A little drabble to close out St. Paddy's Day, S/T AU style and an homage to my years in Chicago. Hope you enjoy!
As she pushed her way to the bar, Sybil Crawley wondered whether the crowd was breaking some sort of fire code. Surely this tiny pub was not made for this many people.
Gwen had told her over and over that St. Patrick's Day in Chicago was something everyone had to experience. So when Sybil made plans to visit her best friend—currently a third-year graduate student in economics at the University of Chicago—she decided to go in the middle of March and see just what all the fuss was about.
The parade in the morning had been fun. During their walk along the Chicago River, the green dye that had turned the water a bright shade of green was an endless source of amusement for Gwen, but barely registered with Sybil. A lover of old architecture, Sybil was too busy admiring the city's famed old skyscrapers, some of which had been built to be best-admired from the river's banks.
For the evening's entertainment, the two young women along with Gwen's classmate Thomas, also from England, headed up to Lakeview to bar hop along Clark Street. Thomas and Gwen liked that area of town because of its proximity to the city's gay neighborhood, where it was their custom to go dance off the alcohol after a night of drinking so Thomas could be "among his people," as he liked to joke.
The three Brits loved people watching among so many inebriated Americans, but the waitress was not coming by often enough to suit them. So Sybil took it upon herself to head to the bar for the next round. She'd spotted an opening on the bar from a few yards away and tried to push through the crowd to get there before someone stepped in. She was a step away when a man came up next to her, clearly with his eye on the spot as well.
Sybil turned to see a pair of remarkable blue eyes. He tilted his head, causing his dirty blonde hair to fall onto his forehead a bit. He pushed it back with his hand. Sybil wasn't sure, but she thought her mouth might have fallen open.
Is that that why he's smiling?
No. it was because he was pointing at the bar, offering the spot to her—what the initial head tilt was meant to imply—and she was too busy looking at those eyes to notice.
"Right," she said blushing.
He grinned, but she was stepping in front of him and rolling her eyes at herself, so again she didn't notice.
She stepped up and after getting the bartender's attention ordered three beers.
The bartender winked at her when he brought the beers over. "Fifteen dollars, sweetness."
Sybil rolled her eyes. "You know that beer isn't actually green in Ireland."
"Just getting into the spirit of things," the bartender said.
"There's more to the Irish than green is all I'm saying," Sybil replied, digging in her handbag for her cash. "Oh, bugger."
"What is it, honey?" The bartender asked, getting annoyed.
"Well, I've got only British pounds here. I've run out of dollars. Can I go back to my table and get it from my friends?"
"Listen, cupcake, do you see how busy it is here? Do you think I have time to chase after you if you take the beer and don't come back?"
"Can you just send our waitress for it, then?"
"I'll get it."
Sybil turned to see the eyes stepping in beside her, where space had just opened up. Before Sybil could protest he handed the bartender three five-dollar bills.
"No tip?" The bartender taking the cash.
"I don't think the lady appreciated being called cupcake."
The bartender rolled his eyes. "So what are you drinking, Romeo?"
"Guinness."
The bartender pulled out the glass, poured the beer and brought it over. Sybil watched as the eyes took another couple of bills out and set them on the bar. He took a drink then looked over at her.
"You're English."
"You're Irish. And you didn't have to do that. Pay for my drinks, I mean."
He smiled and shrugged. "Think of it as a St. Paddy's Day present."
"I have to say it seems the Americans celebrate it with a bit more gusto than we do on our side of the pond."
"Go big or go home, I think is the saying."
Sybil laughed. "Go drunk or go home, more like."
"I won't be offended by drunken antics on this day so long as it's good Irish alcohol being consumed," he said. Then, nodding at the three glasses sitting in front of her, he added, "I'm afraid Miller Lite with green dye in it doesn't count."
Sybil crinkled her nose. "My budget is a bit tight, unfortunately. I'm on holiday visiting my friend and I head back home tomorrow."
"Oh, yeah? Me too."
"What were you doing in Chicago?"
"My brother got married here yesterday. They live in Dublin, but his girlfr—I mean his wife is from here so the wedding was here."
"A wedding on St. Patrick's Day weekend? I hope she didn't make the bridesmaids wear green."
Tom laughed. "She did! Though I believe the color was called 'seafoam.' "
"Oh my."
They looked at each other, smiling, for a few minutes. Sybil bit her lip in a way he found impossibly adorable. Adorable like the way her fringe fell over her lovely blue eyes was adorable. Adorable like the way messy tendrils of her curly hair fell around her head from the messy bun it was in on the top of her head was adorable. Eventually, the smile on his face faded slightly and his friendly expression was replaced by something else altogether. Sybil could feel her heart start to race.
"I, um . . . I should be getting back to my friends," she said.
"OK," he said, smiling again, a bit sheepishly. "Well, it was nice talking to you."
He turned to walk away. Sybil's shoulders drooped a bit.
Why can't I flirt like a normal person?
She turned to the bar to pick up the three beers and noticed a stack of stickers. They were green with white lettering and read, "Kiss me, I'm Irish!"
She picked one up, quickly pulled off the backing and went after the eyes, who'd only taken a few steps, slowed down by the thick crowd. She pulled his arm to turn him around, slapped the sticker on his chest, and, grabbing his face with both hands, pulled him into what she would tell her children and grandchildren was the best kiss two perfect strangers thousands of miles from home have ever had.
It took him by surprise, but he responded immediately, pulling her into him so tightly a little of his Guinness spilled onto the back of her T-shirt.
After several minutes, they finally pulled apart, both of them out of breath. Sybil, slowly and reluctantly, stepped out of the circle of his arms. She picked up the beers and walking by him again said, "Happy St. Patrick's Day."
He looked down to his chest to see the sticker and laughed. He lifted his glass and said, to no one in particular, "Happy St. Patrick's Day," then headed back to his table.
On the other side of the pub, Gwen saw Sybil coming and stood to grab the beers from her. "What took so long?"
"I was busy snogging the man of my dreams."
Gwen and Thomas laughed.
Sybil hadn't expected them to believe her, but she didn't mind. It wasn't the kind of thing she usually did. She lifted her glass. "To St. Patrick's Day in Chicago."
Thomas and Gwen lifted their glasses and yelled, "Cheers!"
Sybil took a big pull and wondered if getting drunk would help slow down her still racing heart.
XXX
Tom was a bit bleary eyed from the drinking the night before as he ran through the airport to make it onto his plane.
When Kieran's new in-laws had offered to pay for his tickets, the starving journalist in him wasn't too proud to accept. He had told them a first-class ticket wasn't necessary, but they'd insisted, and on this morning, when he could look forward to the better food, a softer seat and extra leg room, he was grateful.
Anna and John, two of his and Kieran's friends who'd also flown from London for the wedding, had had the brilliant idea of staying up and enjoying Chicago's nightlife before heading to the airport in the morning. Of course, they didn't have to be at O'Hare for several more hours. He was the only one drinking before a 8:30 a.m. flight. The pounding of his head wanted him to regret it. The tingling he still felt on his lips wouldn't let him.
He saw the ticket agent's eyes widen and sigh with relief when he stepped up to the now empty boarding area. "You just made it, Mr. Branson."
"How did you know it was me?" He said, trying to catch his breath as he handed over his boarding pass.
The agent scanned it and handed it back to him. "Full flight. You're the last one."
He took the boarding pass back and headed down the jetway. The flight attendant greeted him brightly and took his ruck sack as he stepped onto the plane. He walked to his seat and, on seeing his seatmate, Tom Branson might have promised God that he'd go to church every Sunday for the rest of his life.
It was her.
"Oh, my God!" She exclaimed.
Hearing her, the attendant came over. "Is everything all right?"
They grinned at one another and their extraordinary luck.
"Everything is perfect," Tom said quietly.
He sat down and fastened his seatbelt.
"I see you still have the sticker," she said, pointing to his jacket.
He smiled. "My friend moved it there from my shirt. You never know when it might come in handy." He leaned into her and whispered. "This may be hard to believe, but beautiful women don't usually just kiss me out of nowhere."
Sybil blushed. "I'm Sybil. Sybil Crawley."
Tom put out his hand. "Tom Branson."
She took his hand, but after shaking it, she didn't let go.
"So, Tom, did you have a good St. Patrick's Day."
He smiled and, turning her hand in his, ran his thumb over her knuckles. "The best."