(no subject)
It's mid-morning when Dave comes barreling into Milliways through his door, the sound of growling and barking not far behind. He slams the heavy slab of wood shut and leans against it as he tries to catch his breath, then eventually sinks down to a sitting position.
As he rests his forehead on he knees, he starts to laugh in that hysterical way that suggests he's had a very, very, incredibly long day.
Even though it's been a week since Milliways has seen Dave, it's only been a handful of hours since Dave has seen Milliways. It's still his birthday.
His twenty-first birthday has officially beat out his eleventh birthday for the coveted "Worst Birthday in History" title. Yeah, sure, his eleventh was filled with complete humiliation and what he thought was temporary insanity, but at least he didn't have to run from any magical effing wolves.
Something scratches at the door to his back and he springs to his feet, making a bee-line for the bar. Thankfully, nothing makes a move to jiggle the knob or push the door open, and the sound stops as quickly as it started. Dave, knees weak and heart racing, slides onto the nearest bar stool and decides it's time for that drink.
He orders a Corona, but it's more of a formality than anything. It seemed like the appropriate thing to do, especially given the state he's in, but he feels more like distractedly picking the label off of the bottle than drinking from it.
At least he's not accusing it of being a hallucination?
As he rests his forehead on he knees, he starts to laugh in that hysterical way that suggests he's had a very, very, incredibly long day.
Even though it's been a week since Milliways has seen Dave, it's only been a handful of hours since Dave has seen Milliways. It's still his birthday.
His twenty-first birthday has officially beat out his eleventh birthday for the coveted "Worst Birthday in History" title. Yeah, sure, his eleventh was filled with complete humiliation and what he thought was temporary insanity, but at least he didn't have to run from any magical effing wolves.
Something scratches at the door to his back and he springs to his feet, making a bee-line for the bar. Thankfully, nothing makes a move to jiggle the knob or push the door open, and the sound stops as quickly as it started. Dave, knees weak and heart racing, slides onto the nearest bar stool and decides it's time for that drink.
He orders a Corona, but it's more of a formality than anything. It seemed like the appropriate thing to do, especially given the state he's in, but he feels more like distractedly picking the label off of the bottle than drinking from it.
At least he's not accusing it of being a hallucination?