milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Drinkin' at home or drinkin' at the end of the universe: it doesn't much matter to him. End result's gonna be the exact same, so either's good. As he opens the door, his hand goes to that knife he carries in his pocket.

Knives ain't new for him either. One hand fingering the knife's handle, he makes his way over to the bar, grabs a stool that looks like it was just made for his skinny ass, and orders himself a bottle of his usual ale. Looks around, turns his attention back to the bottle that shows up in front of him without a second thought about the shit people are wearin'. Some nights, good old Wutai Pale's the only friend he needs.

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"I haven't a clue," she laughs. "I wish I did know-- if I'm going to have to look like this, I might as well understand why!"

A napkin in purple, gold, and green, with gold writing printed on it, shimmers into existence on the bar.

Peering over at it, he shrugs.

"Mardi Grass. And they spelled grass wrong. Wonder what the fuck it means."

He ain't the kind of guy to think twice about the language he uses or nothin'. He's shit at self-censoring anyhow, so why bother to start with?

"Let me see?"

Kim leans over so she can get a look at the napkin, then,

"Oh, okay! Maybe that's why you didn't get stuck with a costume -- it's an earth holiday. 'Mardi Gras;' it's French for 'Fat Tuesday.'"

Belatedly, she adds,

"French is another language spoken back on earth. It's spoken a lot where I'm from."

That answers a couple things and that's all cool, but...

HEY.

"How can a day of the week be fat?"

That don't make no friggin' sense at all. Even so, he's real glad he didn't get stuck with a costume. People tell him his hair's enough of one to begin with. Maybe someone's got a sense of compassion for a guy without a fuck of a lot of it himself.

She spreads her hands, palms up.

"You've got me there."

Earth, he thinks, is a friggin' crazy place. Even though it was real pretty the night he was there, gettin' there was a pain in the ass and if they're makin' days of the week into diet tips, it ain't the place he wants to be.

"Shit." That's his considered pronouncement. "Sounds nuts. Give me a nice solid bottle of ale any day, a pretty lady to talk to, and a door that opens and I'm a happy camper."

At least she ain't stuck here. He might just have to take himself back home to make sure the whole fat Tuesday business ain't leaked out and followed him back somehow.

"That doesn't sound like too much to ask for," Kim agrees. "You haven't gotten stuck here, have you?"

"Fuck no." And he'd really like to keep it that way. "I know a bunch of people who have. How about you?" He knows she ain't stuck right now; he watched her walk through the door and get changed into what she's wearin' now but he won't let on he saw it.

He knows all about the rules of finessing a lady's storytelling opportunities.

"Not any more." She takes a last sip of the coffee, then sets the cup down and shoves a lock of hair back from her face.

"I was for a while, though."

"Oh yeah?" He notices the empty cup; he'll either buy her that drink now or she'll go wandering off, but whatever she does is cool: so far, he likes her. "So what changed to let you go again?"

Hey, he is in the business of gathering intelligence. And at least on one planet, he gets paid for that. A little knowledge never hurt a guy just by bein' there. It all depends what he does with it.

"After you'd been stuck, I mean?"

And how'd she get stuck in the first place? But one thing at a time.

"Enough time just passed, I guess," Kim tells him.

For a second, an oddly distant look crosses over her face.

"And I, um -- I had a dream, and the door opened after that."

A dream. She had a dream, and after that the door opened. Is that what he tells Tifa in some fit of generosity some night? Have a friggin' dream and the door will open?

Kim looks like she's about to pass out, but she recovers fast enough. Weird.

"What kind of dream, Kim?" He ain't prying. Just curious. If she doesn't want to tell him, he ain't gonna extract the information by professional means or nothin'.

Nah. He's off the clock.

She smiles at him, and there's something wry about it.

"One I wasn't expecting, but one I was waiting for."

A beat.

"Which probably doesn't make much sense."

Shit, if he'd known she was gonna come over here and talk in riddles, he wouldn't have started on the ale till later. But that ain't the way it worked out, so he does the best with the brain cells a lifetime of drinkin's left behind for him.

"You want to explain what that means? 'Cause I got to confess, Kim, I got no friggin' idea."

Yeah. That's about the kind of sense it makes.

Kim laughs.

"I know, I know -- it wasn't really clear, was it?" She shrugs, adding,

"Sometimes I dream things. When I do, more often than not, they're glimpses of things to come, or things that need knowing."

They have a saying back in Administrative Research: psychic is only two letters different from psycho. It won't stop him. Shit, it won't even slow him the fuck down, but it puts a little smile on his face as he thinks about it.

Besides, she's got a real pretty laugh. Lights up her whole face and for a guy who's made a face or two light up before, it's somethin' he can appreciate. "Sorta like déja vù. Little premonitions, shit like that." Idly (but definitely not out of nervousness), he fiddles with the label on his bottle. "So. You ever have any dreams about meeting me?"

Hey, it ain't that bad a line. He's used way worse than that.

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