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Bar?

[If Mick hadn't already made this same offer before, Rip's reply might be a touch different. Yet what he'd learned in that instance holds even more true now: Leonard wouldn't be asking him specifically without a reason.]

Momentarily. Thankfully, I'm not coming from the roof this time.

Wouldn't be as effective anyway. Bar's closer to the roof.

Is that why you made a suggestion rather than sent a distress signal?

[Although in truth Rip would like to think he won't be falling for the fake cries for help again--maybe. Hopefully. At any rate, he's on his way: up three flights of stairs rather than down eight.

It'll take him longer though; he's not rushing this time.]

That and I don't want to be the boy that cried wolf.

[He's at the bar, seated on a bar stool the way only he'd consider sitting in a way that can't be comfortable, glass in front of him. He holds an ice cube between two fingers and above the glass, watching as it melts, slowly. His hands are cold.]

[Rip gets the text, but instead of answering simply continues along his way. Once he arrives and sees Leonard perched so uniquely on the stool, Rip takes the one next to him, motioning to get the attention of the young woman working behind the counter so he can get a glass of rum.

That done, he looks over at his teammate, who seems entirely engrossed in his study of the changing forms of matter.]

Mr. Snart. [Rip offers the quiet greeting, folding his hands together as he leans his arms on the counter. He's here now; the question of why remains Leonard's to answer.]

[Just a nod and he leans forward, retrieving a bottle from behind the bar. He fills his glass, dropping the ice cube back into it before taking a long sip.]

Sit down.

[Is that an answer to any question? No. But at least a confirmation of the invitation.]

Do I look like a ghost to you?

[Nice to know he's truly wanted. Rip's attention is momentarily occupied when the bartender returns, offering him the requested drink. Though he takes it, Rip doesn't yet steal a sip. Instead he considers Leonard's question, one that might seemingly come out of nowhere except, well.

It's rather easy to parse, considering that the man is dead in Rip's time.]

I'd say not, considering that you're neither transparent, nor wearing a bedsheet. [Of course the truth is much more complicated. He curls his fingers around the glass, lowering his gaze to the amber liquid within.]

Time doesn't flow as it should here, if it even moves at all. You were pulled from before your death, and thus you are, in fact, alive in this world--no matter your status in the time any of the rest of us have been pulled from, or learned about.

[Since Rip highly doubts this is about him.]

I don't know about that, actually.

[Instead of expanding on that, Leonard picks up his glass and finishes his drink. After setting it back down, he once more fishes out an ice cube and sets it on the bar, idly passing it between two fingers of his hands as he finally continues.]

I don't know if I was pulled from before my death. I only remember brightness and then nothing. I never exploded before, but I'm guessing it's usually over before it registers. There was no pain.

[Morbid may be an understatement.

Looking up at Rip he suddenly flicks the ice cube his way, aiming to hit his glass. He watches as it slides along the bar, speaking again.]

I knew I wasn't gonna make it. Now I know I haven't made it. Didn't anticipate looking at things from this perspective.

How are your efforts to get out of here going?

Edited (sorry for the edits, that's what I get for phone tagging) 2017-03-31 09:53 (UTC)

Arguably, there exists an infinite number of moments between the instance of explosion and of the resultant effect. [But Rip realizes that, at least on some level, he probably shouldn’t look at this through the lenses of someone who has spent most of his life learning about all the intricacies of time. Morbid though the conversation may be, he’s still speaking to a man who died.]

But even I’m wrong—this place still subverts death. There’s evidence enough of it. [Rip himself stands as proof of concept, having died and come back to life during that whole drowning mess. Not that he chooses to elaborate on such a detail. Instead he watches the cube strike his glass, listens to the small clink before he raises the drink and downs half of it.

No doubt they’ll both work their way through plenty of liquor before the night’s done, if this is how their conversation is to unfold.]

I doubt anyone does. [Death is meant to be an end, at the very least. Even those who believe in an afterlife likely don’t view their time spent among the living as Leonard is now forced to.

Ah, but on to topics that are just as cheery.] Oh, splendidly. [Said in a way that makes it clear things are anything but.] Considering that the closets are determined to give me nothing more technologically advanced than a common microwave, save in the form of models and toys.

[Although he has been working, still. Constructing, even if Rip suspects he’ll wind up with nothing more than a shell rather than a functional time sphere.]

I’ve got quite the collection of time drive replicas. [He lifts a hand, cupping it around the air as if he were holding onto something before moving it back and forth.] One of them is a bit like a snowglobe; you shake it and all the glitter tumbles about inside it. Quite precious, really.

Yeah, obviously. I ain't talking about infinity and higher mathematics and the actuality of time, I'm talking my own perception. I don't think I'm gonna be counting the nanoseconds. [What was he doing?] I remember my last words. Harder to remember the last thoughts.

[Strange how that works. Leonard has had his mind under control, perhaps a bit too much, throughout his life. It all derails in the end, he supposes.]

Aw. Cute. If you keep that up, you'll have presents for all the good kids come Christmas.

[Rip cocks his head to one side briefly, an admission to the greater importance of Leonard’s perception in this scenario. However far removed, Rip remains to his core a Time Master; he needs the reminder to think as someone might normally in such situations every now and then. And as it turns out, Leonard is rather good at it, even when they aren’t talking about death.

Especially so when they are.

He turns to better look at the man when he speaks of last words and thoughts. While Rip has had a few close encounters, he’s never held such certainty that he’s going to die as Leonard had. There had always been the possibility of survival in his own case—thus it’s impossible to know just what he might say or think.]

I imagine the experience must have been quite surreal, to say the least.

[Easier to speak of are the ridiculous notions the closets seem determined to inflict upon him. Leonard suggests using them as gifts, a thought which has Rip huffing out a quiet sigh for more than one reason.]

I’ll have enough for the good and the bad at the rate I’ve been going. [A pace which admittedly has slowed as of late.] Although I suppose that means I’ve spoiled the surprise for you, doesn’t it? Sorry about that.

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