Ah. This solved her most immediate problem, at least, which was how to go about approaching Moist von Lipwig: he, in an ironic twist of fate, was approaching her.
And she was not happy.
It was entirely possible that Moist had never seen Adora Belle Dearheart in such a state. This was because, back home, she had an endless supply of cigarettes and didn't have to worry about cigarettenappers. And if there were any about, she could just go down to her favourite tobacconists' and buy some more. But here...here...she only had three cigarettes left in the whole word and they had been stolen by the very man standing in front of her, pretending to be concerned.
"Don't you give me that," she said, and worse than shouting, her voice was a low, flat hiss. "I could be dead and you wouldn't even notice, you bastard. Now where are my cigarettes?"*
*It was hard to say what Adora Belle was more angry about - the fact he hadn't bothered to see if she was safe, or the fact that (she was fairly certain) he had stolen her cigarettes. Probably the latter.
"I would notice," Moist said plaintively, his eyebrows growing up. He made a vague, soothing gesture. The air quality would get better.
But he doesn't say it, see? That has to count for something.
"What cigarettes?" he asked innocently, his face laced with just enough concern to be perfectly believable, provided, of course, that you knew nothing of the man or his past.
"I'm sure I haven't seen you walking around carrying any cigarettes, Spike."
Cartons of cigarettes growing on trees, however....that was just business as usual on the island.
"That," said Miss Dearheart matter-of-factly, "Is because you stole them."
She wanted to punch him. Or cry. Or both.
She wasn't sure if she could actually cry - the last time she'd tried she had been very young and had done it in order to get a pony, and then she'd cried again after she realized how much looking after ponies actually needed - but, right now, she really could have done with a good sob.
He really didn't have to call her Spike. It probably would have been easier if he stuck with 'Miss Dearheart'. Then she could actually hate him properly.
Moist stared at her, hands in his pockets. Ookay. Review. Duo was broken and bed ridden and had recently turned down a marriage proposal that Moist himself had yet to regret and now Adora Belle Dearheart, who he had once truly loved, was glaring at him and hating him and she looked like she was about to cry.
This couldn't be the real world. This sort of thing didn't come close to happening in the real world.
"I found a carton of cigarettes," Moist said carefully, lifting his head. "Which were in a public domain at the time, a tree I think you'll find, and therefor it was not exactly stealing. No claims of ownership were immediately visible. I discovered them. In the tree."
Your brand and your lipstick on the filters and yes, I know I'm a bastard and, no, that isn't news, but then why the hell does it feel like a fresh kick every time?
"I've about as much sympathy as Stoneface Vimes had for Lorenzo the Kind at the moment," said Adora Belle stolidly.
She was trying to hold back, really she was, but it was even harder than usual. Mostly because she hadn't had a cigarette in what felt like months, and also because she was so angry at Moist still she just wanted to...lash out.
And so she did.
"Your - boyfriend, or lover, or husband or whatever the hell he is - he's fine, isn't he? He's not dead. Not like some people. So why did you have to mess with me? Did it make you feel good? Did it make you feel good to know you still have some power over the little people, the ones you left behind, the ones you swindled? Did it give you a lovely warm glow inside? Did it?"
Moist did not flinch. He very obviously, completly, all-encompassingly did not flinch.
"No," he grated out, fingers in his jacket pocket where he still had a brass and glass ring sewn into the lining, if only for a taste of the old times. And that's what all this was, a taste of the old times, and old habits die hard. If he was another person, he may well have had a red hot roadster and reflective sunglasses, but he was Moist von Lipwig, Postmaster General, and kleptomania had to do.
"Come on," he said, and spun on his ankle. He missed his damned golden suit. "They're at the house."
Miss Dearheart did not want to follow him, but an addict would follow Bigfoot into an active volcano if he promised there would be alcohol and cigarettes at the bottom.
So she followed him, wiping her eyes surreptitiously with the back of her sleeve as she went.
For a while, they trudged through the forest in hostile silence, Moist apparently calm and unconcerned ahead of her, even as the gears turned loud and rapidly in his brain, trying to think of the stylish thing to do, the right joke, something...
Arnold bounded out of the bushes and gave him a happy, doggy huff. "Schlat," Moist murmured, ruffling the Lipwigzer' head before the beast turned to go sniff Adora inappropriately.
"He does that," Moist said apologetically, and his face brightened slightly and he almost mentioned that one time, when Ponder had insisted that it was natural, right up until that one encounter with Lady Sybil and, well. He caught that story before it slipped out.
"Wack him in the head," he suggested. "That usually does the trick across the board."
Miss Dearheart merely gave the dog a stony glare, and he took one look at her and bounded off, whimpering.
"So does that," she said. Animals usually didn't mind Adora Belle, except when she was in one of her Moods. And this Mood was definitely worthy of the capital letter.
"I know," Adora Belle reminded him irritably, trudging onwards.
Why had she never noticed how annoying he was before? Probably because she was trying to find as many things to hate about him as possible at the moment. The more, the better.
The door to the hut was half open and as they drew closer, Moist could see the glint of green eyes under the porch where Annagovia had taken to laying. Presumably, Arnold was somewhere cowering behind her.
He stopped suddenly, looking up at the house and the giant robot that was emphatically not behind it any longer. In fact, the giant robot was currently everywhere on the island, mostly in pieces of shrapnel and scraps.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, turning around. "For fooling you. For making you laugh. For making you believe in silly things and I am really, very sorry about your bank, Adora. I'm sorry for all of that. But I don't wish I could change it. I would wish that you would not hate me quite so much as you do, but I won't begrudge you that." He shoved his hands back through his hair and shrugged, glancing at her before climbing up onto the porch and pushing open the door.
"I hate you," Adora Belle said matter-of-factly, but somewhere in between her brain and her mouth the words got turned around and instead she said "I was in love with you," but thankfully Moist had turned away by that time and Gods she hoped he hadn't heard that because if he had she was going to go and drown herself.
All right, maybe not drown herself. But she had promised herself, once upon a time, that she'd never say that sort of thing to a man and if she did, she would give up smoking.
Moist tripped over his own feet and only caught himself half a second before he would have tripped and broken his nose. It would have been better if she had professed hatred. It would have been better if she'd thrown a brick at his head. That was the sort of thing that he could very easily deal with.
He didn't immediately look around. The bed in the center of the room was only half slept in. He walked past it to a loose floor board and wrenched it up, his brain still boiling over.
"I asked you to marry me," he said, looking dumbly at the sack he'd pulled out. "I asked you to marry me because I was in love with you." He looked up at her, still looking dumbstruck.
"But...a year can be a very long time." Enough time to live a life of crime, die, and be reborn into public service. It was certainly enough for this, for Ponder and Duo and a thousand other types of madness.
Didn't make it easy, though.
He fished out the pack and proffered them. "I'm sorry."
On second thoughts, accidentally letting that slip was worth it if only for his reaction.
Strangely, Adora Belle felt...better. She was still angry, though, which was why she snatched the cigarettes, gave Moist a stern glare and said, "I know."
There was a pause. The anger ebbed, a little.
"Don't be. You would have been miserable and I would have been happy to make you miserable. This way, I still get to be happy, and you still get to be miserable. There's just no sex involved." And she drew a cigarette out from the pack and smiled at him.
Moist made a wistful sound before he stopped himself. He looked guiltily down at the sack before replacing it in its hiding place.
"If you ever need to make me feel miserable, I'm always here," he offered gallantly that did not go ping so much as it went twang. Not bad for still reeling and trying to get his balance back.
And she was not happy.
It was entirely possible that Moist had never seen Adora Belle Dearheart in such a state. This was because, back home, she had an endless supply of cigarettes and didn't have to worry about cigarettenappers. And if there were any about, she could just go down to her favourite tobacconists' and buy some more. But here...here...she only had three cigarettes left in the whole word and they had been stolen by the very man standing in front of her, pretending to be concerned.
"Don't you give me that," she said, and worse than shouting, her voice was a low, flat hiss. "I could be dead and you wouldn't even notice, you bastard. Now where are my cigarettes?"*
*It was hard to say what Adora Belle was more angry about - the fact he hadn't bothered to see if she was safe, or the fact that (she was fairly certain) he had stolen her cigarettes.
Probably the latter.
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But he doesn't say it, see? That has to count for something.
"What cigarettes?" he asked innocently, his face laced with just enough concern to be perfectly believable, provided, of course, that you knew nothing of the man or his past.
"I'm sure I haven't seen you walking around carrying any cigarettes, Spike."
Cartons of cigarettes growing on trees, however....that was just business as usual on the island.
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She wanted to punch him. Or cry. Or both.
She wasn't sure if she could actually cry - the last time she'd tried she had been very young and had done it in order to get a pony, and then she'd cried again after she realized how much looking after ponies actually needed - but, right now, she really could have done with a good sob.
He really didn't have to call her Spike. It probably would have been easier if he stuck with 'Miss Dearheart'. Then she could actually hate him properly.
Reply
This couldn't be the real world. This sort of thing didn't come close to happening in the real world.
"I found a carton of cigarettes," Moist said carefully, lifting his head. "Which were in a public domain at the time, a tree I think you'll find, and therefor it was not exactly stealing. No claims of ownership were immediately visible. I discovered them. In the tree."
Your brand and your lipstick on the filters and yes, I know I'm a bastard and, no, that isn't news, but then why the hell does it feel like a fresh kick every time?
"It had been a long day," he added hopefully.
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She was trying to hold back, really she was, but it was even harder than usual. Mostly because she hadn't had a cigarette in what felt like months, and also because she was so angry at Moist still she just wanted to...lash out.
And so she did.
"Your - boyfriend, or lover, or husband or whatever the hell he is - he's fine, isn't he? He's not dead. Not like some people. So why did you have to mess with me? Did it make you feel good? Did it make you feel good to know you still have some power over the little people, the ones you left behind, the ones you swindled? Did it give you a lovely warm glow inside? Did it?"
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"No," he grated out, fingers in his jacket pocket where he still had a brass and glass ring sewn into the lining, if only for a taste of the old times. And that's what all this was, a taste of the old times, and old habits die hard. If he was another person, he may well have had a red hot roadster and reflective sunglasses, but he was Moist von Lipwig, Postmaster General, and kleptomania had to do.
"Come on," he said, and spun on his ankle. He missed his damned golden suit. "They're at the house."
Reply
So she followed him, wiping her eyes surreptitiously with the back of her sleeve as she went.
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Arnold bounded out of the bushes and gave him a happy, doggy huff. "Schlat," Moist murmured, ruffling the Lipwigzer' head before the beast turned to go sniff Adora inappropriately.
"He does that," Moist said apologetically, and his face brightened slightly and he almost mentioned that one time, when Ponder had insisted that it was natural, right up until that one encounter with Lady Sybil and, well. He caught that story before it slipped out.
"Wack him in the head," he suggested. "That usually does the trick across the board."
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"So does that," she said. Animals usually didn't mind Adora Belle, except when she was in one of her Moods. And this Mood was definitely worthy of the capital letter.
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He sighed, quietly.
"You have a Way, Miss Dearheart," he said, and some how it was a compliment.
He nodded down the trail. "We're right up here..."
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Why had she never noticed how annoying he was before? Probably because she was trying to find as many things to hate about him as possible at the moment. The more, the better.
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He stopped suddenly, looking up at the house and the giant robot that was emphatically not behind it any longer. In fact, the giant robot was currently everywhere on the island, mostly in pieces of shrapnel and scraps.
"I'm sorry," he said suddenly, turning around. "For fooling you. For making you laugh. For making you believe in silly things and I am really, very sorry about your bank, Adora. I'm sorry for all of that. But I don't wish I could change it. I would wish that you would not hate me quite so much as you do, but I won't begrudge you that." He shoved his hands back through his hair and shrugged, glancing at her before climbing up onto the porch and pushing open the door.
"And I'm sorry about the cigarettes."
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All right, maybe not drown herself. But she had promised herself, once upon a time, that she'd never say that sort of thing to a man and if she did, she would give up smoking.
For a week.
Oh, Gods.
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He didn't immediately look around. The bed in the center of the room was only half slept in. He walked past it to a loose floor board and wrenched it up, his brain still boiling over.
"I asked you to marry me," he said, looking dumbly at the sack he'd pulled out. "I asked you to marry me because I was in love with you." He looked up at her, still looking dumbstruck.
"But...a year can be a very long time." Enough time to live a life of crime, die, and be reborn into public service. It was certainly enough for this, for Ponder and Duo and a thousand other types of madness.
Didn't make it easy, though.
He fished out the pack and proffered them. "I'm sorry."
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Strangely, Adora Belle felt...better. She was still angry, though, which was why she snatched the cigarettes, gave Moist a stern glare and said, "I know."
There was a pause. The anger ebbed, a little.
"Don't be. You would have been miserable and I would have been happy to make you miserable. This way, I still get to be happy, and you still get to be miserable. There's just no sex involved." And she drew a cigarette out from the pack and smiled at him.
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"If you ever need to make me feel miserable, I'm always here," he offered gallantly that did not go ping so much as it went twang. Not bad for still reeling and trying to get his balance back.
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