milliways_bar | Entries tagged with boyd crowder

What travels with Boyd to and from places he lives: books. A couple of cardboard boxes' worth. Some of them are ones he acquired as a child; some of them came from Amazon; a few belonged to his mother and grandmother.

(There's a family Bible in there, down at the bottom, covered up by a big, slightly moldering volume of Shakespeare.)

Boyd Crowder drove past a church yesterday with his windows down, and he heard singing -- loud, old, completely unapologetic. When he came home after a shift, he went digging through one of the old boxes.

Now he sits at the bar, something brown to hand, flipping through an old oblong book, wider than it is tall. He's got to see if he can read the tune -- then maybe he can confirm the words. There should be some kind of reading guide up front.

mr_gaeta

There's a guy sitting on the porch swing near the lake, crutches propped nearby, smoking a cigarette as he watches a dodo chase after the fireflies.

The grounds sure as hell look like they've seen better days -- Gaeta has no frakking idea what could have ripped up the ground like that. But Gogo doesn't seem to mind, and it's not like Gaeta cares too much about it anyway.

The stars glimmer with the unique brightness of a far removed place: barely any light pollution, barely any people. Every so often, Gaeta looks up to take in the view.

[ooc: off to bed! slowtime now in effect; post is open until it scrolls.]

fireinthehole

Boyd Crowder is standing by the bar with an envelope and a piece of strange paper in his hands. (The corners of the paper are inexplicably cut off.)

He never did ask the lieutenant what it was like, being in space. When a ship hits orbit.

(A coal mine is the absolute antithesis of space flight.)

And Boyd cannot even say I told you so: the lieutenant isn't here. And Boyd… didn't actually tell him.

Very carefully, Boyd folds the paper just as it was, and puts it back in the envelope. The envelope goes in the pocket of his shirt.

He can't drink at home. The best he can hope for is to get a fifth (which he does) and go outside (which he does). It's night. There are stars. Boyd Crowder really kind of hates them right now.

faithful_lt

The front door opens. Louis Hoshi wastes no time before crossing through into Milliways and shutting the door again behind him.

He's deathly pale, and his expression is set in lines of desperate determination - a determination that's echoed in his movements as he swiftly walks over to the bar. Once he's there, he undoes the collar of his duty blues and pulls out a small packet of letters, which he sets on Bar's glossy wood surface.

"If you could please see that these are delivered, Lady Bar, I'd be grateful."

He spreads the contents out, revealing envelopes for Dr. Simon Tam, Lady Demeter, Lady Aphrodite, Mr. Andrew Wells, Mr. Boyd Crowder, Cpt. Steve Rogers, and Anastasia Dualla.

The letters vanish, and Hoshi nods, already fastening his uniform again. "Thank you."

He doesn't wait for any response, nor does he delay even long enough to look around before executing a crisp about face and heading back the way he came.

(He'll have to come back again soon, he knows; to be certain, if nothing else. Just... not yet. Not today, of all days.)

Galactica's corridors are visible for just an instant before the door shuts behind him.

[OOC #1: If your character has received a letter, please feel free to use this post for reactions, if you would like.

OOC #2: Hoshi's trying to get in and out without speaking to anyone yet, and thus will be hard to catch. That said, if your character would try to stop him anyway, go ahead and tag accordingly.]

mr_gaeta

For the past couple of weeks, Milliways has served as a planned respite: Gaeta's never wound up there accidentally. But the way he pauses when he opens the door this time is...different from that brief, surprised balk almost everybody does when their path leads somewhere they weren't expecting. It's not just uncertainty. It goes deeper than that, into something very much like wariness -- or the closed-off look he'd get sometimes on New Caprica, when his every move was being scrutinized by Cylons.

After a beat or three, he limps forward to let the door creak shut behind him. As long as he's here, there's no harm in getting some coffee, he supposes.

[Plotlocked, with apologies!]

the_man

Late at night, there is a man dressed all in black sitting at a table in the bar.

He is apparently engrossed in reading Fahrenheit 451.

[OOC: Closed to new tags, but working on the slows!]

fireinthehole

That was unpleasant.

And yet Boyd, like so many, cannot help but pick at a sore spot. And he wants to know what that was -- that thing that's left him with a bullet in his pocket to turn over and over in his hand.

It's what he's doing at the bar right now. There's a drink at his right hand, to assist in thinking. The bullet can and will be palmed.

And Boyd is ready, if it happens again.

fireinthehole

[ Will the circle be unbroken
By and by, Lord, by and by? ]

[Warnings for shots fired and unpleasantness toward women. Thanks to

silveraspen for playing along.]

fireinthehole

The creepy feeling in the woods hasn't gotten much better. But time and a crop that needs tending wait for no man's jitters. And jitters are against Boyd's personal motto, anyhow. Especially when there's this much work to do. He's got a rain gauge out there in his little clearing, and last time he was out there he thought it was looking a mite low.

So to add insult to injury -- he's got a lot of work still left to do on the drying shed, which means hauling out even more supplies from the bar into the spooky woods -- Boyd Crowder is hauling gallon jugs of water out into the woods, and he's doing so without aid of a cart or a handtruck or any such device. Two are in his backpack. One is in his left hand.

(His only concession to the increasingly spooky woods is the handgun at the small of his back. This is why his right hand is free.)

Just a mild-mannered gentleman farmer, out tending his fields. That's all Boyd Crowder is.

hadyougoing

Seeing one weird, vaguely rune-looking symbol on a tree is not even worth thinking about. It's Milliways.

But then Ava saw another, very similar-looking symbol in the library, drawn on an abandoned scrap of paper, then a third on the wall by a door, and this has her thinking it may be time to investigate. She scribbled the shape down for reference-- a circle with an X struck through it-- and struck out.

(First she grabbed a sweater, though. Seriously, Milliways, either you're warm or you're cold. Pick a lane.)

You may run into Ava in the upstairs hall, or meandering out back near the tree line, or poking her head inside the dance studio. Whichever it is, she's keeping half an eye out for any scribble-able surfaces.

Eventually, you'll be able to spot her at a table in the main bar, peering down at the circle-and-x drawing she's made and largely ignoring her tea.

[ooc: ava can be found around any of the locations mentioned! open until it scrolls! email artistformerlyknownas at gmail dot com with questions, plots, schemes and/or dreams.]

dont_turn_around

There is a new tree in the forest.

Elm do brood,

The other trees don't like it.

and oak do hate,

It's keeping to itself, for now.

but the willow walks when you travel late.

For now.

fireinthehole

When you work a twelve-hour shift, and you do four of them in a row, you have three days off. Boyd Crowder has used his time off wisely.

Beside his glass (and his chicken dinner, his meat and three, with a big slice of cake on its own plate to the side), there is a map, looking a little damp and a little crumpled. Boyd himself now has a few scratches on his face, and more on his hands. On the barstool to his left is his army pack (Gulf War vintage), which, in addition to a couple of baloney sandwiches, a can of Coke (the other being crumpled out somewhere in the forest), some rope, and a good knife, contains a handgun (which stayed fitted at the small of his back until he emerged by the lake) and a few botanical samples. A machete, sheathed, is sandwiched between the pack and the barstool; Boyd is a trailblazer.

One hand is occupied with his fork. The other hand is writing a note in a loose, round, legible script just a little too spindly to be quite Palmer method.

( a note )

"Now," Boyd says to the bar, "my discomfort at speaking to an inanimate object is my problem, and not your own, so I must beg your indulgence, as I mean no offense. If I describe someone to you, and ask you to hold a note, would you know who that might be?"

A napkin appears.

"That's good to know. So this man -- he's shy of six feet, dark hair, blue eyes, real pale, healthy build but he's no linebacker, not even on special teams, works in the infirmary. His dress is what you might call dandified. Treated a Lieutenant Gaeta not too far back, if that's in your internal records. You know who I'm talking about?"

A napkin appears.

"In which case -- " Boyd folds the note over, and places it on the bartop. " -- would you be so kind as to see that this gets to him?"

The note disappears.

Boyd gives his thanks and returns to his dinner, pondering. Best to see how that goes over before he alerts the good lieutenant that the subterfuge with the spare room, thin as it is, will no longer be necessary.

fireinthehole

By this point it's routine:

Emerge from the earth wearing glasses like some chthonic Buddy Holly (no one else has safety glasses like Boyd Crowder's, in this Black Pike mine). Tuck safety glasses on hook in locker. Shower and scrub. Dress. Flee down the mountain as fast as possible, wanting a drink after twelve hours in the hole, blowing shit up.

Boyd comes in pretty sure there's coal dust in his ears, feeling uncharacteristically rattled by the day's plentiful (literal) explosions. But he has something to do. A little delivery to make.

If he's not sure who he is, not sure about his essential nature, he's sure of one thing, one thing that will never change one iota, one thing that every one of his relatives can agree on: a Crowder keeps his word.

There's a bag inside his jacket, and one of the books to hand appears to be a cheap-looking hardcover edition of Zane Grey's Riders of the Purple Sage. Boyd puts that book with the other (I'll Take My Stand) and sets about obtaining something brown.

mr_gaeta

[Not-quite-OOM, just prior: Physical therapy.]

"One more" turns into three more exercises by the time Gaeta departs the infirmary. Awful as he felt, it didn't feel right to leave off after so few; at least this way, he isn't wasting his or Dr. Tam's time with such a brief session.

Whether he'll be able to move from the couch he just collapsed on is another story. After requesting a glass of water from a waitrat, he gulps down three painkillers (the usual dose is two, but frak it, he hurts so much right now) before stretching along the couch's full length. Some minutes later, the same waitrat returns with a silver tray.

Gaeta eyes the tray's contents. "Um."

The rat chitters.

"Sorry for the language, but...what the frak is that?"

Squeak.

In lieu of pointing out that he doesn't speak rat, Gaeta just sighs, scoops up the small -- very colorful -- magazine, and opens it to take a look.

Apparently there's a tie-in comic book series for that famous squopera, Tentacles of Our Waves. Who knew.

[ooc: in and out for a bit, but back for good at 10 PM eastern!]

fireinthehole

It's easiest for Boyd to stay out of the common parts of the house as much as possible for several reasons, only a few of which he will admit to himself. The first is that he works as much as he can (and as much as he can stand). The second is that when he's not working, he's sleeping, with the door shut. (Or he's reading with the door shut.) The third is that he is still attempting to show his landlady as much respect as possible, and given their -- his -- past, the polite thing to do is to pay his rent so she can pay the mortgage (and fix little problems with the house without her having to say anything) and stay out of her way. The fourth is that he still drinks, and she does not, and she doesn't want it in the house, so his strict adherence to the letter and intent of her law means not keeping anything in his truck or anywhere on the property.

The fifth he will not admit to himself, because it is improper. Boyd is putting his energies behind being proper, where his landlady is concerned.

So: here's Boyd Crowder at the bar, showered and scrubbed, lunchbox at his feet, fresh out of a mine with something brown at his hand and two books he's trying to decide between. It's probably not going to be Night Comes to the Cumberlands until he's a drink or two in; while knowledge about what's come before you is important, there is also a time and a place for everything, and in this particular case the time and the place is when Boyd is well on his way to drunk.

fireinthehole

When Boyd comes in, his black eye is almost -- not entirely -- faded, but that's the only sign of the old altercation.

He picked up a stack of books at the thrift store for a quarter apiece; one of them -- a tattered paperback -- lies in front of him now. Waiting.

It'll be waiting a while. Boyd's got a glass of something brown at his table. He's staring off into space. One day it'll occur to him that he could order food. Today isn't that day.

mr_gaeta

When the door opens next, it goes in an awkward pattern: start-stop, start-stop, like the person on the other side can't push it open all at once. The toe of a metal crutch nudges through the gap to widen it a little.

Gaeta -- exhausted, pale, and with sizeable dark circles under his eyes -- leans through just enough to catch sight of the room. His shoulders sag; bit by bit, he eases himself the rest of the way through the door. His forearm crutches click quietly. The stump of what used to be his right leg swings a little with each movement.

It's not like he'll be able to stomach much more than soup (and alcohol, while he has any morpha in his system, is completely out of the question), but the couches look a frak of a lot more comfortable than the rec room chairs. Give it a few hours, and maybe he'll be able to make it the rest of the way to his rack.

[tinytag: Boyd Crowder]

fireinthehole

[Immediately prior.]

First is the screen door, second is the front door, and the front door doesn't lead into the vestibule.

Boyd blinks at Milliways for a good thirty seconds before shuffling in further.

He's not bleeding enough from the face, from the split lip or the nose, to drip on the floor, and being as his intent was to collapse into bed, he might as well have another drink first to see if his face gets numb.

(If that dandy of a doctor shows up and says a damn word, Boyd will not be responsible for the consequences.)

mjolnir_retriever

He woke, and a man -- a mortal, and not even a warrior -- dared to attack the mighty Thor. Thor fought, and he would have defeated as many as they sent to hinder him, had they not used strange powers to send him to sleep against his will. When he woke again, he found that he was weak, weaker than he had ever been, stripped of his strength as his father had decreed and too weak to even break the straps the mortals had bound him with.

But at length he managed to slide one hand loose, and then to gain his freedom. Thor has never been one for stealth -- such trickery is his brother's skill, and Thor is content to leave it to him -- but he made short work of slipping his way free of this 'hospital', pausing only to trade his backless half-garment for a set of blue garments that at least include trousers before he stepped back into the desert sunsh--

This is not the desert. Nor outdoors.

Nor Asgard, nor any place he knows.

The man who enters is very large, very blond, and very, very confused.

(And wearing a set of blue scrubs with no shoes. They don't fit him very well.)

[OOC: Oh my god, I LOVE YOU ALL. *falling over* I will pick up slowtimes tomorrow! Closed to new threads, please, unless we've prearranged something. He'll be in again!]

[tinytag: Thor Odinson, Darcy Lewis, Boyd Crowder, Tommy Gavin, Rose Lalonde]

all_er_nothin

The sights don't stop with the dance floor.

Once you move past, you'll see a number of carts and booths spread with home brews, fancy treats, wares, and games. There's a maypole out by the lake. Closer to the paddocks, a little corral is in order where pony rides are on offer. A horse-drawn cart and buggy are on standby to take folk around the lake.

Every free corner is filled with some delight. It's sure to be one hell of a party.

Won't you dust off your finery and come join us for a spell?

fireinthehole

Another day, another copy of the Harlan Daily Enterprise at the bar, another few hours spent eyeing the rats scurrying back and forth.

Milliways is a boon in a mostly-dry county (if you don't want to drive to Cumberland), but Boyd's not sure about the rats.

(No sign of that priss-faced doctor, either. Boyd's pretty sure about him.)

scurlock

After finishing up moving his things into his new living space downstairs (and after having finished the slight repairs to the apartment), Doc heads out of the staff hallway and for the back door, to check on the stables and make sure that there's nothing left that needs doing before he heads in for the night.

He ends up at the bar after all is said and done, with a glass of bourbon (on the rocks) in front of him - and he's keeping an eye on the Front Door, watching the folks that are coming and go with a distracted sort of interest.

(Botherable! And I should note, he is armed, with his Colt six in the holster on his thigh - but he's in a decent mood, so conversation is welcome!)

fireinthehole

Boyd Crowder relinquished his stash for a good cause, and it's only natural that Mr. Crowder will want to see that it went to good use. A smart man follows up on these things.

Hands in his pockets as customary, Boyd wanders (albeit with purpose) down the hall toward the infirmary.

[Plotlocked.]

mr_gaeta

Very distantly, from the hallway leading to the infirmary, there's the sound of someone singing.

[ooc: if you'd just like to react to the music, feel free to tag here; if you'd like an actual thread with Gaeta, please tag the infirmary post. Both will be open the whole weekend!]

[tinytag: boyd crowder, sam anders, aphrodite]

fireinthehole

At least Black Pike's installed showers for them, which is something that didn't happen at his first mining job out of high school. Back then he'd go home and scrub down out back before he'd be let inside the house. Now, though, he finishes a thirteen-hour shift, scrubs down, and he's a free man until his next shift. He's off for the next four days, and the amount of time stretching in front of him is a prospect he doesn't find too enticing.

Boyd's looking squeaky clean at the bar with his whiskey. He's wearing horn-rimmed glasses tonight (cheap ones). He's made it through his first week down, and he wants a drink.

There's something to be said for drinking around strangers. The prospect of not having to endure stares or whispers about the Crowder clan -- how the mighty have fallen -- entices under such circumstances, and as such, Boyd's mood is bright enough, though he's bone-tired.