milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[oom: He hated that he couldn’t defend himself, when not a half hour earlier, he’d been having plenty of fun fighting people for money.]

Wilford has made a decision. Things have to change, because it's unacceptable as they are. And luckily, Jim and Sherlock have given him the means by which to make that change. When Wilford walks in with a black eye and a split lip, he heads straight to the Bar to make some new arrangements. The first thing he does is rents a room and slips the key onto his ring. Then he gets a change of clothes and heads toward the gym.

An hour later, he's back at the bar, sweaty and exhausted in a new tank top and shorts. He's also enjoying the first real meal he's had since he opened his old save - a big bowl of bibimbap - and a copy of the local paper to read over. Despite that black eye and split lip, life's pretty good right now.

[ooc: warnings for violence and PTSD freak-outs in the link.]

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Tegid smells that strange food, but his second sight sees the injuries. He's sitting at a table adjacent with a beaker of beer and a plate of meat and bread. His wooden staff is leaning against the table, and an ornately carved harp has been placed on the table top.

"What is that?" he asks turning his face towards the other man, "It smells interesting."

His eyes are covered with a strip of brown cloth. This way no one can see the mangled mess his eyes are now.

People who look like that are generally some variety of magic. Often the sort you don't want to mess with, in Wilford's experience. But he's not in the mood to mess with anybody right now. He's tired, and already kind of sore, and starving.

"It's uh. Kind of a stir fry," he says, looking down at his bowl.

It's not, really. For one, the beef and egg in it are both raw, but it's easier to call it something most people will understand.

"What is Stir-Fry?" asks the bard. He's from a world that is essentially in the Iron Age.

Well, he walked right into that one, didn't he.

"You throw a bunch of stuff into a pan and fry it," he says.

He'd thought stir fry had made it to just about everywhere.

"That sounds interesting," says Tegid, "And are there differing types of this food?"

Tegid tears off a piece of his yeasty bread and pops it into his mouth.

"Yeah," Wilford says with a little shrug. "As different as people want to make it, I guess. Anything that can be fried up in a pan together is a stir fry, really."

None of this actually describes what is in Wilford's bowl, though. Things were fried in a pan, and that's about as close as it gets.

Tegid tilts his head to one side contemplating this, "Can one put potatoes in one of these stir fries?"

He still stumbles over the word 'potato.'

"If you wanted to be weird, I guess you could."

Potatoes are not a big part of Wilford's diet though.

"What then do you usually put in your stir fry?" asks Tegid.

"Meat. Vegetables. Noodles. Rice. Whatever."

He shrugs. Just not potatoes. That's weird.

"Ah, tell me about this... uh, rice, and... noodles," says Tegid before taking a drink from his beer.

Really, he doesn't know, and he really likes potatoes.

"Where are you from?" Wilford asks.

Who doesn't know what rice and noodles are?

Tegid grins, "I am from Albion. We do not have these foods, nor much of the things many people use here. But we do have good mead, good song, and good friends."

Of course he's putting a good face on his home, right now. Right now, it is currently embroiled in a war, and him and his friend Llew are running for their lives after being maimed by the selfish prince.

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Molly is already at the bar eating a plate of chips, because it's been a plate of chips kind of day. When she sees Wilford she perks up a little and leans over.

"You look like you've been in the wars!"

"Gotta pay the bills somehow," Wilford says as he stirs everything in his bowl together.

He doesn't mention the mugging, because he did not coming out looking the best at the end of it. And the black eye (probably) happened before anyway.

"Were you working on a story?" Molly takes in the cut and the black eye -- nothing that time won't heal.

She moves over a little, shuffling on her stall, so she doesn't have to lean so much.

"No. Fight club behind a strip mall." He shrugs. "I won fifty bucks."

He realises belatedly that he probably should have taken the time to go upstairs and shower and change, but it's too late now. So here he is, in a sweaty tank top, and shorts that are a little too big on him right now.

Molly blinks.

"Fight club? Do those even exist?"

Why would anyone want to be in a fight club?

"You don't have those?"

For some reason, this surprises Wilford. He gets that most worlds don't have monsters, and that their physics are all wrong, but he thought a fight club was a pretty basic form of betting behaviour.

"What do you do if you're short on rent?"

"Er, well, you can get a payday loan, or ask for an advance on your wage. But if you don't have a job you just you know, get on the dole."

Molly thinks back to being a student, when she had lived with an artist called Vicky, whose Dad owned the flat.

"Or you can ask your flatmate's parents to cover the extra till you get paid."

The idea of owing anybody any amount of money is beyond distasteful to Wilford. His skin crawls just thinking about it.

"Either way, you're still in debt," he points out. "You take out one loan to pay your bills, and then by the time you have the money to pay it off, the bills are due again. So you pay off your loan and take out another to pay your bills, and it never stops."

Yeah, no. Gross.

"I suppose, but there has to be a better way than fight clubs, even in your world. Could you not work in a shop or something?"

Why on earth would anyone prefer being beaten black and blue to working at Tesco?

Wilford isn't sure if she's just throwing out the sort of ideas people through out when they think they're being helpful, or if she's actually serious.

"I'm a reporter. I don't have time for a second job."

He doesn't have the luxury of wearing a bunch of bruises on his face either, but it was that or not eat.

"It's fine. Doesn't even hurt."

This conversation is a bit mad, which is probably why Molly doesn't engage her brain before reaching out and poking a particularly livid bruise on his arm.

It is not what Wilford is expecting, and he barely manages to not jump out of his seat at the sudden intrusion into his space.

(He has really got to do something about that.)

He tries to say something, but all that wants to come out is something angry and incoherent, but since he's trying not to seem completely out of control right now, he clamps down on it and just holds his hand up at her, in a gesture that very clearly says "DON'T".