And my time is a piece of wax fallin' on a termite -

[wizzardly]

WHO: Rincewind & Will Graham
WHERE: The Ludgate-Graham household
WHEN: An... evening.
WHAT: Nighttime snacks interrupted for awkward nighttime talks.
WARNINGS: none for now.
-


[sometimes all a wizard needs to get back to bed is a glass of milk and something tasty to munch on. There's more magic in a midnight meal than any number of grimoires Rincewind's tended to over the years, he'd tell anyone. Two dogs trail behind the redhead's bunny-slippered feet, wagging with lazy anticipation for some crumb of bread or meat sure to drop from a hastily-prepared sandwich. The Luggage is absent for once, as even homicidal chests apparently need their beauty rest.

Rincewind rounds the corner in the dark, only banging his knee once against the edge of a side table before he actually makes it into the shadows of the kitchen. He bites his lip to keep from grumbling out a curse too loudly, still refraining from turning on any of the lights. It's bad enough he's up and down from his bed so often as it is, and his roommates remain downright saintlike for not gagging him before he goes to bed, considering the various screams his nightmares often produce. The least he can do is try to keep the lights down.

After a bit of blind groping he finds the fridge handle and sticks his head inside the open door, the tail of his nightcap bobbing as he hunts out bits for his meal. Some mustard, a bit of garlic, cheese, pickles, mayonnaise, and it's really only a shame there's no egg and cress...

With arms loaded with his spoils, Rincewind straightens to close the door with his leg, his night-robe riding up a skinny thigh -

- only to see Will Graham standing in the dark of the kitchen like some haunting cathedral gargoyle. The household can thank the packet of cheese in Rincewind's mouth for the lack of a proper scream.]

Comments

[infomodder]

[Will would be a damned hypocrite to ever pretend Rincewind's screams in the dark bothered him. They did, once or twice, but only because he was suddenly overcome with how not bothered he was by the whole loud mess—and he realized, briefly, that should really bother him. Cries of terror in the dark felt right and familiar. That wasn't normal. It wasn't normal for Will to hear a nightly terror and take a second to identify the noise as Rincewind, to think it's just Rincewind. It wasn't normal for there to be no period of time necessary to adjust to the screaming roommate; it wasn't normal for nightly screaming to be part of anyone's schedule. This house wasn't normal. And usually, that was in a good (or at least neutral) way. Rincewind's nightly reminders that the abnormal went deeper occasionally gave Will something more to brood over in the slim streaks of moonlight, the den of raccoons, the fluff of April's hair he was quick to bury himself back in.

Perhaps Jeff and April can claim saintly qualities for their continued housing with Rincewind despite his nocturnal ejaculations; Will cannot.

It's That Time of the night. Or That Time of the sleep cycle, really, when he's tired but having difficulty sleeping, and so everything exists in a slower, less real world. He lays in bed and blinks when little black dots appear, and when those dots become something more and something else, he just blinks them away. His throat is dry. His stomach is empty. Eventually he throws a fluffy, dark bathrobe over himself and makes his way to the kitchen.

That haunting cathedral gargoyle was here first, thank you very much. In the corner of the kitchen, right next to a moonlit window, all pine green Terry cloth, bedhead, growing beard, and half-eaten bowl of what looks and tastes just like the Cocoa Puffs of his youth. He fills out the appearance of being cuckoo quite well, staring at Rincewind as he is. He hasn't moved at all, hasn't made a sound to alert the wizard to his presence. Just there in the corner, eating cereal in the dark like a truly stable individual.

It's That Time. Where any sleepless and obviously exhausted person can apologize and claim they weren't really thinking, couldn't think, too tired to do much. That odd waking-sleeping shuffle when secrets tightly held were blurted out carelessly, when motor skills slowed down, when keys were put in the oven and the coffee pot took roost in the fridge, when the bed was inviting but always too hot or too cold, and every movie was funnier or sadder or somehow enlightening.

He can get away with this just being sleepy behavior instead of anything sinister or manipulative. Right?]

Please don't run.

[Polite, of course, and earnest. Running from an actual threat was one thing, but Will was not an actual threat. He didn't want for Rincewind to see him as an actual threat, at least. He sets the bowl aside to show that he's taking this seriously, but stays in place. He doesn't want to spook Rincewind any more than he already has.]

[wizzardly]

[Rincewind's eyes predictably dart back the way he came, wide and blue, confirming that very thought had crossed his mind. That the startling figure in sleep-muddled shadow is only just Will, only just a slightly more disheveled version of his friend and roommate, should be reassuring. Rincewind wishes it were; everything seemed to fit more comfortably when that still felt true.

The wizard watches the bowl and its milky, chocolatey contents get set aside and shifts his with tense indecision from one foot to another. Finally, with a swallow and a furrowed brow, he sets down his bandit's bounty on the center island. The plastic-wrapped hunk of cheese is removed carefully from his mouth to play star to his makeshift food pyramid, and he absently wipes his hand on the side of his nightgown. (He would have rinsed the cheese off before returning it to the fridge, of course. ...Probably. Maybe.)

Catching Will's gaze again is about the last thing he does - Rincewind has never been one for dealing with difficult issues first.]

I wasn't going to run, [he lies, after clearing his throat. There's a good start.] You just startled me, is all. Middle of the night, you know. ...I thought I was the only one up.

[well, him and the dogs. As further evidenced by a wet nose sniffing inquiringly up at the island. Just in case, Rincewind absently slides a packet of ham further from the edge.

There would be a moment's silence between them, were they not in Florida. Instead, Rincewind's pregnant pause is filled with the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the chirr of wings circling and diving at porch lights.

Rincewind can't say he doesn't feel a little like a moth himself at the moment, dazed enough to confuse a bulb for the moon.]

...Couldn't sleep?

[infomodder]

[How many people in this house have slobbered on that cheese? The world may never know.

Will moves again, this time just enough to turn on the light nearest him. One of the dogs pads over and starts sniffing about his pockets as though he keeps treats in his sleeping gown. No food comes, but a good ear scratching does, as natural to Will as breathing.]

Nah. Been having bad dreams lately. [Says the guy currently grinning at a dog. Says the guy who cut another guy open and sent his organs to a doctor guy. How can this guy have bad dreams, it is a mystery.] Eating late might not be helping, but I don't sleep well on any empty stomach.

[Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. He shrugs like "what can you do" and goes back to his cereal. Very casual. And perhaps reassuring in how careful Will is to keep distance still. Let that moth do as it will.]

Can't sleep either?

[Asked before he takes a big ol' bite of sugary milky garbage.]

[wizzardly]

About the same, really. [scars, nightmares, and empty stomachs - good to know the two men could still have things in common.

Rincewind can't help but watch Will and the dog, its tail wagging with lazy abandon even when the petting stops. Blissful in its ignorance. Then again, he muses, aren't dogs supposed to be good judges of character? Maybe it's not ignorance - could be just the opposite. He'd desperately like to think so.

He'd desperately like to forget anything ever happened, honestly.

Rincewind's eyes eventually fall back to his pile of sandwich fixings, and he makes himself move to do something with them - pulling bread free from its bag, flicking the cap to the mustard. His limbs move like they've rusted at the joints, his shoulders shirked. Stiff. Listening to the crunch, crunch of Will's cereal while he tries to think of something to say.]

...I could offer you some of my pills, [is what he finally settles on, glancing up.] Um. They're called sopor-somethings. Or - sophomores? Something like that. They're for sleeping.

[and useful when he remembers to take them, or doesn't lose the bottle. Less awkward than Chilton's (admittedly more effective) method of administration. Even had the doctor's state of welcome in the house (a topic Rincewind could safely assume to be permanently closed now, on both sides) never been in flux, there's a certain amount of embarrassment inherent in needing fingers on your forehead to sleep. Not to mention the travel. A logistical headache, really; the pills ease that as much as anything else.]

...At least for if you ever run out of whiskey. [the lilt in Rincewind's voice suggests an attempt at a joke.]

[infomodder]

[The final bite makes its landing before Will casually leans to put the bowl down. That dog doesn't need to be told twice. Off he goes to lap it up. From a people dish. Hm.]

That's very kind of you. [Said as he slowly moves to a nearby cabinet. Rincewind should know what's in there. Communal liquor. Of course, everyone is welcome to have their own in their rooms, but it's nice to have a pinch of something out in the open just in case. Just in case like right now, where Will apparently has no concerns about following sugary cereal with whiskey. When a man needs to sleep, there is no time to fuss about such trivial matters.] If we ever run out of whiskey, though, might be a crisis.

[He withdraws what's left of the whiskey there, noting it needs to be replaced. There is enough for two shots. That's what matters. Will places it down on the island and then follows with two small glasses.]

Want some with your sandwich?

[At least this time Rincewind isn't a child about to give Will the sandwich creation of his Life.]

[wizzardly]

[Rincewind is a beer and wine man, first and foremost. Liquor does the trick when it's in reach and won't be frowned on, but honestly the taste is a bit stiff for him and the punch just a little too hard.

That being said, a stiff, hard punch might be just what he needs right now. Anything to break this terrible, awkward tension between them. Rincewind's nodding before he even realizes his head has moved.]

Oh, sure. Why not? Rude to let you drink alone.

[Almost as rude as helping to mentally terrorize a good friend and - no, no, don't think about it, Rincewind, just. Stop. Why dwell when you can run?

For all its varied parts, the sandwich is assembled quickly enough. It's only slightly less weird than the one his younger self made for Will, those few months ago. Feels like decades.]

...How's the shop? I haven't seen it in a while. Not since it suffered that, er. Incident. [which isn't entirely true - he'd snuck in there one night last month, to sleep on the couch in the back room. He'd been closer to the shop than home at the time and found the setting soothing. Oddly comforting. But he'd left in the morning without taking any look at the front, so Rincewind felt this didn't qualify as a lie.]

It sounds like I'll be getting a new job myself, soon enough.

[infomodder]

[Will is a gentlefellow who appreciates politeness, and obliges Rincewind's agreement with a small smile. Rincewind gets the larger portion of the drink, too, because Will has more in his and April's room and because the best way to reward politeness is more politeness.]

Shop's fine. Starting to wind down from the profitable season. [He casually pushes Rincewind's glass over before pouring his own, keeping distance beyond that.] Job change, huh. That's news.

[Because they haven't Talked Much since Things. Will doesn't say so to be a shit, his voice too interested in the morsel tossed his way to be snarling at the hand providing.]

What're you changing over to?

[He has no idea what to expect. None. Nope. Not a thing.]

[wizzardly]

Only makes sense. [a nod, eyeing the little glass as it's filled.] Even the fish don't like the cold.

[he's not sure if they're supposed to cheers to anything, so he'll just lift his shooter, nodding both it and his head in Will's direction for an unspoken toast. To an easy winter, let's say; to not having history repeat.

Or the future get worse.

The whiskey burns down his throat and shakes a full-body shudder loose, his expression twisting. There's that punch. The heat radiating from his stomach is an admittedly nice follow-up, though, even if he'll have to suck on his sandwich bread a bit to rid his tongue of the lingering taste.]

Mmm, whew, well... I'm sure you know Dr. Chilton's opening a new hospital, in Maurtia Falls. [a surety he rethinks a moment later, realizing the two might have fallen out of conversation since their incident. But he'll breeze on past without correction.] He asked if I'd like to be an orderly there. Handing out medicine, mostly, it sounds like. Nothing too much. And I'll probably still volunteer at the library some weekends, so - best of both worlds, really.

[infomodder]

[What?

What did he just hear?

He knows what he heard it.

He is not so tired to imagine that. He is not so drunk to imagine that. In fact, he can't imagine a time where his imagination would result in that coming from Rincewind.

A very, very rare thing has happened. Lips touching his drink, Will just. Watches.

His brain has farted. Restarted. He's taking longer than usual to respond at all.

What?

Jesus Christ.]

Hell of a job. [He finally says, putting down his drink. Later. Later, when he has more, he might very well drown himself. Again. Only in something more pleasurable than the Atlantic.] You and he must get along pretty well.

[There is potential here, to get some look inside the facilities without ever going. If Chilton would allow Rincewind into any rooms or sections not necessarily on the tour. If he'd let that happen in ways Rincewind could remember...

No. No, no. Will isn't concerned with that. Not anymore. There are some people who deserve the basement treatment.

But knowing that Rincewind is cared for and in good hands as much as anyone from Baltimore can be said to care for and have good hands, that is important.]

[wizzardly]

Is it? [a touch of nerves in the way his eyes search Will's face.] He made it sound rather easy, actually. Which is generally what I look for in my work. It's really just a bonus that I know him already.

[and that this means he'll get to follow Chilton in some way, that he won't be left behind when the man moves on to a bigger, brighter building with better patients. - Not that he'd care, of course. Not that he couldn't get on by himself as he always has. Surely not. Just... it might be nice. Being able to stick with him instead.

Part of why Rincewind likes living here so much, he supposes, and having the dogs and April, Will, and Jeff, all reliable as rain. Getting bounced around a world really gives one an appreciation for permanence. Safe predictability, comforting as an old blanket.

Part of what made surprise organs so unpleasant. Something of a rub.]

Oh, but we do. He's... well, I think he was the first friend I really made here, you know. Sort of helped me through everything, even if he wasn't actually around during that bit with the Russians. And he... he's helped since. Was even trying with Lucifer, when that whole - [his hand flutters briefly in the air] - thing was going on. Even though it put him at risk.

[a pause - his lips tug at the corner, lopsided.]

I didn't even ask him to.

[infomodder]

[This is happening. He is awake and this is real and Will finishes his drink because it might somehow swallow him in return and take him out of the moment. Chilton has a friend who is all but gushing about their friendship, and there he is, Will Graham being given this emotional response. He doesn't deserve it. He knows he doesn't, and he's the only one who knows. April has an idea, of course, but...just that. Some idea. He's not really keen on admitting to anyone in this world that he set Chilton up for such a horrible, blazing fall.

He never had to worry about this back home. And he'd set it up, in the end, where he'd never have to worry about anything again.

He needs so much more to drink than he realized. Will nods, puts on all the pretenses of understanding such fondness (he does), and moves to the fridge to pull out a beer.]

I'm glad to hear that. [A raccoon sleepily waddles in from another room and, seeing Will, assuming Will is soon headed back to the room of their Queen, takes the lazy way out by climbing Will like a tree. Will lets it happen, of course, moves his arm to make it easier.] What am I to you, a Greyhound bus?

[The little guy on his shoulder definitely gets the joke because the response is a displease grunt. For shame.]

You know when you're starting?

[He has a raccoon on his shoulder and a beer in one hand, Rincewind has definitely seen this before.]