multiversallogs | they're dancing on the roof and the ceiling's coming down

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they're dancing on the roof and the ceiling's coming down

Who: Lucius Malfoy (Sr) and Benevenuta Crispo
What: Lucius continues to do the swap meet party a favour by not meeting up with anyone inside of it.
Where: Syriac Well
When: Backdated to Sukkardi the 14th of Haneden.
Warnings: TBA.

It would be giving him too much credit to say that Lucius did not consider simply letting himself inside of her home, but there is something to be said about women who spent two weeks strapped into a crossbow and wielding a sword as long as her leg with a practical kind of ease. And that something would be: don't alarm them with breaking and entering.

He's had enough antagonism, for one week.

Which is a lie, because he could have just left Granger's book somewhere for her to collect, by courier or otherwise, but physically speaking, he could do with a break. There's a split dark and horizontal across the bridge of his nose, and something's happened to the arm he used to block that one curse, decidedly unpleasant and nonmagical. The elder of the Snapes was rude enough to depart for wherever it is he came from, and Lucius was rather out of essence of dittany, the discovery of which had nearly moved him to do a little property damage out of sheer impatience, but he'd held back. Because he was tired.

He has had a little to drink, not in excess, but any middle aged man with his particular disposition sort of points to excess anyway. Both this and the coat he wears staves off any cold that might have befallen the later evening, as he sits with a kind of weary patience upon the wooden bench just near Vanessza's building. It hasn't rained lately, but pink leaved trees have collected enough moisture for the occasional patter of water to break the evening silence. He has a leg folded over the other, and though he had seen her leave alone, he takes some morbid amusement from the idea of if she hadn't.

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Benevenuta's leaving a bar alone doesn't always necessarily mean she's going to back her apartment-- but mercifully, for Lucius's sake, she's stepping lightly down from the Syriac Well carriage now, having evidently let her hair down during the ride back from the bar, and unbelting her coat in preparation for the elaborate dance that is Where Did My Fucking Door-key Go. She pauses in the act of bending in front of the main entrance to take her high heels off when she realizes she recognizes that sorry lump of a man sitting outside her building, and--

--it is unkind of her to consider just going in, for just a moment, but she has had a bit to drink and he always does need to be wrangled, but he is in his way something comfortingly familiar. A man who can be managed is, so often, her preferred sort.

“All right,” she says, instead of a greeting, and then holds out her shoes and purse. If he's coming in, he's making himself useful.

Edited 2012-04-20 11:21 (UTC)

Perhaps he might have thought fair enough and Disapparated for home, south of here, only to nurse injured pride the next day. There seems to be a delay time when it comes to injury, which is sort of handy to have.

Sort of. Perhaps it would have been a good idea to quit his latest brawl around when he was being thrown across the room. He gets to his feet, anyway, in no position to complain, making his silent way over to accept purse and shoes. It is a good way of communicating that he intends to behave, rather than arriving expressly to pick a fight.

It's probably for the best all around that both Benevenuta and Lucius are inclined to play nice with each other tonight, for the sake of the hangovers they may or may not have later. (She'll probably be fine.) Once they're inside and her keys don't seem to have gone walkabot in the meantime, she ushers him into the downstairs of her apartment; hangs up her coat, takes her purse and shoes from him to set down, runs her fingers through her hair from beneath and sighs.

“What have you done to yourself, Lucius.” It's not quite an actual question-- there's an odd, quiet affection. “It's good you came. I have something for you-- I'll put coffee on and you can show me what you've done, first.”

With wand sequestered into a deep coat pocket, Lucius has nothing he need set down; once the lady's items are taken out of his hands, he works himself out of his coat to more black on black in the form of shirt, waistcoat, slacks, all neatly put together out of habit. He doesn't laugh, either, at the way she asks her not-question, he just makes a sound like he might have if he'd wanted to put the effort in.

It's funny, though. 'What have you done to yourself'. Get it. Yes.

"Well. I thought you'd appreciate better company," is as dry as baked clay.

“Do tell me when some appears.” She waves him vaguely towards the sofas - there's a book-shaped lump tucked inside where she'd put her coat down, but it can wait until she's caffeinated against the lingering effects of the wine. She'd rather be closer to sober before she tries peeling at the edges of his mood, and more pertinently, before she has to do anything in a professional capacity that she'd really better not be clumsy about.

That gets a look tossed over his shoulder at her, and no stinging comeback, on account of not having one as opposed to being genteel. Lucius, instead, finds a place to sit when gestured to do so, and is utterly uncurious about any book shapes she might have stored in her clothing as he undoes a button at the cuff of his wrist, rolling back black cotton. There is bruising, unpleasantly yellows and greens, and a mutter lifts the numbness charm without any visible cue or effect.

His mood, is apparently, one disinclined to chatter, at least not across the room as she sets about her task in the kitchen.

Coffee helps. Coffee always helps, at this hour when her life is beginning to resemble some kind of ridiculous farce-- at least she's never bored, it's never dull. For all that there is familiarity, it's interesting how even her own reactions catch her off-guard, sometimes; it isn't the choice that intrigues her in herself so much as the impulse that immediately precedes it, whether for or against.

She wonders if she gets more introspective when she's been drinking. Likely.

Benevenuta sets down the second mug on the low glass table in front of Lucius, and sets herself down beside him. “Let me see.”

Perhaps it is, in its way, vaguely complimentary that she assumes he must be injured somewhere she can't see as well as the knock in his face, and not just that he's backsliding towards Hobo Chic again.

He isn't, at least, bleeding into his own clothing as he was their very first meeting. That has to be a step up. Possibly a scenario he might have avoided had he counted on ever seeing her again beyond cashing in a perceived favour or making liberal exploitation of apparent kindness, but it does give one a low standard to surpass, at the very least. There had been affection, when she'd asked what he'd done this time.

The injury that's seized up his wrist, discoloured skin and only a mild amount of swelling, probably speaks of injury that needs little more than ice and rest, and didn't get the basics in first aid when initially received. However;

"I was hoping the good potions master saw fit to equip you with something to speed this along." While she's had wine, he's had whiskey. Coffee, as stated, will help.

“He did.” Her fingertips are warm from the coffee mug and she is gentle, careful, as she touches his wrist to better examine it. There's not much she'd otherwise be able to do for him - an over the counter painkiller, some ice, maybe a brace - but she does have the passing thought that he probably still doesn't actually have much in the way of a working knowledge of what she's qualified to do in the technical details sense.

After a moment, she gives him his hand back and gets to her feet - at least a little salve doesn't ask anything very complex of her, which is probably for the best. She's still studying the majority of what she's stocked with, and for that reason she is still almost fully stocked with what she's purchased, but she's more comfortable using it with a wizard than she is someone unaccustomed to its practise.

Heading upstairs to collect it - maybe she should change, no, it's fine - she rubs absently at the back of her neck, rolling her head to one side, curling her toes on the cold wood. It'll only be a minute. He can drink some coffee.

He hooks the edge of sleeve cuff over his elbow properly, before reaching for the coffee cup after he's watched her depart. The taste isn't so much as savoured-- because by now he can only sense that much in the dullest of senses-- as its warmth, which feels like comfort. Lucius had simply watched silently as she'd handled his hand and wrist, offering no complaint, allowing himself to relax rather than get wound up again.

Remembers, then, that she'd expressed gratitude in the form of convenience that he'd come. He'll have to ask why.

He can ask at his leisure - she returns promptly, albeit not in anything that much resembles a hurry. Hers is the affection of someone who harbors suspicions that he may have had that coming, and accordingly does not feel it anything terribly urgent that she relieve his aches with the veriest speed.

“Sleeve,” she says, peremptorily, carrying a small bag with her as she sits back down.

Lucius harbours suspicions that he may have had it coming, although this is in such mirror reflection that he can conveniently attribute the blame elsewh-- look, it's complicated.

Sleeve: out of the way. Disposition: unchanged. He sets the coffee aside as well, creaking out of his position so that he might better face her a little when she sits down. Conveniently, he isn't in much of a rush himself. "I suppose it mightn't please you to know that I won," is-- supposed to be humour? Maybe? His tone never makes it very easy to tell.

“Oh, so? And what was your prize.” It's a half absent-minded inquiry as she takes a moment to clean the skin where she's going to apply salve; once the salve is on, she lets it soak in for a few moments, so it can start working before she puts an elastic wrist compression on him.

All things considered, it seems like the sort of question better not answered.

So of course Lucius answers it; "With the privilege of not suffering further indignity." Which is a really fancy way of saying 'bragging rights' and he probably isn't even fooling the lady whose English is not her first or even second language. Certainly not himself. There's a twitch at the corner of his mouth when he feels the salve begin to pay attention to the injury it's meant to. "Except, of course, where you may witness it."

No, by the way she glances up at him with the beginnings of a wryly edged smile, starting at the corners of her eyes - not even a little bit. Maybe Benevenuta is just tough to fool, but her mood is mellow and he isn't injured enough to have irritated her with worry, so that's all the ribbing he's getting.

Well, just about--

“Ah,” she says, quietly, fitting the brace carefully to his wrist, “so that is my prize.”

He tolerates her application of whatever medicine she feels is necessary for him to use his arm properly again with only a raised eyebrow and otherwise no comment, focus on track of conversation. His mouth twinges again at her comment, which for most people can be identified as the beginnings of a smirk. "You're most welcome," is just as wry, fingers folding against his palm once she's done fitting the brace, taking his hand back.

Presence or lack of further injury goes without note or assurance. "I would have you think it complimentary that you're on the forefront of my mind upon injury."

“I have no doubt, Lucius, that your mind is a very interesting place to be.” Absolute sincerity, in that so-mild way she has; she's merely refraining from speculating as to why, exactly, that might be interesting. There are so many possible reasons, after all, some of them both more and less flattering to one or the other.

Then, “I have something for you, from the--” there's some gesturing here, intended to encompass 'bullshit god nonsense'.

Replacing his sleeve in slow fidgets, any sense of haughty briskness dampened and slowed down by alcohol consumption, Lucius glances her way and this time it's no wry look, but one to track and interpret the gesture. Which tells him why it is good he is here, anyway.

"The gathering," he supplies a vaguely polite term for what he also feels to be 'bullshit god nonsense'. "Despite my very best efforts not to participate more than strictly necessary."

“For the best.” --as though she were going to disagree with him, there.

Still, she goes to fetch the album from under her coat, rubbing at the back of her calf with one foot when she pauses to unwrap it and try not to spill the contents of her coat pockets or anything else on the side-table in the process. Bringing it back to him, there's something she lifts out of the front cover for herself before she offers it up.

“But, I think, this is yours.”

He follows the track of movement of her hands before the crest pressed into the leather snags all of his attention. Ah. Whatever Vanessza may have agreed to with his comment, a part of his sentiment of distancing is a little bit of this, as well, avoiding these teasing mementos that tell him that someone up there could bloody well restore everything to rights if they set their divine minds to it--

The album is taken in both hands, a hesitation before he flips it open to just briefly see where the pictures stop so he might best confirm that it isn't intended for his alternate. The actual pictures themselves, shifting uneasily in their frames, are barely looked at, before it's closed again.

"So it is."

“I thought it would be best, to collect it for you.” He wasn't going to go in-- he wouldn't appreciate, she'd thought, seeing it on the network later. In a situation like this it must be more private; when it's not only memory, but loss. There are photographs she'd find it harder to look at than others, and that is something meant for quiet rooms that have no audiences.

It doesn't occur to her presently that she doesn't think of herself as audience to his experience. It's hard to tell whether she presumes a closeness or a distance, precisely - whether she is welcome or if she simply thinks of herself as so far apart to be outside of the possibility.

If someone had put it on the network, they may have been turned into a toad. The overreaction that would inspire this would prove Benevenuta correct.

He's on his feet, moving to stow it away with his coat, although-- with exception to an unfinished mug of coffee-- part of him insists that all business is attended to and he should make his retreat. The rest of him knows that that's just feeling disarmed, which is irritating. "Yes, quite," sounds distracted, and then more presently; "You'll forgive me if it was any kind of surprise." That he hadn't made an attempt at mentioning his family, for all that he'd considered doing so if only to complain to someone who would listen.

It'd be false to say that she hadn't paused, or that she hadn't briefly reexamined their own dynamic even as something inside her twisted in sympathy; it is a terrible thing to be separated from your children, and it is a terrible thing that she has known too many times, by virtue of necessity and of her own nature.

Benevenuta is not known for being a teller of truths, but-- still. She doesn't say that.

“I don't imagine I am keeper of all your secrets.”

Just a few; like he had a few of hers.

That doesn't quite get a laugh out of him, even if inebriated. In fact, he feels sharply sober now, and though he has no intentions to rectify this, it is a bleak thing to realise. Still, he responds with, "No, I wouldn't wish that upon you." He has a few not so pleasant ones that would, potentially, greatly interfere with their dynamic even more than hard evidence of family would be.

He glances back at her, and winds up taking up his coat to drape over an arm, stiff with regard to injury but by now a little used to navigating around it. "I'll leave you in peace, then," is pretty graceless, but he hasn't felt graceful in a while, and still half-distracted.

Well, that's-- not unexpected, exactly, but Benevenuta still takes a moment to mentally catch up, it having been a long day and that having been a little more abrupt than she'd been anticipating, offhand. It's still a good deal more amiable than the last time he was in her flat, so there's that.

(There's a thought that crosses her mind, but that can wait until he isn't injured and she hasn't been drinking. It'll be easier to talk him into if he's not nursing wounded pride.)

So she stands, to see him out (all the way across the room, yes): “Goodnight, Lucius.”

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they're dancing on the roof and the ceiling's coming down

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