Cassidy hasn't had a cold in over a hundred years. So the sniffling, sneezing, and coughing that he's suffering is pretty fucking bollocks, if you ask him. Fucking Milliways magic and all.
NyQuil, though. Like, several bottles of it. It's over-the-counter, so Bar easily provides them. Cassidy takes them up to his room, guzzles every one of them down, and goes to sleep.
He wakes up some twelve hours later not feeling any better. In fact, he's so groggy that he doesn't even notice the tattoos on his arms as he pulls on a respectable cable-knit jumper over a neat button-down shirt, and fumbles with the thick-rimmed glasses that he slides onto his face. Fitting a beanie onto his head just so, he staggers out of his room and down the stairs, yawning.
"Eggs an' bacon an' a cuppa, please, luv," he says to the Bar. His accent is suddenly quite Lancashire. Not Irish.
He props his head up on his hand to keep from nodding off into his breakfast.
[OOC: Cassidy thinks he's Mike from Pride. Sorry to insta-slowtime!]
NyQuil, though. Like, several bottles of it. It's over-the-counter, so Bar easily provides them. Cassidy takes them up to his room, guzzles every one of them down, and goes to sleep.
He wakes up some twelve hours later not feeling any better. In fact, he's so groggy that he doesn't even notice the tattoos on his arms as he pulls on a respectable cable-knit jumper over a neat button-down shirt, and fumbles with the thick-rimmed glasses that he slides onto his face. Fitting a beanie onto his head just so, he staggers out of his room and down the stairs, yawning.
"Eggs an' bacon an' a cuppa, please, luv," he says to the Bar. His accent is suddenly quite Lancashire. Not Irish.
He props his head up on his hand to keep from nodding off into his breakfast.
[OOC: Cassidy thinks he's Mike from Pride. Sorry to insta-slowtime!]

