For Sagramore

[all_that_grace]

Courfeyrac happens to be on his way upstairs -- alone, notably -- his hands tucked in his pockets, with an abstracted air.

Comments

[le_desirous]

Sagramore is coming down, not a little angry, his sword slapping against his hip, his manner taut.

[all_that_grace]

Courfeyrac moves instinctively out of his way, startled. "Sir?"

[le_desirous]

"Christ!" slamming his hand down on the stair rail.

[all_that_grace]

He freezes.

[le_desirous]

Sagramore struggles for a moment, trying to get his temper under control, and fails miserably. A stream of invective follows.

[all_that_grace]

Courfeyrac lets him run out of breath, and then says, very cautiously, "What's wrong?"

[le_desirous]

"That damned woman!"

[all_that_grace]

"Oh, dear."

[le_desirous]

"Christ in His heaven, she does this--" More cursing.

[all_that_grace]

"Dear sir." Courfeyrac approaches him carefully, and rests a hand on his arm.

[le_desirous]

"In the name of all that's holy--" and then several deep breaths, slow, trying to unclench his jaw, because this is bad, it's bad, he needs not to do this.

[all_that_grace]

A soothing stroke, upward to his shoulder. "You look as though you could use a drink. Come to my room, won't you, and tell me about it?"

[le_desirous]

"Yes, all right," letting his breath out. "All right."

[all_that_grace]

"There," Courfeyrac says, and steers him back up the stairs gently.

[le_desirous]

He comes along, a tiny bit shaky, but, on the whole, having forced himself to calm down it's hard to get worked up again.

[all_that_grace]

Courfeyrac's room is comfortably furnished, and the lights have been left on. He shuts the door behind them, ushers Sagramore to a loveseat by the window and pulls down the shade. "Now, sir."