What he needs is to climb the stairs up from the ferry slip, to cross the Gallows' courtyard, and then to ascend eight further flights to the Forces division office and its adjacent apartments where he might reasonably transition into a horizontal and ideally comatose state for a few hours. But once one imagines the length of that journey, it instantly becomes remarkably less appealing. Besides, there is a stack of paperwork and letters waiting for him there too, and inevitably they will take precedence over his pillow once he is actually in the room in question.
So, no. He doesn't need anything that he might find here at the midpoint of this trek back to work, and it more than a little indulgent to say otherwise. However—
Gwenaëlle makes a quiet tch sound, more agreement than anything else, and tips her head; come along, then, toward the boat he can always most effectively critique from within it, on the plush upholstery and drinking her wine. Or tea, as the case may be.
“They make you row it yourself at this hour?” is half a question (another one lingering behind it, unasked, yet) and half a jest, although it's not as if she'd be so surprised if the answer were yes. Or if he'd just done it to prove some kind of deeply esoteric and masculine point, a thing she broadly doesn't put past him even if she does tend to be more than willing to ascribe sensible and correct motives to him after the fact.
"I like to imagine it sets a standard for the rest of the company," he says, the tilt of his temple leading his effort to follow her. If the prerequisite to ditching the last ferry back to the Gallows means hacking yourself across the harbor, the number of likely hooligans drops considerably.
(Commander Flint is, of course, no hooligan. He is simply above the rules.)
The narrow gangplank spanning from the dock to La Souveraineté has a pleasantly springy quality under the passage of their combined weight, jaunty where the tenor of the evening might otherwise be somewhat lacking. The air here is sticky, but they will soon be out of it.
The door is still unlatched from where she had come out, seeking her exasperating escapee; there's a lamp still lit, not in the gallery but in one of the further interior rooms, and she looks for a moment mildly surprised to see it,
and then Guilfoyle fills the doorway, and says, “Tea, mademoiselle?” in that distinctly unflappable way that he has, and she manages not to laugh.
“For two, Guilfoyle, merci. And then retire, for Maker's sake—”
“Ah,” he murmurs, “a direct order, no less.” As he passes by, “Commander,” with a neat inclination of his chin, the angle perfectly calculated. He does not, even now, carry himself as a servant.
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gwen;
What he needs is to climb the stairs up from the ferry slip, to cross the Gallows' courtyard, and then to ascend eight further flights to the Forces division office and its adjacent apartments where he might reasonably transition into a horizontal and ideally comatose state for a few hours. But once one imagines the length of that journey, it instantly becomes remarkably less appealing. Besides, there is a stack of paperwork and letters waiting for him there too, and inevitably they will take precedence over his pillow once he is actually in the room in question.
So, no. He doesn't need anything that he might find here at the midpoint of this trek back to work, and it more than a little indulgent to say otherwise. However—
"A cup of tea does have some appeal."
no subject
“They make you row it yourself at this hour?” is half a question (another one lingering behind it, unasked, yet) and half a jest, although it's not as if she'd be so surprised if the answer were yes. Or if he'd just done it to prove some kind of deeply esoteric and masculine point, a thing she broadly doesn't put past him even if she does tend to be more than willing to ascribe sensible and correct motives to him after the fact.
nw if this is too crusty
(Commander Flint is, of course, no hooligan. He is simply above the rules.)
The narrow gangplank spanning from the dock to La Souveraineté has a pleasantly springy quality under the passage of their combined weight, jaunty where the tenor of the evening might otherwise be somewhat lacking. The air here is sticky, but they will soon be out of it.
never
and then Guilfoyle fills the doorway, and says, “Tea, mademoiselle?” in that distinctly unflappable way that he has, and she manages not to laugh.
“For two, Guilfoyle, merci. And then retire, for Maker's sake—”
“Ah,” he murmurs, “a direct order, no less.” As he passes by, “Commander,” with a neat inclination of his chin, the angle perfectly calculated. He does not, even now, carry himself as a servant.