(no subject)
Some times, when the door opens, it's with a bang or some other great commotion. Some times, voices drift across from the other side.
Neither is the case this particular time.
There's the thunk of something suspiciously wooden, and then another, dull thunk of a sound right before a literal drag of something across floorboards.
In walks Lorne, albeit for a value of walking. His left arm is in a sling, he's precariously held up by a crutch and his right leg, while his left just doesn't seem to want to cooperate. The journey across the bar to Bar herself takes a while, all focus poured into staying upright.
Don't slip. Don't fall on your ass. Steady on, My Left Foot. Crutch, step, drag. Crutch, step, draaaag, and so it goes on.
Reaching the counter is like a small blessing and an answered prayer and finding yourself smack dab in a candy store all wrapped up in one, big, bombastic birthday box, gift wrapped and all. He sags a teeny little tiny bit against it, hopelessly relieved that he made it.
"Bar? ...I need a room. Please."
And lo, a key materializes, alongside a pretty little cup of raspberry sorbet, as if it's plain to see he isn't going to make it upstairs without some added help.
He very carefully doesn't wibble when faced with the token of concern, even though he's feeling wobbly all over. "You know me too well, babycakes."
Neither is the case this particular time.
There's the thunk of something suspiciously wooden, and then another, dull thunk of a sound right before a literal drag of something across floorboards.
In walks Lorne, albeit for a value of walking. His left arm is in a sling, he's precariously held up by a crutch and his right leg, while his left just doesn't seem to want to cooperate. The journey across the bar to Bar herself takes a while, all focus poured into staying upright.
Don't slip. Don't fall on your ass. Steady on, My Left Foot. Crutch, step, drag. Crutch, step, draaaag, and so it goes on.
Reaching the counter is like a small blessing and an answered prayer and finding yourself smack dab in a candy store all wrapped up in one, big, bombastic birthday box, gift wrapped and all. He sags a teeny little tiny bit against it, hopelessly relieved that he made it.
"Bar? ...I need a room. Please."
And lo, a key materializes, alongside a pretty little cup of raspberry sorbet, as if it's plain to see he isn't going to make it upstairs without some added help.
He very carefully doesn't wibble when faced with the token of concern, even though he's feeling wobbly all over. "You know me too well, babycakes."