Ned was sitting on the sand, watching the waves. He found the sea fascinating. Nowhere in the journey between Pseudopolis and Ankh Morpork was there anything like the sea.
He lifted his cigarette to his lips and took a thoughtful drag.
There was a woman pacing on the beach. It was...a little distracting and, being the Good Copper that he was, Ned couldn't help but be distracted.
Ned leaned on his knees and looked up at her, his cigarette hanging loosely against his lip. He looked at her for a long moment and then he reached into the pocket of his loose shorts and tugged out a battered old tin, which he held out to her.
"Ran out of the stuff I had with me," he said, the words coming out flattened and slightly muffled around the cigarette. "Grows here too, though."
It had taken all of his detecting skills but Ned Coates had, indeed, detected it.
"I haven't been able to find any," said Adora Belle matter-of-factly, indicating with her tone that if she hadn't been able to discover any tobacco on the island, there probably wasn't any.
Nicotine had a sort of gravitational pull on Miss Dearheart. Wherever a cloud of smoke could be seen, she would inevitably be in the middle of it.
"Is something the matter?" Donald looked at the seemingly distraught woman and wondered if he could help, cigarette hanging out of his hand as he brushed it back through his hair.
"Yes!" Adora Belle nearly shouted, whirling around so fast her heels made a little squeaking sound in the sand. She drew a deep breath and attempted to calm herself before continuing, with a slightly apologetic look*. And then she saw the cigarette in his hand, and her expression became almost pleading†.
"I need a cigarette."
She wasn't drooling. But there was a slightly glazed look in her eyes.
*Only slightly. She was Adora Belle Dearheart, after all. †Almost. See above.
Donald just gave her an amused look. If he could say there were benefits to being friends with Guy Burgess, one was that the man had found tobacco on the island, and a good use for the bible. Of course, some mind find it sacreligous, but Donald wasn't one of those men.
"Do you?" He pulled a packet out of his pocket, well beaten by now and handed her one. "Is that better?"
Geoffrey doesn't mean to stare, but it's hard not to when he spots someone who looks just like him. Just like him, that is, when he was significantly shorter. And female.
"That's not my name," Adora Belle snapped, turning her head quickly to fix a penetrating stare on the man. He was standing there as if he'd just seen a ghost.
"What are you looking at?" She didn't mean to be so hostile, really, but - okay, maybe she did, but the point was, she was a little more irritable than usual.
"You, uh, look like someone I used to know," says Geoffrey vaguely. He doesn't have to ask her name; it's clear from the moment she opens her mouth that it's at least not the same as his, and right at the moment that's all that matters to him. Because how fucked up would that be? "You all right?"
Ash is roaming the beach, enjoying the sound of the beach. Sounds a bit like the times they've gone to LA for a grift and when he finds a woman looking more than a bit miffed, he slows. "Anything wrong, love?" he asks, infusing his voice with that same Irish brogue he's getting tired of.
"Anything? Everything!" Adora Belle's scowl intensified. If there was anything worse than suffering withdrawal symptoms, it was suffering withdrawal symptoms while everyone else around you kept asking if you were all right and didn't do anything about it. People were so...so...insufferable sometimes.
Then again, it wasn't their fault there wasn't a tobacconist on this damned island.
"My last cigarettes have been..." she drew a breath, to make the statement even more horrifying, if that was possible, "stolen."
Ash slowly draws out one of the fags from the refilled pack he's keeping on his person, which is half-full and then there's the cartons back home. "Here y'are, love," he offers, drawing out his silver lighter at the same time.
It has been a long few weeks. They cleaned the dead leaves out from under the hut, put the finishing touching on the porch, argued about which kind of antagonistic methods elicited the best Stare from Vimes, and then Duo blew himself to near death with the aide of two earth ending robots and was still laid up in the clinic in a daze of half consciousness.
It had been a long week. Now, Moist was headed to the clinic, thinking about the chest back at the hut, a chest that was full of a vast assortment of things. Change...rings...pictures. A badge. It was the sort of things that were normally kept in one's pocket, right up until they were kept in someone else's safe.
This week, in all likelihood, was only going to get longer.
And then he saw Adora Belle.
Right.
"Spike," he said, eyebrows going up, hands in his pockets. "I haven't seen you in -" He blinked and shook his head. He wasn't even sure. "Thank the gods you're all right.*"
*this statement made in face of the current evidence.
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
( ... )
"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.
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He lifted his cigarette to his lips and took a thoughtful drag.
There was a woman pacing on the beach. It was...a little distracting and, being the Good Copper that he was, Ned couldn't help but be distracted.
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As soon as she spotted him, she marched over, hands on hips and expression full of righteous indignation. Then, she seemed to deflate.
"Please tell me you have some more of those." Please! She'd actually said please.
She really needed a cigarette.
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"Ran out of the stuff I had with me," he said, the words coming out flattened and slightly muffled around the cigarette. "Grows here too, though."
It had taken all of his detecting skills but Ned Coates had, indeed, detected it.
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Nicotine had a sort of gravitational pull on Miss Dearheart. Wherever a cloud of smoke could be seen, she would inevitably be in the middle of it.
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"I need a cigarette."
She wasn't drooling. But there was a slightly glazed look in her eyes.
*Only slightly. She was Adora Belle Dearheart, after all.
†Almost. See above.
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"Do you?" He pulled a packet out of his pocket, well beaten by now and handed her one. "Is that better?"
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When she finally let the smoke out, it was with a smile.
"Much. You may call me Adora Belle," she added. A rare honour.
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Geoffrey doesn't mean to stare, but it's hard not to when he spots someone who looks just like him. Just like him, that is, when he was significantly shorter. And female.
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"What are you looking at?" She didn't mean to be so hostile, really, but - okay, maybe she did, but the point was, she was a little more irritable than usual.
That is to say, a lot.
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"Someone stole my cigarettes."
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He'll need to pull the fast one soon.
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Then again, it wasn't their fault there wasn't a tobacconist on this damned island.
"My last cigarettes have been..." she drew a breath, to make the statement even more horrifying, if that was possible, "stolen."
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It had been a long week. Now, Moist was headed to the clinic, thinking about the chest back at the hut, a chest that was full of a vast assortment of things. Change...rings...pictures. A badge. It was the sort of things that were normally kept in one's pocket, right up until they were kept in someone else's safe.
This week, in all likelihood, was only going to get longer.
And then he saw Adora Belle.
Right.
"Spike," he said, eyebrows going up, hands in his pockets. "I haven't seen you in -" He blinked and shook his head. He wasn't even sure. "Thank the gods you're all right.*"
*this statement made in face of the current evidence.
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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 ( ... )
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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.
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