milliways_bar | (no subject)

*Meg lowers her voice.* Well - one of my friends, he's away from the bar now, but - he got accidentally taken down their once during the cleanup for a party, and he claims they're raising an army.

- fortunately when I was down there we managed to avoid running into any of the Loompas themselves, but I wouldn't put it past them - I mean. Whenever a big event happens? They show up - and they sing. In unison.

You can't tell me that isn't creepy.

She stares.

"Singing anywhere off a stage is, in my experience, not good."

Mine too, *Meg agrees, darkly.*

- and I don't know if you even heard about the singing demon -

"Molly told me about that one," Agnes notes. "I'm glad I missed it."

Lucky.

*Meg looks dramatically mournful.* There's a reason I'm a dancer and not a singer - though it was probably worse for the people around me than for me myself, *she adds, with a grin.*

"Oh, goodness. You're all right, though? Molly said something about people catching on fire from it?"

*Meg nods, quickly.*

Oh, I'm all right - my boyfriend had experience with this demon, he showed me how to use the fire extinguisher. I was actually on fire watch for a while -

She lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

"Good," she says with a smile. "Little thing like you? You'd go up like kindling."

Agnes winks and sticks her tongue out at her to show she's teasing.

*Meg makes a face back at her.*

Hey - do I look singed?

Anyways, *she adds, with a giggle,* I could always smother the fire with my tutu -

"Well, you do have a point there," she giggles back.

I did save someone else's life, though, *Meg adds, with a moderate degree of pride.*

- not that he'll thank me for it; but that kind of makes it more satisfying, since he really is kind of an arrogant espece de guignol.

Agnes tilts her head.

"What is that language you keep speaking? It's pretty."

- oh - desolee, I do it without thinking sometimes, *Meg says, rather embarrassed.*

It's French - that's where I'm from, France. Paris.

"French. Sounds exotic. Desolee," she repeats, catching the intonation perfectly. "What's it mean?"

*Meg giggles.*

Means 'sorry', or 'excuse me' - er, other ones you'll probably hear me say a lot are bonjour or salut - that's 'hello' - and a bientot, that's 'see you later,' and then er the occasional rude word.

And it's - well, I don't know if it's exotic, *she adds - with some pride, which effectively covers up the hint of wistfulness.*

But it's the most beautiful language in the world, I've always thought.

"Hey, now. You're not allowed to apologize either, even if it's in another language."

Agnes thinks a moment.

"Bonjour... salut... It's really pretty. Could you teach me? A little, anyway?"

*Meg's smile in return is bright.*

Of course, if you'd like - the more chances I get to speak it around here, the happier I am, really. I mean, English is nice, but it's just not -

"I'd love to."

Her eyes go really wide and bright.

"Oh, there are songs, aren't there? I bet they are lovely!"

Bien sur! - that's 'of course', *Meg says, beaming.*

Some of the most beautiful Operas are in French - Carmen, that's relatively new - or new as of my time, but it's magnifique, and I would sing a bit for you if - you know, I could.

Her eyes just about roll back in her head at the thought.

"Ohh. Opera in French. Oh, please sing. I have to hear this now."

I wish I could, *Meg says, regretfully,* but I'm really awful, it wouldn't do it justice -

- oh! *She suddenly perks up.* But for Christmas last year I got for a present - hang on a sec, I'll be right back -

*And she dashes for the stairs, returning a minute later with a large boom box in tow.

Her uncle gives good Christmas gifts.*

Agnes stares at the... "What is that?"

It plays music, *Meg says, rather proudly.*

You just push buttons - it's all futuristic and things.

"Plays music? What, there's like a little imp band trapped inside there?"

She pokes at it vaguely.

*A cheerful shrug.*

I haven't got the faintest idea how it works - they didn't have things like that in my time. You wanted music, you hired an orchestra. But - look!

*She presses the button.

Proudly.

. . . . the sound of 'They Might Be Giants', singing 'Mammal', bursts out.

Meg has rather forgotten that Andrew uses the CD player more than she does.*