closed.

[jalan]

WHO: Daenerys Targaryen and Arthur Pendragon.
WHERE: Heropa.
WHEN: Right now!!
WHAT: They go jogging. That's it that's the log.
WARNINGS: Everyone's cute, here.

Daenerys arrives readier than one might expect, in good running shoes, coordinated figure-hugging athletic wear of breathable microfibre mesh panels in fashionable slate grey, her hair tamed back into a single silver braid. Barely visible in the dawn light, the imPort tattoo signals her as a registered hero.

None of this makes her any better at sustained jogging than the next royal.

But she has energy, and a competitive streak, and the air is still cool from the evening at this hour, filling her lungs as they make their casual run down empty sidewalks. There will be hours, still, before she must make an appearance at work, and the only rush she is in is seeing that her bouncing steps keep pace with Arthur's, while her braid swings like a restless pony's tail. Her mind might be elsewhere, if she were not so conscious of the burn of her breath in her lungs and the songs of protest plucking at her ligaments.

She glances at her current companion, judging his pace and stamina against her own. They're very nearly at the end of their route, which is something of a small mercy. Nevertheless, by the time they close on the final corner, the innercity green in sight, she launches off into a full run.

Comments

[jalan]

Incredulous look is met with one that agrees without mirroring it, eyes crinkled at the corners and smile mild. They speak of wounding things, but things that have been given time to heal or to scar, variously. That, and Daenerys knows that as far as her own stories go, this is merely the phantom that heralds the rest.

She suspects the same of Arthur. The past catching up to someone is always a story in itself.

Perhaps the rest can wait for a pilates session.

"I suppose so," Daenerys agrees, on that note. "But I can't imagine that revelations as to your lineage likewise came as a courtesy. I've had a long time to get used to the idea."

[hardcut]

"It was a weird day," he confirms, exhaling in a laugh because-- understatement of the century, which is obvious. Arthur's not trying to downplay anything, it's just all fucking crazy. What can he say? Not cough up the whole tale. A dozen reasons, but biggest of all, it just doesn't feel necessary.

In time, maybe. (Almost certainly.)

Arthur pushes a hand through his hair, rubs the back of his neck. It's brighter out now, morning coming through in full force. More people are milling about, cutting through the park on their way to work or enjoying their own early strolls.

"We gotta figure out what else we have in common," he tells her, a softer smile tugging at his mouth. "'Murdered royal parents' is a bit much for chat at the pub. We'll need to sort-- food allergies and rude limericks."

[jalan]

She smiles, a sudden kind of brightness when Daenerys is often all subtlety — but she also, more often than not, finds it impossible to govern her expressions, so a smile it is. "Misfortunes with automobiles," she suggests. "Those we knew, of home, and miss."

There's relief to be had in coming to an understanding so early. She'd waited long with Sam Merlotte, had veered from disaster with Gwen Wynne-York over shopping and wine to ensure she didn't trip over the tangled web that is Westeros, had wielded it like a tool in gaining something like alliance with Dr Chilton, and with so many others, spoke only lightly of the shadows of the world she came from.

Everyone has their own mad story, of course. Hers only seems to touch so much of the life she had, before America.

"Have you anyone here, from your world?"

[hardcut]

Daenerys has a staggeringly top quality smile, some half-subconscious part of Arthur's brain notes and files away; for someone who holds herself with such presence and grace it seems a little like stacking the deck unfairly. Maybe she just doesn't crack ear-to-ear ones that often. Which is an unfortunate potential.

Arthur laughs lowly about misfortunes with automobiles. Yep, that sure is a thing. "Horses stop when you tell 'em to most of the time," he faux-complains. "Cars don't ever stop when you tell 'em to." Major design flaw, in his opinion.

The ease with which they push away from heavy discussion - lacking in any stumbling awkwardness or forced-polite apologies - is bolstering. He could easily confirm his identity to any of the people making jokes about Merlin or what-have-you at him, but there's been something about the thought of it that's made him ornery about it. The feeling of being a zoo animal, perhaps. In contrast, his footing is sure, here. They're on an even keel and he's as real as she is.

"If there is anyone, I'm not aware of it." Arthur shrugs. "I don't know everybody from my world. But there's no-one I've found that I recognize, no. You, though - I reckon you've got company."

[jalan]

The similarities between horses and cars and the driving thereof cannot be over-emphasised, but. She's yet to experience a horse-on-horse collision, so there's obviously something to it.

"I do," she confirms, the sound and motion of a leashed dog getting a glance from her as it goes by. As the morning lurches into peak hour, she is aware she should be headed towards her place of employment. But then again, if she's late, what are they going to do: fire her? "Most of them are strangers to me, save through reputation."

Advisers of Usurpers, daughters of enemies. It isn't light conversation, either, but given what she's told him of her own situation, it can likely be divined without her having to draw a diagram.

"Ambassador Baelish of Maurtia Falls, was the first of our world to come here. I was the third. There seems to be a new one each moon, only to vanish just as often."

She isn't sure what it is about her world that seems to intrigue the Porters so, but it only reinforces her view as to the strange temporariness of this place. It doesn't make her sad, but it does ring an odd note within her. She has friends here, now, for better or worse.

[hardcut]

Arthur makes a thoughtful noise, indeed guessing that maybe persons worthy of reputations are persons she might not be thrilled to see. He's not sure it would be the same for him - he knows the names of plenty of royals and lords in Europe, but hasn't met many. The chances of more than the ones nearby in England having heard what befell Vortigern and who replaced him are slim. It'd make them ships passing in the night, here, and he thinks he'd be all right with that.

"Maybe whatever magic - excuse me, 'science' - runs those things is trying to compensate for the overwhelming number of people from something like Earth instead of your Westeros, but is really bad at it."

Nothing with godlike powers can be infallible, after all. Even gods.

He adds lightly, "I met Baelish. What a weirdo."