WHO: Bastien & Fifi WHAT: Just Orlesian things WHEN: Early August WHERE: Kirkwall NOTES: This may get turned into a catch-all later, so as always if you need any of my characters for anything hit me up at circuitry.
A look of disgust mingled with amusement: what an awful predicament, and yet Bastien's telling of it lessens the blow. "You say that," Fifi says with a smirk, "but when it's what stands between you and the streets, you find yourself cleaning more vomit than you'd expect." It's an exaggeration: she probably has enough to last for a while, and her reason for staying with the Asgards is less about work prospect than it is about espionage. But that's neither here nor there.
She does notice the slight shift in Bastien's demeanor, her eyes lifting to see who just entered, studying him for a moment. "Who's that," she asks, conversationally, testing his reaction.
Bastien has already opened his mouth, preparing to argue: he would take the street, he has taken the street. Something he would then immediately walk back: it is admittedly easier for a human man to choose the street over subservience and humiliation than it would be for many others.
Her question stops him short. But he smiles, immediately, and says, “You should be a spy.”
The irony is entirely dramatic.
“But don’t stare at him,” he adds, voice lowering closer to a whisper, with an accompanying gesture over the table akin to encouraging someone to sit down. “He is an old friend.”
One half of the truth, and likely not enough of an explanation for the way he keeps his attention carefully on Fifi and doesn’t turn to wave the man over. The remaining half of the truth could be divided into two quarters, each private in their own ways. An old employer. An old love. He would rather not explain either.
But he can sacrifice a bit of the personal to help hide the professional. Easily. It has never been a hard choice.
“It would not be fair to say he broke my heart,” he says, sheepish. “He just stood there handsomely—“ A personal opinion, debatable, the man in question fit and decent-looking but not really so special. “—and I broke it myself.”
A wry little smile follows Bastien's observation, and she arches her eyebrows. "Do you think I'm in the habit of staring at people, mon cher," Fifi says with a little roll of her eyes, her tone gently teasing. "But nonetheless, I imagine it must have been a bad break if you can't even say hello." She glances at the man again, but not overtly.
Off beyond his peripheral vision, unseen in the place he is carefully not looking, he's been spotted, and Vincent's decent but not special face becomes a little more special for its smile. He already has a drink in his hand, but he grabs the barkeep's attention again and gestures for two more.
Back at the table, Bastien settles on an explanation: "There was nothing to break, and he tried so hard to be kind to me about it that it could have made me sick. Have you ever felt that?"
Catching sight of that smile, Fifi mirrors it with a little nod, her eyes then flickering back to Bastien's. "...no," she muses, curling her fingers against her chin, "not for a long time, at least. In certain lines of work, you... learn very quickly not to give of your heart."
His mouth twists in sympathy. Empathy. But he can’t very well explain how well he knows what she means, not without disclosing a number of secrets too big and alarming for a tavern table. Anyway, it isn’t as if the lesson stuck properly, or he wouldn’t be in this stupid Maker-cursed position now.
Vincent appears to the side of the table, three drinks balanced in his hands, expression hopeful. Bastien doesn’t pretend to be startled to see him—he could, but he doesn’t want to give Vincent the satisfaction or give Fifi any reason to doubt his sincerity if he ever looks surprised to see her.
Better to look reluctant and unimpressed, shifting in his seat to watch him put the drinks on the table like he is waiting for an explanation for the interruption with feigned patience.
Immune, Vincent uses one of his newly-empty hands to gesture to his own hairless upper lip. “What is this?”
“My disguise.” It’s only partly a joke. Bastien gives his jaw a defiant angle: Vincent better not be in Kirkwall just to make fun of his mustache. “I am surprised you recognized me.”
“Perhaps if you covered your head.”
Bastien smiles with less convincing sweetness than he’s capable of. “Or cut out your eyes.”
Vincent shapes his mouth into a silent ooh at the threat, then turns his attention to Fifi. If he isn’t used to mixing socially with elves, he knows better than to show it here. “I am sorry to interrupt,” he says, moving one of the drinks closer to her, “and to turn your company so rude. Vincent Suchet.”
Fifi offers a pleasant smile, ever prepared to remain in the background, to enhance the experience of the men around her until she's needed (and all the better to listen to everything they say). When Vincent introduces herself, she rises to give a little curtsy, extending her hand to him in the delicate Orlesian fashion. "Josephine Mariette," she replies, "it is a pleasure, messere." She doesn't look at Bastien, but can feel him, and what's behind his expression, as brightly as one perceives warm sunlight.
While Vincent ducks to kiss Fifi's extended hand, Bastien is watching him. Searching for something to dislike—a hesitation to touch her in public, a haste to be done with it. Signs in his tailoring or posture that he's gotten full of himself, maybe, now that he's somebody worth being full of. Hair out of place. Hair too in place.
But there's nothing. He's perfect.
The bastard.
"The pleasure is all mine, of course," he says, straightening up, and casts his hopeful smile at her and Bastien both. "May I join you?"
"Perhaps," Bastien says, without pause, before Fifi can make it too easy on him, "if you can make her laugh. That is the toll."
A conspiracy. He believes in nothing, right now, so much as he believes in Fifi's ability to keep a straight face if she doesn't care for the idea of more company but doesn't want to say so.
Vincent nods like this is a perfectly normal and reasonable request, and returns his focus entirely to Fifi. "Do you like jokes?"
Only now casting her glance to Bastien, Fifi watches him carefully without losing any of her graciousness. His comment yields another little laugh, which fades into a warm smile when Vincent speaks again.
"Good ones," she says coyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Good ones," Vincent echoes, nods seriously, and thinks for a moment before he begins: "While he was in the throes of misfortune, a man found a demon trapped in the forest. The demon promised that if he was freed, he would grant the man his choice of wealth, women—success with women, of course, not a collection of women—"
"Smooth," Bastien says, behind his drink, and Vincent holds up a hand to stay him.
"—or wisdom. So the man considered his miserable life and what might make it more tolerable. And because he was a moral sort of man who had been raised on moral sort of fables, he decided that he would probably be able to handle love and money if he were only a little wiser. And that is what he asked for. He freed the demon, who waved his hands—"
Bastien lowers his drink. "That is not how demons work."
"Shh. He waved his hands, and the man became wiser—and immediately aware that he should not have freed the demon, of course, but the demon vanished, so there was nothing to do about it. Instead he took a moment to consider, now that he was wise, how to improve his situation, and he said: Fuck me. I should have taken the money."
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"You say that," Fifi says with a smirk, "but when it's what stands between you and the streets, you find yourself cleaning more vomit than you'd expect." It's an exaggeration: she probably has enough to last for a while, and her reason for staying with the Asgards is less about work prospect than it is about espionage. But that's neither here nor there.
She does notice the slight shift in Bastien's demeanor, her eyes lifting to see who just entered, studying him for a moment.
"Who's that," she asks, conversationally, testing his reaction.
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Her question stops him short. But he smiles, immediately, and says, “You should be a spy.”
The irony is entirely dramatic.
“But don’t stare at him,” he adds, voice lowering closer to a whisper, with an accompanying gesture over the table akin to encouraging someone to sit down. “He is an old friend.”
One half of the truth, and likely not enough of an explanation for the way he keeps his attention carefully on Fifi and doesn’t turn to wave the man over. The remaining half of the truth could be divided into two quarters, each private in their own ways. An old employer. An old love. He would rather not explain either.
But he can sacrifice a bit of the personal to help hide the professional. Easily. It has never been a hard choice.
“It would not be fair to say he broke my heart,” he says, sheepish. “He just stood there handsomely—“ A personal opinion, debatable, the man in question fit and decent-looking but not really so special. “—and I broke it myself.”
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She glances at the man again, but not overtly.
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Off beyond his peripheral vision, unseen in the place he is carefully not looking, he's been spotted, and Vincent's decent but not special face becomes a little more special for its smile. He already has a drink in his hand, but he grabs the barkeep's attention again and gestures for two more.
Back at the table, Bastien settles on an explanation: "There was nothing to break, and he tried so hard to be kind to me about it that it could have made me sick. Have you ever felt that?"
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"...no," she muses, curling her fingers against her chin, "not for a long time, at least. In certain lines of work, you... learn very quickly not to give of your heart."
Yet she did anyway, and look where it got her.
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Vincent appears to the side of the table, three drinks balanced in his hands, expression hopeful. Bastien doesn’t pretend to be startled to see him—he could, but he doesn’t want to give Vincent the satisfaction or give Fifi any reason to doubt his sincerity if he ever looks surprised to see her.
Better to look reluctant and unimpressed, shifting in his seat to watch him put the drinks on the table like he is waiting for an explanation for the interruption with feigned patience.
Immune, Vincent uses one of his newly-empty hands to gesture to his own hairless upper lip. “What is this?”
“My disguise.” It’s only partly a joke. Bastien gives his jaw a defiant angle: Vincent better not be in Kirkwall just to make fun of his mustache. “I am surprised you recognized me.”
“Perhaps if you covered your head.”
Bastien smiles with less convincing sweetness than he’s capable of. “Or cut out your eyes.”
Vincent shapes his mouth into a silent ooh at the threat, then turns his attention to Fifi. If he isn’t used to mixing socially with elves, he knows better than to show it here. “I am sorry to interrupt,” he says, moving one of the drinks closer to her, “and to turn your company so rude. Vincent Suchet.”
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"Josephine Mariette," she replies, "it is a pleasure, messere." She doesn't look at Bastien, but can feel him, and what's behind his expression, as brightly as one perceives warm sunlight.
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But there's nothing. He's perfect.
The bastard.
"The pleasure is all mine, of course," he says, straightening up, and casts his hopeful smile at her and Bastien both. "May I join you?"
"Perhaps," Bastien says, without pause, before Fifi can make it too easy on him, "if you can make her laugh. That is the toll."
A conspiracy. He believes in nothing, right now, so much as he believes in Fifi's ability to keep a straight face if she doesn't care for the idea of more company but doesn't want to say so.
Vincent nods like this is a perfectly normal and reasonable request, and returns his focus entirely to Fifi. "Do you like jokes?"
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"Good ones," she says coyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
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"Smooth," Bastien says, behind his drink, and Vincent holds up a hand to stay him.
"—or wisdom. So the man considered his miserable life and what might make it more tolerable. And because he was a moral sort of man who had been raised on moral sort of fables, he decided that he would probably be able to handle love and money if he were only a little wiser. And that is what he asked for. He freed the demon, who waved his hands—"
Bastien lowers his drink. "That is not how demons work."
"Shh. He waved his hands, and the man became wiser—and immediately aware that he should not have freed the demon, of course, but the demon vanished, so there was nothing to do about it. Instead he took a moment to consider, now that he was wise, how to improve his situation, and he said: Fuck me. I should have taken the money."