milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

Elphaba's actually out for a second night in a row.

This is unusual in and of itself.

What's more unusual is the fact that she's glaring at Bar rather like she'd enjoy setting her on fire.

It might have something to do with the book she was presented with.

Which she's (grudgingly) reading for lack of anything better to do.

And snorting quite often at what she reads.

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Is it any wonder that he can't help a snort himself that she's actually reading that?

"Did you know that I treat you the way I do because I have rejection issues with my own mother?" without looking up. "I didn't."

"Nanny told me the same thing."

Well, not exactly but something like that. She'd mentioned Elphaba's mother, and not favorably.

"Nanny never knew when to keep her mouth shut," turning a page. "And she never would tell all she knew, for all that."

That is certainly not a meaningful look he's giving her. Certainly not. No, never.

She just might be smiling.

Very smally.

For all she raises an eyebrow, too.

He raises one in return.

"Cute," closing the book. "What do you want?"

It's not said unkindly. Not kindly, either, but still.

"Nothing. I was walking saw that, and was amused. That's all."

He looks to her with a mildly amused expression at that before lighting one of his cigarettes and leaving it in the ash tray to burn.

"Should I want something? Or were you expecting that I wanted us to 'bond'?"

"...If you wanted that, I'd assume you'd lost your mind," flatly. "And the Bar gave it to me. And refuses to give me a different book."

"Good to know you're taking hints from furniture."

"I haven't had much of a history taking them from humans, so why not furniture?"

"Will you start sitting on people then? Putting your plates on someone's back while you eat or writing with your pen stuck at the back of their ear?"

A silly question, almost a game.

"For some people, it's the most useful they'll ever be in their lives."

"Would you count me among them?"

He smiles. Not a genuine question, not really.

"Though I suppose they'd be a bit squishy, like those overstuffed Chairs at Lord Chuffrey's."

"No. You cooked better than I did," smartly. "That's a use."

"Yes," he replies as his eyes waver between her and the curling column of smoke, "good at cooking, I suppose. It's something."

"Better than nothing." She tosses the book onto the table and gives it a disgusted look before, "I never could."

Lurline knows she couldn't.

"Something is usually better than nothing. Not always, of course, but it happens most of the time."

He looks to her, then to the smoke. He breathes it in for a moment before clearing his throat, coughing a little. More than he could stand, apparently.

She makes a face, but says nothing on the smoke.

"And if you could have something, but not everything, would you still want the something instead of nothing?"

"If that something was pain or misery?"

"What if it was knowledge?"

"The real question is" and he snuffs out the cigarette before turning to her with something that might be a smile if it wasn't so curious, "what if it was both?"

"They say ignorance is bliss. It stands to reason knowledge would hurt," looking back. "But would you want it?"

"But what is bliss without the knowledge of pain but numbness?" He answers, "But without bliss..."

He leaves the cigarette in the ashtray.

"So what's your answer?"

"My mother can't stand a little bliss?"

"Your mother rarely had any and is unused to it," she replies.

"She's more used to it than I think she likes, but that's my opinion, I suppose."

"Not in anything she wanted it in. And everyone has an opinion, just like an asshole. It doesn't count for much."

"It gives you someplace to get rid of your shit anyway."

It's almost fun.

"And here that book said the best way to do that was counseling." Still looking digusted. "I must write in and tell them to correct it."

"Books are written by people and thus, often need correcting. The world is too, but it doesn't take well to red ink."

His mind is wandering now. It happens.

"Most books are written by people," thinking of one in particular. "I'm not sure all are. And of course not. Too much green. It would look like a festival all the time."

"Too much green?"

He looks at her, pointed.

"Or nor enough? And which books do you think weren't written by people?"

He doesn't feel like telling her about what he saw at Nether How, of the man with the Grimmerie.

"I meant the foliage, with I blend in with quite nicely, thank you," she retorts. "The ones that breed hate. I don't mean not by a human, or even an Animal. But not by a person. I don't think a person can write some things," eyes dark.

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