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So it had only been after she slapped him and told him to get the ******** out of her house that she'd noticed she still had his jacket on. Right away, she'd felt terrible; it was cold out, and he'd been kind of nice on the ride there; he hadn't commented on how tightly she'd clung to him, or how she was grinning like her entire life had been made when they'd stopped in front of her family home. Her pride, though... it wouldn't let her acknowledge this, and she'd just stood there and inhaled a scent that she could really only describe as man in the jacket.

But the next night, she'd been struck with a terrible feeling of guilt; so she'd consulted the card he'd given her, determined he'd be getting off work late at night. She'd pulled on her own jacket--a flattering navy trench that made her red hair and blue eyes pop--gathered up his white coat in her arms--and then she stood by the employee entrance of his bar, head bowed and gaze stubbornly averted. The staff wondered, of course: Did Miss Kaatje have a male admirer, her butler had enquired, and gotten the sharp side of her tongue for his trouble.

(They dealt with it only because she apologized later, and everyone knew she had terrible judgement.)

Still, it was really creepy, to be an attractive and young girl in what she considered a back alleyway so late at night. At least she looked like she knew what she was doing there. Soon enough, he'd come out... right? Unless he'd used the other door...

This plan of hers, she considered, had a lot of holes.

She was about to just go in the front (nevermind she was only seventeen, money could get you places--places like seedy bars, certainly) when she heard the door open. This wasn't new; people had been in and out all night, and she'd just ignored them since she was somewhat stoically pretending she wasn't there once she'd affirmed they weren't Luke.

This one, though, was Luke.

"You look like s**t," she said, just to make it very, very clear right off that she wasn't doing this for him. She was doing it for herself because otherwise she would feel bad. "You should at least straighten your collar if you're going to be at work." Then she held out the jacket in both hands, eyes averted to the wall just over his left shoulder.

As if that weren't enough, though, he had to tease her! Well. Honestly! How old was he? "Are you going to pull my pigtails next," she demanded, "I wouldn't get your keys for you, I'm not your servant."

(Interestingly, her red locks were in braided pigtails.)

For a moment she was pleased he'd gotten her point so easily, and seemed to be buying it. Definitely he didn't think that she was there because she wanted to see him, or anything. But the hesitation made her feel a little bad for it, and the momentary drop of her guard was obvious in her blue eyes. "I mean, I don't like it, and maybe people like it once they're drunk, but it's not that bad," she amended. She crossed her arms over her chest--she might have been pouting a little. "Not that I'm saying I like it," was the emphasis he got; "I don't."

Denial was not just a river in Egypt.

"You've only seen me as a civilian once," she said, stung by the comparison to Dorothy of all people. "So how d'you know what's new?" After a moment, she reached up and started undoing the neat plaits, and brushed her curls over her shoulders self-consciously. Her face was pretty red, and she was definitely pouting. "I just wanted to keep it out of my way, that's all," she informed him. "Anyway. If that's all."

He had a good point, so her hackles went down a bit; enough that she was actually listening to him, and her gaze moved from his shoes to his face. She caught the minuscule movement of his shoulders, up and down, and then sighed. "Well," Kaatje started to say, her tone still frosty; then she shut her mouth to listen to him talk.

Wait, did he know how old she was? Damnit, she wasn't even old enough to be in a bar--that was why all of her experiences with alcohol had been safely at home, usually with parental supervision but not as much lately for obvious reasons. Her exasperation was obvious, but her poor judgement even more so, because she shrugged and said, "All right."

...so maybe she just wanted another go on his motorcycle, she wasn't going to say yes or no. "I didn't even know I was at the right place," she said, "and I know the reputation of this area. If I'm out here I can look after myself."

Also, she just hadn't gotten up the courage quite yet. It took her a while to make decisions when someone else wasn't making the choice for her.

Looking around the bar, she could see why no one had minded Luke's disheveled appearance. It seemed a lot more casual than things she'd seen in films, or heard about from her older cousin's descriptions. It was even quiet, which was actually quite a relief--Kaatje was not a party animal, or even mildly social. She liked things when they were low-key.

While she waited, she shed her coat; the outfit underneath was very adult, very chic, and definitely didn't read as 'teen'. It probably helped deceive Luke's coworkers and the other customers. "For all you know," she said, contemplating the greenish drink, "I'm a hair-trigger drunk." Actually, she wasn't. She took a sip of the cocktail, then smiled a little bit approvingly. Melon, she thought, and lime; he'd made a good guess as to her favorite flavors of drink.

She shrugged, and continued. "I'm not, so anyway. It's good." Now that she wasn't, for some reason, sitting out at an employee entrance or having just been saved from a giant snake, she seemed much... calmer. Less confrontational, anyway. Kaatje raked a hand through her curls and looked back to Luke. "So what do you do, other than bartend?"

Being nice was a good thing, right?

She twirled a lock of hair around one finger, more for something to do with her hands than to accentuate the ridiculous amount of curls she had; it was obvious why she had such a ridiculous hairstyle as a sailor soldier, because otherwise both sides of her face would be obscured. After a moment, she shifted uncomfortably. Why was he looking at her like that, anyway? Kaatje sat up straighter, tipped her chin up a bit as if affronted.

Poor Luke. He really had no idea what he was doing wrong.

"Napping, really? If you're a med student, shouldn't you be studying?" But she shrugged that off then with a tiny smile, the very first one he'd seen that a motorcycle helmet hadn't been in the way of. (Maybe she was more of a lightweight than she'd made herself out to be?) "I go to school," she said, "come home, paint. I... paint, and draw. I want to be a fashion designer." Then the smile was more sardonic. Yeah, like that would happen. The whole having-a-career thing was just tolerated since her dad was young and in great health, so she could do something outside the family business.

Whatever. "I'm out of conversation starters," she said, wryly.

The redheaded girl rolled her eyes, finished her drink and setting the glass back on the counter. "I already have other responsibilities," she said, and didn't elaborate. She shifted the glass more towards the inside of the length of wood, then stood and put her coat on. There really hadn't been much alcohol in it; she'd be all right to walk if she had to, she thought. But since she had the offer of a ride on his motorcycle... she just had to be careful about her skirt. But that would be easy enough.

"Maybe I will, maybe I won't come back," she said as they left, buttoning the trenchcoat and then tying the sash. It was a good jacket, and the sash didn't really need to be tied, but it just looked more appealing that way. Both of them probably knew she would come back; at that point, she'd already sought him out once, and Kaatje was a creature of habit. "So where exactly did you park," she asked, skeptically; she didn't see his motorcycle anywhere around, and didn't really want to go anywhere without Luke.

Not like she would ever admit that.

Her hands were in her hair, using one of the ties from her pigtails to pull the red-orange locks up into an approximation of a bun. Last time, her hair had gotten so tangled she'd been up for an hour trying to sort out the mass of curls. It had made class kind of hellish in the "you missed class because you slept through your alarm because you were up late fussing over your hair" sort of way.

She froze, though, when the stranger approached; her hands dropped to her sides. Those words did not sound good. Last time she'd heard something like that, she'd been watching The Godfather, and someone had been about to get shanked. Seeing the man in front of them, she didn't doubt that someone was about to get shanked--she just hoped it wasn't her--

Then her eyes locked on the blade, on the outfit. Could this be one of those Negaversers that Europa had warned her about? It wouldn't surprise her if Euterpe had fallen in with a bad crowd at one point...

The man's attention was all on Luke--she turned and slipped away, pulled out her pen and transformed into Sailor Gunn. She left her bag on the ground, but reached inside for her book of matches. It wasn't something she had tried yet, starting her own fires; but in this case, she had a civilian to protect, and...

A moment later, there was a shout of Gunn Wildfire Propagation! and a ball of flame the size of a small watermelon.