milliways_bar | (no subject)

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wilford warfstache

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Wilford's finally starting to feel better. In fact, today is the first day he's bothered to put on more than pyjamas in over a week.

Okay, not much more. Rather less, actually, since he's been in the pool all day and is still dressed for it, though he has at least thrown on a shirt that he hasn't bothered to button up. But the dogs haven't had a good run since Bailey showed up, so it's time to do just that. Buster knows how this works, and runs straight from the front door to the back, trying to open the door without Wilford's help. Bailey... something's wrong with Bailey. She doesn't seem to understand any English, so she gets carried through the bar. It's just easier than dealing with shouting at her twenty times to stop tugging on the leash.

With the dogs finally exiled outside, Wilford heads to the kitchen. He's so over triple-digit heat, and needs something cold, right now. He could have made it at home, but the SodaStream thing was out of gas, and who wants to go shopping in triple-digit heat?

It takes a while to make what he wants, because he has to blend up some grapes and then wait for them to freeze in an ice cube tray. Once they've finally got to a somewhat-frozen state, he adds them to a cup of ice and pours some sparkling water over them. He still can't use a straw, but milkshake spoons are good for more than just milkshakes.

There are enough frozen grape cubes left over if anyone else wants a drink.

[ooc: catch him at any point]

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Jim does not want a grape drink. He wants to stand here against the bar, smoking his cigar, looking highly amused at the antics with the dogs.

Oh, wait. Dogs plural?

How very strange.

Wilford doesn't notice Jim standing there as he wrestles with getting his plural dogs outside. He doesn't notice Jim on his way back to the kitchen, either. He almost doesn't even notice Jim as he returns from the kitchen, because he's too focused on stirring up his drink to get the frozen grape chunks to melt off.

A lot's changed since the last time they spoke, beyond the scruffy, un-groomed look of a man who hasn't left the house in two weeks. That very obvious nicotine patch is just the start.

He'd say something to Jim, but his mouth is currently full of ice and frozen grape right now.

Jim just smirks gently, and then pulls on his cigar.

'Surgery, eh? Thank goodness for that.'

Wilford shakes his head. It's sweet, but not cloyingly over-powering like a soda.

"Just cold," he says.

He's still trying to get this new lisp he's developed under control. Apparently that'll go away once the orthodontist gets in there and installs some hardware.

That's the funny thing about muscles. When they spend most your life trying to do one thing, they become very unwilling to do something new. Wilford didn't even know it was possible to pull a muscle in your face until recently, but he seems to be doing it a lot lately.

Hence the ice he keeps eating. Well, that and those missing teeth down on the bottom.

"When'd you start smoking again?" And cigars, of all things.

'Oh, you haven't had surgery?'

Lies. Jim grins, and waves the hand holding said cigar.

'When in Buenos Aires...'

It's a Look, Wilford. If you're going to wear a black tux with a red shirt like you're a hot-but-sleazy Latin tango club-goer, you need to have a cigar.

Also, he just felt like it.

Wilford rolls his eyes. "I don't recommend it. Waste of money."

He knows he sounds different, but that damn lisp is ten times worse than anything he had going before.

And he's not allowed to smoke. That's the worst part.

'Surgery, or smoking?'

Whatever. He takes another drag, and if the smoke accidentally makes it's way in Wilford's direction - oops?

'What are you wearing?'

"Surgery." Duh.

While the nicotine patches aren't the same, Wilford's not exactly gagging for a cigarette right now. And certainly not a cigar.

He looks down at himself, seeing noting wrong with the combination of tacky Hawaiian-print shirt and tie-dye shorts.

"Clothes," he says. He mixes up his drink some more, annoyed that he can't enjoy it properly.

'I don't need it.'

There's a sigh, then.

'I thought we'd long established that nothing you wear can be called clothes.'

"At least I'm comfortable."

What Jim's wearing looks stifling and awful.

For about three seconds, Wilford considers maybe buttoning up his shirt, but it turns out he really cannot be bothered. So Jim can just deal with it.

"The fuck are you dressed like that for?"

There's a little bit of frozen grape that Wilford wants. For some reason, something about this particular bit of frozen grape hits that spot where he's missing teeth in just the right way to hurt.

So, so not worth it.

'I'm perfectly comfortable.'

He really is. He's comfortable in anything he puts on, helped enormously by the fact he knows he looks good.

'And I'm wearing that because Sherlock and I went dancing. He wants to learn the Argentine Tango.'

So they're going to learn the Argentine Tango.

"Don't you two tango enough?"

Yes, he knows what Jim means. He just doesn't care.

That just makes him cackle. He's in an excellent mood. It mush be all the tango'ing.

'No such thing, darling. Not that you'd know.'

There was a time, many years ago, when Wilford actually thought the same thing.

"Some people grow up. You should try it."

'Good God. Why would I ever do that?'

The worst.

'Sounds boring.'

Wilford shrugs. "You're right. Too much of a challenge for you."

Says the grown up, eating a frozen treat and wearing the world's worst swimwear.

'No doubt. I am utterly useless at everything ever, of course.'

A pointed look will draw admirable attention to Wilford's attire, and what he's eating. Point made easily enough.

'Why have you decided to rearrange your face now? Not that I'm not grateful, but it's obviously not a case of vanity having finally bitten.'

Again, look at what he's wearing.

"Dentist talked me into it." He shrugs. He wound up being very easily swayed. "Maybe now it won't take three sessions just for a cleaning."

Wilford hopes. He's not looking forward to that ortho appointment though. It's going to hurt just as bad as anything else has.

Jim...yeah, no, doesn't care.

'Welllll, I suppose it'll make you more palatable to look at on TV. If I watched you, which I don't.'

Lies. Obvious enough that it's clear he doesn't mind getting called on it.

"Really? I thought you recorded every episode."

You know, what with Jim's obsession with him and all.

'Oh, of course. You're my secret wank fodder.'

He says this in a tone you could sand wood with, with the added implication of ew.

'Don't tell Sherlock.'

Gross. "I might have to. A man deserves to know that sort of thing."

Wilford assumes. He hasn't been in a relationship since just after college, and hasn't been in a serious one... ever.

'Luckily, he'll never believe you. He knows I have better taste.'

In absolutely everything.

"You sure? He married you, didn't he?"

Oh, sorry. Does that count as 'insulting' Sherlock? Whoops.

'Which proves my point perfectly.'

Nah, that's an insult to Jim, who would expect nothing better from Wilford.