milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Some people fiddle while Rome burns.

Ava Wilson drinks coffee.

Fyarlbucks, to be precise-- with Bar kind of on the fritz, or so she hears, she thought it best to bring her own. Outside is a huge mess, so she's hanging out by the Observation Window, under a stable or at least stable-looking quadrant of roof, to info-gather while the gathering's good.

(Unrelated to current doom, her cami reveals a pink discoloration running around her shoulders, as if she has been recently lasso'd by Wonder Woman and it left a rope burn.

It's actually mostly healed. She's just kinda pale.)

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"Yes," Urquhart says. "Teja. He's quite pretty, if you like them gothy, gloomy, and brooding. It would also be for the common good. Might be your 'get free from hell' card, even."

"Ohhhh no no no," Ava snorts.

"You are so barking up the wrong girl."

"I rarely bark up girls at all," Urquhart says, mock-primly. "Well, how do you like your boys, then?"

Scrambled or fried?

"Cute, normal, and oblivious," she replies promptly.

And sometimes eviscerated.

"Whoah," Urquhart says, "I'm very sorry to say, but I doubt they stock those here."

"Mm. I don't know."

Ava smiles.

"I've run into a few."

"Did they survive the collision?" Urquhart asks, grinning.

"That's mean!" she laughs.

And potentially a little too real!

"Hey, I'm Urquhart!" he laughs. "I'm supposed to be mean."

"And Iiiii'm pretty sure I'm normal and adorable and have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh yes, I would never dare doubt it, would I?" Urquhart grins.

Ava sips delicately at her MacAbre.

"Or else."

"I might quite like being collided with?" Urquhart says.

She gives him an amused look.

"Depends. Do you like having all your limbs attached to you?"

"Depends," Urquhart says. "I could part with, say, the top of my left little finger for the sake of a good collision. Other things, though, I really need."

"Oh, please," she giggles, "the top of your little finger isn't even foreplay in this metaphor."

"You do drive a hard bargain," Urquhart laughs.

"Which is why," Ava concludes pleasantly, "you don't want me seducing anybody, pal."

"Probably," Urquhart allows. "I do want that Goth relaxed and off my back, not dismembered and sticking to the soles of my boots."

She shrugs, sipping her whiskey.

(The Fyarlbucks is now genuinely unpalatable.)

"Aren't there a bunch of hookers upstairs? Did they all leave?"

"I guess he'd never use them," Urquhart says. "But I might have a go, rather than get caught up in the apocalypse without getting laid again. Three girls and a guy for me, please."

He looks up at the ceiling, where there is a crack, as if the hookers upstairs might be able to hear him.

Ava follows his gaze, and scoots her chair a few inches to the left.

If hookers fall from the ceiling, she does not want them getting their herpes in her coffee.

"I guess you could always go up and ask," she says.

Man, it is such a shame they don't let you torture people around here. Can you not pay extra for that?

"I guess I'll do that, if they don't drop out of there on their own," Urquhart says. "When the world ends, you need to get laid! I think it's traditional!"

Ava sips her whiskey, unconvinced.

"Maybe you need to get laid," she says.

"My traditions would be more havoc. Less nudity."

"You'd rather break rule one than rule three, then?" Urquhart chuckles.