[open-ish] I'd ride in your pocket all day

[thereneverwas]

WHO: Fitcher, Barrow, and anyone else in the area
WHAT: SCORN
WHEN: return from jungle times
WHERE: the Gallows docks
NOTES: this is more of an open now. I told you I was a wildcard

They're back from the jungle, it has been a Time. Barrow is substantially thinner (and beardier) than he was when they left, and the one thing keeping him going as he trundles off the boat into the Gallows is the promise of a hot bath, a shave, and a proper meal.

But before he can get there, something else catches his eye. He deliberates for a moment, then approaches Mrs. Fitcher with a tired, sheepish smile.

Comments

[unshut]

Let us be frank: Madame Fitcher cuts a fine figure on any day. But today on this stairwell leading up into the Gallows courtyards, she seems especially well appointed - light summer layers swirling faintly about her in the breeze, a nearly translucent veil picked with delicate embroidery in the Antivan style draped over her dark hair and about the shoulders. Perhaps the loveliness is in part due to the nature of deprivation: fruit tastes sweeter when one has gone without; the sun is brighter when it is preceded by days of unrelenting rain; any clean, well dressed woman would seem handsome after weeks in the jungle and [mod imposed indeterminate length of time] at sea.

She is not, for the record, waiting here for him. But let no one say that she is the type to pass over an opportunity when it presents itself so willingly to her. Her smile is perfectly pleasant as he climbs the stairs to meet her.

"How dreadful you look, my dear," she says, the very image of conciliatory. Her untroubled demeanor is hardly altered by slapping him, though the crack of it is quite loud in the stairwell.

[bouchonne]

(From nearby, an appreciative ooh.)

[thereneverwas]

The force of the blow is enough to turn his head, especially with the much taller Barrow still being a few steps below her.
He pauses, lips pursed, to let it sink in, then slowly returns his gaze to meet Fitcher's: there's no rancor in his expression, and in fact it's possible he agrees that he deserved that, but for the moment he says nothing. And just waits.
Are we finished?

[unshut]

"If you have so little to say for yourself, then you may as well be on your way. I expect there must be a bath and fresh clothes awaiting you," is her most untroubled assessment, long hands reaching up to make some minor correction to the fabric draped about her dark hair.

He may, of course, do what and as he pleases.

[thereneverwas]

“I’m sorry,” Barrow replies in a low voice, with more sarcasm than apology, “I must have missed the conversation that left me so beholden to you.”
It’s mean, and he knows it’s mean; the truth is, he’d be so gladly. But to have the expectation held over him this, at such a time, in such a mood, his wit gets the better of him.

[unshut]

The tip of her head is all invulnerable ingénue, her face quite open.

"Beholden? Certainly not. The thought had never crossed my mind." It is a casual kind of cruelty, in line with how she reaches down to him again and plucks at the grimy collar of his shirt and then taps the underside of Barrow's chin. Her smile is all pleasantness. "This is merely a condemnation of your taste, serah."

[thereneverwas]

His face knots into an angry frown, his heart giving a lurch in spite of himself. Barrow isn’t one for melodramatics, but even he knows when he’s being toyed with.

“You’re right,” he snaps, and steps up to pass her on the stairs, “I need a bath.”
And unless she stops him, he skulks away, the storm cloud all but visible on his face.

[unshut]

He is most welcome to his storm clouds and sulking retreat. For her part, Fitcher flicks her veil cheerfully over one shoulder and descends the stairs to greet some other member of the returning party. One assumes there is less slapping involved in the affair.