More Hot Chocolate. Dude, I don't even know anymore.
Biking all summer, going down West Hill a couple times a week, and where does she finally wipe out? On freaking Spenard, four days before she leaves.
Man. At least it wasn't a bad crash.
Adiva wanders into Milliways today looking pink-cheeked and sweaty, vainly trying to make her hair look like it didn't just spend half an hour under a helmet and ( Read more... )
Man. At least it wasn't a bad crash.
Adiva wanders into Milliways today looking pink-cheeked and sweaty, vainly trying to make her hair look like it didn't just spend half an hour under a helmet and ( Read more... )
He's sitting at the bar.
His nose is just a little bit crookeder than the last time she saw it.
He's dressed all in black-- dingy, dusty, serviceable black, the kind of black that spends a lot of time on its knees in a field gathering herbs (there are grass-stains) or in someone's kitchen making tea (a few darker splashes along the sleeves). Not modern clothes. There are even a pair of rather scuffed black boots.
He's playing with a length of thread (if you have to ask what colour, you haven't been paying attention), weaving it into a kind of net and then unweaving it again with remarkable speed and dexterity.
His hands are clean and whole and without any kind of bruising.
He doesn't look up when she arrives, too absorbed in his bizarre pursuit to have noticed her quite yet.
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Oh, she recognizes yet another Edward Norton, and grins to herself, but she doesn't make the--
--connection.
She turns her head very slowly to look down the bar at him.
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Then he looks up and meets her eyes.
"Adiva."
It's so strange, to say her name again.
Now he smiles. Quiet and rueful and maybe a little sheepish, but genuinely glad to see her nonetheless.
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He sighs faintly.
The smile fades, not quite gone but shoving over to make room for contrition.
"It's been..."
Two days for her. Six months for him.
"...a while."
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She stands (leaving her drink behind, forgotten) and walks down the few yards to him, looking up at him and examining his face.
"What happened to your nose?"
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"Y'know, I almost forgot about that. Chainsaw. Chainsaw happened to my nose."
He blinks once, and then blinks again, and then nods to the back door.
"You wanna go for a walk? There's a lot we need to catch up on."
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As for the question--
She nods. "Okay."
Two days. An unknowable amount of time. What the hell.
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Outside, she fidgets, pulling down her shirt and then folding her arms loosely, holding her elbows.
"Okay, Lucy, you got some 'splaining to do."
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It's evening; the owls are just coming out. He glances up at one as it makes its silent progress over the trees some distance away.
After a few seconds, seeming to find a decision, he nods to himself and reaches into his pocket. When he withdraws his hand it's closed on some small object; he holds it out to her without opening his fingers to show her their contents.
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Nevertheless, it's somehow not very surprising when he withdraws his arm and leaves her with the weight and texture and presence of a little cardboard matchbox, but no visible box to speak of.
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Very carefully, disbelievingly, she runs the fingers of one hand over the box in her palm. She picks it up, turns it over, taps it; finally closes her fist around it, gently.
"That isn't an explanation."
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"It's as good a place as any to start," he says.
And then glances sharply to the side, at a particular stand of trees by the stables that is not visibly different from any other stand of trees in the vicinity and certainly doesn't deserve to be looked at like that.
Turning his attention back to Adiva: "All right, this'll go simplest if you know who I'm talkin' about. The name Weatherwax mean anythin' to you?"
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Flat: "As in Granny."
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