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Buffy is consuming delicious pineapple smoothie by the fireplace, and people-watching. And ... other species-watching. She's inclusive. (Is that a balloon?)

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Trowa's nearby. Without a pineapple smoothie. :(

He's probably people-watching too. Though he's not very obvious about it.

Huma, human, probably human, alien, human, something furry, the balloon again, mobile mop of hair...

Buffy blinks, and refocuses. There's somebody under the enormous bang.

Trowa sips his drink.

And doesn't look Buffy's way. (But he probably notices her.)

She wonders if he can breathe, or if the hair has suffocated him. Or if it is a him at all. Maybe what looks like an innocent human being is actually a plastic decoy set up to lure in unsuspecting passers-by, like those glowy fish in the deep sea.

Should she try to rescue the hair's helpless victim? Or --

"Hi."

Trowa glances at her. The hair moves slightly, proving that it's attached to his head.

"Hi."

It's fascinating. Like those ocean animals with the spikes that move. Sea urchins.

"Nice weather, huh?" says Buffy, intelligently.

Trowa is kind of like a sea urchin. Spiky, disinclined to facial expressions... Not so much with the living on the seafloor, though.

Trowa nods.

Well, it is.

"...Yep," says Buffy. She is not spiky. "It's great. All weathery and stuff."

Trowa might be amused, but you can't tell.

"Especially indoors."

. . . Okay, maybe you can. There's no snark, though!

"Okay," Buffy says, with the start of a smile, "not very creative as conversation starters go, I'll grant you."

"Some places don't have any," he suggests.

Like space colonies!

She pauses. "Any conversation starters, or any weather?" Either is a possibility!

"Weather."

It's mostly people that lack conversation-starters. (Buffy should see Trowa and Heero talk. Or fail to talk.)

(Are they usually laconic?)

"What kind of places?" she says, after a moment's thought. "I know some people think that about SoCal, but it's just more subtle --"

(Mm.)

"Outer space."

She pauses.

"Okay, uncle. I can't tell if that was sarcasm."

. . .

Trowa shakes his head.

"On satellites."

A beat. She nods.

"So, hence the no weather."

Trowa nods.

He's great at small talk, clearly!

It's almost like talking to Oz.

She looks at the hair again.

It's almost like talking to Oz during a full moon.

"I'm Buffy." She offers a hand. "Earthling."

"I'm Trowa Barton."

He shakes. His hands are completely callused, a broad flat callus rather than individual strips; this is what you get when you're a trapeze artist.

"Nice to meet you." It's like shaking hands with sandpaper. Maybe it's a satellite thing? "So what's your story?"

"I'm in the circus."

This is nothing like the whole story.

But it's still true.

She looks at him.

"You're just full of surprises."

Trowa accepts this.

Manfully, and in silence.