Welcome to Gaia! ::

The first half of his whine was easily cut off, and he sat still and patient as Maebe worked his hair and lectured him. Self conscious, he twisted his cap in his hands and prayed his hair didn't smell as bad as it was capable of being; it easily grew oily even when he wasn't sweating up a storm. Dawson had a sensitive head, but he squeezed his hat and twitched his eye and chewed the inside of his cheek rather than make a noise to interrupt her.

His comfort zone was the middle, the average, the C+ of settling. He knew he was safe and good, but he also knew that could easily translate to uncreative and boring, and that was why he never upselled himself. Why propose the median to someone? What Maebe talked about, though, were the extremes beyond his admittedly narrow horizons, the risks he claimed he knew about but had never honestly taken. He tried to picture it all—the reflection, the free spirit, the sensation of bare hands touching without embarassment, the silent knowledge in locked eyes—and grew equal amounts of flustered, curious, and unsure. This existed, he knew that in the distant way he knew there were countries with completely different cultures outside the United States, but he had never had someone openly describe it before. Even before she kissed his ear and whispered to it, his cheeks were aflame; somehow, this felt intimate.

Or this could just be him being a big naive baby again, he wasn't sure.

Dawson didn't know what to say for a few moments. He hrmmed as proof he was listening and rubbed a rosy cheek. "Shiiiit. Y'sure got a way with words," he managed after a while. That had to mean something. Maebe already was good with words, but the intensity behind this lot had to be because what she was leaving used to be Good. Dawson remembered the broken look she has worn so briefly in her room, the way she had torn herself just to try and get field it. He wondered how well she really was coping with this, and his smile faltered.

"F'I didn' know better, though, I'd say yer talkin' 'bout love too," he ventured.

"Yeah..." He was distracted by the shivers she caused, the way his fingers individually squeezed his hat, and the ongoing worry about the smell in the background. Dawson had never been particularly eloquent, but the combination of sensation and spoken word left him uncertain how to even respond beyond blushing like an idiot.

Eventually he remembered himself and chuckled as he toyed with a braid himself. "Now I too can be a beauteous princess," Dawson declared with a grin. "Hold up." After an extra wipe on his pants, he reached for his phone in his pocket and turned the camera on. "C'mon," he coughed and switched to a more enunciated generic UK accent, "let us commence with the self portraits, Lady Bertrand."

Dawson took a lot more than just several, and he made each shot count. Maebe's thought that he seemed to be more cartoonish than real was well-founded: his expressions were greatly exaggerated throughout, most especially with the the wet willy that ended it all as he fell over to avoid it with a small cry. His phone slipped from his grasp and landed safely on a pile of napkins and fries.

"My word! Lady Grace!" he swooned as he cleaned his ear out with a scandalized look. "Show some composure!"

A not so composed, "Fffffffuuuuuuuuuu I-I surrender! White flag! Uncle! Gahck!"

Dawson gave one last wiggle for dramatic effect, then fell limp under his conqueror. Incapable of getting up, he instead peeled one arm off to salute Maebe and tried very hard not to laugh.

"Sir Grace Bertrand wants t'ask his lady a favor," he said. "He asks she, uh...allows him t'take a knee first by lettin' him up. Then she's free to ask him t'do whatever t'save the kingdom."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Dawson rolled over and onto his knees, rubbing his tummy with a wince. "Thank ya. Uh..." He retrieved his hat and put it on, though once he got into the proper one-knee posture, he took it off again and pinned it to his chest as he bowed his head; at least he didn't have to worry about his cowlick, as Maebe's braids were still going strong.

After a solid eight seconds, Dawson relaxed and looked up. "Alright, hon--er, m'lady. Watcha want yer knight doin'?"

His eyes practically shined with an eagerness to please. "Yessum!" He almost nodded, except Maebe was touching him and that would have been Very Rude. Carefully, Dawson slipped from her grasp and looked around, quickly becoming embarrassed. Mess indeed.

Slapping his cap back on, he began to group used napkins into the bag he had previously used for trash. "You wanna keep anythin'?" he asked. "There's still cinnamon apple pie fer dessert too."

If there was one thing that could motivate Dawson even more than pleasing someone, it was the prospect of food. With another smart salute aimed her way, he quickly began to shepherd the remaining food and unused napkins onto one single platter while tossing out the rest.

"Kinda! Depends on what kinda food ya mean," he replied as he worked. "Basic stuff fer sure, y'know, like noodles n' veggie omelettes n' parm chicken n' stuff. N' I know Papa's secret recipe fer seasonin' meat too."