[ Booker shows up with a bottle of whiskey that he's already taken a few mouthfuls from along the way. there's still plenty enough left for John (for both of them), and he realizes when he sees the empty horizon where the house ought to be that he probably should've brought some cups, or something. ]
[ ah well. from the bottle will have to do. unless they find something in the wreckage of the place. ]
[ he lifts his arm when he sees John; he's seen places like this before, homes leveled to rubble, and he's mostly grateful John's not under all of it anymore. ]
[ John's not squeamish in the least so sharing the bottle isn't going to be a deal-breaker here. If they find something, they do, if not, it wasn't meant to be. The mage is nursing the bit of drink left in his flask, raising it in acknowledgment of the other man's approach.
He knows he should sit up straighter but that puts pressure on his ribs and y'know breathing. He sort of likes doing that, even if it hurts at the moment. ]
Sorry about the state of the place. Cleaning types took the day off. You know how it goes.
[ At least makes the less desirable things a bit more palatable.
What's funny about that is he rarely ever does. Usually, he's disheveled, drunk, and looks ready to pass out asleep at any given moment. This place just dials that glamour up a bit. Shining, he is. ]
And here I didn't bring the right outfit for it. [ A rusty laugh. ] Guess this'll have to do.
[ He shifts one arm a bit more securely around his middle and gives himself a moment to close his eyes and take a breath. He's not sure what's worse, getting beat silly every other week or dying. On one hand, no death flu and assorted other ills. On the other, it sort of hurts just existing for the moment. ]
You're not going to get me home to change. [ it's a lame joke, but there's only straws to grasp at here. and crumbled concrete, splintered wood; a heaping mess.
Booker holds out the flask, for when John opens his eyes again. he knows that look, knows the utterly spent energy of someone in pain. has experienced it more intimately, here, but he wishes it didn't last so long, for everyone. ]
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[ Booker shows up with a bottle of whiskey that he's already taken a few mouthfuls from along the way. there's still plenty enough left for John (for both of them), and he realizes when he sees the empty horizon where the house ought to be that he probably should've brought some cups, or something. ]
[ ah well. from the bottle will have to do. unless they find something in the wreckage of the place. ]
[ he lifts his arm when he sees John; he's seen places like this before, homes leveled to rubble, and he's mostly grateful John's not under all of it anymore. ]
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He knows he should sit up straighter but that puts pressure on his ribs and y'know breathing. He sort of likes doing that, even if it hurts at the moment. ]
Sorry about the state of the place. Cleaning types took the day off. You know how it goes.
[ Humor to cope? Check. ]
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[ booze makes everything a little bit easier, doesn't it?
John doesn't look great, but he's alive. the friendliness might be marred by exhaustion and pain, and Booker huffs lightly in amusement at his quip. ]
Just needs a bit of dusting, here and there. [ and a whole new frame, probably foundations too, just... all of it. ] We'll have it sorted in no time.
[ Booker takes a seat next to John, giving him a side glance, looking him over. Assessing. ]
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What's funny about that is he rarely ever does. Usually, he's disheveled, drunk, and looks ready to pass out asleep at any given moment. This place just dials that glamour up a bit. Shining, he is. ]
And here I didn't bring the right outfit for it. [ A rusty laugh. ] Guess this'll have to do.
[ He shifts one arm a bit more securely around his middle and gives himself a moment to close his eyes and take a breath. He's not sure what's worse, getting beat silly every other week or dying. On one hand, no death flu and assorted other ills. On the other, it sort of hurts just existing for the moment. ]
I bloody well hate this place sometimes.
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[ positively glowing. ]
You're not going to get me home to change. [ it's a lame joke, but there's only straws to grasp at here. and crumbled concrete, splintered wood; a heaping mess.
Booker holds out the flask, for when John opens his eyes again. he knows that look, knows the utterly spent energy of someone in pain. has experienced it more intimately, here, but he wishes it didn't last so long, for everyone. ]
Seems to go out of its way, to make us miserable.