milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Little-known fact: the White House never sleeps.

Okay, perhaps not so little-known, as the staffers of the Bartlet White House are, even so early into the term, well accustomed to running full speed all day on empty. NASCAR pit teams would weep to see the way they treat themselves.

There's a lot to do, you know? And Josh Lyman's the guy to do it. I mean, obviously. Are you possibly going to trust someone less competent? There are an awful lots of candidates in that respect, I know, but come on.

When the Door opens this time, the other side is full of bustle. If you've never seen the inside of the West Wing, now's your chance to snag a glimpse as a man -- in his prime, I might add -- strides through, yelling over his shoulder.

"--And get me that memo on how to kick Mary Marsh's ass on TV tomorrow! Not that I need one, but--"

At some point, it becomes important to watch where one is going. The man turns his head midsentence and... very abruptly trails off. He's newish to the White House, but not so new as to have missed the existence of an entire bar hidden in one of the rooms. So Josh Lyman resorts to the first recourse that comes to mind. The one that always works. He surveys the people who are and aren't looking at him and shouts "DONNA!"

[[ooc: GUYS. Hi! Josh is coming in from just before the pilot of The West Wing. And if you know

verymodelof, don't be shy -- they really do look awfully alike.]]

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The yelling is quite hard to miss as Will heads over to Josh saying patiently,

"She's probably not 'ere, sir, tis Milliways,"

Greeting Josh is a redheaded man in medieval dress with a knife at his belt and old looking green eyes, who's smiling in a trying to be reassuring manner.

Josh draws back a little, brow knitted. Nobody, but nobody smells that funny in his White House.

"I'm not entirely certain--" He gapes at the knife. "How did you get past security with that?"

Denial is a lovely coping mechanism, isn't it?

"Cause it tis me own an Sir Kennedy 'as ne'er asked me to not wear it, sir,"

Well, spending your time living in Sherwood forest will do that to a man.

"Yeah, but between you and me I wouldn't really trust Senator Kennedy to notice things like that." He lifts both hands as if to clutch his head. "I don't have time for this, I've got to be at a meeting--"

The door he came in through isn't there when he turns around.

Give this a moment to sink in before you expect vocalizing, of which there will be plenty.

"'e's not a Senator, 'e's from the Royal Navy, sir an 'e's Security at Milliways,"

Will notices the look and says with concern in his voice,

"Tis yer door gone, sir?"

"I wish you would stop saying that like this is some place other than the White House," he says weakly. "And of course the door isn't gone. It's just... not there at the moment. I must have gotten turned around."

"That's cause it is, sir, an ye're not lost tis Milliways,"

Will's just going to keep repeating it in a patient voice until Josh gets it.

"Now see, I must be tired, because you keep saying this word, 'Milliways,' and some part of me is registering it as valid information, but that part is obviously deranged and ought to be doing something else right now."

"Nay, it tis correct, sir, ye're in Milliways, the Bar at the End o'the Universe where worlds an times overlap. 'rhaps somethin' to drink twould 'elp ye wake up a wee bit, then, sir."

"Those words all make sense individually, but put together I'm having a little trouble here. End of the universe?"

He shouldn't drink. It gets in the way of work. Also, he has a very delicate system.

Will points to the Window,

"Aye, the end o'the Universe, sir,"

And then waits, keeping an eye out for a waitrat because he has a feeling Josh is going to need something to drink after that.

Josh eyeballs the Window.

He frowns.

He twists to examine the stubbornly (mischievously?) blank wall behind him.

He counts to ten, and gives up at four.

"What were you saying about a drink again?"

"Yer first drink is free, sir,"

Will says as gestures to an empty table and sits down, waving over a waitrat,

"What twould ye like, sir, ye can get anythin' 'ere?"

He manages a short laugh. "Thank God for small mercies."

He'd snark more, but there appears to be a rat just there.

Well, when in Rome? (Even if going with the flow is not Josh's strongest attribute, he can often fake it just enough to be conversational in it.) "I think just a beer would do it right now."

"Aye, sir, two beers from 'is time,"

Will asks the rat then offers Josh his hand, he's finally picked up the handshaking thing and Will's hand is calloused and rough,

"Will Scarlett o'Nottingham, year o'our lord 1138, sir, welcome to Milliways."

It's instinct and instinct only that helps him accept the proffered, unfamiliar hand.

"I'm... Josh Lyman. I'm the Deputy Chief of Staff to President Bartlet. Um. 1999." He seems to shake off a thought. "Hang on, you mean to tell me that not only is the universe ending outside, but I'm time-traveling inside?"

"Tisna time travellin', sir, tis at the edges o'world an times, folks enter the door from as many places as ye can imagine an some ye canna. Ne'er 'eard o'a President 'fore, tis it a type o'lord, sir?"

At this point, the waitrat returns with two mugs of whatever Josh's favorite beer is in nice cold mugs that are set on the table as Will gives a silver penny to the rat for his drink.

"Okay, that sort of talk belongs with college kids blowing dope through the screens in their dorm rooms. But I'm going to let that pass, because I'm devising a punishment for my assistant for not coming here and fixing this mess she's obviously somehow in on." He cocks an eyebrow at the mug. "Been a while since this stuff was served in pewter, isn't it?

"Anyway, the President. You've never heard of the President?" He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Of course. You're like a Merrie Man or something. The President's nothing like a lord. I mean, he's the leader of the free world and everything, but he's elected, after a lot of ball-busting on our part, I might add, and this particular president would get very huffy to hear himself likened as such."

"Aye, ye're 'merican then, sir, 'eard tell o'democracy, sounds like a grand thing. An aye, I'm one o'Robin's men,"

Will's smiling more as he drinks some beer, its quite good and yes Josh is freaking out, but Will's seen worse reactions.

[[ooc: Ah, hell. Apparently I don't have the ability to stay awake past 10 PM anymore. :( I don't know when I'll be able to get back to this, if it's not before Sunday, but I will try!]]

(OOC: pats no worries, go sleep and if you're not able to, we can always fade)

[ ooc: >.> how open are you to slowtime? ]

[[Am terrible with slowtimes, and will not have internet access of my own until Sunday sometime. :( I'm here for maybe another hour? However long it is before the cafe with the free wireless closes.]]

[ ooc: woees! i will have to tag some other time, then, when the bed is not giving me the "you should've been in here an hour ago" eye. ]

[[There will be other EPs! *lessthanthree*]]

Toby has, for a while now, basically assumed the bar was his own private dementia. Whenever he started missing sleep or stressing out over the next State of the Union (that fourth paragraph just doesn't work, dammit), he'd go quietly insane and end up back here, talking about bugs with a giant rabbit or getting called a 'weenie' by obnoxious penguins.

And then there was the time the President stepped in--. NO. No way. If this was dementia, then that had just been the dementia's dementia.

Whatever. Didn't matter. Toby has kept his mouth shut about this place all along, so there is nothing to worry about. OK, yes, maybe it is a sign that he's finally losing it after all these years, but--. See, the drinks are good.

Actually, the drinks are great.

Which is why the sight of a familiar face here is welcome and yet, sort of, not.

Though if he'd had to guess which of his colleagues would have also ended up here, Josh would definitely have been Toby's first guess.

In his rare moments of complete and utter bafflement, Josh has found that it's good to just latch on to something that makes sense and let that be your anchor for all your subsequent actions. The means of diminishing cognitive dissonance at this very moment are to approach Toby and talk business. (The appearance of the bar has sort of backed him into a corner. He'd probably make a different decision, given a little more reaction time, but at least this one doesn't involve turning around, tugging on the closed door, and looking like an idiot.)

"Toby! Ginger told me Sam was lookin' for me. You seen him around?"

We'll save the more obvious conversation for a few minutes.

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