WHO: Siorus + You; Bastien & Byerly & Benedict & Vega WHAT: Warden intro, dinner party. WHEN: Spring 9:50 WHERE: Various NOTES: Catch-all for some open and closed stuff.
Stopping Benedict must fall to Byerly—and to Whiskey, the large droopy-faced hound who's partway down the stairs to see who this new voice belongs to, but no further, before lying back down stretched across the width of the steps to observe. Bastien is busy at the door, ducking to catch the scruffy rat-faced terrier who's attempting a much more energetic investigation.
"Mademoiselle Arany!" he says as he stands up straight again, squirming dog tucked into his arm like a parcel. "We're so glad you could make it. Please come in."
The room she's invited into has been neatened up for her benefit, but there's still a friendly amount of clutter—overstuffed bookshelves, a leaning stack of cups on the fireplace mantel, that kind of thing—and an assortment of secondhand furniture that prioritizes extra seating over flow. But between the two of them, they do have something of an eye for aesthetics, and so it all coalesces into a respectably shabby maximalist style, warmly lit and begging for company, Benedict's attempt to flee from it notwithstanding.
Introductions may not be necessary, after so many weeks of passing familiarity in the Gallows, but they're only polite: "I'm Bastien, and this," the terrier in his armpit, "is Rat Red, Whiskey on the stairs, Byerly Rutyer, and of course you know our Benedict."
Our Benedict has had an arm thrown around his shoulders in a way that looks congenial - and which is - but which is also absolutely holding him in place and preventing his flight. Byerly is not particularly strong, but he's certainly strong enough to hold Benedict in place.
"We hope you don't mind a meal that isn't home-cooked," By says cheerfully. "We're not dreadfully poor chefs, ourselves, but we promise that Owain down the road is far more skilled at bread-baking, and our local silent and nameless cheesemonger has the finest stock in the city."
Knowing better than to struggle too obviously, Benedict settles for shooting Byerly an incredulous look with a little wiggle of his shoulders.
"Hello, Vega," he says, as lightly as possible for someone who is dangerously close to entering a Snit-- it's not her fault, but nobody likes to be ambushed.
slides in on my knees in such a cool way you forgive me for being late
Containing the wriggling dog was a good move considering the awkward little look Vega gives it, her attention darting elsewhere instantly as if determined to ignore it completely. Especially in favour of looking around the place, her head craning right around the corner before they get into the room properly. Verdict? It is very homey.
"Lovely," she says absently. And then, looking directly at him with an arched brow, "Oh, Benedict. Fancy seeing you here."
As if she didn't know he would be. As if their previous 'interaction' never happened at all. Which it didn't, not really, because it wasn't Benedict she was screaming at and threatening but that's in the past now and Vega won't dare bring it up, not tonight. Not with witnesses.
She smiles at Byerly and Bastien both. "I don't mind at all. Your invitation was very cheering. The Gallows are dismal at the moment."
"Remarkable that they managed to get worse," Bastien says, tone mild and insult blunted by the kind of affection generally reserved for, say, a relative who's a horrible drag to have around but who's been very financially supportive and doesn't mean to ruin every dinner.
Nevertheless. Dismal.
"Here, sit down," he says, gesturing not to the table, but to the settee. "You and Benedict can catch up a moment while we—" eavesdrop shamelessly "—finish setting the table."
"Mmhm," Benedict intones toward Vega, a bit of anxiety creeping through his annoyance: he hadn't even considered that he might owe her an explanation (or worse, an apology), and now this is happening. Another dark look at Bastien precedes his hesitant alighting on the settee, because to make a fuss at this point would look worse than just enduring it.
Vega wonders if Benedict thinks she can't see these furtive looks happening; she decides she will be graceful and ignore all of it. Let them pretend this was planned to the letter and that everybody is happy to be here. She joins him on the settee, smoothing her dress with her hands. She actually feels too warm in it. It pinches her under the arms.
This is bringing back some ridiculous memories: the both of them younger but still sitting together, like this. Vega bites the inside of her cheek and reminds herself: you don't need to perform, here. Nobody is watching you.
"Should I ask you something only you would know, just to make sure it really is you this time?"
It takes all of his willpower not to roll his eyes-- not because Vega's wrong, per se, but because he doesn't know how else to react when he's so uncomfortable, forced into a meeting with his estranged erstwhile fiancée while looking like absolute shit.
"You're welcome to," he says, toning down the sulk, but only a little bit.
"Ask him why he did not tell us about you," Bastien suggests from off to the side, tone pleasant as anything, between setting out butter and whispering with Byerly about which cabinet has the blackberry preserves.
Vega gasps and turns her body inward to face Benedict, her hands perched on her knees like little birds. "Why didn't you tell them about me?"
This is very fun. She would have never told anybody else here about Benedict, for example, and wouldn't have wanted him to tell anybody about her in return. Not really. It's fun to bully him, that's all.
An incredulous glance to Bastien is followed by something of a double-take with the one-two punch, and Benedict wrinkles his nose in instinctive annoyance.
"Why would I need to tell you something so inconsequential?" he asks, fully and immediately knowing that this is the wrong thing to say, only trying to salvage it by adding: "we didn't get married, we barely had a relationship. We met what, twice?"
And he was definitely rude both times, as well as almost certainly intoxicated. He has the vague memory of making snide comments about a young wealthy girl's hair or clothes or what have you, but the real problem is it happened so many times that it could have been anyone.
Vega's mouth drops open and then snaps shut, so hard her teeth click together. She abruptly goes quite red, fighting embarrassment in complete silence. It's not that he's wrong, it's the way that he said it; she'd forgotten how abrupt his rudeness is and that it is fun to be mean to him right up until he is mean back. She swallows.
"Three times," she says, voice as level as she can make it. "But the last one was very short, because you walked out before the food was served."
He sees that color rise in her face, understands that what he said was Not Nice, and yet there's still that familiar feeling of pressure, like his mother is standing right behind him and gearing up to berate him as soon as they leave the room.
Tormenting Benedict: a joy. Tormenting Vega, who did not ask for this: out of the question. And so as soon as Byerly sees the least sign of distress on her face, he steps in.
"Maker above, Artemaeus," he says, shaking his head, "you must have been falling down drunk not to remember so lovely a creature."
And then he turns his attention on Vega. Byerly has a very respectable smoulder, all things considered - a privilege bestowed upon him by his very long eyelashes and very dark eyes. He turns that on her now, smiling at her in a way that is flirtatious without being particularly forward.
Bastien glances sidelong at Byerly, mouth twitching into a brief smile. The smolder isn't aimed at him, but he's in the splash zone, and he's rather infamously susceptible to Byerly's charms.
He's also years past possessive fretting about where those charms are aimed. Even if Vega were ten years older and the strong odds she'd be mean to Byerly in the way he enjoyed were a real threat—no they wouldn't be. But he flicks at Byerly's shoulder with the backs of his fingers anyway. Behave without enough insistence to really interrupt the exchange. Just for show.
It's a fine line to try to walk, to let Benedict suffer just enough to squirm but not enough he fully shuts down into a sulk or runs out of the house to escape and never comes back. As Bastien puts the finishing touch on the table, he wiggles his hand in Benedict's direction to vie for his attention, then gestures to his own jacket and points toward the stairs, mouthing I can go get you one.
Eugh, what is this power? Vega abruptly leans back in her seat when Byerly turns to her, flustered by the sudden turning on of charm without fully understanding why. "Stop that," she splutters. She is beginning to think they're all a bit dreadful actually; they have clearly not considered she is equally likely to blow up and run out of the house to escape, but that is because Benedict has not mentioned her! Not even once.
She breathes out hard through her nose.
To Benedict, who has suddenly become the safest option, "Do all three of you live here?"
True to Bastien's intuition, Benedict is dangerously close to entering a sulk when Byerly gangs up on him-- he glances over to the former at the finger wiggle, is about to nod if only to escape temporarily-- and then Vega blindsides him by shutting Byerly down and speaking to him again. With alarming civility.
He looks at her for a moment like he has no idea what she said, but quickly recovers with a little shake of his head, thoroughly rattled out of his impending mood.
"No," he says, with a quick glance to Byerly, what just happened, "just while I'm recovering." A pause, and he adds, "...from. The envy demon."
Byerly was not expecting to be yelled at. He was expecting the young lady to blush a little and look flattered by his attentions. And so he straightens up, frowning, affronted, and looks around at Bastien with a clear expression of what the hell.
Bastien puts his hand on Byerly's shoulder for a sympathetic squeeze—and as his hand falls back to his side, with professional fluidity, positioning, and awareness of everyone's lines of sight all coming together to ensure Vega's eyes in particular are spared, for a fleeting moment grabs his ass as well.
He can set the table, though, yes. With Bastien's assistance, handing over dishes and flatware from the cupboards.
"I think it is more for our sake than his, at this point," Bastien appends to Benedict's explanation to Vega. "We were so worried about him, and we felt so awful for not seeing enough of him to notice right away. A few more weeks of bringing him milk and tucking him at night and we might feel better."
So earnest. Surely not an attempt to torment Benedict further.
"Why is it you had not seen much of each other before? Different social circles? Choice? Is there a generations-long feud between your families that your betrothal might have brought an end to, and those hopes were cruelly dashed when Benedict disappeared into the barbaric South? And what is your family like, Mademoiselle? Should I feel sorry for them, that you are here, or only happy for you?"
Vega is either immune to these reactions or pretending to ignore everybody involved in them, save for Benedict, who she has turned her body in toward to effectively cut Bastien and Byerly both from the conversation. It's strange hearing somebody other than herself teasing Benedict in a mean way, even sounds terrible coming from Bastien. She says, with as much sympathy as is possible (for her), "Well — I hope you also feel better, Benedict."
And having made her point, she finally looks at Bastien to answer him properly. "You should feel happy for all of us, I think, because my family did not want me around any longer than I had to be and I wanted to be rid of them. We're both lucky that I have this... this thing in my hand." The shard, not shown. She's become used to holding her hand stiffly in her lap when speaking, palm down.
"To answer your other question: we lived in different cities. We only saw each other when we had to."
The ass-grab is almost enough for Benedict to miss the bit about milk and tucking in, but in his distraction he allows it to slide (when will it be his turn), and drags his focus back to Vega.
"I do," he says, easily enough, quickly adding, "...and I'm sorry. About your family." It's something he understands well (he thinks), and he's sincere when he says it, glancing down at her hand.
Perhaps as a peace offering, he slips off the glove he usually wears on his left hand, showing her his own shard. "It does complicate things."
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"Mademoiselle Arany!" he says as he stands up straight again, squirming dog tucked into his arm like a parcel. "We're so glad you could make it. Please come in."
The room she's invited into has been neatened up for her benefit, but there's still a friendly amount of clutter—overstuffed bookshelves, a leaning stack of cups on the fireplace mantel, that kind of thing—and an assortment of secondhand furniture that prioritizes extra seating over flow. But between the two of them, they do have something of an eye for aesthetics, and so it all coalesces into a respectably shabby maximalist style, warmly lit and begging for company, Benedict's attempt to flee from it notwithstanding.
Introductions may not be necessary, after so many weeks of passing familiarity in the Gallows, but they're only polite: "I'm Bastien, and this," the terrier in his armpit, "is Rat Red, Whiskey on the stairs, Byerly Rutyer, and of course you know our Benedict."
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"We hope you don't mind a meal that isn't home-cooked," By says cheerfully. "We're not dreadfully poor chefs, ourselves, but we promise that Owain down the road is far more skilled at bread-baking, and our local silent and nameless cheesemonger has the finest stock in the city."
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"Hello, Vega," he says, as lightly as possible for someone who is dangerously close to entering a Snit-- it's not her fault, but nobody likes to be ambushed.
slides in on my knees in such a cool way you forgive me for being late
"Lovely," she says absently. And then, looking directly at him with an arched brow, "Oh, Benedict. Fancy seeing you here."
As if she didn't know he would be. As if their previous 'interaction' never happened at all. Which it didn't, not really, because it wasn't Benedict she was screaming at and threatening but that's in the past now and Vega won't dare bring it up, not tonight. Not with witnesses.
She smiles at Byerly and Bastien both. "I don't mind at all. Your invitation was very cheering. The Gallows are dismal at the moment."
same?
Nevertheless. Dismal.
"Here, sit down," he says, gesturing not to the table, but to the settee. "You and Benedict can catch up a moment while we—" eavesdrop shamelessly "—finish setting the table."
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But let it be known he's not happy about that.
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This is bringing back some ridiculous memories: the both of them younger but still sitting together, like this. Vega bites the inside of her cheek and reminds herself: you don't need to perform, here. Nobody is watching you.
"Should I ask you something only you would know, just to make sure it really is you this time?"
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"You're welcome to," he says, toning down the sulk, but only a little bit.
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This is very fun. She would have never told anybody else here about Benedict, for example, and wouldn't have wanted him to tell anybody about her in return. Not really. It's fun to bully him, that's all.
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"Why would I need to tell you something so inconsequential?" he asks, fully and immediately knowing that this is the wrong thing to say, only trying to salvage it by adding: "we didn't get married, we barely had a relationship. We met what, twice?"
And he was definitely rude both times, as well as almost certainly intoxicated. He has the vague memory of making snide comments about a young wealthy girl's hair or clothes or what have you, but the real problem is it happened so many times that it could have been anyone.
Maybe she avoided it, somehow.
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"Three times," she says, voice as level as she can make it. "But the last one was very short, because you walked out before the food was served."
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"Oh," he says, a bit faintly, "yes." That time.
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"Maker above, Artemaeus," he says, shaking his head, "you must have been falling down drunk not to remember so lovely a creature."
And then he turns his attention on Vega. Byerly has a very respectable smoulder, all things considered - a privilege bestowed upon him by his very long eyelashes and very dark eyes. He turns that on her now, smiling at her in a way that is flirtatious without being particularly forward.
"He's a dreadful man, isn't he, our Benedict?"
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He's also years past possessive fretting about where those charms are aimed. Even if Vega were ten years older and the strong odds she'd be mean to Byerly in the way he enjoyed were a real threat—no they wouldn't be. But he flicks at Byerly's shoulder with the backs of his fingers anyway. Behave without enough insistence to really interrupt the exchange. Just for show.
It's a fine line to try to walk, to let Benedict suffer just enough to squirm but not enough he fully shuts down into a sulk or runs out of the house to escape and never comes back. As Bastien puts the finishing touch on the table, he wiggles his hand in Benedict's direction to vie for his attention, then gestures to his own jacket and points toward the stairs, mouthing I can go get you one.
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She breathes out hard through her nose.
To Benedict, who has suddenly become the safest option, "Do all three of you live here?"
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He looks at her for a moment like he has no idea what she said, but quickly recovers with a little shake of his head, thoroughly rattled out of his impending mood.
"No," he says, with a quick glance to Byerly, what just happened, "just while I'm recovering." A pause, and he adds, "...from. The envy demon."
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"Perhaps I'll set the table, then," he huffs.
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He can set the table, though, yes. With Bastien's assistance, handing over dishes and flatware from the cupboards.
"I think it is more for our sake than his, at this point," Bastien appends to Benedict's explanation to Vega. "We were so worried about him, and we felt so awful for not seeing enough of him to notice right away. A few more weeks of bringing him milk and tucking him at night and we might feel better."
So earnest. Surely not an attempt to torment Benedict further.
"Why is it you had not seen much of each other before? Different social circles? Choice? Is there a generations-long feud between your families that your betrothal might have brought an end to, and those hopes were cruelly dashed when Benedict disappeared into the barbaric South? And what is your family like, Mademoiselle? Should I feel sorry for them, that you are here, or only happy for you?"
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And having made her point, she finally looks at Bastien to answer him properly. "You should feel happy for all of us, I think, because my family did not want me around any longer than I had to be and I wanted to be rid of them. We're both lucky that I have this... this thing in my hand." The shard, not shown. She's become used to holding her hand stiffly in her lap when speaking, palm down.
"To answer your other question: we lived in different cities. We only saw each other when we had to."
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"I do," he says, easily enough, quickly adding, "...and I'm sorry. About your family." It's something he understands well (he thinks), and he's sincere when he says it, glancing down at her hand.
Perhaps as a peace offering, he slips off the glove he usually wears on his left hand, showing her his own shard. "It does complicate things."