milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It's been a while.

Okay, so it's been way more than a while, but the narration would go so far as to err on the side of diplomacy lest it be included in the general air of 'royal lazyasses' that seems to follow its charges around on a near-constant basis. It is not lazy - it is abused and mistreated.

"- should have seen your face when it started moving!"

"It was a tree. Trees don't move - there are roots involved - it's rather the point, Yvaine."

"So you talked to one, but they cannot move?"

"Yes, but that's an entirely -"

You see what it has to live with on a daily basis?

The couple that appears along with the bickering looks rather like they've been walking a great deal - vaguely dusty, slightly threadbare, and sun-darkened (well, one of them, at least) - but altogether rather pleased, if a little footsore.

"Oh," the star remarks, blinking once at the sudden change of scenery and grinning widely. "Civilization!"

Company would be welcomed. (As would dinner, more likely than not, but first thing's first.)

(OOC: ~~Two for the price of one! It's sort of a discount ... only not at all.~~ AND NOW - for bedtime!)

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There is some distinct beaming at that. This is one of the many reasons why he loves her.

And he would totally tell her so, too, if he wasn't so busy stuffing his face.

Oh, well.

Her other motivations have nothing at all to do with the previously mentioned mattress either. Or the things that go on the previously mentioned and unimportant mattress. (Namely them. Comfortably. Without rocks in their spines.)

She just rolls her eyes.

... and pointedly doesn't watch too closely.

Food is messy.

No rocks in spines is a very lovely image to have indeed, and after he is fully fed and content, he would like nothing more than to sleep on a soft, comfortable mattress for a thousand years.

He has missed all of this, despite their adventures out in the wild (which he also enjoys.)

More meat is eaten, more ale is drunk, and finally he is ready to get to the dessert.

In the meantime, the star has managed to wriggle herself far enough down in the booth seat that she's able to prop her legs up on the opposite side.

Because they're tired, man.

And luxuriating is serious business.

He watches her interestedly as he draws the plate of delicious pie towards him.

"Tired?" he inquires.

"Comfortable."

The star grins, tilts her head.

"Full?"

(She somehow doubts it.)

(She would be right.)

"Nearly," he returns, returning the grin with one of his own.

"Did you want a bite?"

"Perhaps in a moment or two."

Once she feels motivated enough to sit up properly again. It does smell rather good.

An easy laugh, "Enjoy your time with your pie while you still can."

"I'm afraid by the time you're ready to have some, it'll be gone," he admits with a slightly guilty look.

"Then again, I suppose we could always order more."

He isn't opposed to that.

She lets out an incredibly long-suffering sigh and rights herself, smoothing out her skirts half-heartedly and tugging his arm for leverage.

"Very well then," she replies, free set of fingers held out expectantly. "I will have my bite now."

He lets out a laugh, cheerfully ignoring the sigh.

"Very good," he says, cutting off a small chunk from the edge and lifting it up towards her mouth.

The act is slightly clumsy, but tender.

"I can -" her eyes pause mid-roll and she glances over at him, smiles affectionately. "Fine. We will do it your way."

Such a sap.

The bite of pie is retrieved easily enough and she covers her mouth politely while she chews, eyes crinkled brightly over her fingers.

He grins.

Sap is practically his middle name.

"Good?"

"I suppose."

She nods, smiling back at him.

"Same as last time. With, um -" she waves the hand formally in front of her mouth. "Apples?"

He nods in confirmation.

"Apple pie just so happens to be my favourite sort. Mum makes some of the best tasting apple pie I've ever had."

He takes a forkful for himself.

Excellent - so she's totally got this food thing covered!

She laughs, looking rather cheeky.

"Just so long as you do not expect culinary miracles from me, dear."

"No, no," he says easily, "you're quite all right. Besides, by then, we'll likely have our own cooks to handle that sort of thing."

That brings about a mild look of queasiness from him.

She blinks once, and again - and in that brief space between the two manages to look a bit like something trapped.

"Well," she attempts, voice not in the least bit quaky. "That is an advantage, I suppose."

He sighs without meaning to, exactly.

"One of the few, I think," he admits with a wry laugh. "But ... let's not think about it too much right now."

She sighs in agreement, "We cannot avoid everything forever, dear."

The tone in which it's delivered may or may not imply that doing such would, in fact, be a favorable option.

He takes a long swig of his ale.

"No, but we are doing a rather splendid job of it at the moment, regardless," he says a moment later, glancing up at her with a bit of a smile.

"We are terribly good at it, I will admit."

She's also, conversely, rather bad at taking the more mature and responsible path - even in conversation.

But she's trying! She really is!

"Do we even know what is to be expected of us?" she swipes a crumb from the edge of his plate. "I mean - there may be certain obligations."

Right now, mature and responsible are the last things he wants to be, so he isn't about to encourage that sort of behaviour on Yvaine.

"I - " he pauses, mouth hanging open for a moment. He starts again. "I haven't the foggiest idea what we're supposed to do once we ... accept our responsibilities. I always thought we would eventually just figure it out somehow, or maybe we'll just screw up so badly, mother will continue taking over."

Yes, but -

"I am not even precisely worried about those obligations at the moment," she wrinkles up her nose distastefully. "We are certainly not planning any wars at the moment. It is more - well, certainly you have -"

Serious discussions are so not fun.

She colors vaguely, "It will be expected, I would imagine, that - people tend to worry about matters of - there is going to be talk of succession. What with your family's apparent tendency to - to off one another over rights to the throne."

Tristran has a very vague idea of what Yvaine means, but the frown on his face betrays whatever thoughts he may have - with the exception of confusion.

"What ... are you implying?" he dares to ask.