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'Kind' isn't the same as 'wise', and Metody is extraordinarily conscious of this as she hesitantly approaches Nuada's airy home, aided by the wonders of her comm.

Somehow, she expected him to live in a towering castle on a grand estate, like a combination of Art Nouveau and Versailles. The warehouse comes as a surprise, but this is where his location beacon thing says he is.

She lingers at the end of the street, her desire to do the right thing warring with her instinct of self preservation, then sighs and trudges forward. She's already made up the care basket, and finding an organic market for the fruits and vegetables had cost her a f- a dang fortune. Obtaining the meat had been easier, but it was no less expensive, in the long run. It would be stupid to do all the work and then turn back now.

Metody lifts her hand, and gently taps at his front door. If there are gods here (but there aren't, because she'd sense them) and if they listened to her prayers this morning (of course they didn't), he will be soundly asleep and she can just leave the basket on the doorstep, and trust to the blue ice to keep the neatly wrapped packages of meat cold.

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Nuada's chosen home, staked and claimed in accordance with all Taxon customs, was singled out and picked for two distinct reasons, one of which is less practical than the other:

1) It is a strategically advantageous position, both in geographic location and in the logistics and planning of the building itself.

The first two floors are littered with shops and office spaces and whatnot for the Extras that he so utterly despises - but the floors above it, now, they are something else. Abandoned, dusty and littered with vermin, vast open spaces co-mingling with narrow hallways and high ceilings...

2) The walls aren't walls, but rather floor-to-ceiling windows. The place swims in light whenever the sun shows its face, and having spent so long out of the sun Nuada couldn't resist its lure.

What it says of a prince to live in such humble an abode, well, that is for someone else to decide.

It takes just a little while from Metody's initial knock for the door to open: it is the only available door leading up to the abandoned floors, and all about her is the bustle and commotion of what is essentially a marketplace. If you've seen one, you've seen them all, whether the signs promoting goods are writ in Cantonese or Pidgin English.

And here stands Metody, by this run down, industrial door whose paint is peeling off, calling on a fairy prince. What sore thumbs they both make to this environment.

The door swings partway open, one long-fingered hand gripping its edge, and Metody finds herself leveled with a caustic stare that soon turns into a calculated look from top to bottom.

Then, as whisper-dry as ever, his voice breaks the silence. "My lady of the many-jointed-bones. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Wherever she goes, Metody stands out. It has always been this way, both at home and abroad. There is no one else quite like Metody.

He takes just long enough to get to the door for hope to swell in her chest - and then it is dashed. She smiles at him politely, and does her best to ignore the honorific.

Metody figures that fairy creatures have sensitive noses, and so she left the heavy, reeking suit back home. In its place, she wears a leaf green eyelet sundress, blue leggings and a yellow summer sweater. A wide-brimmed hat with a shimmering blue scarf tied around the brim finishes off the outfit and protects her face from the painful rays of the sun.

She is holding a large, sturdy picnic basket, which she lifts and offers to him.

"I brought you this. I hope you are recovering well."

Inside, if he cares to look, is a bounty of food. Fresh food, fruits, fish and game, wrapped in paper and string, padded by brightly colored dish towels and napkins. There are even a few packets of teas - true tea, mint, chamomile and lemongrass. There is a pack of blue ice on the bottom, keeping the meat cold.

She has no idea what an elf actually eats, but she's given it a good crack.

If the contrast between these two figures and the context isn't enough, the contrasts between them only add to the picture. Metody in her pretty dress and hat, like something out of a hundred years old novel, and Nuada, clad in a robe so dark gray as to be black. The long sleeves hang loosely from his arms, or would if not for the fact he is currently found wanting. He as pale as ever, matted like candle wax and charred like candlewick. Here and there his burns peek out from behind his hair or his clothes. He is healing, and well enough.

Hidden behind the door, his left sleeve hangs limply by his side, while the long-boned fingers of his right hand poke and interject themselves in the basket full of gifts.

The tea earns Metody a slight arch of his brow; the meat a dry twist of blackened lips. He hums.

"I am." A beat that stretches on, no doubt for how very deeply buried the notion of gratitude. "Thank you."

Edited 2013-07-29 11:29 (UTC)

Her shoulders lift and fall at his unreadable glance. "I wasn't sure what you drink." Wine or beer would have been traditional, but it would have had to be good wine, and the contents of these baskets are already straining at her drum-tight finances.And what does she know about good wine? It comes in red and white, and most people use grapes, but her third cousin prefers dandelions, and she's helped with picking and pressing - there is little that Metody has never helped with - but drinking the finished product is an exercise in passing out, so she's never bothered beyond knowing to ask for help in the liquor store when she needed a bottle for out of town guests.

As for the meat, the fae of her world are decidedly predatorial. And everyone knows you need extra meat to heal.

She stands there quietly for that long, awkward moment, waiting for acceptance or rejection. If he doesn't want the basket, she'd like it back, thankyouverymuch. The contents are too expensive to just sit in the street and rot.

She smiles a little at his thanks. "You're welcome. I hope it serves you well." As soon as he has ahold of the basket, she steps back a little. "Good day, then."

There's no apparent need to respond to her pleasantries, especially not her observations as to her own ignorance ('tea will suffice, thank you, oh you shouldn't have, this is far too much'), but he can't help but bare teeth in a bowstring grin.

"Don't be coy. You would not still be here if you weren't seeking attention. You want me to invite you, or you would have spared yourself these trifling courtesies."

There's that calculating, measuring glance from top to tippy-toes again. "And your dress." His eyes fixate on Metody's eyes, for they are pretty and as see-through as glass. His tongue clicks briefly against the back of his front teeth.

"Did you think it would make me more amenable to your good cause? Make me more inclined to accept your gifts?"

His hand returns slowly to the door. It stands out like the chalk hand print from M against the flaking dark paint.

When you look right through something, it's easy to miss the shape of it. She just looks at him for a moment.

"I value courtesies. As for my dress - I've been told what my person and suit smell like."

Blondes. Why are all the blondes here asses? She may need to dye her hair. Pink is nice.

"If you don't want it, that is your will. I would prefer that you tell me outright, though, because I don't like to waste food."

The grin doesn't directly fade, but rather lingers in the old scars at his temples going round and round and round like crop circles.

"Leave it. I shall name it a boon. My lady."

"I hope it serves you well, then. Good day." She sets it down, and heads off.

Well. He's upright and feeling frisky enough to be obnoxious, and he didn't slash her face the moment he saw her. All good signs. Maybe she doesn't ned to feel quite so guilty and scared.

Maybe she'll go with a light apricot for her hair instead.