milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

There's a Watcher in the bar.

Specifically, there's an Andrew Wells in the bar, seated in a booth not far from the fireplace. He's ostensibly making a list in his notepad, but right now he's staring into the fire without really seeing the flames or the serenely circling fish, pen resting forgotten on the page.

He's got stuff on his mind.

Any moment now he's going to notice that the tip of the pen's making a large blot and the list will have to be redone.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I'm..." He shrugs, awkward. "You know. Making do."

Gogo squirms out from under the table with another plock, spreading its tiny wings as it gives Andrew another nudge in the leg.

"How about you?"

"I'm, uh ... I'm good." He glances down at the page in front of him, and scowls. "Ah, nutbunnies."

"What is it?"

Gogo, if you frakked up Andrew's work, you're getting a stern talking-to, buddy.

"Oh, I left the pen sitting on the paper and it leaked ink all over everything." A sigh, as he lifts up the page. "At least it didn't leak all the way through."

"Oh."

Gaeta frowns a little in sympathy.

"Was it something important?"

"... Yeah, sorta, but I hadn't really gotten started -- I can redo it easy."

"That's good," he murmurs. Then: "Gogo, come back over here, bird."

Gogo's head swivels toward Gaeta, as if debating whether or not to listen to him.

"Go on," he says encouragingly. "Be a good bird."

Gogo has no need for your labels. Gogo will trot over to Gaeta because he wants to.

...and also because Gaeta's making the kind of hopeful beckoning gestures that usually signify Gogo's about to get a marshmallow or something.

"Good bird," says Gaeta once Gogo's returned; the dodo gets a rub on the head for his troubles.

"Aww." Andrew grins.

And says, on impulse: "Want some company?"

Gaeta smiles a little. "Sure."

If it gets to be too much, for whatever reason -- well. Gogo's here (which tends to help a bit) and there's nothing wrong with excusing himself.

He grabs his notepad, carefully holding it with the stained page outward, and slides out of the booth to join Gaeta at his table.

And offers Gogo a headpat, as he takes the empty chair.

Ooh, two headpats. Gogo plocks, contented, before resuming his post next to Gaeta's chair.

"Do you want anything to eat?" asks Gaeta.

"Hm? No, not really."

A pause. "Maybe. If you're getting something anyway?"

"Not really," he admits. "I already ate, but I was thinking about getting Gogo something."

A crooked grin.

"Probably marshmallows."

Andrew grins back. "He likes marshmallows, huh?"

A beat. "Have you tried him on s'mores yet?"

"...S'mores?"

Is this going to be like the bloomin' onion again? (Not that Gaeta objects. The bloomin' onion was pretty tasty.)

A beat.

Round-eyed: "Have you never had s'mores?"

(Evidently!)

Slowly, Gaeta shakes his head.

Tentative: "Is that bad?"

"Right," he says decisively, "time for some cross-cultural contamination. Uh, two questions: (a) do you like chocolate, and (b) do you like graham crackers?"

"I'm not sure what graham crackers are, but chocolate, yes."

Maybe not in huge doses, but it's good stuff.

"Uh ... mildly sweet crackers made with whole grain flour, usually sweetened with honey?"

He shrugs, gamely. "Sounds all right."

(This is what happens when your universe doesn't have Presbyterians.)

(No, really.)

Andrew leans over and waves to a nearby waitrat. "Can we get a plate of s'mores? And --" To Gaeta: "I'm getting a glass of milk, what's yours?"

"Coffee's fine," he says. "Thanks."