shoot the wendybird!

[cleverne]

terribleticking:

(He glances down at her hand. Sighs.)

And I was managing such an excellent mix of milieux.

(Catching her chin lightly in one hand—don’t ask about the other, as the narration is uncertain whether you’d find flesh or steel in its place!—he resigns himself to the situation. He drifts closer with every word, the lazy pace as much a strategy as a request.)

If you insist on dragging me into this…inlet between realities, for the sake of a humorous holiday interlude, at least let me enjoy myself before the headache sets in.

{Either way, it will be cold.}

I do quite live to disrupt your fiendish schemes, and we both know where I personally sort continuity when it comes down to the wire! 

{- and it is, when she takes it, when she leans up onto the bent tips of her shoes to better meet his eyes. He is always so... Careful, almost. Afraid? Skittish! Skittish, he is always so skittish around her, and her guesses at decoding it would really be nothing more than just that.}

But, drag? Why, I don't think I could get you to budge even an inch aside unless you were entirely willing to let me. You are quite the difficult one, you know. I despair of you often when I have the time set aside.

[cleverne]

terribleticking:

(He’s wounded, wounded that she would imply anything less than total faith in his competence! And yet he takes her hand to press against his heart, rather than use his own.)

Oh! Does your affection hang by so uncertain a thread, then, my dear?

I could well give a repeat performance, if necessary… .

If I remember my lines quite rightly, my affection doesn't exist at all unless the author's really willing to put the work in and ask a few teenage girls how they'd really feel about a dashing figure sweeping them away and treating them like real women over the dinner table. But I suppose, for you, I could be persuaded to let you take a second shot at the title.

{She's smiling properly now, leaning against the edge of his desk, six layers of soft browns and pinks fit to match her cheeks.}

It is Valentine's Day, after all.

[cleverne]

terribleticking:

(“One can jump from anything if one is daring enough,” he’d retort, were his mood a stitch different than it is.

But, as it is St. Valentine’s… .)

Whatever did I do to catch your attentions, the first time?

If I remember rightly, you wore a very big hat and threatened to drown my brothers. I do rather feel that was a one-time trick, however. I'm not honestly sure how you got away with it at all!

[cleverne]

terribleticking:

The ‘typical’ way?

(A smile just this side of mischievous.)

And what would that entail, hm? I rather think your ideas of what’s typical tend to move at right angles to the rest of convention.

Hey, now! One can't simply jump from neglect to teasing, it'll almost certainly put your back out. You should warm up to it, with apologies and compliments in careful rotation. 

{Her smile matches kind with him in it's position - almost innocent, almost too innocent by halves.}

I'm ready, if you don't mind beginning.

[cleverne]

Hmm.

[hawkasss]

There, hidden in the right-hand corner, is that a kiss? But what is it for?

[cleverne]

- I hate to interrupt almost twice as dearly as I'm sure you remember but I really must insist that you allow me to distract you from your business, if only for a handful of seconds. It is, you see, quite undoubtedly Valentine's Day, and I have nothing in me to contest my desire to wish you a happy one in the typical way.

[cleverne]

She tumbles out of his fridge, the frost already melting her hair into soft ringlets around her ears, eyes bright with curiosity even before they connect with his own. (She likes his suit! She's always appreciated the work that goes into costumery - even if his stripes aren't feather trim, and both his hands are flesh, even if his raggedy shoes carry more of the lost boy than anything else.)

"I have to say," she chides gently, smoothing over the cold embroidery of her coat, "you could do with buying more vegetables! I hate to start this on such a dreary note, but I'd said it once and so help me I will say it again - scurvy does not a fun adventure start. I dearly hope this isn't your only fridge, or else I'll have to give this entire trip up as a bust."

"Please don't take that as a mark against you! I've simply spent far too much time as the responsible figure, and really was rather banking on the Narnia schtick taking me somewhere a little less Never Never and a little more Wendy Moira Angela Darling, You Do All The Irresponsible Childish Things You Like, We The Vague Forces Of Narrative Causality Support You 100% The Whole Way On This One, Go Get 'Em. You know?"

[metuere-now-exspiritment]

"Punch him in the mouth. Being goaded by a baby brother—that’s the ultimate shame.”

[cleverne]

Ah, but you have to remember! Boys operate differently to the world of sensible people. If you cut them open, they'd bleed chainmail and adventures. To be challenged and to refuse the challenge? A fate worse than death, at the very least.

[cleverne]

- I really do hate to vanish so, you must understand. It's terribly easy for a bad habit to become something your friends merely accept about you; and while I do have ever so many bad habits, I have no desire for this one to join the ranks! Say one thing for Wendy Darling, say she's perfectly reliable. The very idea that I should be making a routine of this is a very tiring one, and it's not even lunch-time yet.

[cleverne]

I found John's twitter. He described himself as "punk".

[metuere-now-exspiritment]

"Definitely do that cooler. And sneakier. Why would you need to shimmy down a drain pipe, anyways?”

[cleverne]

"Micheal bet me that I couldn't. I wasn't about to lose face in front of a baby brother - that's the ultimate shame."

[metuere-now-exspiritment]

"Just do it cooler next time."

[cleverne]

" - I actually rather meant that I shan't get caught again, but if I do, it will certainly be for something more dramatic than shimmying down the drainpipe."

[fakedpersona]

That’s an end goal. To get there you can’t alert your….prey for lack of a better word, that you are even there.

 I might have one, where are you trying to get to?

[cleverne]

It's so nice to meet another professional sneak!

... But I'm afraid that I'm not trying to get to anywhere. I'd much rather know where I'm already at.

[arielshepard]

❛ [ ☢ ] ███ RADIOACTIVE DECAY ↯ —— A miracle she hadn’t been stopped by Citadel Security; the strange child with filthy feet in shoes too small and rotting flowers in her sun kissed auburn hair. She stuck right out like a blistering sore thumb on the floor of the pristine Embassies. It’s one of the slower days, the influx of refugees slowing down to a trickle before the next colony fell (soon there would be a wave of those escaping the slaughter, the resources would again strain as the militaries attempted to regain footing in a fallen sector; the Citadel is already expecting a food shortage). The Commander’s attention was on the datapad in her hands, writing directly upon the screen with a stylus that was compatible with the advanced technology present in the almost paper thin device. 

It comes to a stop for a second when the girl blurted out her queries. Crimson and flint black optics shifting to the youth to cast a stern gaze. “Most of us religious individuals still sing hymns, psalms, and chants,” the woman replied as eyes returned to her datapad, frigid speech patterns upon even colder breath. “As for Christmas, we decorate the interiors of our ships in order to show the passage of time. The chaplain will hold a prayer service and then everybody goes back to work. If you’re looking for a pageantry and theatrics you won’t find it on a military ship.” The final signature of authorization applied to her Hebrew influenced scrawling and the device was handed to the other officer that stood within her vicinity. 

Free from distraction, she could now look at the girl and inspect her with hellish visions with militant sharpness and clarity. “What’s your name, kid? If you’re looking for the refugee camps, I suggest asking Avina to give you directions. I’m not a tour guide.” Irritability, it drawled along her regal American tones and punctuated her elocution. 

[cleverne]

"Oh - is this a military ship? My father was in the army, once. He doesn't talk about it much, but he kept his swords over the fire for as long as mother let him. He thought it made the room look dashing, but they were such dull swords - all ceremony and stuffiness, nothing useful, for sure."

Wendy trails her hand along the desk (desk? desk.) beside her, shedding petals as she goes, all but stepping out of one of her shoes. The clean hard lines of this place are more hospital than adventure, but she's read her science fiction, she knows.

(Hard lines beget harder people. Tread carefully.)

"So you still have Christmas? I would have thought that touching out into the Lord's own domain would force religion out, but - I'm so very pleased to have been wrong about this! Stories survive, no matter what they have to do."

After another meditative pause, Wendy startles herself.

"Ah! I'm sorry, I'm rather outside of my comfort zone, and manners are apparently the first things to go! What would James say - my name is Wendy Moira Angela Darling, and I'm almost certain that I'm not looking for a refugee. My home is quite safe and intact, or, rather, it was the last time I checked. The reason I'm here is because I had to meet you!"

[cleverne]

"Well, now that that's over!"

Wendy scurries out of her father's office block, clutching her newly-rescued phone to her chest. It's been a long three months.

"I'm never doing anything to get grounded again, my god."

[sunshineandsemtex]

A James in the truest sense of the word, self-chosen, self-taught, and self-evident. He settles back into his skin with small displeasure at the restraint of form and flesh. Story teller and story thief, he works in mysterious ways to appear fit for his gorgeous city. But of course, none of that has absolutely any relevance here - the simple fact of the matter is he is entirely too pleased with the turn of the evening and he appears to be entirely unable to keep himself from listening quite intently to her words.

"It’s not far a leap from the Red-Handed Jill to the City-Loved Angelus, one might imagine. Or, not too far a fall, if you’d prefer - falling tends to have an incontestable allure, in this old man’s experience." There’s a ring on his finger, maybe has always been a ring on his finger but the important part is that his thumb is spinning the chill metal over-ring almost absently as though once his hands had tested cold metal with the coin traded off they could not simply return to nothingness. "I believe pirate ships as a sum total have passed their heyday, shame though it may be. Their time will roll around again, but for now the ship in her heyday is the cityship, and her waves are substantially different."

He sounds almost wistful as he speaks, rolls his head back over to look at her again; discussion of things like movement even when only in relation to pirate ships has clearly made him itch for it.

"Perhaps none funnier - this world has its fair share of the ridiculous, it would hardly strain the mind to imagine this world one such."

[cleverne]

"City-loving, perhaps, but not City-Loved! One must do more than simply love a city for her to love one back, I think. Cities like these are so much more cats then dogs - more building than anything, of course, but they need you to earn their love! All I've ever done is bring a few of her lost boys home."

Wendy Moira Angela Darling crosses her ankles and uncrosses them, a gentle smile flickering over her face. 

"Falling isn't the fun part, is you ask me, Bunny. The fun part is when you're meant to hit the ground and you - don't!"

Her hands fan out, her eyes catch the sun just so, and she bumps her shoulder with a giddy finality against James Moriarty's own. She rolls with his movements, her smile growing and growing as she rests at his side like - well. Like a ship on the waves.

"Little boys don't wave their swords to stories of vicious cities - not yet, at least. Pirate ships will exist for as long as we believe in them. I'm sorry, real and true perfect James, but they're different ships, and the kind that rides low on the tide is still the one we love best."