milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

antigone

(no subject)

Yep.

There's a Death.

She's smoking one of Destruction's cigarillos, and drinking scotch. Sixty-two-year-old scotch.

Because Christmas is really rather a busy time of year.

Among other things.

[ooc: Please to be pinging before tagging. angelsmask1225 on AIM. Say thankya.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Antigone didn't expect to be having such a happy Christmas.

She hasn't seen Charles, true, but Raven's boots are on her feet and Rabbit's real/not-real dog is safe on her bed upstairs.

She's on her way to the bar for Christmas cocoa (Rabbit would be pleased), when something about a certain scotch-drinking woman catches her eye.

Her skin is paler than Antigone's, hair darker, but that can't quite be it.

Antigone wonders, as she closes thin fingers over her mug. And she watches.

Death smiles a small smile at her.

It's a very familiar smile. A friendly one. There might even be a mock-salute in there somewhere.

Smiles from strangers are usually met with scowling.

But tonight is special-- and, Antigone feels without knowing exactly why, it's a special sort of smile. She knows it.

"Hello," she says quietly. "Merry Christmas."

"Hello, Antigone. Can I buy you a drink?"

She frowns.

Have they met before? They must have, but she's sure she would remember ... she almost does.

A little sheepishly, she raises the mug into view.

"Thank you, I'm all right."

"Well. When you're done with that one."

She's known her forever.

"Hi. You probably don't remember me. I'm Death."

Antigone doesn't drop her mug.

But it's a very near thing.

(Wings in the dark, I remember you--)

For a moment, it's all she can do just to look at her.

Soft smile.

"Hey."

It's very gentle.

She isn't prepared for that gentleness, though she does know it; dimly, she is still aware of great peace and stillness at the moment she faded away, ushered off to-- here?

Was it you who brought me?

"You don't have to be afraid, kiddo."

That assertion is met with an uncomprehending stare.

"Perhaps not."

Her grip doesn't relax.

"Look. What happens, happens. I'm just there when it does."

Another sip of scotch.

Mmm, scotch.

She scowls a little down into her mug.

"Then are you just a messenger?"

Small smile.

"Not quite."

Antigone sips at her cocoa without relish, too proud to admit that she doesn't know what she is, then.

Very few people can pin it down.

Well. Not till they meet her, anyway.

Death is very comfortable with silence.

Antigone is not.

But then, there's not very much she is very comfortable with, not where people are concerned.

... People-like beings.

One hand clutches the mug; the fingers of the other tap erratically against it.

She gives the girl a sideways glance.

There is deep sympathy there, and understanding.

Comfort, of a kind.

After a moment, her gaze lifts to meet it.

She's never known before what to do with unsolicited pity, and she doesn't think she knows now-- but there is something in it, some undefinable quality, that warms her. Just a little.

She hazards a very faint smile.

She smiles back.

She knows.

And thee is a Hank, dressed as Santa Claus, suitably carrying a Santa Bag, who walks up to her, and prefers a gift, wrapped softly in black and white.

"Merry christmas, Ma'am."

The package contains a Rose from Roma, a witch from beyond the end of the Universe. And a card which says simply.

For all the times wnhen there seems no beauty, a rose that will last past the time when all is dark. May your travels beswift and the weight you must carry be light.

She almost chokes on her scotch at the outfit.

"That's brilliant, Hank. You really shouldn't have..."

She takes the package and runs one black fingernail along the tape before ripping the rest of the paper off. And looks down. And grins.

"Oh, this is lovely. I'll put it in a vase next to my goldfish, I think. Thank you so much!"

And look. A hug for the big blue guy.

He blushes, hugs her back egntly and then steps back.

He looks a little embarassed almost like a little boy addressing someone he has a crush one, and smiles.

"I am glad you like it. I hope your yule and your year end with some joy, M'Lady."

he bows his ehad to her again.

"Same to you, Hank."

A brilliant smile.

She tucks the rose into her lapel, for the time being.

He ducks his ehad and moves off, his bag swinging behind him, that little piece of christmas magic done.

*A hat is dropped upon her head. It's large, a deep cerulean blue, and floppy. There may be a feather or three. And a bit of silver ribbon, too. So what if it's a thousand years or so out of style in the Old Kingdom? It was in perfect shape in the Clayr library. No one was using it...*

*A Bright Shiner sits beside Death, grinning.*

Death?

Squeals.

And throws her arms around Yrael.

"It's perfect!"

*He laughs, hugging her.* That's what I thought when I saw it. I am truly glad I was right.

*He has to set it askew. He wouldn't be himself if he didn't. So he tips the hat slightly askew.*

She blows up at the feathers, so they're out of her face.

Takes a tiny drag from the cigarillio, lets it roll out of her mouth. It's not a normal thing for her, and she's not used to it. But it fits tonight.

She smirks at him through the smoke and the skewed hat brim.

*He smiles, tilting his head.* A happy Christmas it's been, for you?

"It's alright. Busy. Always is, really. Thank God for 'It's a Wonderful Life.' I don't know how many suicides have been prevented because of that movie."

Pause.

"Of course, I always see a fair few right after, too. So I suppose it rather swings both ways. But it does more good than harm, overall, I think."

Mm. *Thoughtful sound, that.*

Winter is a dark time of year, and some cannot, or will not, see that there may be light again.

*He remembers his own many winters.*

"So it are."

She knows.

She ruffles his hair. It's rather scritch-like.

*He scrunches his face into something between a grin and a grimace at the hair-ruffle-scritch, not being able to help but lean against her hand.*

You always give the best scritches.

"I've had many long years to practice the Art of the Scritch."

Sagely.

*The grin wins out against the grimace.*

You have mastered it well, I would say.

"You know what they say. Practice makes perfect."

No smugness at all there. Nope. Nosireebob.

Another sip of scotch.

*He glances at her sideways, grinning.*

Clearly.

"It's true. Really it is."

More scritching. Maybe even under the chin.

*He leans against her hand, a rueful grin on his face.*

Very true, even if you missed a spot.

*He might just be saying that.*

Her fingernails move a fraction to the right.

Theeeerrrreee it is.

*His eyes close.*

Ooooh.

Death beams.

Death receives from Hannibal (via Bar or a waitrat) a book entitled Right to Life and 2 Stories (http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1887368566/qid=1135569594/sr=8-1/ref=pd_bbs_1/104-7247145-8379918?n=507846&s=books&v=glance). Hannibal likes to think he's amusing.

She stares a little bit.

Snorts with laughter.

Shakes her head.

The boy ain't right.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only