multiversallogs | 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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“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.”

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

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