milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Puck does so loathe this season.

But in spite of his bitter sentiment, one must do what one can to eke some enjoyment out of the winter months. In that spirit, once the sun set and the stars came out tonight, Puck made his way out of doors for the first time in many, many weeks.

What he is doing now might be referred to as skating on the frozen lake. That is, if anyone could identify anything on his feet that resembled skates.

Or shoes.

What can be identified is a series of flickering lights, purest white, which bob about him as he goes, now at his feet and now framing his face. They might be lantern-lights, or very large fireflies.

(The smart money, of course, is that they aren't either one.)

[ooc: open 'til it scrolls, kids.]

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Puck, for his part, has not seen her.

It might behoove him to be more on the alert for potential danger, since his life is ... you know, what it is. However, for the moment, all he does is give a twisting leap into the air, as if he were a fish leaping midstream. He manages to catch himself before he hits the ice, lights trailing him like a comet's tail as he rolls off to one side and pushes himself back up to his feet.

His laughter echoes across the frozen lake, bright and cold.

River doesn't laugh along. She's in the wrong mood, perhaps; or perhaps it's that Puck's laughter is silvery and inhuman, like a delighted shiver of the night air, and River's would be human entirely.

But she does smile, very faintly.

He does this a time or two more before he catches sight of River, and hastily jumps to his feet, whereupon he makes a show of straightening his collar and brushing off his trousers.

"Well-- a good even to thee, mistress."

Okay, now River does laugh. But it's just a breath, swift and barely audible, and gone again into dreaminess. (Slightly chilly dreaminess. River has a tendency to underdress for winter weather, although Bar helps by loaning her sweaters or coats unasked.)

"You found the ice," she says, faintly approving.

Puck grins.

"My feet have found it, at the very least," he admits modestly.

"And by their report, they find it more than passing cold."

"...It's a facet of the Brownian region," River says, helpfully.

Read: as if reminding Puck of an obvious fact he's surely just forgotten for a moment.

"Inherent in the solids."

"... Indeed," Puck says, wrinkling his nose.

Also: wiggling his toes.

"And, like the facet of a gem, it is a marvelous catcher of light. How do you this night, dearest River?"

"I'm catching snowflakes."

This is apparently a positive thing.

(It's not actually snowing. There is snow on the ground, though, so there's that.)

"Are you?" Puck says.

He blinks owlishly, and slides a little nearer, lights trailing after him.

"I expect they are scarce game just at present. Shall I make no noise, lest I affright them all away?"

"It's okay," River assures him. "They don't have ears."

Whether she's being deadpan or in genuine earnest is kind of hard to tell.

He laughs.

"You know your quarry well, mistress. And what shall you do with them once they are caught?"

River directs a reproachful look at him. This one's pretty clearly a joke, though.

"It's a catch and release system."

Presumably aside from the fact that they melt.

At that, Puck's smile brightens, taking on a sweet, almost startled aspect.

"Yes," he agrees decisively.

"That should be the better way."

River's smile sparks in involuntary answer, though she looks a little uncertain as to what she's smiling about.

Puck's smile carries on regardless.

He's helpful like that.

"I hope the season has ta'en kindly to you, mistress. It can be such a cunning and an inhospitable time."

...

"It's for presents," River says earnestly, and with a sad lack of cultural relativism.

Then, a shade more hesitantly, "Got walls. In the generalities."

"Mmmm," Puck agrees, nodding.

"Generally, I do deem it best."

"That's because you're greedy," River says sagely.

But friendly-like!

Puck laughs.

"Mistress, I meant as to walls."

"They're a standard form of insulation."

Presumably this is agreement.

"And yet," Puck says, wrinkling his nose, "all too easily knocked askance."

River makes a face at him.

It's probably a stop knocking over walls, Puck face, although it could be grumpy agreement too. Interpretation is in the eye of the beholder.

Puck finds it is often politic to interpret River favorably, as when she is left to interpret herself it often falls out poorly for him.

Therefore, he simply smiles wryly.

"Do you not think, mistress, that I have learnt that? After such circumstance as you and I have known?"

River hesitates.

Maybe it's just to double-check what she's actually hearing. River runs a lot of double-checks with reality.

(Maybe it's because of delicate subjects.)

Then, "Sometimes it's fragile."

Puck frowns at her, considering this.

He agrees, "Yes."

A pause. He raises his hand slightly, and the fairy-lights cluster around it as if they were a flock of bright birds.

"Betimes it is."