|Miniver Cheevy (miniver) wrote in utr_logs,
@ 2008-03-05 06:54:00
|ageless bill turner, miniver cheevy
Who: Miniver Cheevy and Ageless Bill Turner (with NPC'd cameo from Jack Sparrow)
What: Bill decides to come keep Miniver company.
Where: They start at Miniver's place and end up at Bill and Jack's.
When: uhhhh like 2 days ago now? >.>
Warnings: ....excessive cuddling? X3
A sign on Miniver's front door advises Bill that it's open. Once again, tonight, the musician has mostly cocooned himself in his stranger-self's sittingroom with a fire going and the TV on. The reason for his leaving the door unlocked for Bill is clear upon arrival: he's busy reading, and whatever the book is, it's particularly engaging. But there's a glass of good whiskey already poured for Bill, sitting on a little table between a chair and the couch, so he can put himself wherever he's comfortable.
There seems to be a stack of old books piled next to Miniver's seat -- and no obvious spaces on the meticulously-organized bookshelves lining the room's walls.
The note was taken down and he smiled, folding the note and putting it into his back pocket before stealthily opening the door and slipping in, closing the door silently behind him as he looked to the reading poet.. He smiled warmly; he was used to being the one in that very position, and he appreciated it, himself. He took up the whiskey without a sound and poured him into the closest seat to the curly haired man, just watching. It was a few minutes before he spoke. "You stole th'books from Jack's workplace? Sneaky little mouse."
Miniver glances up with a sly grin and finally puts the book aside. "You saw my note. Good. Forgive me for being an inattentive host. Got a bit preoccupied. So!" He takes up his own glass. "You've got your Jack, then. What on earth are you doing here?" He gives Bill a wink and a soft chuckle, just teasing him a bit. He neither confirms nor denies the origin of the books.
There was no need to confirm or deny, he recognized the books, he gave Miniver the address. "I have him, aye." He smiled at that, shaking his head. "But havin' him here's not goin' t'stop th'fact that you've yet to find yours, mate. An' s'not very fair've me to forget a friend after my prayers've been answered, now is it?" He sipped the whiskey once more, smiling. "Jus' keepin' you company s'all."
His expression melts a little at that. "Sweet words, Bill. I do appreciate it. Not sure what kind of excitement I can offer you this evening, though. You may end up a little bored unless you want to have a look at those books and hear me practice a bit. Though I'm always open to other suggestions."
"Would take a great deal to bore me." Bill assured, slipping out of the chair to run his fingers over the spines of the books on Miniver's shelves. He chuckled lightly at one particular title, picking it out and leafing through it. "I haven't read this book in ages. Wonderful story." He said, amused that Miniver managed to have a first edition of one of his favorite books from the 1840s. "Oh, this is such a wonderful story, a young metropolitan man runs off to the islands and becomes a tribal chief. I may have seen some extrordinary things in my day, but never that."
Miniver watches Bill and sips his whiskey. "I haven't gone through half the books on these shelves yet. Other-me seems to have had passable taste, overall. There's some here I haven't read, which is a feat. That's one of them, I think. So... you read, huh?" He still is such an UTTER book nerd. The fact that Pickles does it to is something he's always adored about his partner. It feels rare for him to find someone who does.
"Aye." Bill said, still amused as he slipped the book back on the shelf, into its place. "Was th'only one on th'ship for a while who could. Went t'school here in London 'til I was 12, after that I was completely self taught. S'a matter've fact, they used t'sell books as kindling at free ports like Tortuga an' th'like. Bloody waste, but Jack always managed t'let me have whichever book I wished to read or keep. I eventually taught him to read more than just simple words and names on a map." He smiled, broad and warm and wholly at ease. "I may like treasure, but literature is just as much a treasure as a ruby or a bar of gold."
"That it is, no doubt about it. Man, Bill, I gotta tell you... I kinda envy your life a little. Ain't an uncommon thing for me to say to people but that just... that sounds really cool. So like... why'd you quit school at twelve?"
"Became a pirate." Bill said with a smirk. "A'right, I was th'cabinboy, did all th'dirty work, cleaned th'puke off th'lower decks, made sure th'nets had no holes in, swabbed water off th'deck when I wasn't runnin' errands f'Jack an' th'rest've 'em." He shrugged one shoulder. "Beats multiplication tables, in any case." His smile went lopsided as he sprawled out across the floor near the fire. "S'better. "Don't have t'envy me, mate, had m'rough times, too. Worse than I'd like t'admit, but they're there, t'balance out th'good."
"Ah, everybody's got those. I did my time swabbing puke and doin' factory crap. It's more fun to think about the other stuff, though." Hey, floor near warm place... that does sound like a nice plan. Miniver joins him down there. He is, astoundingly, not wearing his coat. It's nearby, but not actually on him. He looks a lot smaller without it, and the poofiness of his long hair less balanced. He's like a strange little doll. A doll that smells like pot.
"Your tale, at least, sounds romantic."
"Come from a time where romance wasn't dead." Bill stated, smiling at the pot-smelling doll, petting his hair idly, not getting his hand caught in the curls, somehow. "Chivalry died shortly thereafter, an' propriety an' shame are more recent casualties. Th'only one I'll miss is romance." He shrugged then. "Crude people make th'fuckin' world go 'round." His legs stretched out, and he laid back down fully, stretching his arms out as well. He looked something like a cat, with more sense of fashion. Even if the fashion was antiquated. "And how about your tale? From what you told me, it seemed somethin' more like a modern romance, somethin' you'd see at th'pictures."
Miniver laughs, content to sit beside Bill at a comfortable closeness.
"Modern romace hell, and any movie ever made of my real life would be boring. Nah, I was just one of a million brats born to too-young parents in small-town poverty. My dad came home twice a month if we were lucky, my mom spent her evenings with a bottle in whatever fist she wasn't swinging at me, I was a nerdy runt who got picked on at school and hid in the library whenever I wasn't running for my life or stealing penny candy cuz mom either couldn't afford or couldn't remember to feed me... Same old shit, bet you've heard this story a thousand times. That lasted up 'til about sixteen. Then I got handed a job at the factory, a place I could rent a room, and my folks disappeared. And for the next eight years, I worked the factory and read my books and got progressively more inebriated every night and that was life." He glances at Bill with a crooked grin. "Have you fallen asleep yet?"
"No, frankly it sounds somethin' like my life, 'cept th'mother part, our mother died 'fore I was ten, so we had a nanny because apparently m'family was some distant nobility from whatever far reach of th'country it was. We had just enough f'that and not much else, as I recall, but they were slim times all 'round, back then. S'before th'industrial revolution, mind, Still actually in George's time, 'course there were three of 'em so s'around th'time 'tween th'first an' second, 'round." Bill looked over at Miniver, "Th'nanny kept care've my brother an' older sister an' m'self, sent us off t'school, we'd come back an' have a meager meal, study and go repeat th'same said every day. I got bored of it an' learned how to pickpocket, an' Robert, too much a wet blanket for th'whole mess told me I wasted time on it an' in readin' Penny Dreadfuls. S'what he said. Got it in my mind to be a pirate, an' so I was. 'Course, m'father thought I'd gone an' gotten myself killed 'til I started sendin' him things to sell at his curiosities shop. Man couldn't believe I'd become a merchant's apprentice. Well, he was right not to believe it, since I was actually a pirate's cabinboy, but th'point's this. It wasn't easy, I got m'lumps when I was a lad, you did as well, nobody's got it harder than anyone else, s'just a diff'rent sort've hard."
"Yup." Miniver finishes his glass of whiskey and lays his head on Bill's stomach. "So y'still don't get to forget it even after a few centuries? Just as well, I s'pose."
"I've a good memory. Wish that weren't true, but I've been blessed with it, because Jack's got a horrible one." He continued to pet through Miniver's hair. "S'entirely possible I'm not rememberin' it right, mind." He said with a chuckle, "But s'trivial at this point. Who cares how a man grew up in th'early 1700s? S'almost three hundred years ago, f'gods' sakes." He had a smile on his face, "Was a cold little cur back then, s'well. Just like m'son turned out t'be, serious-minded, driven, motivated. Would cut down anythin' that stood in m'way, whether it was larger than me or not." He shrugged. "Time mellowed me, made me tolerant of things not many people're tolerant of. I still won't even try to begin an' understand women, h'ever. My wife was enough t'turn me off t'tryin'. She could throw a mean skillet."
Miniver laughs. "Jesus, you bothered with one long enough to MARRY her? More'n I ever did, I'll tell you. At least on that level. I've had a few become good friends, though. Hey, man, I care how you grew up, it's good storytellin'." He purrs at the touch and gives a contented sigh. "Real nice of you to come by here and everything."
Bill slid his hand down from Miniver's hair to his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Aye, just 'cause I've got mine, don't make it right t'leave you on y'lonesome." His fingers went back to playing at the ends of the poet's hair. "Can't stay th'night, but y'more than welcome t'come back with me if y'wish." He shrugged one shoulder, eyes closed as the fire warmed him. He was cozy.
Miniver raises a brow. "Nah. You guys have your space. Heh, I can take a few nights alone, I ain't that big a baby." He snuggles up against Bill, shoulders to his side. "Don't mean I ain't gonna enjoy this while I can, though."
"Y'sure? S'no trouble." Bill said, but he let it go after that, draping his arm over Miniver easily. He was warmer than usual, having fed only a few hours previous, and fed well, no less. His fingers were almost warm against the poet's arm as he traced easy, random lines across it. "S'tell me what y'do t'keep yourself busy durin' th'day. Can't imagine y'just read."
Almost-warm is warm enough. Miniver reaches up and lightly dances his nimble fingers over Bill's hand. "Reading's a good thing to do, but you got it right, man... I ain't so good at sitting still anymore. I play my guitar, I write, I wander the city. I figured out I can get into the bank accounts and shit of whoever was me before I got here. I found a pet store, t'get Gilby his rats. Oh! Oh oh oh! I found other-me's car. It's fuckin' sweet. Kind of a chick car I guess but whatthefuckever, it's England, everyone drives chick cars. He's got this restored TR7... uh... not that you know what that is, but... it's cute. Just, trust me on that."
"No clue what one is, y'right." Bill said, "But sounds nice. All of it. M'not very up t'date with cars, t'tell you th'truth, was never a fan of automobiles. Liked th'one I had back home, s'an old Ford, one've their first models've auto, hand crank an' all. I had it decked in chrome an' rebuilt t'be fully automatic, so that Jack could drive it if he needed to, but y'really can't trust th'man behind th'wheel of a land vehicle. S'just fine with ships, but y'put him in th'driver's seat, you're right fucked." He moved his fingers up across Miniver's neck and jaw, just petting still. He liked touch.
Miniver is simply BASKING in this. He adores being touched. Any way, anywhere, and like THIS... it's rare he gets an opportunity to just relax and twine himself with somebody. Even when he manages to scoot a place latched onto a bandmate (of his own or his husband's band), he knows very well his husband's band thinks of him as a pet and his own gives him a lot of leeway as Herr Leader to do weird things like curl up on them. Doing this with Bill is as good as sex.
"Pickles actually owned all the cars we had back home. I bought one once, actually... one time I had some cash saved up and felt like... heh... I think back then I wanted to show off to him or something. It was old and cheap but I had a buddy from an old job who knew a guy who helped me get it fixed up real pretty. It was such a goofy thing to do, because it was a fucking '71 Chevy TRUCK but I thought... y'know... he didn't have anything that was quite so good for lugging crap around and man I liked it."
Babbling Miniver babbles, and at some point takes Bill's hand and plays with his fingers.
There was a moment of pause as Bill tried to remember who else he'd known by that name, but it didn't come to him and he just smiled lazily, and let Miniver play with his hand. "Aye, s'how I was when Jack finally took me as his first mate, wanted t'show him that I could handle th'job, an' do it well, so I did more'n required've me.. He actually came up an' said "Now Bill, save some work f'the others." He was delighted that I had th'motivation, but he didn't want t'run me ragged. He told me later that he promoted me jus' t'get me closer to him. 'pparently it wasn't just me with th'bit of a crush." He smiled at that, "You comfortable, mate? I've got t'turn over, m'cookin' one side an' freezin th'other."
Miniver sits up and kittystretches while Bill reconfigures himself, then goes to get another drink. This time he just grabs a bottle from a table behind the couch, and offers it to Bill after flopping back down next to him.
"First Mate's a big job, ain't it? I don't work FOR Pickles. I never have. I just work with him. As often as I can." He does the kittystretch thing again and tosses his hair back over his shoulders. "I never thought I did too much for him. I don't think I ever could. He's that great to me."
"I've always worked under th'command of Jack. S'where I got m'start, s'where my home is." Bill explained as he moved to lay on his back, his other side facing the fireplace this time. "S'a very big job, aye, you become th'voice've th'crew, th'ear've th'captain when th'captain's not 'round, you take his place when he falls... s'a huge responsibility, y'also divvy up th'sums, an' map out th'next course, s'a lot to do." He took the bottle and had a drink of it before laying down fully, eying the other man's hair, "Y'know, Jack's got hair quite a bit like yours, when it's not in dreadlocks. Curly but not entirely much, dark, but more of a dark cocoa than a jet black." He smiled, "He's gorgeous." As a matter of fact...! He dug out his wallet and pulled out a photo, worn and weathered from a decade or two of being in his wallet. the photo was still timeless, the sea behind the infamous captain, who was looking ever so much like he'd always looked. Slightly drunk, but with a serious, contemplating look. Bill had snapped it without Jack noticing until after the sound of the shutter.
Miniver glances over, then yoinks the photo with wide, gleeful eyes. It's been a while since he was prone to squeaking at everything, but he squeaks at this, then giggles softly. "Oh, man, you're right. He ain't bad. Hey. Hang on a second..." He returns the photo and scuttles to rummage in the pockets of the trenchcoat hanging over the back of the couch. He pulls out a wallet, and returns to proudly show Jack a photo.
See, that's what Bill was missing, a face to a name. "Oh, you've got t'be jokin'. That's th'drummer what drank most've New Tortuga dry when he an' th'rest've th'band came to th'island for an Endless-imposed vacation!" He chuckled and shook his head, "S'bloody rich. Wonder if they're th'same reality. S'th'lead guitarist a vampire, by any chance?" He asked, one brow raised as he handed the photo back, smiling up a storm, "S'a small universe if so."
Miniver staaaares at Bill for a few moments, then folds over laughing. Just because it's so utterly DELIGHTFUL that he knows Pickles. It's a little like being that much closer to them both.
"No," he giggles finally. "No, I don't think Skwisgaar is a vampire. Though I could be wrong. He can get really weird about shit. Oh my god, Bill, you've MET him? That's just too great. Seriously."
"Only briefly, he an' th'rest've them were quite unhappy t'be there, so they kept t'themselves. Th'Nathan fellow was th'most talkative one, tho' he stayed 'round Logan mostly, th'two of them look quite alike so was a bit of a bondin' experience. Skwisgaar's th'musician I sired, told y'about him, didn't I? S'the reason f'the hellmouth in th'middle've th'island what had to be closed. In any case aye, 've met th'whole batch. They're... odd fellows.." He shrugged one shoulder. "Scared th'hell out've 'em, though, we all pulled a prank on 'em. Pickles an' Toki were scared senseless, 'long with Murderface." He smiled in fond recollection when he remembered that Nathan joined in on it.
"Oh. Oh jesus, Bill, what did you do??" He looks THRILLED. Quite a prankster himself, is Miniver.
"Was Logan's idea, just have t'start out with that. Th'man's not one f'humor usually, but when he gets it in his mind t'actually pull a prank, he stops at nothin' to do it. Got th'whole island involved. Anne, Tia, Jack, Petit, Artan... EVERYBODY was in on it. Even m'girl Tessa went in an' placed speakers all 'round th'house they were stayin' in. So th'boys came t'dinner one night - Skwisgaar wasn't there, 'pparently he an' th'younger one had a fight - but th'rest of 'em were, an' Tia told 'em a story. That th'island was cursed with a ghostly battle which happened precisely where their house was built, with th'tree out front used t'hang th'young man who lost his beautiful wife to a trecherous man. Th'whole island went batty with it, so many people got killed in th'battle! Right, so, s'a longer story'n that, but they believed it. It had tits, romance, death, destruction, everything those boys could possibly ask for. So they went back t'the house an' just tried t'forget about it.. but then th'noises started. Gunshots in th'distance, th'howlin' cries of damned souls... rustling footsteps an' things breaking! Pickles ran up th'stairs, Toki followed behind, an' they hid in one've th'rooms. Murderface'd gone back to th'shootin' range up at th'fort, so he was sep'rate from th'rest've th'band, nobody knew where Skwisgaar had got off to..." He took another drink from the bottle.
Miniver is trying his hardest not to laugh too loudly and miss anything.
"Oh my FUCK this is good. Holy shit, Anne and Petit and Artan were there too? What the hell! This is so fucking weird, Bill, SO fucking weird. Okay, okay, so what happened then?" He nabs the bottle when Jack is finished with it and takes a drink himself.
Bill smirked and slipped away to sit up. A crucial bit to storytelling was eye contact. "So it started.. We - an' by we, I mean th'ENTIRE island was in on it - were in th'trees nearby, stagin' a ghostly battle right outside th'fort an' their house. An' apparently, Nathan had found one've th'speakers hidden 'round th'living room, so he opened th'door an' took Anne aside, told her where Pickles an' th'other guitarist were hidin', an' then called up the stairs that oh no! th'ghosts made it into th'house!!" He took out his pipe and tapped a bit of tobacco into it. "You could cut th'tension with a knife, was me, Anne, an' Petit, I believe, all in ghostly garb an' facepaint, walkin' slowly up th'creaking staircase, an' as soon as we busted into th'room, th'two of them screamed so loud, so shrill, that it made me fall right over laughing! Nathan was right behind us, laughing as well, an' Anne collapsed into fits. 'course, at th'sound of th'two screamin', who comes in but Skwisgaar, DEMANDING to know what the fuck's going on, insists that if any of us so much as laid a hands on th'younger one that heads would roll, was th'most hilarious response of them all... Tho' to be honest, th'bassist pissed himself, that was good, too."
Miniver is beside himself by the end of the tale, practically rolling on the floor with laughter.
"Oh... my... god..." he gasps helplessly. "Holy... I mean... yeah that's Murderface all right holy fuck. Oh... Toki and Pickles, of COURSE... heeehehehehe." He ends up sprawled on the floor, giggling intermittently while trying to catch his breath.
"Bill.. I think I might love you... just for that."
Bill chuckled to himself, "S'what we do t'alleviate boredom on th'island. Fuck with th'tourists." He lit his pipe, taking a puff of it, still chuckling on occasion, "An' s'what we do to people who aren't social on th'island, as well. They kept themselves holed up in th'house f'a better part've th'week." He shook his head, grinning slyly. "Felt bad f'them, but they learned t'stop bein' such hermits an' all of 'em forgave us eventually. Actually, th'way they put it, they gained trust in us jus' f'that alone." He shrugged, "Somethin' about it takes class a dicks t'really get 'em goin' like that." He shrugged one shoulder. ."Delirium took 'em back home a couple days later, Pickles was more'n happy to go, but Nathan an' th'guitarists were actually quite taken with th'place."
"Aw, my ducks. I wish I coulda been there for that. Jeeze, I miss 'em all." He sighs, not unhappily, continuing to beam at Bill. "You gotta know how happy it makes me to hear this. I mean... just that you guys were with them once... they're my home, man. No matter where they are. All of 'em. Just... Pickles especially. Hey. I forget, d'you smoke? I got some good stuff from a guy..."
Oh yeah. The OTHER thing he does with his free time.
"Aye, I do." Bill said with a smile, tapping the mouthpiece of his pipe to his lip. "An' I know how y'mean. Jack's m'life, but th'Thieves an' Anne an' th'rest're my family, s'my home. But I've found that this is just as easily m'home. M'son's a good man here, despite bein' a Reaper, 'Liz'beth's a wonderful lady, an' Dutch is a lovely lady. Oh, s'wonderful here, I'm quite happy now." He smiled. "So about this weed you say y'have...?"
Miniver takes another swig of whiskey. "Just a minute." He disappears into another room and returns with a pipe and a little bag of green stuff. He packs it, lights up, and hands it to Bill. "It ain't Pickles' stock, but it;s palatable."
"Didn't know th'man smoked, I did give 'em a brick've our own stock, an' at least a month's supply've cocaine. Rock stars, y'know? Probably appreciated it." He took the other pipe and set his own aside, lighting the rest of the green on top and taking a deep hit, letting it sit in his lungs for an impossibly long time, holding the pipe back out for Miniver. It was two minutes before he exhaled and smiled, "S'not bad. Had much worse." He wasn't even feeling the affects.
"It was probably gone by the end of the night," Miniver smirks, taking the pipe and breathing in some of its pretty, pretty smoke. "Yeah, this stuff's okay. But Pickles gets his from the Government Itself, heh. It don't get better'n that. He spoiles me by letting me mooch off it."
"Damn, s'pretty posh, then, I just grow m'own." Bill shrugged one shoulder. "Have been since th'1800s, actually, have a whole island just t'grow it wild, an' a hydroponic garden in th'greenhouse back home. Though t'be honest, that's more Remy's than mine."
Miniver takes another hit and passes the pipe back.
"Let's go camping there. It'd fuckin' rock."
"Aye, if it exists here, we should." Bill said, taking the pipe back, taking a hit from it. He certainly hoped so, he spent a good portion caring for those plants, it was the only kind of plant that he could grow without killing. And that is why it's called Weed, because it is one. He exhaled slowly once more and handed the pipe back, leaning back against a chair. "Y'know mate, you'd make a wonderful pirate. You should give it a go, see how it likes you."
Miniver stares at the pipe in his hand contemplatively.
"Could I still play guitar and write? Or is that like, totally lame, a pirate who writes poetry?"
There was a deadpanned stare. "That's it, y'comin' with me." He said, standing and picking Miniver up by his shoulders and setting him on his feet, "C'mon, mate, y'comin' to my house. Pirates who write poetry. Pah. Shows what y'know 'bout pirates. I've got t'show you these in any case, an' you need t'get out've these four walls." He went about putting out the fire easily enough and no, there was no arguing with him. Miniver needed to know the truth about pirates, and the best way to show him was to comandeer the night and show him what his life's achievements were.
Well -- Bill's right. Miniver's not arguing. A bit bemused at his sudden Very Businesslike air, he drifts over to grab his trenchcoat and shrugs it on, puffing lightly at the pipe as Bill puts the fire out.
"Finish it?" he offers when the fire's out. He makes no attempt whatsoever to argue with this turn of events. It's entirely possible he finds Bill's bossiness wholly and utterly sweet.
Bill shook his head, "G'on ahead and take it to y'head, mate, does nothin' for me, I've checked." He patted Miniver on the shoulder, grabbed his jacket, and started for the door, bounding down the steps to his car and dropped himself into the driver's seat.
Miniver finishes the pipe, knocks it out into the fireplace, tucks it and the rest of the weed into a pocket, and chases after Bill. He swings into the passenger's side and headtilts at the pirate. "A pirate with a car. That's a new one."
"S'part've th'replacement thing, an' there's a story 'hind that. But th'point to this little journey we're makin' is t'show you that pirates have a varied and colorful span've hobbies other'n th'classic lootin', drinkin', sex an' swashbucklin'. M'son Will f'example, is a blacksmith an' th'owner of a bar, as I've found. Jack collects beads, as I've said, as well as our shared collection of cursed artifacts an' bric-a-brac. I write. Davy Jones played th'pipe organ, Barbossa kept a pet monkey, Anne had an antique store an' was a professional groupie f'a while. Blackbeard invested in stocks. We all have our other passions, mate." He chuckled and started down the road, having since found a shortcut from Miniver's house to his own, which was a little more than five minutes away.
Miniver studies Bill as they drive with an expression of deep thought.
"You gonna tell me you're actually fuckin' serious about havin' me become one a you guys?"
"Why not? Make more money, have more fun, there's certainly no harm in it, an' I've never been caught." There was a sly smile, "Then 'gain, that has t'do with th'fact that I've got Luck on m'side. Though now that I've got her on m'side, I can't go t'Monaco or Las Vegas anymore." He shrugged one shoulder, "But s'a great deal about pirates you've got to know 'fore you consider befriendin' one. First off, never trust a pirate. Never. Don't put y'trust in me, or Jack, or Anne, we're bound t'take that trust an' use it to our own devices. Second - We're not all bark, we do bite. An' stab. An' shoot. If you get on our bad sides, we'll make you plenty clear've it. An' third, most important - never EVER touch Jack's rum."
Miniver just smiles quietly. "Duely noted." He has a certain bite of his own -- he doesn't exactly know how he does it, but he knows it happens, and he knows that most of the time it'll work when he really, REALLY needs it to. "I can hold my own," he adds, because it's true -- he can shoot and fight and handle to some extent a number of bizarre historical weapons compliments of Murderface's instruction. "I ain't strictly as soft as folks take me for."
He can draw blood in more ways than one.
"But seriously, Bill... are you bullshitting me or not?"
"Would you rather I be?" Bill asked as he pulled into the carport of a lovely little two story home, quaint and possibly as old as he was. He shut off the car and stepped out, stretching his legs. "Bein' a famous musician an' bein' a pirate are very similar things, y'know, we do th'same things. Travel th'world, hang out with th'worst scum t'walk th'planet, get paid untold amount of sums just f'scowlin' an' bein' as intimidatin' as possible, occasionally brandish our weapons an' use 'em, yours bein' far less deadly than mine of course, an' live in th'lap of luxury. Only diff'rence is that royalty will invite your sort to th'palace. They hang my sort." He opened the door and peeked into the sitting room, where Jack was still happily passed out in a chair, feet kicked up on the table and note taped to the brim of his hat. Bill wandered over, took the note off, and let Jack sleep in peace. He then proceeded to go up the stairs, motioning for Miniver to follow. He was silent as a ghost, light on his feet.
Miniver is just the same -- little mouse scuttling after, pausing only to give a brief but thorough inspection of Jack.
He doesn't make a sound until Bill gives some sign that they can.
Bill slipped into the library, a room which had no walls, just shelves, all full with books. He slipped up to one shelf in particular, the spines of the books looking all the same save for their titles, gold leaf pressed into them. The books themselves, however, were from a variety of years, and it showed dramatically from the oldest to the most recent that they were from as far back as the 1740s. They were bound in red leather, ribbed and hand-crafted, all about two inches thick, about ten inches high. Every single one of them was well worn and weathered, each smelled vaguely mildewed, but still smelled like the sea. Their titles were dates and the most important topics summed up in one word phrases. The topics ranged from Mutiny to Dragons to Curses and Spells, Artifacts, Treasure... and on and on. There had to have been hundreds of books, all the same, all hand-written, all hand-bound with care and pride, and in front of them all was their author. "Like I said, mate. I write."
Miniver was formulating a reply to Bill's previous comments, but the sight of the room, seeing that all this was BILL'S, leaves him standing in awe.
"Shit," he manages finally. "This all come with you in the cyclone?"
"Must've. Only way they could've possibly managed t'be here. I have no idea how th'hell they got here, but I would've been devistated without 'em." He smiled, stepping aside and letting Miniver go wild with it.. "G'on ahead, they won't bite. Well, th'one on enchantments might, but it hasn't bitten me yet."
Miniver immediately sets about inspecting the books on the shelves. He wants -- very badly -- to just start from the first and read them all, but that'd be a terribly difficult feat just now so he settles for just skimming the titles and occasionally pulling out and flipping through one he finds PARTICULARLY interesting.
"...I could live in these," he murmurs after a while. "Lord but I wish I had mine. Fuck, maybe I do. I uh... haven't actually been in all the rooms of my own house yet..."
It felt smaller when he could pretend bits of it didn't exist.
They read just as historical accounts always do, a bit dry, passive, and from an observer's standpoint, but the things they told were outright and utterly fantastic. Gorgons, sea monsters, krakens, witches, Calypso, demons and everything else. "I'd be glad t'read yours, mate. Mine're boring, I've heard, but they do come in helpful f'reference. S'a matter've fact, th'book I compiled on demons was particularly helpful when th'Hellmouth opened. We knew how t'destroy everything that leapt out of that blasted hole."
"Mine," Miniver says while petting one of Bill's books fondly, "are nonsensical and poetic, fantastic and filled with lyrics and horrible, HORRIBE angst and detailed accounts of things both important and seemingly unimportant, but all for a purpose. Or they used to be. I got into the habit and can't break it now."
"An' I'd still love t'read them, Miniver. S'good t'be able t'see inside someone's mind like that. All th'accounts I've written aren't close t'what I've written to Jack, nothin' near as personal in th'books, but those, unfortunately, haven't come along." Bill slipped into a leather wingback chair, relaxing amongst his most important work. "You can borrow one or two if you'd like to."
Miniver smiles shyly. "I may. I wouldn't want to presume... especially having nothing to offer in return... though honestly, Bill, my own journals are full of piss and vinegar and drugs and booze and bullshit. And... ah, I dunno. Pickles is the only one who's read anything like MOST of 'em. Toki's read some, Murderface has read some, but really... it's something that goes way back between him and me, and it was started for a specific reason I don't usually like to explain, and..." He shrugs, his normally jovial expression slipping into a hint of nostalgic melancholy.
He really is glad Bill dragged him here after all.
"Maybe if I just found ou some bits that ain't so rambly and uh... y'know... whiny or whatever."
"Whichever, mate, I'm not worried at all. Drunken pointless ramblings happen to be my specialty an' also my rambling of choice. You'll see why when m'better half wakes up. I believe this with all certainty - that ALL Jack speaks in is drunken rambling. S'rather charming, t'be honest, an' I wouldn't have it any other way. S'got his own language, Jack. One which may sound like English, but is entirely diff'rent. Also changes daily an' based on what direction th'wind's blowing."
Miniver grins at Bill, putting the notebook carefully back in its place and crossing his arms over his chest.
"I have a feeling your Jack and my Pickles will get along famously. The amount of alcohol Pickles can consume without so much as slurring is... well, it's incredible. He's taught me over the years to keep up... still. And oh, he's got this voice... kinda funny accent, y'know, he comes from Wisconsin... but... heh... god I love him."
He leans against a shelf and lets his hair fall into his face, head bowed and smiling vaguely at his feet. He misses his drummer with a sudden nearly painful intensity, but he can't help but smile to think of him.
Bill tilted his head to one side, puppylike in all manners, and pouted. "He'll be here soon, luv. Give it time, aye? Some realities just take longer'n others to catch on. An' havin' met th'boys - even if they're not th'same ones, well, wouldn't surprise me if their reality s'a bit slow, just like them." He motioned Miniver to have a seat in the chair to the other side of the table from him. On the table held some very expensive brandy and two glasses, which he poured for them. "An' like I said, you're more'n welcome t'stay with us while y'wait."
"I know, I know, it might take a while. Can y'blame me for missing him, though?" He drops himself in the chair and curls up in it, resting his head on his knees and smiling at Bill, his sad eyes still distant. "Don't worry about me, man, I'm cool. I've fallen into new worlds before. I've spent weeks away from him touring before." He pauses as he takes the glass with a grateful nod and sips it. "D'you mind if I maybe stick around here tonight, though? Just... I dunno... Hey, I can be outta your hair by morning if y'want."
"You're welcome here as long as you'd like. Jack'll understand, I've picked up strays b'fore, just leave a note nearby sayin' y'not breakfast." There was a smile as he sipped his own. "An' do be aware that there'll be an awful lot've sex here. Some people have their mornin' routine startin' out with a good piss, we prefer t'have a romp in th'sack. An' bein' that we really don't give a shit who hears us, we do tend t'get loud, so be aware've that." He figured that was as much warning as Miniver needed to the morning, "There's a guest bedroom 'cross th'hall, master bedroom's down at th'end, an' I believe I may jus' carry Jack there after we've grown well an' tired of talkin'."
Miniver smirks and raises a brow. "If you think that sorta thing's unusual, man... heh... on the road, sometimes the quarters get so close and scrambled... and man you don't even wanna know what some of the parties are like. Or maybe you do. Or maybe you already know. Either way... I probably won't notice. You need help carryin' that dude?"
He shook his head, "'ve been doin' this for a while now. An' anyway, s'no trouble. Vampire." He winked. "We've got fairly decent strength. An' for a man who's got t'have at least twenty pounds've hair alone, you y'self are fairly light, could likely pick y'up an' carry you 'round like a doll if I wanted." Not that he was thinking of it. But there WAS a chandelier in the room, if Miniver felt like being perchy.
Miniver beams at Bill. "That's real like... cute. I mean, you two... it's sweet." Silly little romantic. But he raises a brow at the latter part. "Come on, man, only Nathan ever does that. You're not quarterback-shaped enough to cart me around like a Barbie."
Bill raised both brows directly into the bit of hair that had escaped his ponytail and fell over his forehead, and he got a lopsided smile. "How much y'want t'bet, mate?" Oh, he had fun with this before, when Logan said almost the same thing, and THAT man weighed near onto three hundred pounds due to the adamantium plating. Bill could lift him, but not toss him around, that was beyond his capabilities.
Miniver gives a devilish grin. "Oooh. I like bets. Bet you a song you can't REALLY do much more'n pick me up, and even Pickles can do that."
Miniver gives Bill a o.0 look.
"Dood. What d'you want if you CAN?"
"Teach me guitar. Nothin' fancy, just haven't learned how t'play more'n simple songs." He shrugged before slipping back and out of his chair, rolling his shoulders and neck, just for effect. He didn't want to make this look easy.
Miniver sips his brandy and curls up tighter. "You got a deal, and I got a bunch of shanties y'might like, easy enough to play, giood beginners pieces." In truth, the idea of having another musician to play with -- even a beginner -- positively thrills him in the absense of his own band or Pickles.
There was a single nod before he found the center of balance in the chair and used it to hoist Miniver with one arm, the other keeping the chair steady by his holding a wing of the chair. "So how's t'morrow sound f'our first lesson? I could do this for a few more minutes if y'not satisfied." He said, no sound of strain in his voice, just moving a juggler would while spinning plates on a stick to keep the balance.
Bill may take this as a yes.
The expression on his face is PRICELESS.
He chuckled and set the chair down lightly as ever, slipping back into his own chair with a grin. "Havin' met Nathan, I bet I could pick his brick wall f'a body up as well, if he stayed still long 'nough t'do so." He finished off his drink. "Can''t say s'all supernatural strength, I was a strong f'workin' on th'ship m'whole adult life."
Miniver blinks at Bill.
"Dude. Fuckin' fantastic. That was actually kinda fun. Heh, see if I ever offer to help you move furniture." He sips his brandy again. "I'll get a list of songs ready tomorrow. If you pick one before the lesson I can write the chords for you, give you something to read off of. I could teach you by ear, too, whichever you prefer."
"I know how t'read sheet music, learnin' by ear is a bad idea, I've lived with tone-deaf pirates m'entire life, tho' Jack can keep a tune if he sets his mind to it. Not much of a singer." There was an easy smile as his Shadow, a pup about the size of an old english sheep dog, though more thin and praying-mantis-meets-stickbug came up to him and wrapped around the legs of the chair, blinking his hundred impossible eyes and made the sound of rustling leaves. "Aye, s'our guest, Miniver. Miniver, Scarecrow."
Miniver gives a delighted laugh. "Another one! I think these things are darling, you know? I didn't know you had one, Bill! Hey, Scarecrow. 'Sup, man?" He extends a hand towards the shadow, welcoming in case it's curious. "Okay, I'll write some music down for you, then. Pity you don't sing. I love singing..."
Scarecrow was ALWAYS curious, and put its own claws out, with what appeared to be fingers of his own at the ends, though more insectoid, and shook Miniver's hand, before looking it over, and then sticking his comically small head up the sleeve of the man's trenchcoat. Scarecrow had seen the scars, it seemed. Bill laughed brightly and shook his head. "S'always doin' that t'me too, s'why I started wearin' short sleeves more often."
Miniver giggles at the creature. "Should I take my coat off?" He's absolutely besotted with Shadows. They are almost as awesome as snakes!
Bill shrugged, "If you'd like to, I'm sure he'd appreciate it. Shadow, please, if you don't mind, s'awfully rude." Scarecrow, the chilly, weightless non-thing he was, slipped away, rustling out an apology - almost sounding exactly like "thank you" wouldn't, before scurrying up to the bookshelves and disappearing into the darkness that one corner held. "That's m'pup. He an' I teach each other. I've learned t'speak their language, though s'a lot harder for a person with a tongue and vocal chords t'say than whatever it is they've got."
Miniver watches the creature... being... disappear, and takes his coat off anyway, showing his scars where the teeshirt doesn't cover.
"They're totally cool, Bill. Heh, I almost kinda want one of my own. D'you feed e'm or anything?"
"They feed off energy. Electricity, nervous tension, emotion, whatever latent energy they can pick up on. S'all." Bill shrugged one shoulder, and smiled off to the corner where Scarecrow disappeared. "He's jus' a child still, only 'round ten, eleven years old. Very curious young Shadow, his herd leader Sneaky is a large one, 'round th'size of a camel, though lookin' more like an insect doesn't." He poured another round for them both. "Y'can't really go out an' claim one, they claim you. Scarecrow's told me it's my love of knowledge, whether literary or just in general, that drew him to me, his own personal passion is to learn as much about humans. They don't have a language like ours, theirs is all emotion based, expressive and dependant on mood."
Miniver smiles softly. "Sounds like he'd get on with me spectacularly," he says, with just enough weight to the words that it seems like he might have a REASON for saying them more than he's told Bill. "Nifty little dudes, though. Do they just find you like, at random, or what?" He nods thanks for the brandy as well.
"Scarecrow's part of th'den of the Herd that Petit helped raise as den mother." Bill explained, sipping his drink. "How do you mean he'd get on with you well, luv?" He was interested!
The bubbly poet suddenly goes clammier than a clambake and shrugs a bit. "Cuz of reasons," he explains eloquently into his brandy glass. "It ain't important. Heh, not if y'don't eat energy or whatever."
"Mm. have a bit of nervous tension, do you?" Bill fathomed a guess, "S'alright mate, s'why th'Shadows found Tortuga incredibly rich. We're all one spark away from an explosion." He finished off his drink easily and stood, stretching as he decided it was time to go paw at his books a bit.
"Nervous tension. Sure. Go ahead an' call it that." Miniver curls up in the chair and watches Bill, contentedly nursing his own drink (for once) and just... being curled.
He likes it here.
"Well, what would you call it, then?" Bill asked, his voice dipped to as gentle as it could go - which certainly wasn't near as comforting as any normal person's, due to him having barked commands for about fifty years, but it still was the thought that counted. His smile was warm enough.
Miniver eyes Bill calculatingly, for a good deal longer than is probably comfortable, with an expression that is a good deal sharper than anything he's worn in Bill's presence before.
At last, he relaxes again, playing a curl of his hair around his fingers. "'S a sorta... um... I don't wanna call it a sickness cuz it ain't, you can't catch it or anything. But I got this thing called bipolar cyclothemia. It just means sometimes I get real happy or real depressed for no reason. I don't usually like to say anything's wrong with me at all, but..." He shrugs. "You asked. I don't think anything's WRONG with me. It's just a thing I got. I figured out how to deal with it by myself a long time ago."
That got a smile from Bill, and he shook his head with a soft, warm, altogether fond chuckle. "S'just words th'psychologists made up an' pasted so called 'symptoms' onto t'make money, mate. I've done a bit of studyin' psychology m'self an' I'd be classified as many a thing, but I don't take anythin' for it, an' I don't do anythin' t'change it. It doesn't affect anything I've ever done b'fore, an' s'not goin' to change who I am now due to th'fact things have labels." Bill rolled his eyes, "Psychology. S'a farce, all of it, really. A person cannot be labeled by their traits, for they're not goin' t'be remembered for how they thought, but how they contributed t'society as a whole." He blinked. "They would call me obsessive compulsive an' manic. They'd call Jack schizotypical. S'that make either've us diseased?"
Miniver grins at Bill. "Nah. I kinda like knowing the words they use for what they think is wrong with me, cuz sometimes... uh... that's why I keep the journals, y'know. If you've got a name for something, you know something about it, right? And other people who are like that. So it helped me be more... I dunno... stable, or something. Sometimes it's just better when I know I'm swingin' one way or another so I can modify how I act and not go crazy-like. I mean, where anyone else can see." He stops playing with his hair. "C'mere."
Bill smiled and slipped out of his seat, going to sit on the plush armrest of the other man's chair, propping himself up with the wings on the back, "Aye? An' th'reason I write is because I must. I believe that if things aren't chronicled with detail, they'll be lost forever. An' a great deal of what I've seen would've been had it not been for my journals." He purred, bowing his head, to press a kiss to Miniver's temple, "Y'don't strike me as a depressive type."
Miniver slips an arm around Bill's waist and leans his head into the pirate's side. "You just ain't seen me when I get like that. I'm a lot better'n I used to be, but every now and then I get... y'know... all sorts'a mournful and whiny and shit. Once a year, sometimes twice, I get REAL bad and just don't do anything but sleep and won't talk to anyone for a few days. It's utterly pathetic. When I know I'm going into a down swing, I usually just kinda go off by myself for a while, unless Pickles is around. He knows what to do with me when I get like that. And I know how to deal with me when I get like that. I don't like to bug anyone else with it."
"Hm." He said, petting through the mess of the musician's hair, "Jack gets that way, himself, y'know. Just random jags where he'd rather just have himself t'deal with, 'course s'changed since when I first met him, but he's been doin' it as far back as I c'n recall. S'a great deal he keeps hidden inside, an' even I'm not let in on it. I've let him keep himself to himself, an' s'why he doesn't worry, s'why he draws me in. But he'll go off f'a day or two an' lock himself in th'cabin or stay in th'house, an' stew over it f'a while 'fore comin' back out, shiny an' bold as ever." He smiled, "I've never dealt with it m'self, did have a brief period where 'round november an' december I'd get distinctly less talkative, but s'for a damn good reason." He pet down from Miniver's hair to his back.
Miniver smiles at the petting and squeezes Bill, wrapping his other arm around too. "Yeah? You wanna tell me about it or not?"
That brought Bill into Miniver's lap. He shrugged, "Well y'saw th'scars on m'back, aye? Like a frame 'round th' skull an' serpant?" He wasn't going to go into great detail, he'd told Jack, but that took several decades to actually get out in the open.
Miniver nods, and nuzzles Bill's neck. "Ah. I see." He doesn't NEED more explanation than that, and won't press Bill for it.
And hey! Bill-inna-lap. Double plus awesome. Miniver hugs him tight. It is neither very metal nor (he suspects) very pirately, but it's real nice, for just a minute, to have someone to do that to.
Not in the least piratical, but he allowed it with a chuckle and a ruffle of the poet's hair. "Well, how's y'knowledge of World War II? Th'damndest thing, I decided that th'one time I go run away with th'gypsies, they started gettin' sent into death camps and prison camps to be tortured." He leaned into Miniver and shook his head, "Buchenwald was no pretty little summer camp, I'll tell y'that f'a fact. An' s'much as I'm willin' t'say on th'matter." There was a bit of a haunted expression on his face before he shook his head and cleared his mind of it. "Right, so s'not always a picnic in life s'what I'm tryin' to get at, mate."
Miniver chuckles and rubs a hnd over Bill's back, up into his hair where he tugs fondly and scritches a bit.
"I know it, man. Hey. I know it ain't worth shit steaming on a sidewalk, but I'm sorry. And I mean that. Not like... I'm sorry it happened to you or fuckever, but like..." He pauses. "I'm sorry I don't know exactly what that's like and know how to react in whatever way would be best for you." Because that's really the meat of it. Miniver's sorry his attempts at comfort and relating are shallow and contrived, at least to his own ears.
The fact that any scratch to his scalp sent his brain into automatic shutdown mode was enough, and he murmured, leaning into the musician. He nibbled idly at Miniver's jaw as the man spoke and scratched and pet, and really, if any word meant anything, he wasn't aware of it.
Miniver smiles and kisses back, continuing to scritch his hair and work into a scalp massage. The gestures are almost platonic... it's impossible to describe, but his voice as he coos to Bill, his hands as they work, his arms holding him close... there's a subtle difference between this and a lover's embrace. Miniver is no lover, no romantic partner. Miniver is a parther of pleasure-in-friendship, deeper than pleasure for pleasure's sake, lacking the same kind of emotional ties of a romantic partner. The fondness in his actions and his voice is deep and sincere, but no more than fondness, a strong emotion that gives no hint that it might ever become ROMANTIC love, though it lays the foundations for what may one day become a love of comrade to comrade, of like-soul to like-soul.
"What can I do for you, Bill?" he asks finally, softly, his voice perhaps slightly rough. "You wanna lay on the couch or the floor, I tell you what, I give a great massage..."
Bill had no lover but the one who was asleep in a chair downstairs. Several pleasure-seeking mates over the past decade, but never another one he'd call his love. There was no room for another - he'd found that out easily enough when he'd tried due to curiosity's sake - and yet, he was wholly content with the passion and delight of friendship with no romantic ties. Romance was romance, but love was love, and in his mind, love was family - something which Miniver, though a wonderful man for being so new to him certainly wasn't. He slipped away from the other man's hands in his hair so he could gain his bearings, and smiled. "Aye, I'm sure y'do, but I believe y'just worked every bit of tension from me through m'scalp." There was a chuckle, "S'I'll tell y''what, mate. I'll do th'same f'you. I've had a bit more time t'practice at it." His hands were already working at the base of Miniver's neck as he spoke, fingertips working deep into the tissue, hitting bundles of nerves and muscle that he knew had likely not been touched in ages.
That... that's like electrricity through his body. The poet sits up as if startled, his eyes wide, and moments later, melts into Bill's hands.
"I really... owe it t'you," he mumbles, his voice slurring just a little. "I mean.. y'let me stay here 'n everything... hmmmn..." He rolls his head to one side, licks his lips, and signs deeply.
"Don't ever say y'owe a pirate everythin' mate, or we'll take y'for all you've got. Y'lucky I've mellowed or I'd've taken that at face value." He continued to work, his fingers were strong and agile, having learned to tie and untie knots and untangle strings of jewels from one another, not to mention weave beads into his husband's hair and do intricate scrollwork for his journals. They also knew every pressure point by sense of touch alone, and worked at the muscles with cunning accuracy, loosening them, making the blood run to them more efficiantly again. "You'll need a nice tall glass've water after this. I don't know whose been tryin' to give you massages, mate, but they've no idea what they're doin'." He said, not critical of the person in specific, just worried that the major muscle groups were worked on, but all the minor ones which led to the major ones were neglected. "When I'm done here, s'going t'take a great deal of time 'fore you wind y'self up back to th'way y'were."
Miniver begind to melt into Bill's hands. It isn't long until he's literally a huge-haired ragdoll in the pirate's hands. He only hears about half of what Bill is saying -- just as well, he'd take exception to his criticism of Pickles' ability to give massages. It's just that he doesn't get as much free time with his husband as he'd like, and it's been a VERY stressful few days, even if the stress doesn't show on his face or in the way he acts.
But this is doing him a lot of good. He topples into Bill's lap with a quiet groan and is limp, his tense muscles gradually undoing their knots and relaxing.
"Jesus," he breathes, eyes closed.
Bill smiled and slipped away, easily bringing Miniver down to the floor to continue, putting no pressure on any of his body except for the parts that he worked on. His fingers eased out the tension, working down to the base of the other man's spine before spreading out to his sides, working up back to his arms, which he worked on one after the other, down to the fingertips, and after that was done, he smoothed Miniver's hair back and wound a lock of it around the rest, tying it into a natural ponytail so he could work at the musician's shoulders one last time. "Th'interestin' thing about pressure points is some can give incredible pleasure, whether others can kill a man." He grinned and finished off the massage, slipping away finally. "There, y'feel better now, don't y'?"
"Guh," Miniver mumbles. Eyes closed, he lies there like a (very tiny, skinny, fluffy-haired) beached whale, head on his crossed arms. "My god, I didn't even realizes I wasn't feelin' top notch 'til you did that. Nnf..."
He kittystretches and flops onto his back, looking up at Bill with starry eyes.
"Let me get you some water." Bill in lieu of 'you're welcome' and went to do so, bringing back a caraffe of it along with a filled glass, handing the latter to Miniver. "Th'water is to rejuvinate th'muscles, make sure they don't cramp up again. They're like sponges, y'see, an' they'll soak up th'water instead've whatever other chemicals're in your system. Y'hear about how drugs're stored in y'spinal cord, well, s'true to an extent, but they're mostly stored in th'muscle tissue. So are other things, so drink up." He stretched and gave his spine a good, hearty pop, before dropping into a chair once more. "I'll teach y'how to do that, some day, once y'win a bet with me."
Miniver takes the water and obediently drinks as much of it as he can stomach -- he feels it's only right to do as Bill says after something like that. He sits up finally (after another kittystretch, undoing his tied-back hair) and stares at Bill with those sky-blue melancholy eyes.
"You got anything you wanna bet, man?" he asks sleepily as he sips slowly at another glass of water.
Bill shook his head as he pulled the latest journal from the shelf, it was only a typical, leather-bound, cord-tied journal. He'd get to putting it, and the others like it, into a compilation like the rest in due time, and he started to write. "No, not right now. Tho' when I think've one, I'll let y'know, aye?" He continued to write as he turned to Miniver and gave him a wink. "If y'tired, I'll show y'to th'guest room."
"Mmm... I c'n find it on my own, I think, y'don't gotta bother about me," Miniver replies. "I like t'watch you, if that's okay." He leans back on one arm and slowly finishes the water, his droopy eyes on Bill as he does. "What're you writing about?"
He'll be asleep in due time... quite soon, really.
"I started writing down th'story th' Flying Dutchman had told me was her favorite, an' I've got t'write it down verbatim before I forget exactly as she'd worded it. Oh, she's got a lovely way t'tell stories, just as I'd think a ship would have." His lips turned to a warm smile as he wrote, "Y'sure, mate, you've got th'look of a man what's ready t'sleep in th'first reclined position he's in." He finished writing down the story quickly enough, using a fountain pen. He never liked ballpoint, it didn't capture words the way a quill did. Fountain pens did, however, and he used them. Typewriters came in handy for letters, but never for journals. FAR too mechanical. "I only wish I could've met th'Pearl while she was here. She was like a mother to me, that ship. She was th'most beautiful ship to have ever sailed th'Carribean." He tapped his left arm with his fingers, the sleeve of his shirt only partially covering up the tattoo of her on his arm.
Miniver eyes the tattoo. He really DOES look like he'll fall asleep the very next time his body finds a position not likely to lose balance or tumble into anything dangerous. The Narrative notes that one of Miniver's Hidden Talents is, in fact, an ability to fall asleep anywhere, any time, to take brief catnaps and be totally awake at the drop of a pin. The fact that he's tired enough to LOOK it is significant.
"It's a little sad," he mumbles distantly, "I don't remember the name of any boat I've ever been on. But I do remember both times I saw the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, and they meant something." He leans heavily back on his arms. "Th'first was Pickles' birthday, th'first one I spent with him, an' we went an' sat next to th'Pacific in LA an' he gave me this ring... an' th'next time... we were in Ireland, on my birthday, an' I gave him a ring t'match mine... not like... engagement rings or nothin'... just... snakes..." He yawns, covering his mouth with one hand, and swaying enough to almost fall over as he balances on the other. "Mmn. Maybe I oughta go look f'r that room now."
"Aye." He slipped the cap on the pen and set it aside, before closing the journal. "I'll help y'there. Y'know, it took us seventy years, Jack and I, to consider gettin' married? Th'only reason we did was t'get at a bit of shine, called th' Heart of th'Black Haired Goddess. Was th'heart of not Calypso, but her mother, Pleione. Didn't know that at th'time, wound up gettin' into a spot've trouble with th'lady an' wound up havin' to spend a decade in debt to her alone." He stood and offered Miniver his arm. "Best honeymoon ever, I believe."
Miniver takes Bill's arm and stumbles to his feet, yawning again and leaning heavily against Bill.
He is distressingly adorable when he's tired, all fluff and soft -- his face loses a lot of the lines and age put there over the years, and he again looks a good deal younger than he is, though in a rather peculiar, contradictory way, his fce clashing with the cloak of his hair and the smallness of his body.
"I bet it was awesome," he murmurs as he more or less follows Bill's lead, dragging his feet towards the other bedroom.
"Oh, aye. We spent five days alone in a cave with nothin' to eat but rats an' nothin' to do but fuck." He spoke gently, opening the door to a modest but cozy guest bedroom, inviting, if not a bit feminine in nature. Bill idly wondered which one of them - himself or Jack - was the woman before they came here and replaced them. He shrugged it off, and led Miniver to the bed, laying him down gently, like a father would a child. "Sleep well, musician, th'drapes should keep th'light out 'till afternoon." He winked and slipped away, to go back to writing.
Miniver flops into the bed and immediately curls up like a little hedgehog, his hair almost like spikes in the dim light. He's asleep before Bill finishes his last sentence.