milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It's one of those posts.

There's a spoilerific and mildly tipsy Desmond in a booth, sketching something that might be a snowglobe, only that's silly, right?

Another booth has a Hawkeye, with a glass of scotch and a newspaper from home -- it's amazing what Bar'll give you.

At a table by the noticeboard is Wes, copying English words from the various signs and seeing how much he can translate without checking the primer. (Answer: not many. Rose is watching from the next table over, smirking slightly at each mistake. It's great being able to read anything. Yay TARDIS!)

Ben's at the Bar with a chocolate milkshake -- that's not changed after three years, apparently. He's stealing occasional curious glances at an uneasy man nearby, though: Fi's wandered in wearing his off-duty clothes and without his brothers, but he figured he'd have a glass of fruit juice anyway. (And why not, eh?)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Obviously I don't want to remember your abnormal moments," Atton grins, prodding Wes in the ribs. "They must be that bad."

Wes wrinkles his nose and pokes Atton back.

"No. I'm brilliant when I'm abnormal. Which ... is all the time, so I'm brilliant all the time. So ha!" Beat. "Just, not many people recognise this," he concedes.

"Yeah. 'Cause you really give off an aura of brilliance," Atton says, with just a hint of sarcasm. "Really. Really really."

Wes mock-glares at him.

"'Course I do. Can't you sense it? I ooze brilliance. So much, in fact, that a little pool of it gathers whenever I stay still too long, and actually, that makes me sound like a Hutt, doesn't it?"

"You remind me of one anyway, so you needn't worry about that." Atton grins.

Wes sticks his tongue out at him. "Thanks, I love you too. Well, if I'm a Hutt, you must be a bantha, at least."

"I can deal with being a bantha. Banthas are cuddly and ... survive in deserts despite having huge amounts of fur," Atton grins. "You know I love you really. Even if you are a particularly ugly Hutt."

"Maybe you're a tauntaun, then. They smell even worse than banthas, after all."

Wes attempts to look affronted, but his grin doesn't help. "Am not. I'm a really, really hot Hutt." Beat. "Human. Hot human."

Atton grins slightly.
"Hot Hutt, Wes. Hot Hutt," He pauses for a second. "Besides, you can't be the hottest human, 'cause that's me."

Wes just looks at him, then shakes his head in disbelief.

"No way. If anything, we might be tied, buuut, I'm pretty sure I'm hotter than you."

With mock sympathy, he adds, "Sorry."

"Uh-huh. No. I am the hottest man in this bar, and the universe. You're a close second," Atton grins. "Very close. Almost tied."

"Well, thank you," Wes says with a grin. "I'm honoured to be given such recognition. It's still a lie, 'course, since I'm definitely the hottest here, but at least you're not totally delusional."

"You are not the hottest here. I am. What could possibly make you hotter than me?"

"My hair," Wes says instantly. "Yours just looks messy."

... so does his.

"Also," he begins, and then snickers as he remembers something. "Also, I'm not dating a farmboy."

"So does yours. At least mine is meant to look messy." He lies. He just can't be bothered to brush it.

"Nothing wrong with dating a farmboy," Atton grins slightly. "I've got some interesting memories of him."

"'Course it is," Wes says, and sticks his tongue out.

Then he pulls a face. "Ew. Ewww. I didn't need to think that about Gavin. Now it won't stop. Make it stop."

"Ha. I win," Atton grins. He has no idea how this constitutes a win, but it does. "Imagine how you'd be if I told you 'bout the lomin ale conversation."

"You don't win anything! Except maybe a prize for being evil."

He eyes Atton. Lots. But eventually decides, "I don't want to know. I really don't want to know, and I would have to come up with something to counter it."

"Yep, I win that prize, and the prize for hottest humanoid in existance."

"Pfft. It's not as if I would have told you 'bout that conversation anyway," Atton grins. "'Twas private."

"Second hottest," Wes corrects.

"And good. Thanks. My brain can be spared that horror. I mean, it's Gavin."

He pulls another face.

"First hottest." Atton snaps.

"What's wrong with Gavin?"

"Should we ask the rest of the bar in a poll?"

Ooh, polls are fun. It could be in Say True.

Wes shrugs, and says, perfectly innocently, "Nothing."

"You'd blackmail people and rig the voting," And Atton would dress up in different disguises and vote for himself over and over again, but let's not go into that. "Call it a draw?"

There is much eyeing.
"Nothing? So, this lomin ale conversation, right ..."

"I would," Wes admits without a hint of shame. "A draw it is, then."

Then he lets out a wah and quickly covers his ears with his hands.

"I'll tell you about, about, well, something equally disturbing," he warns. "It might involve Ewok food."

"You could just tell me what's wrong with Gavin," Atton suggests. "Because I am far less easily disturbed than you, y'know."