milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

Wells slips into the Bar from upstairs, pausing at the bar only to pick up dinner and his usual pint of Bass. There's no one at the booth he likes, so he appropriates the table, sets the folder marked GRUINARD ISLAND down nearby, and starts in on dinner. He'll go over the plans later; there's some stuff in there he really doesn't want to try to read while eating.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Leaning against the bar near where he sits is a young man in a smart suit nursing a glass of wine and looking quietly irritated with the swollen condition of his red/pink hand. He seems to be muttering something.

"Little prick."

Wells glances over at the other fellow, eyebrows raised. "Somethin' wrong?" he asks. "There's doctors about for that, y'know."

He shakes his head and huffs in irritation before looking towards the person speaking to him.

"No, no, it's all right," he answers, the soft tenor currently sporting a lilting Irish accent. "Just slammed m'hand in the door is all. Nothing to cause a fuss over."

"All right," says Wells, who's more than happy to avoid medical types anyway. Bit of an argument, was it?"

The man... well, let us be honest; he smells irritated, but this is not the sort of thing you say to people.

He raises an eyebrow.

"What gives you that idea, sir?"

"Most men don't look that angry with themselves for an accident with a door," says Wells. "If someone else makes 'em mad, now, that's another story."

He nods.

"M'girl. She's been telling me how she's looking for commitment and how I need to stop leaving the apartment every time she mentions her mother and I--"

He shakes his head.

"You know what I mean?"

Wells exhales. "Fuckin' hell, that takes me back," he says. "The wife and I had those arguments years ago. Yeah, I know what you mean. Sorry t'hear that, mate. M'name's Harry Wells, by the way."

"Brian Kennedy," he answers, extending his hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."

"The same," says Wells, shaking the offered hand. "Been here in Milliways long?"

He nods.

"For some time, but I tend to keep to myself."

"Bit of a zoo around here," Wells says sagely. "Can't say I blame you. Had that urge at first meself."

He shrugs.

"Well, it's more habit than anything."

"Ah? Solitary profession, is it?"

"Something like that," he admits. Then he sips at the wine.

"Usually things like this fades quickly."

Wells gives this some thought, glancing at the man's hand and allowing himself a surreptitious sniff of the air. Nah, not another werewolf.

"What, the hand?"

He nods.

"Not the first time I've had something like this happen."

Then he realizes what he'd said.

"Not that I'm, that is... I'm not clumsy, I just--"

And he shakes his head.

"Forget I said anything?"

"Well, if you want," says Wells with a shrug. "But there's a fair number of people here who heal bloody quick, I've found. You'd be surprised."

He laughs and shakes his head.

"No, I'm nothing like that. Not some... government experiment or something."

The eyebrows jerk upward instinctively at that; Wells can't help it. "Is that so?" he murmurs.

And he looks nervous.

"Uh...yes."

Wells considers the man for a while. Eventually, he turns and touches the bar top. "What's your poison?" he says. "This one's on me."

He turns, slowly, and nods to the counter.

"Another glass of what I was having, then."

He still looks a little nervous.

"Any reason for that?"

"Been in your shoes, is all," says Wells. "Or somewhere similar, anyway. Government experiment style, I mean."

He looks relieved for half a second before obviously figuring out he should be looking as such before taking a long sip of his drink.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 3