Ashe sits in her usual dark corner of Faded nursing a double tequila. It’s her fifteenth of the night, but she’s not really counting – alcohol has no effect on her whatsoever. Well, maybe except to make her more horny, if that’s possible. She takes a swig and sets the glass down on the table heavily. She’s very frustrated. She’s failed on both fronts tonight, and for once she wished she could just get smashed and forget about it like the rest of the world. If only that cute Italian hadn't chickened out at the last second. Then she would have at least had some form of distraction tonight. The way things were looking now, she was probably going to down double tequilas until the place closed, then leave and step right back inside that annoyingly restricting tree.

Come on, she thought, some one of you drunkards notice the poor, alone-looking, little thing in the corner. Doesn't she seem like she needs company?

Faded isn't really his scene, but he's been everywhere else a million times already this weekend and everything is starting to look to familiar. And he's slept with everyone with sleeping with at the Warehouse. For this week anyway. There'll be new blood by Friday. But for today he's trying something new. New and unnish, which should be an adventure.

He's too tall to be a girl, but in the flounced taffeta cocktail dress you wouldn't blame someone who made a mistake.

This is his third club of the night and he's had plenty to drink already (among other things). Everything feels friendly and fuzzy, although the glittery tinge might be because his sparkly eyeshadow has gotten smudged everywhere.

Pushing back a lock of bleach blonde hair, he sits down at the bar, crosses long elegant legs, and orders a margarita. Starting out easy.

Across the room, Ashe spotted a newcomer - unusual this late at night. It looked to be a very tall and gawky young girl wearing a fairly ruined fancy dress and her hair done up nice. She looked pretty down, though it's dark so it's kind of hard to tell. If it weren't for the fact she's in a bar, Ashe would guess that she's been stood up by her date to the prom. Ashe sighs. Prom. Just one more thing that being a tree doesn't help you experience.

Even from this distance Ashe can tell she's pretty smashed. Perfect she thinks, Some fun tonight and even if she does notice I'm not exactly human, she won't remember a thing in the morning.

Tatters isn't sober enough to be down, honestly. He'd going through the daquiri at great speed, though. There's a ring of sparkles on the rim of his glass, and he's doing provocative things with the cherry that was on the umbrella. It's not aimed at anyone special. Tatters would do provocative things if he were left alone in a closet. Not that he's ever been alone in a closet.

Having made short work of the daquiri he orders a double scotch. Fuck the rocks. One of the nice things about unnish bars is they never seem to notice if you pay them in receipts, or Loblaw's coupons.

By now his eyes are wandering the bar. He's not really looking for a pull but maybe he is. Who isn't, when you get down to it?

He's a bit past being discriminating at this stage. Everyone looks pretty pretty.

Her mind made up, Ashe goes over to the girl at the bar.

"Hey there," Ashe says in a dusky 'come hither' voice, "Mind if I join you?"

Tatters glances over - and down a bit, and is promptly enchanted. It doesn't take much at this point.

"Not at all," he says. His voice may give him away as a he. Or not. It might just be husky and cigarette tortured. "Can I get you a drink?"

Coherent sentences, yes, but they're so often used that it doesn't take any thought.

Ashe doesn't turn a hair at the realization that she is actually a he. All the more fun to be had. She laughs a little.

"That's nice of you, but not the way I drink. I'd run you out of money in about ten minutes." She smiles, figuring that even if the boy would have taken it as an insult sober (which it wasn't) he was probably plastered enough to think it was funny. She flags down a bartender and hands him the now empty glass she'd brought from her table in the corner. "Another double tequila, please," she says handing him a couple of glamoured leaves in place of cash.

Tatters watches her handing over the cash and apparently he does find it funny. He starts laughing anyway, but he can't quite place why this is hilarious. Why? Because they could both drink themselves into the grave and not end up any poorer. But he can't quite grasp that just then.

"I like your... outfit..." He tells her, helplessly. He's not sure what she's wearing.

Ashe tries very hard not to laugh at that, because really she isn't wearing much. In fact, if he could see what she's really wearing he'd probably be shocked - the three strategically placed leaves didn't cover up much. Then again, considering how drunk he is and what he's wearing, maybe not.

Tonight she'd glamoured herself into a mini-skirt halfway between too-long-to-be-considered-mini and so-short-your-ass-shows-out-the-back. She wishes she could have made it leather - that would be so much more her - but she can't really do anything outside of plant materials. Her top is tight, with a neckline that plunges almost down to her belly button, showing off her curves. It's a glamour so she can make sure nothing falls out, though it certainly looks like it's going to. Everything but the front is practically transparent and the sleeves look like they could drape to the floor if she hadn't made them pinned up at the shoulder.

She sits up, making her cleavage more obvious. "Thanks," she says, "I designed it myself."

Tatters wouldn't be shocked if Ashe was wearing nothing at all. It's not like he hasn't pulled that stunt once or twice, sometimes with amusing results. There are a couple indecent exposure charges hanging around too. You never know when a cop is going to turn out to have the Sight. And not all of them can be... persuaded... out of noticing.

"Are you sure I can't buy you a drink," Tatters wheedles, pretending like he's not staring at the girl's breasts. It's not like she's not presenting them. She might as well put a flashy neon sign on them, gods' sake. "Just one won't bankrupt me."

He swallows his scotch in one manly gulp, and waves vaguely at the bartender. Maybe unnish clubs aren't that bad after all.

"Oh alright," she breathes, "Just one then." She smiles. The way he's downing the drinks - well, he'd have to be immune like her to keep any recollection of what happens tonight till tomorrow morning. No, unfortunately, all he's going to have to remember her by is one massive headache, but then that's the way she likes it.

"So," she says hoping to keep his attention, "I haven't seen you around before. Are you new in town?"

Tatters' attention is all hers. The dress helps with that.

"Nope," he says. "Well. Yeah. No." His mind is swimming just beyond his grasp, but he's pretty sure he's not new in town. "Nope. Been here a long time. But I don't come here... much... It's... too... civilised? I'm..." He pauses, searching for a word. What's the opposite of slumming? Posing? He's not sure. "Yeah. No."

Wow, smooth. With a tongue like that he's sure to win over all the girls.

Although at the moment he only cares about the one girl. The rest can go home and fuck themselves.

The bartender puts another glass in front of him, somewhat dubiously, and Tatters pushes a piece of paper across the counter towards him. There's a brief moment where it definitely looks like a business card for Tina's Nails and Hair. The bartender frowns, blinks, and then it's a fiver.

"Erm... do you come here a lot?"

The alcohol is starting to kill originality. It's such a cliche line but that never stops people using it, so it's probably one of the more common icebreakers in the world.

She snorts into her most recent drink. If only he knew.

"Yeah. Every night actually. That's why I asked if you were new."

Same club every night? Now that doesn't remind Tatter of anyone.

"You should ge' out more," he slurs, smirking like he's pleased with himself. "Try new things. Meet new people."

He's new, right? An interloper from rave land.

"I'd love to," she smirks, "but I can't. I do the best I can here." Like introducing herself to him. Besides, if she... "talked" to the same people every night someone would start noticing.

"Guess we ha' to come to you then," he says blithely, tripping over the consonants when he doesn't simply ignore them. Her glass looks empty and he waves at the bartender. "Drink for the lady please."

"And I'm so glad you do," she says, downing the last of what was in her glass. "It gets lonely sometimes." She's not sure she should say so, but hell, he's too drunk to notice right? She reaches out, pretending like she wants a napkin and brushes her hand against his arm.

Tatters is feeling dizzy and stunned by liquour and beauty. He pulls his thoughts together enough to look smooth as the bartender pours the girl another drink, and he hands over the money. He's being sloppy and there's a whole five second stretch where the coins look like acorns. The bartender stares, blinks, shakes his head and makes a mental note to cut himself off.

Even drunk the idea of being lonely in a club seems a little weird to Tatters, but he shakes it off and smiles inanely at her.

"So, uh, what can I call you?"

"Ashe," she says smiling. Her eyes flick down to the money he's passed over and is very glad she chose to come over to him. Though she'd never found the answer to her problem, there always seems to be more of a chance when the one helping her has that little touch of magic. She might have asked his name, but it wasn't really important to her. Tomorrow morning he'll be gone like the others. Besides, on the off chance he finds her a way out, without his name she won't feel like she really owes him anything.

"Ashe, that´s pretty," Tatters says. It´s an honest remark, or would be if he were sobre but he´s not. "Pretty name, pretty girl." He couldn´t sound an sleazier if he tried, but his accent and the roughness of his voice soften his words enough that he might just get away with it. She really is pretty. He thinks - in a sloshy, bogged down way - she´s fantastic, in fact.

Ashe smiles and laughs under her breath. Her chances were looking better and better.

The conversation dies and she takes a long pull from her most recent drink. She sighs. Even though he looks interested now, if she doesn't make an effort to keep that interest it is going to be one lonely night.

"How about you? You have a name?" she asks, not because she cares, but because it's something to say and it might prompt him to talk a bit about himself. She does not mind smiling and nodding her fair share.

"Yeah, several," Tatters says, and fucked if he can remember that. "You can call me Tatters," he offers. He tugs on a blonde curl and gives Ashe a long, slow look. It´s a complex look. It´s a fuck-me-please-I´m-desperate look and also just a sad look and a you-could-love-me look. It´s much more eloquent than Tatters himself at this stage. "My name´s Mark, though." He´s not really sure why he added this detail. It´s not like most people use that name. His mother, mostly. But he´s drunk and the sentences follow on each other in a way that´s beyond his understanding.

"Mark," she replies, smiling at his look. She's definitely gonna get what she wants if he keeps looking at her like that. " 'S a beautiful name." Her voice is low and sensuous, though that's probably lost on him. "Why Tatters? Sounds like the kind of name with a story behind it." Despite herself, she's actually enjoying this, just the tiniest bit.

"Thanks," he says. He's never really thought about Mark being a nice name or otherwise... He really doesn't hear it a lot.

"Well," hmm, why is he called that anyway? He searches through the floating, drifting contents of his mind and comes up with an answer. "When I was younger I always wore real messy clothes," he says, explaining. "Like, ripped and cut up and shit."

It made more sense if you saw him at the time. He's gotten a lot more polished since, what with the girls' clothes and all.

"Really? Fashion statement or disinterest?" she asks. She's back to not caring. In fact, if she's the only one keeping the conversation going for much longer, she'll go look for someone else. He's making her put out way to much effort, even if he does look like the perfect victim, so to speak.

He's not trying to be rude, he's just not engaged in reality. But her face and her dress do present some allure, so he vaguely attempts at refocus. He smiles appealingly just to let her know that really, he's paying attention.

"It was a fashion thing," he admits. It's hard to talk when you have to chase after the thoughts and pin the little buggers down. "It was, uh, historical. Like... rene fair shit. I learned about it in a history course once, but I don't even remember what century it was from."

Ashe just barely stops herself from giving him the answer. She doesn't really want to give away how old she is, or how smart she is. In her experience, that only led to them pulling away. They seem to think that smart girls don't get horny, or at least don't get as horny as the ones who can't count to 11 without taking off their shoes.

"Renn Faire..." she says, unsure how to reply, "That sounds... nice."

There's definitely some failures of communication going on here. One suspects they're both drunk and into each other and generally pretty desperate to get laid but they don't seem to be realising this about each other.

Tatters is too drunk really - he's past the point where all girls look really fucking pretty and he's a bit too awed by this one. So much that it's taking longer than usaul to get up the nerve to just proposition her.

"Yeah..." he drains his glass, looking for some Dutch courage and not finding it. "Rene faire. But uh now more cabaret y'know what I mean."

His eyes however are saying, here I am,come and get me.

She can tell he's interested, and she's trying to tell him to just shut up and get on with it, but she can't quite bring herself to say the words. It's too easy to look too desperate and she's got her pride to think of. If only alcohol affected her the way it affected humans. As it was, after possibly her 15th drink, she was only just starting to feel a little light headed. If she'd been human, she'd have been past remembering, or caring what she said, so long as he fucked her.

She smirks and laughs a bit. "Life is a cabaret, isn't it?" She can't help but quote a little bit. She'd heard the music and thought it was extremely appropriate.

The reference goes right over Tatters' head.

"So, uh..." How to be subtle about this? Even when plastered Tatters is never the type to outright ask anyone for sex. He prefers body language and looking like a whore. That usaully gets the message across. He stares at Ashe, looking slightly gormless. "Wanna dance?"

Dancing, after all, is a vertical expression of a horizontal desire.

Finally we're getting somewhere, she thinks. She'd been a little worried he was too far gone to even think about sex.

"Yes, please," she answers, possibly a little too quickly. Then again, it hardly mattered.

Tatters probably doesn't notice. He's too used to people wanting to dance with him. Vain little bugger really.

He slides off the bar stool and offers her a his hand.

"My lady."

So yeah, maybe he's sloshed. What of it?

She grins. She definitely picked the right one.

"Good sir," she replies taking his hand and sliding off the bar seat with all the dignity she can muster.

Nobody ever said she cared if he was drunk. If nothing else, it made things more interesting, and it was easier to encourage them to forget.

Their mannerisms may be the height of propriety but Tatters' dancing is not. He's all hips, and they move in ways that most guys wouldn't recognise as being within the male capacity. He drapes his arms around Ashe's neck, pulling her closer to him and drowning her with the smell of cigarettes and weed and Diane's rasberry shampoo.

Funnily enough, Ashe doesn't have much of a sense of smell. It was part of being who she was. Most humans don't think of trees having any senses at all. In fact, her sight and hearing are always more than perfect. She just can't smell anything. It is actually rather useful when she is so desperate that she heads to the back alley - the furthest reach of her area. The homeless who live back there never shower, and they probably smell awful. They're always happy to take a broad who is (or in Ashe's case acts) so drunk that she doesn't know who they were. They aren't quite as good as the men who had... practice, but they were better than nothing.

With his arms around her neck, she slips her arms around his middle, way lower than they should be. A few moments pass, and her hand moves even further down, finding a buttock and squeezing just a little.

Back alleys are a classic, especially for men of Tatters' persuasion, so he won't be judging anyone. But of course it would be so much safer for her to go home with someone nice. A sweet little girl like her, you wouldn't want her getting hurt.

He curves into her, making his feelings crystal clear, and presses glossed lips against the line of her jaw. She smells strange, organic, earthy.

"What perfume is that," he asks. Not that he'd know or that it mattered. "It smells fabulous."

Fabulous, because even his vocabulary has homosexual tendencies.