milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

The last rays of the day's sunlight find Puck in the greenhouse, sprawled on the earth with a well-worn book of fairy tales in hand. They aren't as useful as he'd hoped, thus far, but nor are they as downy-soft and brainless as he had expected of mortal tales. They may yet do.

Anyone who happens to wander on the scene may well wonder who put a fairy in the begonias.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"You had best not be squashing any," says a small, sour voice from above him.

"Why, Mistress Mary," Puck says, without moving or casting her even a sideways glance.

"Can those be your own dulcet tones?"

"I don't suppose anyone else would be concerned for the begonias."

(Mary does not have a super-high opinion of the rest of Milliways' ability to take care of plants.)

"Do not think that because we have a bargain, it means you may damage my garden more than anyone else."

"Do have a care."

He still has yet to look up.

"The walls have ears, even if those ears are loyal to you. I shall harm nothing that is yours if it can be avoided."

Mary sees the point in his chastisement; it makes her grumpier.

"You had best not," she mutters.

"What are you lying here for, in any case?"

"These days, I take a great deal of comfort in it," Puck replies cheerily, glancing up at her at last over the top of his book--

And as he takes her in, thinness and sallow skin and haunted eyes, he begins to frown.

"Mistress Mary," he says.

"You don't look well."

Mary scowls more than ever.

"I am only tired. I am hardly dying."

She folds her arms in front of her. (They are thin too.)

"I meant to tell you. I have met the witch now, as well."

Oh, and how the juxtaposition of those two things fills his heart with glee.

"Have you?"

"I did not mean to," Mary says, a little defensively. "She sought me out, I think."

Or at least came up to her when they both happened to be in the bar at the same time.

"She tried to lie to me, at first, and say she had done nothing - did she do so to you, when you met her?"

Mary would rather like to know if she is the only one Blodwen thinks is that stupid. It will make her feel a little better if Puck got the same treatment.

Puck has, by now, sat up (there are no crushed begonias in his wake).

"Done nothing?" he repeats incredulously.

A snort.

"I think I should be insulted, did she claimed as much. But in my case she was more content to speak of all that I had done."

Mary's gaze turns murderous at this news, though it is not directed at Puck.

"I was insulted! I knew she thought I was stupid!" Good tactics or not, very little makes Mary angrier than being underestimated. "I told her it was a waste of time, hers and mine, to try such lies on me!"

Puck blinks.

"... What, precisely, did she tell you?"

He has a premonition that his estimation of Blodwen is about to go waaaay down.

"She said, what reason would she have to hurt anyone, and was I sure it was her who had hurt my tree, and that she had no power now! I never heard more obvious lies!" Mary fumes.

"Then she said that I had become evil, for wanting to kill her, and that that was what she had planned - for me to become evil - which again I think must be a lie, for it is an awfully silly plan."

Puck stares.

... Yeah. Estimation lowered. (Who knew that was even possible?)

"She is a terrible fool to think you one, Mary Lennox," he says coolly.

And pauses.

"Not to mention that wishing her dead is not only rather in fashion at most seasons of the year, but practically a public service. I imagine you should reap a great reward for it in Heaven."

Mary would have to undergo severe torture before saying she feels reassured by anything Puck might have to say about her character.

. . . but she does feel a little reassured by this, all the same. (It's because he says it so matter-of-factly, and because, of all people, he has no reason to lie to make her feel better.)

"I do not know about Heaven," she says, "but it would certainly be a good thing for everyone if she were dead - so I don't much care whether it is wicked to kill or not! That was not even the most insulting, though." Mary's mouth twists in disgusted indignation. "That was when she said she was fond of me."

Puck's expression twists into something like disgust.

"That was surely a lie."

"How can she think I should ever believe it?"

Mary looks at Puck; she's frustrated, and angry, but also just honestly baffled.

"You know far more about lies than I do," she says. It's not an insult, this time, just a statement. "Why would someone tell a lie they know someone else would never believe? It does not make sense!"

He snorts.

"The only reason I can see, Mistress Mary, is to cause you to expend such anger and concern as you have over what her motivations may have been."

"So you are saying I ought not to be angry, as it will make her happy," Mary says; her voice is a little dry. "Which is easy to say."

"Quite easy," Puck agrees.

"And Mistress Rowlands is rather adept at causing difficulties-- the more tangled the web, the better she is pleased. You I expect know that as well as I."

"Which would make it all the better if we could -"

Mary makes an abortive chopping motion with her hand, frustrated.

"- just cut through it! Whatever it is."

He tilts his head to one side.

"Perhaps we ought to cut off her head."

"I expect it would only work if we buried it somewhere far away from the rest of her," Mary says, seriously, "but I have been considering that. We ought to cut her into several pieces, I should think, if that were to be effective."

It's getting brisk out these days. Still warm enough to go walking comfortably, though, if you bring a jacket.

Accordingly, Trowa is.

And entering the greenhouse, as it happens.

Puck doesn't look up, though he hears the door swing open and shut and hears footfalls. There's a different smell, too, of human and evening air.

(Not that all humans smell alike to him. He does not discriminate!)

As there's nothing particularly threatening about the interloper, magical or otherwise, Puck continues to read.

Trowa notices him. Of course. He makes a habit of these things, and Puck isn't even being terribly inconspicuous.

There's no particular sign of it, though.

'Terribly inconspicuous' is probably not a way that Puck has ever been described by anyone, ever.

As Trowa comes further into the greenhouse, Puck finally does spare him a look, and blinks.

~~O snap. It's Emobang Havelock.~~

Indeed.

After a long moment, dryly:

"One never can get a word in edgewise, with you."

Trowa slants a glance at him, from under his hair.

Impassive: "I've been told."

(This is the kind of impassive that's faintly amused! But you can't actually tell. Unless you're willing to hazard a guess based on long association with Havelock Vetinari, or something.)

Puck might just take that gamble.

"And what brings you to see the flowers this evening, Master Trowa Barton? Spare me pithy answers such as 'my feet,' if you would; I am interested in the spiritual rather than the strictly bipedal."

Trowa shrugs.

"Why not?"

Translation: habitual reconnaissance.

Puck groans into his book, letting it flop bookishly across his face.

"May the heavens preserve me."

Trowa observes this performance placidly.

After a moment, he slides the book down his face and regards Trowa with eyes of a bright and canny blue.

"One might go near," he notes, pleasantly, "to imagine you did it intentionally."

One might imagine many things, allows Trowa.

Without saying so.

Or changing expression.

He snorts and leans back onto the earth.

"I don't suppose you know anything of fairy stories, Master Barton."

Trowa considers that.

"I'm not an expert."

They weren't a big part of his upbringing.

(On the other hand, Trowa reads random stuff a lot, these days.)

"Are you not?"

He tilts his head.

"What should you say you know?"

We're sorry, Puck. This information is classified on general principles.

What Trowa actually says, after a moment to consider that, is, "I'm pretty good on the tightrope."

"Hmm."

Puck appears to be reading.

"And on the subject of evading quite simple and pleasant questions for what I presume is either your amusement or your deep and unreasoning terror of the truth."

Puck likes hearing himself talk, it seems.

Trowa facilitates this with a placid shrug.

If Trowa would talk, then maybe Puck WOULDN'T HAVE TO.

He rolls his eyes.

Now where's the fun in that?

Nonetheless: "It's hard to answer without context."

Just stating a fact. If Puck doesn't want to give context, Trowa is happy to continue being unhelpful!

(Let's be honest, though. If Puck does give context, Trowa's still likely to continue being unhelpful.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only