It was a bit too soon yet to be looking for stirrings of spring, but Tristan was sure he did not imagine that the wind was a tad less bitter, the air all but imperceptibly less frigid as he made mindless circuits about the lake. The weather, no doubt, was somewhat more agreeable during the daylight, but he'd been busy then, and was not now. Duty first, in attending the necessary briefings of his diurnal business associates, and leisure on his own time, while the rest of the country slumbered.

Save a few, granted, one of whom interested him more than the unnamed handful also awake. She was not there; the bench was empty, as it had been since he'd resumed his watchful wandering, a week past the morning that had seen her bolt from his arms as dawn intruded upon his workshop. He did not expect her this night, perhaps not again, though he thought her stubbornness might yet win out over knowledge of how much she'd shared, unwilling as the revelation had been. Cats and snakes, after all, preferred dignified retreat over display of a flaw, no matter how small.

Hands in his coat pockets, he nudged away the memory of how very pleasant it had been to have her small form cradled against him, knowing full well it was an unproductive line of thought, particularly in his present state of mind. Before he'd met Gwen, adapted himself to the constant yearning for contact that she provoked, he'd never been bothered in the slightest about proximity to anyone, save to avoid it whenever possible.


At the moment, his hands positively itched for some sort of touch, benign as a brief clasp might be. He missed the sense-memory of stroking Regan's hair until she fell asleep, the soft weight of her in his arms as he carried her to bed. He would not let himself think on such as had been shared with Gwen; it was a life closed to him, and only gave rise to aching loneliness that would not be banished.

The crux of his problem, it appeared, was that Tristan had never learned what it was to need people, and now that he had, they had all gone away.

"Perplexing," he muttered, flatly denying any further impact to himself. His aimless spiral continued; odd in itself, given that he'd always hated to do anything without getting somewhere for his effort.

Pansy held to the shadow just outside the light of the lamp post, dark gaze watching as Tristan paused by her bench before continuing on his way again.

It had pricked her pride what had transpired last she'd seen him. She did not cry. She did not betray those things she would otherwise keep to herself. She was better than that. Strong. Capable. She got what she wanted, when she wanted.

And yet a fault line had been exposed, laid bare, and she'd been unable to stop the fallout.

It was weak. She was weak, and after she'd fled from Whin Terrace, she'd had ample time to think on all the ways in which she was wanting. It was not an uncommon thread of thought, not after she'd learned the truth of Cormac. For the first time in her life, she'd truly thought someone believed in her, wanted her, loved her.

Lies. And it had exposed the true depth of her own weakness, the well of it. One would think after the life she had lived, the depravities she had seen that she wouldn't be so fool as to indulge in hope. She knew better.

Still, as the weeks had stretched with only the business of trying to convince Patrick Davis Jr. to sell her his ownership shares to the Holyhead Harpies, Pansy had found herself in the irritating situation of wanting the company of the man who had witnessed too much. It'd somehow become a comforting habit to find him in the wee hours, to talk with someone about something and nothing at all.

And as ridiculous as the stories were, she liked them. No one had ever told her stories, though she knew it was a common practice between parents who cared and their children.

Part of her rebelled at being in the park at all, especially as she knew for certain Tristan was also there, but another part of her had her stepping into the light and moving toward him, hands buried in her small leather jacket, thigh high boots tapping an even, purposeful rhythm.

The unmistakable crack of heels on the paved walkway slowed Tristan to an eventual pause, a smile twisting one corner of his mouth crookedly. He half-turned to await her, not correcting his expression, and wondered idly at her coming to acquire him, rather than making him find her.

"Pansy," he greeted, noting the presence of both boots and leather jacket; aggressive, likely chosen as armor of a sort, and not surprising. Nor unpleasant.

The degree of delight with which his brain reacted to confirmation of her presence was disturbing, obviously a further effect of the damnable potions to which he was enslaved for right of his sanity. He was glad to see her, certainly, but there was no need for this aerobic mental euphoria, and he stuffed it and his resulting annoyance away, to be considered more analytically at some later point.

Pansy raised a brow at the smile curling his lips, not quite sure what to make of it. Her irritation, mostly at herself, was near the surface though, and her dark gaze flicked to his, prickling heat piercing the air around her. "Offer me your arm, keep a brisk pace for I do not desire to dawdle tonight and for shite's sake, stop grinning like a fool else I'll send you back to Waverly myself."

Laughing outright at the preposterous combination of commands issued to him, Tristan did else as he was bid, waiting for Pansy to tuck her hand in his arm, then starting off once more round the lake. A moment's concentration wiped the smile from his face, though his eyes glinted yet with mirth.

"You seem in fine feather this evening," he observed, not of a mood to tiptoe futilely around her tangible ire. "Shall I have the pleasure of knowing who you're likely to set aflame, or nibble at a mystery until I can find out for myself?"

"If you are looking for an enigma, you search in the wrong place." Pansy kept her gaze forward, too piqued at herself and him, his amusement, and the very fact that she'd made the first step towards some kind of odd reconciliation. "I would hex myself if I weren't so vain, for being here at all and spoiling my pride, but seeing as you are the only person I know who is also awake and idle at such a deplorable hour, I think it is you who should be wary of my temper."

"I enjoy your temper, Pansy," Tristan pointed out, tempted, though not foolhardy enough, to pat her hand consolingly. "And there is nothing to spoil your pride; I am the one who has been guarding your habitual haunt, therefore I was first to give in and you are merely accepting my apology."

Pansy glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She was not completely comforted by his words by any means, but she sniffed, pleased nonetheless. "It has not been said that any such thing has happened. I do not forgive so easily and I think I might like to see you grovel properly. I have always thought it a fine thing when men are brought to their knees in supplication."

Squashing the image that most immediately presented itself, brow arched in mild disbelief, Tristan responded, "Of that I have no doubt, but I do not believe I have caused you so grave an offense as would warrant proper groveling... thus far... merely by my presence in my own property at a time you might have wished to be elsewhere, or have me so."

Thoughts of being persuaded to his knees, a distinct array, in fact, of visions, flew on bladed wings through his consciousness, leaving conciseness and logic in distressing tatters, for him to attempt to seam up at speed, all without betraying himself by his face. There were many things that he did not particularly care to conceal from Pansy, but given her present frame of mind, the view behind his eyes did not brook blunt revealing.

Something pricked at the air between them and Pansy glanced over at Tristan, brow arched. There was nothing to be seen in his face and manner though, and she turned her gaze forward again.

She was slightly mollified now that the pride-cutting part of approaching him in the first place was over. That she'd felt any need to bridge whatever had festered between them pricked at her. She was being foolish in some way, knew it, but couldn't yet place her finger on it. It meant she likely should have kept herself at her bloody home, but she'd been particularly restless and though she'd not expected to find anyone for such moods, Tristan had become something of a midnight companion as they both battled their insomnia to no great victory.

"Have you finished it yet?" she asked then, changing the subject abruptly. "The tiny broom you were working on?"

Grateful for the bridge-limb of outside topic, Tristan dipped his head in acknowledgment. "Eleven of them, actually," he clarified. There had been nine to start, but it had occurred to him that though Tess had never flown, Gwen would be the one teaching her, and he'd added two wood-fusion hybrids to the selection, one a tiny and less powerful imitation of Gwen's own broom. "I prefer to be very thorough."

His other ongoing contracts were fulfilled, simple manufacture to be processed by hands not his own, and he had yet to go seeking commissions to busy himself. Unlike his usual habit, but so much was, now, that he couldn't find the energy to be bothered.

"Indeed," she said, brow raising in a high arch as she looked at him. "Enthusiastically so, it seems. It's a pity I don't give a rat's arse about brooms, else I'd demand one for you obviously are prone to perfectionism. The best. I always have the best." Despite her words, though, Pansy's mind turned. She didn't have any inclination towards brooms, nor flying, but if her little venture with Patrick Davis Jr. panned out as she hoped, then perhaps Tristan's little quirk towards perfection might benefit in some way.

"I should expect nothing else of you," Tristan agreed. "And though it is no area of interest for you, yes, enthusiastically so. I enjoy my work; if I did not, it would not be what I had chosen now as a livelihood."

Even the word was unfamiliar; livelihood... the concept of being required to work to provide himself a living, but Tristan had yet to be perturbed by the idea. He always had worked, by choice, and even yet it was a muted sort of need, given that his established business had been returned to his hands, providing him with ample ground finance for any personal ventures. It took a moment's consideration, at times, to recall that the power of the family vaults was no longer his to command, but with few enough individuals on whom to heap lavish gifts, and no reason to expend for upkeep of a grand estate, the effective change in his station had little bearing on his actual lifestyle, which suited him quite well.

They walked a long time in silence then, though Pansy did not find it disconcerting. Tristan was easy to be around and though she was rather loathe to admit it, it was nice to have company during these long, sleepless nights. She wished he hadn't seen her cry, wished desperately that it hadn't ever happened in the first place, but a part of her was glad it had. Her nerves weren't quite as frayed, nor was she so near the edge of her temper. It was nice having a modicum of control again.

Feeling rather more settled than when he'd entered the park to begin what he'd assumed would be a very long, solitary circuit, Tristan kept his peace, content for the moment with the fact that Pansy had returned at all to find his company. She was at an especially merciful fringe of his life, where there was no great emotional chasm, nor sharp and delving questions for which he possessed few answers and scant reign over his own pain. Her sheer bluntness was refreshing, in a way, as he had no worry that he would offend or distance her unwittingly; he would surely know, and almost immediately, were he to manage either.

The latter thought provoked a low, wry chuckle, and he glanced briefly to the fair face and dark eyes of his companion, doubting highly that 'refreshing' was a word anyone, but particularly she, would ever apply to him.

"What is it you're laughing at then? Me?" she queried, tone curious though calm. Somewhere along their path, she'd found some semblance of peace. Were it not for the slight chill and the smell of the fresh cut green tinting the air, she might almost imagine she was home in her solarium turned greenhouse, or perhaps lounging in one of the overstuffed sofas in her boudoir.

"Mm... No, I should like to think I might know better, or at least than to admit it. Myself, as much as anything, I suppose," Tristan answered, lips still twitching at the corners. He studied Pansy's profile a few beats longer, eventually posing the question that was dancing around the edge of his consciousness. "Likely though it is to be an exercise in humility on my part, I confess to curiosity. How would you describe me, Pansy?"

Pansy looked at him, the question drawing her full focus. Her brows knit together slightly. It was such an odd query; it left one open to a plethora of stings, though she supposed they were quite past that as she'd toppled her own walls not some weeks prior. What were a few probing questions in comparison?

"Well, to start you've giant hands and are irksomely tall," she said evenly, though some ire crept into her voice.

Eyes bright with amusement, Tristan nodded acceptance. "I need my hands, I'm afraid... I suppose I might stoop continually, but I feel it would be detrimental to my mood, and I think perhaps acting a surly bastard would not make me overly inviting company." Motioning with his free hand, he requested, "Do go on. What else am I, besides a giant?"

She eyed him, not sure if she liked the amusement dancing in his gaze. "You're also oddly noble for a Slytherin. It's decidedly disconcerting. And," she said, nose crinkling slightly in distaste, "you've a nasty habit of making the simplest thoughts the most complex of discourses. You're very lucky I had the best of tutors else I'd have no patience for your company." Pansy sniffed.

Laughing aloud, Tristan spun them in a quick circle simply because he felt like it, the hand not already under Pansy's grasp going to her opposite arm to steady her. "Irksomely tall, disconcertingly noble, and nastily verbose. Very succinctly put."

Her summation was oddly appealing; it was her nature to find fault and outline it, but he could not make himself offended even by her phrasing. Besides, he had asked.

When she was steady on her stiletto boots once again, she eyed him suspiciously. "I'm half tempted to add mad as a hatter to that list," she said doubtfully.

He was annoyingly tall, though her heels made it less of a strain on her neck to look up at him. There was good cheer in his face and mien and she had to wonder at him and the pleasure he seemed to derive from her barbs. "Perhaps a masochist as well," she mused, "though that is more comforting for our House's familiarity with it."

"Only a little," Tristan countered at once, "though if there is comfort in it, imagine what you will... And you knew the first already; I told you as much weeks ago."

He could not explain his pleasure in her assessment, even to himself, but it was there nonetheless, and bizarrely uplifting in its presence. Few and rare were individuals to whom he would even name his condition, far less joke about it, but Pansy had never seemed bothered by the admission, and given that she knew, there was no reason to avoid speaking of it.

Even in the darkness, Pansy could tell his eyes were bright, fevered with it. Not in a way that had her concerned, but in a way that pricked at her own energy. Like they should be doing something, something other than standing in the middle of a deadly quiet park.

"I do think if I got you dead drunk just this moment, that you'd happily dance around a roaring bonfire, widdershins, to put the winter to rest and welcome a new season. Or perhaps you should toss yourself about like a damn fool on one of your brooms you love so very much," she said, dark eyes watching the slight turns of his expression. "I do think, Tristan Bole, that you are arrested by more than insomnia this witching hour." Her lips twitched. "Perhaps a tricksy fairy is having her way with you, hmm?"

Brow raising at the suggestion put to him, Tristan sobered slightly, pointing out, "I'm a schizophrenic, Pansy, not faerie-addled... I've been flying tonight already, and I suppose I cannot contest your first challenge, though I should pose that there is a hole in your plan, as I do not drink." The mere scent of scotch, truth be told, turned his stomach, though once he had considered himself something of a connoisseur.

"I'd call you a spoil sport, but neither do I, in truth. A glass of wine here and there, but I do not care for the effects of it," Pansy agreed, settling slightly as the edge of restlessness tinting the air abated. She glanced up at him, curious, and their gazes met. "Schizophrenic? Do you hear voices then?"

Courting the edge of forcibly dropping the subject, the thought a distinct low after the unexpected tear of his upbeatness, he watched Pansy for a time, light eyes deeply intent on her inquiring features. "No," he said succinctly, camaraderie and patience lingering to soften his tone, for now.

"Hmm." Pansy wondered what it must be like to have reality altered in any way, but she did not probe deeply down that line of thought. Such was a possibility for any of their blood. Purity was imperatively important, but some lines had not done so well to mix with the others. Mental instability was much too common for Pansy's liking, even in her own family, for her to truly want to dwell on the subject.

They'd walked sometime in silence again, however, and when Pansy became aware of herself and their surroundings once more, she realized they had traveled some distance. The quiet seemed to have chased away whatever spark of energy had been in her nighttime companion as well. He was subdued, as was she, now.

Realizing she was quite rid of whatever restlessness had ridden her most the night, she glanced up at Tristan, eyes scanning his profile framed against the moon just then. "I should like to go home now, and I should also like to hear what has become of Princess Elianora and the dragons."

"Very well," Tristan granted, arranging that their next steps deposited them in the foyer of Beaumaris, rather than the edge of the lake in Regent's Park. "Your sitting room, then?" he questioned, though he doubted there was anywhere else she would willingly spend time in the house besides her solar.

Oddly... disappointing... as it was to be bereft of the overriding cheer that had infected him earlier, he was quite content with the idea of watching a fire and spinning tales for Pansy. It suited his present frame of mind, and might trick her into sleeping for a while.

"Mmm," Pansy hummed in the affirmative, already moving up the stairs ahead of him. She was in an odd mood, but listening to Tristan spin tales had a strangely soothing effect on her. Despite herself, she found that she was looking forward to the story that never seemed to end.

They'd only spent the evening in her sitting room once before, but they both drifted to 'their own' overstuffed wing-back chairs. The fire was already crackling merrily - her elves knew how to please their Mistress - and she was contentedly silent as she began unzipping her boots.

Stretching his 'irksomely tall' frame before the heat of the fire, enjoying the simple pleasure of a comfortable chair and some form of rest for too many kinds of weariness, Tristan was quiet as Pansy completed what was obviously a familiar routine. Her outer layers were shed systematically, left in a heap beside her chair, and though it was tempting to banish the articles to their proper places, he refrained, folding his hands placidly across his middle, elbows resting on the arms of his chair.

"We'd just settled the mutual aid treaty with the dragons, yes?" he asked rhetorically, sorting back through the web of information that made of the world of Pansy's storyland. "Meaning that our beleaguered couple might now manage to marry."

"It shouldn't be too easy," Pansy said as she sunk further into the cushions, bare feet hanging over the arm of the large chair near the fire. "Nothing is easy," she added as an afterthought a she continued to stretch and burrow.

"Some things, but very few," Tristan countered. Elaboration on the subject of love would likely be both unwelcome and inappropriate, and he kept his peace, turning instead to the fantastic world he'd created for her amusement. "Also, the word 'might' was used, meaning an indefinite situation. There are, after all, dragons involved."

Half his mouth twitched in a smirk as he watched Pansy contort herself into the chair, somewhat less surprised at her ability to do so now that he had firsthand knowledge of how small she actually was. "Said dragons, incidentally, now control a portion of the unicorn homelands, which I forsee as rather problematic, given that the usual relationship between the two has been 'snack-er', and 'snack-ee'."

Pansy's lips twitched, a smirk turning her features as she found his gaze. Her own was upside down now, her hair brushing to floor. Her mother and father had loathed her propensity to sprawl. She knew how to sit like a lady; it'd been drilled into her, quite literally at times, but for pure comfort, Pansy had always been something of a cat when in her own space.

"I think I'd be a 'snack-er'," she said, amused.

"I would imagine so, yes." Certain of her prey might not even complain of such a thing. "I should think, though, that you would have the presence of mind not to go about snacking on unicorns, if not for the political ramifications, then at least the indigestion. Those horns must be quite unpleasant."

Catching the light in the dark eyes regarding him, Tristan allowed a quick smile before continuing. "Young dragons being what they are, however, it was hardly a full cycle of the sun before the Princess found unicorns in her audience chamber, in uproar over the treaties laying them neatly under claw of the 'beasts'."

"Mmm. Even fanciful tales have politics." Her lips turned slightly as she held his gaze.

One eyebrow arched, Tristan pointed out, "There would not be very much story, else." He'd deliberately left himself a number of avenues to explore, based on her mood, and he cataloged them quickly as he watched her.

"Too true. Do continue, master of tales." The mood had been odd most the evening from her own pique and pride to his uncharacteristic energy to the dampening of all into something that felt very different and not quite comfortable. Just now, however, in her own home and sliding into a more familiar activity, Pansy found herself relaxing easily.

"As you wish." Pansy's dismissive attitude provoked a small smile, and Tristan made himself comfortable, intending to take full advantage of his ability to lull the feisty woman to sleep.


SUMMARY: Tristan and Pansy have a reconciliation of sorts. They find it an odd experience.