milliways_bar | (no subject)

(no subject)

Now, it's just a right lovely evenin', wouldn't you find yourself sayin'?

One've them where somewhere round about the place there's some fool of a poet tryin' to write up the evenin' in iambic pentameter, or maybe as a sestina. Or a sestina in iambic pentameter, it surely wouldn't surprise me none at all.

Meanwhile, while them poets get into a fight over rhyme schemes, over here by the fire there's that fool of a fellow Rabbit, sprawled 'cross one've them couches, with wood an' knife an' cigarette in hand.

How he manages to balance all three without droppin' somethin', stabbin' hisself in the foot, or settin' his own hair on fire, reckon I couldn't tell you even if he managed to explain it t'me.

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"Then how's about you have yourself a seat, an' we'll see if that don't change a bit."

Antigone obligingly comes closer and attempts to manuever her way onto a spare spot of couch.

Lucky she's so thin.

He rolls his eyes, audibly, pullin' his legs outta th'way an' pushin' her down on th'other end've the couch.

"Sit," he orders, not unkindly, and mutters something as he turns around, findin' a fresh hot cup of coffee on th'table next t'his knife, pressin' it into her hands a moment later.

"An' drink that. You look cold."

"I'm not," she half-lies, but accepts the cup and sips carefully.

"Yeah, well, I don't recall askin' if you were or not, so I don't reckon it matters t'me either way."

He doesn't stick out his tongue at her.

But it's kinda like he did anyway.

What he does do is this: He smiles.

"How've you been, sweet'eart?"

Antigone does not scowl.

Nor does she blush.

It's a near miss on both, however.

"It's nearly Christmas," is her answer.

"You sayin' you want me t'hold off on givin' you your present till then?"

He raises an eyebrow at her.

"... I have a present?"

Rabbit's expression perfectly matches that of this icon.

Scowl.

"That isn't what I meant by Christmas, anyhow," she says, taking another sip of coffee.

"What did you, then?" he asks, lightly, still smirking as he reaches for blade and wood again.

Sip.

Yum, coffee is nice.

"I'm getting gloves, I think," she tells him quietly, flexing the thin fingers of her free hand.

"And who's giving them to you?"

She gives him a look that's nearly reproachful.

Well, it's not as if Charles is some kind of secret.

"Charles is. He said he would."

"An' who's this Charlie fellow?"

"Charles."

If her scowl is a little fiercer than usual, it's only because she doesn't want to betray a smile.

"Charles Wallace.

"He's a ..."

He has no such qualms.

"Um-friend?"

Oh, that so doesn't help with the glaring.

"Um-friend?" she repeats, slightly bewildered.

"Yeah, sure, you know," he says, cheerfully, in direct contradiction of the evidence.

"Fellow you'd go around introducin' as 'This's Charles, my... um... friend...'"

Antigone sets down her coffee cup with a ceramic clink and folds thin arms over her chest.

"I wouldn't stammer."

Rabbit seems awful amused.

"Oh stop it," she demands sourly.

He smiles, and looks at least half-apologetic. Prolly about all she's gonna get, though, I reckon.

"So he's a friend, an' he's gonna get you gloves. Anythin' else?"

Antigone tries very hard not to look as if she is withholding information.

Time for more coffee!

... yeah, he's back to smirking.