[ota]

[rawly]

Sonny has been on this ship for not long at all, but he is already behind the bar where he knows how to be. There's a sign on top of the advice that says Free Fuckin' Advice on top as he leans against the other side of the bar. He is not responsible for the sign for the record. Sonny is also not responsible for the fact that some people who end up at this bar will find themselves far more likely to share their troubles than they would be ordinarily. They'll suddenly find words for troubles they've never been able to describe before.

It's the ship's magic, and Sonny is a demon and a bartender who is over eighty years old. He's done some terrible things for selfish reasons, and he's done some terrible things for the good of others, and he's loved and had a family. Nothing's ever that fucking simple.

He has plenty to say, but he's going to say it all in his own fucking way.

Come have a drink.

Come spill the things you can't ever normally put to words. Come let someone listen or give a word or two that might set you on the right path or the wrong path or any fucking path.

It's what he's here for.

Comments

[category]

When you're on the path to eternity, eighty's nothing. Jack remembers when he was eighty. He was undercover in a traveling show on a quest to find the infamous Night Travellers. He'd put his inability to die on display then, using his own oddity to get himself billed as one. It wasn't the first, nor would it be the last time he died for someone's entertainment.

Eighty seemed like several lifetimes ago, and it might as well be. He was well over 2,000 at this point. He'd lost track at some point when he was buried, as unable to keep time as he was to keep up with how many times he died repeatedly during that ordeal. It was a wonder his sanity remained intact, and there were many times he wondered that if he'd hadn't been an immortal product of the Rose's Bad Wolf design, if he would've lost his grip on reality a long, long time ago.

But unfortunately, reality was a very real thing, and sometimes it settled on your shoulders like an impossible weight that refused to budge, bearing down on you with all its might. Jack was no longer in the business of dwelling on the -- well, the reality of it all -- but seeing Martha and Donna again had somehow brought everything he'd lost in a relatively short span of time crashing back down upon him.

And that called for a drink.

"Bartender," Jack calls, "give me... Give me your worst."

Not like it'll kill him. And if it does? Not like he won't come back.

[leavers]

Olivia finally understands what it means when people say breathtaking.

She's been here for a very, very long time, wandering the endless rooms that take her from one place to the next, but never really take her anywhere. The sight of him has her pulling in a small breath, and she leans against the wall, watching him mix drinks for a while.

"What if we're not looking for advice?" she asks, finally making herself known.

Her voice will be exactly as he remembers it, if not a tad thick, but she's smiling. No reason to make this hurtful. Some people aren't good at goodbyes. Olivia has never quite been good at hellos.