milliways_bar | (no subject)

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As much as he tried to convince himself that he wasn't getting sick, Tommy wasn't immune to that weird flu that's been going around after all.

Because now his name isn't Tommy. It's Wayne.

And after several days of not shaving in his flu-ridden delirium, he decided to give himself a mustache.

"Aw, c'mon, Miss Bar," he says, his usually rapid New York City bark replaced with a slow, Midwestern drawl. "You can't deny a fella just one sip of whiskey, now can you?"

A napkin appears. Yes, she can. Because of reasons.

Wayne sighs. Deeply, and sadly. Almost depressive, defeated. His shoulders hunched over, he slouches on a bar stool and lights a cigarette with tremulous fingers.

And yes, he's wearing a straw cowboy hat.

[OOC: Probably one of the last victims of the IMDb flu! Tommy is now Wayne from a movie called Jesus' Son.]

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He blinks at the fellow, real slow-like, a line forming between his brows. Even the corners of his mustache seem to droop even further.

"Beg yer pardon, what'd you say?"

"Uh sed atlees on uf us can smull it."

Listening hard, he finally gets it, and he bobs his head in a nod.

"Ohh. Yeah. Well, hope it tastes as good as it smells. Tryin'a get over something m'self--"

He gets cut off by a sneeze into his sleeve.

"Ugh. 'Scuze me."

He hasn't forgotten who he is while sick, so he pops out his wand and manifests a small stack of tissues.

"Der. Dat miht help yu."

When the tissues appear, his eyes grow wide, and he slowly sits up straighter while tipping his hat back on his head.

"Ho-lee shit."

Plucking a tissue off the stack, he examines it. Yup, it's real.

"Huh. Nice trick. Thanks."

Conjured up right on time, because he sneezes again. This's really getting annoying.

"Name's Wayne," he mutters half into his tissue.

Oh. Never seen magic before?

He may have to be careful. Some people don't take to magic well, though it sounds like ~~Tommy~~ Wayne's not in the freak out over it category.

"Yo welkum."

Pause. Some crackers are smushed and dropped into the soup.

"M'name's Rabastan."

Wayne's seen a fair amount of strange things-- sometimes high, sometimes sober, sometimes not being able to tell if he was one or the other. Nothing freaks him out anymore.

"Rabastan...?"

Sounds...familiar. Should be, as it'd be a hard name to forget. In any case, it tugs stubbornly at his memory.

"So you're a magician, huh?"

That's pretty much the way of it in the Magical World. A game of outdoing each other for Weirdest Name You Can Give A Kid.

"Priddy much, yuh," he says, sniffling.

He's about to need a tissue, to keep his nose from adding another ingredient to the soup.

Not!Tommy quickly passes him a tissue from the stack, because nobody needs to see that shit.

"Oh. You make a livin' with it? Doin' magic shows an' stuff?"

"Danks."

Pause.

"Surdda. I don' do shows, but I use madgic t' helb out at a shup."

He blinks slowly at him. Shup? Ship?

"Oh, a shop," he says, thinking aloud. "How d'you use magic to help at a shop? Well, 'less it's a magic shop. Is it?"

"We sell maddic carputs," he says without preamble. "I hep by using maguk do lift de carpits fur de cudsomers."

Seems as though the worse Rabastan's cold gets, the more Wayne needs an interpreter, but he listens carefully and picks out the words, eventually nodding with understanding.

"Wow. Talk about having exactly the right skills for that particular career. Me, I do all sorts of stuff around town, whatever's payin'. Construction, electrics, moving, salvage jobs." He shrugs. "It's a living."

And he orders a bowl of soup for himself.

Rhinovirus to English doesn't exist yet.

"Udd jubbin'?" he asks, right before he lets off a good sneeze.

Into the tissue. Don't worry.

At this point, it's like trying to understand someone through a drug-induced haze.

"Right, odd jobbin'," he repeats once he figures out what Rabastan has said. "Basically anything to make a quick buck, y'know?"

And it's okay, he lets loose a good sneeze of his own as well. Even if they don't have the same thing, maybe their germs will get confused and cancel each other out.

Someone about as eloquent as a drunkard.

"Yuh. Uh needid munny so I gut de job wid the carput sellr."

Hey. That might one day prove to be the cure to IMDb Flu.

"Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do," he says, bobbing his head in a nod.

"So, you been comin' in here long?"

"Oh guddnes," he says, sniffing. "Ben cimming hur for yurs now."

The narration is amused at the restraint in the choice of vowel substitution in the world "coming."

"Really? No shit. I've only just... Huh."

And he trails off, distracted and bewildered by a sudden thought. He doesn't actually remember the first time he came here. Was it yesterday? Was it years ago?

"That's strange, I-- I don't seem to recall exactly how I got here. I woke up in someone else's bed, and-- well, there I was, and here I am."

"Yuh dunt?"

He scratches at his chin. Ugh. A shave may be in order.

Neither he or his girlfriend are crazy about stubble.

"Wull. Um. Seems dat habbens sumbdimes. Nut uffin, bud sumtimes."

That may not be the most comforting thing to hear, but how is something like this supposed to be explained?

"Maybe it's this weird flu thing goin' 'round that's messing with my memory. Uh, you don't happen to-- how do I say this-- not feel like yourself?"

By the time Tommy comes back to himself, he'll wonder how that mustache got on his face.

It used to be every month that I didn't, he thinks to himself, grateful that the moon's pull no longer rules over him like it once did.

"Cud be. I dunno. Beun sick cun make yur hed funneh."

"Mm, maybe," he grunts thoughtfully with a shrug. "Three quarters of a bottle of cold medicine could prob'ly do that, too. And that was damn good cold medicine."

A beat.

"Hey, maybe you should try it."

He drank three quarters of a bottle of cold medicine? And he's not high as a kite?

"Dun thick I need dat much do ged bedder."

But he's willing to try it.

Anything to keep him from dribbling mucus like a leaky faucet.

Who says he ain't high as a kite right now? He has a very high tolerance for alcohol-- er, medication that contains at least 25% alcohol, in this case.

"Well, you might not hafta take as much. It's called NyQuil. It's green."

And it's awesome.

"Bar might be able to provide you with some."