FicWad

Sometime during the night she dreamed. It had to have been a dream, because the people in it were not so much people as they were figures bathed in light. The odd thing was that they were speaking another language. The even odder thing was that Stella understood every word as if it were her native English.

Unfortunately, she had no idea what that language was. It didn't sound like the Germans (she'd grown up living down the road from a German family) and it didn't sound like the Italians. Well, vaguely Italian? No, she reconsidered. Definitely not Italian.

There were two figures in her dream. They were sitting on benches near the edges of a white plaza of sorts - there were tall pillars and columns all around and a fountain in the center of a man with a fish tail. He was in the process of upchucking water through a conch shell into the base of the fountain. He apparently had an endless supply of water in his stomach and she was very thankful he was spitting, instead of pissing. It was supposed to be stylized and artistic, probably, but Stella had never held that sort of "art" in high regard.

The first figure was gold, the second white. That was how she was able to tell them apart. The white figure might have had wings, but for all the glow, she was unable to really tell.

"What are you going to do with the girl?" the gold figure asked. When the white figure failed to respond, it went on. "It" had a pleasant, almost musical tenor voice, so Stella classified "it" as "he." "She's going to be a handful."

Finally the white figure replied. "I haven't decided yet. That's why I'm asking you about her." This voice was just as musical, yet so damned androgynous that Stella gave up and classified it as "it."

"Why ask me about her? You brought her."

Her? Brought her? What? Ah, way to be subtle subconscious, she thought with an irritated huff. Neither glowing figure seemed to notice that.

"I brought her because I think she is..." There was a pause from the white figure and then a word in the language that Stella was not able to understand. It was mumbled and imprecise and it frustrated her to no end.

You think she's what? What am I? Huh?

"I see," the gold figure (man?) replied with a thoughtful nod of his brow (at least, she assumed it was the brow - the upper part of the glow seemed to tip down for a brief moment).

"Am I right?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Why not?" The androgynous voice of the white figure took on a whine and she could almost swear it was pouting at its companion. The gold figure sighed and what was probably a hand attached to an arm was raised to rub at what could have been a temple. She wanted to giggle. After a moment: "Fine. Don't tell me. You don't have to. Just tell me if she can stay."

Another long pause ensued and the gold figure did not remove his hand from his head. Ah, the universal body language for "I have a headache and you're not helping." That, Stella had no trouble reading - even if the whole body was blurred and all gold. "...She can stay," the gold man said finally. "If she consents."

"Good." The white figure was mollified. "I want to know where he is before I go any further with this. It's dangerous otherwise."

Finally the "I have a headache" hand was dropped and there was a nod from the gold figure. The top bit of that form bobbed anyway. "Agreed. She can stay with the /Mousai/."

"They'll get along famously. She might introduce this new feminism going around," the white figure said with a laugh.

"Don't tease. It's a fever that's already been caught."

"I'm sure your sister is having a field day."

"Which sister?"

"All of them." The white figure stood and turned to face his companion. "Thank you, /Loxias/. Hopefully, we'll see you soon."

"Soon enough, little bird," the gold figure replied and also stood. Some very complicated formalities were being exchanged here, Stella realized. The way they stood, the way their hands moved, kissing on the cheeks (she'd learned from one of the other speakeasy girls that the cheek-kissing was a French thing). All these little things were adding up to more of the conversation - finalizing some sort of unspoken deal. The body language was ten - a hundred times more important than any words spoken.

Huh...

She woke up moments later, naked under the silken cover of the hotel bed. She sat up and pulled the sheets up over her chest for modesty's sake, blinking into the morning sun shining in through the curtains and rubbing her eyes. The water was being drained in the bathroom. Obviously, Dimitri was still around. She ignored him for the time being, though she couldn't help the passing, almost curious thought to the night before. He'd actually listened when she told him to keep his hands to himself. That was almost as kooky as the dream. What a strange...

But it was only a dream. Her subconscious (she learned fancy words in the city!) had always liked to play games on her. When she was a little girl, she'd dreamed of having butterfly wings or soaring on the back of a giant eagle. Nothing had ever come of the dreams then, so she didn't expect much now.

She did, however, expect her companion from the night before to be wearing something when he came out of the bathroom.

She was sorely disappointed.

"Good morning," was Dimitri's only (and very sleepy) greeting as he rubbed a towel through his hair. The towel was the only thing he had on.

"Er..."

"It is early still," he said, not seeming to notice her discomfort. Unfortunately, she couldn't keep her eyes to herself. "You still need dress. I am sorry yours was ruined last night in sewers. I will have a new one sent up shortly. What is your size?"

Stella blinked and then tipped her head to the side. He had to be pulling her leg... but he had been the cause of the destruction of a decent dress and he seemed honest enough, not that him being honest meant anything. She rattled off her size - small enough to be petit, but large enough to give some room for her hips. She was on the curvy side, but everyone including her liked that just fine.

"You can wear one of my long shirts until package arrives," he said, dropping the towel in a chair and going to the dresser near the window. He pulled out a long white shirt and held it out to her. "If you like, I can arrange for lodging for you."

"Lodging?" she asked as she took the shirt and slipped it on. It was a chore to do while trying to keep covered with the sheet, but she managed it without showing him much of the goods.

"Unless you want to go back to speakeasy."

"Well, I'd planned on it."

"To drink and smoke opium."

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing."

He shrugged. "It is not," he said. "It is a thing to do if you want." There was a pause and he glanced over at her. "You are dancer, yes?"

She nodded.

"Dancer is not a whore for life of prostitution," he said. "Unless that is what you want."

She bit her lip. "I never said that I wanted /that/!"

"But you offer me," he pointed out and then paused. "You are still virgin."

She felt her face flush and she was suddenly angry at him. "Hey! How did you --"

He shrugged again. "Was good guess. You move unsure like virgin, talk too tough. Virgins are prize for boss. I am good customer at speakeasy. This is why federal agents broke down door instead of your boss' men with guns." He smiled at her. He had a very radiant, charming little grin. "We start with new dress and go from there, yes?

She covered her legs with the sheet and then drew her legs up to her chest and leaned against the headboard. "Yeah, you can buy me a new dress," she said, but couldn't help adding, "asshole."

He smiled at her. "There are worse things to be called."

"Good," she shot back. "'Cause I'm gonna call you an asshole. That's your new name Dimitri. Asshole."

"Has ring to it."

She glowered from behind her knees. "Do you ever get upset?" she asked.

"I try not to," he said. "It is bad for heart."