we burn up the city, we're really a fright

[sweetmotherofgod]

CHARACTERS: Arthur Kirkland and Heather Mason
LOCATION: media library
WARNINGS: drinking, swearing, and PIRATE STORIES! Not the scary space kind.
SUMMARY: England is trying to drown his sorrows in peace. Bad luck, England.
NOTES: why does she keep hanging around nations I don't even go there



On the surface there's actually not much difference between Heather with her soul and Heather without. The primary difference is simply that her fucks tank is at empty, displayed here by the fact that she's eating somebody's leftovers she stole from the fridge, and that she's wandering around in a short skirt that exposes her robotic leg. Whether England will be more alarmed by the discovery that she's a cyborg or the miniskirt is really anyone's guess. But mainly she's bored, and she hones in on England with laser focus. Especially when she sees he's drinking.

"So this is where the party is," she says, strolling towards him with fork in hand. The fact that she's not saying it around a mouthful of pasta is coincidence rather than manners, but hey.

Comments

[knackered]

He's bored, drunk, and despairing over his life. Trapped in the glorious reverie of self pity and booze, he's sat with his back against a wall, clothes a mess; hasn't shaved in a few days, or slept much for that matter. Several books are strewn about him including one that's in his lap, but at the moment he's past being able to read. The wall and furnishings across from him are far more interesting apparently--or dull enough that he can stare listlessly at them, and then through them, to a far off time and place. Arthur is bored, drunk, and nostalgic.

Fortunately for him, misery loves company. Literally.

On hearing a familiar voice, he turns his head slowly and squints blearily at the voice's owner. The short skirt and robotic leg don't seem to phase him. He's seen stranger things throughout his life and on board this ship, and right now he's too drunk to be stuffy.

"Oi," he replies right off, "This what you call a party? 'm sorry madame but I have no trappings or tools for merrymaking. Your definition of a party is absolute shite. Please though, sit if you want," his offer is sincere (drunkenly so). "Sit, sit sit sit," he gestures with a wide sweep of his... arm.

"Them fuckin' talky boxes. Had to bolt and make myself scarce, yeah..." Arthur takes a generous swig from his flask, and rubs his nose. He is far from the Victorian gentleman Heather first met. So, so far.

[sweetmotherofgod]

"Oi," she parrots, basically delighted. She heard it from William before, but from England? That's new. And excellent. "Maybe I'm bringing the party with me?"

She is not. She's bringing reheated pasta. But she sit sit sit sits, initially unfazed by how different he sounds. She hears that with Netherlands all the time - the change in the way he sounds when he's speaking English and when the nanites are translating him from Dutch. So obviously, England's just switched from English to... huh. That realization gets him a sly look, her eyes panning over him slowly. Man, he is hammered.

"What's the problem with the fuckin' talky boxes? You piss someone off? Hard to imagine."

[knackered]

"The box, the dog, the-- ah fuck it all," he shakes his head, immediately regretting it for the vertigo that rushes over him. He squints at Heather again through ruddy eyes over ruddy cheeks and silently pursed lips. "You ain't much of a party, being married and all, yeah? No offense meant by it, just saying, what else a party of two good for?" His tone is, well, drunk, not aggressive or intentionally lewd. Indeed, he's more hammered than a bent nail.

"Those ruddy things, ain't good for talking. I mean they are and all, gossip and what have you, rabbiting away but-- ain't no good for anything but that. Don't bring you no mates, or a good brick for a chat. Never in my life have I been more bored out of my mind than on this ship! Even years at sea, I swear! Always something to do on proper ships, there was."

He stops his drunken ramble to refill a swig from his flask and ask the all important question: "Did you know I was a pirate?"

[sweetmotherofgod]

"We're not married."

Casual as you like, but true. Netherlands would back her up on that. It's possible she wouldn't have stated it so plainly if he seemed shadier about he comment, or if he wasn't so drunk she doubted his ability to throw that kind of party anyway, but by no means guaranteed. She skates past the comment quickly enough when he continues in any case, moving from what's very nearly an eye roll into immediate attention.

"A pirate? Now I bet that was a party. What do they say? Rum, sodom- wait, that's the Navy."

[knackered]

"You're married! As good as!" He's very adamant about this conclusion in his own mind, even while he's drunk. "An' even if you weren't, I... I, ma'am," he nods at her as seriously as one could nod while heavily inebriated, "I am a bloody gentleman. A pirate gentleman--oh yes, was in the navy too though!" he adds with a pointed, ruddy-eyed look, before he pauses for another swig.

"The phrase is um, God, what is it-- oh, right: Ashore it’s wine, women and song; aboard it’s rum, bum and concertina. Quite accurate and a miracle I've got the world in my pocket but at the end of the day, it is as it is. Oh, mmm, piracy though! Was a privateer, didn't have much of a navy at first for a good while and you know, Spain, bloody Spain... and your darling husband and France and I..."

He shuts his mouth and shakes his head. Memories swim around and are hard to catch, slipping in and out of his mental focus like silvery little fish elusive when he wants them most. His tongue feels like cotton and his words are all slurred, and he can only string words together as he is now out of sheer practice in being drunk. "And Portugal. Wonderful Portugal. He's a friend, of a sort, but he must hate me now. Yes, those were good days back then, especially after the defeat of the Spanish. That's why people went to piracy in such huge numbers, you know. Crown couldn't pay folk to plunder when the wars were over, so everyone was out of a job!" Arthur's mouth splits into a grin.

"That's when the fun really began."

[sweetmotherofgod]

Shock and concern. That's the main reaction, enduring through most of his talk. He has a pretty decent brow-furrow to begin with, but after three years or so in the company of Netherlands she's reached professional levels. So when the first line out of her mouth is -

"Concertina?"

her sincerity is unquestionable. Concertina is appalling. And she's never liked rum - the smell of it makes her gag - so the only conclusion is - "That must have been some pretty good bum."

Still, she likes nation stories. Likes them especially when they're all unguarded, so she abandons her fork and the pasta to fish a small white pill out of a bag in her pocket and reaches for the flask, hoping that a) England's claims of being a gentleman will extend to sharing, and b) that he's not drinking fucking rum.

"Not a fan of Spain, huh?"

[knackered]

Heather is lucky he's feeling good-natured, as opposed to in the mood for a brawl, or perhaps crying his eyes out. He offers the flask and in it is the Tranquility's standard fare of booze, in a flask enchanted for self-refilling. At the mention of good bums he blushes and stammers. "W--well I-- dunno, just saying that's the phrase an' all, never you mind what trouble I was getting into, buggery or no!"

He shifts and crosses his arms, then uncrosses them and seems restless without actually having the flask in hand.

"No real fan of Antonio, not at all, fuckin' sod gave me nothing but shit for centuries! An' to his brother Portugal as well. That's right his own brother," he nods, as if he's forgotten (and in this state probably has) about his own familial problems. "Port's a damn brick, been there for me for... five... eight? Seven-hundred? A long time. Anyway, Spain," he goes on, "There he is stealing tons and tons of gold and the like from the native empires in the Americas, and I'm thinking, well shit, I'm flat broke, why don't we just rob Spain? So that's what we did! State-sponsored piracy, bloody brilliant it was. Great big defenseless galleons spilling over with gold."

England shakes his head. "Fucking bastards."