milliways_bar | (no subject)

And enter Sarah, storming up to him.

"Care to tell me why your clothes are in my closet?"

What? His clothes smell bad. Like him.

Montparnasse looks up from his writing and blinks, bewildered, clearly.

He does miss a beat, but only one. "Because mine was full?"

Then scowling, he jots down another note on the top sheet, before folding it and tucking it into one of many pockets.

He does have a lot of clothing. It is his primary concession. Most of it custom work in fact. -And he'd have you know, all clean, meticulously so. Like himself, typically.

She nods sarcastically at him. "Right. So you just magically conjured them into my room, without, you know, a key?"

She crosses her arms over her chest and taps her foot, a bit impatient with his writing.

Couldn't be that it sort of reminds her of Nikolas again. No way.

"You're asking the person, I think." He insists, tapping the pen on the table. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Do you speak Latin?" It seems like a random question. It's not, really.

Her expression and voice mirror that of a preschool teacher.

"I'll say this slowly. Your clothes, the poofy things that you wear," she points at his shirt, "are in my closet. As in, I opened the door that leads to the small space in my room, and mixed in with the few clothes I have, were your clothes."

Yay for run-on sentences!

She's still glaring. "A bit. Why? Do I have to speak some ancient Latin words to get your clothes out of my closet?"

He sighs. It is a long suffering sigh, because it is most apparent that she is crazy.

"They are not mine. I assure you." Probably believes this because he's been going home the last few nights, and so not using his closet here. "Did you ask your boyfriend?" Then he glances down at his own clothing. "But if they are similar to this, he has good taste."

A few talley marks and he looks up expectantly. "French, English?"

"They are yours. Your smell was all over them. Not at all pleasant, believe me." She wrinkles her nose for good measure.

"And I don't have a boyfriend-"

(Christopher)

"-in the bar." There was a slight hesitation, but not one he'd notice.

And now a blank look. "I'm speaking English, you idiot. And I know a few words of French. But it doesn't matter, if someone was speaking in a foreign language, I could just sit in their mind and listen."

She's actually not sure of that fact, but she doesn't see why she wouldn't be able to.

"Then sit. You might be useful." He points at the opposite bench with the pen then twirls it between his fingers, absently, as he thinks.

"And the bar translates, girl. You're speaking French to me. Though if I listened, I could likely hear your native language instead." It's just not worth the effort.

He makes no reply to the first statement. Because it is still untrue.

She sits, but doesn't drop the reason she confronted him. "I want them out. My room is mine, not yours. Got it?"

Not having heard of the translating thing, she shakes her head. "So the bar is a Wonder Bar or something?"

She is still relatively new.

Luckily the bar does not translate that as German.

"Something like that, perhaps."

He shrugs. "I'll take a look later then."

-Beat- "What is étouffer in English, quickly?"

"Make sure you do."

She glares, but then her eyes take on a faraway look as she finds the translation.

"To choke. Or suffocate." She is so not going to ask.

"Two f's?" He writes it down anyway, not really waiting for an answer.

"But where exactly is your room?" He's expecting them to be too large, or demode. Something clearly not his own.

Then scratching his head, "But I have been missing a top hat." he mutters.

Absentmindedly, "Yes, two f's."

"If by where you mean where, then in a hallway. If you mean what room, 19.5. Odd number."

"It's in the right corner of the closet. I kept stepping on it, started getting annoyed."

She leaves out the part where she stabbed it.

His eyes widen at the room number. "Mon dieu, but the bar is cruel."

Then his eyes narrow again. "It had best not be harmed."

"Though I suppose that would explain the shirt. I just assumed it belonged to-" He trails off and writes down 'choke' as well, for good measure.

While his eyes widen, hers narrow. "And why is that?"

A bit of a shrug and blush. "It has a small...slit in it? But it's okay, the thing was ugly, it had lace on it."

No, she has not noticed what he normally wears. Or she's trying to make him mad. The glint in her eyes might tell which.

An eyebrow is raised. "Belong to whom? One of your....acquaintances?"

He hisses in response.

"Pieu?" It may be a translation request, or possibly a threat.

"And yes, an acquaintance, but I must say, they tend to have more taste."

The sparkle in her eye intensifies, but her voice turns a bit colder. "Stake. Are you trying to create a murderer's bible or something? If you are, I hear sunlight is efficient."

If he wants to threaten her, he'd better be ready for a threat in return.

"And I tend to have more knives to hide. And I really don't think whatever they wear in your bedroom is considered taste where I'm from."

He snorts at the last comment, still not looking up. "Too true, mademoiselle. As much weight as I place on fashion, I still prefer them in nothing at all."

"And sunlight is only effective on vampires. It is not a vampire I am referencing."

Now he's got her curious. "Oh, and who are you referencing?"

She leans over, just a bit though.

He's writing in some combination of Latin, English, and French so good luck making any of it out, but it makes a strange sort of sense to him.

"I am not certain what he is." He admits. "Other than large and ugly. And claiming to be immortal." He shrugs at this though, because he knows better. Or he thinks he does.

He glances up again though, seemingly randomly, as a thought occurs to him. "Not a murderer's bible, no. Is that what you think of me?" He asks curiously. She'd be right, of course.

"..."

"So you're referencing yourself?" What? He fits all of those!

She raises an eyebrow at him, tilting her head a bit. "Do I even need to answer that? You've told me more than once that you think it'd be easy to kill me."

She sits back down.

"And to kill me, you'd need a lot of experience."

Montparnasse looks at her. In fact, he gives her a look. It says 'Are you blind, or just fucking stupid?'

Then he glances down at himself. Admittedly, he is just under six foot, but he is far from big. "Oh yes, large." He mutters. To be honest, he's still rather scrawny. Young after all.

He feels no need to comment on being called ugly. He's cocky enough to recognize that lie. Or assume that it is such. "How old are you?" He asks instead, absently.

She gives him a look right back. It says, 'duh?'

"Yes, large. I'm 5'4, everyone is large to me."

Her eyes narrow. "18 in...I guess a few days. I would ask your age, but I can't say I care."

He snorts, then nods knowingly. "18. Right then."

He smiles. "I don't think experience is an issue then."

She ignores the nod and first comment, running her hand through her hair instead.

"It should be. Something like over 11 years of experience."

It's said with a bit of regret. Her mother was a fricken slave driver.