[open-ish] I'd ride in your pocket all day

[thereneverwas]

WHO: Fitcher, Barrow, and anyone else in the area
WHAT: SCORN
WHEN: return from jungle times
WHERE: the Gallows docks
NOTES: this is more of an open now. I told you I was a wildcard

They're back from the jungle, it has been a Time. Barrow is substantially thinner (and beardier) than he was when they left, and the one thing keeping him going as he trundles off the boat into the Gallows is the promise of a hot bath, a shave, and a proper meal.

But before he can get there, something else catches his eye. He deliberates for a moment, then approaches Mrs. Fitcher with a tired, sheepish smile.

Comments

[thereneverwas]

There's no trace of humor on Barrow's face, though he wishes there were. He raises a hand to the barkeep, requesting a refill.

He at least scoffs amusedly at the guess, and shakes his head. "Cockworms," he grunts, "why does everyone always assume it's cockworms? There's no such thing." The smirk fades from his lips.
"I hope."

[bignasty]

“‘Course there is.” Still serious, sans the air of brotherly understanding, Sylvester scoffs right back at him.

“You can get worms anywhere. On my tab,” he adds for the barkeep, gesturing to cover Barrow’s refill as well as his own. Then back to Barrow, not quite able to quash the starting huff of chuckle into a cough: “I could check for you if it’ll ease your mind.”

[thereneverwas]

"Well... thanks, mate," comes the genuine reply, and a little smile which is quickly replaced by another affronted scowl.
"What-- no!!" he barks, though his offense isn't enough to stop him picking up his mug again once it's refilled, "...I don't even know you!"

Maybe, were the situation dire enough, a bosom pal could have permission to conduct that particular inspection. But this is just some random man off the street. ...who bought him a drink.

[bignasty]

Sylvester’s default, “Don’t mention it,” comes quickly, and is underscored offhand with a dismissive flick of his fingers and a placating, “yeah, alright, fine,” like Barrow is totally blowing this out of proportion.

FINE. He won’t look at it.

He nudges his tankard closer to the edge of the table, where the keep will have an easier time of refilling it.

“Out of curiosity though,” immediately after he’s started on this next mug: “if you really thought you might have them, how well would you have to know someone before you’d let them -- “ he mimes peering one-eyed down the barrel of a small telescope, or a regular-sized penis. “Because I think I’d ask the first person who slowed down enough to listen.”

[thereneverwas]

"I think I would know!!" Barrow almost yells, spreading his arms wide, and, after a pause, in the same tone, adds:
"HOW DO I ALWAYS END UP TALKING ABOUT DICKWORMS? I DON'T HAVE--" He brings his hands down quickly when he notices the bewildered stare of a nearby table's occupants.

Opening his mouth once, he closes it again, opens it again, and shakes his head in frustration before taking another long swig. There's not enough booze in the world.