You could be a cat burglar, [ Richard suggests, helpfully. ]
[ The snake finds purchase in creases and around buttons -- she’s nearly to the discarded pin when Dick relocates her into the boot he’s just slipped off. The boot gives an unhappy lurch once she’s puddled in there. ]
I usually do. [ Admission, with a token sliver of apology and a more studious look as he moves onto boot #2. Is this going to be a problem? ] She’s harmless.
[She regards him and his snake boot for a full moment, and then tips her head - an easy, dismissive quirk of the eyebrows. Fitcher turns her attention to flipping her collar up and unwinding the white fur out from under it.
Apparently, no. Not an issue.]
I'm not sure having the Guard on my heels in addition to the rest is an improvement.
[ As he’s regarded, he pauses to regard her back, awaiting a ruling one way or the other. It occurs to him that he might have to put his boots back on.
Ribbon has no such concerns, and is well on her way to cresting the neck of her boot to escape the human stink pit she was dropped into when approval is granted. Richard resumes undressing, insofar as removing boots and cape and coat qualify. ]
[ Having attended card games himself, with or without the intention of cheating, it’s clear at a glance that Richard Dickerson can’t relate.
He shucks the second boot, loses his gloves, unfastens his belt, and pauses halfway through twisting out of his coat, because he is tired. There is a vest beneath it. Why wouldn’t there be? The snake makes the most of this moment of stillness, and disappears herself up under the fit of it.
Bent back against the wall, temporarily stuck in his jacket with loose skin bunched between collar and jaw, Richard breathes. Steady in, steady out. Tres sexy. ]
[She gestures down the length of her with one hand, Ta-da.]
Magestoffelees, of course.
[Her hand returns, settling somewhere she might set her cheek in its long palm so at to be most comfortable during her observation of his aborted escape attempt.]
Should I call for a surgeon to cut you out of there?
[ Of course Magestoffelees. He closes his eyes at her offer. Just for a moment. ]
They might hit the snake.
[ And then where would they be? One last deep breath, and he extricates himself successfully, slow and steady does it, and that’s enough undressing for tonight. He folds it over, and tosses it over his boots.
All that remains now is for him to roll his cloak into a pillow, and origami fold himself down onto his back with it under his head, hat and all. If he’s uncomfortable, he gives no indication.
But he doesn’t snap it off clean into a good night either, watchful from the floor. Taking one last measure of whether or not he might wake up dead if he sleeps here. ]
[He looks, she decides, a little like a collapsed tent that's somehow made more of poles than of canvas.]
Happy Satinalia, [she echoes, and then - seeing as he is settled - moves to unfold herself. The least she can do for him is to do away with light in the lantern.] Stay as you are, otherwise I'll trip over you.
[One of the blankets comes with her and draped generally in his direction as she makes her passage. And while it's a touchy thing, Fitcher is evidently just nimble enough on bare feet to make it to the lantern without incident. A candle is lit from it, the large light doused, and the former is capable of seeing her safely back through the gamut to the cot. That light she allows to burn so she might re-plait her hair into some looser shape.]
Would you like to have breakfast in the morning, or should we wait to see how flattened you are?
[Is the last question she intends to torture him with.]
[ Staying still is an easy ask. Just as he’d watched her settled on the cot, he watches her pad around him-- late to clock that the blanket that drops across his knee has been deliberately shared.
He snares it up and drags it unevenly over himself, snug as a bug who is now also a rug in lower, warmer light. ]
I am interested in breakfast. [ Conceptually. ]
Edited (what if i just switch formatting randomly) 2020-11-22 17:39 (UTC)
[Her hm is a low, meandering thing over the soft rasp of faintly shifting clothes and blankets as the dark mane of her hair passes through her fingers and is rebound.]
Good, [is her eventual assessment. The candle is extinguished, pitching the room (which has no windows; Kirkwall is dreadful) into perfect darkness.] I know of a place with excellent bacon.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ The snake finds purchase in creases and around buttons -- she’s nearly to the discarded pin when Dick relocates her into the boot he’s just slipped off. The boot gives an unhappy lurch once she’s puddled in there. ]
I usually do. [ Admission, with a token sliver of apology and a more studious look as he moves onto boot #2. Is this going to be a problem? ] She’s harmless.
no subject
Apparently, no. Not an issue.]
I'm not sure having the Guard on my heels in addition to the rest is an improvement.
no subject
Ribbon has no such concerns, and is well on her way to cresting the neck of her boot to escape the human stink pit she was dropped into when approval is granted. Richard resumes undressing, insofar as removing boots and cape and coat qualify. ]
Is it not the inherent risk that appeals to you?
no subject
no subject
He shucks the second boot, loses his gloves, unfastens his belt, and pauses halfway through twisting out of his coat, because he is tired. There is a vest beneath it. Why wouldn’t there be? The snake makes the most of this moment of stillness, and disappears herself up under the fit of it.
Bent back against the wall, temporarily stuck in his jacket with loose skin bunched between collar and jaw, Richard breathes. Steady in, steady out. Tres sexy. ]
Which chat were you?
no subject
Magestoffelees, of course.
[Her hand returns, settling somewhere she might set her cheek in its long palm so at to be most comfortable during her observation of his aborted escape attempt.]
Should I call for a surgeon to cut you out of there?
no subject
They might hit the snake.
[ And then where would they be? One last deep breath, and he extricates himself successfully, slow and steady does it, and that’s enough undressing for tonight. He folds it over, and tosses it over his boots.
All that remains now is for him to roll his cloak into a pillow, and origami fold himself down onto his back with it under his head, hat and all. If he’s uncomfortable, he gives no indication.
But he doesn’t snap it off clean into a good night either, watchful from the floor. Taking one last measure of whether or not he might wake up dead if he sleeps here. ]
Happy Satinalia.
no subject
Happy Satinalia, [she echoes, and then - seeing as he is settled - moves to unfold herself. The least she can do for him is to do away with light in the lantern.] Stay as you are, otherwise I'll trip over you.
[One of the blankets comes with her and draped generally in his direction as she makes her passage. And while it's a touchy thing, Fitcher is evidently just nimble enough on bare feet to make it to the lantern without incident. A candle is lit from it, the large light doused, and the former is capable of seeing her safely back through the gamut to the cot. That light she allows to burn so she might re-plait her hair into some looser shape.]
Would you like to have breakfast in the morning, or should we wait to see how flattened you are?
[Is the last question she intends to torture him with.]
no subject
He snares it up and drags it unevenly over himself, snug as a bug who is now also a rug in lower, warmer light. ]
I am interested in breakfast. [ Conceptually. ]
no subject
Good, [is her eventual assessment. The candle is extinguished, pitching the room (which has no windows; Kirkwall is dreadful) into perfect darkness.] I know of a place with excellent bacon.