tragic_mask | (no subject)

"Good plan... you've already got the time machine in the works, right?"

"I do," he nods. "It's not nearly done yet, but the beauty of time travel is that it doesn't have to be."

"Well, I certainly don't want to end up in 7th century Timbuktu," she says.

"It'd be a bit miserable living through that all the way up to the eighteenth century, when we'd finally be able to get replacement parts for the machine, wouldn't it?"

"It really would... So take your time on the machine," she says, patting his arm.

"We've got all the time in the world. And then some," he nods."

"True enough..." she says.

Someone with a megaphone is telling them to climb aboard the next boat, so she does.

He follows her onto the boat, collecting the much-vaunted 'free souvenir ponchos' on the way--little more than lightweight trash bags with neck openings and hoods.

"I have a feeling we're about to get soaked," he says.

She glances at them wryly.

"Well, we are here for the water, after all."

"We are," he says, putting his on. "Come on, let me get a 'before' picture of you. Or we can get someone to get a picture of both of us. Before we get water on the lens and everything else turns out blurry."

"Okay," she says, slipping her poncho over her head and leaning against the side of the boat, with a cheesy and winning smile. "How's this?"

Click.

He grins and sidles up next to her, holding the camera at arm's length to try to get a picture of the two of them together.

"Perfect. Let's see if we can get both of us..."

"This might be a disaster," she says, moving closer. "A picture of your arm and the seat."

"If it is, it's still going in the album," he says, and aims the camera as best he can.

Click.

"Take another, just for good luck," she says. "Don't want this pose to go to waste."

Click.

"You say that like we're never going to be this close again the entire trip," he chuckles, and gives her a kiss on the cheek.

"No, I meant the tourist's smile," she says, dropping the cheese after his second picture. "Makes my cheeks ache."

"Oh, but you should smile more," he says. "Maybe not the tourist's smile, but at least the sort of... when you're listening to someone who is so convinced they're the smartest person in the room, but they've got horrible grammar and misused a word that anyone past high school should know how to use, and they're still trying to convince you of their brilliance. That kind of smile."

"Oh, but I'm excellent at that sort of smile," she says, rewarding him with it now. It's quite scary, in a subtle way.

Click.

"I love that smile," he murmurs. "It may well be my favorite--but you've got so many wonderful ones."

"Well, it's one of my most practiced," she says, ducking (unsuccessfully) from the camera.

"You practice it?" he asks. "Maybe I should start. Mine always look vaguely stoned. I hate the way I look when I smile in pictures."

"It's a matter of muscle memory," she says. "I only practice when it's necessary... which seems to be quite often."

"But I like it," he says. "As long as it's not the 'You're an idiot but I have to be polite to you' smile, not directed at me."

"Oh, never," she says. "I wouldn't put up with you for very long, if you deserved that smile."