[She had indeed arrived a few moments earlier, tailed by a little white (allegedly—today he sports traces of brown and grey spots that suggest a recent less than successful emergency bath) dog. She had selected a bench, and had just enough time to consider the possibility that Bastien might not arrive at all, and whether she considered pursuing him in order to upbraid him a worthy pursuit or merely too indictive of the very issue to bother with.
But then he had come after all, and she has patiently not launched directly into her assault the moment she had spotted him working around the garden's covered margins. Now, however—
A brisk nod. Right. With a click of her hard soled boot heels, Wysteria rises from her bench and turns to face him. The small dog leaps down from the bench as well, affecting a posture that anticipates they will momentarily be running off. Instead, Wysteria produces a paper from her pocket. She unfolds it, crisp crackle of paper inaudible over the drizzle of rain off the eaves.]
Point one. Dereliction of duty in a time of extreme duress. I am willing to in part forgive this, given the aforementioned return and effort expended to see the required components retrieved. Thank you. I trust you have thanked everyone who attended to your duties in the interim while they were also engaged with mourning various loved ones and friends. Thank goodness there was no Venatori assault on the main body of Riftwatch in the weeks that followed Granitefell, in which an extra pair of competent hands might have been required.
Point two. [This is not, evidently, the time for him to speak. The breath she requires to fund this is so swiftly sucked down that it hardly qualifies.] Blatant disregard for those who might consider themselves your friends and acquaintances. I must assume you notified at least your division head of your departure, and maintained an orderly record of your various works in progress lest the person who was meant to have picked up after you be further inconvenienced. That said, I find it highly inconsiderate to have departed so abruptly with little to no word spared for the company with whom you have spent these last five years, and who may or may not have at least wished to bid you farewell. It was unfairly done to those people, and it was an unfair affliction to give yourself—this business of pretending no one cares very much for one another.
Point three. Demonstration of a shockingly optimistic assessment of our day to day work which I would not have attributed to any member of this company, much less to a man of your professional capacities. The work of Riftwatch is dangerous. That we do not suffer loss with more frequency is fairly miraculous. It would behoove any member of the company to prepare themselves accordingly. If that is so wholly unpalatable to you, a person who may do as he pleases and go where he wills without restriction or consequence, then I would invite you to strongly consider the merits of your position here and whether it is responsible to pretend at commitment alongside people who have volunteered to face that danger or have little choice but to accept it.
[She lowers the paper. Looks at him. Somewhere in there, the small allegedly white dog has given up and sat down.]
[ Her rise from the bench, her paper, the little dog—for the first few sentences, he looks as much charmed as sorry, though he's polite enough to aim that at the dog.
After the first few sentences, it drains out of him.
Uncomfortable shifting is not something he does, as a rule. His eyebrows pinch here and there to signal a few quibbles—at unfair affliction to give yourself, and unpalatable, and at the very end, little choice but to accept it. The points he cannot quibble with, both those he might have predicted and those he hadn't really considered, get no such obvious reaction. He fits in three sips of coffee. He looks away once, for one second, when the garden brightens with a distant flash of lightning. If he looks smaller on the bench when she arrives at her stopping point than when she began, it is mostly a matter of vibes.
His head shake is a half-step up from a head twitch. ]
[It is a very quick concession. And not a particularly satisfying outcome. The scrunching of her face says as much. Yet—]
Very well.
[The little white dog stands up again as Wysteria hands across the piece of paper—(quarter piece, really, for there is still something of a shortage). He stands to perch his front paws expectantly on the edge of Bastien's bench as if this may be a treat he hopes to share in.
The paper itself has notes written in first one direction, and then crosswise again across the first lines to make full use of the space.]
Bastien turns it one way and then the other, scanning the notes quick enough to only catch a fraction of what they say. His free hand drops down to offer the little dog a sniff, perhaps a chin scratch if he’s amenable, and he glances up at Wysteria. ]
Generally it is a good thing, [ tired around the edges, but not without some warmth and distant amusement at her disappointed face scrunching, ] to mount a first strike so thorough and well-planned that the enemy immediately surrenders.
[ Bastien nods. Yes, she would have—but it's also a nod to himself, an acceptance of this state of affairs where there is little to nothing he can say that will go over well, and he will have to live with her well-reasoned nose-scrunching disapproval for the foreseeable future.
Which means what he would really like is to get away. But he doesn't move, aside from skritching the dog and executing a neat refolding of her paper with one hand. ]
I shouldn't have left. If I had to leave, I shouldn't have left the way I did. I'm sorry that I went, and I'm sorry that I've disappointed you.
[ Bastien considers her, then glances back at her notes—still folded, because he is reviewing her arguments in his head.
The best he might sincerely do is a plea for understanding and however much grace five years might have earned him, with the rest to be repaid on schedule. But supposing no one alive wanted to deal with his feelings was a good third of the problem, after all, and on the list of places he might attempt to challenge that supposition, "Wysteria de Foncé nee Poppell thirsting for a debate" is just above "large carnivores," below "highwaymen holding me at knifepoint."
He opens his mouth. He puffs out only air. An inhale, and he tries again, half-hearted. ]
A man of my professional capacities recognizes a sunk ship. I would have given it another few weeks at most before it was announced we were reducing our operating costs, relocating somewhere harder to find, and narrowing our focus to exclusively rifts and arcana and all of that, and anyone who was not of use in that area would be invited to contribute their talents to the Inquisition instead.
[ Maybe. It had very little to do with anything, regardless. ]
Nonsense. What absurdity. [What a terrible counter argument. She scoffs.]
Even if we had gone off to do just that, the work of investigating rifts and their associated arcana requires— You went to the Arlathans, yes? Do you imagine myself and Viktor and Miss Smythe just traipsing along through the jungles on our own? To say nothing of the intent of the Venatori themselves. Clearly they understand Riftwatch and its purposes as a threat to their own. They meant to kill us in Rialto, and succeeded in part at Granitefell. If anything—
[She reaches for a word, and failing to find it instead stamps her foot. It makes for a dull thwack amidst the hissing of the rain beyond the covered walkway. It does the job required of it thought, for she continues:]
It is our duty to persist! If that is true, then they should be frightened!
[Of course she is right. Yes, she often is. And what is the desired effect of this whole affair, if not to hear that phrase? Certainly it is preferable to words as simple and paltry as I'm sorry. This should satisfy her.
But perhaps she marks the off footedness of the mistake. Or maybe the timing of this concession—which from the usual parties might ordinarily require all but ripping it free with her very teeth—catches her off guard in some similar fashion. But all at once, stood there in the little covered walk, she feels—
Not regret. Or embarrassment. Only that there is perhaps a very obvious question she should ask and not having asked it already, or perhaps maybe weeks ago when they were different versions of themselves, is somewhat coarse.
Meanwhile, the little white dog shifts his paws along the edge of the bench so he might worm closer to Bastien's knee. His black button nose and pink tongue search after the hand that has stopped scratching his chin.
Wysteria, who cannot very well simply ask the thing now, instead says:]
[ The efficiency with which he pours her cup has something to do with relief that she's asked for it, but just as much to do with the dog. He moves her notes to the bench, pinning them in place with his thigh, to pass a ruffling hand over his head and shoulders. Once the cup has been passed into Wysteria's possession he lifts him up to cradle in the crook of his arm, supporting and scratching his chest with the same hand.
[It's a good tactic. Any moment now, the little dog might have leapt up onto the bench to put his little feet all over the tray and his tongue in the cups.]
Tab, [she says, then corrects herself before taking a sip of bitter coffee.] Tabouret.
[ That pulls a smile right out of him. A relatively subdued one, for the circumstances, but nonetheless: he repeats, ]
Tabouret, [ and lowers both his head and his voice to address the little creature in question. ] Pouvons-nous t'utiliser pour atteindre les étagères hautes, mon garçon? Ouais? C’est ça.
[ He's due another dog, but it would be bad form to follow up his apology by stealing Wysteria's, probably. He keeps his head down to admire Tab's merry eyes and black button of a nose, but his voice lifts up to Wysteria again. ]
[She studies him over the lip of the cup, brow furrowing by just some small degree. The allegedly white dog's feet paddle vaguely under the line of Bastien's arm.]
[ He removes the paper from beneath his thigh to tuck safely into his jacket instead, and from there attempts from juggling: lifting the tray one-handed over top the dog to relocate it to his side, further from Wysteria, and placing the dog in the vacated space between them, to visit with his mistress or hop down at his leisure. ]
It is still in your interest to let me print for you, I think. Unless you want to buy a press of your own and take time away from your other work to do the typesetting, you won't find a better bargain.
Edited (more secrecy in eavesdroppable places) 2023-10-14 03:50 (UTC)
[The little dog sits promptly down in the space afforded him beside Bastien. It is possible, Tab must think, that he will either receive more scratches or possibly that something interesting will be produced and handed to him from the tray whose clinking cups and pots has caused the pricking of his ears.
His mistress takes a slow, considering sip of her coffee.]
[ Bastien looks at her from the corner of his eye, with a restrained scrunch of a smile that’s more peace offering than amusement. She’s a funny thing—so dramatically practical. When he began to feel anything at all, in that timeline that no longer exists, among those things was missing her.
He nods, and he scratches his fingers down the dog’s back, skull to tail. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
god im sorry
But then he had come after all, and she has patiently not launched directly into her assault the moment she had spotted him working around the garden's covered margins. Now, however—
A brisk nod. Right. With a click of her hard soled boot heels, Wysteria rises from her bench and turns to face him. The small dog leaps down from the bench as well, affecting a posture that anticipates they will momentarily be running off. Instead, Wysteria produces a paper from her pocket. She unfolds it, crisp crackle of paper inaudible over the drizzle of rain off the eaves.]
Point one. Dereliction of duty in a time of extreme duress. I am willing to in part forgive this, given the aforementioned return and effort expended to see the required components retrieved. Thank you. I trust you have thanked everyone who attended to your duties in the interim while they were also engaged with mourning various loved ones and friends. Thank goodness there was no Venatori assault on the main body of Riftwatch in the weeks that followed Granitefell, in which an extra pair of competent hands might have been required.
Point two. [This is not, evidently, the time for him to speak. The breath she requires to fund this is so swiftly sucked down that it hardly qualifies.] Blatant disregard for those who might consider themselves your friends and acquaintances. I must assume you notified at least your division head of your departure, and maintained an orderly record of your various works in progress lest the person who was meant to have picked up after you be further inconvenienced. That said, I find it highly inconsiderate to have departed so abruptly with little to no word spared for the company with whom you have spent these last five years, and who may or may not have at least wished to bid you farewell. It was unfairly done to those people, and it was an unfair affliction to give yourself—this business of pretending no one cares very much for one another.
Point three. Demonstration of a shockingly optimistic assessment of our day to day work which I would not have attributed to any member of this company, much less to a man of your professional capacities. The work of Riftwatch is dangerous. That we do not suffer loss with more frequency is fairly miraculous. It would behoove any member of the company to prepare themselves accordingly. If that is so wholly unpalatable to you, a person who may do as he pleases and go where he wills without restriction or consequence, then I would invite you to strongly consider the merits of your position here and whether it is responsible to pretend at commitment alongside people who have volunteered to face that danger or have little choice but to accept it.
[She lowers the paper. Looks at him. Somewhere in there, the small allegedly white dog has given up and sat down.]
You may defend yourself now.
for being too good?
After the first few sentences, it drains out of him.
Uncomfortable shifting is not something he does, as a rule. His eyebrows pinch here and there to signal a few quibbles—at unfair affliction to give yourself, and unpalatable, and at the very end, little choice but to accept it. The points he cannot quibble with, both those he might have predicted and those he hadn't really considered, get no such obvious reaction. He fits in three sips of coffee. He looks away once, for one second, when the garden brightens with a distant flash of lightning. If he looks smaller on the bench when she arrives at her stopping point than when she began, it is mostly a matter of vibes.
His head shake is a half-step up from a head twitch. ]
I'm sure I could not. I'll concede.
[ He gestures to her paper. ]
May I see it?
no subject
Very well.
[The little white dog stands up again as Wysteria hands across the piece of paper—(quarter piece, really, for there is still something of a shortage). He stands to perch his front paws expectantly on the edge of Bastien's bench as if this may be a treat he hopes to share in.
The paper itself has notes written in first one direction, and then crosswise again across the first lines to make full use of the space.]
no subject
Bastien turns it one way and then the other, scanning the notes quick enough to only catch a fraction of what they say. His free hand drops down to offer the little dog a sniff, perhaps a chin scratch if he’s amenable, and he glances up at Wysteria. ]
Generally it is a good thing, [ tired around the edges, but not without some warmth and distant amusement at her disappointed face scrunching, ] to mount a first strike so thorough and well-planned that the enemy immediately surrenders.
no subject
Wysteria, meanwhile, simply wrinkles her nose further.]
Yes, these last weeks I'd rather gathered the considerable advantage to be gleaned from an overwhelming assault.
no subject
Which means what he would really like is to get away. But he doesn't move, aside from skritching the dog and executing a neat refolding of her paper with one hand. ]
I shouldn't have left. If I had to leave, I shouldn't have left the way I did. I'm sorry that I went, and I'm sorry that I've disappointed you.
no subject
[This is a snipping assessment, perfectly clean and bloodless. And then, because she can only restrain her irritation for so long—]
You are not meant to just apologize. It seems very insincere.
no subject
The best he might sincerely do is a plea for understanding and however much grace five years might have earned him, with the rest to be repaid on schedule. But supposing no one alive wanted to deal with his feelings was a good third of the problem, after all, and on the list of places he might attempt to challenge that supposition, "Wysteria de Foncé nee Poppell thirsting for a debate" is just above "large carnivores," below "highwaymen holding me at knifepoint."
He opens his mouth. He puffs out only air. An inhale, and he tries again, half-hearted. ]
A man of my professional capacities recognizes a sunk ship. I would have given it another few weeks at most before it was announced we were reducing our operating costs, relocating somewhere harder to find, and narrowing our focus to exclusively rifts and arcana and all of that, and anyone who was not of use in that area would be invited to contribute their talents to the Inquisition instead.
[ Maybe. It had very little to do with anything, regardless. ]
no subject
Even if we had gone off to do just that, the work of investigating rifts and their associated arcana requires— You went to the Arlathans, yes? Do you imagine myself and Viktor and Miss Smythe just traipsing along through the jungles on our own? To say nothing of the intent of the Venatori themselves. Clearly they understand Riftwatch and its purposes as a threat to their own. They meant to kill us in Rialto, and succeeded in part at Granitefell. If anything—
[She reaches for a word, and failing to find it instead stamps her foot. It makes for a dull thwack amidst the hissing of the rain beyond the covered walkway. It does the job required of it thought, for she continues:]
It is our duty to persist! If that is true, then they should be frightened!
no subject
[ as if she had not progressed past that point at all ]
—and Messieurs Stark and Strange, Loxley, Ellie, Derrica, Mademoiselle Baudin—
[ for examples of people just as equipped as he is, if not moreso, to defend nerds in the woods. ]
no subject
[A sharp correction (a matter of semantics).]
no subject
[ He had known that. He sat on the floor with Florent outside the room with the bodies, and they spoke about her, and Florent cried.
The misstep disturbs whatever plan he had to go on bickering until Wysteria felt more triumphant about winning. He looks back at his hands. ]
Of course you are right.
no subject
But perhaps she marks the off footedness of the mistake. Or maybe the timing of this concession—which from the usual parties might ordinarily require all but ripping it free with her very teeth—catches her off guard in some similar fashion. But all at once, stood there in the little covered walk, she feels—
Not regret. Or embarrassment. Only that there is perhaps a very obvious question she should ask and not having asked it already, or perhaps maybe weeks ago when they were different versions of themselves, is somewhat coarse.
Meanwhile, the little white dog shifts his paws along the edge of the bench so he might worm closer to Bastien's knee. His black button nose and pink tongue search after the hand that has stopped scratching his chin.
Wysteria, who cannot very well simply ask the thing now, instead says:]
I will have that coffee now.
no subject
There's cream, but no sugar. Shortage. ]
What's his name?
no subject
Tab, [she says, then corrects herself before taking a sip of bitter coffee.] Tabouret.
no subject
Tabouret, [ and lowers both his head and his voice to address the little creature in question. ] Pouvons-nous t'utiliser pour atteindre les étagères hautes, mon garçon? Ouais? C’est ça.
[ He's due another dog, but it would be bad form to follow up his apology by stealing Wysteria's, probably. He keeps his head down to admire Tab's merry eyes and black button of a nose, but his voice lifts up to Wysteria again. ]
May I keep your notes?
no subject
I suppose you may, yes.
no subject
[ He removes the paper from beneath his thigh to tuck safely into his jacket instead, and from there attempts from juggling: lifting the tray one-handed over top the dog to relocate it to his side, further from Wysteria, and placing the dog in the vacated space between them, to visit with his mistress or hop down at his leisure. ]
It is still in your interest to let me print for you, I think. Unless you want to buy a press of your own and take time away from your other work to do the typesetting, you won't find a better bargain.
no subject
His mistress takes a slow, considering sip of her coffee.]
Do you expect to remain reliable?
no subject
He nods, and he scratches his fingers down the dog’s back, skull to tail. ]
no subject
Very well. You're right that any other printer would be more expensive. And they're hardly likely to be discreet with the materials.
[All these secret Riftwatch riddles and puzzle games and gossip; very confidential, clearly.
(Anyway, he did come back.)]