As idle as a painted ship;
Who: slaying and abidinglaw
What: Pompous Shenanigans
When: Backdated to the Tuesday May 17th.
Where: The Grocery Store - and possibly also spilling out onto the square.
Summary: Buffy and Norrington butt heads once more.
Rating: Pompous
Bread, vegetables, fruit, these were the obvious choices. These items looked just as they would on his plate - simple, familiar, pleasant. The admiral gravitated toward these islands of comfort and did his best to stride right by the occasional perilous explosions of bright colours and loud text. Shortly after he had stepped inside the store he had come upon a package of "fruit roll-ups" proclaiming its flavors in bold lettering which contrasted starkly with the bright yellow background against which it was set. It had taken him a moment to decipher the script, too, because the "o" was a spiral - for some reason. He had turned away from it in disgust, resuming a search for meat that he had begun some minutes before. Somehow it hadn't occurred to him to check the fridge.
Presently a bell above the store's entrance rang and Norrington's attention was drawn to the door. He was aware of how awkward he must have looked, and he felt the humiliation warming the skin of his neck - hidden though it was beneath his collar.
"Miss."
He offered, politely but distractedly. On the way toward her his eyes were caught by a large bag of what might have been flour - he needed flour - but it might also have been sugar or sand for all he could tell. The image of a man tilling his field on the front of the bag was no help. He finished the motion as quickly at he might and met Buffy's eyes with his at last. He had intended to move quickly to the exit -- but now he seemed to have locked himself into a social imperative from which there would be no easy escape.
What: Pompous Shenanigans
When: Backdated to the Tuesday May 17th.
Where: The Grocery Store - and possibly also spilling out onto the square.
Summary: Buffy and Norrington butt heads once more.
Rating: Pompous
Bread, vegetables, fruit, these were the obvious choices. These items looked just as they would on his plate - simple, familiar, pleasant. The admiral gravitated toward these islands of comfort and did his best to stride right by the occasional perilous explosions of bright colours and loud text. Shortly after he had stepped inside the store he had come upon a package of "fruit roll-ups" proclaiming its flavors in bold lettering which contrasted starkly with the bright yellow background against which it was set. It had taken him a moment to decipher the script, too, because the "o" was a spiral - for some reason. He had turned away from it in disgust, resuming a search for meat that he had begun some minutes before. Somehow it hadn't occurred to him to check the fridge.
Presently a bell above the store's entrance rang and Norrington's attention was drawn to the door. He was aware of how awkward he must have looked, and he felt the humiliation warming the skin of his neck - hidden though it was beneath his collar.
"Miss."
He offered, politely but distractedly. On the way toward her his eyes were caught by a large bag of what might have been flour - he needed flour - but it might also have been sugar or sand for all he could tell. The image of a man tilling his field on the front of the bag was no help. He finished the motion as quickly at he might and met Buffy's eyes with his at last. He had intended to move quickly to the exit -- but now he seemed to have locked himself into a social imperative from which there would be no easy escape.