milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Two Librians walk into a bar.

No wait, that's not how it goes.

Two Librians walk downstairs. They're back in their somber gray attire-so it stands to reason that they must be going home (as if the dufflebag Preston was carrying weren't a big enough clue) Neither Father nor son look particularly sociable, but Robbie's got a very dark look on his face.

They're sitting in a booth toward the fire enjoying a light meal. You could cut the tension between them with a knife.

Doesn't mean you can't attempt to talk to them.

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"oh, bloody hell-" Quinn gets up and crosses over to crouch down to Robbie's approximate height. "Can you see the door?" he asks, first of all.

Somewhere in the back of his head is a sneaking, dreadful conviction that John Preston is going to find a way to blame this on him, too.

Robbie turns his head a bit-staring at the door-

No..

"Doors just don't disappear." Robbie's very matter of fact, "-That doesn't happen Mr. Quinn. Not at all."

Whatever conviction and adult attitude he had earlier is completely gone.

"...My dad-"

Robbie lowers his head, "...My sister-"

Mr. Quinn is what the kids at the castle call him, and it grabs something in Quinn's chest a little to hear it. He puts that aside, though. "It happens here," he says. "It happens to plenty of people. I hear about it all the time."

He almost runs a hand over his face, but he's not going to let himself do that in front of the boy.

"They're going to be fine," Quinn says. "And so are you. You can stay in my room, if you like- I'll get you a room if you don't. But it's gonna be all right, I promise. One way or another."

Robbie's developed a bit of a habit. He drops to the floor, curling into a tight little ball before he looks up at Quinn Tentatively.

"...My dad-My dad has a room here..."

But he doesn't know if his dad closed out his tab or not.

Robbie shivers, "It's cold and I'm in my pajamas-and nobody can be dignified in pajamas!"

"If it's still open we'll get you there, then," Quinn says, reaching over to lay a hand on Robbie's shoulder. "Come on. Let's get you upstairs. I'll get you clothes from the Bar if there's nothing that'll suit. All right?"

He hasn't thought to replace his own yet. That's more of a personal choice than anything, though.

Hey, it's got it's own chic.

Robbie's too frightened and blitzed to do anything but nod. Wrapping his arms around his chest he peers around-afraid of people pointing and laughing. Like those dreams that pre-librians were known for having...

"...Mr. Quinn?" Robbie hesitates "...Pre-Librians always had those dreams...of being in a room filled with people in their underwear-" He mumbles the rest, "Pajamas are like that and people are gonna laugh at me and-"

Quinn gently prods the boy to his feet, starting the two of them towards the stairs as soon as he thinks Robbie can manage. "No one's going to laugh, Robbie," he says. "This is Milliways. They've all seen loads worse. And if they do laugh, I'll make 'em stop. Come on, now-"

Robbie follows, "...couldn't be laughed at." Robbie's wiping his eyes, "-Aw hell-I'm nine and I'm crying like some stupid little kid." He huffs, disgusted with himself, "-A cleric wouldn't be this...weak."

But he follows Quinn.

"Yes, you're nine," says Quinn. "You're also tired, far from home, and separated from your loved ones. Anyone'd do the same in your circumstances no matter what they were trained to do. It'll pass, you'll see."

Hm. Preston's tab marker is still hanging up by the Bar, though someone paid it off a while ago. All right, then. "Looks like we're going to your dad's room after all, Robbie."

Robbie nods, "....."

It's heartfelt. The man's rescued Robbie twice and while he feels indebted and stupid and tired and sore-he's also absurdly greatful.

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