milliways_bar | (no subject)

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She was ready to go and seek humans. She was. She was ready to seek other humans.

Not quite this fast, not nearly this many. Golden eyes flinch from the light, pale limbs cringe from the noise, and only the questioning noise from the long-legged, long-furred hound combined with the sight of the land outside the door causes her to move.

She flees from the front door and out the back without ever testing the wall behind her, or managing to acknowledge anyone she may have run over in her wild flight.

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Wide, wide eyes hold a mixture of fear of the place, fear of the people, fear of her choices, and fear of her apparent loss thereof.

She hasn't spoken in a very, very long time. Her voice chooses not to work. She chooses not to try too hard.

"Are you cold? People often are at this time of year."

Xas, it must be said, is not wearing a coat.

In Milliways, he has learned to forget the masquerade of pure humanity.

She pauses. It is, its...snowing. Its cold.

She looks at the bar, looks back at him, and eventually says, "Not...enough to go in."

"All right."

He still isn't moving much.

"I'd offer you my coat, had I thought to wear one."

His shrug is quick and graceful.

"Though you're welcome to my scarf."

Not that it's wrapped around his neck, of course--not in any way guaranteed to do any good.

"I." She says, and her voice is rough, but she's remembering (not that), "Thank you."

She doesn't move to take it.

He slips it off his shoulders and holds it out.

"You're welcome."

His eyes drop to the dog and he smiles faintly, just a simple up-tilt at one corner of his mouth before his attention is back on Lissar.

The dog is calm. She is with her person, and that is what matters. After a long, long moment she takes a step forward and reaches for the scarf.

Her eyes never leave his. If he moves (at all) wrong, she'll be gone.

He meets her gaze, blue glittering bright, but the rest of his body moves not a whit.

When the scarf is no longer in his hands, he speaks again.

"It's little enough, but I'm not in the habit of wearing gloves."

"It." was summer, just a moment ago. And winter a moment before that... "Thank you." She holds it as though she doesn't know what to do with it, and then wraps the scarf around her neck carefully.

"You're welcome," he repeats.

"If you'd prefer a place out of the wind, I believe the greenhouse is rather well-kept."

And there aren't many people there, particularly at this time of day.

"Greenhouse." I remember a garden? Do I? (No). She nods, but doesn't move yet. "Does it have a wall?"

"It's glassed in, as I remember."

Something like his own garden, long ago.

Stone walls "I don't, I don't like walls." She tells him, twisting the end of his scarf and then stopping.

"That's all right."

He certainly doesn't appear disturbed or surprised by the news.

"I was afraid of open sky, once."

"I do not mind the sky." She informs him, as though she had not spoken of walls.

"I have learned not to."

It is simple truth, that.

Or maybe it was never quite the sky that he feared.

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