milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

autor,
clint barton

(no subject)

The Bells of Saint John are ringing...

A girl with a laptop a somewhat lost expression stumbles into the bar as she searches her pockets, trading the computer from hand to hand as she does. See, the problem with hitching a ride with a 900-year-old alien with two hearts and a time machine is you forget to bring your purse, and there's a definite risk of not having your metro card.

And then her feet hit the uneven wood of the barroom floor.

And then she looks up.

And promptly backs up against the closed door with an expression that's definitely closer to panic.

"No, not again..."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Autor squirms. "Why do you persist along this line of questioning?" he whispers, cheeks burning. "Haven't I made it clear that I don't know? Or, rather, haven't ever thought of before and never really would have until you mentioned it--Oh, Lord."

He decides that now is not the time to mention that he thinks of the bar as somewhat maternal.

Edited 2013-07-09 05:28 (UTC)

"You mean to tell me you have never asked the sentient bar its preferences?" She demands, hands on her hips. This her sternface which... sometimes works on the kids she babysits.

Autor usually laughs at sternfaces. Not this time.

"Well, no, I just--" he says, blanching. "I mean s-she's Bar, and, um..."

The boy drops his hands in his lap and sets his jaw. "I probably should have."

"Better." She scolds, her chin held high. "So, um... miss Bar, do you mind if I touch, and if so, is there anything you'd rather I stay away from?"

A napkin pops up on her surface near Oswin. Autor's too busy kicking himself for not asking these questions first to read it.

"I can't--" he starts, and chokes on his blush.

She snatches up the napkin, and reads the approval (and smiley face?) on it.

And she raises an eyebrow at him.

"You'd better start, she is sentient, after all."

Autor chokes. "Um, hello, Bar," he says quietly, tucking his chin to his chest to further the illusion of asking the question in private. "DoyoumindifItouchyouohfortheloveof--"

The answering napkin may as well be manna from heaven, he stuffs it in his pocket so quickly.

She sniffs, and begins hunting for a coffee grinder. The Doctor never did get her that coffee, and she has a bear of a headache from getting uploaded twice.

Autor drains his tea to refresh himself. It works. A bit. "What are you looking for?"

"Coffee pot, french press, something to make coffee - it's been a long day." She replies, still scrounging.

"You could just order from Bar," he says, adjusting his glasses. "Unless you wanted to use the actual kitchen. Do you bake at all?"

"Oooh, didn't think of that." She honestly hadn't, and promptly does, getting herself a nice hot latte that does wonders for her mood. "And I do! Not often, but sometimes. Usually just regular attempts to get my mum's old souffle recipe right."

Autor starts, as he usually tries not to when he sees Oswin relaxed. It always surprises him; she's normally snarky or melty, and he ends up flailing at both.

"That so," he says weakly, filling up his tea. He has to remind himself not to drop the teapot when he realizes that this Oswin might meet his Oswin while baking a mother's souffle, because dramatic irony is the best irony. "So where and when do you come from?"

"... Don't.. you know? Are you an alien too?" What? It's worth asking. She's already run into one alien who looks human (and a bunch of robots that did too).

"I can't tell you that I'm not--for all I know, you may be an alien to me," he says, recovering a bit of his usual smugness. "But, my knowing when and where you're from is unlikely given that I have just asked that very question, and that I am a denizen of a magical bar which didn't exist a minute ago in your cafe."

"..." She considers that for a moment.

"London, 2013."

2013. Popular year, he thinks. And she did say London earlier, as did the other one...

"Welcome to Milliways, Miss London, 2013," he says, and raises his cup in salute. "There are three rules. No violence, no grudges from people from your own world, and no, um... no n-nudity."

Oh, hey, look, he has tea to drink.

Edited 2013-07-09 17:53 (UTC)

"... Is this frequently a problem?" Oswin replies, because... that should be fairly self-explanatory without making it a main rule. One hopes, anyway.

"Oh, I hope not," Autor rasps, after choking on his tea. "It was instituted after... an incident involving--ulp--some p-people who, um... on top of..."

In the time it takes him to process this, a blush has destroyed his face. "Let's just say that the sentient bar was very, very unhappy."

"... Oh my stars." She replies, blinking, scooping her mug off of the bartop.

Autor drains his tea, pours another cup, and drains that as well.

"The other rules should be fairly obvious," he says, sufficiently steadied. The boy peeks at her. "Did you want to see the Window? Or maybe the library? We have a greenhouse here, too. Oh, and a lake."

"Sounds less like a bar and more like a city." She points out, still slightly skeptical about the whole 'magically appearing bar' thing.

"It's not like any city I've ever seen," the boy says. It would help if he'd seen a city, much less left his home town. "If Milliways is a city, it's one which, if I recall correctly, evolves."

Holding up a finger, he hops off his stool. He gestures to his door. "This is where your cafe should be, right?" he asks, and then crosses to open the door to the grounds. "Is this the outside you left?"

Blink.

Blink.

She raises a hand to object, but can'tn find anything to say about it.

So she buries her face back in her mug, very similarly to when she was dragged into an alien's snogbox. Time machine. Space machine. Whatever.

Autor shuts the door and pads back to the bar. "Bit to take in, huh?" he says softly, cradling his cup in his hands.