milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Perhaps you'll have already gone an' heard this story, my friend. Now, I ain't gonna tell you that tired ole line 'bout a man walkin' into a bar, 'cause I don't reckon you'd believe me anyway -- iffen you did, well, more fool you -- an' moreover it ain't exactly true, now is it?

I will tell you this, though.

The door opens -- an' any fool with eyes coulda told you that -- an' a fellow walks in, 'cause that ain't false, although I reckon you could still go an' make an argument about the definitions've truth an' falsehood an' surely a career in politics ain't a damn long way down th'road f'you iffen you do.

Fellow walks in, an' then he goes an' sits down, 'cause there's some as'd tell you that fool's a damn lazy one.

An' maybe they're right.

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It's far too late to be up and about, but that's never stopped Antigone before. She's leaning against the bar, nursing a mug of coffee.

... Then she sees Rabbit.

Her face lights up, and the mug is deposited on the bar with a careless clunk.

"You'd best be careful, pretty 'Cady-mine," drawls that there fellow, hat tipped down low over his eyes. "I'd surely hate t'see you spill."

She smiles, surprisingly bright.

"I don't care at all if I do."

Rabbit soon has a dead Theban princess on his couch.

Fancy that.

Oh, but surely that ain't gonna last a full minute, now is it?

Seems t'me that it's far more likely Rabbit's gonna go an' have a Theban princess sittin' crosswise in his lap, 'cause he's surely missed his little sister, so much as he ever misses anybody.

(Now, don't you go thinkin' that you can say he don't miss nobody, neither, because I'll have you know I have it on the best authority he do.)

"Well now," says Rabbit, says he, "you appear to've gone an' left your drink 'cross the room."

Antigone gives him a very ugly look, attempting to depart from his lap as quickly as possible.

He's got to know how mortifying this is.

... Which may be why he's doing it, come to think of it.

"I left it so that I could come see you," she informs him.

Duuuh.

Aw, but surely it's only mortifyin' iffen she keeps on squirmin' around?

Either way, he ain't lookin' like he's plannin' t'let her up any time soon, now does he!

"I wouldn't've minded if you'd brung it with you," he points out, serenely.

Rabbit is completely missing the point.

"I didn't like it, anyway."

(Antigone would like to point out that though she's given up on the squirming for now, this is only so that she can get away when Rabbit least expects it.

... Or in about sixty seconds, when she's overwhelmed by claustrophobia.)

"Heavens me," says Rabbit, "you ain't gone an' changed that much, have you? Seems I recall you was just crazy 'bout that stuff."

He eyes her, too, don't think he ain't, with one arm wrapped 'round her waist an' t'other pokin' her in th'arm.

"You ain't tryin' to leave already, are you, pretty 'Cady?"

Antigone rolls her eyes.

"I'm not a child-- I don't have to sit on your lap if I'm to talk to you."

"Oh, nobody's sayin' you have to."

Rabbit, why, he grins down at her.

"But I'd surely hate t'think you'd dislike me so much as t'leave."

She snorts.

"It's not leaving."

"But ain't it?"

He pouts, battin' his eyelashes at her, like she ain't th'only princess on th'couch.

"No."

She is Unimpressed with his eyelashes.

"It's just not being so close."

"An', see, you are, right now, so iffen then you ain't, you've gone and left," he announces, logic just impeccable, don't you find?

(He's still poutin'.)

"I suppose, if I'm such a trouble, I ain't gonna try an' make you stay," he allows, right grudgin'ly, pullin' his arms away an' lettin' her up, iffen she wants it.

O'course, once she stopped squirmin', an essential law of nature went an' made itself known -- namely, that Rabbit's lap ain't really all that an uncomfortable place t'be.

Antigone slips gratefully out of his lap-- but just to prove him absolutely wrong about this whole 'leaving' business, she stays quite close, almost close enough to lean against him.

In tones of great satisfaction: "That's better."

His arm goes an' wraps 'round her shoulders, in th'way where it ain't touchin' her a bit, 'less she goes an' leans back a smidge.

"Is it, now?" he asks so mild, raisin' his eyebrow up at her.

"Yes."

Decisive, she is.

But after a moment, she does give in and lean her head against his shoulder, because it has been a very long time and she's more than a little tired.

"I've missed you."

"Have you, now?" he murmurs, an' I suppose he don't really seem all that surprised.

Could be his arm tightens 'round her shoulders just a touch, so's it's actually around 'em an' not just on th'back've th'couch, but that might could just be a trick've th'light. I ain't all too sure on the matter, my own self.

But it seems t'me I heard him say "I've missed you too, pretty 'Cady-mine," an' I don't suppose I'd be too surprised if someone told me I was right.

She laughs softly.

"You're still on about that."

"Ain't got th'slightest clue what you're on about," he states, with a glint in his eye speakin' of all sorts of mischief.

"How've you been, anyway? Ain't been keepin' a terrible close eye on things here, other'n seein' whether th'place'd vanished in a puff've logic or not."

Antigone frowns.

"I'm all right.

"I'm glad it's warm at last-- I can stay out and it's not so cold."

"An' how's your puppy?"

A little smile.

"Fine.

"Usually Dash stays upstairs. But it's all right."

"As long as you ain't lettin' him get lonely," Rabbit teases, smilin' so innocent an' pretty. "That'd be a terrible shame, so it would."

... So that's Dash's gender.

Antigone is immensely relieved.

"I'd be able to tell if he were lonely."