abidinglaw | [Action]

[After having shown his face little over the past few days – probably a joint consequence of not wanting to catch whatever Jack had and wanting even less to be press ganged into holding his bloody soup spoons – Norrington begins this morning absent from his bright and bedless bedroom. He wakes with the rising sun for a rousing stroll on the beach. On the way back, with Cullen house lit by the crisp light of morning, he recalls the recent ice storms and all at once he has a goal for the day. Assess the house for damages. If any housemates are home they might just hear some curious scrapings on the exterior of Cullen house, the occasional bangings, but most ominous of all will likely be the prolonged intermittent silences. Never you mind. It's probably just a woodpecker.

Later in the day he'll be in the village proper for the first time in days and days and days. The item shop is a high priority, and he spends a long time there scrutinizing things with narrowed eyes and a chin cradled in the crook made by his thumb and index finger. Later still, he'll be stopping in at Good Spirits for the sake of overhearing village-gossip. He'll even politely clear his throat behind one or two people in aid of this noble goal. It's amazing what a brief absence will do for a man's social skills.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"...Papaya."

"Papaya."

--in confirmation.

"...I'll -- uhm -- have to check."

Papaya.

"Behind the jar of pickles there, perhaps. Oh no. Those are -- more pickles. My apologies."

"...There's always pickle juice. I'm sure that's exotic for somewhere."

"Always. Consider that word. Perhaps there is a reason that you never seem to run short of pickle juice."

"...You're the one asking for exotic. I'm only trying to fulfill those demands. Don't shoot the bartender for ticking your boxes."

"So, I take it that you have no papaya juice to hand."

She waggled her empty hands at him.

"These are my hands. Note their papayalessness."

Edited 2012-02-28 03:01 (UTC)

"Then guava will be sufficient."

"...Guava."

Buffy was beginning to wonder if she should feel concerned over the fact that Norrington's unreasonable demands were a lot like what her own unreasonable demands would be like should they ever swap shoes.

Or boots.

"Guava."

--in confirmation.

"Can't you just settle for orange like the rest of us? How about orange-mango? Is that fancy enough for your pants?"

Just because you're a sad and depressed shadow of a man, Norrington, it didn't mean you'd get any special treatment from the bartender.

Just because the words that you are using are common to yours and Norrington's time, Buffy, it didn't mean that he would understand what in blazes you were talking about. Pants? He glanced down a little self-consciously and then back up, conscious of having been self conscious.

"Fine. Orange and mango."

By God but that was a strike below the belt.

"Right. One of...those. Coming right up."

He was obligated to drink this one drink, but then he could be shot of the blonde girl and her awkward social traits. The social traits that made him feel awkward while she got away scot free and smiling. That only made it worse.

"Please. Take your time."

There was all kinds of awkward under that smile. Don't worry.

"And sacrifice good service? Nah."

Perhaps that was the secret, then. Ask one thing, and be certain she'd do the polar opposite.

"Will you be paying us a visit later today?"

"At Cullen house?"

She slid a filled glass before the Admiral.

"No, at Whitechapel."

Yes, Buffy, at Cullen house.

"Where's Whitechapel?"

Was she being serious? Was she teasing? Who knew.

"London."

He was almost incredulous, but he supposed it was entirely possible that the girl was being sincere. After a moment he even added,

"England, Miss Summers."

"You gotta remember, Admiral, that I've never been."

"Indeed? It does not show."

A sip.

Edited 2012-03-14 21:34 (UTC)

"Shut up."

(no subject)

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