[OPEN, DINER CATCH-ALL] war, children, it's just a shot away

[wordvomit]

Who: EVERYONE (Yes, even Mirrors.)
Where: Eighth Floor Diner
When: 12/18
Rating: PG to PG-13
Summary: With the help of a Japanese schoolgirl, one man overcomes his neurosis and invites literally everyone to the diner.
The Story:

[Ned wasn't optimistic at the beginning - matter of fact, Ned never starts out thinking optimistically about anything, simply as a force of habit. Healthy paranoia, often misconstrued as abject pessimism, is what weighs heavily on the Pie Maker on a daily basis.

Adding actual monsters - ones different from him, who are much larger and fictional and hungry - to the mix only serves to amplify his anxiety.

It comes as something of a relief when Tohru recommends barricading the windows and stockpiling supplies, blankets, an assortment of foodstuffs and some First Aid, all of which are suggestions Ned undertakes with enthusiasm and the assistance of his diner-mates.

Now, with all the tables upturned strategically and the blinds drawn, he's almost elated they had the foresight to work things out early as a new transmission hits the public sphere.

He sends out another message almost immediately, this one Mansion-wide.]

IF ANYONE NEEDS A SAFE PLACE AND YOU CAN'T MAKE IT TO THE CLINIC OR LIBRARY

COME TO THE DINER ON THE EIGHTH FLOOR

WE HAVE FOOD* AND SHELTER IN THE EVENT OF CATASTROPHE

*But please be patient with that, there's only a couple of us working the kitchen.

[The Pie Maker, who loathes close proximity and sometimes gets claustrophobic, almost regrets hitting SEND.

Almost.]






NOTE: This is OPEN MINGLE CATCH-ALL, anyone and everyone can meet up with their friends/family/associates in the diner if they need a safe place to stay and don't want to leap willy-nilly after Her Highness into the Rabbit Hole it's ironic because the diner is called The Rabbit Hole.

Comments

[wordvomit]

[The fact of the matter is that Ned doesn't need help with anything, and if he did, then it's incredibly likely that he wouldn't say so. Being the sort of person who is reclusive and covered in flour on a good day, the Pie Maker, while averse to all the company his missive will undoubtedly bring, is aware that safety is paramount.

The bell over the door rings and drags him from his worktable in the kitchen, peering through the side door and assessing the newcomer.

The newcomer, it appears, is in somewhat stiff clothing with even stiffer posture, wielding what looks like a lion cub. Glancing down at Derby, his English springer spaniel, Ned hopes that the cat is willing to play nice. He really doesn't want another dog he can't touch after bringing it back.]

Uh. Hi.

[This is the part where he emerges from the kitchen, toweling his hands off and still clad in an apron.]

I don't...really need any help, but you're welcome to stay here for the duration of the, ah...disaster. As it were. I'm Ned.

[whele]

[William isn't too surprised when Ned shows his face, watching as the other comes over, wiping his hands. He knows the other from the network, but they've never spoken or managed to cross paths. Needless to say if a certain anchor had done their job properly, a certain pie-maker wouldn't have been jumped by an archangel.

Such was life.

Ignorance is bliss as they say, and William gives what he hopes is a decent smile. It's a bit difficult to force one to the surface when his mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, wondering just how long it'll take for a jabberwocky to eat everyone, on just what a jabberwocky even looks like, how much it'll hurt and what it'll feel like coming back from the dead for a second time. Being head of the church back home, William isn't allowed to let that terror show, and he takes a moment before giving another smile, this one more natural than the last. He shuffles the lion cub around in his arms a little, rolling his arms at the disgruntled mewl he gets for his efforts as he holds a free hand out for a handshake.]

If you do please don't hesitate to shout, I'd be more than happy to offer some assistance. Can't say I can cook, but I'll give anything a go at least once or twice. [Disaster is definitely the right word for it, William trying to mentally steel himself against his own imagination right now.] William, nice to meet you all things considered. Do you think many people will be coming here? Oh and sorry about this one - [William motions at the lion cub that is peering up at Ned with idly curiosity.] He's trained and doesn't bite much anymore.

[wordvomit]

[Ned tucks the towel into his apron pocket, not overtly concerned about any battles that may or may not be taking place on their side of the mirror but entertaining the real possibility of being trapped in the diner with multiple people over the course of the next week.

Thank God they have a bathroom in here.

With his arms already folded tightly across his chest Ned appraises William's outstretched hand like an inexperienced herpetologist eyeing a venomous snake, more concerned about human contact than he is about the lion.]

Um.

[Lacking any excuses - a rolling pin, pouring coffee, kneading dough, the list goes on - to keep his hands to himself Ned reaches out for a brief shake before retreating, offering the barest flash of a smile. It's never personal, it's just...him.]

...the lion's fine, I guess, as long as he's...dog-friendly.

[Derby, the aforementioned dog, is sitting placidly in the doorway to the kitchen with her tail thumping the floor.]

[whele]

[William has seen that reaction before. Back home the majority of those in Vega were asylum seekers, those looking for a safe haven from whatever they had left behind. Most of those did not have happy stories to tell and over the course of time, comfort and talks William is pretty sure he can recognize when someone does not want something. It's probably why he's not even surprised or offended when he gets the briefest of handshakes, just keeping the smile on his face as he glances over at Derby.]

I'm sure he is dog friendly. The last dog he saw, Zad just rolled over and demanded tummy rubs. I'll keep hold of him just in case. [The look William gives the dog is one that promises all the scritches and tummy rubs once his lion is sleeping in the corner. He likes dogs a lot, but that one time he'd asked his father for one....well, William knows he may as well have just gone and crapped on the persian rug himself.

The principate snaps himself back to present. Right, he needs to be socializing not woolgathering. Considering the apron, William knows he should change the subject to one that will probably be something Ned can get along with.] This place looks really good. I've never been here before though, what kind of things do you have on the menu?

[wordvomit]

[The Pie Maker does not have a happy story to tell: just a childhood fraught with death and parental neglect, peppered with emotional abuse, and garnished with a fear of touching others that led to many unsuccessful interpersonal relationships. Intimacy is difficult for Ned, who once nearly had sexual relations with a girl on a bearskin rug and brought the rug back to life long enough for it to be...upsetting.

Needless to say, he doesn't make friends easily.]

Standard diner fare, I guess, but if it's a draw then I should tell you that everything's made from scratch - I'm not really a fan of, um, canned goods.

[Mostly because he can't eat them himself.]

I specialize in pie.

[whele]

[Most would agree with the mention of canned goods. William though? His nose scrunches up before he can catch himself. The last time he'd heard that sentiment was moments before Gabriel went on his diner rampage. It's enough that he can feel the palms of his hands getting clammy, and the principate swallows hard to do everything in his power not to look as pale as he's feeling.]

I don't think anyone likes canned foods, though in some cases people just don't get the choice. [Like those who lived outside the walls of Vega, not that William will spend his time feeling sorry for them. They were idiots.]

Savory pie or sweet pie?

[wordvomit]

[Ned would argue that some culinary neophytes fall back on canned pumpkin pie filling and canned cherry filling, which is a wholly reprehensible practice for an experienced baker. He only meant to convey that the goods and services procured in this eating establishment are top-notch, of course, and that William could rest assured while consuming a boysenberry tart that the boysenberry was, indeed, fresh as could be.]

Both. Sweet and savory. Pot pies count as pies, but I'm not sure if Shepherd's Pie does, since it doesn't exactly have a crust and a pie is defined by its crust, but that's- erm, you...don'treallywanttohearaboutthat.

[A beat.]

...Can I...get you anything?