milliways_bar | (no subject)

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So first the gates of Hell open.

Then the Weekly World News shuts down.

Then it turns out the Winchester brothers, Señor Muttonhead and Muttonhead Junior, are the ones responsible for bullet point A up there?

Man, this is the worst fall ever.

Sulking, he scoops up a bite of waffle -- okay, more like a tiny island of cooked dough in an Atlantic-sized sea of maple syrup -- and eyes Milliways at large. Maybe he should tie a couple of metaphorical shoelaces together or something. Pranks always make him feel better.

(Hey, don't judge. He's a trickster. He's allowed!)

[OOC: as per usual, slowtimes are highly likely, but! Post is open until it scrolls.]

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Puck returns the look with a grin of his own, though one not quite so broad as it might be.

"I could hardly expect it to follow after," he answers. "Else it should be no better as a reputation than a cat which pursued you for the cream."

"Exactamundo, my good friend."

Quick, time for more syrup! (Mmm, syrup.)

"So who've you been talking to that mentioned me?"

Puck snorts.

In his place, of course, he'd be asking the same question with good reason.

"Mortals only," he says, "and none of them here. You may rest assured that all I know is by whisper and song."

"Well, better than nothing," he says with a theatrical sigh, and forks up a little more of his sugar.

-- His food. We mean his food.

"So what about you, are you the same Puck I've heard about?"

Puck shrugs, smile faint but sharp.

"Unless I mistake my shape and making quite-- I am."

"You," and he sounds nothing so much as pleased, now, "are one I did not expect to meet. I gotta say, kid, I'm a fan of your work."

Love-in-idleness? Classic. Truly classic.

Puck laughs.

"I make it a habit to work as little as possible."

(Nevertheless, he looks pleased.)

"Still, what little of it there is has got you quite a reputation of your own."

He gestures with the fork.

"So what, nothing new lately then?"

"Everything is new, I expect," Puck replies with a patently false primness and an owlish blink. "Whether it come late or early. As it stands, I am content to let lie my reputation; you, however, may be another story."

He quirks an eyebrow.

"Meaning...?"

"What meaning do you take, sir?"

"You're in retirement?" he suggests.

"I scarcely ever tire," Puck corrects merrily.

"And likewise, a reputation that lies may not be in want of sleep."

And at that, after a beat, he grins.

"Promise I won't ruin the surprise," he says, and holds up three fingers in the scout's honor.

He laughs.

"I think I am grateful for't," he replies.

"Ought I to conceal your arrival here into the bargain?"

He presses both palms together, a knowing tilt to his head, and leans into a brief sketch of a bow.

"I think we've got ourselves a deal," he says, and winks.

Puck returns the wink, though there is more an air of curiosity in his mimicry than anything else.

"So it would seem."

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