( hesitating a moment, eventually the corners of bee's mouth curve up in a smile, the muscles in her cheeks unused to moving in such a way, but his acceptance of her is a gift and her smile is the gift she offers in return. privately, she thinks sanji more represents the queen mother kettricken, tall and fair-haired and blue-eyed, but the only memory bee has of her is her pitying look to bee's too large bassinet, not insisting on officially adding her to the royal bloodline and accepting her role as princess, because. well, no one thought bee would live more than a few days, and after her years of life, had never bothered to check back in. she prefers sanji to be her kin, wholly — even if bee knows who she actually resembles, and doesn't much care for the comparison.
in any case, she watches him owlishly while he eats, waiting to see disapproval or disgust on his face, and instead finding herself shyly happy that he seems to like his cake. it's orange flavored, sprinkled with lime zest, a recipe she uncomfortably asked someone in market for, her eyes on their feet, trying not to enunciate her words too oddly. well worth the social effort now to see sanji eat it. her own fork dips into the softer insides sanji unveiled, happily eating the sweet cake — more of a luxury at home than it seems to be here.
at his question, bee perks, staring at him and then pointedly away, as if lying. her several eyes swivel back to him, throat bobbing on a swallow. ) Yes. I only dream of the future.
( the wolf in her is displeased by her offering of information. bee frowns, eyes drooping to the cake, fork scooping up a frosting bee and buzzing it around in a lazy spiral. she's really not used to adults taking her dreams seriously. she's never had to explain them before, because no one, except for villains, have ever wanted to know. )
They are not to be trusted, in how you hope they would be. Mostly, the dreams are there to look back on when something happens, to say, "yes, maybe I did see that coming." Or maybe it hadn't happened yet, and you will say it again when the next thing happens. It is very imprecise. ( blinking back to him, she eats the bee with a babyish suck. ) But I do dream of you often. Or, what I imagine to be you. Sometimes in the shape of a mouse or a fox. Once, you were like a blue ribbon, with one frayed edge, and one whole side — once, too, I saw you like a knife with gilded handle so fine, it looked to be from something of a different age entirely. Once, I saw you like a seed, with a curling sprout from your shell with three dangling drops of dew, and only one fell. ( rambling, she frowns, setting her fork down and gesturing with her hands, like grabbing the words out from the space in front of her, wrestling with herself, before sighing and looking at sanji rather pitifully, hands pressing flat on the table ) I know what it is you want to know, but I do not have much to tell you. If I do not speak my dreams, I get very sick, so I started to write them down in the dirt because I had no paper fine enough to house them, and no one could read them. Like this. ( she writes invisible words on the table with the tip of one food dye colored finger, there and then gone. ) I do not want my dreams to be used to change the world. I could speak them to you, but ... they are tricky, like sifting your fingers through silt and hoping for gold. You might find nothing. You might find something not meant for you, nor what grows inside you. You see? What if I speak a dream and the dream hurt you? Then you would hate me.
( a put upon sigh — the most stressed, responsible nine year old there ever was. ) Maybe I do have something to tell you. If ... if you promise to believe me. And not doubt. And not tell anyone! It is a secret.
no subject
in any case, she watches him owlishly while he eats, waiting to see disapproval or disgust on his face, and instead finding herself shyly happy that he seems to like his cake. it's orange flavored, sprinkled with lime zest, a recipe she uncomfortably asked someone in market for, her eyes on their feet, trying not to enunciate her words too oddly. well worth the social effort now to see sanji eat it. her own fork dips into the softer insides sanji unveiled, happily eating the sweet cake — more of a luxury at home than it seems to be here.
at his question, bee perks, staring at him and then pointedly away, as if lying. her several eyes swivel back to him, throat bobbing on a swallow. ) Yes. I only dream of the future.
( the wolf in her is displeased by her offering of information. bee frowns, eyes drooping to the cake, fork scooping up a frosting bee and buzzing it around in a lazy spiral. she's really not used to adults taking her dreams seriously. she's never had to explain them before, because no one, except for villains, have ever wanted to know. )
They are not to be trusted, in how you hope they would be. Mostly, the dreams are there to look back on when something happens, to say, "yes, maybe I did see that coming." Or maybe it hadn't happened yet, and you will say it again when the next thing happens. It is very imprecise. ( blinking back to him, she eats the bee with a babyish suck. ) But I do dream of you often. Or, what I imagine to be you. Sometimes in the shape of a mouse or a fox. Once, you were like a blue ribbon, with one frayed edge, and one whole side — once, too, I saw you like a knife with gilded handle so fine, it looked to be from something of a different age entirely. Once, I saw you like a seed, with a curling sprout from your shell with three dangling drops of dew, and only one fell. ( rambling, she frowns, setting her fork down and gesturing with her hands, like grabbing the words out from the space in front of her, wrestling with herself, before sighing and looking at sanji rather pitifully, hands pressing flat on the table ) I know what it is you want to know, but I do not have much to tell you. If I do not speak my dreams, I get very sick, so I started to write them down in the dirt because I had no paper fine enough to house them, and no one could read them. Like this. ( she writes invisible words on the table with the tip of one food dye colored finger, there and then gone. ) I do not want my dreams to be used to change the world. I could speak them to you, but ... they are tricky, like sifting your fingers through silt and hoping for gold. You might find nothing. You might find something not meant for you, nor what grows inside you. You see? What if I speak a dream and the dream hurt you? Then you would hate me.
( a put upon sigh — the most stressed, responsible nine year old there ever was. ) Maybe I do have something to tell you. If ... if you promise to believe me. And not doubt. And not tell anyone! It is a secret.