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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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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.

"And conversation." She sounds amused. She is amused.

"I've been told."

Often.

And loudly.

"You're not in a band, are you?" she asks, apropos of very little. He just seems like the type.

. . .

"No."

~~Only in some of the artbooks.~~

"Are you enjoying this conversation in a low-energy kind of way, or do you wish I would leave you alone?" Curiously.

"You're fine."

He comes here to socialize!

. . . Maybe.

Sort of?

She's holding back a grin. "Thanks for the ringing endorsement."

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