creator_raven (
creator_raven) wrote in
milliways_bar2007-06-08 10:32 pm
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There is a quiet thump near the fireplace, and seconds later a tall, skinny man is making himself very comfortable on the couch.
He is barefoot.
Things are more comfy that way.
Also it does not take long for a waitrat to scamper by, leaving a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk in her wake.
Raven is, sadly, sometimes very predictable.
Until he isn't, of course.
It is a thing.
He is barefoot.
Things are more comfy that way.
Also it does not take long for a waitrat to scamper by, leaving a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a glass of milk in her wake.
Raven is, sadly, sometimes very predictable.
Until he isn't, of course.
It is a thing.
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Peter's trying to study his face without being too obvious.
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Because he can.
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"Hi, Raven," says Peter, still lurking by the arm of the couch. "Do you look like this a lot?"
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"It is not so easy to be certain, perhaps."
This is not a 'yes'.
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It is not the Bluebird of Happiness.
If anything, it is the Eurasian Jay of Deep Sarcasm.
...
We're pretty sure they're not related.
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If she wanted.
As it is, his shoulder sags under the sudden incredible weight of his sister, and he wrinkles his nose.
"I am, I think, not so fond of bird shit on my coat, yes?"
This is a warning, Ace.
Consequences will be dire.
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Bird shit indeed. He should talk, he's full of it.
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It is a thing.
And the peck does not make him yelp.
Not at all.
He does jerk his shoulder sharply sideways, however.
Take that Eurasian Jay of Deep Sarcasm and Endless Shit.
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If Paul were a different kind of person, this is when the finality of his decision would be starting to sink in on him. Since Paul is Paul, he's already made sure to remind himself of that finality; all the same, it's somewhat reassuring to walk through the door into Milliways. Almost like a promise: the connection is still there.
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Then he grins, wide and bright, and opens his arms to--
Well, to ruffle Paul's hair of course.
Stealthily.
No, really.
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Paul swings around, ducking away, tense and wary - but stops when he sees who it is, his face relaxing into what might be a smile.
"I should have known it was you."
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Raven is still grinning.
"But you are young, yet. So."
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There would be bouncing.
That is, if her feet were touching the floor there would be bouncing.
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Oops.
He beams at her anyway.
"Things go well, then?"
He is hopeful!
Also he is tugging on her hair.
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"Very good."
That's out loud too. She's pretty fond of it.
Her arms wrap around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder.
"You are well too?"
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Well, he would, if the sofa back were not in the way.
Silly sofa.
"I am not bored, I think. It is interesting."
His grin brightens, and he tugs at her hair again.
"Also you are talking. It is not so bad a sound, yes?"
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Raven, however, is not like most people. Moiraine is well aware of that, even as she pauses nearby, watching him.
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Possibly he is waiting for something.
Possibly his fingers are toying with the threads on his ragged coatsleeve.
Possibly Moiraine is now wearing very comfortable blue leopard-print bunny slippers.
They are pretty!
Also fuzzy.
It is nice.
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"Raven."
Moiraine is glaring at him in some exasperation.
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"They are, I think, better for walking."
Beat.
"Indoors."
Beat.
"Also it is a gift?"
He is not shifty at all!
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Waiting for him at the bar is a picture. A masterpiece of crayon, with every colour in the box Santi had, done on crisp white paper.
On it, is a picture of being underwater. There is a squid and seaweed and fishies and treasure and someone's glasses and rocks and clams and a mermaid and Santi, who's waving.
From Santi to Raven reads the crayon print along the bottom, neatly and proudly.
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This one, once he gets it, will be hung up very carefully in his room upstairs, on the wall across from the dresser.
Surely sparkly chibi-Nyarlathotep will enjoy the view.
Raven will, too.
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The red-haired man in the gray suit catches a faint odor of blood and clay. After a moment of concentration, he realizes it is coming from the skinny man.
He approaches the other, warily at first. The blood, after all, could be anyone's, perhaps.
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He grins.
"You are, perhaps, for wanting cookies?"
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