(Untitled)

[the_old_bean]

"Blimey," Bertie says as he walks through the front door. "This place again, is it?"

He shrugs and makes his way to the bar. "G and T, if you please, madame," he says, adding, "Cheers," when the glass pops up.

tiny!tag: Bertie Wooster

[ooc: It's late, and I must to bed. Slowtimes/fades all around, pls?]

Comments

[sous_thief]

[OOC: I'm off to bed shortly, but I couldn't resist. XD]

Steven pauses in this middle of his own pint to stare. "Blimey"? "G and T"? Dressed like that? Is this guy for fucking real?

Maguire told him about different times and whatever, but no one has ever actually acted like every ancient English stereotype rolled into one.

As a Welshman living in America, Steven is the tiniest bit sensitive about English stereotypes. Most Americans don't even know Wales exists.

[the_old_bean]

Bertie is, in many ways, a walking stereotype. Most definitely a product of his time.

At the moment, though, he's quite happy with his G and T, and smiling at anyone who catches his eye. The young man down the bar is no exception.

[sous_thief]

Steven shrugs and raises his glass in acknowledgment. He doesn't usually do the sitting and drinking on his own thing. It's just sad. And a walking stereotype is marginally better than no company at all.

He can't possibly be worse than Jim, anyway.

[the_old_bean]

"What ho," Bertie says, raising his own glass in return.

[sous_thief]

. . . of course he does.

"Hello, mate," Steven says. All right, fine. He knows. But at least it's a stereotype currently in use. "How's it going?"

[the_old_bean]

"Can't complain at the moment," Bertie answers, smiling a bit. "And how are things for you?"

[sous_thief]

"Got myself stuck in a bar that does perfect pints when I'm supposed to be at work listening to Jack bitch about everything he can find and everything he can make up because his girlfriend dumped him." Steven grins. "Guess I can't complain either."

[the_old_bean]

Bertie understands most of that.

"Bitch?"

The word has quite a different meaning in Bertie's time.

[sous_thief]

"Oh. You know. Whine, moan, complain - listen, what year are you from, because this get-up of yours . . ." Steven gestures with his glass, clearly believing that this completes his thought.

Which it does. After a few pints.

[the_old_bean]

"Ah, I see. Bitch. Interesting." There may be a spate of black eyes at the Drones over the next couple of weeks once Bertie brings that one back.

He's just beginning to get used to this 'all different times' aspect of Milliways. "1927. You?"

[sous_thief]

If Steven were concentrating, he would recognize and shamelessly exploit this chance to make ancient slang a little more interesting. It's probably just as well that he isn't.

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense." As much as any other answer might, anyway, and more than some. "I'm 2005," he says. "Never thought I'd have to go around telling that to people."

[the_old_bean]

Bertie's face looks like this: O.O!

"2005. Blimey. You're right into the next millennium." Master of the Obvious here.

[sous_thief]

"Sure am, peaches," Steven says brightly. "Flying cars and everything."

[the_old_bean]

'Peaches' gets tucked away for examination later. It may create another black-eye breakout.

"Flying cars? I say!"

Come now, it's not nice to tease the gullible man from the past.

[sous_thief]

Who ever said Steven was nice?

"Oh, yeah," he says, grinning. "Robots, too. Artificial intelligence and things. It's great." He holds up his bandaged hand, the fingertip of which was cut off just last week by a very sharp cleaver. "Still had to get this sewn back on by hand, though."

[the_old_bean]

The Narrations makes no assumptions whatsoever about Steven's character.

Bertie, however, will assume him to be trustworthy until proven otherwise.

"Robots?" Another word not commonly in use in Bertie's time.

He glances warily at Steven's hand. "I say. Rum luck there, old chap."