milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Susannah is once again working in the bar, although she has less of a pile of documents with her tonight. All she has is a notebook, in which she is alternately taking notes, scratching out notes, and doodling.

She is not a bad teacher, but some things are hard to approach.

She also has a large bottle of water, because proper hydration is important.

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"Nothing exciting," she says blandly; she doesn't appear to look up from the notebook.

"Ayuh?" He grins at her. "Never seen yew here befer. My name es Wilbur."

Ayuh. Maine?

"How do you do," she says politely. She unscrews the top of her bottle of water.

"It's coming on four years since I first came here," she adds, with a shrug. "But it's a big enough place."

Massachussetts, actually, but Wilbur's accent is quite probably unique in all the universe.

"I'm good." He grins wider, just to make the point. "An' I've been here tew ur three weeks. Bound, though."

And he holds out a hand to her.

There's a brief pause while she puts the bottle down, then she takes his hand for a quick, firm shake. She has to lean over sideways to do it; she braces her left hand on the armrest of her chair.

The hand is followed by a tentacle, but Wilbur swats at it and it retreats.

He notices the chair and gives her a slightly sad smile. "We freaks gawt ter stick tewgether, ayuh? Although yers was caused by an accident ur suthin', an' I was born wit mine."

"Ain't you sweet," she snarls, withdrawing her hand quickly. Her expression is furious.

He sighs. "Dun't mean naw harm. Et's jest thet most people . . . most people dun't know whut et's like ter be different, yew know?"

He smiles sheepishly, and when he does it's suddenly obvious that he is, in some ways, still a child. A very smart child, but also a lost child. Like Mordred was, mayhaps.

"Sorry ef yew dun't like tew mention et."

"I don't like be called a freak," she snaps, each word bitten off hard. "Most people don't."

"But ef every'un cawlls yew a freak, yew may es wal run wit et, ayuh?" Wilbur looks at his hands. "Et's how I cope."

"Most people have the respect not to call me one to my face, in fact," she says, with grinding, furious patience. It's only because of his childishness that she bothers with it.

"If you cope by insulting other people in turn, I don't wonder if you have trouble finding friendly faces."

"I cope by bein' a freak," says Wilbur with a shrug. "An' I'm from 1928, thar warn't wheelie-chairs an' stuff fer cripples."

He flushes. "Warn't Negros around much either, sad ter say."

"If you know enough to know you don't like being called a freak, then you shouldn't be calling other people freaks either. Whether they're an unusual sight for you or not."

"Sorry, Miss--dun't think I gawt yer name, miss."

"Missus," she says, levelly. "Toren."

"Wilbur Whateley, et yer service."

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