milliways_bar | (no subject)

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"But musing what an easy thing it were to mix our opiates in a larger cup," Autor says, patting the counter in preparation to hop over it. "And drink, and not perceive"—and here he hops—"sleep deepening lead his truer kinsman up, like undistinguished Night, darkening the skirts of Eve.*"

After a few minutes of setting up his prior preparations, the boy reaches for the specials board. "Good night, Bar."

Bitter Chocolate Aria
Hot chocolate & one croissant

Submission Sonata
Virgin strawberry & wasabi daiquiri

Ode to Blood
Giga ant eggs, sour apple juice, seltzer water, flavored ice

Fiery Trigon
Grenadine, lemon juice, apple juice, passion fruit juice, & cinnamon

Silent Overture
Free coffee if you can prove that you’re knighted

Note: Virgin bar.

[This post is open forever.]

*Ode to Sleep , Richard Chenevix Trench

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"Pfft, no one does," Autor says, adjusting his glasses. "Order or I'll make a special drink, just for you."

"You know, there are other means to find out why you're blushing so hard. Means like going stealth and following you about to see if you say anything incriminating.

"Did you know eagles have excellent hearing?"

Pause.

"Make something then. Doesn't mean I'm drinking it."

The boy stands, and straightens his shoulders. "I'd like to say, 'You wouldn't dare,' but at this point I'm reluctant to rely on your good will," he says, narrowing his eyes.

Then he leans back, smiling. "You are genuinely so bored that you'd follow me around? I don't know whether to be flattered or angry."

Probably both.

He's not about to waste a drink, either.

"Or you can just tell me to my face. It's not like you're at risk of it going public by telling me directly. Maybe you haven't noticed, but I don't make it a habit of running around telling people about you."

Really. He doesn't.

"Do you think me the town gossip here?"

Edited 2013-05-16 17:42 (UTC)

"I'm fairly certain you're not," he says and turns to make himself a cup of tea. "But what benefit would telling you net me? I don't mind your pestering, Rabastan."

Lies. Sort of.

"Well, rather, I can tolerate it when I have to, and it looks like now is one of those times."

"Figure there's something I can use to tease you over for the next five minutes. That will cause you to flush and fluster, then snap and snarl at me. Followed by me laughing at both the latest bit of news and your reaction, and finally you shoving a drink at me with a 'Shut up, wizard' message attached."

He smiles. Then chuckles.

"Better to get it out of the way now, than later."

"Sure," Autor says, and fills up a glass of water. He even garnishes it with a lemon. "'Shut up, wizard.' I hope you don't mind that I've skipped a few steps?"

Edited 2013-05-16 18:56 (UTC)

"Oh, now you're just encouraging me to take up snooping just to find out this secret you're keeping, wretched child.

"I'll find out. One way or the other."

"You really don't know what it is?" Autor says, grinning as he cups his chin in his hands. "Really?"

"Hate to disappoint you, lad, but I was never taught how to read minds. You'll just have to tell me the old-fashioned way."

"You can't just use a Pensieve?" he asks. "Not that I would let you siphon my thoughts like gas out of a tank, but still."

"Using one would be a lot easier if I owned one. I don't. And Bar's not able to give me one right now, no matter how nicely I ask.

"So you can either tell me, or, we can make it worse and turn it into a guessing game."

Autor shrugs. "Or I can pull up a book and keep silent for the rest of the night."

And oh, hey, look at that! He can call out books at will. This one is particularly interesting to him.

"Fine. Following you around it is then. Hope you don't mind. Not that I'd care if you did."

"Mmhm," Autor says, almost cheerfully, as he reads his book.

I'll invest in a crossbow and make you bugger off.

Yeah I don't see that working. Trying to hit a flying target without much practise at stationary? Good luck, Overlord.

Frowning, he plucks the lemon wedge from the glass. Making to squeeze the juice into the water.

The juice ends up going in a different direction.

Um. Oops?

Autor sighs, and picks up a maternally-worded napkin leftover from before he put Bar down for a nap.

He cleans off his glasses irritably, and, apropos of nothing, asks, "You can make it snow in the bar, right?"

Yeah, that's not where that juice was supposed to go.

Er.

"Some particular reason why you want snow?"

"I don't want snow," he says. "I want fireflies. A thousand of them, at least. Partially to see if you can do it, and also because that would be beautiful."

"Look. I may be getting old, and with age comes infirmity, but my ears are better now than they used to be.

"And you said 'snow'. Not fireflies."

Pause.

"When did you start caring about whether the weather—indoors or out—was beautiful? Given that, when you first arrived, you were pale enough to indicate that you only saw the outside of a building if you absolutely had to, not because you wanted to."

Stare.

"This young lass of yours somehow managed to change your mind about these things?"

"Wait, that doesn't make sense. How did your hearing improve?" Autor says, furrowing his brow.

"And snow is pretty, as long as I'm not out in it," he scoffs. "I asked if you could make snow because I was wondering if you could modify the snowflakes to look like fireflies, instead. Hogwarts, A History describes their Enchanted Ceiling, though I hope you'll not need to do it on such a grand scale."

He wrinkles his nose. "I'm studying an opera. A three-dimensional visualization of how the notes move would be incredibly useful."

Then he shrugs. "And like I said, fireflies are beautiful. I would have picked something else if I didn't like them."

"Someday I'll tell you how. But you have to be a good boy first."

Rabastan's not surprised Autor doesn't know about his illness. It's not in the history books. Even the most recent ones. The authors don't know, and neither does the young man serving drinks tonight.

Not that Potter-verse lycanthropy works the way modern fiction would have us believe.

"Fairy lights. Why not just say you want fairy lights?"

Pause.

"You. Need a visual representation of musical notes? You? Sorry lad, but that does not compute. If you're studying music you should already know how notes work. And you're smart enough to know how, even if you weren't.

"You have an ulterior motive, don't you? I bet it's for this pretty young bird of a sociopath you told me about, and that you're determined to impress. With wizardly help, no less."

"You have a very black and white view of the world, wizard," Autor says, shaking his head, as if it's the saddest thing he's ever heard. Well, at least in a while.

"Fairy lights? I've never heard that term, but it makes sense," he says. "Though she'd probably lau"--and as his wistful commentary on Rabastan's statement sinks in, the boy colors.

Slowly. Painfully. Spectacularly.

Rabastan has the look of a DA who has just heard the defendant unwittingly say something particularly incriminating.

"So. It's all about the young woman after all?"

Smirk.

"I know you're dead clever, and reasonably good at lie-spinning, but even you can't explain this one away. Tell me that it's not what I think it is."

Autor is tempted--oh, so tempted--to throw a smoke bomb and run. But he promised to take care of Bar tonight, so he'll brave the smug-dragon who deigned to descend from the heavens today.

"It really was for an opera. If she wants fairy lights, she can go get them herself," he snorts, and folds his arms. "I'm not inclined to do her any favors."