lifeaftr | [mostly open] Been a long time gone

Entry tags:

[mostly open] Been a long time gone

Who: Number Five and whoever wants to deal with him, also Taako
What: Five finds the Denny and The Store, is a menace
When: early April, before the 11th
Where: the Denny, the temple
Warnings: alcoholism

i. OTA
It's been a rough couple of days for Five. For one, there's the matter of being dragged to another universe; a problem he is forced to admit he won't be able to solve in a matter of days or even weeks, though he's certainly gonna try. Living in a frigging tree house has not been great either, not to mention the throwback to scavenging for food. Not that he's been doing a whole lot of that, far too busy either running through calculations or exploring the island he's apparently gonna be stuck on for a while.

And then there's the slow realization that his brothers and sisters are nowhere to be found. That he lost them somewhere during his ill-prepared jump, that they could be anywhere in time or space, or simply... never made it out.

Let's just say, by the time he comes across the Denny, he could really use a stiff drink or three.

The boy that steps through the door is dressed in his full school uniform, tie and all, as if spitefully refusing to give up on some goddamn standards around here. But there's some nasty scabs on his knees, dirt and sand on his clothes, his hair hasn't seen a brush in about a week, and the bags under his eyes would be more at home on the face of a 60-year-old war vet. Still, his spirits lift for the first time in days at the sight of an honest to god bar and he climbs onto a stool, letting his knapsack slide to the ground beside him.

"Bit rustic, but I've seen worse dives," he mutters approvingly to himself while he waits for some sort of service to appear.

ii. OTA
Whether he's managed to convince somebody to actually serve him alcohol or simply teleported into the back and helped himself, Five has finally got his hands on some sweet sweet whiskey. He's migrated to a corner table to work on his calculations in his notebook, occasionally pausing to observe the people around him with a keen eye. Though as the afternoon and the cups of whiskey pass on, there's less of that and more just sort of staring into the middle distance with a forlorn expression.

iii. closed to Taako
Obviously it doesn't take Five long to find the temple, clearly a central location if just as much of a shithole as the rest of this place. He wanders inside, taking in the state of the building with an assessing glance until his eyes land on the spread of items laid out in one corner of the large chamber. Now that's interesting. Is that paper and pen he sees? And knives?

"Oh, yes," he sighs enthusiastically and hurries over, paying the guy behind the counter literally no mind as he picks up a knife to inspect the sharpness of the blade.

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That thousand yard stare is enough to catch her eye-his expression still and his eyes fixated on nothing. And despite his weary demeanor that's far, far different than the competitive child she had chased across a dreamscape, it's him. That portal hopping boy is back and sans the handprint she had happily slapped across his chest. She doesn't have ink to mess with him this time, which is probably for the best.

The issue is she isn't polite and she sees a notebook on the table, which means he's probably doodling. Why he's choosing to do it on paper when there are walls to deface is beyond her.

So within a couple seconds of her entering Denny, she hurries to the other side of the room, kneeling by his table with her fingers clutching the edge to see What's Up.

"Do you need more colors?"

If he knew that this girl holds the secret to writing on walls around here (i.e. magic chalk), she'd already be his best friend. Or, well, slightly less of a nuisance, at least. But as it stands, he's visibly startled out of his ~~drunken stupor~~ reverie by the sound of a voice, a surprised little hiccup escaping him as he protectively curls around his notebook. Probably some kind of deep-seated reflex born of growing up with six children possessing the uncanny talent to be the most annoying when he was trying to study.

But he's not a child and the face peeking over the table edge doesn't belong to one of his siblings. "What? No! What?" Coherent, concise, nailed it. Let's just agree to ignore the way his voice cracked halfway through that. He squints at her with some offense, willing his vision to stop being blurry already. "Hey, I know you!"

Agree to disagree because that surprised little break in his voice makes her think she's too sneaky. Too stealthy. Look at how spooked this kid is. She drums her fingers against the table's edge, trying to eye the notebook he's almost hiding? She can't tell what's happening there, but once he recognizes her-

Her face perks up and she pulls up a piece of yellow chalk, already lightly etching a '10' on the tabletop. What up. "I saved these points for you."

He's still trying to process that he's now looking at a girl he's pretty sure he dreamed up, when said girl starts writing on the table and assigning him even more points. Look, he doesn't think this lightly, but he may actually be too drunk for this.

Which is ludicrous, of course, and he snorts out a sardonic laugh. "Great, thanks. Those're sure gonna come in handy round here." You know what, fuck it, if dream girl wants to vandalize the table that's fine with him, not like it's his table. Not like he was getting anywhere with his own numbers. Maybe she's a figment of his imagination and the answer was '10' all along.

Actually let's assume she's real and he's not wasted in a corner talking to himself. "You're real serious about the whole, the points thing, aren't you? I've got a brother like that. Bet he wouldn't be giving me any points right now," he chuckles until he remembers his brother is probably dust right now, along with the rest of his family. Wow, way to drink to forget. Five stares into his cup and takes a big swig.

The tone of a person's voice can hide the hidden meaning of many words. Too bad Ren isn't listening for that right now. She hears a laugh, Great, thanks, and knows her work is being appreciated by this small, thirsty child. And since no one's stopping her, yes, she's going to continue scratching that 10 into the table, bolding the lines and making it far more difficult to remove.

"I'll give you points until he learns how to do that kind of thing better. It takes 'practice' to do it right," Because what kind of brother wouldn't honestly, unless he has very little idea what constitutes a point gain. Tragic. And while he's taking a swig, she moves under the table like a goblin, so she can stand at the other side, to get a better angle on the 0 of her non equation. "And then when we both give you a lot, you get a gold star."

Please don't ask her the ratio of points to stars, because that's just whatever. "I can put the points in your book too. That way you don't forget."

Don't worry, Five isn't in the habit of asking stupid questions. And also he thankfully missed most of that while trying to wash down the taste of misery with the familiar burn of whiskey. At least until she scurries under the table like a rat and he almost chokes yanking his legs out of the way as she brushes against him. Jesus, what was that for?

But the threat of somebody else writing in his book quickly overshadows any startlement. "Don't you dare, it's not for that," he snaps, though the alcohol considerably dulls the bite such a pronouncement would usually have. "It's for--" Yeah right, like he's going to explain interdimensional spatiotemporal maths to this child without strangling everyone in this bar and then himself. He sniffs irritably. "... more important numbers."

"More important?" That befuddles her in an indescribable way. Her face scrunches up in confusion because, she's sorry, points are actually incredibly important and there's no other math that exists on this planet. Equations don't belong on the island, actually.

But that does prompt her to eye the weird notebook a bit more carefully, pulling her chalk back towards her body as she leaaans forward to see what's inside. Look, she won't write in it!! She wants to see what numbers could possibly be more vital to his life. "Are they special?"

Yeah, that's about how he thought that would go over. No one's ever understood how life itself is made up of numbers, how you can't take a single step without moving a certain distance, can't take a single breath without passing a second of time. Not even his dad appreciated it, and he'd taught him how to use this understanding for his power in the first place. But then the old bastard never really appreciated anything.

"Yeah, actually." What gave it away? Was it the way he's clucking over them like a mother hen? Though now that the girl seems to be keeping her hands to herself, he does lean back a little for her to see, looking down at the most recent, unfinished page. It's a fairly chaotic set of equations, entire sections scribbled out or over, interspersed with graphs and question marks and references to previous pages. He runs a hand over it all. "They're gonna get me home. If I get 'em right this time, anyway." He doesn't sound entirely as confident about that as he'd manage if he was sober.

Ren expected numbers. She knows what those look like.

But she has no idea what's in front of her, as she scans over every weird line and punctuation mark and graph. The scribbles might as well be a drawing at this point. It's far more intricate than her points system and his end goal exposes the broad vision he has. Going home isn't on her to do list, so naturally she forgets that's what other people want.

She doesn't say anything initially, only tilts her head to the side so her cheek presses against the table. To get a different view of all that writing. Not that it makes it any more decipherable. Weird. Put a 10 in there. It would fit just fine.

"Is that how you make mana pools? Are you a god?"

Because that's the only bit of teleportation magic she knows and maybe this is how that bunny god creates them. She's never seen how they appear before.

Alright, you got him. Wasn't expecting literally any of that. He doesn't even get a chance to realize that her first question is actually way more observant than it sounds, when the second knocks it out of the park. He takes it in like a fine wine, shifts his glance from his equations to her perfectly sincere face, and busts out laughing. It's brief and rough and bitter, always bitter, and hell, he wouldn't say it feels good but it's certainly something.

"D'you know many gods who're getting piss-drunk on moonshine in some, some dive bar at the ass end of the universe because they failed to save the world and their family?" Shit, talk about kids these days. He raises his cup in some kind of solemn salute to the memory of his brothers and sisters because that seems like the thing to do when you talk about how you probably doomed them all, and then takes another long sip, muttering into it. "Psh, a god. God of death, maybe."

The laughter doesn't line up with the somber words coming out of his mouth and it takes her a second to catch up to him. There's already a semi-god of death on the island and it's her uncle. This kid looks, and acts, nothing like him. So that's out.

But it's his first set of oddly coherent words that make her focus on his flushed face, unsure of how to take that. The confession striking something in her-not that she had a family to lose or understood the world before it's destruction, but he tried to save it? From what? And-

He's not Seto. Doesn't look like him-not even a little bit, but for the briefest second, she can imagine that uniform being a dirty blue coat and imagine the smile he used to wear. She's pretty sure he'd never get piss drunk on moonshine in some, some dive bar, but she knows what it looks like when someone's trying to hide their feelings somewhere else.

"You're not a god of death. That's someone else's job," Is the amazing babble of comforting words she offers, as she continues to rest her head against the table. "You were trying to save it?"

God, kids really say the darndest things. Someone else's job, sure. She just comes out and says that like it's a real thing, like she's got the world figured out. Like he's not the harbinger of the apocalypse, a bona fide Cassandra, like all those people didn't die in his wake despite his best efforts. All seven billion of them, burned to a crisp and crushed in their homes, the smell lingering for months-- He tightens his grip on the cup to keep his hands from shaking.

Like that's not his responsibility, the only one with the knowledge and abilities to prevent it.

"For the past 45 years," he sighs, finally looking and sounding as tired as he feels. "Thought we'd done it, too. Don't know how I could've been so stupid." With his shoulders sinking and his small form hunched heavily over his drink, he's about one more cup away from joining her on the table.

It's not his words that make something tighten around her heart-it's the knuckle white grip around his cup, the look in his eyes that's probably the somewhere else he wants to be. It's hard to tell whether this is an escape or not. Or maybe doesn't want to be there either. She has a feeling it's-

Weird. The 45 years doesn't shake her too much. There are plenty of beings on this island who don't look the age she would expect and whose lifespans extend beyond her imagination. He could very well be among them.

"It's hard to stop that kind of thing," Her words are slow and quiet, as she raises a hand back up to copy some of the upside down markings from his journal to the table top, etching them in bright, bright yellow. "Sometimes you can't and you have to let someone else do it for you."

To be honest, what he really wants is to just be nowhere for a while. To just stop the images and memories constantly haunting his mind, even numbed with alcohol. To be able to let go of the drive to fix everything, find solutions, keep moving forward no matter what. To just rest for a while. Let someone else do it, indeed. It's a nice thought.

The thought of a naive little girl.

He huffs out a small, bitter sound. "There isn't anyone else. There's just me." His voice is rough and hollow, feels like he hasn't used it in a decade to talk to another person. He quickly knocks back the rest of his drink. "'specially since it's looking like I screwed up getting my brothers and sisters out, too." He's still got a plan to save them, crapshoot though it may be, because of course he does. But right now? Couldn't be more 'just him' if he tried.

There's a finality in his voice that's difficult to respond to. She knows what that kind of life can do to you when you're the only one that knows and maybe someone else has an idea too, but they can't do anything. You think they can't do anything. They try to do something and you want to believe in them, but it's scary. Too much, maybe. Seto could do it-if he was on their world, that boy could help this kid, but-

Stopping the end of the world is an impossible task, in her mind. That's just how it is. Even attempted salvation comes with a price and it feels hopeless. But her world was always a lost cause. His might not be and that's what keeps her silent as that thought runs through her head.

"They might be here," She offers, hesitantly. "Sometimes people appear on other islands or very far away-if you wait a long time, they'll come back." Just like Seto, who is still lost somewhere far, far beyond her reach. "Then it won't be lonely for you anymore."

Must be nice, to have that much unfounded optimism going for you. The prerogative of youth, or something. He's not sure if he was ever like that, but then his childhood ended at 13, a long time ago. It's true that he hasn't exactly explored the entire archipelago, but he feels pretty confident that if his siblings had arrived with him, he'd have heard about it by now. They're hardly inconspicuous.

Loneliness has been a part of him for so long, he doesn't know if he's even capable of anything else. He can't stand most people, and even the ones he tolerates, the ones he likes, get impossible to deal with before long. He's got no idea how to feel about her childish reassurance, let alone how to respond to it.

She's not been doing too bad, though. Patiently listening to a miserable old man, offering some simple, naive kindness. His gaze finally moves from his empty cup and he notices her copying his equations onto the table, badly and incoherently. Vanya used to do that when they were little, he suddenly remembers. His math about three years ahead of her level, she had no hope of grasping any of it but she'd copy it anyway, as if it would help her understand him. As good a reason as any to spend time with him, away from the others, without disturbing his work. She'd always listen, even if she didn't get it.

That's who this girl reminds him of.

"Ah, shit," he mutters softly, and disappears in a flash. If she knew him better she might think he's had enough of the conversation, but some clattering sounds from the back storeroom betray his real intent. After a few moments, he pops back into his seat, barely keeping his balance as he spills some liquid from two cups held aloft in his hands. It's all good, he's got this. He shoves one cup of coconut water or milk or whatever the hell her way with a mumbled "Here," immediately taking a sip of his whiskey. He just doesn't like drinking alone, is all.

There's a chance that razzle dazzle disappearing act won't surprise her one day, but it's not today. In tandem with the line she was drawing allllll the way across the table, he vanishes as she reaches the end of her mark and she raises her head up to see-

To hear?

Clattering that make her wonder if he sensed danger and that Ah, shit was more of a warning than a statement. She scurries under the table again, like a mouse scattering at a sudden noise, and stands back up when she reaches the other side, eyeing the backroom.

Not that it matters, because he's reappeared again with-

A drink? Two drinks? Cups that are a bit fuller than they should be, so she raises both of her hands to act as an umbrella over his very important manapool equations. Just as extra insurance.

And the payoff is huge, when she pulls her hand shield away to grab the drink and take a sip of the delicious goodness within. She'll never get tired of that sweet coconut taste and her delight is written all over her face. And look, she can be some kind of company-that's her one talent and she moves to sit on the ground directly beside his chair, drinking her dope ass coconut water, while she continues drawing a bunch of bright yellow numbers all over the ground. The square root of 5 is divided by a line of cats to equal the moon, didn't he know that? Well, he will now, if he looks down.

Were he just a bit less drunk, her thoughtful little protective gesture would have definitely been noted with some surprise and approval. Unfortunately, staying upright and holding onto his drink are taking up just about all his mental capacity at the moment, which is kind of the point of getting absolutely shitfaced, after all. Same goes for noticing her delight; whatever instinct had urged him to make sure she doesn't go thirsty had been satisfied, thereby relieving him of any stake in the entire business.

That last drink is really starting to hit him now. For a while his thoughts wander aimlessly, circling the drain of exhaustion and guilt. But eventually he does realize that the kid has manifested on the ground right next to him and he leans over the edge of the table, staring at her spread of equations. Well, ""equations"". It's like some sort of Magic Eye image, where you feel like you're looking at something that makes sense, but in actual fact it's all utter nonsense. He kinda wants to throw up. He kinda wants to throw something.

But, you know what. The longer he's looking at it, the more the cold hard logic part of his brain just decides, fuck it, the world's in ruins and his siblings are giving Schrödinger's cat a run for its money and this might as well be real math in some shitty universe. Five cracks an ungainly, boozy smile.

"Y'forgot to subtract the," pfff, "the spotted cat from that, uh, that flower over there."

It's rare that someone talks in her language, but this drunk kid is suddenly grading her equations and she glances over her work, eyeballing every flower until-

Oh, of course he's right. How foolish of her. She doesn't even fight his assessment and dips her fingers far, far into the cup of coconut milk beside her, using it to wipe down the indicated math failure. It smears the chalk enough to make it workable and she pulls out a darker color to go over the top once it dries.

But not before downing the rest of the now contaminated drink. Chalk goes with milk, probably. Yum. She doesn't even hesitate, despite the residue on her fingers from probably more than this doodle session. Kravitz isn't around to judge her for the flecks of dirt in it. It's fine.

"I forgot to put the stars too-it won't make a moon if I don't do that."

But as she looks to confirm if that addition to the equation is needed by her doodle sensei, she kinda eyes his glassy expression. He doesn't seem to be doing great? But he's still awake, so that's probably good. She has no idea, actually. The way he's laying down though-

"Is your heart tired? Are you sleepy?"

There are worse things you can drink than chalky milk, honestly. She's not gonna hear a complaint from this corner. Though that may be at least in part due to the way he really is just teetering awfully close to the edge now, his head heavy and drifting ever closer to the nearest flat surface.

At least until he's being directly called out for it, which is enough to make him summon the fortitude to sit up more or less straight in defiance. The movement makes the room spin sickeningly around him but she doesn't need to know that. "'m fine." Look, she probably needs help with her fake math. Everybody always needs his help. It's a whole thing. He attempts to get off his chair, feels himself losing the last of his balance in slow motion, opts instead to slip straight through space onto the ground on her other side into a fairly stable sitting position. He smiles triumphantly. "See?"

Now he can get to work. He leans over to grab the chalk from her hand and considers the problem. "Moon's overrated," he determines darkly and crosses it out thoroughly. "Now you got nothing to worry about." Oh god. Oh shit. If only they'd thought of that. He's actually the funniest bastard on this goddamn planet and just starts giggling madly to himself. He'll get it together in a second, it's fine.

Is that-is that supposed to be comforting? Maybe to some. The way he practically oozes from chair to floor is more reminiscent of the liquid he's drinking over an actual human being. She scoots to the side, not because she's worried about him landing on her, but because she wants a better view of where to hold her hands to make catching this child easier, should he need some assistance. But he doesn't need it. He's there and that See? is something to behold.

Chalk taken from her grasp, she turns her attention down to the overrated moon and while she fully supports simply erasing problems you don't want to deal with, because that's a valid problem solving method-don't listen to people who say otherwise, there's something strange about that giggle. Or maybe it's the alcohol wafting off him that's causing this little fit of laughter.

"You don't like the moon? What's it supposed to equal now?"

Put something you like Five. She's waiting with bated breath.

It would be difficult to overstate how very much he doesn't like the moon. Stupid sky bastard just crashing into the Earth when you least expect it! 45 years, and it just hung up there while he almost went mad figuring out what killed the human race. Probably laughing at him the whole time. Holy mother of god he has had so much whiskey.

It probably wasn't even the moon, the first time, or you'd think he'd have noticed a huge chunk of it missing. What it was, both times, refuses to mix with his consciousness like oil in water. Being outrageously drunk continues to work as intended, though his giggling fit does subside and he takes a bit of a wistful breath. Been a while since he had anything to laugh about.

The girl's second question eventually resurfaces in his mind and he slouches over the 'equation' thoughtfully. There's flowers already in place, interspersed with nonsense functions and the odd wonky, childish heart. Finally he sets the chalk to work, drawing... a face. A woman's face. Hardly more than a circle with two dots for eyes and a smiling mouth, and hair just how she liked it, when he'd been able to find some for her.

And then he misses Dolores so much it hurts, staring at the picture with his nails digging into the ground.

The laughter is both confusing and troubling. A part of her knowing full well it has to do with that gross drink he's consuming and the fact she's missing something, despite every part of this equation looking super correct. Even the moon looks right, even though this kid's insisting otherwise.

But then he draws a face-a simple doodle that doesn't quite match anyone she knows here. Or maybe it matches too many people. Because it's impossible to distinguish who it might be among the islanders and she's usually a pretty good at deciphering these elementary drawings. Maybe she has to look from his view?

And so she crawls behind him, sitting up on her knees to look over his shoulders, and then settling down beside him again when that doesn't help.

"Your family?"

Five seems lost in the drawing for a long moment, looking at it with a forlorn, almost grieving expression. Like he hadn't even realized how much he was missing her, needed her, until this very moment.

"Dolores," he murmurs eventually, and the way he says it perhaps it sounds like 'family'. "She's--," he swallows the lump in his throat, "she's not here." He'd said goodbye to her, when he foolishly thought the world was safe. When he thought she'd be better off with her friends, and him with his family. What kind of idiot says goodbye to a woman like her? For the second time? And now they're all gone. But he's too exhausted even to muster some real anger at himself and just slumps a little, letting his fringe obscure his eyes.

And then he grabs for the table edge, trying to pull himself up and reach for his drink. Unfortunately he misses the table by a mile and goes toppling into the chair, banging every limb and his head on the way down. Not a great look! "Ow, shit!"

It's not a wild leap to listen to the way he says her name, the lack of denial when she says family, and draw that line-that connection between them. The confirmation isn't clear, given the drunken haze he's in, but she doesn't need to hear anything else. The heartache in his voice is a solid reminder of the loss some people feel when arriving here and-

The second she takes to think about it is all the time he needs to find trouble. The table is public enemy number one now and she smacks the leg of it, like it's somehow this inanimate object's fault a plastered child can't reach his drink. Bad!! Be smaller!!

But that does prompt her to stand up, hovering over him for a second, before deciding the better option is to kneel down. He's kid sized and having a bad time-no sense making it more difficult.

"I'll take you home-you can lean on me and I'll help bring you back," She leans super, duper close to him, in case he's seeing double or triple. She's heard that can happen to people who partake in this stuff. Her shoulder is dangerously close to nose-don't trip again. "I'm not very strong, but I can do that for you."

The guy behind the counter doesn't accept payment in mind, funnily enough, but he doesn't offer free samples, either. And even if politeness doesn't buy knives (it super doesn't), does it hurt to talk to people behind counters?? Kids and knives, why's it always kids and knives on this island. Taako clicks his tongue, unimpressed with this formerly fancy lad's appalling lack of manners.

"Hey, if you bleed on it you have to buy it. Store rules."

Well gee, if he'd known showing an interest in the merchandise you're presumably trying to sell is impolite, he could have pretended this is all incredibly beneath him instead. For someone who has only fairly recently returned to civilization, Five is actually pretty capable of being civil to customer service. If said customer service isn't getting on his ass about store rules, that is.

At being addressed like he's an idiot who can't handle a knife, he finally looks up to say something no doubt rude and condescending. And then takes a second, longer look at the clerk's incredibly stupid hat and improbably long ears, squinting like he's confronted with a bad Twinkie mirage.

"What circus did you escape from?"

It was a friendly warning, gosh. Taako's suspicions are confirmed; this is a rude fancy boy. That's fine, even rude children deserve knives, assuming they have the necessary compensation. And rude or not, that was kind of a good comeback, even if Taako's response is an offended sniff and a healthy dose of judgment.

"Hoo boy, you are not ready for island life. I'm probably the most normal thing you're going to see today, lil dude. And you're in the circus right here with us, may as well get used to it."

The idea that he isn't the person most equipped to handle 'island life' on the damn planet is so absurd that it does put a few things into perspective. Stupid ears don't rate all that high on the weirdness scale, all things considered, he was just taken by surprise. Which he quickly brushes off with a roll of his eyes.

"Yeah well I'm not here to be patronized by a guy with popcorn stuck to his pointy hat," he retorts, slipping one hand into his pocket and gesturing dismissively hat-wards with the knife. "So are you gonna try to sell me something or are you just here to make balloon animals?"

In Taako's defense, most of the edible hat ornaments have long since been devoured by birds, but maybe as defenses go that one should be kept under the hat and in his mind. Also he's pretty sure most stores ban you if you wave knives at the staff, so he feels like he's really gone to the middle of this bridge and beyond, already, in terms of effort made. Gremlins today.

"I'm not going to try anything, that's not the Taako way," he says, audibly secure in the knowledge that this infant in fact is here to be patronized by a guy with a statement-hat, and now a rather defiantly proud stance as well. "This is the island's first and best store, stocked with only the finest magically sourced goods money can buy. Except we haven't gotten around to inventing money yet, so it's barter only. Whatever, this is basically your one-stop-shop for survival, if you're new."

Service does not appear. What does appear from the stock room is Connor, who steadfastly does not actually work at the Denny, despite hanging out there all the time and providing a number of things in the stock room. He's dropping off some shit and normally he does it at bizarre times like 3AM so nobody catches him doing it, but this is one of the times he was kind of hoping to catch one of his friends who do work at the Denny. Nobody's around, though, probably because they're all on the new island or some shit he would really, really rather Not.

He would also really, really rather Not deal with this child that's in the Denny when he comes out of the stock room, but also he's the only one here right now and he can't be - well he's rude to anybody he's ever interacted with, but the point is he can't just walk out without at least acknowledging this child.

"Are you, like, looking for someone?" Service is absolutely not a skill Connor possesses, which is definitely why he doesn't fucking work at the Denny. "Because that's what the rocky-talkie is for."

So the service around here is abysmal, then. A fact which Five has even less patience for than usual at the moment, because if he doesn't get a drink in the next fifteen minutes he is absolutely going to lose his mind. No doubt Dolores would have something snippy to say about that, which is frankly just another reason why he needs it.

He sits up expectantly when someone finally shows up, only to frown at his attitude and general milquetoast appearance. Is this guy even old enough to be working at a bar?

"Yeah, actually, I am looking for someone," he retorts, unpleasant smile forming on his face. "Someone who knows where this place keeps its liquor. So be a pal and get me a drink, will ya?" If he has to climb over the counter and show this boy how to make a margarita, so help him god.

On the one hand: Tim will look at him and do that thing where he's not mad, just disappointed? If Connor serves alcohol. Like if he serves alcohol and if he serves it to a - well ok. In fairness? This could be like Interview with A Vampire and this child-shaped person is actually a thousand years old? So mostly it's the first thing.

"It's free real estate." When in doubt: meme yourself out of a situation. "Wine's over there."

He really does have to do everything himself, doesn't he. Unbelievable. For a second he looks ready to go full white suburban mom on this guy, but ultimately, is it really worth it to deal with some inscrutable bullshit when the alcohol is just around a corner? He shakes his head in resignation and simply blinks into the back where he was pointing, immediately setting to opening and smelling the contents of various barrels and clay containers.

"You got anything stronger back here?"

"Here's the thing: I can't tell you where we keep the moonshine, because there's technically rules here." Connor's just leaning against a table now, clearly not helping. "You're gonna tell me you're like a thousand years old or whatever, but you look twelve and that's the problem, 'cause rule number 1 is don't be a dick and rule number 2 is don't serve alcohol to minors."

Those aren't exactly the rules, but it's the spirit of them and that's mostly what matters here because Connor's the son of a lawyer and the one thing he knows how to work is loopholes. As much as he hates his dad, he did learn a couple of things from him.

"So I can't serve you alcohol, right? And I can't tell you where the moonshine is, but if you find that shit yourself then I'm not on the hook."

He'll still feel bad about it later, but everyone has a vice and Connor would be a total hypocrite if he chastised someone for theirs.

Technically, Five probably appreciates that this guy is staying out of his way while he systematically rifles through the entire stock back here. He's probably the first person who's being sensible about his appearance too, even if that acceptance seems to be born of complete indifference. He snorts derisively while he's sticking his finger into something sweet-smelling that, disappointingly, turns out to be coconut water.

"Your moral fiber and dedication to the rules are truly impressive," he responds, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You know neutrality is complicity, right?" As much as Five hates his dad, he's not above using some of his self-congratulatory bullshit when it suits him.

He finally comes across a promising looking barrel with a spigot at the bottom, casually pops back up at the counter with a faint whoop of displaced air to grab a cup, and jumps back to the barrel to see what he's found. "And it's 58, actually."

"Oh, I don't give a shit about moral fiber. If I cared about that, I would've told you we don't have alcohol."

That's probably what Tim or someone would do, because they have. They can spare the spoons to care about what bullshit other people are getting up to. He barely has enough spoons to remember how to take care of himself most days, he's not about to stick his nose in other people's business and try to fix their problems. Connor isn't stupid enough to overlook that anyone willing to dig for a fix has a problem whether they want to admit it or not.

That's not his business, though, so he's fuckin staying in his own lane. If this old man who looks like a child wants to fuckin drink himself to death then whatever. All Connor has to do is stay out of the crossfire.

"All I care about is being able to say I didn't technically break the rules." Five blinks in and out of being, and Connor manages to be slightly surprised by something. It doesn't happen often, anymore, but most people here don't use their powers so casually. "Neat trick, Nightcrawler."

Tim's just coming in from the back with a new set of freshly carved bowls when he recognizes the smell of whiskey - and then realizes who's drinking it. And frowns.

"Who gave you that?" He's assuming someone gave him that, because otherwise...

He's not sure he wants to think about the otherwise there. He sets the bowls on the counter and starts making his way around to Five's table, muttering under his breath:

"No one's supposed to be serving underaged kids here. That's like the one rule we have besides don't start fights, god damn it..."

Oh shit, it's the fuzz! Just kidding, Five has never respected anyone attempting to be any sort of authority around him and he never will. Being very and pleasantly drunk definitely doesn't change that.

What it does do is make him oddly, possibly eerily cheerful. He looks up from his thousand-yard stare at Tim's approach, switching on a smile and raising his cup in greeting. "Tom!" Close enough. "Sit down, grab a drink!"

If he pretends he can tolerate people, he won't have to drink alone, right?

"You're like, twelve," he says, sounding more annoyed than scandalized. Doesn't bother correcting his name. Instead, he digs the notebook out from his pack, flips it around to indicate that it is of relatively high quality - and bigger than the one Five took off Tim in the first place. Eight hundred pages, with the addition a ballpoint pen.

"I'll trade you if you knock it off."

Even as deep into his third cup as Five is, his eyes are immediately drawn to the hefty book and its empty pages on display. The notebook he's been using is spread open on the table in front of him, a good third already filled with equations and notes. Apparently Tim was being serious about how much he wanted it back.

Which is exactly what makes his attempted bribery so funny. Gave it the ol' college try, but the foundation's a bit flawed, isn't it? His smile stretches into something deeply and smugly amused.

"Let's not worry about all that right now," he offers genially. "Got nothing but time, don't we?" He snorts like that's incredibly hilarious, barely stifling a giggle.

"You are fucking wasted, and you definitely shouldn't be. Who the hell gave it to you? Did you just take it?" He's beginning to suspect that the little shit just up and stole the liquor himself, seeing as he can't really see anyone just giving it to him, no questions off. He vets the people who work here better than that. It's practically the first goddamn rule of the establishment.

Either way, someone's prepubescent livers are probably not equipped to handle vast quantities of fucking alcohol.

"You need some water. Or...how much have you had, anyway?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[mostly open] Been a long time gone

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