albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

I hadn't realized it was a job. [Poor Lucan did much for his sister's benefit (they all did in their own right) but no one met the mark as he did, and Galahad doubts any man ever will. Eventually someone will-- come close enough with a ring and a promise and a life beyond the blackwater-- more than he could give her in war or peace.

Until then, they have bloodstained hands on grey, dismal days.] Is this meant to be a covert assignment?

[There are figures coming across the length of the courtyard - she can see the smudges of their outlines through the fog. That will be a handful more Knights, likely enough to begin this meeting. There is little reason to remain out here in the cold and damp. Still, she lingers - tips her attention back to him.]

I hardly think that's necessary, though I'm willing to bow to your expertise.

That would be a first. [He sees them as she does, the others closing in before the council convenes. Most arrive early- it isn't necessarily abnormal or related to their given tasks- but Galahad isn't eager to carry on the rest of their conversation between greetings, and there's little pause before he moves to open the door for her; an invitation at least to get the both of them out of the rain.]

I'll have you know I was once described as a very willing pupil, thank you.

[Said, naturally, as she sweeps past him and through his courteously open door. Seems that's all the witty repartee for the morning though as once inside she makes no effort to pause inside the hall before proceeding across the polished marble floor toward the central chamber.

The rest of this conversation can wait. If G&S's track record persists, the opera isn't going anywhere soon.]

[It was all in jest. That was the mantra he repeated in his head as the meeting concluded and he returned home to change and wash properly, letting the servants tend to the matter of his damp, bloodied uniform and what puddles they've left behind. Combed hair, the scent of oil over gunpowder - years carved away to expose sharper features via simple grooming and the comfort of a feathered couch.

If he's lucky he might manage to reverse the damage that's been done: convince her to stay the evening for supper rather than a night out in the company of bloody thespians. The odds are slim, he knows, yet hope springs eternal as the clock ticks on at his back.]

[She has other matters to attend to with the resolution of the Council meeting - namely hunting, tracking and capturing a few precious hours of sleep. There will be another line of inquiry to attend to tomorrow morning, but for the remainder of the day she's free to hide herself away in the darkest room she can find in her father's house and doze. When she wakes again, it's late in the afternoon. The clock in the hall is chiming. She counts the bells - four - and then levers herself up.

There is a small series of tasks she must accomplish - writing a few notes, tending to a minor affair with a creditor, but the bulk of her time she finds consumed by standing and regarding a series of dresses and hats. She's worn most of them only once, and she thinks she might--

No, she hates them all. Instead she finds a pair of breeches, a clean shirt. There's no less care to this - no fewer layers to what constitutes as uniform -, but there's considerably more comfort even with the steel gorget. Resolved, she dons a coat and sets off on foot.

It isn't a long walk, but it's wet and dreary and the chill has found her by the time she lets herself in through the small gate, taking the two steps to the door of Grayson's apartments in a single stride. Her knock has all the urgency of preferring to be out of the weather.]

[He is (as she would be, were the tables turned) beyond her immediate vicinity, one of the servants instead perched at the ready sees to ushering her inside out of the cold. It's the distant sound of voices in an otherwise hollow home that ought to cue him in well before she's led to the parlor, but he's lost in deep, drowning sleep on the lounge by the time she's there at his side, staff apologetic for the mistake on their part to the tune of Sir Galahad's pinched up snoring, Combed back hair now out of place where the arm rest has pushed it forward to drape across the span of his brow.]

[She isn't terribly surprised to find him in such a disheveled state - he'd seen more action in the evening than she had and despite the cheek, there was some truth to the fact that he was hardly a fresh spring daisy. She'd slept most of the day away herself. No shame in him requiring an extra hour or two.

--Not that she'd ever dream of letting him know he had so much allowance. Instead she lifts her chin by a degree, shoots him a knowing sideways look and makes her way to one of the chairs near his poor settee. She makes to wave his staff away, though it's hardly her place.]

I'm glad to see you've been looking forward to my visit, Gray.

Mm. When did-- [Shit. How long has he been asleep? --How long has she been there? Galahad sits up, smearing one calloused palm across the span of his face, inhaling sharply enough to be audible in the dim, dreary surroundings. Barely recognizing them aside from the angles of her features, the scent of perfumed hair so vastly different from anything kept in his own house.] Forgive me, I meant to be a better host than this.

[She exhales out something of a laugh, all light and dismissive as she sways down into the armchair. Isabeau kicks one leg easily over the other, knee over knee - easy enough despite the distinctive lack of social grace on his part.]

I may eventually find it in myself to forgive you. In any case, I suspect your man is hurrying to the kitchen to put on a pot of tea as we speak. Not to worry, your blunder is being smoothed over for you.

[She's merciless about her teasing, but it's clear enough by the ease of her demeanor and the lightness of her expression that it's nothing more than that.]

Hnn. [That noise low in his throat, the one he always uses in place of a smile or laugh when the urge to respond fails to betray his gruff, rugged exterior. He manages to sit up, at least, still weary with sleep and the reluctance to rise that comes with old age, hand falling to her thigh-- use there above the knee so as not to be improper--with a weight that's all familiar and sincere; she's under no obligation to be so patient, given the circumstances. He would expect less from anyone else, and that Isabeau tolerates it (in spite of her teasing) translates to appreciation on his part, whatever her reasons.

There's the distant sound of clattering in the kitchen, however, and he suspects she's right.] It seems I'm a fortunate man for many reasons.

[She pats his hand in return. It is a brief point of contact, her hand calloused and his knuckles worn, and then it's gone and she's leaning to rest against the arm of the chair, fingers lacing idly.]

Well it's only taken you a handful of centuries, but I'm glad you've begun to realize it.

[That said, she's not about to let him fully recover; she might as well get as much advantage out of his half-sleep as she can. Let no one say she cannot recognize a strategic advantage when it all but falls into her lap.]

Now, I'm prepared to give you a half hour more but after that we'll need to be on our feet if we're to make the curtain.

[Small gestures, small comforts, all things beyond his station-- their long lives spent watching others flicker and extinguish, social fancies coming and leaving only to be replaced with something else what feels like a breath later-- he barely remembers the names of his own staff anymore, how little he sees of them before they're gone. So there's value in her hand across his knuckles, even where restraint has him hesitant at soft, informal gestures.

She is a wonder in her own right, and he has little claim to any of it.] Now I understand the words I've heard whispered in Westminster so often: you are cruel, Lady Igraine, dragging an old dog from his bed.

Do they really say that?

[She sounds, for lack of a better word, pleased by the whole idea. Not that she thinks it's true, of course. She smiles (a very small edge of teeth) and lifts her hand to set her chin over her knuckles, giving him an easy direct look. He's a sight - mussed and half-rested, his shirt rumpled. If they weren't brothers in arms, so to speak, his lack of a coat would be inconsiderate - too casual by far. But here they are. Someone would have to strike fifty years from the record before she thought to be embarrassed by the lack of care.]

They do indeed, I'm afraid. [Neck stretched back against the armrest, working actively to shake the ache from his bones. The pains comes more often these days, and he suspects as the years go on it'll only grow more pressing. Age is a curse, but one not devoid of pleasure or company, duty or honor; he wants for none of it, fortunate as he is. And, muscles shaken from their state, Galahad finally moves to right himself, careful not to jostle his companion in the process. Careful shifting, courteous measures.

His servant sets a tray beside them: hot tea, and pleasant little confections, though likely baked at least a day prior, given how infrequently the knight returns to his own home.] Another year and you'll take the Lord Chancellor's place, or so the rumors say.

[There. That makes her laugh - a hoarse, delighted noise that's at least half scoff. She leans forward to the tray, fetching up the small tongs and sets a cube of sugar into her cup. She does the same for the second cup - if she knows nothing else about the man, she at least is familiar with how Gray takes his tea - and pours the tea over.]

Another six hundred, perhaps. [She stirs his cup, leaving the small spoon in it as she passes it to him.] God forbid.

[Here, in some comfortable parlor not a significant walk from the shadow of Westminster, it isn't so difficult to be fine with the idea - that six centuries later they might both still be playing this game. But the world is changing - electricity and the automobile, Nikola's beautiful guns; she likes to think these things are carried by a wind of change. But she knows while down in the underground or sending her uniform to have the blood washed from it that even another hundred years of this feels-- tiring.]

You do yourself a disservice, being so humble, Lady Knight. [Chuckled softly under his breath as he leans forward to grasp his offered cup, content to take it however she's offered (correctly, it seems, once he's lifted the spoon and taken a sip). The future is ever uncertain, even for creatures so long-lived, but moments like this-- like the laughter and hard claps on the shoulder post meeting-- make it all more bearable than the endless strain of gunfire and blood. Swords and crossbows before that.]

Hardly. [She takes up her own cup. It's too hot to do more than take a cursory sip, but the cup is pleasantly warm already and the saucer gives her something to occupy her spare hand with.] I can't very well do anything else with my time if I'm the Lady Chancellor. I love my father very much, but the man's interests are dreadfully limited and his time is short. You attempt to cast me in a very narrow role, Sir Knight.

[She casts a sidelong look in his direction, all her emphasis on his title for amusement's sake. There are, she's certain, maybe not bigger things but certainly better ones to look forward to.]

And you, Gray? What role do you play in this fantasy of yours?

[Ever his mentor's dutiful student, it should come as no surprise that Gray idolizes the less glamorous roles. Were their duties likened to that of the operas she so enjoys, he'd be content to work behind the stage for the rest of his life, tearing down any hindrances to the performance rather than basking in applause every night. Exhales a throaty little noise at the rim of his cup, not minding the scalding heat or how it burns his tongue half as much as he should.] I would be as I am, Isi.

There is nothing else for me out there.

Edited 2015-11-17 13:41 (UTC)

Listen to yourself - you sound as if you've a foot in the grave.

[She all but snorts, fetching up one of the hard biscuits from the tray. The tea might be too hot to drink, but it's just fine for softening the crisp on the sweet's outside.]

If you're not careful, someone might think you were beginning to develop some myiopia in your old age. And then what good would you be in the field?

I've both feet planted exactly where they belong, love. [He sets his cup down on the side table, bare feet finding the floor at last as he leans in to sweep the crumbs from her chin with his thumb. Warmth and calloused skin, entirely gentle for hands that've broken bone, twisted flesh. The sort of gesture society would frown upon, but here there's familiarity to spare. Privacy, and friendship that leans towards something thicker than blood, he supposes.] Of that you can always be certain.

Edited 2015-11-19 08:15 (UTC)

[There's no idleness to the brush of his fingers - no one could misconstrue it as accidental -, but it still should hardly give her any kind of pause. She's naturally used to the lay of his hand, with or without the thick leather gloves he tends to wear while on patrol. This is hardly the first time he's touched her so just like this isn't the first time she's sat so near on his furniture. There should be no second thought to it, simple as that.

And yet-- by the brush of his fingers, she softens by a perceptible handful of degrees, her eye line shifting from his face to the angle of his elbow and the amused tilt to her mouth settling into something like contented. It lasts a moment, less then, before she's raising her glass finally and pressing the edge of the cup to her lips. She takes a sip, the tea still tingling with heat.]

What I'm certain of is that we'll be late if you don't put some effort into looking presentable soon. You should find your shoes and coat. -And don't think by going slowly about it on purpose that you'll work free of my trap.

[Stubborn as he is, Galahad's far from blind to the way her expression turns at the corner where his finger still rests, if only briefly. Were he less sincere in nature-- with the threat of a caged audience and pitched singing looming just overhead-- it would be easy to see how Lafayette so readily latched on to flattery.

Instead, he exhales, audible and tired, withdrawing to lean back against his chosen armrest.] At least you've finally admitted it.

And yet you're still barefoot.

[There gentleness in her face gives way for an arch sidelong look, her mouth hovering at the edge of her cup.]

If you'd rather not go, you just have to say so. I won't force you into something you hate.

[She says it easily, excessively mild though the moment it passes her lips, something in her chest winds tighter by a degree.]

Oh, Isi. [Tired, though good-humored judging by the way his mouth twists up at the corner as he abandons his tea and the comfort of his chosen post in favor of standing - ignores the creak of locked muscle and bone, rolling his shoulders as he goes. Angles his chin down towards her, looking back without complaint.]

There is nothing about your company that I hate. [Which is the chaste truth, and nothing but; Grayson doubts she needs the ego boost, but earning it is another matter entirely.]

Edited 2015-11-20 06:42 (UTC)

no subject

no subject

no subject

idk time skip??

TIME WARP

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject