milliways_bar | (no subject)

Well, there's someone Jim's been hoping to run into. He's feeling himself again - if knocked back on his arse by the flu, and hoping Sherlock hurries up and gets better soon - and is kicking around the idea of heading out to Los Santos for a day or two to avoid possibly catching the bug again.

But in the meantime - Wilford. A Wilford who looks...a lot younger, and with even more stupid hair.

Innnnnnteresting. Looks like the fifteen-year jump might have just got explained, at least in part.

'I've been looking for you,' he says without preamble, and slumps into a chair. It's only sort-of true, but it beats saying hello.

Even sitting down, Wilford looks about 100 pounds soaking wet, and aside from a bit of pathetic black fluff on his chin, the meticulously-twirled moustache is the only hair on his face.

He doesn't acknowledge Jim until he sits down, and then he gives Jim a bewildered look for a second before he remembers to pause his tape player and pull his headphones off.

"Uh. You have?"

'Mm.'

The bewildered expression is noted with a narrowing of his eyes, and he waves a rat over to take his drink order.

'Did you get the flu?'

That bewildered expression sticks around, because it's frankly too fun not to try to fuck with Jim.

"Are you looking for someone else?"

He did, as it happens, get the flu. But that seems like an odd question to come from a perfect stranger.

'No.'

Jim wants to smoke. He's not going to, because it would be stupid to start polluting a brand-new body so early on. But he wants to, and most especially around Wilford when he's being a twat.

'What did you do?'

There's a vague gesture towards his face, and hair, and...everything.

Wilford looks around, still bewildered.

"To what?"

He checks the screen on his laptop, as if maybe something's gone wrong there. Nope.

"You care to introduce yourself, or is this how you treat all the pretty girls?"

Jim sighs, and hangs his head back over the edge of his chair. Why does the world insist on being stupid?

(Not that he's going to actually complain, if it allows him free run of a whole new world.)

'Pretty girls don't get me so polite.' Not actually true. 'I'm Jim Moriarty. Your future BFF.'

Wilford usually remembers his resets. Though there's nothing to say this couldn't just be Wilford from earlier in his timeline - Jim knows all about that...except that wouldn't explain the time-jump in Los Santos. If it was a simple timeline thing, the door would still open to current-Wilford's year.

'As I suspect you well know.'

Bewildered turns to suspicious real fast.

"If this is leading to a swindle, I've got four bucks. If this is leading to a prophecy, I'm not interested."

There's always the possibility that someone else reset, even though that's not what happened at all. But it's still possible.

Wilford grabs his headphones and puts them back on, but he doesn't reach for his tape recorder just yet. He wants to see what Jim will do. "I got work to do, man. Get to the point or get lost."

And there's a lot of work to be done. Half a dozen tapes to scrub through and transcribe by the end of the day. And if Wilford does them here, that frees up the rest of his day for doing his actual job of putting this crap on the (hilariously poorly-coded) website. The past sucks.

'Oh, darling,' he says laconically, and picks up one of the tapes to examine it. 'If I were going to swindle you, you wouldn't see it coming.'

He has considered the possibility that Nichola was the one to reset, seeing as its her card he has. He doesn't much care if she has, because either way, she - and Wilford - are on the other side of the country.

'And prophecies aren't my style. I prefer surprises. Do you want a drink?'

If he's only got four bucks, the answer is presumably 'yes'. And there's a rat waiting.

The answer does turn out to be 'yes'. But the rat doesn't seem to accept that answer until Wilford begrudgingly gets out his ID and waves it in front of the animal's face. That's getting old as well.

"BFFs, huh? I never had one of them before. What's that like?" There's a hard edge of sarcasm to Wilford's voice now, like he still doesn't quite believe Jim. It's either a swindle, or the lamest pick-up ever.

'Coffee, please,' he murmurs to the rat, entirely failing to hide his amusement at Wilford using his ID.

'It's marginally entertaining in brief spurts.'

He can make of that what he will.

'So, what's your story? Don't tell me - you just found yourself here one day, no knowledge of your future-self, just coming in from DC, blah blah, you're just a kid who happened across a magic bar?'

Hey, it could be true. He has not formulated a solid opinion yet.

Hey, if Wilford's getting a free drink, it's going to be something stronger than coffee. They've got free coffee back at the studio, even if it is basically tar. Nobody in television knows how to make coffee, and Wilford is no exception.

"Walked in, got punched over a dog, and got thrown in jail, but yeah. That's basically it."

Magic bars aren't an entirely foreign concept to people from Wilford's world, after all. People step through weird portals and wormholes all the time, and end up somewhere they shouldn't be.

'Punched over Bonehead?'

He huffs a small laugh, and then yawns a little. Not just because the story is predictable, and boring. He really is tired.

'I detect bullshit, Wilford. I'm never wrong.'

Wilford can't exactly be surprised that nobody believes him, even if this is the one instance where he's actually had no cause to lie.

"Yeah, by some little punk brat who thinks she's tough shit."

With hair like his, Wilford should probably not be calling the kettle black.

Another laugh.

'You can only mean YT.'

Seriously, is there any time that girl isn't a total nightmare?

'So, what's the deal? Extra-long reset?'

"Didn't catch her name."

Rude. You can't just ask somebody that!

"Yeah, I like my job so much, I want to do this every day."

Not. He hates the network, and his boss, and 95% of the people he works with. Wilford looks at his screen, saves his work, and swaps out the tape to something that will hopefully be easier to hear.

Wilford hates everyone, pretty much. It's not much of an indication either way on whether or not this is bullshit.

'You do nothing but complain whether you like anything or not.'

"That's not true," Wilford argues.

He hits play on his tape, and forgets all about trying to make up some story about how much fun he has on the weekends. Suddenly, he remembers exactly why he had once planned to burn the entire station to the ground.

"Is it impolite to murder one's boss?" He says it like he's joking. He probably isn't joking.

'It's absolutely true.'

Jim hits stop on the tape. He's not done talking about this.

'And no, not if they deserve it.'

Or even if you just feel like it.

Rude. Again.

"Don't touch my stuff," Wilford says. He takes the tape out and considers throwing it for a few seconds. Instead, he puts it down with an abundance of care, and swaps out for another one.

"So, you're supposed to be my friend. Who are you?"

He situates his headphones so they're only covering one ear. He should at least try to get some of his work done.

Manners are there to be used when it suits him. He picks up another tape, and examines it.

'I told you. Jim Moriarty. Nice to see you've always been stupid and inattentive.'

The tape is unlabelled, with a scratched casing like it's been used again and again.

"Like that's supposed to mean something to me."

Wilford shakes his head, like Jim's the one being stupid. He starts his tape player, and instantly starts typing as he listens. Though the keyboard on the laptop is a standard QWERTY keyboard, Wilford doesn't use it like one, but rather like a steno machine, typing in a rapid shorthand.

'You asked who I was, not whether it means anything to you,' he points out, and drops the tape back on the table.

'So what it's like, being back at the station? Started fucking the boss's wife yet?'

"Well, does it?" At least Jim hasn't changed any.

"Wait, what?"

Wilford stops typing for a little too long, and has to rewind the tape. Fuck this dinosaur technology. Rather than starting it up again, he stops the player and really looks at Jim.

"I told you, if this is prophecy, I don't want it."

'To be a prophecy, it'd have to be something you don't already know.'

And Jim doesn't know if Wilford does or not, but he's not going to find out by playing along.

'And of course I mean something to you. I told you, we're BFFs. Apart from that time you tried to get in my pants, remember?'

So he's playing that game instead. Okay. Fine.

"Tried to? What happened? You go all 'no homo' on me?"

He hits play on his machine again, because work. Needs to get done.

'Yes, sweetie, I went 'no homo'.'

He rolls his eyes, because please.

'No, you were too scared. But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. Boring to repeat oneself, don't you think?'

In words, or y'know, whole swathes of your own life.

"What are you hiding down there?"

He has to rewind about half a second, to catch what he spoke over.

Jim sighs, and takes the drinks off the rat as it turns up. He slides Wilford's over, and sips his own coffee.

'You know how I know you're full of shit? Because you're not denying any of it, and you haven't tried to punch me for annoying you. Ignoring people isn't your style, unless you're trying to pretend you're being normal.'

Beat.

'Also, you're being boring. What are you transcribing?'

"Why would I deny something that hasn't happened yet?"

Fuck. Rewind the tape.

Wilford takes his drink, and finds it very weak. It's mostly Coke. Which is probably for the best, really. This way he won't go back to the station smelling like whiskey.

He ignores the quip about being normal, if only because it's easier to stay in character if he doesn't break it too often. Which does mean he has to be boring for a while, so he doesn't get fired for being a jackass.

"Phone interview with someone from the Humane Society."

It's so glamorous, this life of his. He's practically bursting with excitement from it all.

:|

'I meant you're not denying that you remember all of it.'

Jim looks Wilford up and down, then starts toying with the handle of his cup.

'And what are you interviewing the Humane Society about?'

"You could run a newspaper with that attitude."

Even if Wilford didn't know better, Jim doesn't dress like someone who runs a newspaper. Not even a major one.

"I don't interview anybody. I put myself into crippling debt to do this crap."

So not worth it.

Jim wouldn't be seen dead in clothes a newspaper editor would wear.

'You must looooooove your job.'

He croons it gently, mockingly, his gaze flickering from one of Wilford's eyes to the other, before he rolls his head away and stares off across the bar.

'What are you doing it for?'

Wilford doesn't notice the way Jim looks at him, because he is actually, for once, doing work.

"To pay my power bill."

He hates this crap. But he likes being able to turn on lights and having hot water, so he's stuck with it for now.

Jim puffs his cheeks out, exhales hard, and straightens up.

'You're more fun when you're older.'

He stands up.

'Is this going to go on for a while?'

"Really? I'm a fucking riot right now."

He has to rewind the tape again. It's so much fun.

"Is what going to go on for a while?"

With the tape paused, Wilford takes the opportunity to dig into his vending machine chips and pretend it's a satisfactory meal.

A vague hand gesture, towards the face and the body and the everything.

'This.'

Nope, Wilford has no idea what 'this' means. He does look mildly offended at the implication, though.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Honestly, though, the second Wilford can afford it, he's finding a gym and living in it.

'Well, you look like shit.'

He could care less about Wilford being offended. He digs a fresh pack of gum out of his pocket, and tosses it in Wilford's direction.

'There you go. That'll stave off the worst of the hunger pangs for a bit.'

Not long, admittedly.

"Excuse you, I look amazing."

He doesn't. He's a goddamn twink, and he can't believe he ever thought this was an acceptable look.

He does take the gum though. It'll give him something to do when he can't smoke at his desk.

'You look like something I'd pay someone to scrape off my shoe.'

Not that he ever doesn't, in Jim's well-formed opinion.

'Ciao, darling. We'll catch up when you're bored of whatever this is.'

Jim has a good idea of what this is, and if he's right, it'll work out wonderfully for him.

"Yeah, fuck you too, buddy."

Wilford will keep this up as long as he can, for no other reason than it's fun to annoy Jim. For now, he has to go back to pretending to be an eager, optimistic little thing, ready for his fulfilling career in TV journalism.

He'd much rather burn the station to the ground, but that won't help anything.

Jim lets out a chuckle that screams you wish, and wanders away. He's going back upstairs to rest up. Ugh, this bar. He's sick of it, and dying to get out and cause some havoc. Wilford's going to regret ever taking him out to his world.