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milliways_bar2008-01-23 04:08 am
cheevy.livejournal.com) wrote in milliways_bar2008-01-23 04:08 am
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[ooc: Weeeee're gonna pretend the mun got around to posting this on the 22nd proper, instead of the 23rd. Ok? Ok.]
In the place of paradoxes, the bar where all worlds and all times meet, a strange scene is about to unfold.
At some point in the evening, the Door opens, and through it comes a small child in oversized clothes circa 1950's, hair cropped very short, a large book clutched in his arms, limping a little. He's been here a few times before. He knows this is a safe place, and is delighted to see it. It's a welcome break from his world, where he knows time stops as long as he stays here.
The child, who looks about seven, scuttles and twitches and clambers over to the couch, where he claims one side and curls up with his book in front of the deliciously warm fire, and goes to sleep almost immediately.
Almost immediately after, the Door swings open again, and in strides -- with significantly more careless self-assurance -- a short, bassett-hound-eyed fellow with a mane of magnificent loose, black curls and a long trenchcoat. It would be difficult (though by no means impossible) for anyone who hasn't met them before to recognize the elder as the younger, but they are the same soul, the same body, almost thirty years apart.
The older Miniver makes his way casually into the bar and heads over to get a drink, his eyes scanning the place for a free seat that looks like an enticing spot to nest in for a while. He glances over the fire, eyes wandering to the couch -- and he stops dead in his tracks.
He didn't think this could happen here. He's never heard of anything like it before. Forgetting completely about the drink for the moment, he heads straight towards the couch and leans over the back of it to make absolutely certain he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing.
And he is. As crazy as it seems... it's him. That sad, scrawny midget of a child with shadows of old bruises around his face -- he knows there are more his winter clothing hides. He studies the strange little figure, calculating in his mind, remembering...
Ten. He must be turning ten today.
He scrambles to the bar swiftly, casting quick glances back to the couch every few seconds, and with the speed of Bar's magic, is soon back to the couch with a number of things in his hands. First the older musician tucks a small package into the child's arms with the book, and another little packet of sweets into his pocket. He stands still and waits with his eyes closed then, apparently lost in deep concentration, searching his memories for anything that seems to change. The few minor ripples of nostalgic memory fade swiftly, though, and leave no lasting effects. Thus reassured that he hasn't changed anything drastic, he crouches beside the sleeping child and carefully tugs the coat open and checks under the shirt for bruises he knows must be there. Gently, he applies some salve from a little jar Bar gave him. He remembers himself well enough to know he'd be perfectly capable of caring for things like this on his own by that age, but there's no reason why someone else shouldn't help...
Finally, he tucks the boy under a blanket and goes back to the bar for a drink. Returning, he parks himself at a seat behind the couch. There he'd remain until the child awakes again, and in the meantime he'd quietly discourage anyone from approaching either of them.
The child sleeps for a few hours. By then, his older self has asked a rat to bring a book, and maybe has even dozed off himself for a few minutes here and there. He doesn't bother to hide himself when the kid wakes up -- he knows very well it's essentially impossible to recognize one's future self, especially when one hasn't even hit puberty yet. And Miniver always was prone to imagining extremes -- he probably wouldn't wonder about anyone resembling himself unless they were wearing a full suit of armor.
But he does watch, off to the side and unspeaking, as the little boy sits up and blinks sleepily at the blanket, then at the package by his book. Giving that curious little headtilt his older self is still prone to do from time to time, he pulls loose the ribbon and open it.
And it seems to the older Miniver that as his child-self lifts the book out of the paper, he can feel with him the warmth of happiness he gets from it. The installation of a memory almost three decades after the fact, experienced -- just this once -- as if it was the first time. He feels the curiously strong wave of emotion wash over him as his younger self reads the short, anonymous note left with the book. It doesn't matter what the book is -- it matters only that it makes the child happy. It's a rare moment of happiness the likes of which he'll rarely experience until well into his 20's.
The note reads simply:
Happy birthday. You'll be alright in time.
Love,
A Fairy
And that's what matters most, what is remembered most poignantly -- not the object, but the fact that someone cared. The adult ducks his head and hides his face behind his hair when the child looks around to see if there's any hint of who might have left the package. He's just close enough, though, to hear the painfully shy whispered "Thank you!" offered to the bar at large.
He doesn't turn to watch the child go home. That's the part he doesn't want to see. That's the part he doesn't want to have to remember. It's hard enough having the vision of those bruises in third person perspective fresh in his mind. He doesn't want to have to face knowing that it'll be six years before it stops, and eight years longer than that before he finally gets away from that life, away from the poverty and monotony and cruelty and repression and loneliness. He doesn't want to think about how many times he'll have to clean up his alcoholic mother's vomit while wincing from the bruises she gives him. He doesn't want to think about the hopelessness, the times he'll make halfhearted attempts to end it all and fail, and all the times there won't be anybody to save him. Time and time and time again until he finally earns his savior, his lover, his life partner.
He loves what he's become. He knows it'll all turn out alright. But nonetheless, it's HARD to look at that little boy and know things he'll face that even at the ripe old age of 38 he's never plucked up the courage to tell anybody about. Despite his jaded cynicism, despite the apathy for human life planted in him from years of witnessing and even helping in violence so extreme it's almost comical, he can't bring himself to look at the child he knows has 14 years of pitiless emotional and physical torment to face before he even STARTS to find something like joy, like life, like peace.
He sneaks a glance only to see the door close behind the boy, and then at last he leaves his seat. He asks Bar for an instrument -- anything with strings will do -- and is offered a tiny mandolin. He takes it out to the lake and is gone for a good while. He never actually plays the litle instrument, but when he comes back, his eyes and nose are red from something other than the cold. He returns the unplayed instrument to Bar, accepts her trade of a milkshake and cupcake (there's a candle on it; he pinches it out with his fingers and whispers a thank you as he sets it on the bartop to be disappeared), and goes to find a booth to lounge in for a while.
So now, after all that, there is a short, bassett-hound-eyed fellow with a mane of magnificent loose black curls and a long trenchcoat sprawled like a cat in a booth bench, munching on a cupcake and looking basically content with life, if perhaps a bit broody, and perhaps if one looks closely his eyes seem a little redder than they ought to be. But besides that, he's perfectly cheerful. Those who know his younger self -- the version usually here, not the child -- have a very good chance of recognizing him if they look for longer than a few moments. Either way, old friends or strangers, he'd welcome company.
[ooc: Because the mun was so late about posting this, just... tag all through Wednesday and pretend it's Tuesday. :P Also, warning in advance for random slowtimes.]
In the place of paradoxes, the bar where all worlds and all times meet, a strange scene is about to unfold.
At some point in the evening, the Door opens, and through it comes a small child in oversized clothes circa 1950's, hair cropped very short, a large book clutched in his arms, limping a little. He's been here a few times before. He knows this is a safe place, and is delighted to see it. It's a welcome break from his world, where he knows time stops as long as he stays here.
The child, who looks about seven, scuttles and twitches and clambers over to the couch, where he claims one side and curls up with his book in front of the deliciously warm fire, and goes to sleep almost immediately.
Almost immediately after, the Door swings open again, and in strides -- with significantly more careless self-assurance -- a short, bassett-hound-eyed fellow with a mane of magnificent loose, black curls and a long trenchcoat. It would be difficult (though by no means impossible) for anyone who hasn't met them before to recognize the elder as the younger, but they are the same soul, the same body, almost thirty years apart.
The older Miniver makes his way casually into the bar and heads over to get a drink, his eyes scanning the place for a free seat that looks like an enticing spot to nest in for a while. He glances over the fire, eyes wandering to the couch -- and he stops dead in his tracks.
He didn't think this could happen here. He's never heard of anything like it before. Forgetting completely about the drink for the moment, he heads straight towards the couch and leans over the back of it to make absolutely certain he's seeing what he thinks he's seeing.
And he is. As crazy as it seems... it's him. That sad, scrawny midget of a child with shadows of old bruises around his face -- he knows there are more his winter clothing hides. He studies the strange little figure, calculating in his mind, remembering...
Ten. He must be turning ten today.
He scrambles to the bar swiftly, casting quick glances back to the couch every few seconds, and with the speed of Bar's magic, is soon back to the couch with a number of things in his hands. First the older musician tucks a small package into the child's arms with the book, and another little packet of sweets into his pocket. He stands still and waits with his eyes closed then, apparently lost in deep concentration, searching his memories for anything that seems to change. The few minor ripples of nostalgic memory fade swiftly, though, and leave no lasting effects. Thus reassured that he hasn't changed anything drastic, he crouches beside the sleeping child and carefully tugs the coat open and checks under the shirt for bruises he knows must be there. Gently, he applies some salve from a little jar Bar gave him. He remembers himself well enough to know he'd be perfectly capable of caring for things like this on his own by that age, but there's no reason why someone else shouldn't help...
Finally, he tucks the boy under a blanket and goes back to the bar for a drink. Returning, he parks himself at a seat behind the couch. There he'd remain until the child awakes again, and in the meantime he'd quietly discourage anyone from approaching either of them.
The child sleeps for a few hours. By then, his older self has asked a rat to bring a book, and maybe has even dozed off himself for a few minutes here and there. He doesn't bother to hide himself when the kid wakes up -- he knows very well it's essentially impossible to recognize one's future self, especially when one hasn't even hit puberty yet. And Miniver always was prone to imagining extremes -- he probably wouldn't wonder about anyone resembling himself unless they were wearing a full suit of armor.
But he does watch, off to the side and unspeaking, as the little boy sits up and blinks sleepily at the blanket, then at the package by his book. Giving that curious little headtilt his older self is still prone to do from time to time, he pulls loose the ribbon and open it.
And it seems to the older Miniver that as his child-self lifts the book out of the paper, he can feel with him the warmth of happiness he gets from it. The installation of a memory almost three decades after the fact, experienced -- just this once -- as if it was the first time. He feels the curiously strong wave of emotion wash over him as his younger self reads the short, anonymous note left with the book. It doesn't matter what the book is -- it matters only that it makes the child happy. It's a rare moment of happiness the likes of which he'll rarely experience until well into his 20's.
The note reads simply:
Happy birthday. You'll be alright in time.
Love,
A Fairy
And that's what matters most, what is remembered most poignantly -- not the object, but the fact that someone cared. The adult ducks his head and hides his face behind his hair when the child looks around to see if there's any hint of who might have left the package. He's just close enough, though, to hear the painfully shy whispered "Thank you!" offered to the bar at large.
He doesn't turn to watch the child go home. That's the part he doesn't want to see. That's the part he doesn't want to have to remember. It's hard enough having the vision of those bruises in third person perspective fresh in his mind. He doesn't want to have to face knowing that it'll be six years before it stops, and eight years longer than that before he finally gets away from that life, away from the poverty and monotony and cruelty and repression and loneliness. He doesn't want to think about how many times he'll have to clean up his alcoholic mother's vomit while wincing from the bruises she gives him. He doesn't want to think about the hopelessness, the times he'll make halfhearted attempts to end it all and fail, and all the times there won't be anybody to save him. Time and time and time again until he finally earns his savior, his lover, his life partner.
He loves what he's become. He knows it'll all turn out alright. But nonetheless, it's HARD to look at that little boy and know things he'll face that even at the ripe old age of 38 he's never plucked up the courage to tell anybody about. Despite his jaded cynicism, despite the apathy for human life planted in him from years of witnessing and even helping in violence so extreme it's almost comical, he can't bring himself to look at the child he knows has 14 years of pitiless emotional and physical torment to face before he even STARTS to find something like joy, like life, like peace.
He sneaks a glance only to see the door close behind the boy, and then at last he leaves his seat. He asks Bar for an instrument -- anything with strings will do -- and is offered a tiny mandolin. He takes it out to the lake and is gone for a good while. He never actually plays the litle instrument, but when he comes back, his eyes and nose are red from something other than the cold. He returns the unplayed instrument to Bar, accepts her trade of a milkshake and cupcake (there's a candle on it; he pinches it out with his fingers and whispers a thank you as he sets it on the bartop to be disappeared), and goes to find a booth to lounge in for a while.
So now, after all that, there is a short, bassett-hound-eyed fellow with a mane of magnificent loose black curls and a long trenchcoat sprawled like a cat in a booth bench, munching on a cupcake and looking basically content with life, if perhaps a bit broody, and perhaps if one looks closely his eyes seem a little redder than they ought to be. But besides that, he's perfectly cheerful. Those who know his younger self -- the version usually here, not the child -- have a very good chance of recognizing him if they look for longer than a few moments. Either way, old friends or strangers, he'd welcome company.
[ooc: Because the mun was so late about posting this, just... tag all through Wednesday and pretend it's Tuesday. :P Also, warning in advance for random slowtimes.]
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"Yer birthday today, sir?"
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"You don't recognize me!" he exclaims, apparently twistedly excited by this. "Will Scarlett. Yes it is. Though I don't remember seeing you in over a decade."
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"Aye, sir, ye've the 'vantage o'me."
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"It's Miniver, Will. Though a good deal past the last time I remember seeing you. Lord it's nice to see your face again."
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"Oh aye, tis ye, Miniver."
His smile is a little better this time,
"Ye an Pickles still raisin' 'ell?"
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It's unquestionably Miniver, but he's grown. He's a lot more self-assured, he's far less shy, and a little more quirky in his ways.
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"Recently 'elped Atton out in 'is world, just recoverin' from that."
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THIS Miniver, unlike his younger self, seems a lot more capable. Younger-Miniver has a lot of good intentions. This Miniver has a lot of life experience under his belt. He's more diplomatic, more laid back, just... stronger.
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Its not a lie just Will's cautious about who he shows his hurt too and at least with younger Miniver, things were always strange.
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"Would you sit down, Will? I sort of want to talk to you, if you've got the time."
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He's still sore but the worst of his injuries have healed so he's only a little stiff as he sits.
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"Will... I admit my memories are hazy, and subject to change based on what my younger self does, but... do you remember me well at all? I mean... d'you remember how I used to poke fun at you?"
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"Aye, I 'member."
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"I just wanna tell you... I'm sorry. I don't think I'll figure it out for a while, but I never meant any harm by any of it. And I admit I can't remember too clearly, but I remember... I remember Merlin." A smile flashes across the older man's face. "I remember he gave me something of a scolding for wanting him to help me tease you, even though Atton had suggested it." He chuckles softly at the memory. "But look -- next time you see me, just... tell me to cut it out, if it really bothers you. I like you. I always figured you were a pretty fantastic dude to know. I just ain't so good at people skills, y'know? Especially when I was younger. And... I got reasons for that." His eyes darken a little, just a little, with the memory of that child who was him so fresh in his mind. "Just... I know you do too, but don't think I was ever intentionally cruel, okay?"
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Will's just tired from memories and injuries to think too much about all those reasons,
"Drink with me."
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"Of course. What would you like? My treat. I'm sure I'll go home later and have the guys throw more booze at me than I could SWIM in."
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"Well," he says as they wait for their drinks, "they're not really killers, it's just that people tend to die at their concerts. They don't really TRY to do it, it just happens. A lot. And then their fans do sumb things like listen to their lyrics and like, when Nathan says Go into the water, live there, die there, THEY ACTUALLY DO. Idiots. And then they go and kill themselves if an album release date is pushed back... I gotta tell you, Will, sometimes I start to wonder about the intellectual capacity of their fans."
But all this is only half-means and in good form.
"Pickles is their drummer. I know I'm with him in the time you usually know me. There are four others, and I think three of 'em come here pretty regularly. They're Toki, Skwisgaar, and Nathan. William Murderface has never been here, I don't think."
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Whiskey is drunk, it does help, he's just worn out.
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"Oh, yeah, they did do that, didn't they! Right. Fantastic. Did you get roped into any spontaneous musical numbers?"
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"Aye, one song in particular 'bout Nottingham."
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Maybe he's having a weird sense of deja vu...this guy does look oddly familiar! Maybe he's talked to him before? There are a lot of people here that he's only bumped into once - different universes will do that. Or maybe he's seen a picture of him!
...Maybe he's just getting a craving for cupcakes?
Whatever the case, there's a rabbit in a schoolgirl uniform, gawking at older!Miniver.
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Oh, fun game time.
He puts a bit of frosting on his own nose and wiggles it like a bunny's.
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But he still hasn't a clue who this nose-frostinged man is.
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Had he not meant to go and travel? Perhaps he had got lost in time? Time, seen from this place, is infinitely flexible.
Or maybe this isn't Miniver Cheevy, but an older man that shares his face?
"Greetings," Teja says, cautiously approaching.
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Oh, but this certainly is Miniver. Older, far less mousey. "Teja. Been a while. Well.. for me at least, I doubt for you. I don't think my usual self's been gone longer'n a day or two, right?"
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"No," Teja says. "You told me -- the one you were in the past -- told me that you would go and travel with Pickles to cities of Europe that weren't founded yet in my time, with the exception of Londinium. That was a few days ago."
Pause.
"Your Gordian snake of a time line that eats itself from the tail is very confusing. If it has been years for you it would mean there was a long time when you did not come here between your then and your now -- or that I have taken passage with Captain Will Turner long ago."
Pause.
"I cannot ask you for history book sooth-saying; do refrain from answering that if it would involve anything of that sort that would not be safe to tell."
Teja wonders, acutely, whether he merely got tired of this place, or whether Totila arrived and they eventually left together?
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Teja looks at him, with something like amusement. Or maybe bemusement.
"I think I just tied my mind in a painful knot, trying to reconstruct your time-snake in it."
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"It comes and goes, actually," Miniver answers with a shrug. "Sometimes I can't remember things until they're asked of me. Sometimes I can't remember at all just because the Door's still open to parts of me that haven't experienced them yet. Sometimes what I remember is simply not clear enough to be able to describe it coherently. Funny how this place works. It can turn you into a creature or a woman or a ghost, or it can make you unremember your own past's future. Oh, I like that..."
He takes out a notebook and scrawls something down in it quickly.
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Pause.
"The workings of this place sometimes seem ruled by a mischievous, ruthless intelligence," he then adds. "I wish I knew how to plead with it to bring me Totila."
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That'd be why the villain who passes by stops, looks, looks again, then bursts into something that may be a villainy equivalent of hysterical laughter. Or what most would just call a heavy chuckle.
Give him a second and he may stop.
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Miniver calmly makes Chiff an obscene gesture.
"Lovely to see you, too, dear."
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Chiffre always has the ability to speak.
"Might I suggest a barbers?"
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Ginny smiles as she walks over to him. She's unsure if he'll remember her from the night out by the lake or not. But, she sees the cupcake. "Celebrating?"