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milliways_bar2008-09-16 10:48 am
averyhasagun.livejournal.com) wrote in milliways_bar2008-09-16 10:48 am
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(no subject)
If you've met Paul Avery before, there's a small chance you might not recognize him. His features are much more worn, there's a generous amount of gray in his hair, and the circles under his eyes are more pronounced than ever.
He's sitting at the bar, both elbows on the counter. The bar has provided a bowl of lapel buttons, and a series of newspaper clippings for his entertainment.
(Remarkably enough, he doesn't seem very entertained.)
Every now and then, he'll cough, and you can almost hear his health deteriorating.
Regardless, he has a tumbler of vodka in front of him, along with an ashtray and a half-smoked cigarette. He knows better, yes. He will act upon it, no.
[ tiny tag: paul avery
ooc: last chance to tag him before he goes out for some canon. open until further notice, mun subject to major and unannounced slowtimes. ]
He's sitting at the bar, both elbows on the counter. The bar has provided a bowl of lapel buttons, and a series of newspaper clippings for his entertainment.
(Remarkably enough, he doesn't seem very entertained.)
Every now and then, he'll cough, and you can almost hear his health deteriorating.
Regardless, he has a tumbler of vodka in front of him, along with an ashtray and a half-smoked cigarette. He knows better, yes. He will act upon it, no.
[ tiny tag: paul avery
ooc: last chance to tag him before he goes out for some canon. open until further notice, mun subject to major and unannounced slowtimes. ]
no subject
It's been a few days (try two weeks) since he ran out, and it's not like Bar's in the habit of supporting Doc's habit. Finally, he just decides to ask.
"You got one of those you could spare?"
[ooc: I am totally cool with slows, boy just couldn't resist.]
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Pulling a pack of Camels from the breast pocket of his jacket, he offers it over to Doc.
no subject
The pack gets handed back and then he lights the smoke, sweet blessed nicotine and he inhales, deep, as he shakes the match out.
"Don't think I'll ever git used to them havin' filters," he comments, idly, before he leans over and offers his hand. "Josiah Scurlock, most folk 'round here call me Doc, though."
no subject
He takes Doc's hand, giving it a firm shake.
"Nice t' meet you, Doc. Paul Avery."
no subject
He smokes a minute, before bar gives him an ashtray of his own and a glass of scotch to go with it.
"You a writer?"
no subject
He tucks the pack back into his pocket, picking up the half-burnt cigarette and tapping off the ashes.
"Reporter. Was. Is. Am."
A beat.
"Am."
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"I think you'd last longer than the sonovabitch ridin' with Garrett," though that's not saying much, it's not evident in his tone.
Drink of scotch.
Drag off cigarette.
He's content.
no subject
A drink and a smoke. It's all one needs, really.
(That, and a story.)
"Uh. San Fransisco, 1972."
no subject
(Oh the stories Doc could tell.)
Doc arches an eyebrow at his first comment.
"That cough of yours?"
no subject
no subject
"I noticed."
Then, a little more concern.
"You know they got an infirmary, docs could git you somethin' for it."
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(He means it.)
"How's the infirmary around these parts, anyhow?"
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Inhale. Exhale.
"That was...two weeks ago? Details are a little fuzzy, I don't reckon I was makin' much sense."
no subject
"Assuming you are feelin' fine, now."
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"Feelin' just fine, thanks to you." A beat. "And the painkillers they put me on."
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"But I'm not complaining."
no subject
He finishes the cigarette, and the the remaining end of the filter is stubbed out in the ashtray and left.
"So...what's San Francisco like in '72?"