((OOC: Another party thread. You know how it goes. And if you don't... ask! ^^ Happy Riftversary! Even if it's two hours until... it's over. :/ I'm sorry I'm slow
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Des is sitting on a barstool with his back against the bar, nursing what is either his fourth or fifth Sudden Headache and watching the TV that's now broadcasting Flagg's speech. He's not quite drunk yet, because his alcohol tolerance is weirdly high, but he's buzzed.
He waves his flute at the TV and says, to no one in particular, "You know, when bastards like that are too charming for their own good, they probably are." Which makes all the sense to Des and is probably redundant to anyone else.
Abby is buzzed enough herself to laugh rather than roll her eyes. "Here-here. Glad I've no part in American politics."
She tips back the remainder of her Happy Ending and signals for another one. "I think Washington D.C.'s got enough grease to oil a world's worth of engines."
Des holds up his drink in either a mock toast or a terrible impersonation of the Statue of Liberty. "Here, here! And God save the Queen... Jesus, the Rift likes to spit out Brits, doesn't it? I think there are more English people here than Americans- my cat's British."
Sadly, Des is not that drunk. That is just how he talks sometimes and it's something he's been meaning to bring up anyway. There are a disproportionate number of Brits in Chicago and he feels bad for them.
"Your cat. Is British." Uhhhh huh. She certainly thinks he's drunk off his ass. "And I could say 'what the hell's the Rift' and then you'd be stuck explaining to someone who hasn't a clue what's really going on in this city."
Slurp. "Fortunately for you, I won't." Goddamn Rift. "So, you're a Rifter too?"
"She is!" Des flails a bit, because, dammit, he may be buzzed, but he's not lying about the British cat. "And, hey, if you live in this city and haven't been told what the Rift is, I think you need to be informed. I could make pamphlets or... Something."
Considering the sort of briefings Des tends to give people when they fall through, those pamphlets would either be the worst thing ever or the best thing ever.
He raises his glass a bit more discreetly this time. "Goin' on a year now. Take it for granted not many people know about it, all things considered." He tosses back his drink and leans back to grin at the bartender for another, because ordering drinks without speaking is the thing to do.
Oh god. A year. She drinks a bit more slowly while Des receives his next, a little bit horrified and a lot curious. "You haven't left Chicago. Why's that?"
Des leans forward a bit on the stool and explains in a tone of voice that suggests that this a perfectly obvious answer, "See when she talks, she has this accent, and it's distinctly British."
He shrugs and leans back against the bar, crossing his legs. "Because everything I've come to know and love in this place is here. Tabula rasa, sunshine. It's a concept you learn to embrace after awhile."
And she stares at her drink. Talking cat, okay, fine. Seriously not the most unreasonable thing she's encountered here. But embracing the idea of tabula rasa? So not going to fucking happen. Her drink is glowing now.
Damnit.
"I'm going back to Britain this summer. Look for an anomaly that might get me home."
Des notes the drink, wonders how drunk he is, checks his own as soon as the bartender brings it out to make sure it's not glowing, and then looks back over at Abby.
"Good luck with that," he says, without a trace of sarcasm or condescension. "Also am I losin' my mind, drunker than I thought, or is your drink glowing?"
When he called her sunshine, he didn't mean for it to be literal.
"You may be losing your mind or drunker than you thought, but yes, my drink is glowing." She knocks it back so it will go away but now Des's drink, her glass, and various other shiny surfaces in her general vicinity are shimmering.
A slight mental growl, which accompanies a brief, brighter pulse. Abby closes her eyes, tries to calm down, focus--when she opens them again the glow has subsided back to just being her glass and Des's drink.
"Yeah." She scowls. It's what the Rift did to her. Pulled her out of her life and gave her a useless ability that makes keeping her emotional state private all but impossible.
It's like being raped, she realizes. Absolute removal of choice--only there's no one to blame, no one to fight back against. She groans, digging a hand into her hair and then resting her head on the bar's counter. "This is not why I wanted to get drunk. This is not why I wanted to get drunk."
Des winces a bit and runs a hand through his hair and giving it a good tousle before going back to his drink. "Sorry 'bout that. Guess I take it for granted that not everyone just resigns themselves to this."
It doesn't really help much that he likes it here, a few things aside. It's not really the same for everyone else, especially not for people who aren't used to resting on their laurels and accepting fate... Not that Des is really the sort of person who accepts fate, himself, but, well, accepting fate's not so bad when you're used to explosions and chaos even back home and you've got a life you find to be reasonably awesome.
"If it helps, one of these days, that damn thing might get reversed." He dreads that day. Secretly.
"Watch it be when I'm not here." Yes, Abby's cynicism is showing. She sighs. "Sorry, don't mean to be a downer on parade day."
She takes another drink and looks at the TV, which now holds the image of a reporter enthusing about something while, in the background, Flagg meets his public--including a white-haired and weird looking girl in a trench coat.
"Oh look, the crazies are coming out already. Poor guy." She drains her drink and considers the health hazard of ordering another as the image cuts to recaps of the parade.
"Nah, anyone who has a parade in the middle of January is askin' for everyone to be in a bad mood. Have you seen how cold it is out there?" He waves a hand, brushing the whole thing off.
Des just so happens to flick his eyes over to the TV and does a rather spectacular spittake at the sight of Cy in the background. "Oh fucking hell. Ten minutes. You can't leave her alone for goddamn ten minutes."
If Cy gets arrested, he is going to be so very unhappy.
He waves his flute at the TV and says, to no one in particular, "You know, when bastards like that are too charming for their own good, they probably are." Which makes all the sense to Des and is probably redundant to anyone else.
It is going to be a long night.
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She tips back the remainder of her Happy Ending and signals for another one. "I think Washington D.C.'s got enough grease to oil a world's worth of engines."
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Sadly, Des is not that drunk. That is just how he talks sometimes and it's something he's been meaning to bring up anyway. There are a disproportionate number of Brits in Chicago and he feels bad for them.
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Slurp. "Fortunately for you, I won't." Goddamn Rift. "So, you're a Rifter too?"
Yes, she just made the term up.
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Considering the sort of briefings Des tends to give people when they fall through, those pamphlets would either be the worst thing ever or the best thing ever.
He raises his glass a bit more discreetly this time. "Goin' on a year now. Take it for granted not many people know about it, all things considered." He tosses back his drink and leans back to grin at the bartender for another, because ordering drinks without speaking is the thing to do.
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Oh god. A year. She drinks a bit more slowly while Des receives his next, a little bit horrified and a lot curious. "You haven't left Chicago. Why's that?"
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He shrugs and leans back against the bar, crossing his legs. "Because everything I've come to know and love in this place is here. Tabula rasa, sunshine. It's a concept you learn to embrace after awhile."
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Damnit.
"I'm going back to Britain this summer. Look for an anomaly that might get me home."
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"Good luck with that," he says, without a trace of sarcasm or condescension. "Also am I losin' my mind, drunker than I thought, or is your drink glowing?"
When he called her sunshine, he didn't mean for it to be literal.
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A slight mental growl, which accompanies a brief, brighter pulse. Abby closes her eyes, tries to calm down, focus--when she opens them again the glow has subsided back to just being her glass and Des's drink.
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Unless she's just the sort of person who spontaneously makes things glow, which, honestly wouldn't surprise Des. He's seen weirder.
"You're better off than I am anyway. If I could make things glow, I think I'd be pretty okay with the Rift's shenanigans."
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It's like being raped, she realizes. Absolute removal of choice--only there's no one to blame, no one to fight back against. She groans, digging a hand into her hair and then resting her head on the bar's counter. "This is not why I wanted to get drunk. This is not why I wanted to get drunk."
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It doesn't really help much that he likes it here, a few things aside. It's not really the same for everyone else, especially not for people who aren't used to resting on their laurels and accepting fate... Not that Des is really the sort of person who accepts fate, himself, but, well, accepting fate's not so bad when you're used to explosions and chaos even back home and you've got a life you find to be reasonably awesome.
"If it helps, one of these days, that damn thing might get reversed." He dreads that day. Secretly.
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She takes another drink and looks at the TV, which now holds the image of a reporter enthusing about something while, in the background, Flagg meets his public--including a white-haired and weird looking girl in a trench coat.
"Oh look, the crazies are coming out already. Poor guy." She drains her drink and considers the health hazard of ordering another as the image cuts to recaps of the parade.
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Des just so happens to flick his eyes over to the TV and does a rather spectacular spittake at the sight of Cy in the background. "Oh fucking hell. Ten minutes. You can't leave her alone for goddamn ten minutes."
If Cy gets arrested, he is going to be so very unhappy.
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