It's still snowing a little, and Arty is one of the only ones left here to enjoy it. He's retreated deep inside the park, where he's less likely to be bothered by self-righteous adults (ahem) who tell him things he doesn't want to hear.

Having moved on from catching snowflakes and examining them, he's hunched over a small drift on his hands and knees, scraping together snow with his bare hands to make snowballs. There are streaks of mud and grass in them, and no one around to throw them at. There is, however, a large tree that he's been using for target practice.
(His aim is terrible.)

Enrique is taking a stroll. You might call him a creature of the night, but he's not so limited a predator. Nor is his entire life centered upon hunting - just mostly.

He is taking a stroll, because he wants to, and because he's bored, and because he's feeling just a trifle pensive. (He met an angel the other day, but the angel smelled of human, and it just didn't make sense.)

Oh, hello.

He knows you.

Tempting, tempting...

A snowball, wet and cold and heavy, catches Arty in the back of the head.

He catches himself on his hands and does an awkward sort of stumble that ends up with him sitting behind the small pile of snowballs he's made, facing Enrique.
Cue moment of fearful recognition.
He hasn't even stopped to brush the snow out of his hair or direct a curse in Enrique's direction. He just grabs one of the snowballs and chucks it the demon in return.
"Go away."

"I have as much right to be in the park as you do."

He dodges. So there. (It isn't hard. Arty's aim really is terrible.)

"There's no crowd to call for help this time."

Arty throws another.

"That's what you think."
There's got to be someone here within yelling range.
(Right? Please say right.)
"Back off, I haven't even done anything to you yet."

"Nor I to you."

He ducks this second snowball and crouches down to make another one of his own.

"Your suspicion wounds me."

Hah, no.

"You hit me with a snowball," he says sulkily, ducking low over the little barrier of snowy projectiles.

(He is looking frantically around for any sign of life. As soon as he finds it, he'll call for them - but not before. He's not going to purposely annoy Enrique until he's sure he can get away with it.)

"Yes, well, you nearly got me mobbed. So we're even."

Enrique is also looking around for signs of life, but he would like to point out that he hasn't done anything to the boy, whatever he says.

Anything he's done in the past, well... there's no proof.

"You broke my arm."
Dislocated it, actually. There's a difference.

Arty sticks his tongue out at the incubus.

"We're not even for that."

"I did not."

He sticks his tongue out back.

"Learn your injuries, boy. And I beg to differ."

He got turned into a human, briefly. That's more than enough to make up for a dislocated shoulder.

Hmph.

Arty has been kept completely unaware of that, actually, for fear he'd go and do something stupid.

"What're you talking about?"
The boy wrinkles his nose.
"I didn't get you back for that."

"Maybe not, but Violet certainly tried."

He makes a face.

"I should think that a few weeks as a human was more than enough."

And being raped - or at least, having sex with very dubious consent on his part - also was unpleasant.

But he won't mention that.

"What are you talking about?"

Arty is growing steadily more confused as the seconds pass.

"She didn't do anything."
And if she did, no one told him!

He lifts an eyebrow.

"She never told you? Huh."

He packs a snowball meditatively.

"She cursed me so I couldn't feed. My lord turned me briefly into a human to counteract it, so I wouldn't starve."

"No, she didn't. You're making that up."

Confident, isnt he?

"Violet doesn't know any magic."

"Oh ho?"

He throws the snowball, not aiming at Arty, but over his head.

"Why don't you ask her?"

He ducks anyway.

"I will," he says defiantly, returning fire.

"And she'll tell me you're lying. So there."

"Oh, I doubt it."

Slow grin. He can mess with Arty's head without even touching him.

"Then again, maybe she was just playing puppet for that grouchy professor fellow. Barclay, I think?"

Arty's eyes widen momentarily - she wouldn't do that.
...But if she didn't have a choice...

"What'd you do to him that he'd be after you, then?" he demands.

"Not a bloody clue."

Pause.

"Well, I am dating his ex-boyfriend, but that came later."

Hmph.

"Yeah, that'd prob'ly do it," he snorts.

For the record, he is not sympathizing with Enrique.
It's just that he happens to know very well how Dr. Barclay tends to overreact.

"...Whoever did it, you prob'ly deserved it."

"As far as I know, he only found out a week ago, so no, I don't think that's what did it."

Shrug.

"Anyway, you're one to talk. I'm surprised you weren't killed before me."

He examines his nails.

"Especially if you pulled that sort of stunt on other people."

"I wasn't killed before you 'cause most people aren't psychopaths," Arty grumbles.

Ooh, touchy subject.

"And they can take a joke. Not like you."

"Mm. I can take a joke, if it's actually funny. That, little boy, was not funny."

It was decidedly unfunny, in fact, and quite irritating.

Not to mention expensive in the cleaning up.

He lets the 'little boy' slide. Just this once.

"Yeah, well, I didn't hurt you. At all." Huff. "I was just joking around."

Enrique is at least a century his senior. He's allowed to call him 'little boy.'

"You cost me a great deal of money, time, and inconvenience. I call that harm. What do you call it?"

The faery never did quite get the concept of malicious vandalism, did he?

"Fun," Arty says defiantly, and lobs another snowball in the incubus' general direction.

...He really ought to stick to things requiring finer movements. The larger ones seems to escape him.

"So..." Dodging the snowball, yet again.

"Let's just say, for the sake of illustration, that I came into your home and destroyed as many of your things as I could get my hands on. Would you still say that?"

He thinks Arty is stupid. By the way.

Arty just shrugs.

"Iunno. Dave 'n Vi would probably be mad, though."
He's not tryng to be aggravating (just to note). He simply doesn't put a lot of importance in objects. Either they're fun, useful, or boring - and they all wear out after a while, anyway.

"Mm."

Shrug.

"Someday, little boy, you're going to have a home of your own, and things you cherish, and then I'm going to break in and destroy them."

Or probably not. He won't care, or know Arty at all, by then.

"Yeah, whatever."

Oh joy, another poorly-aimed snowball.
And another.

"Go away."

There's still no one else around, and it makes him jittery.

"Why should I?"

He bends down and makes another snowball.

"Would you run crying home to Violet if I hit you in the face with a snowball?"

"'Course not," Arty snaps, highly offended.

He doesn't cry.
And if he goes to Violet, it's only because he has some very pressing questions to ask about events that he may have recently missed.

"Oh good."

And he throws the snowball, aiming for Arty's face.

That's bound to be a bit painful. Ow.

Getting hit in the face with a snowball thrown by an ordinary human hurts.
One would think that getting hit by a snowball thrown by an incubus would hurt a bit more.

The frosty projectile htis its target, and Arty clutches at his face, hurriedly wiping the clumps of snow away.
...He thinks he might have actually gotten instant frostbite from that.
Ow.

"Jerk," he growls.

"Brat."

He smiles sunnily.

"Have a good day, little boy." No, he doesn't remember what Arty's new name is, if he ever knew it at all.

"See you around."

"Asshole."
He is still busy wiping snow off his face.
...He can't feel the side of his face that the snowball hit. (He will soon, and it will sting.)

"Gods, I hope not. Do us all a favor and get hit by a truck."

Mutter, mutter, mutter...