(no subject)

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford didn’t get much sleep in the cells, but he wasn’t exactly surprised by this. Baby had at least provided him with a charger for his phone, so he was able to spend most of the week messing around with his games and puzzles. But once he was let out, he went straight home, swallowed about four Ambien, and went to bed.

Unfortunately, one thing Wilford hadn't anticipated when he moved to Los Santos was the sheer amount of noise. Even in Mirror Park, which he had been assured was a higher-class, lower-crime area, it seems like a weekly occurrence (even when he’s not repeating the same week over and over again) that some moron with a rocket launcher starts taking cheap shots at helicopters, erupting in a street war at two in the morning.

And there's nothing quite like being woken up from a rare dead sleep by a string of explosions and gunfire right outside one's front door. It'll get your heart going no matter how tired and medicated you are.

Which is why a very bedraggled Wilford shuffles through the door, in dark pyjama pants and a green t-shirt. His hair's a bigger mess than usual, and even his moustache is ungroomed, but he doesn't seem to care. He's riding that line between ready to fall asleep on his feet, and being too amped up to even close his eyes. He takes an empty seat near the fireplace, knowing full well he won't be able to go back to sleep, but grateful for the relative quiet.

Because at least nobody's firing off rocket launchers and rail guns right now, right?

Comments

[rhymes_with_boss]

"Is that a drink in your world?"

That's a woman in prison khakis sitting at the bar and drinking beer from a bottle.

[cottoncandypink]

If Wilford weren't so tired and annoyed, he might actually be pleased that it's his t-shirt that got the first comment. As it is, he has to look down at his chest to see what she's even talking about.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Sponsorship deal or something."

He plucks at the fabric, trying to remember where he even got it. Probably a sponsorship deal, because it's not the sort of thing he'd ever spend his own money on.

The prison khakis don't even faze him.

[rhymes_with_boss]

"In my world, the drink is Sprite," she says, "but I was already told about worlds here. In my world, moustaches aren't usually pink, either."

So what. She had been warned about the weird.

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford snorts. There it is.

"Get used to it."

He doesn't have the usual snap to his voice right now, which may be a good thing for the woman in prison khakis.

"So what's your deal, then?"

[rhymes_with_boss]

"Me? I'm just a smuggler," she says. "Who was caught, hence the outfit."

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford looks at what he can see of the outfit without his glasses. From where he's sitting, it's just a sea of beige.

"I thought you were just one of those hippie types."

[rhymes_with_boss]

"Nope," she says. "I didn't pick this. Usually, my taste is a bit more towards black and cool."

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford squints against the distance, but it's no good. He hadn't expected to find the bar when he stormed out of his bedroom to throw rocks at his neighbour.

"So, what? You were stupid enough to get caught?" he asks, realising that the beige smudge is probably some sort of prison uniform.

[rhymes_with_boss]

"I was stupid enough to work with people who gave us away," she says.

[just_cant_lose]

Well, Wilford looks terrible.

...apart from the way he is surprisingly fine, when not covered by bloody awful clothes. When do journalists find the time to hit the gym? Or is it all the running from monsters?

That observation over with, Jim wanders over. He has a bottle of Heineken dangling from his fingers, and in direct contrast to Wilbur, looks sharp as hell. He is groomed to the nines, decked out in a combo of Westwood, Hart and McQueen, and looks every inch a millionaire businessman.

He finds that unless you're actively putting a certain image across, looking great is the best way to hide the way you feel like shit.

'Bad night, darling?'

[cottoncandypink]

"Fucking awful neighbours," Wilford complains.

Jim's grooming effort is completely lost on Wilford, however, since his glasses are currently on his night stand. He is able to see the bottle of beer in Jim's hand, at least.

"What, none for me?" he asks, not actually expecting (or wanting) one right now. He just feels like needling someone right now, and Jim's proven himself a good target.

[just_cant_lose]

'No.'

Of course not. Don't be ridiculous.

And he doesn't mind his efforts being wasted, as they weren't undertaken for Wilford's benefit. Jim will happily just appreciate himself.

'I thought you were the one offering me something.'

[cottoncandypink]

That gets a raised eyebrow from Wilford.

"I don't have my wallet on me," he points out, since he has quite obviously just rolled out of bed.

[just_cant_lose]

'Not now. Before.'

Jim unbuttons his jacket and sits elegantly, crossing his legs and looking Wilford over again.

'Never mind that. Do you want a drink?'

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford shakes his head dismissively. He'd forgotten the offer he made to Jim until just now, and goes to check his watch before he remembers that it, too, is on his night stand.

"I think it's a race night," he says, still thinking about the offer he made to Jim. Whether or not Jim is a gambling man, Wilford is. And going to the track does seem like a good way to work the eight Ambien he swallowed out of his system.

[just_cant_lose]

'Oh?'

He raises an eyebrow. Racing? Really?

[cottoncandypink]

Yeah, suddenly going to the track sounds like a fucking fantastic idea. Maybe Wilford will get to punch somebody without being told to keep his hands to himself like some school child.

"Yeah, you'll like it. You probably don't have these where you're from."

Since they don't have anything else Wilford is used to, why should midnight races be any different?

[vyvyan]

There is no smell.

But because someone has turned up without his glasses, there happens to be a washed youth sitting two seats away, reading the Financial Times.

When he spots Wilford, he hides behind the enormous newspaper.

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford doesn't even notice Vyvyan sitting nearby. Partially because he's as good as blind right now, and partially because he's too tired to care about anything going on around him.

This may be for the best right now.

[vyvyan]

Regular Vyvyan would have been interested in the fact that Wilford doesn't reset with his glasses.

This one remains behind the newspaper, debating his escape route.

When Wilford isn't looking, he moves to the next chair away, still behind his paper.

[cottoncandypink]

Well, he would have, if he reset. But he didn't. He just rolled out of bed.

Not that Vyvyan knows that.

There are fish in the fireplace. Wilford can't really see them, but he can see their vague shapes moving around. Right now, he's wondering who feeds them, and what they eat.

[vyvyan]

Easy does it...

As Wilford looks towards the fish, Vyvyan props up the newspaper on a table, somehow keeping the paper erect, then ducks down and crawls through a gap between two sofas.

Man, he misses the days where he could just fart and walk off.

[cottoncandypink]

Vyvyan goes completely unnoticed by Wilford. Eventually, he does notice the newspaper standing up, and manages to knock it over by banging his heel on the table.

He half expected to see someone hiding behind it, but doesn't really think anything about it when it falls over to reveal nothing at all.

[vyvyan]

Vyv crawls under the next table.

A lamp starts humming the great escape tune, and he hisses at it to stop.

[cottoncandypink]

That does catch Wilford's attention. Not that he can tell where it's coming from, but he's no longer looking at the fish in the fireplace.

"What the hell is that?" he asks.

This place is weird, in so many ways.