[Closed] Do You Hold a Heavy Heart

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Chrysanthe tried, at first, to keep a still, stern-set face.

“So there I was,” Charlie went on – it was impossible to think of him as Ewing, somehow, in the midst of the story, “wandering through the bar, bare-arsed with only a pillow to maintain my dignity – ”

Chrysanthe coughed. She covered her hand with her mouth, the only one still holding the cigarette a bit away; her eyes watered, and she did her level best not to smile, and failed entirely.

“Not,” Charlie had continued, somehow slightly louder, his smile creeping wider, edging towards a smirk, “that I am generally overshy in such matters,” he took another drag of his cigarette, “but,” he shrugged his shoulders lightly, spreading his hands wide, “I didn’t want to make the other gentlemen too jealous! So, the bartender, he turns to me –”

Chrysanthe snorted, very softly, into her hand. She was encouraging him now; she was quite aware of it. The closer she came to laughing aloud, the worse and more depraved the story got. It sounded rather like something out of a novel – or – perhaps another sort of story. She knew she ought to be taking a much sterner tone with him.

“You,” Chrysanthe said, quite cheerfully, “are utterly depraved.” She studied Ewing, looking him up and down, and contemplating notions of size. “The whole name? Or just Charlie?” She asked. Chrysanthe took the last drag on her cigarette, dropped it and ground it out with the heel of her boot.

The Ugly Duckling was an odd looking place, and Chrysanthe had very little in the way of hopes of it maturing into a swan. She followed Charlie inside nonetheless, glancing around. It had been cold outside – not so cold as Vienda this time of year, Chrysanthe supposed thanks to the sea air, but the wind still bit in rather firmly.

Inside it was warm, and smelled more than faintly of sweat and stale beer; discordant notes of a song Chrysanthe didn’t recognize filled in whatever gaps the hum of conversation left. It was comfortable, busy, and not in the least well-lit. Chrysanthe smiled back, perhaps equally uncertain, at the bartender. She shrugged her coat off, folding it over her arm. The brown silk felt more than a little out of place at such a bar, but then – for all her unusual height, Chrysanthe knew there was little chance at all of anyone mistaking her for anything but a galdor.

It had happened at the factory, once or twice, from a distance and behind. One look at her features would do it; so, of course, would coming near enough to feel her field.

It was the second time Charlie had called her a friend, Chrysanthe noticed. She found it odd and almost intrusive; both times, he’d done it such that to object would be entirely inappropriate. She didn’t think he meant it, in any case, and there was at least a part of her which wished he’d stop.

“Charming,” Chrysanthe said. It could have been arch and sarcastic; it wasn't. Her tone was warm as she glanced around, and there was a little smile on her face. She glanced back at Charlie, and the smile didn’t fade. She felt the oddest desire to thank him.

“Could I get a beer, please, Ms. Alice?” Chrysanthe smiled across the bar, her tone polite and even.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Evening
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

If Ms. Palmifer considered her declaration of his depravity an insult, she had gotten a very strange impression of him. Charlie didn't think she had meant him to take it as such, somehow. Possibly all the not-quite-laughing she tried to hide as he told the story to begin with. As if anyone could resist natural charm for long! Really it was to her credit that she had somehow done so thus far in their relationship.

He had wondered what she'd make of the Ugly Duckling. It was very different from the Kaleidoscope, as promised--different too from many places in the Stacks. Possibly there were places more like it in the Dives. He considered this possibility, as he had not spent much time there in his youth. Then dismissed it; the Duckling was a singularly Old Rose sort of place.

The expectation on his face transformed into satisfaction as she pronounced it "charming". "That it is! You see, I thought you'd like it." He was positively puffed up with his own pleasure. Because it was always delightful to have one's instincts confirmed. Not at all because he was pleased to see Ms. Palmifer smile, or that he had felt a little guilty still for ruining her evening before now. Even if he had, it didn't matter any more. This was going to be a much better one than she'd had planned.

"Make that two, Alice!" Charlie gestured that Ms. Palmifer should take the seat next to him at the bar. There wasn't much choice, other than to continue to stand. She was welcome to do that, of course, if she was feeling masochistic. The bar stools struck him as a better option. Despite the fact that none of them quite matched and a few seemed as if they had been painted over perhaps a few times too many to be chalked up to a change in interior decor.

"You aren't gettin' nothin' from me, not until you pay yer damn tab, Ewing. Y'ent no down-on-your-luck sailor, now pay up." Alice waved the towel she used to wipe the bar menacingly at him. "But your... friend, she can have one. What's your preference? The Duckling may not look like much, but we've got a selection." Alice jerked a finger at a display of glass bottles behind her, her stern face turning to a more business-like smile when she turned away from Charlie.

Charlie made a face at her as she turned to get Ms. Palmifer's order, but did obligingly pull out his wallet. He had meant to pay off his tab, really he had. Just maybe not tonight. Oh well--it was a small sacrifice to make in the name of being right about bringing Ms. Palmifer. He slapped the money down on the bar, and then grinned as Alice returned with two beers even before she'd seen it.

"Why Alice, you do care." The older woman rolled her eyes. Her mouth opened as if to dispute his claim, but she was called away by another patron. Charlie turned back to Ms. Palmifer, leaning against the bar. "Now, what was I--oh! The name. We went with just 'Charlie'. 'Charlton A--'... 'Ewing' didn't fit quite as well." Well, shit. That had been awfully close, hadn't it? Charlie didn't let his smug grin falter, but he was a little off-kilter. He hadn't quite been used to the change of names, at the time.

"I'm afraid I can't show you, although I'm sure you'd love to see. Maybe after a few more of these." Charlie waved his beer and had a little more of it, eager to maintain that pleasant buzz he'd worked up at the Kaleidoscope.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Clever fellow, please,” Chrysanthe said, looking up at the familiar bottle of ale on the shelves. It was already a night for nostalgia, however unwittingly; she supposed she might as well lean in.

Chrysanthe had not, as a general rule, gone very often to the bars in the Stacks. But not very often was not the same as never, and she remembered the nutty flavor of the red ale fondly enough; the taste was mixed with the memory of bright laughter and crowded fields, the reek of sweaty uniform wool and the rush that had come with it all. Usually, by the end of the night, it had petered out for her.

Chrysanthe hadn’t understood the other side of it more than intellectually for many years, but she could think easily, now, of drinking hot dirty chan in a spore-lit cavern in Qrieth, fingertips lingering on her forearm, and sending tingles racing through her arm and down her spine in a rather anatomically unlikely way.

Chrysanthe laughed at Charlie, even though she knew better. “I don’t know that Alice would appreciate that,” she said, taking a sip of the beer. It was pleasant; frankly, it suited her better than the gin fizz, however top shelf the liquor had been.

She took another sip of the beer, settling it down on the bar. In truth, she wasn’t entirely sure what she could possibly discuss with Charlie – Charlton! Good lady – Ewing. He’d busied them both on the trip over with the anecdote about his tattoo; in truth, it was a slightly sad story, but she didn’t suppose he knew that, and he’d told it to make her laugh, she was fairly sure – or, at least, to make himself laugh.

“I didn’t tell you,” Chrysanthe said, slowly, “why I’m really here in the Rose.” She glanced up at Charlie, eyes searching his face for a moment. She didn’t expect sympathy – she didn’t clocking want sympathy. It was his very lack of sympathy that made her want to tell him, in truth; in the factory, late, oddly alone, it should have felt far too vulnerable. She had, in fact, felt far too vulnerable. Now, surrounded by the boisterous crowd of the Ugly Ducking, Charlie still with a bright smile on his face, Chrysanthe felt comfortable and easy.

“The Pargeters have a son,” Chrysanthe said. “In fact they have several, but one – Howard – Howie,” Chrysanthe grimaced and took another sip of her beer, “is an utter buffoon, scarcely capable of the most basic tasks of his job, and rather unpleasantly interested in me,” she titled the beer from side to side, watching the liquid slide back and forth through it.

“He has been we first met, in fact,” Chrysanthe grimaced again. “I didn’t think it more than an annoyance – he’s not exactly the first, and I… knew not to be alone with him, not to…” she paused, and left it there. “I was working late one night – he never works late – last week,” Chrysanthe went on. “There he was.”

“He seemed to think I should be unable to resist his charms,” Chrysanthe said wryly; she took another sip of her beer. “I resisted them rather firmly, with my knee in a – ah – tender region of his.” She set the bottle back down, more firmly; she grinned. “He cried,” Chrysanthe said, not unproudly.

“I thought they’d fire me,” Chrysanthe said. “Instead I’m here,” she took another sip of beer, and glanced over at Ewing; she shrugged.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Evening
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Charlie hadn't had a Clever Fellow since he was a student. He almost regretted blithely going along with whatever Ms. Palmifer ordered, although it had seemed like a fun enough idea when he'd done it. Add a little mystery into the evening, you know? At any rate, Charlie had already done it and he wasn't going to let the ale go to waste. He liked it well enough, he supposed--it just tasted like nostalgia. A toxic emotion, nostalgia.

Ms. Palmifer hadn't sat down, which somehow didn't surprise him. She was, after all, a masochistic sort. Her hair proved that well enough. He snorted a laugh into his beer. No, Alice would most assuredly not like that. He'd tried that trick before, so he knew that for a certainty. Everyone else had a good time at least, as far as he knew. And Alice still let him through the door, so she couldn't have minded as much as all that. Probably.

"Oh? Is there a secret glass engineering-related mission that you're here for?" Charlie's eyebrows took their habitual place somewhere in his hairline, and he looked down at Ms. Palmifer. That was distinctly odd; Charlie was not a tall man, and accordingly not used to looking down at anyone at all over the age of eleven. As it was, even seated on the bar stool he didn't have much down to look. Ms. Palmifer searched his face, although he couldn't imagine what she was looking for.

Charlie maintained a polite attention as Ms. Palmifer told him how she came to be in the Rose. It was a distressingly dull tale that he had heard many times before--the details were changed, of course, but the broad strokes were familiar. He had not had a female friend in quite a while, but he had before, and a few had felt he was an appropriate outlet for this sort of story. They were mostly disappointed, as he had very little to say.

He did, however, laugh loud and bright when she mentioned making contact with her knee to what Charlie could only assume was the poor idiot's groin. He kept laughing when she said he cried. Charlie would not have argued that he was much for women's equality or whatever it was that Ms. Palmifer undoubtedly had pamphlets about in her room, but it did rather sound like fellow deserved it. There were lines one did not cross, regardless of any other circumstances.

"Good for you." He raised his beer in her direction and his grin did not fade. "And see, now you have met me--a blessing not everyone is afforded, I'm sorry to say." A silver lining to her tale of mundane woe, really. Without Harold or Harmon or whatever the prick's name was, they wouldn't be here in the Duckling enjoying rather unique ambiance. Or this terribly off-key crooning coming from the band, which may have transitioned to original material--it was actually quite hard to tell, given that it was all garbled and terrible regardless.

Charlie glanced to the clock on the wall; it was fairly early in the night, still. At least by his own standards. "We're a bit early for the dancing," he said a little regretfully. "Which is terrible, I should say, but it's great fun anyway. Another hour or so and I don't doubt it will have picked up."

What did one talk about, to women of breeding? This wasn't like Brunnhold where he could just fall back to discussing classes or the Stacks or some other common area of experience. Not that he wanted to, in particular, but while he was very funny and fascinating... He wasn't quite sure what to bring up. Somehow he didn't think lurid stories of the various young (and not so young) men he encountered on the regular were in Ms. Palmifer's sphere of interest. Neither did he want to talk about work, which he enjoyed but was tired of. His conversations didn't usually last this long. He caught the eye of a few people he knew, from this bar and others, here and there. They waved and smiled, he inclined his head towards Ms. Palmifer and they mostly got the picture and did not approach.

"So... Novels, then? Is everything you read so terribly grim, or was the one you told me about an exception?" Fucking Alioe--he really was out of ideas. He'd asked her about novels. This was deplorable, and clearly a sign he needed to get out more. Perhaps in more venues where he kept his shirt on the whole time.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Charlie laughed, and then kept laughing when Chrysanthe mentioned tears. Chrysanthe didn’t laugh, but there was a grin on her face and it lasted, lingering.

He raised his beer in her direction. Chrsyanthe pursed her lips, and tilted the neck of hers lightly towards him, not making a particular effort to meet them together, before setting it back down on the bar. He went on; she sat on the stool next to him, straight backed, one booted foot resting against the edge of the bar below. He had been a bit taller when he was the only one seated, but she was above him once again now.

She thought perhaps she should have been disappointed; she was not. She couldn’t think of the last time she had said such things aloud; there was something funny about Charlie, in that way. He put on such a clearly shameless front; it made Chrysanthe feel, oddly, as if she could be too. She knew it for nonsense; a woman could never manage such a thing.

She knew the sorts of things people often said: how could you let yourself be alone with him? You ought to have been more careful; good lady, Chrysanthe, he might have-! Advice, even; men like it when you smile at them.

Or worse, sometimes, their own anger on her behalf, brighter and hotter than her own, as if she was not furious enough, as if whatever her feelings were were insufficient. Worst of all, perhaps, shallow commiseration: oh how awful; I simply couldn’t bear it, if a man did such things! Oh how terrible, you poor fragile woman.

“Dancing?” Chrysanthe glanced back over at her shoulder; she couldn’t quite imagine what sort of dancing one did to this music, if it could still be considered music. But it was bright, she thought, and sort of cheerful, for all it raucousness - she smiled slightly at the thought.

“Not all,” Chrysanthe laughed, caught off guard by the mention of Francoschietto. She was not entirely sure he had disliked it as much as he had claimed. Life is grim, she wanted to say; Marianne Coquillon simply wrote it down, and in an admittedly fantastical way. The monster that lurks within, if we are not put together quite right; the specter of being apart, whatever the reason; the ghosts of our past which lurk behind, and devastate the present.“Francoschietto is really rather underrated. But no - I read more sentimental drivel as well.”

“Please,” Chrysanthe said, in response to the snort written across Ewing’s face and emerging gently from his nostrils, “as if there has never a book which has spoken to you?” She raised her eyebrows in challenge, and took another sip of her beer.

Strange, but other than sort of tolerating the light brush of her caprise, he has made really no effort. His field was very weak, scattered; like the washing off of sparks from a crackling lot, rather than the heat of the fire itself. She didn’t make another attempt to mingle their fields, though it was almost harder to hold them apart, seated so.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Evening
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Charlie pouted when Ms. Palmifer took her seat next to him, even though he'd indicated she should. He had a bit liked feeling taller than her. He was overall comfortable with his height; he wasn't one of those men who had any great complex about it or anything. But it was fun to feel tall for a bit.

The question about novels hadn't been intended to make her laugh, but Charlie didn't mind. It was just the first thing he thought of. He did know very little about Ms. Palmifer, after all. He knew that she could be quite arch when she chose, and that she struck him as a headstrong sort of person. And that she was fun to tease, determined as she was to not take him seriously. Which was exactly how he should be taken.

"Absolutely not. Novels are really more my little sister's area of expertise." At least, Charlie imagined so. He didn't actually know. They hadn't been close in some time. It was possible that she didn't read for pleasure at all. She was certainly studious enough that it seemed likely, but he found he couldn't imagine just what it was she would enjoy. Charlie tried to picture Laureline reading a romance, or perhaps a comedy; his imagination failed him even at picturing her at all in her present state. She was going to graduate this year, he realized, and it was a strange sort of thing to not have really known until this moment.

"I did like adventure stories, as a boy. Dashing airship captains doing battle against pirates, adventures on the high seas, all of that rot." Charlie shrugged his slender shoulders. Young Charlton had particularly liked the stories that went to great lengths to describe the airships themselves--the engines and the spells to keep them aloft, that sort of thing.

Before he'd started school, he had somewhat fancied himself a pilot. Obviously things had not quite gone that direction. Magical aptitude was something of a requirement, to actually fly. Charlie wasn't unhappy that path was closed to him, but it did rankle a little that it hadn't been his decision. Such things were decided on the whim of things he could neither see nor touch. Overall, he thought he was much happier as a mechanic.

Certainly having no field to speak of made it easier for him to not reach out and brush it up against Ms. Palmifer's. And it made it easier to slide into places like this, where galdori weren't common or especially welcome all of the time. Folks in the Rose seemed to find it easy enough to forget what he was, even though he rather thought it was stamped all across his features. Which was acceptable. They didn't need to know he was innately superior for it to be true.

"But who needs that, when I have all of this?" Charlie cocked his head and swept his arm out to encompass all of the Duckling. The terrible band was still playing, and people were laughing and drinking. In one corner they seemed to be fighting, but it was the quiet and tense kind of argument--unlikely, at least at this point, to come to blows. Alice didn't greatly tolerate fights in her bar, and for the most part her patrons were happy to comply. There was still a great hulking plowfoot in a corner, keeping watchful eye. This was still a bar, and it was still the Rose after all.

Ms. Palmifer might well be trying to be polite, or possibly even pitying, Charlie realized. The way she held her field apart, even though they were so close together. True that he didn't reach out himself, but it pricked at his pride that she felt the need to put forth that effort.

"You don't have to do that, by the way," he commented idly. He didn't specify what "that" was; she would either work it out or she wouldn't. Either way his pride felt soothed by having said it. It was not affected at all by his refusal to look at her when he said it; he was simply fascinated by a couple in the middle of the room who seemed determined to be more shameless even than he was. That was all.

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Charlie said no rather quickly and fiercely, putting novels on his sister instead. Chrysanthe raised her eyebrows at him, skeptical. One book, she wanted to say; one story. Maybe not now – plenty of adults left novels and the like behind with school, as if having been forced to read them meant one could never again do it for fun – but once, surely, there must have been one. If such a question could be asked with eyebrows, she did so.

Ewing yielded, after a moment. Chrysanthe shrugged lightly, taking another sip of her beer. It was going rather quickly, she was startled to realized; she’d barely sipped at the gin fizz for the entirety of their conversation, but the Clever Fellow was half gone already, and the second half seemed glad to go the way of the first.

“I know the sort you mean, I think,” Chrysanthe said, idly. “Young man stows away on a ship with sails or gasbags, fresh out of school – or else having run away – finds a gruff mentor with a heart of gold – heir to some sort of fortune, whether by birth or circumstance. Lots of battle, drama, some sort of a well-placed storm, perhaps a beautiful but mysterious woman, if he’s of a suitable age; if not, perhaps a miraan or a banderwolf, or something else geographically suitable.”

All of that rot, Charlie had said. She couldn’t find it in herself to disagree. There had been plenty of those books in the Reedlyn house, when she was young; old, mostly, with the faint smell of vanilla and grass to them. She had devoured them along with the rest; she had read indiscriminately, at that age, uncaring what governesses said was appropriate or suitable for a young lady. She had rather preferred them to the novels about young women, all of whom seemed to want only to be seen by the right man at a party in Vienda or Florne or Thul Ka. Adventures of the body had appealed to her more than adventures of the heart, then.

Chrysanthe followed the sweep of his arm with her gaze; she shrugged once more, and took another sip of her beer. Who needs novels, she wondered, or who needs adventure? She glanced back over her shoulder out at the Ugly Duckling, and then back at Charlie with a little smile.

He was not looking at her; he was not smiling, just now.

“Do what?” Chrysanthe asked, raising her eyebrows; he was still looking away, very intently, as if he had no intention of continuing the sentiment. “Make conversation?” She asked. Charlie was not looking at her still, very focused on some sight Chrysanthe couldn’t see over her shoulder. “Talk about novels?” She pushed a little further. “Drink beer?” She really ought to slow down, Chrysanthe thought; she took another sip instead.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Evening
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Most of Charlie's beer had disappeared already. That was the problem with beers, he thought--eventually one came to the bottom of them, and it almost always came too fast. Ah well. Wasn't that why society invented bar tabs? Yes. Yes it was.

Charlie thought of saying, perhaps, that he had always been more interested in the ships and the swashbuckling than any mysterious women or banderwolves, even. But that didn't seem a surprise, really, given everything else about him. He still grinned at her assessment, before it dropped away.

"No," he whined, absolutely certain Ms. Palmifer knew what he meant and was being deliberately obtuse. That was his lane, and she had best stay out of it. "Avoid touching me with--you know what, nevermind." Charlie finished off his Clever Fellow with a slight huff, and slammed the empty bottle down on the bar. She could do what she wanted. He didn't care! As long as it wasn't some twisted kind of pity or politeness, he supposed, that was fine.

"Do you want another?" Charlie asked, a not at all abrupt change of subject. Graceful and smooth, that's what it was. Was he starting to think that slamming the entire remainder of his beer might not have been the smartest idea he'd ever had? Yes he was, almost immediately. Was he going to let that stop him? Fuck no. "I'll buy it. Considering you didn't get to finish your Blushing Schoolgirl or whatever it was," he added, because he was a generous person. And because he happened to have more money than usual, as this was the only tab he'd paid off yet.

Charlie flagged down Alice, who ignored him but for a wave of her hand to indicate she'd be over shortly. Always a warm and fuzzy one, that Alice. There was some commotion on the stage. A changing of the guard, it seemed. Away went the dreadful sea shanties (and their even more dreadful original material). A new group took the stage, and there was a staggering of cheers and claps from throughout the bar. This particular group was a fairly regular sight at the Duckling and other bars around the Rose. Charlie could never remember what they called himself, and was fairly certain they couldn't either--it changed frequently enough. Young and enthusiastic wicks, the lot of them. Charlie actually enjoyed their performances. Especially with a drink or several in him.

He looked over to Ms. Palmifer again and grinned with all of his teeth. "I believe I promised you terrible dancing--you're about to get it."

[Chrysanthe Palmifer]

Evening, 10 Bethas, 2720
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

Ewing’s tone went abruptly self-pitying. He tilted his head back and chugged the rest of his Clever Fellow; Chrysanthe glanced away, finding the motion unpleasant to watch, almost obscene. She did understand now, though she hadn’t before. Avoid touching me with your field, he’d not quite said.

You’re not making any effort in the caprise either, Chrysanthe wanted to say, a bit sour. She took another sip of her beer, which wasn’t quite finished yet, and didn’t down it as he had. She ran her tongue over her teeth, the lingering sour taste of the beer in her mouth; she glanced down at the bottle, tilting it from side to side.

“Well,” Chrysanthe began. It wasn’t even quite the full word – it was scarcely the first syllable of it – before Charlie cut in with an offer for a beer straight over it. “Sure,” Chrysanthe began. He offered to buy it, cutting over her again, and she glanced sideways at him, lips twisting slightly, and didn’t say anything for a moment.

No, she thought to say, don’t bother. There was something stinging sharp in his tone, and Chrysanthe glanced away once more, aware of two spots of red color high on her cheeks, more anger than maidenly embarrassment. She thought briefly of telling Charlie where he could shove the bottle of beer he’d offered her, glancing down at hers for a long moment.

Then, instead, she caprised him. It wasn’t forceful or aggressive – she knew plenty of that, and what she hadn’t sorted at Brunnhold she had refined in Gior, because Giorans were as aggressive with their fields as they were elsewhere. But she had always known how to caprise gently; she’d known that even before she had a field, somehow, as if one could learn such things by osmosis, from the gentle brush of her sister’s field. Even Amaryllis’s was stronger than Charlie’s, though softer – like a warm ember, or the inside of a loaf of fresh bread, rather than sharp hot flaring sparks.

Her field was rather more. She had worked at it for a long time to be so; it was the heat of molten glass, steady, hot and swirling around her, with an intensity of warmth. It wasn’t cruel or painful – it wasn’t the sort of heat which swamped you and sent sweat trickling down the back of your neck – but it was hot, and persistent, and always in motion.

“Will that help with the stick in your erse?” Chrysanthe asked, raising her eyebrows. She ignored his attempt to change the subject to dancing, although she couldn’t help being aware of – grateful for – the ending of whatever that had been on stage behind them. She didn’t like erse, particularly; it wasn’t the sort of word a lady used, and however lax her standards had become about what she was willing to hear, she generally tried not to repeat profanity. However, she understood Charlie Ewing well enough not to say bottom to him, or rear; it wasn’t that she meant to shock him, only to speak in a language he’d understood.

[Charlie Ewing]

Bethas 10, 2720 - Evening
The Ugly Duckling, King's Court

He'd done something, and this time he genuinely didn't know what it was. Was she upset he'd offered to buy her another beer? He supposed he could have waited for a response, and not just assumed she wanted one. He did, very badly. In retrospect, it looked perhaps a little like he was trying to talk over her. Which normally he didn't mind, but as that was not the intent, he was a little put out by it.

The problem was not him, he decided. The problem clearly lay with Ms. Palmifer. His behavior had been, if not ideal, at least perfectly acceptable. Ms. Palmifer was, after all, a stick in the mud. He had rather forgotten. This was the problem with trying to be nice to people; they turned out to be annoyed no matter what, and there was nothing you could do about it, so why even bother? Maybe he'd just drink both of them, then! How about that, Ms. Palmifer? (Charlie was, perhaps, a bit more drunk already than he'd previously thought.)

"You don't have to do that", he had said, and clock the godsdamn Circle if she didn't listen to him. Of all times to listen to him, Charlie was moderately annoyed she'd picked this one. Her caprise was not as aggressive as it could be; it certainly fell short of a flex. It was only because Charlie hated it at all that it made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Like standing too close to a forge. He already didn't like the polite contact he got on a regular basis from others of his kind; then the contact was brief and casual. This was deliberate, and he didn't like it at all.

"You think I'm the one with a stick in my erse?" The effect of his indignation was somewhat spoiled by how he looked like a cat that had just had its tail pulled by an over-enthusiastic toddler. Charlie tried to muster up his dignity, but it was quite difficult when he'd had this much to drink. "'S just a beer. Was just trying to apologize," he continued to whine, before he realized what he'd said. Godsdamnit! He was not trying to apologize, why had he said that? He had nothing to apologize for, and he wasn't trying to do it, and even if he was, it didn't matter. So there. Yeah.