(no subject)

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford is sick of Billy’s living room. He’s sick of staying with someone whose culinary experience barely extends beyond a turkey sandwich. He’s sick of… everything, really.

He shuffles into the bar with Buster close at his heels, and makes slow tracks straight for the fireplace. He’s figured out that he can just about sit up comfortably if he keeps his feet up on the table and puts about three cushions behind his back, so that’s what he does to get settled. It’s a slow and painful process just getting down onto the sofa, but he manages it eventually. Once he gets there Buster climbs up with him, laying across his lap like a living blanket, and giving a semi-toothless snarl to anybody who gets too close - waitrats included.

How Wilford looks is probably a good approximation of how he feels. He hasn’t been able to shower in days, so he’s a bit of a greasy, unshaven mess, though he hasn’t got enough hair on his face yet to pull off that intentionally scruffy look his older self used to wear. The circles under his eyes are so dark, it almost looks like he was punched in the face, and he’s still looking awfully pale. The hoodie he’s wearing is about three sizes too big, but at least it’s clean. Wilford won’t let Billy get close enough to help him bathe, but he’s happy to let the man do all the laundry he wants.

In short, Wilford is a hot mess today, in every possible way. But he’d rather be a hot mess here, than on Billy’s horrible sofa, watching his horrible TV, and eating his horrible sandwiches.

Comments

[upwiththisiwillnotput]

He might hear a quiet 'Abracadabra' before Bernard enters the bar, if such things cheer him up.

Oh, this is handy, the weirdo who wanted books. Rather than leaving them at the bar, he brings the box over to Wilford. He even threw in some crap on homeopathy and crop circles that he hasn't been able to get rid of.

"The fuck happened to you?" he asks, putting the box on the table.

[cottoncandypink]

The large-ish, somewhat-toothless dog on Wilford's lap gives Bernard a quiet warning growl not to get too close, until Wilford plants his hand on the dog's face and gives him a little nudge. It's only then that he realises he knows this person. And then that this person is talking. And then what he's actually said.

Wilford hates painkillers. He hates sedatives as a means of anything other than getting half a night's sleep. They slow him down and make him foggy, and together they've made it impossible to keep up with anything going on around him. So it's a few looooooong moments before he finally responds to Bernard's question.

"Bunch of fucking hill billies," he says, having trouble getting the words out.

He notices the box, and looks at it, but can't figure out why it's there.

[upwiththisiwillnotput]

"Looks like they really did you over." Bernard says, helpfully.

He eyes the dog. He doesn't dislike dogs. He wouldn't get one, because that would involve having to leave the shop to take it on walks.

"Lassie didn't rescue you in time, huh?"

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford grumbles. So does the dog.

"Lives with a friend," Wilford says.

It's a good thing. He would have just got in the way and made things worse if he were there.

"Occupational hazard."

The hill billies. Not the dog.

[upwiththisiwillnotput]

"Report something they didn't like?" Bernard asks.

[cottoncandypink]

Did he? Probably. That's usually what happens.

"Something like that."

Something something cult something.

[upwiththisiwillnotput]

"Chips?" Bernard offers.

He's not in the habit of buying other people food, but Wilford does look kind of pathetic right now, and he has helped fund Bernard's wine habit for a couple of weeks.

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford hears the word 'chips' and thinks something hard and crunchy that's going to make him feel even worse. Not that something fried in hot oil would be much better. So he just grumbles a generally negative grumble, while his dog licks his hoodie a few times.

"What's all that?" he asks instead, waving vaguely toward the box Bernard brought in with him.

[upwiththisiwillnotput]

Oh well, more for him. Bernard gets chips for himself. And wine.

"Books you ordered." He says. "I tossed in some free superstitious rubbish I can't get rid of for light reading."

[just_cant_lose]

Jim has recovered slightly from his terrible week, but there are a few new issues on his mind. It's annoying. So he's very glad to see Wilford, simply because he looks far worse than Jim feels and that's always something to be pleased about.

'Oh dear. Pissed someone off, darling?'

Jim is suited and polished today, with the air of a man on the move. And he doesn't give a damn if Buster snarls at him, though he shouldn't. He patted him the other day, and everything!

[cottoncandypink]

And he doesn't! Buster gives Jim something that could be a friendly wuff, before licking Wilford's stomach a few times.

Wilford, meanwhile, isn't quite so friendly. He doesn't even seem to realise Jim is there until a few moments later. And then he realises that Jim said something. And then what he said. And after that, it takes him a couple of seconds to put a reply together.

"Bunch of fucking hillbillies," he says barely able to hold his words together.

Wilford is, for lack of a better word, completely strung out.

[just_cant_lose]

On one hand, this is funny. On the other, people being even slower than normal isn't great. Still, Jim waits for a response wth an air of amusement, and signals a rat to get over here, snarling dog or not.

'Why haven't you gone back to your last save?'

[cottoncandypink]

Buster does not like all these rats hanging around, but he's not about to get up and leave his spot just to chase them away either. So he just makes irritable noises at them in the hopes that it will work.

"Because that's a stupid fucking idea."

[just_cant_lose]

'Oh?'

Weird. It's ever seemed to be before. Jim orders tea and sits back comfortably, before adding as a seeming afterthought, 'do you want anything?'

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford shakes his head, only because he isn't sure what he wants right now. He's not at Billy's, which solved a bunch of his problems right there.

He tries to explain his answer a few times, but thinking is hard, and the words come slowly. "Never done this part before." No, that's not quite the answer he was looking for. "Do it again and it'll be worse."

Probably. Maybe. He could get lucky and get out without a scratch, but that's an awfully big risk to take when getting lucky this time meant sitting here right now on more drugs than a frat party.

[just_cant_lose]

Jim would suggest not going near the hillbillies in the first place, but presumably it's for some story that needs to be covered. Though it can't be, if he didn't do it last time. Otherwise he'd have been badly injured then, too.

'How bad is it?'

From where he's sitting, pretty bad.

[cottoncandypink]

One would think. Except he freed up a few extra months by getting old Slendy out of the way to put a rush on that pay raise.

Wilford thinks about the best way to explain everything, but he doesn't have the energy. Instead, he lifts up his shirt. Buster may be a bit in the way, but Jim should still be able to see enough of the huge incision right up his middle, as well as maybe some of the smaller ones from where he was actually shot.

"I don't recommend it," he says, putting his shirt back down so he doesn't have to look at the mess.

[idontcount]

Molly wanders in from outside, where she has been carefully feeding toast to the giant squid.

"Oh, hello." She takes in the scene. "Gosh, you look terrible!"

A beat while this replays in her head and she blushes.

"I'm sorry, I mean, I've seen worse!"

Well, she has.

[cottoncandypink]

Buster sees her, and immediately gives her a little warning snarl to stay away, but it's promptly stopped by Wilford's hand smothering his face. Wilford is so strung out right now, it takes him ages to catch up with everything Molly's just said to him.

"I bet you have," Wilford says.

He feels like he's just about dead, so she can't have seen much worse, though.

[idontcount]

"Well, I do post-mortems!"

What. Stop.

"Er, have you had anything to eat?"

[cottoncandypink]

"That was almost me," Wilford says.

It could have been him. He's still amazed it wasn't.

"Nothing good," Wilford says. He's so sick of turkey on white bread with mayo.

[idontcount]

"Goodness, what happened?" Molly's eyes are wide as she sits down. A rat comes over cautiously.

"How do you feel about soup and a sandwich?"

[cottoncandypink]

Oh good god!

"No. God, anything but that."

No more soup. No more sandwiches.

[idontcount]

"Well, what then?" Molly regards the rat cautiously. "Can I have a pot of tea, with two cups, please?"

The rat nods, and looks expectantly at Wilford.

[cottoncandypink]

Wilford almost waves the rat away, but then he remembers that he wants it to stick around.

"Anything that's not soup or a sandwich."

He expects to still get soup or a sandwhich. That's how the last few days have been going.