milliways_bar | IMDb flu straggler

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.]

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"Of course," Lucifer says, sliding off his stool and offering Emcee a hand.

He gentlemans very well. Everybody knows that.

He does gentleman well. When he wants do. And Emcee appreciates it.

Grasping his hand, he carefully slips off the stool--checks to see that the room isn't spinning--then takes his rum toddy and hooks his other hand in the crook of Lucifer's elbow. They proceed to one of the couches where Emcee sets his mug down on the coffee table before shedding his jacket and pulling the sweater vest over his head in an almost petulant way.

"I don't know how some people wear so many layers."

"Because unwrapping is fun?" Lucifer suggests and flops down opposite him.

It's a sexy flop. Emcee wishes he didn't have a cold right now.

"I don't think 'fun' was very high on this particular personality's agenda," he remarks, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt. Settling down next to Lucifer with his rum toddy, he puts his feet up on the coffee table.

"...The shoes are nice, though." Italian leather brogues. "I should get to keep them."

"They are,"Lucifer agrees, leaning forward to study them closer.

"Hand-sewn I'd wager. And you're right. He didn't seem like much fun."

Emcee slumps down into the cushions, cradling his mug and sipping from it. "He was a university professor, and I think...an ex-CIA agent." Frowning, he looks up at Lucifer. "What does CIA mean?"

"Ooh, C.I.A. Central Intelligence Agency. He was a spy," Lucifer says, delightedly. Which is a bit -
Someone likes his pop culture.

"A spy? I can't remember anything about him being a spy. But it's probably best that I don't. It's disturbing to have someone else's memories, to say the least, especially his memories when he was so fascinated by homicides."

Emcee huffs a breath and takes a deep drink of his rum toddy.

"Really? He seemed rather pedestrian. Despite the nice shoes."

Homicide.
Hmm.

"Yes, I can't quite place it now but there was this kind of...eagerness to see dead bodies and find out how they had been...murdered."

Emcee shudders and takes another sip of his drink. "I can understand why he wouldn't want to lead with that in conversation."

"He certainly didn't hold back with other things," Lucifer says with a sniff.

The corners of Emcee's lips twitch and he pats Lucifer's thigh.

"I'm sorry about that, darling. You know that I would never pry unless you wanted to talk about something."

"Nothing to talk about," Lucifer says with an even brighter smile.
"Nothing like that anyway. And I suppose you're too poorly to - not-talk?"

Emcee isn't at his sharpest so it takes a few moments for that to sink in. And he manages a short laugh.

"I'm afraid so. I'm not at my best. And you probably have never experienced the discomfort of giving a blowjob with a sore throat, so that is out of the question as well."

He shakes his head.
"No. I don't really do physical illnesses."

Then he leans in a bit. "Does it happen If he? The whole identity cold thing?"

Emcee tilts his head, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean...?"

"People becoming other people? Or believing themselves to be other people? I have to say, you were very convincing."

"Oh, no," he says, shaking his head. "Randomly once a year, perhaps? It seems to be seasonal. I've come across a few friends and acquaintances who have succumbed to it, so it's not only me. It affects mostly humans, but in a few rare cases a few supernaturals. It makes for some--awkward situations, and it's quite confusing, but it usually passes once you get over the worst of the illness. Personally I end up remembering only a fraction of what I had said or done, or who I thought I was, which is annoying."

"Oh, that sounds fun," Lucifer says. "Have you been anyone fun?"

The spy wasn't very fun. Despite being a spy.

Emcee makes a face and shakes his head again. "Not really," he says. "I seem to end up with personalities that are my complete opposite and job descriptions that I would not or could not touch with a ten foot pole."

He glances up at Lucifer with a slight smirk. "It would be funny if you came down with this flu and were suddenly someone awkward and-- oh, what's the word-- dorky?"

Lucifer snorts.
"As if," he says. "No amount of magic flu could make me dorky, as you say."

"You never know," he teases. "It could happen some day, and if it does, I just hope I'll be around to see it."

Emcee finishes up his drink (oof, all the alcohol sank to the bottom of the glass) and he yawns as the rum goes to his head.

"As long as it doesn't end up on the Internet,"Lucifer mock-warns him with a admonishing finger.

Emcee leans in, a sleepy grin on his lips. "I would rather keep it for my private collection," he murmurs, his speech a bit slurred.

"Because - you like dorky men?"

It's s niche. But that's cool.

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