Sixth Tide Turning ☠ Voice | Action

[lists_to_port]

[voice--attempted filter away from Jilly Coppercorn, Elizabeth Swann, Cordelia Chase, Nami, and Buffy Summers. Jack is not so very clever at filters.]

HOla: Captain Jack Sparrow, here, with an opportunity for all you crafty nimblefingered types out there. Perchance do any of you know the fine art of poppetry? I need five devilishly attractive and

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[ action OKAY JEEZ ]

[slaying]

[ no. no the portrait is not being dutifully displayed anywhere.

good luck finding it, jack.

you have seven minutes before buffy gets home. ]

[ action OKAY JEEZ ]

[lists_to_port]

Two of those minutes were spent in sadness and pouting. The rest would be spent in frantic hunting as the pirate tore apart the slayer's room in his quest.

There wasn't time to do this neatly; she could be home, soon.

[slaying]

Jack's frantic searching uncovered a few things:

Firstly -- a dangerously festive and cheery looking box with a To: Jack tag on it. Ripe for the wholly unethical pre-unwrapping well before Christmas Day. Under the bed.

Secondly -- a certain worn-only-once festival costume dress hidden behind a heavy nearly-as-rarely-worn parka in the closet.

Thirdly -- no portrait.

[lists_to_port]

To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack. To: Jack.

A PRESSIE. FOR MYSELF.

Yeah; that probably killed some time right there, along with the sensual stroking of one discarded leather dress. At least it momentarily distracted him from the portrait.

[slaying]

A present. With a bow and ribbon and little reindeer stickers on the tag. Oh my, but this Christmas was going to be radically different from an anonymous pair of binoculars left coolly outside an apartment door.

1/3

[lists_to_port]

The pirate put an ear to the brightly-wrapped box first. Then, a nose: an inquisitive sniff.

[lists_to_port]

Then a long swipe of his tongue, followed by SUCH an OH GOD I LICKED PAPER face as the world has never seen.

/done

[lists_to_port]

Then a quick lift-and-shake to test the weight and see if it sounded like something that sparkled fancily.

[slaying]

There was certainly some clunking. Maybe even a little thumping. And the parcel seemed awfully weighty. But now was the time for fast-thinking, not present-guessing...for the front door just opened and the Slayer was soon rattling about in the kitchen.

[lists_to_port]

Bugger. SLAYER. SLAYER'S HOME.

The near-silent whirlwind that followed that rattling possibly should have made it into the Guinness World Book of Housecleaning Records. The gift was immediately stashed beneath the bed

bowling ball?

before Jack began tidying the things he'd torn out of the closet

very small anchor?

and then lodged HIMSELF in the closet

boomerang collection?

the leather dress still clutched tightly in his sweaty palms.

[slaying]

The ringing, ritualistic sound of a metal spoon on a well-loved mug. A triple-ding before the spoon was abandoned (unwashed) to the sink. Buffy hugged her cafe mocha to her chest before winding her way back through the house. Back to her room. She nudged the door open and crossed quietly over to her stereo.

The song selection was unintentional; just the crazy random happenstance of a shuffle function.

[lists_to_port]

.............................Bugger.

[slaying]

She burned her tongue on the first few sips. A soft curse -- but she got over it, leaving her mug on the corner of her desk to cool while she shrugged out of a well-lined jacket. Being not such a fastidious tidier as Jack, she left her coat on the foot of her bed and did not seek to hang it up in the closet.

Blissfully ignorant, she flipped her journal open. Propped it up against her mirror. Perused a few announcements as she plucked a small wooden box out of a drawer.

[lists_to_port]

And Jack waited. In the closet.

This would be one of those occasions where learning to throw your voice would come in handy. Jack had never learned that skill, unfortunately.

[slaying]

Three minutes passed. And then five. Ten. Fifteen. The music grew progressively poppish; outside the closer, Buffy was in fact putting herself through a very minimal training routine. Just a smidgen of aerobics to round off the afternoon before she had a pre-patrol meal. Just enough to get the heart pumping and to shake out the limbs. This wasn't exercise. This was a light physical detox for the muscles. Because soon past fifteen minutes, the stereo was abruptly silenced.

Half the cafe mocha stood forgotten -- or perhaps willfully abandoned once she realized that caffeine would do her no good.

And then the room grew incredibly silent. As if, perhaps, it too had been abandoned.

[lists_to_port]

Oh, he would never fall for that maybe the room is empty because it is quiet routine. Jack had hidden in the closet in his father's cabin on the Troubadour far too many times to risk it. He did risk some movement, however, to free up stiff muscles. Edging lower, he pressed an eye to a crack in the closet door, trying to get the lie of the land.