Parker in the bar, slightly frowning, as he holds a glass of whiskey.

Shrugging, he settles down at a table and deals himself a game of solitaire.

Anyone looking near the observation window this evening will probably notice the man sitting beneath it. He has dark hair, is wearing dark shades and his suit is so black and sleek and exquisitely tailored that it could probably make every tailor on Savile Row weep with envy. He's also smoking a cigarette that never seems to burn down and is ( Read more... )

Parker shrugs out of his coat on his way to the bar, grinning insouciantly at the rest of the place.

"Home sweet kidnapper," he mutters. Settling down at a table, he flags down a waitrat and asks for a beer.

It's been a while since Parker entered Milliways, and it shows. His entire demeanor, almost relaxed when he opened the door shifts to a more closed language.

Taking a cigarette out of his pocket, he lights it and takes a seat at the bar.

Knocking on the wood, he says, "Keep that door open, you hear?"

Parker opens the door, sleepy and shirtless, his worn work out pants hanging off his hips ( Read more... )

Parker steps in, shuffling a worn pack of cards, and grabs a table near the bar. With a half grin, he scratches something on a piece of leftover paper left on the table and folds it into a sign.

Poker lessons for beer.

He shuffles again and deals out a hand of solitaire.

The bells aren't half as surprising as they used to be.

Really, after three years, one should start getting used to unexpected clothing changes - to clinking and jangling accompanying the second half of her walk to the couches. It doesn't stop the creeping blush over the suddenly greater amount of exposed flesh, but it does prompt a quiet smile ( Read more... )

Parker is bleeding through the bandage on his arm and starts to say, "Jack, do we have any more...?"

Frowning, he looks around. Bar. Not Italy. Med supplies?

"Hey, can I have some more bandages?"

Parker is bleeding through a bandage on his arm, drinking good tequila out of a shot glass.

He hasn't noticed the blood yet - just the smell of the bar and the flow of strangers.

Jack is curled up in an armchair, hanging onto her tea like a comfort blanket and looking mildly upset.

Life couldn't just stay normal for five minutes, could it?