inbox.

[unshut]

(crystal | written | action)

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[bouchonne]

[ He's already pulling a face. ]

Ugh. Call me a cad. Call me a scoundrel. Don't call me respectable.

[unshut]

[She laughs. The sound is low, pleasant despite its rasping underbelly. Turning the knife, then:]

But you're doing such a fine job of pretending, Messere.

[bouchonne]

I am not. My reputation is just as rotten as it ever was.

[unshut]

Oh, certainly publically you are no gentleman. But privately? [A cluck of the tongue, an evaluating look; she unlaces one of her small fingers to tap on the glove remaining in her lap.] I've seen very little proof of it myself. And I'll have you know that I have made inquiries.

[bouchonne]

Oh, not with the right people, then. Don't you recall how I had my wedding at a house of very ill repute?

[unshut]

Then perhaps you might supply me with the right names; I like to think of myself as a dab hand when it comes to turning over stones, and yet—.

[bouchonne]

The fallen women who make up many of my acquaintances, perhaps?

[unshut]

Oh, please. As if you can spend so much as a month in Kirkwall without becoming so acquainted; I had a lovely conversation with a particular Madame Haxton from that house of Cooperstreet just the other day. A wily card player - she wore a silver pin with a moth in her hair. Be wary, should you cross her at the tables.

[bouchonne]

Is that so?

[ He grins at her. ]

I thank you for your warning. - Well, fine, then; what of my debtors back in Denerim?

[unshut]

Oh, debt. [Something sparks in her eye.] You know how I enjoy a bit of lending. You must tell me every detail.

[bouchonne]

Oh, my. Do you want to become my debtor, madame?

[unshut]

I'm afraid I'd have to dig myself out of my own pit first. But I'll keep it in mind should I ever require a little leverage over Riftwatch's leadership.

[A joke, clearly. In the wake of which she relents just enough to confess:]

No, I'm only curious. And trying rather hard not to ask you dull questions about work while I have so little of interest to talk about.

[bouchonne]

[ He gestures his acknowledgment of her reasoning, but continues to be playful: ]

I could be an investment, you know. I'm sure to make my fortune any day now, at which point the woman who owns my debt will be quite glad to hold it.

[unshut]

[Oh, very well. If she must play along—]

Go on, then. What would you like to borrow from me?

[bouchonne]

[ With a big ol' flutter of his eyelashes - ]

Your heart?

[unshut]

[She laughs again, long hands coming unraveled so as to reach out and give his knee a gentle backhand.]

Now there is the scoundrel I've heard so much about. Taking advantage of a woman on her sickbed is truly deplorable, Byerly Rutyer.

[All the same, consider the lay of her hand as she has left it just there between them where it might very easily be taken up by certain assumptive reprobates.]

[bouchonne]

[ He hisses in exaggerated pain when she strikes his knee, rubbing it like it's been done a real injury. And yet - scoundrel that he is, he transforms that knee-rub into his fingers walking forward until they tap-dance their way into her palm. ]

Well, you're suffering so - the Maker wouldn't be so cruel as to condemn you further when you're already so unhappy. So you should sin with impunity while you're pitiable.

[unshut]

[Her hum is quite skeptical, the line of her shoulders quite comfortable against her small mountain of pillows. That said, the tap of his fingers is rewarded by soft closing of her hand, her thumb gentle at his knuckles.]

I don't think that's how that works, Ambassador.

[bouchonne]

No?

[ He smiles, thoroughly pleased with both her touch and her rebuke. ]

Teach me theology, then.

[unshut]

And put our Sisters here out of work? But if you like, you may come along with me to chapel when I'm next feeling fit for it. [Ha ha; funny joke.] I'm believe I've heard you have a lovely singing voice.

[bouchonne]

I might have been a Chanter, singing the word of the Maker, if my life had but taken a different path.

[unshut]

His loss.

[The rising line of her eyebrows serves as punctuation. And then, a gentle turn in conversation though her hand remains quietly soft about his fingers:]

Have I missed any tantalizing gossip while I've been holed up here? I feel in my bones I've missed one of the Averesches punching someone in public.

[bouchonne]

I did have one of them throw his drink in my face the other day.

[ He taps his chin, as though puzzled - ]

Nikos, I think? I can never remember which one is which. The fatter one.

[unshut]

Nikos [she confirms.] I believe he's the one more likely to be in possession of a drink, as well. Whatever did you do to part him from it?

[bouchonne]

Talked politics.