milliways_bar | Party Post | Urquhart's Wake -- outside

Entry tags:

Party Post | Urquhart's Wake -- outside

As patrons enter the bar today, they may notice something a little different. A little more color, a sweeter scent; flowers, beautifully arranged. Sitting unobtrusively to one end of the Bar near the message board is an easel-mounted wreath arrangement, at its center the name Angus Urquhart, with the dates of his life, his afterlife, and his ultimate passing from the bar.

Should you follow the arrow pointing to the back door, similar but smaller flower arrangements mark the path to the lakeside. There, a modest affair is underway; seats, sturdy refreshment tables at Miss Sunshine's behest, music, and the makings of a bonfire closer to the shore for when it gets dark. The occasion may be somber, but above all this is a celebration of life — of the ever-so-much-more-than-nine lives of Angus Urquhart.

Come have a drink in his honor, or share your stories of his many adventures.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Autor sits back to pinch the bridge of his nose, heedless of the dirt on his gloves.

"Would you please be quiet?" he says hoarsely, voice breaking around his exasperation--and the lump in his throat. "I'm just trying to get rid of the weeds, so that they don't damage the roots; the garden was already ripped up once this year."

Her eyes flick from the earth to catch his gaze, however long he will hold it. She does look mildly surprised, but the calm — and the sorrow — hold out.

"Of course. I can give you your privacy."

She takes a breath, pauses, rethinks her words.

"It's difficult losin' a friend, let alone under circumstances such as these. I've — lost many people, in ways I — wouldn't repeat. I don't wanna bother you, Mr. Autor, but I didn't want you t'be alone, neither."

He only holds it as long as he can turn his head to the left.

"Did it not occur to you that I might want to be alone?" he says hoarsely, and then shakes his head.

"And the circumstances--the circumstances aren't..." he says, feeling a band cinch around his ribs. He leans forward to breathe.

She nods slightly.

"Of course. Y'were free t'tell me t'leave at any point, an' I'll respectfully do so."

He's starting to panic by Kate's estimation, and she quickly reaches for the hot cider.

"Y'may not want this, but the heat will help. Jus' sip it, an' take slow breaths; count t'five as y'breathe in, an' again as y'breathe out."

Autor glares at the cider mug, but seizes it with shaking hands. He curls around it to sip, and breathe--and drown the scent of rotting limbs and the whispered help us.

He nods at Ms. Barlow curtly, and then turns his head again. "These... look like finger bones when you harvest them."

She nods once, silent.

And then his words surprise her. She blinks, glancing at the asparagus patch again. A small smile tugs at her lips.

"With bad cases of arthritis."

Autor snorts, amused--and startled by that. He clutches the cider, sipping it, and eyes her over the mug.

Urquhart had teased him about the metaphors attached to the asparagus spears, but the boy's not about to bring those up with Ms. Barlow.

"Thank you," he says numbly. "What now?"

"Well."

She takes a breath, smoothing her hands over her skirts.

"I can leave you in peace. Or, if you'd rather I not speak, I could help you do a li'l weedin', an' you can choose the topic."

"I'll... have to think of something to ask," he says, not even the slightest bit defensively. "But don't worry about weeding. You're probably exhausted already, and I can handle this."

The boy has no idea what he'd like to say to Ms. Barlow, but he knows what he doesn't want to say: he's tired. He's tired, so tired--of allergies to anything maternal, of having to reject people, of being looked at with pity... But she's kind and she means well, so he stills his tongue.

She shrugs with one shoulder, shaking her head.

"I'm no stranger to a long day of hard labor. As I said before, I miss gardenin'. But I won't impose."

Any number of the young men in the bar could tell Autor a great deal about Kate's maternal side. Without even trying she tends to collect them, becoming a gentle reminder to eat, rest, and be kind. However, in Autor's case it's not so much a maternal instinct that brought her here as sympathy for what he's going through. She's been through it herself, and hates more than anything not being able to control her emotional outbursts, looking weak in front of others, and garnering their pity.

He may confuse her concern for it, but she'll never look at him with pity.

"I know you're not," he says quietly, placing his mug down to take up the work again. "Running a wake is significantly harder than weeding a garden, and I'm sure your duties at home--whatever they are--have..."

He stops, and tilts his head. "Actually, that is a good question--what do you do at home? I assumed you were a ranch hand, from the way you were dressed."

She breathes a soft laugh.

"No — I grew up on a ranch, but I don't have a homestead. I, ah, take jobs here an' there. Don't stay in one place too long."

She pauses, and gestures over her shoulder.

"I help run the stables here, on the other hand. I'm workin' out there most mornin's an' evenin's."

"Ah. Wandering," the boy says, and then nods towards the stables. "And roots."

He unearths a particularly stubborn weed with a grunt. "What sorts of jobs?"

Her lips tilt into a crooked smile.

"Never could make up my mind."

She's an enigma, always has been. The gentle schoolteacher-cum-ruthless outlaw, soft-spoken and hard-hearted, gentle and cold. Part of her will always long for roots, but the larger part is too wild to be fenced in.

"The lucrative sort. Banks, stagecoaches, trains..."

"Oh, so you can shoot," he says, perking up. "Interesting. What made you start?"

[OOC: Gonna have to update that dossier after this thread. I can feel it. *grin*]

[ooc: ~laugh~ I make no apologies. ^__^]

She arches her eyebrows, surprised. Until, of course, she remembers she was wearing her six the first time he saw her.

"Y'didn't think I jus' carried it around for decoration, did you? How d'you mean, 'what made you start'?"

"Well, no, but bank robbery tends to require more skill with a firearm than defending yourself," he says. "And I mean... Why do you do it? You didn't just wake up and say, 'I think I'll rob a bank today,' right?"

'People love stories about crimes', huh?

He shakes his head. "And do keep in mind that you don't have to tell me. A lot of people forget."

"Sugar, if I didn't want you knowin' I would've told you I was a schoolteacher an' left it at that."

There are some details of her life she doesn't volunteer to just anybody; however, Milliways is neutral ground, insofar as anyplace is. She wants Autor to feel comfortable around her, which requires a little give and take. He's already stopped panicking, after all.

But the question gives her pause.

"I do it for two big reasons, I reckon. Some folk have more money than they have any business to, an' a girl's gotta eat."

Autor clears his throat. "There's no need for terms of endearment."

Ironically, 'Sugar' reminds him of that blond cop who frisks nuns. He doesn't end up with a full-on blush--he's too worn out for that mess--but he does chew on the inside of his cheek some.

The boy returns to weeding. "Makes sense. So does your being a school teacher. Did you have to give that up to take your other jobs?"

Edited 2013-11-20 04:07 (UTC)

She tries to hide a smirk, but isn't entirely successful.

"My apologies."

She's starting to notice how perceptive he is. As if he's logging away mental notes on everything for later use. Her eyes flick to the garden.

"No, I lost my schoolhouse. Decided t'change vocations."

Ah, I figured we'd get to the real motivation eventually, he thinks.

"Do you send money back to anyone?" he asks, skimming right over her smirk and apology. "Families of the school kids, maybe, for textbooks and things?"

"No."

Her expression is unreadable.

"There ain't no one."

"My condolences on the loss of your schoolhouse," Autor says, passing his fingertips over the seed ball of a dandelion. "Being uprooted like that must have hurt."

He shucks his gloves, and settles back. "You didn't bring any cider for yourself," the boy points out.

Edited 2013-11-20 07:14 (UTC)

She inclines her head graciously, though she doesn't say anything. It's kind and a little comforting to receive his condolences, though she doesn't need them. It simply feels like something of a victory from where they started off.

"I didn't have enough hands. But, tell y'what, I'll happily split that piece'a cake with you if y'like."

"No," Autor says softly, "thank you. Sweet things don't suit me, and I'm not suited to them."

He does pick up his own mug, though. "But don't let me stop you. People who speak with me really should have their own cider."

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire

Re: Music & Bonfire