milliways_bar | (no subject)

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So. About that rock thing.

Turns out they were right and it would wear off on its own.

And Rabastan is nursing a kind of fad hangover. As he wonders just how in the world a Milliways veteran succumbs to bar weird when he's supposed to know when it occurs and how to avoid it.

[If he ever sees a rock again it'll be too soon.]

Whiskey. Fireplace. Knitting.

Television tuned to 60s pop for noise [specialty music channels FTW].

And one wizard who'd rather talk about anything other than fads and pet rocks.

I'm sure he's amenable for socialising. :x

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Hey if you've got silver to melt go right ahead.

He's ready to take wing should Autor make good on his threats.

Autor, you're almost an adult. At least, you would be in my old home. So you have strong feelings for someone. Big deal.

If it's mutual between you, then. Well. What can I do?

Save for flying away should Autor start lobbing things at him.

"Am I, now?" Autor says, baffled all over again. "Most of the time you treat me like a child. What changed?"

He lifts his arm and ties the bird to the carpet with a stare. "What do you mean, 'what can you do?' Are you offering to help me with this? No, thank you. I can put my foot in my mouth by myself, as you've no doubt seen."

If you try, I'll break your arm. She'll break your everything.

Aside from you not getting enough sleep or nourishment there isn't that much I worry about when it comes to you.

Pause.

I'm not offering anything here. Aside from encouragement from the sidelines. That's all.

And speaking of encouragements? Life's too short. So if you have feelings for her I say go for it. What's the worst she can do to you? Turn you down?

What's the worst she can do to you?

Autor stares at him in horror for a full thirty seconds before throwing his head back, cackling. The kid is soon beyond rescue; he curls up in a little ball and clutches the stitches in his sides.

Congratulations, Rabastan. This is quite possibly the hardest Autor has laughed in a decade.

"Y-You won't want to be on the sidelines for any of this," he says, gasping for breath. "Your 'encouragement'"--and here he has to lay back again, because that much giggling made him dizzy--"will end up with you playing the role of 'Reluctant Grease Stain on the Floor'."

Puzzled looks on birds tend to look like every other expression on birds, if you don't know the subtle differences.

Sorry? Don't think I'm following. What do you mean? "Reluctant grease stain"? I thought we were talking about your sort-of amore? Not some psychotic murderer.

Autor adjusts his glasses. "No, I imagine her murders are quite calculated."

What? he blurts stupidly.

There goes his eloquence.

This one of your jokes?

A blush lingers on the boy's face. But it's no longer all-consuming, just a suggestion. His expression is strange for him, too; his smile is soft, almost fond.

But it's fast, too. By the time he glances at the bird, the bookshrew's smirk is set firmly in place.

"Don't get caught up in the crossfire."

Pity that eagles are renowned for their incredible eyesight. That blush and that smile did not go unnoticed.

I never pegged you as the extreme type when it came to girls. Or the suicidal.

"Probably because you never 'pegged' me as anything for girls. I didn't," Autor mumbles. Or trolls. Damn it.

"And I am not suicidal, thank you."

Actually I'd have expected you to fall for someone as utterly anti-social, arrogant and egotistical as you are. Love for books would also be appreciated.

Having a stomach the size of a walnut is a plus.

Pause.

Suicidal by proxy then.

"What? Don't be silly," Autor says, grinning crookedly. "I thought we'd determined that there is no one as arrogant as I am. If there were a competition, I'd win it."

Then he closes his eyes. "You sure are fond of assumptions of every stripe, aren't you?"

Edited 2013-04-28 16:13 (UTC)

I'm not arguing about that, chum. Everyone knows where your opinions on yourself are: very high.

He scratches at an itch. Please don't let him have somehow acquired a passenger of his own!

I'm not the one who has an interest in a girl who more than likely is capable of ending my life in spectacular fashion.

And this fact doesn't appear to bother you in any way.

I'd say you have an undiscovered desire for living dangerously.

"'More than likely'?" Autor says, and his raised brow is likely all he needs to do to show the wizard what he thinks of that statement.

"And I don't know if that's undiscovered so much as carefully laid out," he says softy, and then falls quiet. Sort of a surprise, though.

Edited 2013-04-29 01:40 (UTC)

Well. I suppose I should say, before she manages to erase you from existence, that it was nice knowing you.

He doesn't mean it in the sense of a final goodbye. More like, saying it now while both of them are still intact enough to say it.

In the meantime, I don't suppose you intend to head back in, if even to grab something from Bar before you wait out this musical plague?

Autor makes a little noise which is somewhere between a snort and a laugh. It's not quite a giggle, but he's clearly amused. "I'm surprised at that, Rabastan! You don't usually give off that impression.

"And no, thank you," he says, sitting up to further wrap his cloak around him. "I'm quite comfortable out here. In fact, camping out here for the duration sounds like a fabulous idea."

Very well then.

He looks about him, examining the skies above. There's a cluster of clouds off to the far southeast, but they appear to be moving away from them.

Tonight's forecast does not appear to include rain.

Shall I come find you once this is over then?

Autor's first impulse is to insist that he can take care of himself. Again. Unfortunately, that would be useful. Sigh.

"Yes, please," Autor says, and pulls The Language of Flowers out of his sylladex. "I'd hate to be stuck out here for days."

He doesn't do goodbyes, Rabastan.

Passing along the message that the bar is back to normal does not fall under the category of "Things Autor Is Unable To Take Care Of Himself".

This is just common courtesy.

And in the middle of a thunderstorm no less.

Autor sits up. "Wait, what? What?"

Useless flailing o'clock.

"There's not one coming," he says, adjusting his glasses in an effort to make him less blind to the weather. "Is there?"

Worry not. Tonight you'll be dry as a bone under a clear night sky.

Don't stress yourself out. I was only speaking in hypotheticals.

"Tch!" Autor says, and adjusts his glasses. "I am fairly certain that you avoid being caught out in the rain whenever you can."

The kid is not fond of getting wet. He can't even swim.

"Your hypothetical didn't sound like one," he mutters, settling back down.

These feathers sure aren't waterproof.

And call it whatever you want. Because you'll do it anyways.

Scratch scratch.

I'll fly you a parasol.

"Don't sprain a wing on my account," he mutters. "The cloak is waterproof."

Wait, is he falling asleep? Can't be.

I should hope everything else is, too.

He thinks of Autor, sitting on his carpet in the middle of a downpour, and immediately the image of a sour-faced cat drenched to the bone comes to mind.

Good thing he can't laugh aloud, or he would be.

Keep it for the future then. You never know.