milliways_bar | (no subject)

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[OOM: Practice talking to girls]

Trapped. That's what Harry's been these many weeks past, and of his own doing too -- that's not to be denied. The more he must smile and bow and expend his manners, the more he wishes for a horse and a sword and a Scottish border raid. When a door in Philippa de Coucy's house opens into Milliways instead of yet another solar full of nursemaids and noble daughters, to say his relief is palpable is only to concede to the limits of language.

So, though his hair is combed and he's trussed up in his finest visiting suit, it's a pretty good time to meet young Harry Percy. He's making a beeline for the Bar, intent on trying some new food or drink that's beyond the scope of his era. Go on. Ask him how his quest for a wife is going.

11 PM CST Oh no, guys! You're wonderful; I have to go to sleep. Will tag up tomorrow!

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They say the way to a man's heart is straight through his stomach. Harry's eyes go wide at the vision before him. He goes a little weak-kneed too, which is not at all why he leans against the counter, almost in supplication.

"Lady, I know not who you are, but I'd swear fealty to your kitchens in a heartbeat, if my nose does not deceive me."

Rae's eyebrows go up slightly at the supplication. Today she has her hair held back by a kerchief, sky blue and dotted with sunflowers. The sweater she wears is deep green, which goes well with the purple jeans she's wearing (her sneakers - orange).

If she were meaner, she'd make some remark to the effect that the Cinnamon Roll Queen is pleased by so pious and heartfelt a declaration. Or some other smartass remark. But Sunshine has been in Milliways long enough to know that sometimes, something that would've automatically (and safely) be considered sarcasm or hyperbole in her world is completely heartfelt when uttered here.

Instead, she smiles and says, "Well, noses are very seldom deceived. Would you like a cinnamon roll?"

Edited 2012-11-28 21:28 (UTC)

"Would that my soul should ascend to Heaven! If that is the vehicle, then I would indeed."

Okay, so maybe Sunshine isn't as impervious to flattery as she claims.

She grins. "And if it doesn't do anything to your soul, but merely tastes really good, would you still want one?"

Ignore that she's already putting the tray down and taking up one of the small paper plates and napkins. She baked the things, so she's allowed to give away the occasional free cinnamon roll if she so chooses.

Harry spreads his hands. "If it satisfies my stomach, my soul will be content, doubly so if attended by such company as yourself, good my lady."

"Then have a cinnamon roll," she laughs lightly, handing over the small paper plate loaded with the gigantic cinnamon roll, still warm, soft, and gooey with cinnamon-sugar and homemade vanilla icing, "and eat til your soul and stomach are content."

Because then the cinnamon roll would be the stomach's contents.

Ba-dum tish!

His eyes, already wide, grow even more huge. The smell so close is enough to drive a man to madness with waiting. And yet, he is made of chivalry (or, as he thinks it, charm). "Nay, but shall I enjoy it alone, among strangers? It shall not be, if you will let me mend this fault."

"As the baker who made it, I should probably have one too, to make sure it's all right to eat," Rae grins. "I won't make you split yours."

"Ah, even without my sword as I am, I should have to fight you for that," he says solemnly, then smiles. "My thanks, madame. My name is Harry Percy, so we'll not be strangers henceforth."

And he is waiting for her to serve herself, because it's the height of rudeness to eat before a lady does, but by heaven, he really wants to give that cinnamon roll a try.

"I try to avoid fighting over food if I can," she grins, serving herself one of the huge, gooey cinnamon rolls. He'll forgive her if she licks her fingers clean of icing? It'd be a shame to waste it.

"Nice to meet you, Harry Percy. I'm Rae Seddon, though most people call me Sunshine."

The Hotspur of the North seems to have a smear of icing across most of his nose and cheeks. Also, the sweet-buttery-warm-gooey glory seems to have shorted him out for the moment. He's pretty much capable of noises and not much else at this point. Oops?

The Scottish luckily haven't found Harry Percy's weakness. Cinnamon might be difficult to procure, anyway.

Rae doesn't mind at all the occasional noise. It shows genuine enthusiasm, and that's never a bad thing. She's grinning as she tears off pieces of her own cinnamon roll and eats them.

"Genuine" and "enthusiasm" are two of Harry's favorite words!

Watch his face as he discovers that the buns are warmer, squishier and generally better in every way as you get toward the middle.

"Oh heaven," he mumbles. (And pauses to scrub some icing off.)

"Remember to breathe once in a while," she remarks with a grin.

He gives her a rueful smile. "Advice that's been given me my entire life."

Rae has to chew and swallow before she can answer. "Do you often forget to breathe?"

"I often forget myself, when I am caught up in a passion." He considers the center of the bun. "And I am often so ensnared, in most any undertaking."

They don't call this dude Hotspur for nothing.

The center is the best part. It's true. Sunshine continues to peel away pieces of her own cinnamon roll, slowly following the spiral.

"What are you passionate about, then?"

Apart from tasty cinnamon rolls, that is.

Honor. Fighting. Honor. War. Honor. Some more honor. Horses and hounds.

"Grieving my family, in large part. And, I hope, what Scots may come intrude. And yourself?"

This pastry that's almost obscene in its perfection aside.

Rae snickers into her cinnamon roll. "Grieving one's family is a time-honored tradition that I can proudly say I've participated in. Well, giving grief to my mother. Charlie's too mild to really give much grief to."

"Scots?"

"My home is Northumberland, and it is 1387. We've little else to do but keep Scotland from troubling England."

Well, and occasionally go into Scotland to trouble the Scots, depending on how bored/motivated everyone is that month.

"Is Charlie your father?" He snorts. "I cannot think what it must be like to live among mild folk."

She has never heard of Northumberland, but she can guess whereabouts it'd be, and she can parse the year easily enough.

"Thirteen eighty-seven," she breathes, eyebrows up in surprise. "Wow. That's... that's a long time before I show up. I'm in late 2003, myself. Charlie's my stepfather - he owns and runs the coffeehouse where I work as Head Baker."

"He's... calming to be around. Very grounded. Doesn't get upset easily. If you want upset easily, you talk to my mom," she says, wryly. "Which is why I don't, very often. If my mother's ire is the lightning, I'm the tallest tree on the plain."

Is he ever going to not get a kick out of people's reactions when they learn the year on his side of the door? Apparently not.

Harry laughs a little. "My father, why -- I know just how I will look when I am old. He is more canny and thoughtful, though. He and my mother are just alike. Whence my hot humors came, I cannot say, but we are all good roarers when we are roused."

"I know where I get mine," she grins, wryly. "Plenty of stubbornness and pride and temper from both sides. I don't remember much of my father, but I do remember the fights between him and mom."

"If I am too like a man, we will cross each other," Harry agrees. "Though, if I am honest, I am as like to cross anyone, man or woman, as I am to look at them. My nature is none so easy."