Barrow looks back at her, and his smile flickers. He opens his mouth, closes it again, considers, and then says, gently still, "I had rather hoped it'd just be you and me."
"Maker only knows how much he can eat," Barrow says, dropping his gaze with a smirk-- calm down, he thinks to himself, what's gotten into you? "But he's a good sort, Bastien."
"That he is," Barrow agrees, scratching at his stubble, "...a cheeky bugger. First thing he said to me coming back from..."
From the place where we were tortured, whatever it was called, he means to say, but the cogs in his brain briefly lurch to a stop before the words can leave his mouth. But he recovers.
"...first thing he said was 'has anyone ever called you Obie?'" He chuckles again. "I ought to burn whatever written roster's got my name on it."
"Come now," she tsks, setting her chin jauntily upon her knuckles. "When have I ever infringed upon your dignity? You've cast me in a very cruel light indeed, serah."
"The requirements of the service, it seems," she confesses with a sigh, straightening to dip the pen in its waiting inkwell once more before resuming her transcription. "I've just to get through this page and then should be ready. But don't feel required to linger on my account. I might meet you at the ferry slip if you prefer."
"No trouble, no trouble," he waves her off, settling into the chair, "I've been on my feet all day as it is, might as well give the old joints a break."
This she is perfectly sunny about, though from here she falls into non-committal hums and hmms in reply to any further attempts at conversation so she might dash through what remains of the copy work. When at last she is finished, it takes a few additional moments for Fitcher to work through the business of carefully cleaning her pen nibs as the sand sprinkled over the fresh pages does its work. When at last the work has been collected and folded away, the original rewound and restored to its appropriate filing location, they have almost certainly missed the most conveniently timed ferry.
"A short dinner perhaps," she decrees while hurriedly sweeping her mottled blue cloak about her shoulders. "Or better—something had wherever they're playing. The Marches may not have mastered much, but even I will admit that they know a thing or two about a hand pie."
"A fine idea. We can pick something up along the way."
Seeing her stirring at last, Barrow hefts himself up out of the chair and stretches gently, a few unpleasant cracks and pops accompanying the gesture. He'll never be the same as he was.
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"Yes I suspected as much. Given the dinner invitation."
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"But he's a good sort, Bastien."
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Her pen continues its progress, but here Fitcher's attention flickers up for the briefest examination of his reaction.
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"That he is," Barrow agrees, scratching at his stubble, "...a cheeky bugger. First thing he said to me coming back from..."
From the place where we were tortured, whatever it was called, he means to say, but the cogs in his brain briefly lurch to a stop before the words can leave his mouth.
But he recovers.
"...first thing he said was 'has anyone ever called you Obie?'" He chuckles again. "I ought to burn whatever written roster's got my name on it."
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My, that's a dangerous gleam in her dark eye.
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"No," he says, as sternly as one can while also smiling, and points at her like she's a dog who's about to misbehave.
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"Of course."
Haha yeah right, sucker.
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And yet... it could be worse.
"You won't be satisfied until all my dignity is stripped and hung on the wall of your hunting lodge," he grumbles, with affection.
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He smiles at her fondly.
"Should I come back later? You seem a bit busy, still."
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This she is perfectly sunny about, though from here she falls into non-committal hums and hmms in reply to any further attempts at conversation so she might dash through what remains of the copy work. When at last she is finished, it takes a few additional moments for Fitcher to work through the business of carefully cleaning her pen nibs as the sand sprinkled over the fresh pages does its work. When at last the work has been collected and folded away, the original rewound and restored to its appropriate filing location, they have almost certainly missed the most conveniently timed ferry.
"A short dinner perhaps," she decrees while hurriedly sweeping her mottled blue cloak about her shoulders. "Or better—something had wherever they're playing. The Marches may not have mastered much, but even I will admit that they know a thing or two about a hand pie."
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Seeing her stirring at last, Barrow hefts himself up out of the chair and stretches gently, a few unpleasant cracks and pops accompanying the gesture. He'll never be the same as he was.
"Shall we?" He extends his arm.