IMDb flu

[irish_vagabond]

Cassidy hasn't had a cold in over a hundred years. So the sniffling, sneezing, and coughing that he's suffering is pretty fucking bollocks, if you ask him. Fucking Milliways magic and all.

NyQuil, though. Like, several bottles of it. It's over-the-counter, so Bar easily provides them. Cassidy takes them up to his room, guzzles every one of them down, and goes to sleep.

He wakes up some twelve hours later not feeling any better. In fact, he's so groggy that he doesn't even notice the tattoos on his arms as he pulls on a respectable cable-knit jumper over a neat button-down shirt, and fumbles with the thick-rimmed glasses that he slides onto his face. Fitting a beanie onto his head just so, he staggers out of his room and down the stairs, yawning.

"Eggs an' bacon an' a cuppa, please, luv," he says to the Bar. His accent is suddenly quite Lancashire. Not Irish.

He props his head up on his hand to keep from nodding off into his breakfast.


[OOC: Cassidy thinks he's Mike from Pride. Sorry to insta-slowtime!]

Comments

[thewidewideworld]

Ragnar looks up from where he's curled up around his guitar, strumming absently. "Breakfast. There's a good idea."

{ooc: Sinric believes he's Icelandic musician Ragnar Solberg.]

[irish_vagabond]

He startles awake and blinks blearily at the blond. Removing his glasses for a moment, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and yawns again.

"Breakfast's always a good idea," he says, his voice scratchy.

[thewidewideworld]

"You sound as shit as I feel." Ragnar mutters, getting up and stretching, putting his guitar down. He orders a huevos rancheros.

"Ragnar." He introduces himself.

[irish_vagabond]

"I probably feel as shit as you feel, too," he half-chuckles, before a cough forces him to sip some hot tea.

He raises his eyebrows at the unusual name, but, well, he certainly looks like a Ragnar.

"Mike. Nice to meet'cha. You, uh, in a band?"

He looks like he could be in a band!

[thewidewideworld]

"As long as we're on a level here." He jokes,

He hums an affirmative, tucking into his food. "Pain of Salvation. Less religious than it sounds. Swedish progressive metal."

[irish_vagabond]

"Pain of Salvation," he repeats with a slow bob of his head. "That's- catchy. I don't know about progressive metal but, sure, I've heard of some Swedish bands."

Jonathan insists on playing ABBA at every party he throws.

[thewidewideworld]

"It's an awful name for a band but there are so many of them, finding something memorable that no-one else is using is tricky."

He looks Mike up and down. "What about you? What are you into?"

[wayward_sun]

A little further up the bar another man is having breakfast as well.

Toast, fruit, French cheese.


Also a cup of coffee.

"And how about a glass of grapefruit juice?" he asks Bar with a smile in his voice. "Just a smidge of vodka in it. Say - half and half?"

He sounds posh.
He looks posh.
Three piece suit with a pale lavender shirt that really brings out his dark eyes.

"Oh, and bacon."

He gives the other breakfast ordered a brilliant smile.
"Good thinking."

[irish_vagabond]

He's pretty much fallen asleep on his hand when the very posh voice rouses him. Blinking groggily, he looks over at the handsome, well-dressed gentleman.

Eh. Probably supports Thatcher.

"Just thinkin' with my stomach is all," he says with an amused shrug as he turns to his tea and sips it.

[wayward_sun]

"Definitely one of the better organs to think with," Lucifer says and down his rather large glass of juice and vodka.

"Ah. Oh - and if I could have a croissant?"

[irish_vagabond]

The implied innuendo is there. Oh, it's so there. But Mike doesn't add to it, only watches the man drain his glass quite quickly. That's...impressive.

(A croissant? Really?)

As he slathers a bit of bacon with egg yolk, he ventures, "If only more people used their brains to think with, the world might be a better place."

[wayward_sun]

Lucifer wrinkles up his nose.

"Nah," he says. "That's where you keep all of your logical fallacies and prejudices."

He bites into the croissant with visible pleasure.

[irish_vagabond]

He raises an eyebrow. But it does give him pause.

"What about common sense? And rationality? The ability to see that fallacies are just fallicies an' prejudices are in fact illogical? That doesn't come from anywhere else, does it?"

[just_cant_lose]

Wellll, look at this.

Jim is not feeling that great, and he knows exactly why. But he still has his own mind for the minute, and he's not going to turn down the opportunity to talk to this guy.

He saunters over, hands in the pockets of his suit.

'Hello.'

The only question is whether this is Mike, or someone who just thinks he's Mike. Either way, amusing.

[irish_vagabond]

He's dozed off with a bit of egg still on his fork.

But the soft drawl of a hello seems to pull him out of his accidental nap, and he awakens with a cough, holding a fist up to cover his mouth. There are distinctive tattoos on the back of his hand that he just hasn't seemed to notice in this state.

"Gethin!" he croaks, glad and surprised to see his friend.

But then the surprise takes over, with more bewilderment added on.

"...Gethin? Where'd you get a suit like that?"

[just_cant_lose]

Jim notices the tattoos. That answers one question. He smiles in a way that Gethin would, and looks down at himself.

'Suit like what?'

Mike, are you feeling okay?

[irish_vagabond]

"Like what? Like that!" he laughs, gesturing at the entire ensemble. "That's the most posh thing I've ever seen you wear. You've not gone all Conservative on us, have you?"

[just_cant_lose]

'Well, y'know-'

And oops, there's Gethin's Welsh accent, how'd that happen?

'-you can't knock the Tory dress sense. Wouldn't catch Thatcher in a beanie hat, would you?'

[irish_vagabond]

"I wouldn't catch her in a bucket," he retorts. "I must admit, though, you do look pretty smart in all that, but I have to wonder what Jonathan thinks."

[childofrebellion]

Cassian knows he should leave as he doesn't want to get sick but he doesn't like not knowing what's happening to people.

It takes him a moment when he sees the man who kind of looks like Cassidy and walks closer, "Maybe you should have gone back to bed."

[irish_vagabond]

"Huh- wha-?" he mumbles as he's startled awake by the voice addressing him. He picks his head off his hand (which indeed bears several distinctive tattoos) and blinks bleating through his specs.

"Oh. Yeah. 'M gonna, soon as I finish my breakfast."

The accent is wrong, the clothes are wrong, and he doesn't show a hint of recognizing Cassian.

[childofrebellion]

He looks at the tattoos, Cassidy has those but other than a slight resemblance, this man doesn't seem to be Cassidy, "Eating should help. Have we met?"

[irish_vagabond]

He adjusts his (fake) glasses.

"Um, no, can't say that we have, sorry," he says. "I'm Mike. I'd shake your hand, but I might give you this cold."

[childofrebellion]

"Cassian, Mike, good to meet you. Where are you from, Mike? I understand and appreciate it,"

He doesn't want to get sick as he can't predict how he might act like under whatever this disease is.

[irish_vagabond]

"Seems to be makin' the rounds in these parts," he remarks, hearing some sneezing and coughing from others throughout the room. The whole thing just makes him want to guzzle his tea. He takes a good sip of it anyway.

"I'm living in London now, but I'm originally from Accrington. In the north of England. An' yourself?"