(no subject)
Quite belated loggage; Finn and Juilliard after the return from Ireland.
Juilliard leans against the door of his room, reflectively. Finn's in there, coming through the door of his bedroom, and he rather wonders what has brought on Finn's fetching facial expression.
"Hullo," Finn says, blinking at him. "I got you something in the Irish spirit. It's through there."
Juilliard looks through the door curiously. "Really. And shall you stay for me to open it, dearest Finn? It could be like an absurdly early Christmas day."
At that point he registers what's through the door, and that gives Finn enough time to flee.
Juilliard blinks.
He blinks again.
Quite loudly, and with great emphasis, he says, "Merde, Finnegan."
"Ah," Finn says, from somewhere near the outer door. "Well, you're excessively French, I thought you ought to see how it feels from here."
Juilliard says, "I have not yet decorated your rooms entirely in the tricolors."
Really, he may be on the verge of tears. Those were very nice cabinets before they were...
... green.
"I'll just let myself out," Finn says.
Green walls. Green curtains. Green ceiling. A green shag rug.
It is like a nauseous nightmare from a horror film.
Juilliard says, quite deliberately, "Oh, no, I believe you shall be staying for tea, Finnegan."
The door locks.
"Shite," Finn says. "You realise I can break this door down?"
"Of course," says Juilliard pleasantly. "You could do whatever you so choose. But you will stay here, and tell me about your trip to Ireland. In great detail. Until I decide to let you out. I think I may be able to keep you here until at least Tuesday."
Finn turns around, flattening himself against the door. He looks quite comically terrified, especially with that bit of hair falling into his eyes. "Er, I don't think that's really necessary--"
"Oh, certainly not. But then, neither was the transforming of my entire collection of baubles into shamrocks."
Juilliard stalks towards him, and does not, for a second, laugh.
"They're not all shamrocks! Some of them are Celtic crosses and knotwork designs and flags."
"Well, thank you. I hadn't properly appreciated that touch." He stands with his arms crossed a foot or so in front of Finn, looking, if Finn hadn't Alden to compare him with, rather menacing.
Finn reached out and poked him.
Juilliard raises an eyebrow approximately four inches. "You are, my dear Finn, infinitely mat--"
This is cut off by his horrified realisation that his knocker has turned into a little leprechaun.
Finn ducks and darts around him.
The bedroom door slams.
"I hope you enjoy the hell of your own making!" Juilliard yells through the door, and sets about making Finn tea.
It's not quite normal tea. Hallucinogens are not generally a part of the proper tea ceremony.
... well, it's not addictive, at least.
"Ireland is not hell! Hell is other people, especially you, right now!" Finn yells back. "I shan't give you your real present if you keep on like this!"
"What's my real present?" Juilliard calls, considering whether or not to add the amphetamines as well. "A free trip to the orthodontist's?"
There is an injured sort of silence.
With no small amount of curiosity--and rather too much amusement than is healthy, or is showing on his face--Juilliard pushes open the door.
Finn is sitting on his bed-- which is now covered with a plush green blanket-- cradling something in his hands.
Juilliard tilts his head. "If I touch that," he says, "shall it bite me?"
"Of course not," Finn says, giving him a Look, which turns into a suspicious expression directed at the tea.
Juilliard ritually pours the tea out, directly onto the more hideous of the lawn ornaments on his floor that was likely once a chair. The ornament starts smoking.
Finn raises his eyebrow. "You know, I was going to put everything back after a bit, but now I don't think I will."
"Let us not be hasty," says Juilliard, quickly, and puts out his hand beseechingly for the unidentified object Finn's clutching like a treasured blanket.
Pouting a little, Finn passes something heavy and clear over to him.
Juilliard picks it up, and tilts it into the light. The words of La Marsellaise are carefully engraved on the side. He smiles with delight, which turns very quickly into a smirk. "Yes, this will look lovely on the red shelf -- oh, no, wait, you made that one disappear."
"I could do the front room in French colours," Finn offers, sounding slightly injured.
Juilliard turns the glass over and over in his hands, and says, with a rather more real smile, "I'll thank you not to. And thank you for this, as well. It's lovely."
"I can put your room back, if you like," Finn says, ducking his head and smiling.
"I would appreciate that," Juilliard ... admits.
Finn grins at him. The room is a momentary blur of colour and movement.
Juilliard falls over when the carpet changes back.
"Between you and the wench contingent, I believe there is a plot afoot to deprive me of any pride I once had," he says from the floor, quite put out.
"It's more fun than just taking a large needle to your ego," Finn says from the bed, unperturbed.
Juilliard smiles. Enigmatically.
He's cultured it for the occasion.
"By the way," Finn says, "Your hair's green."
In slow motion, Juilliard runs his hands up through his hair, and brings it down in front of his eyes.
His scream is eloquent.
"I'll be leaving now..." Finn says in a tiny voice, starting to get up from the bed.
The torrent of horrified French coming from Juilliard halts briefly enough for a polite, "Au revoir," and resumes its high-pitched litany.
Finn bolts.
Juilliard leans against the door of his room, reflectively. Finn's in there, coming through the door of his bedroom, and he rather wonders what has brought on Finn's fetching facial expression.
"Hullo," Finn says, blinking at him. "I got you something in the Irish spirit. It's through there."
Juilliard looks through the door curiously. "Really. And shall you stay for me to open it, dearest Finn? It could be like an absurdly early Christmas day."
At that point he registers what's through the door, and that gives Finn enough time to flee.
Juilliard blinks.
He blinks again.
Quite loudly, and with great emphasis, he says, "Merde, Finnegan."
"Ah," Finn says, from somewhere near the outer door. "Well, you're excessively French, I thought you ought to see how it feels from here."
Juilliard says, "I have not yet decorated your rooms entirely in the tricolors."
Really, he may be on the verge of tears. Those were very nice cabinets before they were...
... green.
"I'll just let myself out," Finn says.
Green walls. Green curtains. Green ceiling. A green shag rug.
It is like a nauseous nightmare from a horror film.
Juilliard says, quite deliberately, "Oh, no, I believe you shall be staying for tea, Finnegan."
The door locks.
"Shite," Finn says. "You realise I can break this door down?"
"Of course," says Juilliard pleasantly. "You could do whatever you so choose. But you will stay here, and tell me about your trip to Ireland. In great detail. Until I decide to let you out. I think I may be able to keep you here until at least Tuesday."
Finn turns around, flattening himself against the door. He looks quite comically terrified, especially with that bit of hair falling into his eyes. "Er, I don't think that's really necessary--"
"Oh, certainly not. But then, neither was the transforming of my entire collection of baubles into shamrocks."
Juilliard stalks towards him, and does not, for a second, laugh.
"They're not all shamrocks! Some of them are Celtic crosses and knotwork designs and flags."
"Well, thank you. I hadn't properly appreciated that touch." He stands with his arms crossed a foot or so in front of Finn, looking, if Finn hadn't Alden to compare him with, rather menacing.
Finn reached out and poked him.
Juilliard raises an eyebrow approximately four inches. "You are, my dear Finn, infinitely mat--"
This is cut off by his horrified realisation that his knocker has turned into a little leprechaun.
Finn ducks and darts around him.
The bedroom door slams.
"I hope you enjoy the hell of your own making!" Juilliard yells through the door, and sets about making Finn tea.
It's not quite normal tea. Hallucinogens are not generally a part of the proper tea ceremony.
... well, it's not addictive, at least.
"Ireland is not hell! Hell is other people, especially you, right now!" Finn yells back. "I shan't give you your real present if you keep on like this!"
"What's my real present?" Juilliard calls, considering whether or not to add the amphetamines as well. "A free trip to the orthodontist's?"
There is an injured sort of silence.
With no small amount of curiosity--and rather too much amusement than is healthy, or is showing on his face--Juilliard pushes open the door.
Finn is sitting on his bed-- which is now covered with a plush green blanket-- cradling something in his hands.
Juilliard tilts his head. "If I touch that," he says, "shall it bite me?"
"Of course not," Finn says, giving him a Look, which turns into a suspicious expression directed at the tea.
Juilliard ritually pours the tea out, directly onto the more hideous of the lawn ornaments on his floor that was likely once a chair. The ornament starts smoking.
Finn raises his eyebrow. "You know, I was going to put everything back after a bit, but now I don't think I will."
"Let us not be hasty," says Juilliard, quickly, and puts out his hand beseechingly for the unidentified object Finn's clutching like a treasured blanket.
Pouting a little, Finn passes something heavy and clear over to him.
Juilliard picks it up, and tilts it into the light. The words of La Marsellaise are carefully engraved on the side. He smiles with delight, which turns very quickly into a smirk. "Yes, this will look lovely on the red shelf -- oh, no, wait, you made that one disappear."
"I could do the front room in French colours," Finn offers, sounding slightly injured.
Juilliard turns the glass over and over in his hands, and says, with a rather more real smile, "I'll thank you not to. And thank you for this, as well. It's lovely."
"I can put your room back, if you like," Finn says, ducking his head and smiling.
"I would appreciate that," Juilliard ... admits.
Finn grins at him. The room is a momentary blur of colour and movement.
Juilliard falls over when the carpet changes back.
"Between you and the wench contingent, I believe there is a plot afoot to deprive me of any pride I once had," he says from the floor, quite put out.
"It's more fun than just taking a large needle to your ego," Finn says from the bed, unperturbed.
Juilliard smiles. Enigmatically.
He's cultured it for the occasion.
"By the way," Finn says, "Your hair's green."
In slow motion, Juilliard runs his hands up through his hair, and brings it down in front of his eyes.
His scream is eloquent.
"I'll be leaving now..." Finn says in a tiny voice, starting to get up from the bed.
The torrent of horrified French coming from Juilliard halts briefly enough for a polite, "Au revoir," and resumes its high-pitched litany.
Finn bolts.