(Untitled)
Galadan, as it happens, is not much in the habit of staying in Milliways for long periods of time, particularly not in his human shape.
The situation being what it is, however, he has made very little protest about being escorted to one of said bar's rooms.
Give it a few days, mayhap.
The situation being what it is, however, he has made very little protest about being escorted to one of said bar's rooms.
Give it a few days, mayhap.
But eventually, around mid-morning, she slips back upstairs, and heads for Galadan's room instead of Duo's. She doesn't knock, let alone let herself in.
She just waits outside. Either Galadan's asleep, or he's not; if he's awake, the door is irrelevant, and if he's asleep she'll leave him to it.
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Galadan's voice is pitched just loud enough to make it through the door.
The chances that he does not feel up to moving much are quite, quite high.
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"Breakfast," she says to the wall, "is an optional side agenda."
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There's a wry twist to his words, both in his mouth and in his mind.
There may also be a request for River to bring her own key when she returns -- provided she has enough hands, of course.
Perhaps tomorrow he will be more inclined to get breakfast under his own momentum.
An andain can hope.
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It's a few minutes before she returns. When she does, she has a key in one hand, and a bag in the other. (It's got plates, silverware, and sturdy flat-bottomed takeout containers. Bar knows River.)
Again, she doesn't bother to knock or speak up, but this time she lets herself in.
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This would not be an incorrect impression.
The fact that he licks his lips as she enters, gaze flicking to the bag in her hand, has nothing at all to do with a sudden, sharp pang of hunger.
It has still less to do with the empty water glass resting on the table next to the bed.
And there's this bridge . . .
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And the fact that River passes him the larger container -- and its raw venison -- before she sets the rest of the bag down is also PURE COINCIDENCE.
The bag also has another glass in it, and she snags the other off the table as she goes. Water for all!
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It's not that Galadan lacks a knife -- nor even a fork, plastic though it may be. It is merely that raw meat is raw meat, and there will be some amount of blood.
Paper napkins will not cut it.
Alas.
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There are worse aims. (And River is fresh out of handkerchiefs.)
Having fetched everything -- in a couple of trips, because River has to take care when carrying things that aren't weaponry or very hard to damage -- she settles down crosslegged on the bed, tucking bare feet beneath her, and bends over to fetch her fruit salad.
mmmm, kiwi. Galadan can keep the bloody venison.
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As for the Wolflord, once he has made his way through most of the meat, he wipes off his fingertips, cleans off his knife, and pushes his plate away.
He'll wait for River to finish her own meal before speaking.
Out loud, at least.
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They're apparently interesting. If you're River.
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His brows are lifted in an expression of polite interest.
Just in case anyone should be observing.
"And Mary, too, of course."
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"Everybody's shiny."
"She had soup. It's a precursor to sleep."
And now that it's morning, Mary has a bar full of opportunities to acquire food, hang out with friends, and ignore human beings in favor of her greenhouse.
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And if one corner of his mouth should tilt ever-so-faintly upward --
What of it?
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Yes.
That.
That's why she looks satisfied, no doubt.
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There is not much point in it, really.
It's not like River doesn't already know.
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