![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dianeduane
“So the Lone Power, the Michael Power and the Hesper walk into a bar…”
“Wait. No. Why would they even do that?”
“What, go into a bar?”
“No, walk into one.”
“Yeah, they’d just sort of appear, wouldn’t they? — ”
…Also lying around are five or six bored-looking komodo dragons, sprawled in the sun or hunched up in the shade of various boulders and gazing longingly about them at apparently unprotected creatures that they consider might be nice as prey. But the apparent lack of protection (as one or two of the dragons have discovered over the course of the afternoon) is deceptive. Now they sit about looking vaguely cranky at being disrespected, as no one’s paying them any attention any more.
This would be because the dragons have had their chance for the day with the one person here who is really interested in them. This is someone who looks very much like a dinosaur of the low-slung, heavy saurian type, and she’s finally finished having her regularly-scheduled temper tantrum over the stupid, stupid creatures who can’t see the advantages of being moved wholesale to another really lovely planet where all kinds of sentient beings who give a damn are just waiting to dance attendance on them twenty-six hours a day, the dimwitted, infuriating little—
“Ahem. Mamvish?”
“Yeah, Mamvish?”
“Projecting again!”
“Sorry. Sorry…”
The Species Archivist to the Powers that Be produces a big long resigned hissing sigh, lashes her tail a bit, and then goes back to lying flopped over on her side, her skin flushing gently rosy-colored in the sun and stirring just under the surface with various long leisurely sentences in the Speech. Held lovingly between her frontmost set of foreclaws is a wooden crate full of heirloom red-and-white-striped tomatoes. She lowers her head and just rests her chin on the crate for the moment, eyes swiveling down to look at it happily. Strewn around her are the shredded remnants of two previous crates: any of the wood that earlier was in close enough contact with the tomatoes to get any juice on it has gone where the tomatoes went. The Archivist comes a long way across the Galaxy for this particular treat, and she doesn’t like to waste.
About halfway down Mamvish’s body, with her legs stretched out in front of her in the sun, Carmela is lying with her back leaned up against Mamvish’s side. She’s got on a big straw hat and a hot pink bikini and a long sarong-like wrap in a bright faux-Polynesian print, and she’s feeling around her to find where she put the suntan oil. She looks over at the big shining head on the tomato crate, tilting her head back to see Mamvish’s expression from under the straw hat. “Don’t tell me you’re full already!”
Mamvish just laughs. “Getting my second wind.”
Meanwhile, off to one side, a number of beach towels are arranged in a flattish spot by a large boulder that gives at least a little temporary shelter from the near-equatorial sun. Near the towels are a couple of plastic coolers: one with a forcefield around it to keep the sun from melting the ice, another smaller one that presently has its lid off. One tall gangly dark-haired figure in black Speedos is leaning with his back against the boulder and another smaller towel rolled up as a pad for his neck, and he’s got one long arm in the non-forcefielded cooler as he feels around, looking for something.
To one side of him, on a beach towel, lies a shorter, darker form in long urban-camo bathing trunks, with an empty towel next to him in the direction of the water. To his other side, on a similar towel, lies a still shorter, still darker shape in blue trunks and a lighter blue tank top. The taller of these two figures is leaning on his forearms and the smaller one is propped up on one elbow, and both are regarding the tallest of them with genial skepticism.
“And wait a minute, like there’s some special bar for the Powers that Be?”
“We don’t even know if the Hesper drinks.”
Ronan snickers amid the others’ laughter. “Well, I’m here to tell you, the Defender does. Likes his pint, that one.”
Incredulous glances are exchanged. “Are you telling us you’ve been sneaking him into bars?!”
“You’re a bad influence.”
“Are you even drinking age in Ireland?”
“Excuse me, ye tiny ill-informed gits, I am a European. There are places I can go have a pint on my continent and be perfectly legal, thank you very much!” And Ronan rolls his eyes, but since this is something he seems to do about every two minutes, no one pays him much mind.
Nita comes up out of the blue water at this point, pushing her hair back out of her eyes and wringing it dry as best she can when it’s at this length. She has on a white two-piece bathing suit that shouldn’t have the power to make Kit stare at it as much as he has been. Probably it’s something to do with the way the white looks against that tan. When she manages to keep from burning she really— Kit promptly derails that whole line of thought as she gets closer; looks away from the white two-piece, concentrates on looking at the water as Nita sits down on the towel beside him. “How is it?”
“Nice. Really, really warm. But not too warm, which is good. There’s no point in it if it feels like being in the tub.”
Nita briefly regards her legs (Kit does too, for absolutely no longer than ought to seem normal), judging how much sun she’s picked up today. Then she turns over and flops down on her stomach, puts her head down on her folded arms (Kit regards this view also for exactly one breath’s time before becoming officially disinterested). Nita closes her eyes, breathes out a long long breath.
Kit turns his head and returns his attention (theoretically) to the ongoing discussion of the Powers that Be and Their putative preferences in recreational alcohol. “Are there even bars in Timeheart?” he says.
“Okay, ask me if I care. It can be a bar on some planet.” Then, still feeling around in the cooler and coming up with a small oblong sealed in plastic wrap, Ronan makes a disgusted noise. “Did you eat the last ham sandwich?”
Kit shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Darryl?”
“Uh. Maybe.”
“Maybe? If you don’t know, who else do we ask?”
“Me,” says Darryl’s voice from somewhere on the beach side of the boulder.
“Oh, that you.”
“Yeah,” says the same voice as he flops over on the towel beside himself, “guilty. Sorry.”
“You’re not sorry.”
“Yes I am.”
“No I’m not. It kinda had too much mustard on it.”
“Is this usual? Getting two different opinions out of two of you?”
“You can get two opinions out of one of me if you’ll shut up for two seconds.”
“Oooh, sassy.”
“Dammit, I wanted that sandwich!”
“Move faster in future.”
“Try the chicken ones. They’re nice.”
“Bollocks. I don’t see you eating them.”
“Why should I be greedy?”
“The ham was nice.”
Kit laughs down his nose at the spectacle of Ronan being outnumbered by just one other person and puts his own head down on his forearms, closing his eyes and paying this new discussion no mind, as it shows no sign of breaking the overall contentment. The sun’s nice, no one’s on assignment, the company’s good. Lazy times like this are way too few, he thinks.
…Though it’s not like you’d ever stop being a wizard just for peace and quiet. There’d be way too much to miss. Kit thinks in passing of the deep ocean off Long Island, of the far side of the Moon: difficult, painful times, but (now that they’re well over with) not to be missed. He thinks of other planes and universes, of the insides of other people’s heads: dangerous places usually, scary places sometimes. But without them, I wouldn’t be me, now. Or this me. He thinks of the sands of Mars: but right now, especially because of the company, these are better.
Over the next few minutes Ronan and Darryl (both of him) stop their bickering and settle into a bout of some strange French card game featuring road signs and speed limits and flat tires. Carmela is reapplying suntan lotion for the third time in an hour. Extremely noisy crunching sounds start coming from the far side of the boulder. A number of komodo dragons, startled, begin heading at speed for the treeline. “Idiots,” Mamvish says under her breath, while her eyes whirl gently in opposite directions, and her blunt-pebbled pelt goes red-and-white-striped.
Minutes go by. A breeze blows. Hidden away up on the wooded hillside above the beach, one of the local wild deer grunts, grunts again: a mating call. Some seabirds soar over, making high plaintive squeaking noises like hinges that need to be oiled. One hand of the card game finishes (to hoots of triumph from Ronan, who’s better at it due to long practice), and one or the other of Darryl takes the deck away from him and starts shuffling.
“…Okay then, you pillocks, try it this way. So the Lone Power, the Defender and the Hesper walk into a restaurant…”
“Oh, come on, what kind of joke starts with you walking into a restaurant?!”
“You come up with something better. I’ll wait.”
Kit sighs, grins, turns his head toward Nita, whose face is turned toward him. “You think maybe,” he says, “that every now and then, accidentally, the Lone One goes off shift for a while and life gets perfect?”
A long pause. “Could be,” Nita says.
She doesn’t open her eyes. But she smiles: and Kit closes his eyes too, knowing why.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-12-07 03:31 pm (UTC)My friends banned me from this particular game after I accused one of them of "playing the race card".
no subject
Date: 2012-12-07 03:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-07 07:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-12-16 08:27 am (UTC)