across sand and sky and graveladamantinedApril 5 2010, 00:49:41 UTC
Had she actually any real say in the matter - and it's not that she doesn't, just that she chooses not to - Claire would have picked somewhere closer to the ground. She likes heights, likes being up where the City winds and unwinds in bright lights and the far-off glitter on the ocean, suspects that she gets it from both Nathan and Peter and for that reason alone it's something about herself to like. But if there's anything else that she wants more than being someplace she likes personally, it's being somewhere that Peter likes personally as well and isn't the roof. That was supposed to be the bargaining chip in the kitten, one more reason to bring him back downstairs and inside. It's been better, and it's been getting better, and Claire supposes one more encouragement for some semblance of a holiday in this place isn't pushing things too much, so she instead pushes the door from the stairwell open and shoves a hand through her hair to stop the wind from tossing it everywhere
( ... )
across sand and sky and graveljustdoingmyjobApril 5 2010, 01:23:38 UTC
He hears her but even as he thinks to turn around he receives a knee to the bend of his own, which elicits a muffled hey, but it is muffled only by a laugh as he turns to face her, tilting his head at her question as his brow furrows.
"No, of course not," he replies and then lifts the hand still pinching the burnt match between thumb and forefinger. "Just testing the matches. Never know when the deities are going to decide today nothing will light." He kneels down next to one of the bottles, dropping the match in before picking out a red jellybean for himself, chewing and swallowing before glancing up at the blond who looks older to anyone who cares to look close enough. What is enough, some might wonder, but it's different for everyone and Peter would never tell a person differently. "And what you're smelling is probably actually rotten eggs from someone on the top floor." His tone is more than a little wry as he offers the box of matches to her not unlike a person offers someone a flower or a promise.
across sand and sky and graveladamantinedApril 5 2010, 01:35:28 UTC
"You've been cooking on the top floor?" Claire teases, turning her head to look at him, both eyebrows up, eyes bright even in the half-dark of the rooftop. The lights from down below reach far enough up the sides of the building, spilling over the edges like meltwater, that everything is lit up at least enough to see in front of your face, but someone - maybe the deities, maybe building maintenance, maybe a tenant who tripped and fell - put lights up over the doors, and the combination is enough to turn some of the angles on their faces to shadows. She can still see red heads of the matches, and she takes three of them as she takes the box itself
( ... )
across sand and sky and graveljustdoingmyjobApril 5 2010, 23:14:05 UTC
His sound of guiltless disgruntlement is still...well, disgruntlement, which makes him seem not quite guiltless at all, but Peter does know how to boil an egg. He also knows how to make a variety of pastas, how to say his alphabet backwards, and how to make little tin foil animals out of mint wrappers, but none of these are especially impressive or important details. They just are, which is as much as can be said about most people's layers of facts and sometimes-fictions. They matter only in the shape of the complete product--pieces to make the whole that will never mean much on their own--but without them he would not be who he is now or who he could be in ten years. The same could be said of little things about Claire, and Peter worries that he has missed newer ones and forgotten older others, losing his view of her in the same way a person loses sight of a distant point of light, and he can only blame himself for it
( ... )
Well I guess I shouldn't assume here. Let me backtrack.
One of the Easter traditions, at least for the kids, tends to be dying hard-boiled eggs, the shells, but the eggs are still inside so when you peel them later like you normally would, they have the color of the dye too.
I mean, it's usually sort of mottled, like tie-dye, but it's still kind of cool.
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"No, of course not," he replies and then lifts the hand still pinching the burnt match between thumb and forefinger. "Just testing the matches. Never know when the deities are going to decide today nothing will light." He kneels down next to one of the bottles, dropping the match in before picking out a red jellybean for himself, chewing and swallowing before glancing up at the blond who looks older to anyone who cares to look close enough. What is enough, some might wonder, but it's different for everyone and Peter would never tell a person differently. "And what you're smelling is probably actually rotten eggs from someone on the top floor." His tone is more than a little wry as he offers the box of matches to her not unlike a person offers someone a flower or a promise.
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Well I guess I shouldn't assume here. Let me backtrack.
One of the Easter traditions, at least for the kids, tends to be dying hard-boiled eggs, the shells, but the eggs are still inside so when you peel them later like you normally would, they have the color of the dye too.
I mean, it's usually sort of mottled, like tie-dye, but it's still kind of cool.
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And yeah---what did you paint...not cooked eggs?
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If I remember painting eggs at all they would have been blown ones. Don't parents spend the rest of the year telling you not to play with your food?
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That's too fancy for a five year-old. And sure, but that's usually when you're playing with it to avoid eating it.
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