(Untitled)

[winewomenand]

Robin Goodfellow sat on a stool at the bar in the Catscratch, though not particularly well. He would have been weaving on the small seat if it weren't for the fact that his head was morosely pillowed on the bar-top over his folded arms. His green eyes were dull stones, brown curls damp and plastered to his grimly pale forehead on a face in need of

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[wormholed]

John half turned towards the guy. Now Greek, the microbes nestled at the base of his brain could translate, but stone drunk? Not so much.

"Was that something sober?" he asked, grinning as he tossed down some from his own glass.

[winewomenand]

Robin himself also turned toward the voice by his shoulder, eyebrows quickly drawing up his sweaty brow. He swallowed, rubbing the butt of his palm against his hot eyelids, before trying what he'd said again, in much clearer Greek.

"I said, whatever foul, putrid little dung-beetle has brought me here should suffer an eternity lost on the Styx and have all his toe-nails fall out one by one, the wretched, misbegotten offspring of a Macedonian she-goat."

[wormholed]

"Huh," John grunted, rolling the words around in his head as one might a mouthful of wine, but the effect was an illusion. Sprawled over the chair in his leather, John was all cowboy, and, perhaps more tragically, a Miller Man.

From the stool on Robin's other side, Scorpius' ugly brow began to tighten.

Befriending those more intelligent than you will ensure your continued survival, John Crichton, but this one will do you more harm than good.

John waved the stodgy bastard off, scooting his chair closer to the stranger's. "Why Macedonian?" he asked. It seemed a salient point. "They creepier than normal goats?"

[winewomenand]

Robin heaved a loud, equine snort, before leaning over to examine John's wardrobe - his pants in particular. He managed an explanation with eyes still lazily glued to the other man's form.

"You couldn't even buy a good slave from Macedonia, let alone livestock. Don't they print history books where you hail from?"

[wormholed]

"Sure," said John easily, "but I was a science geek. My wife's the one to talk to about Macedonian slaves." Probably goats, too. Temperance pretty much knew about everything.

He sat back in his chair, and if he was bothered by the guy's eyes on his leather threads, John gave no sign. Pretty much everyone stared at them. "You a history geek?"

[winewomenand]

He watched John lean backward in his seat with the inquisitive green eyes of a cat prowling a strange barn.

"I am not an anything geek. I am just a peerlessly experienced world traveler, you confused little puppy."

[wormholed]

John wasn't a boaster. Not unless he was inebriated, or faced with a Luxan in the throes of hyper rage, but there were no Luxans here, and all that was in John's glass was cold juice. So when he asked, "Have you ever been in space?"...it was pure curiosity and nothing else. "S'pretty sweet."

[winewomenand]

The commentary was so boundlessly absurd, so inexplicably non sequitur to Goodfellow, that he was actually effectually struck dumb for a good twenty seconds, simply staring with a perplexed expression and a slack jaw.

Finally, Robin spat out: "Hades, no. I choose life. I shall be keeping my feet firmly planted on the ground which spawned me for the foreseeable future. 747s are bad enough, I've no intention on setting foot on a billion dollar death trap. Are you some sort of astronaut?"

[wormholed]

"Was," said John, unfazed by the man's vehement reply. "Then I was a fugitive, then a science experiment." Here he aimed a sour look Scorpius' way. "Then an outlaw. It was a busy couple'a cycles. But I was lucky." He drank some more of his juice. "Saw more worlds then a hundred Earths put together, but I'll tell you something. She's still the prettiest."

[winewomenand]

"Was," Robin parroted back, voice back to being somnolent with the effects of the alcohol he'd consumed. "Science experiment?" He strayed a thought Caliban's way, wherever the hell Caliban was now. Frozen in time, according to stories he had heard about the way the island worked.

"You sound like you have some good stories. Perhaps I could convince you to tell me some of them. While naked."

[wormholed]

John chuckled, tipping a surprised look into his cup of juice before he drained the rest. He hadn't been talked to like this since Leoben.

"You're a trip, man," he said, clapping the guy on the shoulder. "But you're barking up the wrong pair of bow legs. Given our choice of drinking hole, though..." John looked around, wondering if he'd wandered in on a night when men were on the stage, or women. "I can tell you stories while they're naked."

[winewomenand]

The chuckle and the hand on his shoulder got a wag of dark eyebrows from Robin. He shifted in his seat to rest one elbow on the table in front of him, cradling his chin in his palm.

"I'm more bark than bite these days, anyway." His eyes shifted to the strippers with a mild level of frustrated interest mixed with deep conflict. "But there is nothing wrong with window shopping as long as you don't make a purchase. Why don't you give me a tale I can remember? Because I sure as hell won't remember anything else about this place on leaving."