IMDb flu straggler

[i_am_your_host]

The last thing Dr. Dylan Reinhart remembers, at least vaguely so, is going to his room to sleep off an oncoming cold.

When he wakes up, he feels worse. Ugh.

Groggy and miserable, he changes out of his pajamas and into the tailored suit that's been laid out. Shirt, tie, sweater vest. None of the patterns or colors match, but oddly enough he makes it work in an elegantly offbeat way. Italian leather oxfords round out the ensemble.

He comes downstairs into the main bar, adjusting his pocket handkerchief (he has a feeling he'll be needing it as the sniffles, sneezing, and coughing persist). After ordering some tea and chicken soup, he tucks a cloth napkin into the collar of his vest, and settles down to eat.

As demure as he is, as engrossed in his meal as he is, and even as ill as he is, he still keeps his wits about him, observing who is in the room and where, the exits and windows (including the really Big Window). He can't exactly recall why he's like this. His memory is rather muddled at the moment. Which is annoying. And it's making him feel more ill than necessary.

[OOC: Have Emcee thinking he's Dylan Reinhart from Instinct.]

Comments

[childofrebellion]

Cassian's working on his datapad at the counter when he sees someone that he thinks might be Emcee. This is a style he doesn't normally dress in so Cassian greets him with a raise of his caf mug, "Good evening."

He's wearing his brown leather jacket with his various insignia and blaster at his hip, he looks tired as he's been doing a lot of analysis and planning.

[i_am_your_host]

The person who might be Emcee looks over at him, and he raises his teacup in return.

"Good evening to you," he replies politely with a crisp American accent before taking a sip. "Working hard?"

He noticed the blaster, but obviously carrying firearms openly here is a thing.

[childofrebellion]

That's not Emcee's accent, maybe this man just looks like him, "Yes, I don't think we've met."

[i_am_your_host]

He squints at him a bit for a moment as if trying to place him, but ultimately he decides that no, they haven't met.

"We haven't. Dylan Reinhart. Forgive me for not shaking hands, I've come down with the flu and don't want to spread it around."

[childofrebellion]

"Cassian Andor, I understand that. I've only recently gotten over a bad flu. There's a strain here that causes odd hallucinations."

Just in case this man might have it or might be Emcee, good to put the possibility out there.

[i_am_your_host]

An eyebrow goes up in a very distinctive way.

"Hallucinations? That's a fairly extreme symptom. I don't think I've had any..."

Yet.

"Did it affect you that badly?"

[the_cupbearer]

"You clean up nice," says Ganymede, casual as ever in skintight jeans torn at the knees and a blue shirt so dark it's almost black, and a dull gold talon on a long chain around his neck. It alone is the sole object that appears dangerous, palm-sized and wickedly curved.

At least he foregoes the kiss that would usually follow for someone with whom he's intimate. Food and kisses when not expected in conjunction can be messy.

[i_am_your_host]

Kisses hello would have been flavorful as there's a lot of ginger and turmeric in the chicken soup.

"Why thank you," says the person who is most definitely Emcee but not at the moment. Because for one thing, his Berliner accent has been replaced with something crisp, clean, and American.

At least the quick up and down glance is familiar, but there's a certain sharpness to it that's more observational than flirty. But the flirtiness isn't completely gone.

"Umm, sorry, have we met?"

[the_cupbearer]

Ganymede cocks his head, studying the face: it's Emcee, he isn't mistaken on that count. But he does recognize the illness at least, and changes tack.

"Apparently not. Forgive me, I thought you were someone I knew," he says, with the little curve to one side of his mouth that says this mistaken identity is someone with whom he's more than passing familiar.

[i_am_your_host]

He catches that look, annnnd maybe he blushes a little, his cheeks dimpling in their usual way (because whoever he is in whatever universe, those dimples will always be present).

"Ah, I see. Well then, I hope you run into him sooner or later," he says amiably. "I'm Dylan Reinhart, by the way. Nice to be mistaken by you."

[the_cupbearer]

He never fails to mile at those dimpling cheeks, and shakes his head gently, making the long braid down his back swish.

"Oh, at some point, I will," Ganymede says. "Benjamin. Prince, if we're being formal, but...most of the time I'm not."

[i_am_your_host]

"Heh! No, you don't strike me as making a habit out of being formal," he observes with a smile. "My husband tells me to get into a pair of jeans every so now and then, but I don't think I even own a pair."

[galen_erso]

"Have you been to the infirmary yet?" asks a friendly, scruffy man in his fifties as he passes by, with a rather large red cat on his shoulder.

[i_am_your_host]

The man who might be Emcee glances at the stranger over the rim of his teacup as he takes a sip.

"Oh, no, I haven't, though I might," he says agreeably with a crisp American accent wholly unlike his usual German one. "I think I'm over the worst of whatever has wreaked havoc on my immune system, but thank you for the suggestion."

[galen_erso]

"I think there was a thing going round," the man says. "Some sort of virus for people."

[i_am_your_host]

"Really? Just my luck to have wandered into it," he huffs. Which causes a slight coughing fit, which he muffles with the handy hankie.

"You seem to be doing fine?"

[galen_erso]

"I seem to have been spared, by virtue of having been busy with machines much of the time," the man says.

[i_am_your_host]

"Ah, then count yourself and your feline friend among the fortunate. What kind of machines do you work with?"

Too late?

[wayward_sun]

A very fit, very well-groomed man in a tight, three-piece suit comes bounding down the stairs, orders an espresso and turns a brilliant smile on Emcee.

"Hello, gorgeous."

He sounds cheerful, British, and as if they know each other.

Re: Too late?

[i_am_your_host]

The greeting takes him a bit by surprise-- just surprise, it doesn't startle him, or else there would have been a spoonful of chicken soup all over his lap.

"Um, hello yourself," he can't help but respond when he gives the smiling, well-dressed gentleman a good look. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

His accent is Very American, and the outfit he's wearing isn't quite something Emcee would wear without prompting. Too many buttons, too much necktie.

[wayward_sun]

Have we met?
Have we met?

Lucifer stares at him.

"Yes," he replies. "I should say so. Repeatedly even."

How can you forget about knowing him?

He is surprised. And shocked.
And hurt.

[i_am_your_host]

His eyebrows arch up. They are very neat and very Emcee, yet there is skepticism in them.

"Oh, I-- I don't think so. I'm really sorry, you must be mistaking me for someone else. I'm Dylan Reinhart. And you are...?"

Emcee is a good actor, but his limit for keeping a straight face in this situation would be tested.

[wayward_sun]

Lucifer rallies.
(Because he is very good in a crisis - and people randomly forgetting him cannot be anything but a crisis).


"I'm Lucifer Morningstar."

[i_am_your_host]

"...I see."

So skeptical.

But now also, what.

"Well, Mr. Morningstar," he says humoring him with a slight undertone of if that is your real name, "it's very nice to make your acquaintance."

Nope, no recognition at all. At least not yet.

Still room for one more?

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric comes down from his room, smiling to Emcee. But then he frowns, blinking, his eyes turning gold for a moment. "Forgive me. I mistook you for a friend. Are you new here?"