(no subject)

[flybywash]

And here we have the Washicus pilotica in its natural habitat, carrying on an animated, one-sided conversation with Bar.

Don't bother eavesdropping. It's in Chinese.

So is the gift list he's holding.

He's so not above using his linguistic skills in an underhanded way when he has to.

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[flybywash]

"You'll only rot your teeth and it'll go straight to your thighs and other appropriate health warnings," Wash says with an affected sigh.

After stealing a bit of French toast for himself, and after a few seconds' worth of carefully eyeing those claws and teeth, Wash braces himself on the Bar and leans over to deposit the plate on the floor. He straightens up as quickly as he can to get out of the way of pending raptor attack.

[redsnout.livejournal.com]

Scribble jumps and pounces on the plate, partially landing on it with a loud thunk. She keeps one foot on it as she tears into the toast, eating noisly and with very little chewing. While there's an occasional yeep or squawk, mostly the noises that come from her are the sounds of food being gulped down as quickly as possible.

Once all the toast itself is gone, her attention turns to the syrup, and how to get it off the plate. She twists and turns her head as she licks it off, occasionally looking to Wash for help. It's harder to get all the syrup off than she thought-it keeps winding up on the top and sides of her snout instead. "Prrht. Yeep?"

[flybywash]

Wash does not melt. He is stoic and manly and oh who are we kidding that is too damn cute to live.

"Bar?" he asks. "Can I have the thickest gloves you can give me?"

They pop up, obligingly, and he dons them as he smiles at Scribble.

"Here," he says, and eases himself down, with all due care, to slowly lift up the top edge of the plate. The syrup runs down to pool at the bottom. "That help?"