Been a long couple of months.
First of all, my dad did end up having surgery. He had to have his heart pump replaced. Unfortunately, that now means a new round of getting him back on his feet. Literally. He's weak as a kitten. I hate seeing him like this. I just hate it. Right now, my oldest sister is here, and she's helping, but she's headed back home as of Sunday. After that, it's just Mom and me, with an assist from my brother if we need him. I hope we'll be enough. Dad's just glad to be out of the hospital, and I don't blame him. It just somehow feels wrong that I'm now the strong one in the household. I guess that's what eventually happens with parents and kids, but it still kind of sucks.
On a more pleasant note, mermaidrain came down in June, and we had a great time touring Oregon. We visited a few friends while she was here, including hogwartswitch, who graciously housed us and let us raid her frozen yogurt shop. In thanks for this, I present to you: Harry Dresden and Atticus O'Sullivan at Mac's. Warning: Some salty language, because these boys are blasted.
"Seriously, though."
"Don't."
"But he's gotta--"
"My place to drink. Do not taunt the Happy Fun Barman lest he cast us out into the cold, beerless night."
Atticus subsided, scowling at his latest beer. "Still think he cribbed from Gobhniu. This beer's just too good." He swilled the last of it.
"Don't care," said Harry from beside him. "Let 'im be."
"Right." Atticus carefully picked up a new beer, which required more concentration than he thought it ought to. It occurred to him that he was drunk. "So, have you had to give much thought to Ragnarok?"
Harry sat up marginally straighter and rubbed a hand over his face. It occurred to Atticus that he was drunk. "Um, got a glimpse of Odin's armory for it once. Pretty badass. Odin's pretty badass. He likes me, y'know."
Atticus scowled again. "He hates me. Sheesh, you make one raid on Asgard--okay, two--and the guy's got no sense of humor whatsoever."
"Well, you did kind of kill some gods and tried to sell his daughter to the Jotuns," Harry pointed out. "That was a real asshole move, you know that?"
"Yes, I know that," Atticus snapped. "I was dealing with some not-very-good options at the moment. Looking back, I should've listened to Jesus. Hint, kid: Jesus shows up and tells you not to do something, don't do it. Not worth the trouble."
"Never met Jesus," said Harry. "I know some friends of His, though. Good people. Mostly, I get to deal with Mr. Sunshine."
"Mr. Sunshine?"
Harry very carefully set down his latest beer. "The archangel Uriel. Protip there: You can call him Mr. Sunshine, but do not try shortening his name. Hoo, boy."
Atticus started in on a new beer himself. "Okay, so, have you dealt with any Greek gods?"
"Just Hades," Harry said cheerfully. "He liked me. Him and his dog Spot." For some reason, he guffawed.
The Iron Druid glared at nothing in particular. "Yeah, they don't like me much, either. Bacchus, though--Bacchus is a special kind of dickweasel."
"Well, you're not a very likable guy," said Harry. "I'm likable."
"Which is why everybody from the Chicago Mob to the Fae Courts has tried to stomp you out of existence?"
"I said I'm likable. Never said I wasn't annoying." That clarified, Harry took another swig of beer.
"You're annoying on an epic scale," Atticus agreed. He drank again, too, and then thought hard. "Speaking of, you got any kids, Harry?"
"Yeah, one daughter. Well, two. Kind of."
"Kind of?"
"Brain baby. A spirit of intellect. Look, man, that whole thing was weird even for me." Harry shook his head and drank. "You got kids?"
Atticus grinned. "Oh, yeah. I've had about . . . oh, let's ballpark it at forty over the centuries."
Harry spewed. "Forty?"
"Ballpark. Could be more. Hey, you get to be my age, you'll rack 'em up, too."
Harry gave that some thought. "So, man, how do you know who all your descendents are?"
"Uh . . ." Atticus thought about it and shrugged. "I guess I could search for a blood bond with my faery specs, but it's not something I do routinely."
Harry looked disturbed. "So, how do you know you're not accidentally banging your great-great-something grandkid?"
Atticus stared at him, appalled. "Shit, man, why'd you have to say that? Now I'm gonna feel all weird next time I see Granuaile!"
"Sorry."
"You don't just say shit like that to a guy!"
"Said I was sorry."
"Doesn't help my neuroses. Damn, man, I'm gonna be all despondent now."
Harry shoved another bill across the counter at Mac, who gave him a Look and a couple more beers. Harry pushed one at Atticus. "Here. Drink to forget."
Atticus did so, and slowly began to look less disturbed. Finally, he said, "Lessee, how about vampires?"
"Fuck 'em!"
"Vampire politics?"
"Sideways!"
"Fae politics?"
"With a chainsaw!"
"Fallen angels?"
Harry thumped down his bottle. "Seriously, fuck those guys! You've had those in your neck of the woods?"
"Basasel. Ugly thing." Atticus snickered. "Coyote shoved a blessed arrow up his ass."
Harry found that hilarious. When he'd finally recovered (and gotten back on his barstool), he asked, "You didn't touch the coin, did you? There's always a coin."
"Didn't see one, but it was kind of messy when he died. Stank like literal Hell, too."
"Good. Never touch the coins. Oh, and if you run into a--a dickweasel named Nicodemus with a creepy living shadow, just remember: There is no such thing as overkill. And don't let him try to talk you into doing him any favors. Dude has serious Chronic Backstabbing Disorder."
"Duly noted." Atticus scratched at his goatee. "Succubi."
Harry lifted a finger. "Don't fuck 'em."
Both of them laughed at that, perhaps a little louder and longer than they would've if they hadn't been roaringly drunk. "Okay, how about disturbingly attractive apprentices?"
"Them, either."
This time, it was Atticus's turn to fall off his barstool. When he got back on, he said, "Yeah, at least wait for them to stop being your apprentice. Then it's okay."
"Okay for you and Granule," said Harry.
"Granuaile," Atticus corrected him, and not for the first time that night. "And may I just say she's a fan of a man with some experience under his belt?" He chuckled, feeling clever.
Harry waved a hand. "Whatever. She doesn't have a mom like Charity Carpenter. Woman likes swords and warhammers, but is not opposed to the use of a shotgun. I've been shot dead once, and I don't think I want to repeat the experience."
Atticus nodded. "Yeah, it sucks, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," Harry sighed. He brooded over the last of his beer. "Dude, our lives. Just, our lives."
Atticus offered him a bottle to clink, and they both drank again. Their attention was then drawn by a minor commotion near the doorway, where Mouse and Oberon were chewing some bones and . . . rolling on the floor with their tongues hanging out.
"'Sup with them?" Harry asked blearily.
Atticus squinted at Oberon and listened through their mental bond for a moment. Then he said, "Something about naked werewolves and explosions in your apartment?"
Harry gaped at Mouse in an injured way. "You're telling that story? I thought you were on my side!" He tried to get up, failed miserably, and wound up unconscious on the floor.
Atticus toasted his prone body. "And the Irishman wins at drinking, yet again. Shouldn't'a gotten into it with a champ, kid." He turned back to the counter, leaned across, and beckoned Mac closer.
"Hey, man, just between the two of us, have you ever been to Tir Na Nog?"
On a more pleasant note, mermaidrain came down in June, and we had a great time touring Oregon. We visited a few friends while she was here, including hogwartswitch, who graciously housed us and let us raid her frozen yogurt shop. In thanks for this, I present to you: Harry Dresden and Atticus O'Sullivan at Mac's. Warning: Some salty language, because these boys are blasted.
"Seriously, though."
"Don't."
"But he's gotta--"
"My place to drink. Do not taunt the Happy Fun Barman lest he cast us out into the cold, beerless night."
Atticus subsided, scowling at his latest beer. "Still think he cribbed from Gobhniu. This beer's just too good." He swilled the last of it.
"Don't care," said Harry from beside him. "Let 'im be."
"Right." Atticus carefully picked up a new beer, which required more concentration than he thought it ought to. It occurred to him that he was drunk. "So, have you had to give much thought to Ragnarok?"
Harry sat up marginally straighter and rubbed a hand over his face. It occurred to Atticus that he was drunk. "Um, got a glimpse of Odin's armory for it once. Pretty badass. Odin's pretty badass. He likes me, y'know."
Atticus scowled again. "He hates me. Sheesh, you make one raid on Asgard--okay, two--and the guy's got no sense of humor whatsoever."
"Well, you did kind of kill some gods and tried to sell his daughter to the Jotuns," Harry pointed out. "That was a real asshole move, you know that?"
"Yes, I know that," Atticus snapped. "I was dealing with some not-very-good options at the moment. Looking back, I should've listened to Jesus. Hint, kid: Jesus shows up and tells you not to do something, don't do it. Not worth the trouble."
"Never met Jesus," said Harry. "I know some friends of His, though. Good people. Mostly, I get to deal with Mr. Sunshine."
"Mr. Sunshine?"
Harry very carefully set down his latest beer. "The archangel Uriel. Protip there: You can call him Mr. Sunshine, but do not try shortening his name. Hoo, boy."
Atticus started in on a new beer himself. "Okay, so, have you dealt with any Greek gods?"
"Just Hades," Harry said cheerfully. "He liked me. Him and his dog Spot." For some reason, he guffawed.
The Iron Druid glared at nothing in particular. "Yeah, they don't like me much, either. Bacchus, though--Bacchus is a special kind of dickweasel."
"Well, you're not a very likable guy," said Harry. "I'm likable."
"Which is why everybody from the Chicago Mob to the Fae Courts has tried to stomp you out of existence?"
"I said I'm likable. Never said I wasn't annoying." That clarified, Harry took another swig of beer.
"You're annoying on an epic scale," Atticus agreed. He drank again, too, and then thought hard. "Speaking of, you got any kids, Harry?"
"Yeah, one daughter. Well, two. Kind of."
"Kind of?"
"Brain baby. A spirit of intellect. Look, man, that whole thing was weird even for me." Harry shook his head and drank. "You got kids?"
Atticus grinned. "Oh, yeah. I've had about . . . oh, let's ballpark it at forty over the centuries."
Harry spewed. "Forty?"
"Ballpark. Could be more. Hey, you get to be my age, you'll rack 'em up, too."
Harry gave that some thought. "So, man, how do you know who all your descendents are?"
"Uh . . ." Atticus thought about it and shrugged. "I guess I could search for a blood bond with my faery specs, but it's not something I do routinely."
Harry looked disturbed. "So, how do you know you're not accidentally banging your great-great-something grandkid?"
Atticus stared at him, appalled. "Shit, man, why'd you have to say that? Now I'm gonna feel all weird next time I see Granuaile!"
"Sorry."
"You don't just say shit like that to a guy!"
"Said I was sorry."
"Doesn't help my neuroses. Damn, man, I'm gonna be all despondent now."
Harry shoved another bill across the counter at Mac, who gave him a Look and a couple more beers. Harry pushed one at Atticus. "Here. Drink to forget."
Atticus did so, and slowly began to look less disturbed. Finally, he said, "Lessee, how about vampires?"
"Fuck 'em!"
"Vampire politics?"
"Sideways!"
"Fae politics?"
"With a chainsaw!"
"Fallen angels?"
Harry thumped down his bottle. "Seriously, fuck those guys! You've had those in your neck of the woods?"
"Basasel. Ugly thing." Atticus snickered. "Coyote shoved a blessed arrow up his ass."
Harry found that hilarious. When he'd finally recovered (and gotten back on his barstool), he asked, "You didn't touch the coin, did you? There's always a coin."
"Didn't see one, but it was kind of messy when he died. Stank like literal Hell, too."
"Good. Never touch the coins. Oh, and if you run into a--a dickweasel named Nicodemus with a creepy living shadow, just remember: There is no such thing as overkill. And don't let him try to talk you into doing him any favors. Dude has serious Chronic Backstabbing Disorder."
"Duly noted." Atticus scratched at his goatee. "Succubi."
Harry lifted a finger. "Don't fuck 'em."
Both of them laughed at that, perhaps a little louder and longer than they would've if they hadn't been roaringly drunk. "Okay, how about disturbingly attractive apprentices?"
"Them, either."
This time, it was Atticus's turn to fall off his barstool. When he got back on, he said, "Yeah, at least wait for them to stop being your apprentice. Then it's okay."
"Okay for you and Granule," said Harry.
"Granuaile," Atticus corrected him, and not for the first time that night. "And may I just say she's a fan of a man with some experience under his belt?" He chuckled, feeling clever.
Harry waved a hand. "Whatever. She doesn't have a mom like Charity Carpenter. Woman likes swords and warhammers, but is not opposed to the use of a shotgun. I've been shot dead once, and I don't think I want to repeat the experience."
Atticus nodded. "Yeah, it sucks, doesn't it?"
"Yeah," Harry sighed. He brooded over the last of his beer. "Dude, our lives. Just, our lives."
Atticus offered him a bottle to clink, and they both drank again. Their attention was then drawn by a minor commotion near the doorway, where Mouse and Oberon were chewing some bones and . . . rolling on the floor with their tongues hanging out.
"'Sup with them?" Harry asked blearily.
Atticus squinted at Oberon and listened through their mental bond for a moment. Then he said, "Something about naked werewolves and explosions in your apartment?"
Harry gaped at Mouse in an injured way. "You're telling that story? I thought you were on my side!" He tried to get up, failed miserably, and wound up unconscious on the floor.
Atticus toasted his prone body. "And the Irishman wins at drinking, yet again. Shouldn't'a gotten into it with a champ, kid." He turned back to the counter, leaned across, and beckoned Mac closer.
"Hey, man, just between the two of us, have you ever been to Tir Na Nog?"