milliways_bar | (no subject)

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pomona

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It is funny, sometimes, how places that you had found frightening before can be... not comforting, exactly, but familiar and not so worrisome.

That is to say, when there is not a hairy man climbing a tree after her, or a large three-headed dog chasing her, or- well, perhaps, more used to Milliways is really the better way to explain it.

At any rate, there is a nymph curled up on one of the couches, sipping from a lovely china cup of tea, quite possibly available for conversation.

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Charlie enters from his latest hour of meditation. He sees the young woman and smiles. (If nothing else, the Bar does seem to have a nice selection of attractive faces, for what it's worth.) "Good afternoon."

Unfortunately for Charlie, this attractive face is rather attached to a very timid mind. Despite this, she can be polite, and usually is, and thus returns his greeting.

"Hello."

"Green tea?" He's never afraid to ask questions. Even if he doesn't always ask ones people like. This isn't - or at least shouldn't be - the case now.

"Mint," she says, ducking her head over it slightly.

"A good choice too. Though at long as you stay away from standard American tea, you're doing well.

"I picked up that habit from my sensei," he adds.

A slight wrinkle of her nose.

"American?"

Note to self: check the frame of reference more often.

"It's a country. Which you've never heard of."

The statement causes her to duck her head again, thinking that perhaps she is meant to have heard of it.

Apologetically, "I do not think so."

"Where are you from?" He suspects that when she's from will not be met with a good answer.

Still apologetic, "I am from my garden."

This is not, she has found that is not a useful answer for most people, but it is the only one she has.

He needs a better set of questions.

"What country is your garden? What town?"

Her helpless expression is perhaps not the most useful of answers.

But it is her garden.

"Who are you then?" He can't get much more basic.

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A soft moan issues from the darkness underneath the couch.

There is a soft gasp as it reaches her ears, and she tugs any possibly endangered toes and folds of her skirt safely up onto the couch, quieting in case the sound comes again and attempting to gather the courage to see what is there.

There is a long drawn out silence. But, yes, eventually another quiet moan may be heard.

She clasps one hand over her mouth and slowly, very slowly, leans over the armrest until she can see what is under there.

And lets out another soft gasp of surprise and folds herself back up on the couch in the hopes that perhaps he did not see her.

The gasp induces a wince and a whimper. But, no, he did not see her. Having one's eyes squeezed impossibly tightly closed is good for things like that. Which is not to say he isn't aware she's there. Just... nymphs are not nearly as pungent or jarring as some scents might be. When they're not radiating vast amounts of fear, that is.

She is not, exactly. Small amounts of fear, yes, which may grow at some point, but he has not done anything, and she has hopes that she may possibly slip away before he does.

(A small amount of her that is perhaps rather too attached to the old adage about cats and curiousity is possibly also wondering what he is doing there.)

"OhgodsI'msorry." Cerberus informs the floorboards.

He isn't exactly sure what he's apologizing to them for but he must have done something.

Maybe it is not the most thought-through of ideas, but curiousity finds its way to the forefront and prompts another, rather more tentative search below the couch.

And peers at him with something that is not exactly fear, but not exactly concern either. It could be a trap, after all.

(But there is one thing, and that is she is not so much for holding grudges, exactly.)

The narration would not have expected concern given their brief history.

He is still there and his eyes are still closed. It might be hard to determine though given that his forehead is currently being pushed into the floor.

It takes a few minutes after peering at him again to bring herself to speak; and, when she does, it is a somewhat pitiful, barely audible sound, but there.

The quiet tone is appreciated. Possibly.

"Dieing."

Beat.

"I think."

He does not look up.

She bites her lip lightly- she does not enjoy seeing things in pain, really, even if she finds them slightly terrifying also.

That is-

She means-