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[mattersverymuch]

[It's been so many years since the marquis was young that he'd almost forgotten what it was like. He had been so small, ill-fed and underweight, and so easily broken. Which, really, explains a lot about what he's become - none of which he particularly wanted explained to the Barge as a whole.]

[To distract himself somewhat from this unfortunate reality, he has begun work on a compendium of stories, as he has nothing else to do with his time. Much of his work is done in the library, but much is also done in the CES, which becomes, variously, an abandoned city in a mishmash of styles, a thick, temperate, and foggy hardwood forest, and a riverside. He works mostly from memory and attempts comprehensiveness, though his writings as late veer toward tales of the trickster.]

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[surfaceshine]

[Dean, normally a loud and vivid presence throughout the Barge and the network, has been keeping to himself the past couple days. He's not offering any explanation, letting people decide whatever they like as long as they leave him the hell alone, because he's not so calm yet that he'll turn down a fight if it falls in his lap.

He doesn't like the CES, either, mostly. He has to go to the highest point on the stupid deck to get there and he just hasn't been interested, but he's also restless. The river is nice and the current is just too fast to really allow for what he's doing, but he starts collecting stones anyway to skip across the moving surface. He's kicked his boots off, anyway, and rolled his jeans up past his ankles before he notices he's not alone.

The hunter sighs but only inwardly. Outwardly, he pulls up his liar's smile, and waves in a facsimile of cheerful to the Marquis and his... crap, that's paper, isn't it. Dean sighs again, but silently.]

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[mattersverymuch]

[It's a broad, steady river, one that reminds him of a place that once upon a time was his home, and therefore makes him uncomfortable. He's able nevertheless to sprawl under a tree as though the roots make a throne designed just for him, several books arranged at his side with the wind gently ruffling the pages.]

[He sees Dean long before Dean sees him, but keeps quiet. He has obviously noticed Dean's aggressive version of melancholy, and has been watching him lest he get into a situation that the marquis might be able to exploit. Eventually he sighs and leans back against the trunk.]

Carry on. Don't mind me.

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[surfaceshine]

[Everything Dean does is aggressive; even his failure to notice the Marquis - which he kicks himself for silently because he can't afford to give that kind of ground in whatever this is between them, not with the man living right next to him, but he just forfeited it anyway - is aggressive. He's collected a broad handful of rocks alright, flat, smooth stones that would get impressive distance on a still surface, and hedges his bet by moving closer rather than further from the Marquis.

He would not run into a burning barn in a panic, but Dean is absolutely the sort that engages the things he should be afraid of head on rather than letting them come at his back. For the most part, anyway. As far as anyone knows.]

Don't worry, I never do. [He moves closer, picking one of the rocks out of his collection, palming it in his free hand and rubbing his thumb over it almost thoughtfully as if to learn the shape of it.] I know you lie awake wondering about that.

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[mattersverymuch]

[Fortunately for Dean, the marquis is not one to blindly stumble into violence. He uses violence as a tool, wielded by those indebted to him, when things go right.]

[To someone else, that sharp tone combined with those words might feel like a barb. Not to him. He just smirks. It's a weak attempt, if it even is one. In fact, it makes him feel better.]

I lie awake for plenty of reasons. [Since they both know anyway.] Not that one.

[He doesn't move away. He doesn't move closer. He doesn't move at all.]

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[surfaceshine]

[It wasn't intended for a barb, so much as it was just more of the same that he'd been talking about earlier: everything he puts back into the world when he gets too tightly wound is anger. He's still smiling, anyway, and he doesn't really react to the smirk, either. That's normal. That's expected.]

So I guess the real question here is, am I meant to ask about the books, or is that a trap for someone else?

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[andyougoleft]

[Ever since the flood in question, Slevin has been especially polite, especially friendly, especially out of the way. He doesn't know many people here, yet, and he thinks that as long as he plays his cards right here no one will make the connection between that angry, conniving child and Slevin's stupid, broad smirk. At least, no one who hasn't already, and that's just a matter of admission. As long as he doesn't admit to anything, in any way, outside of these floods and breaches, well. He should be golden.

Of course, in the interim he still needs places to lie low and appear normal, and the library is an easy one at that. No one pays much attention to the people who frequent the library as long as they don't break the silence, and Slevin is careful not to do that.

But he's seen the other man here a couple of times, this strangely quiet, always moving, always watching man; he's never seen someone read, write, and keep an eye out around them at the same time while also appearing bored. Not since Goodkat, anyway. So that's where he takes his next book, pulling it carefully off the shelf - a Vonnegut, because that seems like a safe enough bet for normal but not too normal, just boring and strange enough to warn people off - and pausing near the table.]

Hi.

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[mattersverymuch]

[De Carabas has never been a fan of Vonnegut. He considers it to be a pedestrian attempt at absurdity. So when he looks up and sees this young man with his face that's used to smirking at all times and his book, or his shield, or whatever it is, he's unimpressed. Then again, that's his default state.]

[He takes the time to wave his hand over the ink, allowing it to dry, for thirty or more seconds; then he glances up.]

Can I help you?

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[andyougoleft]

[It is exactly what he intended for the book to accomplish; no one actually wants to discuss Vonnegut. Some pretend they do, but no one really does. The book is a passport, a badge that says he belongs where he's standing, nothing spectacular to see here, move along.

He smiles at the question. It isn't a smirk, but it could play one on TV with the right lighting.]

I don't know. That depends on how you're capable of being helpful.

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[mattersverymuch]

[It's something sharp, anyway, and it makes the marquis sit up and take notice. Figuratively, anyway. He doesn't move at all, other than to twiddle his pen.]

In most ways.

Elaborate.

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[andyougoleft]

I didn't have anything in mind. Just whether or not you can help depends on how, quite literally, you can help.

[This is all casual, and he punctuates it by sitting down, bending his lanky frame somewhat awkwardly into the chair he'd been standing behind. The book goes on the table between them, forgotten under his hand.]

I suppose this is probably the part where I ask you something related to getting out. But seeing as how that seems particularly counter-productive or else no one would still be here, I'll go ahead and ask what you would say faced with the same order.

[routemistress]

[The library isn't a place where Iris spends much time; it's too quiet, too oppressively muffled for her liking. But she does visit almost daily, dropping off and replacing whatever reading material she's currently working through, stopping to offer the circling shark a silent greeting.

It's then that she notices the Marquis: a reflection in the glass beside where her hand rests. So she stays and watches, mentally betting herself how quickly he'll notice, whether he'll look up and catch her eye.]

[mattersverymuch]

[The answer is almost immediately - but the almost is noticeable. Iris's silhouette is imprinted into his memory as, variously, someone clever, someone to watch out for, someone who might not stab him in the back (might). Even so, he's focused and his attention isn't as divided as it should be. He's writing about Rumpelstiltskin.]

[When he does look up, he watches her in silence before smiling, all sharp white teeth.]

Fan of sharks?

[routemistress]

Of everything alive.

[She inclines her head, smiling back, wryly soft. Also, she won that bet, though the almostness is concerning. Not that it shows. She's already set her plan for the Marquis' wellbeing into motion.]

Sometimes it brushes close enough I can almost catch its mind. It's content enough 'ere. Far's I can tell.

[mattersverymuch]

I wonder what sharks think about.

[He puts his chin on his hand, thinking about what a magnificent lie this is. He knows exactly what sharks think about. Eat. Sleep. Move. Survive. It's an existence he can sympathize with.]

[routemistress]

[She chuckles, because she knows it.]

Oh, I expect it's doing quantum physics in that pointy little 'ead. Sophisticated beast like this one, trapped a long way from 'ome, needs a challenge to keep it going, eh?

[Clearly, we are discussing the shark. It's not possible that we might mean anyone else.]

[deadly_ned]

[It's a little bit like cheating, when the Piemaker sends his beloved dog Digby down to the library with a picnic basket tied around the golden retriever's neck. The basket has pie, of course, but also sandwiches, chips, and (against the Piemaker's better judgement) a bottle of wine.

He won't seek out the Marquis and keep pretending they're friends.

But he will pretend to be penpals for a while]

[mattersverymuch]

[It takes him a moment to tear himself away from his work, another to recognize the dog. Then he sighs, but since food is food, he removes the picni basket, then extracts all of its contents but the wine and replaces it with a note: I don't drink.. Which is as close to a thank you as it's possible to get from him.]

[The unfortunate fact is that they are, more or less, friends, as far as the definition can extend to the marquis de Carabas. He would hesitate before killing Ned for his own benefit, and will absolutely never admit this.]

[deadly_ned]

[With a wag of his tail, Digby's set off to deliver the near-empty picnic basket back to the Piemaker.

Fifteen minutes the dog is back, this time with a glass bottle of chocolate milk. The Piemaker is a quiet person who avoids confrontations, but he is ridiculously stubborn]

[mattersverymuch]

[Is this really happening, he wonders, sighing and staring at the bottle of milk. Somehow this is the strangest thing that's occurred on the Barge thus far.]

[After a moment's thought, he replaces the milk with exaggerated care and closes up the basket, this time without a note.]

[deadly_ned]

[Satisfied with a mission completed, Digby moves under the table and lies down at the Marquis' feet, just as silent and annoyingly present as his master can be.

No. He won't be moving.]

[pvtparts]

[Polly steps into the CES every so often for a taste of the outdoors. She misses it from time to time. As unpleasant, cold, and generally disagreeable as it could be, it feels better than the somewhat sterile environment in the rest of the Barge, including those gardens.]

[She's surprised to see someone else, but especially someone who appears to be writing.]

Autobiographical or completely fictional?

[mattersverymuch]

[He glances up from his place under the tree, drums his fingers on the mostly-blank page.]

Completely fictional.

[Which could function as autobiographical as well, since it's him.]

[pvtparts]

[She assumes there's a very fine line between the two for him. More than most.]

That's surprising.

[mattersverymuch]

Is it?

[Of course it is. But he'd love her to elaborate. Do go on talking about him.]

[pvtparts]

It is.

[No thanks, de Carabas.]

[She's only going to talk about herself because you want to talk about yourself now. c'8]

I think if I was a writer, I'd be too distracted by everything here though to make much progress.