albinomilksnake | OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

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)

[She lowers the cup and saucer by a degree, studying the line of his shoulder, the exhausted set of his expression--

Isabeau sniffs. She leans forward, sets the saucer back on the tea tray, and downs the rest of her biscuit.]

You know I think I may have misread that article. On the way over I overheard some ladies saying the show isn't particularly good. Maybe it'd be best to give the production some breathing room so the cast can iron the wrinkles out. A week. [She fetches up the cup again, settling back in the armchair.] Maybe two.

Mm. [His eyes narrow slightly ~~presses L2 furiously~~ as he watches her carry on in her entirely well-played fashion. There's no pause before he moves across the room, fetching the hefty weight of his own civilian coat from the hook where it's been hung for too many days already. It isn't particularly fashionable or fetching-- in fact it mimics the silhouette of his armor-- which was likely intentional, knowing him.] Whatever impression I might have given you, I'm not so old as to need coddling.

It's not coddling. [She stubbornly sets her shoulder slightly harder into the back of the chair, solidifying the set of her heels against the rug.] Maybe I'd just rather sit here with the pleasure of your conversatuon than in a dark room with a load of strangers.

[And she takes another pointed sip from her cup. If there's any way to seem more rooted to the spot than she is now, then she doesn't know how to accomplish it.]

[He lingers there a moment longer, fingers stilling in the coarse fabric of his coat.] Flattering. [There's dissmisiveness to his tone that suggests he isn't charmed by the idea, much as she isn't in turn. Two of a kind.] Though I can't argue with the logic behind it.

[Which is precisely what keeps him from going further, grip lax enough to let his hand fall limp at his side, index finger tapping out one thoughtful little rhythm.] Dinner instead. I'll have the servants come up with something suitable.

[One short pause:] Provided neither your father nor brother would take offense.

Edited 2015-11-20 09:23 (UTC)

[There. It's no evening spent just behind the orchestra pit enjoying the newest round of G&S comedy, but she finds herself contented by the way he gives anyway. It's a kind of victory, isn't it? It's what she'd wanted anyway - simply enough, his company.

She drains the rest of her cup.]

I can't imagine they'll have any opinion on the matter.

[Not strictly true by any account, but they had nothing to do with any of this. She has no qualms about shelving their concerns for the time being. Besides, no one needs to know. As far as her brother and father are concerned, she's spending the evening at the theater with nothing more than unwilling company.]

Is that so? [This time when he turns to face her, there's no hiding the hint of a grin held just at the edge; rigid as her father had taught her to be, it's satisfying to find-- no matter the circumstances-- that she's just as much the strong-hearted troublemaker as he or Malory were. Not maliciously so, mind you, but there's beauty to be found in individuality. In the painfully thin line between service for a cause and blind, clipped obedience.

She charts her own course, and he'd be a fool not to appreciate it. Many were.] I had no idea they cared so little about your personal affairs, Lady Igraine.

Fortunately, the both of them have more pressing matters to attend to than checking that I'm still pinned to the apron strings. [Honestly, what does he take her for? A child in need of minding?] Though I admit they hardly have an alternative. I imagine it would be rather difficult to keep someone penned in and also expect them to go mucking about all over London in pursuit of Half-Breeds.

[And back again to crossing one leg satisfactorily over the other: her heel fishing cheerfully through the air.]

So it would. [But Lucan would care. Lucan always thought Grayson the man to keep their world in check, after all. Reasons he never fully understood, though maybe it had something to do with centuries of stupid, boyish impulse between them. Imbeciles charging into battle, playing knights at war with real weapons, real wars-- real bloodshed. Long before Lucan became a commander with a proud, hardened edge to his jaw, they were friends.]

All things considered, [He starts, walking to the archway that leads out into lobby, catching the attention of his staff.] you ought to be the one minding them.

[Quiet words exchanged between himself and the elder man, and then he's back at her side, patting her leg.] He says they'll find something suitable-- they've not been shopping regularly for company. I can't imagine why.

[She hums, eyebrows arching, but offers no argument or support fornhis supposition as he moves to speak to his man. Instead she pours herself a second cup of tea, fixing it how she likes with a small clink of the silver spoon against the edge of the cup. If she listens hard she can hear most of what he and his man say, but she doesn't - listen hard. Rather she settles in the parlor and lets herself be comfortable. She sips from her cup and is-- pleased with herself.

The tap to her knee isn't a surprise. She lifts her face to him, lowering her cup and saucer back into her lap.] Imagine that. In the mean time, I don't suppose you've something a little more formidable than tea on hand?

[Fight with the tenacity of any knight, control the local authorities just as keenly-- it should come as no surprise that she's willing to drink more than milk, sugar and steeped herbs. But for all his centuries lived, it's difficult for him to jump to the thought of hard liquor, inhaling once through his nose as he mulls over her request. Taps out a light beat with his index finger against her thigh.] well, I've a bottle of wine in the cellar that is substantially older than you or your brother.

[She feels the rhythm struck by his finger in the marrow of her bones, pulse singing to it. Isabeau makes some effort to put it out of her mind, though how successful she is even she can't say.]

I can't imagine what I've done to deserve cracking open a bottle so ancient, but I suppose I can't refuse the offer.

[Mild, easy, absolutely cheeky.]

I believe it's customary for a mentor to celebrate when his own protégé saves him. [Smugly, though that teasing satisfaction never leaves his voice enough to reach the almost grim angles of his features. Palm upturned just a moment later; an offering for her to accompany him down to the ancient cellar below.] Perceval spared no expense the first night I managed it.

Mongolian hordes, it was - if memory still serves.

Good god, I seem to have stumbled into yet another ancient history lesson. Heaven help me. [She all but groans over it, though from the fact that she's made no effort to move or set her teacup aside, clearly the whole charade is for show.]

Tell me, my lord - how did you bravely escape with yours and Sir Perceval's lives? It must have been terribly daring.

I fear if I let slip the entire tale your heart might never recover. [His hand stays there, ever patient as he waits for her inevitable breaking point, fingers only half-curled, though he doesn't spare it an expectant glance. Cheeky, yes, but he has no doubt their entire evening thus far has been as well.]

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