milliways_bar | (no subject)

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When Doc enters the bar tonight, it's from a hotel room in Montgomery. He's carrying a bag over his shoulder, and isn't surprised to see that Milliways has decided to show up. After a quick trip to his apartment in the staff wing to change his clothes and shower, he makes a trip out to the stables to check on things.

Once he's satisfied with the state of the stock (and taken note of some new arrivals), he ends up at a table near the bar with a drink and a dinner 'menu'.

Contemplating the specials, he sips at the bourbon (straight, tonight) and looks around the bar for familiar faces while he decides what to order.

[No new threads please - busy workweek means slowtimes. He'll be back!]

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"I cannot touch your soul." She assures him, smothering the grin that threatens to take over her face. "That is beyond us all, unless you were to become Other."

Hers, on the other hand, has been in peril since she was seven.

"Well, that's somewhat comfortin'," he admits. "So we're talkin' blood, I'm guessin'."

It was a common theme he'd noticed in some of the stranger rituals that Chavez had taken part in.

"It would be strongest. It is... a key piece, of you. The less essential, the weaker the protection. The same is true for any harm I wished to cause." It is part of the reason Gesar had needed a tiger in his battle mage - she was often disturbingly easily able to get an enemy's blood, and from there wreak devastation.

"If that's what is strongest, then that's what we'll use," he says. "How do y'need to take it? And..."

He glances around the bar, eyes quickly scanning all of the nearby faces, ensuring that nobody is listening in too closely to their conversation.

"If y'wouldn't mind, I'd rather not do such a procedure here in the bar proper."

The idea of being that exposed makes his skin crawl.

"We can use my apartment if need be."

"No, not here. There are two vampyre close by, and the door may open to my world." And that could lead to so much badness she can't even say.

"And it is time for dinner." She doesn't often make protection amulets except for herself - it's draining, when it's someone else, especially someone less familiar than a constant partner. She plans on eating well.

"After dinner," he suggests.

The rats have wisely returned with their dinners - two massive steaks with plenty of their requested side dishes as well. Doc passes over hers, and then a rolled up napkin containing a set of silverware. He then orders a glass of water.

(If she's going to be taking blood, he should start hydrating now, just to be on the safe side.)

This giggle and grin she cannot smother, as she begins mashing all of the things she's managed to end up with together.

"I am not going to drain you dry. You may even enjoy it."

"I would hope you wouldn't drain me dry," he says. "And I would think, as it would probably really piss off Bones, and then you'd have t'deal with Olga because of it."

If he ends up in the infirmary because of a blood magic ceremony gone wrong, he will never hear the end of it from McCoy.

"Light Others do not generally drink blood, in such noticeable amounts, unless hunting." Hunting vampires, specifically, and she's not allowed to hunt here.

And generally, even then, it's beef blood, or pork blood, or some other unfortunate critter.

And it is foul.

"Then we shouldn't have a problem," he says. "I do try t'keep out of trouble, y'know."

Despite his track record for acquiring scars.

"It is a good habit to have." She has never been accused of such a thing, but she's heard it is an admirable thing.

She's also making quick work of her meal. She has been busy recently, after all.

While there is nothing in the world like his mother's home-cooked meals to fill him up right, there is also a lack of grass-fed beef for making into steaks in his where and when. After a long day (and evening) of travel by foot and wagon to Montgomery, he's also pretty damn hungry.

"I even manage most of the time, now'days," he adds, before digging into his mashed potatoes with vigor.

She snickers in appreciation, wolfing down her food like she's afraid it might run away from her.

"I'm sure that is a distinction Olya and her doctor will approve of." Since they're on the topic of that couple's appreciation of their actions.

"I agree," he says with a nod, before turning his attention to the food - he won't eat as fast as she is, but the companionable silence that comes with sharing a meal between two people that don't have to talk every second they're together is nice in its own way.

Once he's cleared his plate, and finished his glass of water, he looks around the room once more.

(You can't be too careful.)

"Two vampires - one over in the corner by the fishtank, the other is in the rafters. Two gods, or creatures who would call themselves such. Five magic users, none of which pose a significant threat." She rattles off without looking up from where she's mopping up the last of everything on her plate.

"My room, then," he says once she's done.

Without any obvious preamble, he stands from the table, carrying his bourbon with him as he rises.

"Mmm, party." She grins, loping along in his wake. "Would you rather any girlfriends didn't see me? Or did?"

At least someone's in a terribly good mood.

He's unable to stop the bark of a laugh that escapes his lungs at her comment.

"I don't got any 'girlfriends' t'be concerned with," he says with a smirk as he leads them through the bar and towards the entrance that leads to the staff wing. It's quieter than most of the halls upstairs, and they only have to pass a few doors until he reaches #4.

After unlocking the door, he steps aside.

(It's only polite to hold the door for the lady, and if there is anything lying in wait, she'll have no problems dispatching it.)

The apartment is relatively neat - books lining a large bookshelf on one wall of the living area, a couch, small dining table and two chairs near a kitchenette, and separate doorways leading to his bedroom and the bathroom. A small arsenal of medieval weaponry (longbow, sword, staff, and crossbow) hang on one wall with a cloak that would easily blend into any forest's green and browns; there are a few live plants in the windowsill that overlooks the lake.

He removes the gunbelt after locking the door, dropping it over one corner of a chair - well within reach, but off his person.

She doubled back to deal with the door, setting up a quick warding to deter any visitors.

And then, we're afraid, she is terribly distracted with the medieval weaponry. Her fingers dance along the edge of the sword, as light as a breeze.

"It is often used?" She asks, curiously. Someone, it seems, has a bit of a hobby.

"I take it out to practice," he says. "And I've taken it to Sherwood before, when I've been there with Will a few times. It doesn't see much actual fighting these days, though."

There is another sword in the footlocker that sits below that wall, wrapped in cloth. He had lost it during the end of days battle and then Teja had found it, and repaired it; though the weird feelings of power that still pull at him when he wields it are enough to tell him it would be wiser to leave it for very special occasions that it's needed.

Beside the footlocker there is also a cask that looks like it was stolen from a pirate ship; that's because it was.

"To be quite honest, I rarely see Will these days," he adds, somewhat quieter. "I hope he's doin' all right."

Gently she lifts it free, testing the balance before moving through forms quite a lot of people don't even realize have been forgotten in her time - just for a few moments, just long enough to get a feel for the sword as a weapon.

"Good sword." She finally allows, even if it isn't quite right for her. "Do you usually fight with lighter?"

"I don't use a sword back home," he says. "I've got my Colt," he nods to the gunbelt on the back of the chair. "If I'm out ridin' I carry a rifle, too. As far as blades go..."

He moves to the sheath on the leather belt and draws the bone-handled Bowie that he's carried since being stabbed with it by the bounty hunter who had him tied up in Raton. He flips it over in his palm before offering it to her, handle first.

"...I definitely fight with lighter."

While he's a hell of a shot with a firearm, he's not half-bad at close quarters knife fighting, either. Bare-knuckle brawls aren't his thing by a longshot, but with a sharp edge and quick reflexes, he stands a fighting chance at making it out alive - no pun intended.

She takes it, handling the knife with a familiarity that speaks of very long practice.
"Brave, to carry one that has already tasted you." she notes, judging its throwing balance - but if she was him, she'd never let someone else get their hands on something like this.

Of course, that's the key point, isn't it?

"That knife gave me one helluva scar," he admits. "I killed the man who'd been wieldin' it at the time. Keepin' it reminds me of that."

While she holds the knife, he never truly turns his back to her, even as he moves towards the kitchen to pour himself another drink. There's an edge to his senses, now that she's in his space, his outlaw's instincts keeping track of where she's standing in comparison to him - all subconscious.

"So just what is it you gotta do for the protectin' work, anyway? I'd like t'be as clear as possible 'fore I just agree t'let you get a taste."

"If it was for me? Not as much, not now. I have my amulets that have been mine for decades. They usually just need maintenance, and... once, charging from time to time by the boss, if something had gone wrong."

She doesn't have that back-up anymore, and hasn't gotten into a battle rough enough since coming back here to seriously run down her defenses. She places the knife down carefully on a side-table, and curls up into one corner of the couch.

"For you? As I said, something of you, something you can carry and will not be remarked upon, enough power that I should not get into a fight tonight." Or at least, if she does, she's fairly sure Skellig will be deeply unhappy with her.