milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

autor,
clint barton

(no subject)

The Bells of Saint John are ringing...

A girl with a laptop a somewhat lost expression stumbles into the bar as she searches her pockets, trading the computer from hand to hand as she does. See, the problem with hitching a ride with a 900-year-old alien with two hearts and a time machine is you forget to bring your purse, and there's a definite risk of not having your metro card.

And then her feet hit the uneven wood of the barroom floor.

And then she looks up.

And promptly backs up against the closed door with an expression that's definitely closer to panic.

"No, not again..."

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Click! And now some little weirdo has just placed a disposable camera on a counter top, where it immediately disappears.

"Hello," he says. "You probably want me to explain where the hell you are."

She flinches at the sound, and gives him a wide-eyed glare that'd be more effective if she wasn't attempting to press her way backwards through the wood.

"I don't know where I am." Over the last twenty-four hours, she's been taught the terror of those words.

Autor frowns. "Before you came here, or now?"

She manages to steady her breath enough to glare properly.

"Now. What is this? Where is this?" She has to choke down the question that rises again.

Oh, good, there she is, he thinks.

"You're in a magical bar," he says, and his gesture holds so much 'duh' in it, he doesn't need to say it aloud. But then his smirk softens. "It's called Milliways. Some people use it as a vacation spot, but a lot of people think of it as a home."

... Neither of those sound terrible. Neither of those sound like people trapped. She.. can deal with that. Better. Anyway. Better than the option.

"So how did I get here? How did I get from the middle of London to... here?"

London again? he thinks. Interesting.

"You came through a door," he points out, shrugging. "Some people are pulled. Some people die first. This isn't Purgatory, but most of them call it home, until they leave."

He nods to the entrance to his own world. "Check your door, though, to make sure it's not locked."

Her eyes widen almost comically before she whirls in a flurry of long dark hair to tug at the door. The empty cafe beyond is... reassuring. If very odd.

She shuts the door again, and eyes the strange boy.

"And they speak English here?"

Autor grins at her. "Some of us do, but," he says, "certains d'entre nous parlent français. The reason you're hearing English is because of a translation spell--and no, I can't tell you who cast it or how it works."

The French earns a nose-scrunch of confusion - she hasn't studied French since school, and really hasn't had any occasion to use it in the last year.

"A spell? Like... magic?"

"The bar is magical, yes," he says. "And Bar"--and here he pats her affectionately--"is even sentient."

He turns to Bar to demonstrate. "Might I have a pot of tea--and an extra cup, please?"

And, well, there they are.

She squeaks, faintly, and briefly clutches the laptop to her chest protectively.

But then she's skittering around the bar, running her hands over the wood, ducking down to see below, her computer abandoned on the bartop.

After a moment, she pokes her head up over the edge of the bar to eye him curiously.

".... If its sentient, am I feeling it up?" It's important.

Autor snorts his tea, and beats his chest, coughing. He rests his hand on Bar for a moment--and then rips it away as if burned.

"No!" he squeaks, as loud as hers wasn't. "I mean ye--I don't know!"

Oswin blinks at him, eyes wide.

"... Are you okay?"

"You... You just asked--"

Autor buries his face in his hands.

"This question has to have been asked before, you're living with a sentient bar. What's the boundaries?" She asks, giving him an odd look in return.

"Not to me it hasn't," he snaps, adjusting his glasses in a huff, "so thank you for that."

This is entirely unfair, he says, folding his arms and glaring at his door. Stars and garters... Two in a day?

Edited 2013-07-09 05:19 (UTC)

"Well, I mean. Am I going to get arrested for sexual harassment if I dig around the cupboards?" She asks, since clearly the boy is being a bit delicate.

Autor squirms. "Why do you persist along this line of questioning?" he whispers, cheeks burning. "Haven't I made it clear that I don't know? Or, rather, haven't ever thought of before and never really would have until you mentioned it--Oh, Lord."

He decides that now is not the time to mention that he thinks of the bar as somewhat maternal.

Edited 2013-07-09 05:28 (UTC)

"You mean to tell me you have never asked the sentient bar its preferences?" She demands, hands on her hips. This her sternface which... sometimes works on the kids she babysits.

Autor usually laughs at sternfaces. Not this time.

"Well, no, I just--" he says, blanching. "I mean s-she's Bar, and, um..."

The boy drops his hands in his lap and sets his jaw. "I probably should have."

"Better." She scolds, her chin held high. "So, um... miss Bar, do you mind if I touch, and if so, is there anything you'd rather I stay away from?"

A napkin pops up on her surface near Oswin. Autor's too busy kicking himself for not asking these questions first to read it.

"I can't--" he starts, and chokes on his blush.

She snatches up the napkin, and reads the approval (and smiley face?) on it.

And she raises an eyebrow at him.

"You'd better start, she is sentient, after all."

Autor chokes. "Um, hello, Bar," he says quietly, tucking his chin to his chest to further the illusion of asking the question in private. "DoyoumindifItouchyouohfortheloveof--"

The answering napkin may as well be manna from heaven, he stuffs it in his pocket so quickly.