Disclaimer: I do own Inkspell and Inkheart, but only the books, not the copyrights, I'm afraid. I don't own Dustfinger, either, or Cloud-Dancer, or Roxane, or the Inkworld, or anything worth owning, really. I'm just having some fun tell me if Dustfinger is kinda OC, I did my best. Originally a 100 word drabble, it morphed into a page when I re typed it; my hard drive ended up getting wiped out :sob: so I lost the work, and in an attempt to re-write it, my drabble-turned-vignette became four pages long. Hope you like it, though.
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"So…do you think I have a chance?"
"Am I expected to answer that?"
"Maybe."
"Well, do you want the answer that'll make you feel better or my honest opinion?"
"Eh…you pick."
"Dustfinger, charming and suave as you undoubtedly are, I think you should…exercise caution…"
"You call that tact?"
"…Roxane is a bit—"
"A bit…?"
"—out of your league."
"Gee, thanks, cloud-dancer."
"You're welcome."
"Well, there's, uh, nothing you can't do if you…put your mind to it, right?"
"That's assuming you have a mind."
"Oh."
&&&& flashback
…my mind blanked out. Completely. Those who believe in love at first sight are apt to say, with an air of nostalgia, that time stops and the world pauses in its orbit, to hang suspended on its axes. Perhaps some minor miracles, the occasional blind man seeing, you know. A rare few even describe hearing some angelic choir murmur heavenly tunes—although, personally, I think that's not so much a god-sent sign to alert you of your soul mate, but an indicator of something else…
Oh, yes, I'd seen her a few times here and there, heard her name without realizing whose name it was, maybe even said "hello" in passing once. But not enough to really know her. It was a Tuesday, fairly busy in within the city walls, where despite the growing cold people bustled around anyway. Your fairly average ideal "love at first sight" day too, I guess; the sky was a clear, still blue and the sun dripped between the leaves, just beginning to turn color, like golden syrup.
I'd done some tricks that morning, gotten some halfway decent tips, and decided to spend the day…er, taking in the idyllic city scene…and wasting time. I suppose I got more tips from people just looking to warm their hands near a fire rather than from anyone what actually appreciated my tricks. But hey—take what you can get. I'm not picky.
There was a commotion near the square so I figured I'd stop in; I had to plow (gently) through half the crowd to be able to see over the head of the guy in front of me. But just then he decided to hoist his kid onto his shoulders, once again blocking my view. So I pushed (gently) past him. At first all I saw was a twirling blur, albeit a colorful one. And then she stopped spinning, started dancing, and I understood why the crowd.
The music wasn't all that great—some kid on a violin, hideously out of tune—but she managed to make it the most incredible melody. Her face had this rapturous look of ease as she slid from one dance to the next, twirling her skirt, waves of windswept ebony tresses caught in the breeze.
She looked straight at me once.
I guess here is the part where I say something dramatic, maybe vow my eternal love, do something daring like plunge through the crowd and…uh, I don't know, but something daring. Maybe I should say "and I knew in that instant that she'd won my heart," or how about "and suddenly, I realized I loved her, and my passion burned with the fire of a thousand suns?" but honestly, my mind went blank, and I just turned red. I hear someone say her name—Roxane—and I said it to myself, over and over. Roxane. And I liked her. A lot.
&&&&
"hey, cloud-dancer?"
"…what'd you do now?"
"what makes you think I did anything?"
"think? I know."
"not funny."
"to you or to me?"
"anyway. What do you think I should do?"
"about?"
"you know who I mean. And stop grinning."
"well, I think you should tell her how you feel."
"let me rephrase: not what you'd love to see me do so I can make a fool out of myself. I'm looking for some actual advice, here."
"you're really serious, aren't you? Alright, stop glaring at me, why don't you just…ask her out to…dinner?"
"ask her out to dinner?"
"maybe not. Er, offer to do some tricks with that fire of yours. What about those flowers you just practiced? I can't imagine her saying no."
"not a bad idea…"
"see, dustfinger? I told you I'm not completely obsessed with making fun of oyu. I do try to help you out. Sometimes."
"define sometimes."
"occasionally. Every…now and then. Okay, almost never. But almost. Never say never, you know. Unless you're saying never to say never, because you should never say never. Unless you're saying to never say the word never. Because—"
"I get the point."
"oh."
&&&&
"you er, wanted to talk to me?"
Her face was so beautiful…sculpted cheekbones, wide, dark eyes, lips that somehow managed to smile and smirk at the same time…
"yes, er, actually…" the moment I opened my mouth, my mind cleared. This was not a good thing, seeing as how now I couldn't remember a single thing I'd meant to say.
The rain continued to pour, mercilessly drenching me. I pushed my sodden bangs from my face, sure I was a mess. Somehow, roxane managed to look stunning, despite the circumstances. Mainly the weather, but I wasn't helping; I opened my mouth to speak, forgot what I'd meant to say; suddenly remembered; decided against it; thought of something else, but forgot that, too…
"you wanted to ask me something?" roxane repeated, looking at me strangely. I suppose I did look a bit odd opening and closing my mouth like that.
Okay, stay cool, I told myself silently. Suave, dustfinger, be suave. How many times had I rehearsed this in my head? I'd even had two-way conversation, worst and best case scenarios, until cloud-dancer told me to shut up. I knew what I was doing, right? Right.
"actually, I was, thinking. Wondering. I was wondering, if you—" damn. It was raining: so much for the fire. Eh. I smiled weakly. Damn.
"really?" legitimate question, I guess.
"no, actually." When all else fails, try that rarest of tactics: tell the truth.
"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not," she said insolently, so I guess she didn't mind. Note to self: be more witty.
"neither can I," I added truthfully.
"I don't think I'm busy tomorrow," she added helpfully. thank you, I prayed silently. In my relief, her voice was the musical pealing of silver bells, pure, sweet, clear. Although I never did like that phrase, 'pealing of bells.' Sounds like 'peeling of bells.' Bad mental image, that one. and roxane had a bit of a cold, although she even managed to make nasal congestion sound incredibly hot. Roxane had that rare ability to turn syllables into song…in the face of adversity (aka really bad weather). Come to think about it, maybe standing in the rain wasn't the best thing for a cold.
"oh, you're really not busy? Tomorrow? You're not busy tomorrow?" i could have wiped the sweat off my forehead, I was so relieved--except it was raining and cold so I really wasn't sweating. my hands were clammy, though. She grinned.
"why do you want to know?"
"because…" Roxane gave me a questioning look, so I said the first thing I thought of—"what I have to say won't matter if you're busy, anyway." She smirked.
"whether I'm busy or not depends on why you want to know." I wasn't sure if I followed this logic.
"what I say depends on whether or not you're busy." Why do I have the feeling we're not getting anywhere? "I asked first," I added desperately, hoping roxane wouldn't realize I had absolutely no plan whatsoever.
She did.
She rolled her eyes.
"…I'll take that as a yes?" I asked hopefully.
"what do you think?" uh-oh. Trap?
"what do you want me to think?" it could still be a trap, so better safe than sorry.
"I want you to think whatever you want to think." She had a point, there.
"you think so?"
Just then I thought I wouldn't mind drowning in those ethereal, incredible chocolate eyes….she shivered slightly I the rain, and I realized how close we stood. Close enough for me to lean over and brush away raindrops from her face, where they hung, like glittering crystals, from her eyelashes…I think I have a calling as a poet. Wouldn't I be a profound poet?
"you know what I think? I don't think you're very good at asking out girls." Well, what was I supposed to do?
"oh." It seemed like a good thing to say at the time. We jut stood there in silence a while, until roxane coughed.
"it's kind of wet, you know…"
"yeah."
"do you…do you want to go inside?"
"do you?"
"maybe."
"me too."
a/n: if dustfinger had been born a few centuries later, he would have compared this to getting off the phone with someone you really don't want to get off the phone with: each person says 'bye' but neither hangs up. Alas, dustfinger knows nothing of telephones so he just thought it was quite awkward, really
we met up with the rest of the Strolling Players, most of which were packing up whatever props they had out from their show, and went our separate ways. But I could have sworn roxane smiled at me, for a second, when she thought I wasn't looking.
At least she didn't hate me; cloud-dancer owed me one, now. And although I couldn't say I didn't make a fool out of myself, things could be worse.
Life was looking up.