milliways_bar | (no subject)

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It's a special occasion for Autor! So he's going to celebrate it by testing his homemade grenades on the practice range.

Come blow stuff up with him! Or, you know, stop him before he does some real damage.

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Her cute fluffy mascot has sworn a bloody oath to never give her a moment's true peace. Her adorable little sisters would try -- have tried -- to remove her from the line of succession without a second thought. Even her beloved mother is eagerly awaiting the day when the heir to the throne will step forward to claim it, and only one of them will survive the outcome.

All the same, Punie has been looking for a new challenge. She may have found one.

And he blushes easily.

With her free hand, she takes one of his outstretched ones. "It's not kindness, silly," she says, with just a hint of teasing. "It's patience."

In fact, he's blushing now, as bright as a flame laced with strontium chloride. The boy doesn't wince, fearing reprisal for the grenade trick, but he does bite his bottom lip at the feather-light pressure of her fingers.

She has such delicate hands, he thinks, running his thumb over her knuckles. Delicate, and able to break my wrist in a heartbeat.

"Oh?" he says lightly, curling his lips into a fierce smirk. He doesn't notice the way his voice dropped into a rough timbre. "What a rare gift I've been given, then. Is your patience often rewarded?"

He's pretty sure he knows the answer to that, but... Surprise me.

She nods, smiling up at him. "And I can be very, very patient..."

Still holding his hand, she brings her other one up between them, to her eye level. Her candy-cane-striped Princess Rod is tucked against her palm, held securely by three fingers -- but pinched between her thumb and forefinger is one of Autor's remaining flash-bang rounds, picked from his pocket in his moment of distraction.

"...when I want to be."

Autor doesn't dare jerk his hand of her hold; she'd snap his fingers with little effort. His heartbeat slams his inner ears.

She managed to pin him, disarm him, threaten him, insult him, and embarrass him--all in a move. That she needs patience to deal with him, that she's waiting for him to catch up is just...

Oh, how he hates her.

"Cute," he murmurs, grinning fiercely. With his free hand, he reaches out, slowly, and--if she lets him--flicks her gently on the ear.

Remarkably, Punie does let him -- and she giggles softly, because it tickles.

(He has a lot of promise, and a lot of hatred, and she likes both almost equally.)

It doesn't stop her from immediately hooking a foot around his ankle and knocking him off-balance, of course. But the maneuver isn't to throw him to the ground, or pin him down, or do him (further) injury in retribution. Instead, still holding his hand, she twirls them both around until they're facing the direction of the bar.

"We should go and clean up," she declares pertly. "All these yucky powders on our hands and clothes might make the tea taste bad."

Autor probably also needs a bandage or six at this point.

His eyes widen, his lungs fill with air, and his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip. Her pretty little spin tweaks the pain in his leg which he'd been so valiantly ignoring. Now that he's not feeling an immediate threat--ha!--every bump and bruise and abrasion flares up anew, as if she'd flogged him.

Despite all of that, he is thankful she didn't break any bones or give him any sprains. He has weak ankles, and--at the moment--weaker knees.

"We will," he says, annoyed by the fact that his voice has gone breathy, "after I secure the explosives."

Dizzy, he tugs on their hands towards the bomb bag. Regardless of whether or not she follows or releases him, it only takes a minute or so to gather the bombs and encode them in his sylladex: "She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby, thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die."*

He stands carefully, and places a hand on his hip. Tilting his chin up, he gestures to the bar. "Shall we?"

*Shakespeare, Sonnet 11

She follows, letting go of his hand to allow him to collect his explosives. (She even adds the one she stole from him to the bag -- after the time and effort he put into making it, she wouldn't want to leave him without it.) She watches with no small amount of interest as he encodes everything, and uses the opportunity to return her Princess Rod to its pendant form, leaving both her hands free.

"Certainly!" she replies, bouncing a little on her toes. "Should we have cakes as well, or would the tea be enough?"

Autor, noticing her interest, holds the sylladex out for her inspection. It looks like a simple, leather-bound journal, and on each page is a drawing of, say, feathers, or bags. "A gift," he says, and then stores the inventory system in his pocket. "A useful one."

Then he grins, sauntering--in so much as he can saunter, now--towards the bar. "Cakes sound lovely. Thank you for the invitation to tea, Your Highness."

Holding open the door, he politely inclines his head. "After you."

It does look like a very useful gift -- and she'll have to keep in mind that he has it on his person.

"It's my pleasure," she says, as they approach the bar. "It's nice to have someone to share them with, don't you think?"

And then, on a whim, she reaches out to take his hand as they walk through the door.

[OOC: And yours to wrap, I think!]

Autor manages to contain his flush as she wraps her fingers around his. "Depends," he says quietly, smiling. "So far, it has been."

He really shouldn't get used to the feel of her hand.

But cakes are nice.

[OOC: Ah, these two. Thanks for the thread!]

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