milliways_bar | (no subject)

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When you're a woman, you have to deal with this thing often refered to as 'the time of the month'.

When you're a female werewolf, you have to deal with TWO 'times of the month', and unless you're very very lucky (although whether that's good or bad luck has never been conclusively decided), they rarely coincide.

When you're an unBound female werewolf, you have to deal with those two, AND whatever time of the month it is at the Bar whenever you turn up.

Angua is in the bar for a specific reason, but that doesn't change the irritation. It doesn't change the fact that she's suffering from PLT at a time when her body doesn't think it SHOULD be suffering from PLT.

So what we have here is a very irritated werewolf at the bar, sitting in front of a pint and tapping her fingers irritably on the bar.

And she has to be here for the NEXT THREE DAYS, godsdammit.

[OOC: placeholder really, as am going to walk the real dogs. Not locked, though! Will pick up any and all tags when I get back.]

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Poor girl. At least Harry Wells is walking into the situation with some forewarning, as that sort of thing tends to manifest in the smell, right?

He stops some distance away and places his own order; if she notices him that's fine, and if not, well... maybe the edge will come off before she does notice him.

Of course she notices. She smells him coming a mile away, and whatever he orderred, it comes with a free pint of whatever his beer is.

And with a smile of greeting.

[OOC: tags will still be slow as I'm watching Wells canon]

That would be lunch, since the massive breakfast vanished with remarkable speed. He's down to the point of not needing PROTEIN DAMMIT any more, so lunch was couscous with lentils. The Bass is a surprise, though.

Not one that he minds. "Afternoon," he says in Angua's direction.

"Afternoon," she agrees. "How're you doing?"

Which sort of means 'ready?'

"'Bout as well as can be expected," says Wells.

Which means he's looking forward to this like he'd look forward to having a root canal done.

Well, she can understand that. Although the general sense of dread and doom can be a little annoying to one who's been through over two hundred and fifty full moons.

Although at least Harry has the good taste to be ~~British~~ stoic about it.

"How've you been?"

It's a subject change, really. Or at least, angling for one.

~~British~~Stoic and manly. Yep.

Oooh, change of subject. Excellent choice.

"Pretty good, actually," he says. "Found out there's at least a couple of people here with an interest in football. I was all over mud yesterday, toes to eyebrows." There's even a bit of a smile. "Ace knows her moves, I'll give her that."

Angua takes that bit of a smile and runs with it.

"Great. That's great news. I should see if I can get Carrot back here for that. Use the notice board, maybe you can get a five-a-side going."

Wells nods. "I've already got one girl learning- Antigone, dunno if you've met her. I'm thinking I might have a hard time there, though. Doesn't seem the sort to want to get out of those steel-toed boots of hers. So that's a start. Might poke Robbie Preston into it, too, since his father seems to think football's all tryin' to kill each other and could do with a bit of an awakening."

Oh, yeah, Wells. Real smart, deliberately cheesing off the Grammaton Cleric.

Well, steel-toed boots are important.

"I'm surprised there aren't more, actually," she says. "With the bar being as crowded as it is. Most of the lads I know at home love a good kickabout in their off hours."

"There's too many Americans about," Wells says. "Where they come from, football's played with helmets and armour and some big hulking bloke who picks up the ball and runs with it until they all jump on him. Wouldn't know the real game if it bit them."

"That's..."

Remarkably similar to aargrooha, actually, which helps Angua form an opinion of Americans, one which is NOT HELPED by the fact that the American she knows best is Raphael.

"That's just silly."

"Isn't it?" Wells shakes his head. "If I wanted that sort of sport I'd play bloody rugby. Only they don't wear the armour for that, so they've got to take the consequences of anything stupid straightaway."

He sighs, reaching for his pint. "I'll get 'em set straight eventually. They can't last forever."

"Rugby with armour?" Angau blinks and has a drink of her own pint. "Bloody hell."

"Americans," Wells says sagely, "are mad. The lot of 'em."

"The ones I know are, certainly," she agrees. Once again, thinking of a certain American turtle.

"Anyway, that's that part," Wells says. "Been working on target practise with another lad, named Zuko. Says he's a prince back home, but he's been in uniform something like two years now. He's got a hell of a temper on him."

"Oh, you..."

And then Angua remembers that no, Harry doesn't mean the crossbow, or the longbow.

"Younger brother?" she suggests, referring to Zuko's position in the royal family. "They tend to go into the army, right?"

"He didn't mention it," Wells says. "At least, I don't remember him mentioning an elder brother. Slams shut like a clam if you ask too many questions, so I haven't."

He starts to say something else, but in reaching for his food his eyes fall on his wristwatch. He doesn't say anything- just glances to the door, and back.

Angua catches the glance, and nods, finishing off her pint in a couple of seconds.

"Right."

He gets to his feet and heads for the back door (http://milkbonesoldier.livejournal.com/2307.html).

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