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

[i_am_your_host]

He cringes, because indoor voice please!

"Wha- I- how can I have forgotten you when I don't even know you?" he insists. "Who do you believe I am anyway?"

He has to admit, though, he's terribly curious now. He's pretty sure he wasn't so drunk that he can't remember having sex with this man.

[wayward_sun]

"You're Emcee. You live in Berlin. We spent New Year's together."

There's not a lot of detail because Lucifer tends to loose focus when the topic isn't himself.

Also 'spent New Year's together ' may sound intimate in a different way than it was.

[i_am_your_host]

A whole mess of things rushes through Dylan's mind. Or is it Emcee's mind?

One thing for sure, he's mortified on so many levels.

"Well, that's just absurd!" he sputters. "I have a husband and am happily married. I live in New York City, not Berlin. And I'm a professor, a writer, and a consultant for the NYPD, thankyouverymuch, not a-- a nightclub act."

[wayward_sun]

A consultant?

Interesting.

But not right now. As already established, this is a crisis.

Lucifer leans in and peers earnestly into Emcee's eyes.

"Have you bumped your head?"

He's smelling of expensive cologne and warm skin.

[i_am_your_host]

He starts back, just a little, blinking rapidly but held in Lucifer's (smoldering) gaze. In an attempt to keep his bearings, he tries to categorize him based on what he can deduce.

Narcissist, most likely.

"No, I- I don't think so," he says, running a hand through his hair to check his scalp for bumps or sore spots. "No, I just seem to have come down with the flu."

[wayward_sun]

"You do look a bit feverish," Lucifer agrees as he reaches over to feel Emcee's forehead.

Personal space, you say?
No. Haven't heard of it.

"You should get a rum toddy. With lemon."
He nods sagely.

[i_am_your_host]

"Uh--"

He squirms a bit because he wasn't prepared for a stranger feeling his forehead for a fever.

Clearly dealing with a dominant personality used to getting his way.

"That sounds good, but I'm actually working, so..." He trails off, frowning. Is he working? How did he get here? Wait.

[wayward_sun]

"Two rum toddies, darling Bar," Lucifer says, ignoring Emcee's attempt at a protest.

"I'll keep you company. Of course, I don't get sick but it's the polite thing to do, don't you think."

He takes a sip of the steaming toddy.
"Mmm. Tasty."

[i_am_your_host]

"I- um- okay."

There's no point in refusing, Lucifer is obviously intent on...making him feel better?

"Thank you." He wraps his hands around the warm mug and takes a sip. It's strong, and he coughs a bit at the flavorful burn. He has to admit, it is tasty, and it feels good spreading through his chest.

"So you really believe I'm someone else, huh?"

[wayward_sun]

"Well, you've changed your style, clothing wise, and you sound very American, but I still think you're you, yes."

[i_am_your_host]

He blinks and shakes his head.

"No, no, wait, I'm-- I'm me, Dylan Reinhart. I don't know why this is so difficult to comprehend. You have no proof that I am who you say I am."

[wayward_sun]

"We can play the 'name distinguishing characteristics'-game," Lucifer suggest brightly.

[i_am_your_host]

The eyebrow arches up again.

"You really want to do that," he says flatly. Huffing a sigh, he gestures for Lucifer to proceed. "Alright, fine, let's see what you can come up with."

[wayward_sun]

"Right," Lucifer says brightly.
"Right above your left testicle,no wait, if you're laying down and I'm-"

Trying to get the geography right.
Still missing the indoor voice with several dB.

[i_am_your_host]

"What- what no shhhh-" he gasps and sputters, cutting him off and trying to shush him. "I would greatly appreciate it if you lowered your voice if you're going to talk about my testicles in public! About which, by the way, you shouldn't even know anything, unless we- we--"

He trails off a little helplessly.

"This isn't fair. Why don't I know anything about you??"

[wayward_sun]

Lucifer cants his head. "I don't know," he says. "People don't tend to do that. Because - well, I'm me."

It's really quite vexing.

[i_am_your_host]

"Because you're you, of course," he humors him, allowing himself a small smirk. Narcissist, to be sure, but there's something...extremely charming about him. As if his narcissism could almost be excused.

"Well, tell me about you, then, Mr. Morningstar. Maybe it'll jog my memory."

Mr. Morningstar

The name sort of...clings to his tongue.

[wayward_sun]

"Of course. Good thinking."

And excellent subject matter.

"Well, I'm the Devil. I decided that it had enough of Hell a while back, told Dear Old Dad to.look after it himself, and relocated to L.A. cut off my wings, bought myself a nightclub."

He smiles.

[i_am_your_host]

His eyes grow wide, his brows drawing together.

"That's..."

He leans toward Lucifer slightly, inexplicably drawn to him.

"...truly fascinating!" he says, the American accent still intact. "Self-mutilation to spite your father in a clear case of attention-seeking rebelliousness. And now you live in Los Angeles, city of angels. Brilliant symbolism!"

[wayward_sun]

Lucifer lifts an eyebrow.

"It's not," he says. "Symbolic. Or a city of angels by the way. And isn't that a relief."

[i_am_your_host]

"Ironic, isn't it?" he remarks. "A city named after angels synonymous with pleasure and entertainment and materialism, teeming with vapidity and vice, a veritable modern-day Babylon. It's no wonder you settled there, you must love it!"

[wayward_sun]

"I do, actually," Lucifer says, a little wary of this sudden interest in symbolism.
"I like the beaches."

[i_am_your_host]

"The beaches? I can't imagine that's all you like about L.A.," he says with a grin.

[wayward_sun]

"Well, no. Obviously. I just - happen to like them too."

Sounding almost a little defensive.

[i_am_your_host]

After a second or two, he draws back, shaking his head a little. "I apologize if I'm being too inquisitive. I teach psychology, you see, with a focus on abnormal and psychopathic behavior, so it's not often that I'm face to face with the Devil and get to ask him questions."