milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Some times, when the door opens, it's with a bang or some other great commotion. Some times, voices drift across from the other side.

Neither is the case this particular time.

There's the thunk of something suspiciously wooden, and then another, dull thunk of a sound right before a literal drag of something across floorboards.

In walks Lorne, albeit for a value of walking. His left arm is in a sling, he's precariously held up by a crutch and his right leg, while his left just doesn't seem to want to cooperate. The journey across the bar to Bar herself takes a while, all focus poured into staying upright.

Don't slip. Don't fall on your ass. Steady on, My Left Foot. Crutch, step, drag. Crutch, step, draaaag, and so it goes on.

Reaching the counter is like a small blessing and an answered prayer and finding yourself smack dab in a candy store all wrapped up in one, big, bombastic birthday box, gift wrapped and all. He sags a teeny little tiny bit against it, hopelessly relieved that he made it.

"Bar? ...I need a room. Please."

And lo, a key materializes, alongside a pretty little cup of raspberry sorbet, as if it's plain to see he isn't going to make it upstairs without some added help.

He very carefully doesn't wibble when faced with the token of concern, even though he's feeling wobbly all over. "You know me too well, babycakes."

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A moment after Lorne reaches the counter, a fluttering of air is all that's felt before Skellig drops from the rafters and lands on the floor with barely a sound.

"Could use some wings."

He doesn't startle, and while there's a very good reason for it, it's neither familiarity nor the comfort of Skellig's presence. For one, Skellig can be a creepy little bird boy when he isn't adorable, and Lorne wouldn't stretch their acquaintance to anything approaching familiarity. Not yet.

He's simply too worn out for the effort.

"Well, I'm fresh out, Tweetie." He musters a smile, reaching for the raspberry freebie.

Lorne gets a quick once-over, and Skellig doesn't bother to hide the curious head-tilt that follows.

"Trouble found you."

It might be a question, or a statement...his tone doesn't really make it clear.

(It's not really important.)

Skellig taps his fingers (still stiff with 'Arthur' on the bartop) and a packet of white pills appears.

"They help."

He nods solemnly, poking at the shiny, fluffy ball of dark pink treat without making any attempt to have a taste. Not yet. He'll almost always take conversation and company over sweets.

...pills? He eyes the label, arches his eyebrows and in a stroke of genius, covers how touched he is with a bright grin.

"Aw, my little avian... That's so sweet of you."

Now how on earth does he even begin to tell Skellig they don't tend to help him when he burns through the chemicals so fast all he gets is weird side effects?

Skellig has a variety of coping methods himself - he probably wouldn't be surprised if Lorne told him they wouldn't work.

(Simply put, the green demon is not Like Him. That explains almost everything in the world. And anything else, well. He has no reason not to trust Lorne.)

He tips his head the other way, looking to the door.

"Stayed outside, though."

He turns where he stands, and it is with some effort that he does so without getting his left leg tangled up in the other, and gives his peculiar friend a warmly wry smirk.

"Personal pronouns are your best friends, Skellig, trust me. How was outside?"

Blink.

Blink.

"...Lorne, right?" asks the devil leaning against the bar and currently looking mildly concerned. "Asking if you're all right is a bloody stupid question, but do you want some help?"

"Ask me that and I'll tell you I'm peachy every single time, sugar puff." There's the unmistakable twitch of a grin to the corners of his rather blanched mouth (though it goes just as well with the rest of his face, which at the moment is a whole lot less verdantly green than one might expect).

"Maybe in a moment? That staircase plain looks ominous to me, and I'm not ready to face it."

Edited 2009-09-09 11:59 (UTC)

"So what would you say if I offered you a hand?" Sam asks, offering Lorne a grin over his drink.

"I hear that's what the sofas are for," he remarks offhandedly. "Seems to work for my best friend, anyway."

"'Be still my achy breaky heart'."

He shrugs with his good shoulder, eying the aforementioned pieces of furniture. "If I sit down, I won't be able to get up without help. Like a teeny little tortoise on his back, I swear. Like the little green train who couldn't possibly. Shall I go on?"

"Awww."

Sam chuckles. "I'm getting the idea, but if you feel like it..."

"No, by all means. I'm all out of camp and wit for the time being." He jabs the teeny dessert spoon into the small ball of sugar, fluff and berries, completely destroying the shape. He flips the spoon over and plops it into his mouth; it comes out clean, but he can't taste the sorbet. It's nice, cold, and about as refreshing as soaked through paper towels.

Sorry, Bar. It isn't your fault.

"What it really boils down to is if you feel like hauling me off the couch and up the stairs if I doze off in the middle of our not-so-dazzling conversation. Won't be dazzling on my end, that's for sure."

"Well, now I'm all disappointed," Sam says, but he doesn't sound it, and he isn't, either.

"Want to tell me what happened? You look like you've been mashed."

"I'm sure I can make it up to you, somehow, some day." Those cushions are starting to look a whole lot of wowee the longer he's standing here, haphazardly leaning against the bar top.

"Let's fall back, shall we? Let the other darlings get their drinks." He nods over yonder, more than hinting that he doesn't like the notion of everyone and their mother listening in. At least over there, it's a bit quieter, and not quite as crowded. Not to mention there's leg room.

Lightly, "Promises, promises."

Sam pays attention! He's good at taking hints. "You all right on your own? Falling over's bad for morale."

"Silence may be golden, my dear man, but stubbornness is priceless. Be a doll, bring the raspberry treat for me." Having said as much, he pockets the room key and turns towards his current mail goal. The couches, and reaching them. Slowly. Carefully.

Sitting down is a different ball game entirely. "...I hate to ask. Help me to not topple over, pretty, pretty please?"

Cheerfully, "Your wish is my command."

Sam follows Lorne over as per his wishes, though he's keeping a careful eye on him: the demon looks like he's about to fall over. When asked, though, he sets the remains of the dessert down and slides an arm around him obediently. He's stronger than he looks - quite a bit stronger.

"Well," he agrees easily, "I am very, very pretty."

It's true, too!

If this were any other day, Lorne would caution the devil not to use words so carelessly, especially not when chatting with a demon, but today is today, and he is not on top of his game.

He eases himself onto the couch, and that alone takes away the majority of whatever energy reserve he's going on. He sighs, looking up with a grateful little smile. "Honey, you're gorgeous. You're the epitome of tall, dark and hunkalicious."

A beat, as he sags into the cushions. "Not that you need me to tell you that."

Sam's world doesn't work that way. And if Milliways were to, well ... it could try. One of the things about being the devil is that he ignores all laws, rules and regulations that he'll damn well please.

As it is, though, he raises his eyebrows at Lorne as he drops down lightly onto the sofa. The rest he'll accept happily, but at five foot nine even his ego doubletakes at 'tall'.

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

Except that it totally will.

Well...really, neither does Lorne's, but it would be such a delightfully little ironic moment, should it ever happen to, you know, happen.

He'd also very much appreciate the irony in telling the devil that little half truth about size and what matters more.

Maybe some other time. Right now is for sighing and slumping into his seat, still clutching the crutch like an early bird might its worm, should it be so lucky.

"It never does, sweet pea. Not here, in any case, but maybe that's just as well..." He shakes his head, only to stop right away, because the room doesn't need to be spinning.

"Thanks, love. I'd say I owe ya one, but it strikes me as slightly too vague for my own good."

"And I feel I should probably make some variety of crack on the subject of giving you one or vice versa, but I should probably have respect for the disabled."

"I wouldn't give up all hope, though."

"Stop right there, pretty face, or we'll be talking about handicapability and the monetary value of silver linings in no time."

He smirks slightly, making sure not to take up too much space. Wouldn't want to be rude, after all.

Sam curls one leg up under himself comfortably.

"Pessimistic, aren't you? Sure I can't help make it better?"

"I'd rather be a pessimist who gets lovely little surprises every once in a while, than a chronic optimist who gets nothing but downers."

"Fair point."

He leans back, waving for a waitrat. "Want a drink or something?"

...it's usually the other way around, with Lorne offering drinks left and right. But, like they say, what goes around comes around. "Something sugary, please. Thanks."

"And there I thought I was sweet enough for the both of us," Sam remarks lightly, but orders a coffee for himself, followed by "Hot chocolate suit you?"

Tiredly murmured, "Fabulously, darling, just fabulously.

"I don't even remember the last time I had a cuppa cocoa."

"Well," Sam teases gently, "I'll make sure you remember this time, then."

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