Here you are,” she said, setting the stout down in front of him. “Call me biased, but you can’t go wrong with a cold glass of Murphy’s Irish Stout. I’ll be over here--” she jerked her head in the direction of the sink, also the location of her incognito glass of whiskey, “if you need anything else, alright?”

Winking at him, she headed back over to the mess of dishes, took a sip of her warming whiskey, and then started humming to herself as she scrubbed the mess of glasses.

Was that a blush she detected on his face? Róisín bit down on the corners of her mouth to keep her perpetual smile from growing, ducking her head a little to focus on washing the dishes. Precious little guy; she probably should have checked his ID before giving him a beer. Dumping the glasses into the suds-filled sink, the clinking of glass causing shivers to run down over her spine, the hairs on her arms standing on end. God she hated that sound, always had, always would. It made her skin crawl.

With the dishwasher busted and an owner too cheap, or perhaps too broke after restoring the pub after the attacks some several years ago, it took some time to scrub the glasses by hand - there was at least a good fifty of them floating in the water. By some small miracle, most definitely not by her skilled scrubbing, none of the glasses broke and Róisín breathed a sigh of relief: she wouldn’t have to replace any of the glasses, at least not tonight. Tomorrow night, maybe, or maybe the one after that.

Settling down on her stool, Róisín took her glass of whiskey out from beneath the counter and set it on the bar’s granite countertop. While there were other patrons in the bar, she wasn’t supposed to drink, not really, but the owner didn’t care. He was a pleasant old man, and he liked her, so he basically let her get away with anything and everything - as long as it didn’t include murder.

Róisín took a swig of her drink, letting the whiskey burn her throat. Those days were behind her, tucked firmly behind a steel door that would require an unhealthy amount of explosives to extract.

She took another drink, a deeper one than before and, topping off her glass, she settled down on her stool, feet up on the lower part of the counter, and decided to make herself comfortable for hopefully what remained of the evening.

“Oi, Rós!”

Glancing away from the television she’d been staring at with glazed-over eyes for the past few minutes, trying to ignore the growling in her stomach that was hungering for anything but the food they served in their kitchens, she turned her face in the direction of the men occupying the tables in the corner. The men were standing, shouldering jackets and getting ready to leave for the evening.

Taking her legs down from the countertop, Róisín hoisted herself up over the bar, slid across the surface and then dropped down onto the faded hardwood floor. She grabbed a washtub and propped it on her hip. “Leaving so soon, gents?” she teased as she approached them. “Good God, I thought you boys were going to be here ‘til I turned the Open sign off. Y‘had me thinking I was going to have to kick y‘out myself!” Quiet, tired chuckles followed her words, as did a dozen or so bills being shoved into her free hand, the fingers of drunken men sticky against her palm. Róisín fanned through them and nodded sagely, then felt her cheeks flare crimson when one of the guys, an older fellow with a beard yellowed around the edges of his lips from nicotine, tucked a few at the hemline of her jeans.

“Maybe if you were twenty years younger, hun,” she said sweetly, patting a wrinkled cheek affectionately. “Have a goodnight, boys.” As they cleared out of the bar, emptying the two booths they had been calling home since eight o’clock, Róisín did a clean sweep of the table, pushing all the emptied bottles and glasses into the tub. She heard a tinkling of glass and she cringed. Perhaps it was a good thing they’d been generous tippers.

Heading back to the bar, she smiled at the man reading the book and then hopped back over the bar once she had dropped the washtub down by the sink. Fishing through the breast pocket of her shirt, she produced a pack of crumpled cigarettes and pulled one from the package, placing it to her lips, lighting it with a match and then taking a slow drag in the direction of the No Smoking sign. The only form of rebellion she‘d been a part of in seven years. She then offered the pack to the remaining patron, smiling as she slid it in his direction, along with the pack of matches, as she turned back to the sink. “Feel free to have one, and don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not one of those crabby barwenches who gets all pissy about folks sitting around and having a smoke. That’s the owner. He‘s a proper old coot sometimes, bless him.”

Róisín clicked her tongue sympathetically against her teeth, shaking the cigarette she had clenched between them and causing the ash accumulating at the tip of it to drop into the suds in the sink. For the first time the whole evening the smile fell from her face and she glowered at the offending black ashes that lay sprinkled across the foamy white mess of detergent suds. Inhaling the smoke deeply, she let it out through her nose as she swiped the mess of ashes away. From the corner of her eye she saw the matches and pack of smokes go untouched. The smile returned to her face, although a bit more subtle in its curve; good call, she thought. The habit was a nasty one, one she’d had since at least the 20’s. God, what a state her lungs must have been in by now. Or did a vampire’s lungs even turn black from the tar? She paused in her dishwashing, lips pursed as she inhaled, ashes glowing red, and then she hummed as she exhaled. That was a question for another time, when she wasn’t at work and in the presence of a human. Maybe she’d hunt down a doctor or something, make him put her through an X-Ray or one of those scanner things to see what it turned up. That’d be good for a laugh, wouldn’t it?

Setting the last of the men’s glasses down in the rack with the others, suds and water rolling off of them and pooling in the dish tray, Róisín wiped her dripping hands off on the back of her jeans and approached the man. She let her eyes roam over his pale face, taking it in. She valiantly fought back the urge to pat one of his pale cheeks, and miraculously enough, she won that fight: her hand stayed down on her hip. “You look like you could use a good night’s sleep, hun,” she said, voice taking on an almost motherly note of concern, something someone who looked the age she did should not have been capable of. “And this is coming from someone who hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in … uh, gosh, five years now?” She swallowed thickly, almost choking on cigarette smoke. Five years was the cover story, not the actual ninety-two she’d been around, living like this.

One of these days, she was going to slip up, and it would be in front of the wrong person. Róisín fought another urge now, this one to pinch the bridge of her nose in self-directed frustration. She hadn't lived a hundred-and-thirteen years to screw up on something as simple as a cover story.

Christ she needed another drink, and it wasn't even three in the morning yet.

Waving the cloth she was using to wash the glasses in the sink, sending suds and water everywhere across the bar counter, Róisín smiled as she watched Mr. Blushing Frankenstein - that was her name for him now - duck out through the door after leaving a pile of cash on the counter. “Have a good night, hun!” she called after him.

Drying her hands off on the back pockets of her alcohol-stained jeans, Róisín grabbed a black elastic from her wrist and tied her mess of curly black hair up in a sloppy bun. The vampiress reached for the money on the counter and began to count it, putting what was owed in the register, along with the money from the group of men who had been hoarding the two corner booths all evening, and then she began to count her tips; the night was almost out, with the hour hand on the clock edging past the three and slowly gaining on four in the morning. She almost let out a sigh of relief, rubbing at her eyes with the palm of her hand, smudging her mascara and eyeliner, a pale hand coming away blackened. A black eyebrow arched upwards in surprise. There was enough extra, along with the other few bills she’d been handed earlier on in the evening, to buy her some extra groceries, and to pay off the guy at the morgue. Wasn’t that a pleasant surprise?

Róisín did sigh with relief this time; she was behind on her payments to him and, frankly, she had to get her blood somewhere, didn’t she? She hadn’t lived this long to starve to death, that was certain, and she most certainly had no intention of returning to the former life-sustaining habits she had enforced.

Settling down on her stool once more, army boot-clad feet up on the counter, Róisín settled in for the remainder of her shift, quite pleased to know that the rest of the night would more than likely pass in silence.

[[ WHUPT I totally forgot I didn't post this. YIKES.]]

Like the previous night, the pub was fairly empty, although there were a handful of people scattered along the benches and tables that wound its way along the perimeter of the establishment. Quiet conversation filled the place, a hum so low that it was almost entirely drowned out by the sound of the radio an electrician of some sort had come in earlier in the day to repair. Some people sat in groups, chatting amongst themselves, whereas there were a few lone drinkers here and there, tucked away in corners and trying to act as inconspicuous as possible. Those were the people who were easiest to sympathize with. No large groups like the night before, which probably meant the place would be empty by two again. Róisín swallowed a sigh; sometimes she didn’t know why the owner kept the place open as late as he did, and part of her wondered if he did it for the sake of giving her hours. It wasn’t a major loss for the place, what with her being the only employee they had working in the evening after one thirty or two. The vampiress wasn’t entirely sure whether to be grateful for it or not, given how tedious it was to sit in an empty bar for several hours while fighting to stay awake the entire while.

The woman in question was stood behind the bar, conversing with a co-worker as he prepared to scrub down the kitchen and then lock it up for the night, to save her the trouble of trying to watch the front and clean at the same time. It was a nice setup, one Róisín was thankful for. Not that she couldn’t handle it; she simply didn’t want to. Curly black hair pinned up in a tight bun and her bangs pinned up and kept back with a red and white-patterned bandanna, she tossed the keys to kitchen to Mike, wished him a good evening in case she didn’t see him before he left, and glanced over to the door at the sound of bells jingling as three men entered the bar. Ah, so perhaps it wouldn’t be an overly quiet night, she realized with a wry smile when she heard one of their comments. Casting an amber eye over the tallest of the trio, the one who had spoke first, the wry smile turned into more of a smirk and she subconsciously tightened her posture. He looked like a man who needed to be cut off before he’d even started.

Scratching at her partially bare back before adjusting the material of her black halter top, red-painted nails grazing over her tattoo, Róisín smiled at the men as they took up three of the barstools and approached them, hands tucked into the pockets of her black waist apron - which was currently free of alcohol stains and/or the smell of it. For the time being, at least. “Evenin’, gents. Anything I can be gettin’ for you lot?” she greeted. Then her eyes widened a smidgen before crinkling pleasantly at the corner. “Welcome back, Mr. Frankenstein. I see you’ve brought some friends along with you tonight?”

Arching a brow, Róisín felt a dry chuckle rising in her throat; most men were subtle when giving her and the other girls a once-over, and even the ones who weren’t subtle in the slightest at least made some kind of a half-hearted attempted at concealing their wandering eyes. This guy, however, was much bolder. Those kinds of men did exist, and Róisín knew they frequented the other pubs and bars in the area based on some of the interesting stories she‘d heard over the past few years of her employment, but she hadn’t had many run-ins with them. Or, at least she hadn’t in quite a while. What had it been, fifteen years? Twenty? Róisín felt a different kind of smile surface unbidden on her lips, one that was almost nostalgic - she missed her boys, she missed her man - and then she mentally bit the nature of the smile in half and her expression darkened, her smile growing a little sharper at the edges as she levelled her gaze on the loudest of the three. “Three beers it is, handsome,” said the young woman, her voice taking on a saucy tone, her grin wolfish.

Then, turning to the other man, the one with the greyish hair, she leaned over the bar a little so that, when she spoke, it was to him only. “Please, hun,” she said, this time sounding almost as pleasant as she had when she first greeted them. Her smile had softened a little. “Men like him require no excusing. It just kind of comes with the territory, so don’t bother yourself with trying to help him save face. Drunk men will be drunk men, and dumb men will be just so.” She briefly clasped his shoulder, decided with an inward grimace it felt like a slightly military thing to do, and she turned her back to the trio and headed over to the taps, grabbing three glasses from the shelf along the way.

Before setting them down on the rack beneath the taps, she glanced over her shoulder at them. “Are there any preferences, or is this round bartender’s choice?”

Róisín had been fully prepared to argue what he said - no, actually, a book was generally more attractive than she, and she would be willing to talk the loud man into a corner in order to prove her point - and she had been equally prepared to stick up for Mr. Frankenstein, when the other man approached. Mike had been ghosting along the front and must have served him; the vampiress had no recollection of even seeing him come into the pub. Then again, when you were preoccupied with a moron, that did tend to leech up a good portion of one’s energy, and possibly their patience. Patience was something Róisín had in spades but, for some reason, found herself growing nearly short on it. Maybe it was exhaustion; maybe it was hunger. She hadn’t slept well because the people in the flat above hers didn’t appreciate the fact that she was a nocturnal being - not by choice, mind you; she was hungry because it had been days since she had fed. It was in her near future, she knew it judging on the grumbling in her belly.

The man who had approached looked polite, was well-dressed and carried himself like someone with a status behind their name. Róisín watched him closely for a moment, heard what he said, and bit down on her cheek to keep from laughing and when she had that under control, she took her lower lip between her teeth to keep from smiling. “Go raibh maith agat,” she said lowly, muttering the quiet thank you beneath her breath. She placed her hand on the back of her neck, looked at the ceiling as though she were praying for patience, or a good stiff drink - whichever came first. In her case, it would be the stiff drink.

“Well, I do believe that settles all that,” Róisín said brightly, unable to hide the trace of laughter from her voice. She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders, nodding at the trio and smiling crookedly at Mr. Frankenstein. She jerked her head in the direction of the stool partway down the bar behind the counter. “I’ll be over here if anyone needs another drink.”

And so the vampiress took her seat behind the bar, fighting the urge to pour herself a drink despite it being so early on in her shift, and Mike drifted across the room from one of the tables near the door, glanced pointedly at her and then to the kitchen. So he’d be sticking around a little longer than he was scheduled for. Róisín bit back a sigh of relief and nodded at him. It’d be nice to have a little back up, but she’d be keeping an eye on the loud one at the bar - Mr. Frankenstein and the Grey-Haired Guy weren’t causing any trouble, it was all the other guy - and, perhaps, she’d have to keep an eye on the German man who had come in, too.

Just to be on the safe side.

(It was at that point when Róisín quit warring with her consciousness and let her work-related alcoholic tendencies take over; she really could use that stiff drink, anyway.)

A humble girl by nature, and perhaps humbled even further by circumstance, Róisín had never asked for much in her life. She never asked for raises, she never asked for a lower rent, she never asked for promotions - be them with the IRA or here, at this cozy little pub - and she most certainly never asked for excitement of any kind.

Apparently, however, life was not nearly as humble or laid-back as she when it came to the things it enjoyed to dole out with a cruel sense of humour. Life, Róisín had decided some fifty or sixty years ago, once she’d been around long enough to truly understand it, had the nastiest sense of humour and an even nastier mean streak sometimes. This was one of those times.

She’d been pouring a drink for herself behind the bar, glancing around the place and noticing that it had been almost emptied of patrons, including the regulars - driven off perhaps by the behaviours of the other men in the place, she’d have to apologize to them when they came back the next night - and found herself immensely thankful for the near-emptiness of the place. And then suddenly people were yelling, tables were flying helter-skelter and if Róisín hadn’t known any better this might have been a pub in Ireland - the Northern, rowdier side, at that - and not one in England.

Vaulting herself up and over the bar, casting a forlorn look to both her now abandoned drink and to Mr. Frankenstein - one of these days, she’d have a decent chat with him, if she could get two words out of him - and she stormed across the bar over to the German man where he was now accosting some youth. That was one thing, a thing for the police to deal with perhaps, but once you began to factor in damage to the establishment, then she had a chance to get her hands on things - there was no way a busted table was coming out of her pay cheque.

Placing her hand on the German’s bicep, she peered over his shoulder and frowned. “Sir,” she said icily, “if you don’t chill the fuck out, I’m going t’have to ask you to leave, got it? And I’m not afraid to grab you by the scruff of the neck and drag you out through those doors myself.”

Róisín had decided, at this point in the game - if you even wanted to call it that - it would be best for her to try to stop attempting to understand what was happening. First, there had been the confrontation, followed by the second confrontation involving the boy whom she had served earlier, then the angry German whom she had been restraining had thrust some money into her hand - easiest way to make a woman’s night, no doubt, bless his silver buttons - and had been tending to the man he had injured. And now there were men in her bar, speaking German, dropping ranks here and there, apologizing to her and calling her a ‘fro line’, which took her a moment to realize they were calling her ma‘am and not making snide remarks about her hair.

Róisín was slightly more confused than she had been in quite some time, but the vampiress was taking it in stride at this point. Petting the young man’s hand - Walter, had the German called him? Yes, that was what he had called him, most certainly - Róisín gave the boy a warm smile. “While I highly doubt his intentions are malicious, have no worries, hun,” she said brightly. “I’ll be busting some asses before anyone does anything unseemly in this bar.”

Turning from him and in an attempt to resume damage control, she headed over to the bar to grab one of the ice packs kept in the freezer beneath the counter. There were numerous ones, all of which were kept for occasions like this one. The manager was either pragmatic or pessimistic in his opinion of the patrons, and Róisín could not be certain which one it was. Heading back over to the unconscious man on the floor, she set the ice pack down. "Oh, I do believe what you gave me will be enough, Sir," Róisín said brightly to Heinrich, patting his cheek affectionately. "A thousand thanks for that."

But now, these other men in the bar, what to do with them? Did she offer them a drink? She cast weary, amber eyes over them, all dressed identically in their crisp, black suits and sunglasses. Sunglasses at night, really? Róisín squinted a little at them; something felt off. About them, about all this. But she said nothing and instead, giving Heinrich another warm smile - money was bound to change anyone's opinion, and it worked wonders with her - she headed over to Mr. Frankenstein, clasped him on the shoulder and then sighed.

"If anyone wants anything to drink - and I mean anything - it'll be on the house and I'll be over at the bar."

And then, quite resolutely, Róisín plodded over to the bar, flopping down on a barstool in front of the counter and laying her head down on the cold marble surface, mentally begging for no more excitement, not for a long while.

Straightening up and running a hand through her hair, Róisín plucked the pins and elastic bands from her hair, taking it down out of the bun and shaking it out. The vampiress sighed tiredly, and then she smiled at Mr. Frankenstein. "You have nothing to apologize for," she said quietly, brow knit together and her expression unusually serious. "These things happen. Infrequently, yes. But they do happen. Don't feel bad about it, please."

The woman sighed and swivelled around on her barstool, resting her back against the bar, assessing the destruction. With the exception of the man lying on the floor being tended to by his friend, and the spilled drinks and food, the place didn't look too bad. It would just require some extra scrubbing, that was all. And several Incident Reports to be filed and passed off to ... wherever the hell it was the old man sent them off to. He took care of the filing, she took care of the scribbling. Which was an even bigger pain in the ass when she thought about it.

When the young man, however, approached her and asked for a glass of wine, she stared at him, eyes going wide. She pressed her lips together, furrowed her brow and then ran a hand down over her face in exasperation. "You're seventy, and I'm a hundred and thirteen," she said drily. Some might take it as a broken sense of humour, but for her it was a nauseating reality. Not that any of them knew about it. "You know what? I don't care anymore. Of course you can have a glass of red, sweetheart. You can have two, if really want. I'm definitely not going to stop you. As for inns or hotels--" she gave him a funny look at the mention of his parents not being in town, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards in a small smirk, "I'll grab you a phone directory and you can check under the hospitality section; I'm sure there's something in the area."

With that, Róisín wiped her hands off on her apron and headed behind the bar to pour the young man - young boy? Old man? Fuck, her brain had broke - a glass of red, herself a glass of whiskey, and another beer for the man reading at the bar. It was only fair, after all.

She returned to the bar, one of the glasses balanced precariously in the crook of her arm, and set the beer in front of Mr. Frankenstein, the wine and directory in front of the boy, and she stared sadly into her whiskey. "Cheers," she muttered before tossing it back.

Oh, yes, there was something funny about this boy - Róisín studied him through calm, calculating eyes, resting her chin in her palm as she swished around the remaining swill in her glass. Either the damn stuff wasn't strong enough, or the blood in her veins was made of whiskey now. She set the crystal down on the bar and folded her arms over her chest. "Well, by rights, I have to call the manager and get his approval, given that that sort of thing isn't something this place usually does," Róisín hummed thoughtfully, pressing her lips together. "However, I'm not in the mood for getting bawled out by my manager for calling him at two in the fuckin' morning, so I'll let that slide. There's a staff lounge with a sofa or two, so you can sleep out there, I guess. However, that means I have to stay the night now, too - staff's not allowed to leave while there's patrons still around and, regardless of the situation, you're still considered a patron. I don't exactly want to run the risk of getting fired for letting someone stay the night without the manager's say in the matter, understand?" She stood, removing her waist apron and draping it over the counter as she collected her glass and dumped it in the sink with the others.

The vampiress hummed to herself, scratching the back of her ankle with the toe of her army boot. Her 'spidey senses', for lack of a better explanation, were tingling around this boy, but she passed it off for the time being. Anyway, she didn't want to say anything, not with Mr. Frankenstein around - and, bless him, he'd finally put down his book. Róisín actually smiled at this and shook her head a little, muttering to herself in Gaelic and clucking her tongue against her teeth.

Watching as the other two men left, giving them a pleasant, almost apologetic wave as they went out through the door, Róisín sighed and shifted her weight as she began scrubbing the dishes. Hopefully she wouldn't get in shit for letting the kid stay the night, but there was no way in hell she was making him spend a night out on the street. She'd done that several times in her life, and frankly, there was no way she'd inflict that on someone else, whether they raised the hackles on the back of her neck or not.

Looking up from her scrubbing, Róisín smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling pleasantly. "Róisín," she supplied. "Or you can call me Rós; most people tend to go that route, namely because it saves them the embarrassment of butchering the pronunciation and me bawling them out for it."

Then she paused once more, stepping back from the sink and placing her suds-covered hands on her hips. Her eyes were wide as she looked around the pub. It looked cleaner than she had seen it in a long time - not that her cleaning efforts were a general failure, given she had been the head of a household once upon a time - but this? This place looked almost brand new. Róisín turned to Walter. "Damn, son," she said. "Are you looking for a job by any chance? Because I'm sure we could be hiring. Seriously. The Old Man'd love to have you around."

Settling back at the sink, looking around the bar that now looked as though it were brand new - actually, the place probably hadn't even been that clean when it was first opened - and then she settled her focus on Mr. Frankenstein, smiling at him. "Well, since we have all kinds of names floating around and this is your second night here, meaning you're running the risk of two mores visits and becoming a regular, d'you have a name we can call you?" Her smile was warm and gentle. "I've been mentally calling you Mr. Frankenstein since that was what you were reading last night, but it's beginning to lose its charm. I'd much rather an actual name to call you by."

The job comment had been half-joking in nature but, the longer she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. "I doubt it'd be enough for you to earn 'your keep'," she commented. "given that the old man only wanted someone for twice a month to give the place a good cleaning. And he's a stingy old coot, as well, so it's highly doubtable that he'd let you stay on the premises. So I'd have to set you up with meeting him. I definitely don't do the hiring, but if you're interested in one or two nights a month, I'll definitely put in a good word for you, Walter. Or, if you wanted to look for one in the area, there are several pubs hiring cleaning staff on a more permanent basis." She gestured vaguely towards the world beyond the pub's entrance, sending soap suds flying as she did, water dripping over the counter in front of her. "And I can guarantee you the other spots pay far better than here, and I think one or two of those spots might have rooms they let to their staff. But I'd put in a good word for you there, too, not to worry." Róisín smiled pleasantly, humming to herself as she finished up what was in the dish pan. The song was an old one, one her aunt used to sing while she was working, one Róisín had adopted for herself. Her smile softened a bit as she grabbed a towel to begin drying glasses.

Then, she looked over to Mr. Frankenstein - no, no, John. "Well, John," she said brightly, grinning, "it's nice to have a name to work with!" It seemed like there might be a friendly guy under that shell of his, and maybe she'd be able to chat him out of it. If that didn't scare him away altogether, which it might.

Her mother always did scold her for being so forward that it was unbecoming.

Money? Not an issue? Róisín would have sold her limbs for that kind of position - one where money didn't matter. She frowned a little, staring at the glasses as water trickled down their sides, and she held one up to the light, inspecting it. Money had been the issue in the first place, at least for her. The vampiress' expression darkened for a moment, lips pressing together until they went white around the edges, before clearing up and she smiled, albeit a bit weaker than before. "Well, if that's no problem," she said, "hand in a résumé some time the week and I'll put in a word or two for you. You'll have no trouble gettin' a position, no worries. He'd be only too happy to take you on."

Patting her hands dry on the back of her jeans, Róisín stepped away from the drying glasses and took her seat behind the bar with a sigh, resting an elbow on the counter and placing her cheek in on top of a loosely clenched fist. She felt exhausted all of a sudden and, for the first time in a while, she felt old, as though all the years she had seen and fought through were finally creeping up on her. For a moment she shut her eyes, sighing a little, and then, when she opened them, she glanced over to John who was still scratching at his cheeks, which were turning an interesting shade of pink.

Róisín grinned at him. God, this guy was precious. But he was going to scratch a trench clean through his cheek if he didn't let up sooner rather than later. Maybe she should mention that to him, but he'd probably turn redder, and that'd just be cruel of her. Damn though, was it ever tempting.