maskormenacelogs | only in my dreams

Entry tags:

only in my dreams

WHO: Will Graham, Jorah Mormont, Rincewind's unconscious bod
WHERE: Graham Residence - Heropa
WHEN: June
WHAT: Returning stolen goods.
WARNINGS: Short shorts. Others pending.

[ If Jorah knew what time it was, he might’ve drug Rincewind back to his own place in Maurtia Falls and made arrangements to keep Darlene’s turtle from the Luggage. But he doesn’t.

So he hasn’t.

Instead he’s levering the wizard out of his sidecar at the curb, the chirping of local frogs briefly interrupted by a sprinkler system hissing to life in the wee hours behind him. His motorcycle’s engine sizzles and plinks in the humid heat, sweat lank in his hair when he gives up to pry his helmet off. It occurs to him as he stands there, inebriate and sticky, looking down on Rincewind’s unconscious corpus with one long leg out and the other bunched into the sidecar like a spider’s, that he ought to invest in a second helmet.

Somehow both of the wizard’s sandals have stayed on, and he hasn’t pissed in his short shorts, so they have that going for them. ]

Rincewind, [ he whispers, loudly, and nudges the car with his boot.

Two minutes later he’s standing at Will and April’s stoop with the wizard’s butt aimed doorwards over his shoulder like a denim bazooka, right hand locked round a scrawny wizard hamstring to keep him slithering off onto his wizard dome. In his left hand he holds the wizard’s sequined hat, knuckles curled to knock three times.

Ser Jorah himself is in boots, jeans and a checked shirt with two buttons open, half asleep on his feet. A ways around the block, the pitter patter of many dozen feet trampling down the street at speed is cut off by squealing tires.

Jorah stifles a sigh. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[It's late, so Will comes to the door. He has full faith in April's abilities to gut a man and wear his entrails, but he's older, the area he grew up in older as well. He feels this is the least he can do. Part of his vows. If he were sick, the story might change. But for now?

Will Graham opens the door without turning on the porch light. He takes in the denim bazooka, the scent of the bear man who consumed him like so many Twizzlers. Only a passing car's headlights brighten the scene, turning his eyes an odd glint for a moment. The same odd coloration Jorah has likely seen on animals when lights caught their eyes in darkness.

He stares at the starry butt. Then Jorah, lips pressed together. Then the hat. Oh goodness. They must never speak of this to the wizard.

Will is wearing boxers and a bathrobe. The bathrobe is smaller and made of silk. That makes two men in this household adorning themselves in April's wardrobe. Finally he steps aside to allow Jorah in, the ugliest tiniest dog of the house watching from around the corner to see who dared disturb her late night snack.]

Come on in.

[He goes so far as to turn on an inside light. So nice.]

[ This isn’t the first time he’s been through this doorway since the dream where he twisted off Will Graham’s human arm and swallowed it. It might not even be the first time Will’s answered the door in silk.

Jorah nods his thanks, as unphased by the wardrobe in this household as he is by the body he's carrying.

He enters with care taken to avoid bumping loose ankles and elbows and temples against the frame, sort of a side step, and looks to the rat of a dog waiting for him at the corner. An absent grimace stops before it’s fully formed, bleary manners locked down into a hard knit at his brow. ]

He vanquished a flagon, [ he says, quietly, of the wine-sweet sod on his shoulder. His own stink is earthier, whiskey and beer, leather and horse and a warm hint of grizzly. Just enough to prickle the neck.

More screeching tires squeal down the street, and Jorah nods to the door, resigned to What is Coming. ]

I’d leave it open.

[Ah, Luggage. Or so Will figures. If anything else is following them it is in for a world of hurt when they get into a house full of superpowered folks. Just a really bad decision to come here starting shit.

He leaves the door open. And snorts, just about, at the phrasing. Flagon with the dragon, chalice from the palace...Jorah wouldn't Get It.]

He's good at that. Among other things. He can put some sandwiches down. [His smile is fond. So fond of that starry little butt.] You staying the night too?

[Asks Will Graham in fine silks and little else, his voice quiet and amused despite the bit of grogginess lingering around the edges. In another world, with other masters and enemies, this would have had the purr of further invitation. Here and now Will sounds like he'd invite him for coffee or a night cap and draw the line there.]

[ It’s a shared fondness, in the entry, with Rincewind’s lifeless wrists swinging at the small of his back, and butt pocket seams scuffing through the grain of his scruff. ]

Not tonight.

[ Rarely, anymore.

His life has built itself back up into some semblance of normalcy. As normal as things can appear when you’re the paid muscle of a politician slash stripclub magnate.

Will’s robe doesn’t play into the slightly awkward silence that ensues -- he hardly seems to notice, past a drowsy sideways glance. Context is everything.

Presently the Luggage arrives, momentum wound down to a millipede shuffle in time for it to tramp across the threshold. Ser Jorah waits for it to make its way in before he shrugs Rincewind’s weight up out of the threat of a gradual slide sideways. Man butt baby. ]

I’ll put him to bed.

[Luggage does its thing and the ugly dog follows along, tail wagging. She was once called Little Fluffy Shithead. Now Will calls her Princess. And she is definitely Princess Little Fluffy Shithead when it comes to Luggage because she's about to stick to it like glue just to see what it's up to, coming in this late, what scents there are to be sniffed out. Who you been with son.]

Good idea.

[Will leads the way out of habit now. Jorah could do this on his own but with two? A bit easier. Nothing wrong with making things a bit easier. Will is there to pull the sheets down, prop up the pillow, make the crash pad ready for crashing rather than all the awkward rolling and tugging needed with just one pair of hands. How lucky is Rincewind to have such friends waiting on him hand, foot, and sequined butt?]

[ Ser Jorah stands idle at the bedside while Will preps for touchdown, patient as a plow horse under his (questionably) magical burden. One of Rincewind’s thong sandals falls to the floor with a muffled flop while he waits.

Bedding drawn back, pillow fluffed, Jorah shifts Rincewind forward to roll him down gentle-like -- the better for Will to pick up some of the slack.

It occurs to him while they’re managing arms and legs (he strips off the remaining sandal and drops it after his partner) that this is not the first time they’ve moved an unconscious body together. Deja vu gives him pause -- the likely cause apparent in a vacant look down at his hands in the sheets. He drops them over bare legs and lets Will do the rest, removed from the remainder of the scene.

Luggage makes its own arrangements, under the supervision of a small four-legged gremlin. ]

[Rincewind's poured carefully from Jorah's sturdy grip onto a bed that has probably only ever been made once. There's a murmur when the knight's arms leave him - the first sign he's given in the past hour that he's even alive (unless one counts some minor drooling). He burrows himself nose-first into his pillow, further mussing a thatch of red hair already wind-blown and sweat-spotted.]

...Mnmh, 'nother round.

[the sleeping face scrunches unhappily, and he huffs a frustrated, grape-heavy breath. His knees inch forward without any assistance from his limp torso, until the wizard's inchwormed himself into a shape not unlike the bend of an accordion. And a poorly tuned one, at that.]

Get it... with butter. 'N sour cream.

[he follows this important request up with a single snore, muffled by the folds of his pillow, and then silence as his mind, blissfully soaked, descends once again into the rare peace of a dreamless sleep. Any gratitude for his dear friends will have to wait until morning. (Or noon, more likely.)

The Luggage, feet somewhat blackened with asphalt and the debris of a possible four-car pile-up, makes its way to the nearest dresser and, without ceremony, climbs atop and hunkers down. Should Princess Fluffy manage her way up as well, she will be tolerated as a sleeping companion.]

[Will's hands are gentle and careful as can be, tugging sheets up further and making the finishing touches. Princess Fluffy cannot make it that far up. Instead she opts to curl up at Rincewind's feet, huffing at Luggage's strength of feet. Not fair. Will stands with some help from the side of the bed, makes sure Rincewind's hat is where he usually keeps it, and then gestures to the door. If Jorah wants to go first, that is, maybe he wants to stare at the sloshed starry booty.]

Thanks for bringing him home.

[Princess Fluffy makes eyes at Jorah. She moves further up so she's tucked against Rincewind's legs. Yeah. Thanks for bringing her man home, fella.]

Anything I can get you before you go? We got coffee, milk, beer... [He smiled, continuing without hesitation.] Nothing that'd cost an arm and a leg, but it's there.

[ohohohoho]

[ Jorah does not seem overly keen on studying the spill of stars across Rincewind’s tush, having already spent more time with it in his face than he’d prefer. Instead Will will find him looking to the Luggage, watching it settle on the dresser like a densely-packed dragon.

It’s somehow comforting, in its fantastical deadliness -- more real and familiar than cars or phones or televisions.

He grunts in answer to thanks, a vocal shrug stirred off the floor of his gut. Of course he brought him home. There’s probably a law against leaving your drunk friends alone at their tables for the night. There are laws against everything else. ]

I’ll take a beer, [ he murmurs, with a look that warns against making light of That One Dream.

With any luck, by the time he finishes it he’ll be sober enough to make it back to Maurtia Falls. ]

[Will meanders to the kitchen as one furry little bandit joins their party. The fluffy fella takes a running leap at silk and Will effortlessly leans a bit so the journey to his shoulder is an easy one. From there, Jorah may feel he's being watched. Because he is.

Will is definitely going to make light of That One Dream because if he doesn't he might drown in terror at, well, all of it.

In the kitchen, Will pulls out two beers. The raccoon hops off, grabs up a bottle opener, and goes to town. Fur star service up in this bitch.]

You two out for any particular reason?

[He leans over the countertop as he asks, watching the pawed beer-opener. That robe slips just enough to show a hint of nipple. Obscene af.]

No.

[ Aaand scene.

He tolerates the raccoon’s assistance the same way he does most things that don’t make sense in this world: with a kind of passive resignation, preoccupied with more pressing and persistent problems.

They were out because they didn’t have any place better to be.

Like Jorah occupies this kitchen space now -- spirit removed from modern countertops, light switches, and glowing clocks on appliances as if by a stretch of stony beach. His best prospect for the remainder of these wee hours is to return home to an empty house. At worst, he’ll return and Darlene will be waiting awake for him with a bone to pick.

Anyway. Speaking of beaches: ]

The captive we took from the swear-in wasn’t harmed, [ he says. In case that’s something Will Graham cannibal murderer has been fretting over these last few months. ]

Oh.

[He sounds almost disappointed, lips and brow pinching as he takes his beer with a nod of gratitude. Oh. Such dull news, why? What was the point, then? He should be glad, really, that there is no more blood on his hands. But after a certain point, all that red mixes together, can no longer be distinguished, life from life, scar from bruise.

The raccoon gives Jorah his beer like a trained waiter in a fursuit.]

Is that good?

[Is Jorah torturing, or helping to torture, the guy elsewhere? Mentally, emotionally.

This is asked as Will leans over and takes a small knife and apple from their furry pal, because he wants special cut up apples and Will has thumbs. Obviously this is why their Lord and Savior April keeps him around.]

[ The knight seems to register a small blip in the state of his reality when the raccoon hands him his open beer, and he nods automatic thanks. Briefly awkward, he holds the bottle in hand without drinking from it. Processing the exchange. ]

For the most part, [ is the most diplomatic answer he can muster, under the circumstances. He sips his beer. ]

Lannisters always pay their debts.

[ But taking a broken nose or a few ribs out on loan would have been satisfying, in its way. ]

I thought I’d escaped politics.

[Will chuckles, handing over a slice of crisp apple to their friend.]

Not a chance. You went from one world of politics to another. [A second slice. The raccoon extends it to Jorah, just in case he wants a share. The third will be promptly shoved into Will's mouth by tiny handpaws.] You think he'll come after you?

[And there is a slice of apple stuffed into his mouth. Serious chats in the midst of a definitely normal life.]

[ Jorah Mormont has dined among the Dothraki. He’s also been drinking.

He takes the proffered slice of apple as naturally as if it was handed to him by a friend, and puts it into his mouth. The entire thing. Chewing is a process, slow. Steady, bulked in the side of his jaw. Not trying to impress anyone in this kitchen. ]

He might try, [ he says, once he’s rinsed most of it down with a bolt of beer, still clearing apple from behind his molars with his tongue.

Will having an apple slice stuffed into his face doesn’t seem to surprise him. This isn’t his first night in raccoonland. ]

We both work for Lord Baelish.

Baelish the type to step in or watch?

[Will has an inkling, a very narrow idea formed on mentions from Chilton and watching the Network, their own conversations limited. So he tosses that out. Wants to know more. Wants to know if Jorah will be okay enough and also what there is to be learned about one of the more powerful (technically speaking) imPorts among them from a potentially unbiased source. Well. No more so than anyone else. Seems Jorah reports bare-bear minimum facts and leaves a shitton out but that works for Will just fine.]

Whichever serves him better for the long term. [ Jorah stands idle in Will’s kitchen, beer dripping slow, mind elsewhere while he thinks on the possibility. ]

Ser Jaime is arrogant, but neither of us is known for our loyalty to the order of the world.

[ Bleak honesty doesn’t stir much in the way of emotion off the bottom. He’s tired. Will’s never shown an interest in tearing him down, in this reality. ]

I’m not worried.

[Will nods along in that slow, lazy way. The sort of acknowledgment a person gives in the wee hours of the morning, not eager to speak at length, not eager to be seen as too tired to give even the smallest of shits. So he nods and chews apple slowly, and tiny fingers hold another slice out to Jorah. They are now all bonded by the power of fruit. A quiet morning in, their little secret. Jorah is once more deemed acceptable by the herd of animals, as shown by one of the larger dogs meandering in to sniff at his shoes.]

You don't much strike me as the worrying type. [Just look at where they are. Look at how Jorah reacts to where he is.] Still.

[If Jorah needs a bit of help from this household, he can ask for it. But Will doesn't make it that far. Doesn't think he needs to.

Rincewind would be distraught to lose his papa bear.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

only in my dreams

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject