+ appointments

[strangelyliteral]

Please follow the format below:

- If it's a private journal ring: [ voice + date ] (i.e. [Voice - April 11])

- A private journal note: [ written + date ] -- of course, if it's just a note saying "lets meet here", it can progress to action quickly enough.

- A knock/planned meeting/continued thread/etc and so forth: [ action + date ]

Comments

[strangelyliteral]

Now you look like you're feeling better, too. [And she might not just be talking about the bright smile the princess is sporting.]

[strangelyliteral]

You don't read a television, you watch it. ... But I guess they are sort of in short supply around here. And - that's not true about "we all". When you live in Sunnydale, strange is mundane.

[dissonates]

[He opens his mouth to respond to that - lets the words properly sink in - and then glowers.

That is not what he expected to hear.]

You know about that too!?

[herotypical]

[ forgiveness. clemency. mercy.

ah, screw it. ] That's what I want to talk to you about. In person, preferably. I hate these things.

[strangelyliteral]

Don't worry. I have no intention of asking you to have sex with me.

[strangelyliteral]

It's always about what you want.

[Of course, Anya doesn't care for the journals that much either. They're such a half-assed downgrade from a computer.] Ugh. Fine. Where?

[herotypical]

[ she nearly backpedals, right then and there. nearly scrawls that this is not what she wants. but, she reminds herself, anya doesn't know so. and she doesn't know the new, mature buffy who takes responsibility more often for what comes out of her mouth. ]

The tea shop. I always forget the name. Something about tears.

[degleamed]

I am, actually. Much better. Thank you.

[strangelyliteral]

[For a moment she stares at the words, her own mouth saying 'What the hell, Buffy?' A strange location. She had let the Slayer decide, though. Maybe it was meant to be neutral. ]


Fine. Only one of those in town, right? I'll find it.

[strangelyliteral]

That's me, always happy to help.

[And it's not even all Twila's doing. The spirit's presence has boosted her desire to be productive - and is might now quietly basking in the satisfaction of quietly recruiting another to it's cause.]

[degleamed]

Would you like something to eat? [ A beat. ] It'll cost you, of course.

[strangelyliteral]

No problem. What's your best filling pastry?

[dissonates]

I don't want you to!!

[herotypical]

At your convenience. I'm in no rush.

[strangelyliteral]

Ugh. You're going to pussyfoot around it now? What if I say conveniently never? Let's just - get it over with. Whatever it is.

[strangelyliteral]

... Okay, that rejection was a little too enthusiastic. And I already said I didn't want to!

[degleamed]

Hmm...I make a great apple fritter.

[strangelyliteral]

And how much help would you say that's worth?

[degleamed]

Well, the stove hasn't been cleaned for awhile...

[dissonates]

Good, because I have no desire to sleep with strange women, whatever Horner says!

[herotypical]

Look -- [ her scribbles are now a hasty mess ] -- I'll be there all afternoon. Show up if you want. Or don't.

[strangelyliteral]

I want an apple fritter, not a dozen donuts.

[strangelyliteral]

Sounds like you need to set him straight.

[strangelyliteral]

Fine.

[And she leaves it at that, snapping the book shut.

It will take her a little while to cool her temper. More than an hour - close to two, even, as she wonders if the Slayer would still even be hanging around the shop as promised.

She almost decides to not go, but the idea of this meeting or this not-meeting looming over their heads wasn't a fun prospect to consider, either. Luceti was a small town, and there was only so long one could play the avoiding game.

Especially when one wasn't certain if it was a game they wanted to be playing.]

[degleamed]

Oh...[ She furrows her brow. ] Maybe you could...take out the trash?