milliways_bar | (no subject)

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One early, early morning, Sinthia comes down to the bar in what most people would consider quite nice lingerie; petal-pink silk satin with lace at the edges, soft and delicate, wrapped in a soft robe. She's tucked into a chair by the cool fireplace with a little packet of stamped metal sheets soon enough, studying them as she listens to the quiet around the bar room. It's not properly five AM yet, but she works steadily through turning the punched steel sheets into a tiny globe-like carriage.

Someone has been reading fairy tale collections to pass the time she can't sleep.

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Time is irrelevant in Milliways. That's why a well rested Creed comes in the back door and joins her immediately.

She smells good.

"The hell is that supposed to be?"

Sinthia smells like soap; honey, lavender, and the faintest trace of gentle laundry detergent.

"A carriage, it seems," she says lightly. "I was given it when I came down."

She still has gentle shadows under her eyes, though she smiles up at him. "Good morning."

"You gonna go on and start missing shoes, too?"

Yes, he knows his fairy tales.

He settles in a chair close to her. "Morning."

She smiles, and shakes her head slowly, expression soft. "No, I don't think so. Just the carriages," she murmurs.

"Hi. It's been a little while."

"Huh." He can't for the life of him think of what it could be for.

"Miss me?"

It's just something pretty, really: occasionally she likes them.

"And if I did?" she asks. "Perhaps I enjoy your company."

"Might like it if you did."

He gets a quick view of some of the pink satin and raises his eyebrows.

"You look nice."

"Thank you," she says. "It's comfortable to sleep in. I don't like the long pants, I get tangled up in them in my sleep."

But she smiles at him, and nods to the chair beside her.

"You can sit if you want to."

He sits. "Easiest way to stop that is to wear nothing."

"I have night terrors," she says, shaking her head. "And parasomnias tend to attract attention."

"That's easy, too." He leans in toward her a little. "Sleep with someone else."

She didn't miss the flirtation, and Sinthia just smiled at Creed. "You know most parasomnias are considered inconsolable," she says.

"But...that's fair. Do you know of someone?"

"Can at least spare you some embarrassing moments."

Then he shrugs a shoulder. "Might have an idea."

Sinthia lifted a brow at that, setting aside the delicate metal sculpture she was assembling. "Pity you already slept, though," she murmurs, face turned towards him. "Unless you don't want to sleep, necessarily."

"Don't need sleep. Doesn't mean I don't do it now and then."

He raises an eyebrow right back.

"So if you're inviting me somewhere, I'm ready to go."

"We could," she said, sliding over in the chair. "Or you could just come sit with me."

The quiet but unfamiliar sounds of the stamped metal sheets being dismantled into their respective parts of the carriage-to-be bring a curious onlooker in the guise of a small white cat, looking up at Sinthia and her project with bright green eyes.

Mid-punch of another sheet (a wheel) Sinthia looks down at her feet where the white cat sits. She blinks at it, her brows crease and relax in a moment, and she tucks her legs up to give a section of cushion for the cat.

"Come on, up here," she murmured in soft German, drumming her fingertips on the arm of the chair with a soft flutter of her tongue like a pigeon's coo.

"Prrt?" inquires the cat, before leaping lightly up onto the arm of the chair where she had drummed her fingers. It leans to sniff at the metal sheets and her fingers.

"Guten morgen, kleine katze," she murmurs, letting it sniff her fingers before reaching to pet an ear carefully.

Her fingers smell like clean soap and conditioner, and deeper down the stress of a nightmare. But the motions of her hands either way don't affect how steadily those thin steel sheets float.

The cat seeks to follow the petting hand with its nose. A rough, pink tongue rasps against her fingertip briefly, with curiosity.

"Hello there," she cooed gently, touching the cat's nose with that licked fingertip, segueing into chin-scratches and soft pets from ears to tail. "You're a very personable little thing, aren't you?"

Sinthia would check for a collar, but anything would have shown up against the cat's spotless white fur, and she couldn't hear any tags clinking together. "Come to keep me company this morning?"

It does seem like a personable little cat - smallish and fine-boned for a full-grown house-cat, but unafraid and comfortably curious within its domain. It seems quite content to lean its head into the cup of her scritching hand and purr up a storm; good company, for one not expecting much conversation.

She smiles and lets the cat push into her hands, shifting over and letting the cat settle into her hands. "Pretty little ghost," she murmurs softly, comforted by the presence.

It's a good deal. "I wonder if you are a little ghost that belongs to someone?" There's no collar, no tag, no nothing, really to identify the animal with.

The soft-furred cat shows no signs of ownership; it seems to go where its whims take it. It steps down lightly from the arm of her chair, a soft weight settling onto her lap with many purrs and relatively few answers.

Sinthia looks down at the cat; she doesn't stop stroking the pristine, thick fur, finding a comfort in the repetitive motion that comes from precious little else.

She may even turn over one of the elegant oval paws to see the cat's toes. They look like little pink jellybeans nestled in fur.

It makes her huff out a soft breath, almost like a laugh. It would appear she's stuck now.

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