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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"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.

"Hence why I purchased the cloak," he says irritably. "I've said this before, but apparently I have to say it again: it appears you don't think I plan for circumstance at all."

And as a meticulous planner with specific patterns? That annoys him. He can be puzzled out just as easily as anyone else--through watching, and listening. It would certainly cut down on his needing to explain things.

And here I thought someone like you would appreciate receiving anything that makes your future-planning easier.

Perhaps I shall drop it in the water for you to retrieve, as I hope you've remembered to pack a wetsuit in that silly-dex of yours.

"You cretin," Autor says, scoffing. "Why would I go to the trouble of receiving something I didn't want in the first place?"

He sets The Language of Flowers down in his lap and folds his arms. Despite his slouching posture, his expression is completely serious. "I hope you get sick of trying to take care of me soon. I'm fine. Better than fine."

And it's true. Truer than it was, anyway. Autor's state is much improved from the starving, excitable stray he was when he arrived. His cheeks have color, he's developing wiry muscle, and he's only managed to massively injure himself a few times.

"In fact, I'm doing much better than you give me credit for."

Damn. He really wishes he'd seen Autor's fantastic fractures. With luck there will be more and at the same time the popcorn is ready, too.

Possibly. Still a long way to go, though.

And you'll never cease being a concern of mine, so we'd both better get used to this fact, because if I do stop you'll think I was killed off and replaced by a doppelganger of some kind.

Oh, they were beautiful. Cracked ribs, concussions, fractured femurs, shattered arms... No one can say he didn't earn this carpet.

Autor offers him a smile crooked enough to imply, and that would be a bad thing?

Up next: learning to ride a horse. :D

Autor is given the super glare. If you've ever been glared at by a raptor, this is like that, times five.

You would be concerned.

He knows it. He's positive Autor knows it.

Pfft, no. Why, when he has a carpet?

Autor raises a brow and returns to his book. After a bit, he says, "I would wonder how they did it. Elea would flay them alive."

Then he huddles up, folds his arms over his knees, and rifles through his book again.

Skills, man. Skills. For when you need it, and for showing off, too.

Possibly.

He watches for a while. The boy was showing signs of rest. When Autor finally does sleep he'll head off for a while.

Autor might never admit to it—let alone say it aloud—but Rabastan knows he'd start to worry if the wizard stopped caring.

Because, after all this time, Rabastan not caring might very well be worse than him doggedly fretting about others.

He'd have to find someone with animal forms to use as a trusty steed.

Autor's eyes are dry, so he blinks a few times, and finds he can't open them all the way. The boy shakes his head. And again. And again.

He's been awake for two days due to the musical plague, so he's very clearly nodding off. But he can't stand that he's falling asleep in front of the birdbrain, so he'll stay awake until it kills him.

Which it just might, if he falls off the carpet.

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