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A large box of craft supplies makes its way down the stairs and over towards Bar.
No wait, scratch that. It was a ninja ex-turtle carrying the craft box.

Before he puts the box on Bar's top, he gives her an appraising look.

"If I put this down, are you going to eat it?"

The Bar, she says nothing. Well, not that you can hear anyway.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

Mike shifts the box in his arms and makes his way over to a nearby table.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE.
Woah, you guys listened this time. Cool.
Okay, here's the deal."

He pauses.

"No no, there is too much. Let me sum up.
There was a battle and in that battle Bernard was hurt. So I figure while he's recouping in the hospital it might be nice to have some stuff from here to cheer him up.

So if you're feeling up for it, come on over and craft until your heart is content. I've got construction paper, pipe cleaners, buttons, and even some raw macaroni.

...

Okay, that's it. Go about your business."

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Within the box of supplies are many many pairs of socks. Definitely over twenty pairs.

However... somewhat incredibly, they aren't of the new neon pink tube variety (http://community.livejournal.com/milliways_bar/13556120.html#cutid2). Instead they are of a rather more threadbare and drab shaded variety.

Perfect for sock puppets!

There are also a pair of sai made out of toilet rolls and twisted wire coat hangers.

*At some point, Meg wanders over and industriously begins to tutu one of the sock puppets.

For old time's sake.*

Funny, isn't it, how grumbling sounds more like rumbling, down at one end of the bar.

But at the end of about a half an hour -- and three papercuts -- there's a very neatly folded paper chain.

Chained together: round bombs, with fuses. No sparks, though.

Scribbled on the topmost bomb:

Best wishes.

-Destruction of the Endless

'Dora's passing back through after getting the Wrangles and the kids settled into the flat for the night.

She blinks.

"...Well that's awfully sweet of you."

"Well I do have a candy-coated shell.
...
Or I used to, anyway."

He grins up at her.

"Bet you got licked a lot, then."

A weary smile.

"All right?"

"Nah...threat of salmonella."

His smile softens.

"Can't complain. You?"

"Been better. Been lots worse." She leans on Bar, and sighs. "But a lot of people died."

"How much of a dink would I be if I pointed out that that's usually what happens?"

He turns in his chair, forgoing the macaroni masterpiece he's was working on.

"Not a dink at all. And I know it is. Doesn't make it any easier."

"No, I'd imagine not. You uh...still in the market for a hug? I got some great black market hugs here."

He opens the front panel of his imaginary trench coat.

She giggles just a bit and leans forward, resting her head on his shoulder and sighing.

"Thank you."

And not just for the hug.

Full squeeze.

"I hope you don't mind...but I might have made some revisions to your official papers...."

Pulling back just a bit, Tonks eyes him.

"...What kind of revisions are we talking about?"

"Nothing important. Just....you know, declaring myself your personal lord and savior. That you become my love slave should Bernard become unfit to do so. That all left over funds be used to erect a statue to my honor.

You know, the usual."

"Oh! Well if that's all..."

She waves an airy hand.

"But you'd have to dye your hair red. You realize that, right?"

Carefully he pulls her into a dramatic dip.

"I spent the first 21 years of my life bald, hair color doesn't mean anything to me. If Kahlo wants a redhead, Kahlo gets a redhead."

A giggle, as 'Dora is summarily dipped.

"All right, then, you've got a deal."

She presses a kiss to his cheek.

"And what about you? Everything okay? Really, I mean."

"Mmmhmm. Right as rain."

He brings them both upright, and fights the urge to spin her out and back again.

"Seen Raph since he got back?" she queries, looking closely at Mike and squeezing his hand.

"...been real busy."

"Uh-huh."

A sigh.

"Look, I won't drag it out of you tonight, but... sometime you and I are gonna have a drink and a talk, all right? Soon."

He eyes her for a second or two, before responding.

"I don't have to actually drink, do I?"

Lightly, "No. But there will be pretzels, so prepare yourself."

Nymphadora leans in and kisses his cheek once more.

"I ought to be getting back to St. Mungo's."

Mike shudders at the mention of pretzels. ANYTHING BUT PRETZELS!

"You want to take what we've got done already? Or would you rather wait until it's all collected?"

A crooked grin. "I'll pick up a batch for him tomorrow. I promised him take-away, and I'd hate to get curry all over the Great Art."

She squeezes his shoulder, and turns for the door.

"Night, Mike."

"Night, Kahlo. Be safe."

Mike returns to his masterpiece as conceived in semolina pasta.

Included, one book. Cover: black with a red bird on it. Contents? Well. That depends on Bernard's mood at the time.

Antigone frowns, inspecting a pipe cleaner in puzzlement.

"What are we meant to do with these?"

"Anything you want. And half of the options aren't even dirty."

She blinks down at the pipe cleaner.

It doesn't look dirty to her.

Maybe it's dusty.

"Oh," she says, and doesn't get it.

"What kind of present will he want?"

"Who Bernard? I figure just about anything will do. Card that says get well, something to scratch his nose with, painting of the Sistine Chapel on the head of a pin."

Antigone looks blank at the mention of the Sistine Chapel.

"I suppose I could make him a card." A glance to the pipe cleaner. "But not with this."

She reaches for a piece of paper ... and hesitates.

Quieter, "What's happened to him?"

Mike picks up the paper she was reaching for, and places it down in front of her.

"Injured during a battle. So now he's all like, a war hero and stuff."

She laughs softly, taking up the paper.

Now for a pen.

"A war hero, and he didn't die?"

"Best kind of war hero. They're usually the ones that remind us of how stupid the practice is in the first place."

Antigone shrugs, biting her lip, and concentrates on the marker she's just found.

It is pink.

The construction paper is yellow.

"The dead ones tend not to say much."

"Yeah, that's what I used to think. Then I came here."

Mike grins.

Ace takes one look at the craft supplies and cracks up. Quietly. Because laughing uproariously isn't nice when someone's been hurt. But it looks like a preschool exploded.

Crafting is not, by and large, Faith's forté.

But...it's Bernard.

So construction paper and pipe cleaners are dug out, and after about twenty minutes, there is a card for Bernard, consisting of a red stick of dynamite and two small black bombs, taped together and arranged in a...fairly predictable fashion, really, given that this is Faith we're talking about.

Scrawled on the back is a positively filthy joke which will not, for obvious reasons, be printed here, but which involves a Catholic priest, two cats, and the phrase "Next time, my son, do it without the box."

Yes, the full text of the joke is available from Faith's mun by request.

Under the joke, in somewhat more careful writing, is the following note:

Bernard - Putting all filth briefly aside (sorry about that)...we miss you around here. Or, at least, I do, and clearly mine is the opinion that matters, yeah? So, you know, get better and stuff, or I'll have to come pout at you. And I'm a Queen now, I shouldn't have to pout. I should just get things.

So, get better. That's an order. From a Queen.

And a request. From a friend.

Love you, Bossman.

- Faith

After a lot of glue, macaroni and incidents with getting macaroni stuck in her hair, on her dog (who is very small and fuzzy and wriggly and gets in glue a lot), on the trim of her jacket, etc, Slack has constructed ... a macaroni and paper camel.

No, she hasn't read Still Life With Woodpecker.

It's a coincidence.

Camels are pretty.

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