milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

melinda may

(no subject)

When William comes in, he's too cold to stumble - he's drenched through and through despite the oiled coat he wears, the folds of his clothing and the curls in his hair rimmed in ice. The exposed skin of his hand and face are reddened, his knuckles beginning to crack.

Sailing is not an easy life, no. Of course, he already knew that.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Melinda slides off of her stool at the bar immediately.

"Midshipman Blakeney," she says, as she approaches, observing to see how responsive he is to change. He doesn't look that badly off (he looks badly enough off, he needs to change as soon as possible -- which is within striking distance of now) yet, but hypothermia can hide.

"Ma'am." He pulls his hat off quickly, scattering more rain and saltwater onto the floor. "Good... evening?" It was just past noon on board ship, but it seems more... evening like here.

Melinda's stance relaxes.

"Evening will work fine," she says, tone dry. "Getting the Bar wet..." she sets a hand on the surface, and gets a neatly folded change of clothes (pretty much identical to his current) for him, with a towel on top. She gives the Bar a side-long glance, and the clothes are immediately repackaged in a canvas bag with a strap he can put over a shoulder.

"Go, change," she says, extending it to him. "I'll have tea for you when you're back."

His smile is a brilliant thing.

"Yes ma'am, thank you ma'am." Blakeney practically crows as he takes the bag, slinging the pack over his shoulder with a practiced air. Very smartly he heads for the bathrooms - he may not be adequately familiar with modern indoor plumbing, but rooms with doors that lock? That's practically luxury, and he's going to abuse the privilege.

It's not more than a few minutes later he's back, hauling the now increasingly-damp bag, the towel slung over his thin shoulders.

Edited 2015-08-25 04:13 (UTC)

Melinda's mouth quirks in response.

When he returns, she catches his eye from a booth, where a rat's laid out stew, and tea (it's strong, and pitch black, and there's plenty of sugar available). She's certain another can take the bag. If this place rents rooms, it must have a laundry.

It's a lucky thing William doesn't see the rats at the food - he's still fairly wary of them, giving them a dubious look when they make off with his bag.

"It's as good as the captain's table, ma'am." He's only been invited the once, but he remembers the food being good (if as weevil-ridden as the rest of the stores). The lack of insect life makes this meal even better, and he very clearly can't quite believe his good luck. With how they're going today, his most likely next meal was to be hard tack and grog.

"After months at sea? Surprising."

She sips her tea, measured.

He stiffens, a tiny proud member of a longstanding naval tradition.

"I wouldn't know, ma'am." William hasn't been invited to Aubrey's table on this particular mission yet. For all he knows, even the Captain is reduced to hard tack, but he suspects he'd hear much more complaining from the cook if such a thing were true.

[ooc: Feel free to imagine this is after he's talked to Melinda, if you don't want him to get dried off ten times in a row...]

It's funny, Viola thinks, how quickly an instinct to serve can be instilled-- though then again, a lady is expected to serve, too, in her own way. In any case, the words are out almost before she is aware of speaking: "Hast need of aught? You look fair chilled, sir."

(OOC: I'm good either way - I'm forever mean to my pups)

It's a more archaic way of speaking than William is used to, but he's learned during his tenure in the Navy how to cotton on to the meaning of some fairly strained English. It's a learning experience hearing the men trying to negotiate with local sailors (and others) when they pull into port.

Since he isn't entirely sure how to correctly address this... boy? Lord? Things are so confusing off-ship. Either way, he plays it safe, touching the brim of his hat in a respectful gesture.

"Lieutenant Pullings says it will get colder, though I can hardly believe it." His smile is a bit wan - he might not want to believe it, but he's never known Pullings to be wrong. "I don't suppose I could have something to drink?"

Her clothes, which are quite plainly a servant's livery to anyone of her own time period, would indeed seem extravagant but the standards of the 18th century. But the way she bows might suggest her status (or his, as the case may be) is less elevated than all the silk might make it seem.

"Ay, indeed," she says. "But sit you, sir-- if you please-- you look well in need of a rest."

"Er." He still feels awkward, sitting when this fellow is standing, but... well. He doesn't get bowed to like that on board ship. The captain doesn't get bowed to like that, and he's Lucky Jack.

So he sits.

If he had two thumbs, he'd be twiddling them nervously.

"It has been a long day." He allows, as if to insinuate that if it hadn't been, of course he'd be fine standing.

The lifted brow and barely-suppressed smile are perhaps a little less servantly. Then again, maybe not. But Viola has-- had-- a brother, she knows the form.

"O, I doubt it not. I shall be but a moment, sir."

She darts away and returns a moment later with a mug of hot chocolate (she didn't know what to bring, and that is what the Bar suggested). She also carries a blanket, very casually, as if she just happened to pick it up and just happened to need to set it down across the arm of Blankeney's chair obviously it's not like anyone here might need it, it's just, you know, there.

Bar is clearly part of the same conspiracy as Miss May - the hot chocolate lacks the burning warmth of alcohol, though he'll admit it is tasty. The blanket he refuses to give longing glances to (though it does look thick, and warm). With his hand occupied by the mug, he'd just look ridiculous trying to pull that over.

"Thank you. We've nothing like this on board ship." And if there were, he suspects it wouldn't make it down to the midshipmen.

"O! Y'are a sailor?"

Viola is mightily tempted to just drape the blanket over him, but suspects this boy's pride would not appreciate the officiousness. But she keeps an eye out, in case there's an opening.

"Not... well, I suppose, if you weren't in the Navy, you would call me a sailor?" Blakeney hazards, more polite than some of his fellow (and more prickly) midshipmen would be. "But I'm a midshipman."

"I confess I do not know the difference," she says with a sheepish smile.

"Oh!" This seems... odd, to Blakeney, but not any more odd than anything else around here.

(The rats that people allow to serve food are the oddest, honestly, he still can't quite get over that, it's as bad as weevils.)

"Midshipmen are trained to be officers - Lieutenants and Captains and such. Sailors tend not to become officers, though it is possible." His own captain came up through the ranks, and he won't hear a bad word said about the man.

"O, why! Then I have insulted you mistakingly, in calling you so. I pray you will pardon me." He doesn't seem like the type to actually mind, but no use in causing unnecessary offense.

"It's quite alright." He smiles, a sunny thing that betrays his rather few years. "It isn't as if you knew you were saying the wrong thing."

Now, if it'd been on purpose, he would have been quite offended and bristly.

"True indeed, I did not." She smiles right back. "But if I may ask it-- how do you now, sir? Somewhat better, I hope? From whence came you, to come away so frozen?"

"Oh, much better, thank you." He's not shivering anymore, which is a relief. "We're sailing around Cape Horn in chase of the Acheron, a French frigate the captain means to take as prize."

...

We swear this actually makes sense in context.

She nods slowly. It almost makes sense-- or at least, there are enough words she understands to get the general idea.

"It must be a relief indeed, to have this place to come to."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only