Logs:Persie Drops By
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| RL Date: 16 December, 2007 |
| Who: Persie, N'thei |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| When: Day 24, Month 7, Turn 14 (Interval 10) |
| Too early for sunset, oh well. Wyaeth's sunning himself on the big ledge, his head canted so he can keep idle attention on the doings around the Weyr like it's any of his business. N'thei's out there too, barefoot for the rare warmth of a Reaches afternoon, working on fixing up a set of straps with his sleeves rolled up and his tools cast carelessly around the ledge wherever they happened to land. --All the makings of a fine summer afternoon. As Secath aims toward the ledge and begins to backwing, she has a bossy, « Move over, » for the bronze who lives there. She sets down daintily, as dainty as a rotund little body can be, and Persie is quick to climb down from her shoulder. "Secath, you're so snotty. Guest, remember?" But the green is already turning a sweet round cheek to Wyaeth and a carefully watchful eye --and she's not paying attention to Persie at all. The blonde has a basket with her and, yes there's a little wooden bird on a string hanging over the edge. She smiles at N'thei, scratching uneasily at her temple. "Hi." Wyaeth, at the beck and call of most things female, still begrudges Secath her bossiness; it is his ledge! The bronze tucks in his wing and shuffles to one side with a grunt that betrays exactly how much of an imposition this is. "She'll be lucky if he doesn't try to push her off." N'thei issues this fair-warning with an amused twitch of his lips to track Secath's coquettish addition, then quick to scrub his palms down the front of his pants to clean leather-soap off of them. "Hi. Come bearing gifts then?" "Well," Persie says without much thought. "Good thing she can fly. Anyway, I saw that you were in. Are you busy? I mean, I see that your working on straps and stuff so I know you're not busy -now-, but I don't know if maybe you have to run off or something..." Secath gives her head a little toss, letting it accentuate her short slender neck, and then she blinks at Wyaeth and rumbles a light 'don't be sore' sort of note for him. "I do have gifts," Persie continues on, giving the basket a shake. "But they aren't for you. Well, they probably aren't. Unless you're putting something in that gift barrel thing. I'm going to cut the strings," she declares. "And this way, if I'm here, when it doesn't work you can get in trouble for it since it was your idea." Big smile. "I did bring other stuff, too. I can't decide what I should put in the barrel." And now she starts sorting through that basket, ready to show him all the things she's gathered together. But first she tosses a little pouch at him. "Here." Dried apricots. "Thank you. Just what I've always wanted." N'thei authenticity may be questionable, though he nabs the bag mid-air and lets it replace a rusty D-ring as his current preoccupation. "While I'm interested in exactly what kind of 'trouble' I might be in." He stops to make a pointed survey of exactly how not-big-and-strong Persie is. "I'm fairly sure it will be your best bet. --We can go inside. Leave these two to make nice?" One of these-two gives the other a "well, all right" sort of grumble and arranges so he hasn't got the monopoly on afternoon sun, a little patch for Secath. Secath makes a nice show of making herself comfortable, spreading her small fat frame so luxuriously in that little patch of sun that she ends up slumping up against Wyaeth as if he were piece of furniture. And then she sighs contentedly. And Persie looks over plainly waiting for the bronze flip her lifemate right off the ledge as promised. She turns to N'thei. "Am I talking a lot? I mean, not a lot for a normal person, but a lot for me?" But she breezes past the question, even if she's the one asking. "In? I've never been in your weyr." That has her scruffing a finger over a pale eyebrow, uncertain. But she smiles, "Ok," and tiny giggle sneaks out. In she'll go with that basket slung over her arm. "I can too get you in trouble. Don't give me that look." She chides him so grinningly and playfully that there's still not sign of threat in it. Not that "in" is so much different than "out," except that there's not tools and straps strewn all over or the coming of the late-afternoon-breeze to pull the warmth out of the sun. With a dismissive snort not so very different from one Wyaeth might use; "Please. What exactly could you do to me?" N'thei sweeps curtains back with one arm to permit Persie's passage to precede his, arranged in such a way that they'll have ample time to compare side-by-side size. "Talk me to death?" He clearly finds himself amusing. "Maybe!" Persie tells him, because that's a very good idea. "I can talk a good bit, you know. Or maybe I'll just give you puppy eyes." Which she does, and yet they're no where near as compelling now as when she's actually sad or wounded. The expression disappears quickly enough, replaced by another easy smile, and she'll pause there beside him as he's holding that curtain open, perfectly willing stand next to the big wall and be tiny and weak and not at all worried about it. "You can only get in trouble with someone if they're bigger than you? You must never be in trouble at all! She reaches a hand up to let thin fingers tug once at his collar, then she's turning toward the weyr again. "Now where I am I going?" N'thei agrees happily, "It is a rare thing, and preferably so. I find there's little to fear from pretty blondes, at least the ones that keep their clothes on." There is no doubt that he prefers his Persies merry more than melancholy, follows her with bright eyes while pretending that he's all at the bidding of a collar-tug. "You'll want some scissors, I presume? And there's a glowbasket by that chair over there if you need a little light. --What goes with dried apricots?" The last while he stands in front of the only truly well-kept furniture in the joint: a cupboard stocked with liquor. "Yeah, yeah. Keep my clothes on," Persie singsongs, as if this is a bit of advice she's received often. "You know, the last time I took my clothes off it didn't go over well at all." She gives a little snort, a frown marring the merry. But today she seems to have better mastery of her moods and 'last time's are forgotten. "Yes, scissors. But you have to look at this other stuff too and tell me what I should put in. Now that I've been trying to untangle the birds, I don't know that I want to give them up. I mean, what if someone gets then and doesn't appreciate them? That would just be sad." She drops down onto the couch, letting her sandals fall off her feet so that she can sit cross-legged on the cushion with her basket in her lap. Her hands go to her bare knees as she waits for him, a sly little smile coming to her lips to see him head for the liquor cabinet. "I don't know. Wine? Brandy? I'll drink anything anyway." N'thei, blithe; "That was by no means an order, not even a suggestion. If you feel the need to be naked, by all means." It's all said in a knows-it-won't-happen tone that lets the whole suggestion come across happily and without weight. "I do love a girl that's easy to please, but you probably shouldn't come right out with things like that, lest you wind up with a shot-glass of barnacle-cleanser." One can assume that's not what's in the bottle he brings to the sofa, not what he pours into a little glass tumbler. It's probably brandy by the looks of it. He takes his own seat in a chair dragged nearer to the sofa, feet still bare and kicked out front, crossed at the ankles. "All right. Show me what's in the basket." Persie lifts a brow up at him, stifling a laugh so that she might be able to look just a little more skeptical when she asks, "You have barnacle cleanser?" Then the giggle breaks free and she shakes her head, letting her hair swing. "If you drink it, I'll drink it. I'm tough, you know." She even flexes an arm for him, showing off the tight little girly muscle, a mere mouthful for a man like N'thei. But the posing is all abandoned as he pours the drink and takes a seat. Now she's ready to pull stuff out of the basket. "I have these. There's only three, though. I broke one. But that's sort of the point of this sort of give thing, right?" And the 'these' that she's unwrapping are teacups, white with a bold band of blue around their middles. N'thei refrains from flexing back at Persie, just looks soooo impressed by her muscles, with a deep nod and wide eyes; wowie. He takes a sip to break the expression, not barnacle cleanser, and rests his glass-hand on his stomach in between drinks. "No one has to know you broke one, of course. I'm sure plenty of people have three for tea." He even sings it just a little, two-for-tea style. "Considering some of what's in that barrel, those would probably be damn popular." Oh, there's a bright smile for the way he almost sings, Persie's eyes all lit as she looks across at him relaxed and reclined in his chair. "Really? I figured that I might as well give away things that people can use, you know? Maybe? What else is in there?" She sets the cups beside her to tug out the next thing. It's a paper shade, pink with bugs drawn on it, made to fit over a glow basket or a globe. "It's too dark for me. It doesn't really let enough light through. But it's fun, with all the little buzzy things all over it..." She turns the shade around in her hands, hunting out the different sorts of spinners and vtols and trundlebugs. "I thought I had another thing..." But all she's pulling out of the basket now are strings and birds and birds and strings. "Underwear, some ugly hat, cheap whiskey..." N'thei shrugs for the rest of the list, since the first three sum it up so nicely. He reaches with his cup-free hand to take Persie's pink shade thingie with his fingertips, entertained by the notion even if it is totally useless. "I like this one. Not for me obviously." A tip of his glass indicates the whole bachelor-pad look of the place, which would be totally undone by a pink thing with bugs on it. "But I could see it having a place around here." "Well, the pink shade then," Persie decides, letting him take it. "Do you want the cups? Do you drink tea or is that not manly enough?" She even puts on her 'manly' face to say it, voice dropping barely as she goes all dramatically frowny. That is what men look like, of course. "I don't need them. I have other ones with a bunch of strips and each cup is a different color and, well, I just like them better." No surprise there. "These ones are sort of plain." She bends to set the basket on the floor in front of her. "Are you done being afraid of me now?" comes a wondering non sequitur. N'thei peers through the pink shade at Persie, now a fair-haired blur all smudged through a paper-screen. "Nowhere near butch enough. If it doesn't burn on the way down." He sneaks a sip behind the screen, hisses his breath out while it leaks down his throat. "It's not worth having." At the wondering question, he doesn't so much lower the shade as raise his eyes over the top of it, the grin still hidden but undoubtedly there by the way his eyes wrinkle and the apples of his cheeks brighten. "You haven't actually been clear about the reasons-to-fear-you, lovely." "No, not about the birds," Persie explains with a wave of her hand. "You should have some teacups. One of these days you're going to get sick and when I bring you tea, what will I put it in?" And thus she doesn't rewrap them; they're staying and on the floor beside the basket they go. It's easy to see how her weyr can get so mess as everything she's brought is slowly being spread out around her. Now she has room and she lets herself fall to the side, rolling onto her back and putting her feet up on the back of his couch before she returns to the topic of a great big man fearing a wee little girl. "Not the birds," she says again, wiggling her bare toes. "Before. You were avoiding me. Were you afraid I wouldn't want to talk to you?" N'thei tosses the pink shade roughly Persie-wards; it's likely to land in her general vicinity anyway, even while she's using his sofa in ways other than the original manufacturer's intent. "You'll let me sip it from your bare hands." Speaking of sips-- he refills his cup, and is just about to return to reclining in the chair when blondie clarifies the question, leaving him to issue a bah-sounding grunt; "I thought this was going to be strictly a drink-and-flirt visit. Serious subjects seem lost between you and me." Persie doesn't seem to be feeling so serious that she can't put on a rather sly little smile, made all the more so by the lift of her bare shoulder and the way her hair is all spread out across his sofa. "I was just asking if you were done," she points out. "Well, now I won't have to burn my hands on your tea because you'll have these nice cups. And they're not.. unmanly. You can tuck them away somewhere, but at least you'll have them when you need them." She taps her feet together and adds casually, "I'm a very good nurse you know." "Are you?" N'thei muses the question shortly after he hooks his index finger through the handle of one of those little cups, manages to make the thing look ridiculously dainty by comparison to his hands and the purposeful delicacy of his handling. "What is your specialty when it comes to patient care? Super-blonde healing power? Bright-and-sunny disposition to speed recovery?" He bobbles the cup, nearly upsets his brandy to recover it before it slips off his finger. "Oh, I can't tell you," Persie says quickly and seriously, though the serious part lasts only for a moment before her smile is brimming again. "It'll just make you sad that you aren't sick right now. Or you'll go running out to get into a fight just so you can come back all banged up and have me take care of you. No no, it's better that you don't know." She turns her head to grin at him, cheek against the spread of her blonde hair. "You forgot the signing. Super-blonde healing powers, bright-and-sunny disposition and singing." N'thei carefully, so carefully, sets the cup back down with its two comrades, his hands withdrawn in slow and purposeful caution. No harm done. To be safe, he finishes his drink so he has only an empty cup to attend. "And singing. --My finger does feel a little injured. I think I might have. Sprained it. On that cup. I might in fact need super-blonde healing powers et cetera." Shown to Persie is one perfectly in tact index finger and a very sad-eyed owie frown. "See!" Persie tells him. "I barely said anything and now you want to be hurt." She's smiling still, but now her lips tuck in between her teeth as she look at his fine finger and his frowning face, considering something. "Alright," she finally decides, indulgent. She pushes herself up from the couch, onto her bare feet so that she can stand in front of him in his chair. "Let's see it," a hand out for his. Gingerly, N'thei places his empty glass on the floor so there's no chance that /it/ will wind up like the fourth teacup. Freed up, he sits forward and holds the supposedly wounded digit out for Persie to examine, his face a mask of gravity; he looks up a little at the greenrider like he's got all the reason in the world to fear the prognosis. "You should know that I have an irrational fear of people missing fingers and toes. It's just creepy. So please, do whatever it takes to save my finger." He wiggles it like it's the finger doing the talking. It's true, mixed in with her shining smile, Persie's got a few flickers of doubt, little shadows that pass behind her eyes. She takes his hand, holding it up so that she can give his finger a long look. "I don't know... It's in pretty rough shape," she warns him, putting on her own pouty face. "This one is all worn out. I mean, look here." She turns his hand to show him his own knuckle and the white of some random scar. "You don't want a finger like that, do you? We'll trade. I'll take the finger and you can have a nice jar of preserves." She lifts her pale brows and nudges against his leg with her bare knee, trying to sell it. Oh yes. N'thei really thinks about it, really. He also makes a very good effort of pretending not to have seen the shadows in Persie's expression, keeps his smile impeccably playful all this while. His fingers stays up there, looked at long-and-hard, then just the abruptly asked; "What kind of preserves?" Like that's the deal-breaker in all this. The oh-so-injured finger reaches up then, taps the end of Persie's nose, and he concludes, "I'm not seeing any magic healing powers, lovely. Is your solution always just to lop off the injury?" "Strawberry, I think. Would you take strawberry?" Still holding onto that hand, Persie is giggling all the more to have it suddenly tapping her in the face. "Stop that," she scolds, talking to the finger and him. Then there's a very pregnant beat, her attention turning to his chest and her breath stopping. But considering that she follows the moment by dropping carelessly into N'thei's lap, it might not stand out all that much. Turned to the side so that she's still facing that 'wounded' finger that is in her care, she carries on. "You have no faith in my powers," she chides lightly. "And yes, I do think that the only way for this finger to cause you less pain would be to remove it." And then she readies to bring that finger to her mouth, teeth beared as if she's going to snap it right off. Teetering his head back and forth, N'thei makes a meh-face; "I'd take strawberry yes, but it really would be poor consolation for the loss of my nose-tapping finger. Could you get plum?" The suddenness of having Persie in his lap is cause enough for the pause and the confused o-shape of his mouth for a second there, but he's quick to find his conversational footing-- and act like it's perfectly normal to have a little blonde across his legs, sure. While he does supply a bracing arm for her back, he also hastily draws the finger in question away from dangerous teeth, balls it up in his fist and good luck prying that open. "All those apricots and you want to gnaw on a finger, lovely?" Persie doesn't give him long to get comfortable in that ruse of normal. She gives up the game, letting his hand go and slipping back onto her feet, away from his lap and his arm. "I really am a good nurse," she tells him, playfulness draining from her. "When someone's actually sick. Or I think so, at least. I like making people feel better." She turns back to the couch to get her birds packed back into the basket, that little pink shade as well. A brow rises, but that's all the more betrayal that N'thei finds the afternoon's shenanigans perplexing. He slouches back in his chair, his hand free to fall back toward the floor and retrieve his empty brandy glass. "I believe that actually. If I ever find myself with an authentic malady, I'll be sure to croak through my pain that there's no one to cure me but Persie." Somewhere in among that statement, he's found time for a refill and now takes a sip, gray eyes questioning the blonde from over the rim of his glass. "Unless it's my finger, when I'll be sure you're as far away as possible." "No no. You don't believe me," Persie tells him. She drops onto the couch again, safely back on the couch with a knee drawn up and her arms around it. "So you want me to take the teacups. I can just put them in the barrel too. Or am I supposed to put in something that no one wants? Is it supposed to be funny like that?" Without his answer, now she -is- packing the cups up again, wrapping them in bits of fabric. Something tight and anxious hangs around her shoulders. N'thei lets go the matter of Persie's miraculous healing powers, and he hand-waves the issue of the teacups. Take them; leave them; it's not so much an issue to him that he's going to go all the way out to answer the question. Rather, he steals another drink, then one more, then sounds perfectly sober; "You want to talk about it?" He indicates the tense shoulders with an outline-trace from his glass hand. Packed means that Persie has nothing to do with her hands, that she has no nice easy way to fidget and distract herself. It strikes her the moment that she's done tucking the cup into the basket and she blinks around as if she might just panic a little. She sits back on the couch, cross-legged with her hands firmly clasped together in her lap. She's just going to have to be still. Except her toes are going, wiggling as the rest of her can't. "Talk about what?" Eyes on the wiggling toes for a long spell, either rapt by the dancing digits or just slow enough in the brain that he forgets to blink back to the present, N'thei finally breathes out slow and simple and returns his eyes to Persie's face. "Why you're never relaxed? Is it all the time, or just around me?" He's just about set to top of his glass again-- can you kids at home say al-co-hol-ic?-- when he offers the bottle toward the blonde instead? Persie thinks for a moment, watching him with his glass. She just about leaps when he offers the bottle. "It's not all the time. But it's not just around you either. I get nervous... I get nervous around me." In fact, she'll take that bottle, offer him a top off and then settle back on the couch with the rest of what's left. N'thei holds his glass out to be topped, smiles with glossy gratitude for the greenrider, and settles back into his chair with his piss-poor posture. "Shame. You were doing very well for a bit there. --What do your parents do for a living, my love?" He throws out the small-talk like a consolation prize, something to do rather than pick at Persie's nerves. Now that she's got a bottle and nothing else, all that fidgety energy seems funneled into the soothing lift and tip of the glass against her lips, the familiarity of a nice wipe of her hand across her mouth. "My parents? Um, well, my mother sews and my father's a scribe." Persie laughs a little, which is followed with a tiny burp for the speed with which she seems determined to catch up with N'thei's consumption. "Does that suit me? A seamstress and a scribe? How about you? Your parents?" Of course, the difference is that N'thei is 6'4" and 220 pounds. And Persie is... considerably smaller. So he imbibes without the need to belch in between. "Suit you?" He repeats the question with brow-raise and a bemused inflection; "I suppose? I hadn't really thought of it like that. My parents have a farm off toward Benden Hold. Vineyard, sheep, the whole deal. It's very pretty, if you like provincial. Which I don't. --Try not to drown yourself there." Persie settles back, wedged to the corner of the couch as if she might be able to stuff herself in that crevice. She takes another sip and gives him a look about it, too. "You don't like it? You want a big busy place with people all over? I like anything, I suppose. I like it all. Or, well, I can't say I've ever lived someplace all quiet and alone, but it sounds nice." "Boring mostly." N'thei manages to finish his third (fourth?) glass in good time and is thus able to just rest with the empty cup in hand and eye Persie trying to disappear herself into the couch. "I like doing things, feeling like there's more to accomplish than grape-picking and necking with the neighbor's daughter. --Where? Do the seamstress and the scribe live, that is. Where?" "Are you happier now? Here, with Wyaeth and everything?" Persie wonders from her couch corner. Her chin stays down and there's a tension in her legs, like she might really be pushing back against those cushions. At least in between sips. "I never expected to accomplish anything. I just... do what's in front of me, I guess. Fort," she says, barely a space between her rambling and her answer. "Hold." She cants her head against the couch, looking back at him and thinking. "What was it that you said you did at the hall? Did you play?" N'thei asks with the slow spread of a grin, "Happier than what? It's all relative." He does keep an eye on Persie and the integrity of his couch, but he lets her dig herself in if that's what makes her happy, yep. "That's a busy place, isn't it? Fort Hold. You want to get lost in a crowd of people, there's the place to do it. --Mostly I got addicted to gambling. I was only there a turn-and-a-half. You were there; you must know there's little to accomplish in that short a span?" "I was hardly there for two minutes," Persie exaggerates, but the push of her legs suddenly goes slack and it seems like his couch might be safe for the moment. "I liked it, though. Maybe I could have been good at it, too. If I'd stayed. When were you there? Wouldn't it be funny if we were both there at the same time and didn't meet. Of course, maybe we did meet and I don't remember. -- How do you get a- addicted to gambling?" With a brief pause for another burp that she doesn't bother excusing. She just washes it down with another sip. "Well let's see." N'thei looks toward the ceiling while he does his math, eyes squinted. "I was fourteen, so about ten turns ago? At which point you were about... seven?" He takes a stab at guessing Persie's age based solely on her appearance, lets it fly with a short chuckle. "If you'd stayed. But then there'd be no Secath, no time at Fort Weyr, no move to High Reaches, and no sitting here now, having this conversation with me." A thought that also makes him chuckle quietly. "We used to play poker in the apprentice dorms between classes. Eventually it became that I was going to classes between playing poker. Then I just stopped going to classes. Apparently that's the sort of thing they frown upon." "Noo," Persie draws out with a bit of a smile, a natural smile, tugging at her lips. "We're the same age. I remember that. Or we're basically the same age. Let's see... if it was ten turns ago... I was thirteen. I didn't go to the hall until I was almost fifteen and I wasn't there but for a few months... So, I guess it's possible? I would have loved to have seen you then. To know, even a little, what were like when you were a boy. It's hard to think that you could ever have been a boy." She's grinning broadly at him now, looking at him as if she might find some sign of that young N'thei in his face. "Maybe we would still be sitting somewhere and talking, we'd just be different people." -- "You were good at it, right? At poker?" N'thei has many charming qualities; boyishness just is not among them. Whatever he looked like as a child is long gone. He suffers Persie's examination with his most grim expression, just to make it that much harder. "I think you'd still be the same person, just in Harper blue. Which really would be becoming, but I digress. If you were almost-fifteen then I was about sixteen, and that's when I left, so probably /just/ missed each other." He passes his palms within a few inches of each other, then drops them limply on his lap. "Good enough at it. I still play, though I've found new vices to kick the addiction. Mostly now I drink a lot and have meaningless sex. But people kept telling me I had to kick the card habit." Grin-and-wink. "How does someone so small drink so much?" He means Persie, not himself. "I might be better," is Persie's thought, probably shared too quickly. "Do you think I'd look nice in blue? I really don't wear all that much of it. I like it but... I don't know. It never seems right. I've been thinking that I should go and get some new dresses. You know, nice gather dresses or something. I clean up nice, you know." Just in case he has it in his head that she doesn't. "I'm sorry I missed you anyway, even if I wouldn't remember it now." It's during another sip that his question comes and so she pulls the bottle down quickly enough that it drips on her chest, just the neckline of her shirt. She wipes it off. "Practice? It's just drinking." And she does look a little glazed. "If you drink instead of playing, why not just play?" Thoughtful; "I tend to punch people. Or people punch me. It's all a little confusing." N'thei waves it off, and there's an instinct to lean forward and wick away the drop from her collar with his thumb, but he gets about halfway through the leaning part with an outstretched hand before thinking the wiser of it. "You should probably practice a little less, Miss Cleans-Up-Nice. How many fingers?" It's obviously a joke about her sobriety, but he still holds up three fingers just to test the alcoholic waters. She must catch that lean of his. She must. That must be why her hand hitches mid-wipe. Maybe that's why her toes spread as she pushes again against the back of the couch. But it's just for a moment and she's not so ill at ease that she doesn't answer his question. "Three!" Persie says, with a little extra excitement that has likely come from the bottle. Thank goodness for that bottle. She clutches it to her and says, "You don't know what to do with me, do you." Miss Cleans-Up-Nice's observation. "Give the girl a prize for hitting one on the head." N'thei holds the three fingers up in front of his own face-- three, no four, three, watch it now there's only two-- then plunks his hand back down on his knees again. "I seem to say it to you a lot, but I wouldn't take it personally. I don't know what to do with myself most of the time either." Right now, what he does with himself is stand up, his steadiness a bit compromised for all that speech and focus don't seem to be. "Got to love brandy, neh?" "Are you leaving? You always leave," Persie says when he gets to his feet, not really noticing that he's wobbly, especially when things like whose weyr they're in seem to be slipping past her mental grasp. Then she realizes. "Oh, wait. No, this if your place. You're not leaving. But if it were my weyr you'd have left long ago. Why do you do that?" N'thei, taken aback by the question, looks down a Persie with a wide-eyed blink. "Well, I suppose I could move in some time? Pitch a tent, bring my fuzzy slippers? It just always seemed to make more sense that I'd come back to my place." He waves his hands around this particular weyr, indicates the various possessions stowed herein. "With all my stuff?" Why he got up is a mystery, since now he's not going anywhere. Distracted. "It's not like I expect you to stay for-ever-." And there is plenty of extra emphasis on the ever. "Just.. you leave. Fast. You leave weird. You leave like you don't want to see me. But then you act like you do want to see me. Or something. Maybe you just want to see me and don't want to talk to me I don't know -what- it is. I thought -you- knew." She's obviously reconsidering that assumption. Persie takes a deep breath and sits up. But being pried from the safe embrace of the couch necessitates another nip, so she'll swig it down and set the bottle aside before she stands up with a good bit more wobble than him. Of course, she stands up pretty fast, too. N'thei teeter-totters his palm back and forth while he watches Persie, like he can control her balance with the arrangement of his hand. He sits back down promptly, since this is his place. Slowly, very; "I... Don't...? Know? --If you want, next time I'll write you a little farewell letter and read it out loud before I leave?" There's a good possibility, given his bemused expression, that he has /no idea/ why Persie would have a beef with his faretheewells. Where did she put that bottle? She look around for it on invisible tables at her sides and then makes a face and gives up. Gives up looking, that is. She's still making the face. A grumpy sort of face with her lips pursed and her brows creased together. "Oh nevermind you," she mumbles to herself, even though he's right there. "I'll go." She bends to gather up her basket and finds the bottle beside it. Yeah, she'll take that too. "I'll go," repeated again with resignation setting in. "You sit there." And now that she's on her feet, they're steadier and heads for the ledge with her head down. N'thei watches Persie steal his brandy with a helpless look on his face. He can't punch her, tackle her, threaten her. So she takes his liquor and leaves. With enforced amiability, with a sing-songy quality; "Good night." Hopefully she won't hear him go on to call her a liquor-stealing nut-job in an under-his-breath exhalation. |
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