That's a lie. There is nothing at all about me which should recommend me to you. Which is perfectly well and entirely your prerogative. [And just as quickly, croaked back from the depths of her little bed.] Your apology is accepted.
[ His brows draw together fiercely as he tries to comprehend what she's saying. The statement sounded like a bit of self-disparagement, but that doesn't seem possible, given the source - He's never heard her say an unkind word about herself, particularly not when there's a barb to be delivered instead. ]
What do you mean by that?
[ A foolish question to follow up with, he supposes; that'll likely invite the barb. What I mean is that you are too simple-minded and cruel to find anything to like in me, is what he wagers will come next. ]
[There, a flicker of further bafflement and a brief instant in which Wysteria searches his expression. The meaning is obvious; why pretend otherwise?]
There is nothing about me which appeals to you. [Is the same as what she has just said, so she shakes herself and attempts a further revision.] My character is offensive to you, Mister Rutyer.
[ Which is a cousin to what he was expecting her to say, but a kinder cousin. And - ]
That's complete rubbish, Miss Poppell. There's much about you that I do find frustrating, but parts of you are frustrating is a far cry from there is nothing appealing. There are elements of the Lady Alexandrie I find frustrating as well, but I clearly also find her appealing.
[Lying there in the bed, the slightly put off expression that Wysteria pulls must be involuntary.]
Well yes, but Lady Asgard is lovely. Anyone would say so. —My point is we are not friends and you don't wish to be. You've never gotten me a Satinalia present before. Not a proper one.
[That silly little portrait of the Empress last year, living now at the bottom of one of her trunks doesn't count.
(This would all be a more effective indictment if she weren't croaking it all out, pale and kitten weak. But at least the natural impulse to harangue persists. Surely that is good news.)]
Apologies, Miss Poppell. If I'd known that proper gifts were the only way to be affectionate towards a person, I'd have endeavored to be rather less impoverished.
[ His shrug is sharp. Her words have wounded him, so his voice is clipped, but he swallows down the instinctual bristle. Silences the inner idiot who always feels so defensive beside people like her. ]
I like you, Miss Poppell; I always have. I wished to give you something that I hoped would spark some pleasure in your heart during a difficult time, and in commemoration of the holiday.
[In any other circumstance, something in her would snap abruptly shut as if I like you, Miss Poppell were the spring on some trap. Crack! Every impulse associated with the thing shut away where it might stifle itself, leaving only the exposed nerve of boiling frustration behind in the open air.
(Nastiness, you see, is habit and shield in equal measure.)
But she is tired and unprepared and Ellis has gone away and Mister Stark can hardly bear to speak to her and de Foncé is de Foncé and it will be quite some time before she sees Mister Dickerson and doesn't think at least a little of him carving off a piece of her and she doesn't want Byerly Rutyer to say 'I like you, Miss Poppell; I always have,' because either it's a lie which is dreadful or she is wrong and that is obviously twice as terrible.]
Oh. Well that's fine then, [she says very strictly indeed, and then bursts into tears.]
There are certain emotional outbursts that Byerly is quite practiced with. How could you, you scoundrel, followed by a ringing slap - absolutely; he has the instincts. I'm passionately in love with you, a few times, yes, and he knows how to navigate it. Or even weeping, as long as the tears are false, he's skilled with. But here, now, there is no sign of guile that he can see - because he can imagine exactly what it would be like if Wysteria were fake-crying; she'd be sneaking glances constantly to see her effect on his temperament, and would probably be screwing up her face in a very fake way, and - It wouldn't look like this.
So he stands helplessly for a moment. But then he does the only thing he can think of to do. The thing he'd do for his sister, once upon a time, when she was overwhelmed with fury and frustration over the rags that fell apart under her needle and thread, or when she was ashamed over the bug-bites that ran up and down her arms, or when hunger turned from a pang to agony.
He moves to Wysteria's side, and sits beside her on the bed. And he places a hand cautiously on her shoulder - ready to pull it away if she flinches - and he rubs her back, gently, carefully. And he offers her a handkerchief. ]
[They are the sort of hot fat tears that instantly mortify the person crying them to the point where all other interruptions become more or less negligible. For example, she makes no particular of the mattress dipping under his weight or even really the set of his hand, and she has covered her face with her hand and so it takes her a long beat to clock the handkerchief. Her natural instinct—to reach out an accept it with a nonexistant free hand—send an exhausted ache up her shoulder and prompts a harder, more absurd sob of frustration.
This is all so very stupid and she will never live down being seen like this. Byerly Rutyer will, she is very confident (and hopes very sincerely because it would be good to be justified in something, wouldn't it?), surely crow about this to everyone he is close to. I made her weep, did she tell you that? He will say to Alexandrie. Or maybe he will make fun of her to Bastien, and maybe Bastien will let him do it.
Wysteria takes the handkerchief and clumsily applies it to her face and cries a little more into it, more or less undeterred by either the slow circular motion of the hand at her back or her own attempt to cheer herself up with fantasies of inevitable betrayal.]
It had better be a very good book, [is cried into the handkerchief, followed by a soggy honk which may or may not be a laugh, and then more tears.]
[ Encouraged by the fact that she hasn't pushed him away - and, more, that she's taken the handkerchief, because it's possible that she just didn't push him away out of weakness - he scoots around on the bed so his shoulder is pressed up against her back. It's not a hug, but it has something of a feel of one. A sort of human bulwark. ]
I chose it just based on the title. And there was a little wood-cut illustration inside that I found very pleasing.
[That makes her sob a little harder into the handkerchief.] The title and the pictures! [How typical.]
Well if it's very terrible, I will tell you so. For there is nothing more disrespectful than refusing to give your honest opinion on something, you know. Even if it's about a gift. Maybe especially then.
[Wysteria loudly blows her nose into the soggy handkerchief.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ The color persists; it's the frown that deepens this time. ]
Because it's a tradition. Why would I not?
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[—is not something she would say (certainly not in that bewildered, nonvenomous timbre) if she weren't still at least somewhat ill with fatigue.]
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[ He gapes. ]
What?
[ Then - ]
Are you high?
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Are you?
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A little. Sworn enemies?
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Absolutely not!
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Then what exactly do you propose as an alternative?
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[Obviously. Then, considerably more to the point:]
You dislike me.
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[ He crosses his arms. Then the gesture reminds him of her predicament; he unfolds them, and adds, more subdued: ]
I apologize if I've ever given you that impression.
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[ His brows draw together fiercely as he tries to comprehend what she's saying. The statement sounded like a bit of self-disparagement, but that doesn't seem possible, given the source - He's never heard her say an unkind word about herself, particularly not when there's a barb to be delivered instead. ]
What do you mean by that?
[ A foolish question to follow up with, he supposes; that'll likely invite the barb. What I mean is that you are too simple-minded and cruel to find anything to like in me, is what he wagers will come next. ]
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There is nothing about me which appeals to you. [Is the same as what she has just said, so she shakes herself and attempts a further revision.] My character is offensive to you, Mister Rutyer.
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That's complete rubbish, Miss Poppell. There's much about you that I do find frustrating, but parts of you are frustrating is a far cry from there is nothing appealing. There are elements of the Lady Alexandrie I find frustrating as well, but I clearly also find her appealing.
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Well yes, but Lady Asgard is lovely. Anyone would say so. —My point is we are not friends and you don't wish to be. You've never gotten me a Satinalia present before. Not a proper one.
[That silly little portrait of the Empress last year, living now at the bottom of one of her trunks doesn't count.
(This would all be a more effective indictment if she weren't croaking it all out, pale and kitten weak. But at least the natural impulse to harangue persists. Surely that is good news.)]
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Apologies, Miss Poppell. If I'd known that proper gifts were the only way to be affectionate towards a person, I'd have endeavored to be rather less impoverished.
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What do you mean by coming here?
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I like you, Miss Poppell; I always have. I wished to give you something that I hoped would spark some pleasure in your heart during a difficult time, and in commemoration of the holiday.
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(Nastiness, you see, is habit and shield in equal measure.)
But she is tired and unprepared and Ellis has gone away and Mister Stark can hardly bear to speak to her and de Foncé is de Foncé and it will be quite some time before she sees Mister Dickerson and doesn't think at least a little of him carving off a piece of her and she doesn't want Byerly Rutyer to say 'I like you, Miss Poppell; I always have,' because either it's a lie which is dreadful or she is wrong and that is obviously twice as terrible.]
Oh. Well that's fine then, [she says very strictly indeed, and then bursts into tears.]
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Oh.
There are certain emotional outbursts that Byerly is quite practiced with. How could you, you scoundrel, followed by a ringing slap - absolutely; he has the instincts. I'm passionately in love with you, a few times, yes, and he knows how to navigate it. Or even weeping, as long as the tears are false, he's skilled with. But here, now, there is no sign of guile that he can see - because he can imagine exactly what it would be like if Wysteria were fake-crying; she'd be sneaking glances constantly to see her effect on his temperament, and would probably be screwing up her face in a very fake way, and - It wouldn't look like this.
So he stands helplessly for a moment. But then he does the only thing he can think of to do. The thing he'd do for his sister, once upon a time, when she was overwhelmed with fury and frustration over the rags that fell apart under her needle and thread, or when she was ashamed over the bug-bites that ran up and down her arms, or when hunger turned from a pang to agony.
He moves to Wysteria's side, and sits beside her on the bed. And he places a hand cautiously on her shoulder - ready to pull it away if she flinches - and he rubs her back, gently, carefully. And he offers her a handkerchief. ]
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This is all so very stupid and she will never live down being seen like this. Byerly Rutyer will, she is very confident (and hopes very sincerely because it would be good to be justified in something, wouldn't it?), surely crow about this to everyone he is close to. I made her weep, did she tell you that? He will say to Alexandrie. Or maybe he will make fun of her to Bastien, and maybe Bastien will let him do it.
Wysteria takes the handkerchief and clumsily applies it to her face and cries a little more into it, more or less undeterred by either the slow circular motion of the hand at her back or her own attempt to cheer herself up with fantasies of inevitable betrayal.]
It had better be a very good book, [is cried into the handkerchief, followed by a soggy honk which may or may not be a laugh, and then more tears.]
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[ Encouraged by the fact that she hasn't pushed him away - and, more, that she's taken the handkerchief, because it's possible that she just didn't push him away out of weakness - he scoots around on the bed so his shoulder is pressed up against her back. It's not a hug, but it has something of a feel of one. A sort of human bulwark. ]
I chose it just based on the title. And there was a little wood-cut illustration inside that I found very pleasing.
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Well if it's very terrible, I will tell you so. For there is nothing more disrespectful than refusing to give your honest opinion on something, you know. Even if it's about a gift. Maybe especially then.
[Wysteria loudly blows her nose into the soggy handkerchief.]
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That could not possibly be less true.
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