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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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"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.

Well. In that case we'd better start looking now. Could take a while, y'know.

The sun is April-warm on his back, and with the lapping of the water and the breeze wafting off the lake—as well as the chorus of birdsong from the trees—it's hard not to be lulled.

Hunching down, he stares at no particular space in the air. Blinks a little.

In this contest it seems to be who gets knocked out first.

Despite all of his bragging about competitions, Autor loses this one.

The book slips from his hands as he slumps to the side. It doesn't take super bird-vision to realize that he's curled inward, fast asleep. He doesn't sleep often, but when he does, it's because he's so worn out he collapses. Rabastan can always be counted on to wear the boy out.

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