paradisalogs | maybe it's the color of the sun cut flat and coverin' the crossroads I'm standing at

Entry tags:

maybe it's the color of the sun cut flat and coverin' the crossroads I'm standing at

Who: Spike Spiegel (

gottaknockhard) and Anne Boleyn (

ensorceler)
What: When you can't think of a comeback...
When: Late night/between the 30th-31st
Where: Room 613
Rating: PG13

From the sound of things, Paradisa's temporary residents were going through one of their more serious moments; those instances when there's a legitimate urgency to be doing anything but aimlessly roam the halls of the castle in the middle of the night. Spike was well aware of the plans announced over the journal, and it didn't even factor into what was putting a dent in his sleep.

Maybe it made him a bad person for putting his own reality ahead of mysterious voices on the radio. Or he just didn't like the idea of crowds. Spike had no better excuse for what brought him to the room he's standing in front of. Aside from the nagging feeling that he didn't get what he meant to say out the last time he saw her, there wasn't a single reason he should be disturbing whatever sleep she finally managed to find.

Sometimes he wasn't clever enough to think of a mysterious riddle to leave on her doorstep, or to have forethought outside of a whim guided by... whatever it was that pulled him around lately. He simply knocked and waited for her answer.

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In her own case, Anne has actually been sleeping soundly for once. Maybe it brings her some peace of mind to actually see the denizens attempt action once more, or maybe she can't even take the case seriously because children insist on leading the charges... To protect both castle and progress. And still, she had promised Hermione access to her own people, however few they now are. Perhaps she just doesn't want any of them to leave her side, even if she is only kind to one or two. And would she really entertain the possibility of going on the expedition this time? To take orders from someone who led the mafia, which she now knows is just another word for crime syndicate. This she knows well enough. Must everything now still stir up what was once past?

So why did she sleep so deeply? Well, anyone feeling free to investigate her bedchamber beyond the solar would find the cause after little time; the pitcher and scattered goblets are not exactly hidden away, either for lack of shame or simply for never expecting company in her personal chambers at night. Only a handful are so bold, so her mind rolls over the names of who it could possibly be as she forces her sluggish body from the bed and dons a robe to cover her night shift with a chamber robe for modesty's sake that is hardly necessary but still done like a ritual. The one ritual she forgoes is to demand who the vagrant is, because she can only think it must be an emergency if they are to bother her now, especially during such a time.

So she opens the door, but when she sees who it is, though she shouldn't be surprised (as his name was one of the possibilities moments ago), she finds herself to be, the bemusement clearly showing on her face.

Edited 2013-08-31 03:31 (UTC)

When the door opens and isn't immediately slammed again in his face, Spike can't tell if he's encouraged or disappointed that he hadn't stirred her into a frenzy with one simple gesture. There's a possibility she's still waiting for an opportune moment, and if nothing else, that's enough of a reason to use his time wisely.

But as adept as he is at coming up with feasible lies on the spot, the charming line about seeing if she'd be leaving with the rest of the hunting party never comes out. She's heard too many to believe they were anything but the game he was playing from the beginning. On any given day that could have several possible outcomes, and he had a tendency for pushing her to the extreme in any direction without any great difficulty on his part. It could be that this entire venture started when he found their positions reversed in their last encounter, and that left him with something to prove.

He likes to think that this could be that transparent.

As soon as the light hits her eye, he finds himself moving forward, and he leans down to catch her mouth in his before she has another chance to speak.

If she's surprised to see him, then stupefied might be a more fitting description of her reaction to the kiss. He does stupid things, why he does them quite often, but this is a first. Something this intimate uninvited, and more shockingly, in plain sight of any unfortunate soul who might happen upon them in the hallway.

Unfortunate, perhaps, because Anne would have seen to it they would have their tongue and fingers removed, then buried a hundred feet beneath the soil, never to utter secrets to another living soul.

But she doesn't allow the chance, for as soon as Anne's wits return, she jerks back and moves to slap him, though she half expects his hand to halt hers. It does, and of course the gall fills her with a cold anger. The slap had mostly been for show, in any case, but she should be allowed to do so after such rudeness. She has nothing anymore but her false pride and reputation, at least to those who know nothing of England's history, which he should know. Perhaps he might be too drunk to even make sense, but she smelled no alcohol on his breath.

After checking, with great relief, that no peeping eyes had witnessed their interaction, she impatiently grabs hold of his tie, yanking hard to drag him in before shutting the door with care only to not draw any attention. When she speaks, it comes out as a near hiss, her nails clawing at the fabric of the tie as she yanks him back down to her level, as if to kiss him again. While near snarling.

"Have you lost your wits? Or do you wish so terribly to become one head shorter?"

It would show smarter preparation if he remembered to take off his tie before coming to see her. This isn't the first time she's lead him around by it, and as much as he appreciates her assertiveness, she may actually choke him someday.

He doesn't mean to smile. That's one glaring sign that her assumptions are as right as they always are, and he faces that realization like it's something that came to him gradually on his way over. Instead of giving her an immediate explanation, he focuses on something that he can tell from their proximity, and confirms by looking briefly over her shoulder.

"Were you having trouble sleeping?"

It's more like she was having trouble being awake, but Anne plays at glassy eyes and ignorance as if it's the truth, even at such a close range, so devoted is she to remaining uncaring. Of what he thinks, of what he feels, and certainly of what he says.

That doesn't mean she can't dole out punishments, but in this case Anne goes no further in trying to throttle or maybe strangle him, which indeed may happen one day, and most likely not by accident. His ability to rile her up, even now, is a force to be reckoned with. She wonders if he's aware of it; if he's a better player than her, or simply too stupid to notice. Anne prays for the latter, because the former would entail giving him power over her, and that would never happen while she still maintained of her senses. No man would.

So she dismisses his inquiry as something else, lips pursed and eyes squinted like he just asked such a foolish question, one brow quirked to imply her disapproval at his attempt to change topics without her consent. Then she smiles, something now more akin to a cat holding a mouse by it's tail.

"Why do you ask, Master Spiegel?" Reaching the top of his collar and the knot of his tie, she tugs to now loosen it, pulling a button free in the process, and her hiss turns into a murmur. "Did you come here wishing to wear me down into a pleasure-stricken slumber?"

Edited 2013-08-31 05:28 (UTC)

Coming from a queen, that was about as crass as he's heard her speak, and it earns an appropriately provoking smirk when contrasted with the hand taking command of his collar. She's not messy though, which shows she's had just enough alcohol to keep her wit sharp and biting and without any need to hold back. A perfect combination, really, to put him in a more uncertain position than he'll allow to show on his face. He could solve that problem, but as much as drinking her under the table isn't something he's technically been above in the past, before he would have given her a fighting chance.

None of which gets at the heart of why he suddenly decided to take the opportunity to interrupt her peaceful evening. Whatever is on his mind, he's holding it in as long as the game allows.

"You're the one who insisted on conversation. I just wanted to get inside."

And her hands drop away cold, as cold as her gaze while she observes him, though her smile doesn't go away. There was nothing he could say anyway, damning himself as soon as he interrupted her sleep without her former invitation...for no real excuse at all that he has yet to give. He is to entertain such carnal attempts at her command, not the other way around.

"Within my solar you have entered, and so your reward is my welcome, but my bedchamber you will not tread."

Head tilting, as if stretching out the last bits of sleep, she turns away to head towards where a tray of snacks (tarts, meat pies, and lots of bread) from earlier remain. She pulls a ribbon from her sleeve before seeking actual food, so that she might deftly braid her hair away from her face, pulling it over her shoulder to finish and tie it off.

Ignoring him. He can do whatever.

The impact of his actions aren't felt until she pulls away and there's only the ghost of her touch remaining around his neck. Anne could teach even him on the art of composure after this display; not that he could blame her for it. What some people may translate as innocent spontaneity took a much more disturbing tone when held against their history, and it's only worse that he revisits the scenario by default when his restless nature starts acting up. Which must be why.

For a moment he'd felt her pulse escalate before her walls were back in place, and that may have been all he was after. He circles around though, lingering in good humor, giving her space as he approaches from her side.

"I've been having the same problem," he starts when it's clear that she has no inclination to say anything more to him. His attitude shifts when he starts, like he's only now becoming aware that he's awake. "The usual fix doesn't seem to be working."

"I was sleeping quite well before your interruption."

She didn't ask, and she doesn't care if he can't sleep. Good, he deserves to have sleepless nights, at least until he can be useful. The more and more she repeats this sort of thought, the easier it is to believe. Maybe that's all that happened to Henry.

The wine helps, too, which she helps herself to another glass of while nibbling on a small piece of cheese, continuing to ignore where he's at. If he's trying to get a reaction out of her...

"Are you also attending the upcoming progress, then? This is not how you say farewell."

His eyes linger on the glass, only paying attention to her question in retrospect. For practically forcing himself into her room, she's putting on every effort she can to seem uninterested. It's out of respect for her skill that he doesn't take the initiative to grab her attention that way again.

"I was afraid if I left, you'd have taken over the place before I got back." Smiling, if she catches it, as a way of downplaying his initially obvious intentions. A little humor goes a long way.

She chews longer than needed on that bite as if ignoring him, but her shoulders seem to slack a bit at his words. Relief, though she'd deny it to herself. Surely she had thought all in her employ, in her sights, were leaving. Little wonder she isn't running after them, really, but that is not what she does.

"Cair Paradisa would be better for it."

"Maybe. But it might be harder to get an audience with you." Not to mention all of the men he's bumped into who took offense at his methods already, and who are probably looking for an excuse to cut him down. He's not terribly opposed to the idea.

"I'm surprised you don't have anyone else watching your door already." He knows there are those who would gladly do it if she brought some concerns to light. Which more or less means she hasn't.

Really, Spike, you want to get in some brawls over her? Well, it might be fun to watch if nothing else. She'd need a good supply of wine and snacks... Clearly the victor would be her favorite.

"Clearly I ought to hire a proper usher, if I am to get any peace and quiet." Such a lie, really. She doesn't have that many people coming to her door period, but that could be her own fault as much as theirs. She doesn't know quite how to share her pain except in the worst and most roundabout ways.

Turning, she faces him, the goblet held between them as if some kind of barrier. Wine stains are the worst...

"But none here would see my interests above their own, or even near. Should I be assassinated, what is there to mourn, for I would not truly die. No, I think not to humor their sweet little fancies; their giggles and bows when they meet me like I'm a figure from a story, only to move on to the next bit of pennache like a gaggle of simpering fools attempting to play at courtier."

He almost did already. Twice, if they were counting the incident in the clinic. If he had gone through with them, he'd probably be sleeping better than he is now.

"I don't think it's ever easy to take a kingdom. You can see what the castle has to resort to." Encouraging as he ever was, even if he shouldn't be. Like he even knows what he's talking about -- but there was a time when some misguided old men thought he had what it took to lead, and that at least gives him the ability to fake his way through a conversation. "I only know one assassin here, anyway."

She seems to pay no heed to whatever he's blathering about, moving as if to turn away again until the last mention of an assassin, which draws her attention right back.

"Who?"

As much as the guy advertises the fact, Spike isn't sure for a moment if she doesn't already know. But it's easy enough to shrug when that becomes less of a possibility.

"I was joking. My connections don't reach that far."

Anne scoffs, turning back to her goblet like it's her only friend as she goes to walk away again. She needs to sit, she's still half-asleep. It makes her have to work five times harder not to look half asleep (and drunk).

"Do not waste my time with words that have no meaning, then."

If he's going to be a criminal, he could at least have access to other sleazy types. Wouldn't that be useful? She really does miss Micheletto sometimes; she's positive he would do her bidding for such things if he had the free time.

It's telling that he hasn't touched the food, or the drink that she seems occupied with. He's focused on her reaction, like something he just happened to stumble over.

"Is there someone you've got your eye on?"

"What if I did? You have no connections, as you have so plainly made clear."

She all but collapses in her "throne" in as much a dignified manner as possible, not giving him leave to sit, but she won't really complain if he does. As much as she harasses him for, he is permitted quite a few leniencies. That may just be Paradisa wearing at her, though.

Edited 2013-09-03 02:13 (UTC)

He smiles, still standing, and hearing that repeated back to him. For once he appreciates not being grilled on any possible lie that he forms to protect her from what little she hasn't learned.

"You never know what might change."

There's a chortle, somewhat muffled underneath a hand, and her leg kicks anxiously from where it's crossed, sending the skirt of her shift and robe in a mild flurry each time. Like someone too amused to sit still, or just more drunk, as usual, there's that.

She doesn't feel the need to explain her laughter, and so she doesn't; he sure never explains anything of use. But hadn't he just been saying that nothing really changes? And she had retorted just the opposite. Maybe his memory is daft. Maybe he's too blind to see what has changed; with them alone, and with them together. With the world, with God, with beasts and flame.

With the large, empty void that always seems to exist at her side where her beloved family once was.

"What..." She spaces the word out, staring at him over her glass like he might actually have something useful to say for once, even if her gaze is narrowed. "...has changed?"

It's a rare woman who would laugh at the prospect of someone killing for her.

Now that he's said it, her sudden amusement and curiosity stops him from back-peddling on the contradicting comment. Even half-drunk and half-asleep, she catches the slip instantly, so any cover up would likely be spotted anyway.

"I'm out of work, for one." Which isn't why he came by her room, not by a long shot, and that much accounts for the sigh that he releases as he finds something to lean against. "Again, actually. I wonder if that counts."

"Your own doing," she responds sharply, setting the wine aside and just watching him. "Do you think because you did not part with the others that I suddenly wish you once more in my employ? In that regard, I see how little has changed."

"Did they really all leave?" One or two of them are keeping pretty close tabs on her, the last he checked. And yet he can't bring himself to do more than idly speculate on them and their convenient absence.

Her lips purse out, her classic sign of irritation, but in this sense it's far more of something threatening to become a pout, only her pride restraining it. It's a blessing then that it's so dark, as she has no candles lit and no fire in the hearth, because her eyes wouldn't do so nearly a good job at shielding her feeling of neglect.

After learning that all in England, nay all of Europe, had turned on her save for her daughter, is it really any wonder?

"Of Emma and her loyal hound, I know nothing of what they do, but I did not see them at the farewell." The last time she spoke to "Emma" was in Tokyo. "All others I know have gone."

Edited 2013-09-05 18:12 (UTC)

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