OPEN RP PART II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

[avali]

OPEN RP POST

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Muselist

Open RP (smutty version)

 

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[galadad]

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.

[yngrained]

[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.

[galadad]

[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.

[yngrained]

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.]

[galadad]

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.]

[yngrained]

[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.

[galadad]

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.

[yngrained]

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.]

[galadad]

[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.

[yngrained]

[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.]

[galadad]

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.

[yngrained]

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.]

[galadad]

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.

[yngrained]

[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?

[galadad]

[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.

[yngrained]

[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.]

[galadad]

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.

[yngrained]

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.

[galadad]

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.]

[yngrained]

You underestimate me, Sir. I understand many young ladies might swoon at the story, but I guarantee [--she sets aside her teacup bow, small click of porcelain on the tray--] that I'm made of stener stuff.

[Or so they say, apparently.

She sets her hand into his, touch firm as she rolls smartly to her feet. For all the cheek, there's nothing terribly coy about how she doesn't immediately draw her hand from his. Instead she lets it set just there, the heel of her hand against the heat of his upturned palm.]

Well? Lead on, my lord.

[galadad]

You've killed monsters that cut men's lives short, love. [There's something sober to the way he says it, brought on by the pressure of her warm palm settled just there across old scores and callouses, the edge of his thumb first scuffing her knuckles before curling over with utility in mind, rather than the indulgence he's already stolen. Hazel eyes bright in the dim light, dropping down and then up again, as purposeful as everything else.

Somewhere off in the manor, there's the sound of heels clicking dimly across polished wood.] I know you are.

[She always was, or he'd have never agreed to take her under his wing when the opportunity arose. Tucks her arm beneath his at last, ferrying her from the parlor out into the hall, decorated with relics all too personal to be coincidence.]

[yngrained]

[It's part of why this - her arm tucked into his, Gray's fingers curled still near her hand as he leads her from the sitting room - has appeal. She has saved him a hundred times as he's done for her; she's seen him slay countless beasts in the dark, but in turn he's trusted her to do the same. What good would this be if they didn't trust one another? She can't begin to imagine it. If there wasn't some shared faith between them, if he didn't know her to be capable and sure in the same ways she knew it of him, then there would be no reason to tuck her hand across his wrist or wall so near through the hall as she was led.]

And yet you continue to hold this grand story hostage. I might start to think you've been exaggerating, Gray. In the future, I'll have to check your against Perceval's good word.

[galadad]

[Oh, she's full of it. Always fire and bright eyes, no matter the situation-- same as her brother, remarkably-- enough that Gray begins to wonder if that's thanks to kinship between siblings, or if Augustus himself hides something else, something keener behind those cloudy, poorly focused eyes. Long as he's known Alastair, and as deeply as he knows Isabeau, he still isn't sure.

And it leaves him chuckling under his breath, thumbing the back of her knuckles the way someone might brush at a beloved pet when it's too riled to settle. She digs because the opportunity is there; Grayson opts not to boast (tired as he's felt the last few centuries, and perhaps a touch too worn, those ancient habits from his youth died off without protest) but there's reason to his reputation born from action instead of words, and it means Sir Galahad is a man without an ego to bruise.

He caters to her all the same.] Have you been told about the Battle on the Ice?

[yngrained]

No, never. [Said with all the breathlessness she can summon, as if she's hanging from his every word. Still, she's confident enough about being swept along the hall and around. When they reach the door to the cellar, Isabeau's the one extending a hand forward to open it.]

Let me guess-- it occurred on a frozen lake?

[galadad]

So it did. [Amicably following her eager lead, flicking the electrical switch on as they head downstairs. A more recent addition, better than candlelight and set in place by Tesla who-- in spite of Galahad's assurance that the old manor did not in fact, need a current run down to the cellar rather than keeping Edison's wiring where it was (upstairs entirely, save for the attic)-- fought a remarkable battle in the name of stumbling insistence.] Territory was a volatile thing, back then. Mongol hordes expanding eastward with success, and the Crusades, in turn, reaching westward to champion their cause, both clashing in the middle.

Perceval and I hadn't been sent to fight in the Holy Wars, mind you. Our charge was protection - sacred relics, rooting out any beasts that might sieze advantage in the fray. [No small surprise how little has changed aside from scenery since.] Young as I was, I could barely tell the difference.

[Step by old creaking step they descend to the smell of dust and dry air, rows of bottles lining those stone walls all plucked up over the course of a handful of lifetimes. Spent so infrequently it feels more like a tomb than a proper wine cellar.]