Past-Part Fills Part 7
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Past-Part Fills Part Seven
Fills from past parts can go here!
Fills from the current part (part 22) MUST go in that part's post until it is full.
Link to the original request (and if an ongoing fill, any previous chapters/sections).
Don't forget to link your new fill at the fill ( Read more... )
Alfred narrows his eyes. “Is it a bad word?”
Perplexed, Eduard can only ask, “Ah, what?”
“My mom told me not to say bad words or else my face'll get stuck that way.”
Eduard frowns. “I think that applies only to pulling odd expressions.”
“You’re an optician, not my mom.”
Verna sighs. “Please just read from it, Alfie, before I get any older.”
“You can’t make me!” Alfred states, announcing rather than protesting. “I don’t want glasses and this guy looks shifty, anyway!”
A woman of thespian background, Verna lets out a theatrical cry of frustration, whilst Eduard’s eye twitches with annoyance. All the while, Alfred sits looking quite pleased with himself.
“Let’s try something else,” Eduard says, already thinking of ways he can try ending this appointment early. Perhaps he could elbow the fire alarm, but he might get in trouble with the police, or give the elderly receptionist a heart attack.Drinking wine is like fighting a battle.
Never spill a drop whilst pouring. If possible, make your opponent pour it for you - but be sure to watch out for those that might poison the serving you intend to take. Raise your glass, but only as your opponent does. If they smell the wine, they are pretentious, but you should copy their movements just the same. Make sure not to drink until they do. Dignified men try to wait.
Harold is pretentious, but he certainly isn’t dignified. He takes his wine in sips, because he seems uninterested in fighting this particular battle. He is happy to drink with his butler, but he isn’t happy to spar with him.
“You wanted to see me,” Harold says, barely containing his excitement. He sets down his glass, hands twitching and fingers flexing. “You have news, I believe? You must have news.”
“I looked into my suspicions,” Bonnefoy says. “And I found that they are correct.”
He bites back a smile, because usually, he wouldn’t be so cryptic. He is aware of how pompous he sounds, but that’s just part of the fun - he lifted his dialogue from an daytime drama, right after watching another inspirational episode of Dogs That Save Lives.
“Suspicions?” Harold asks, leaning forward in his chair. Leather, like all the chairs in his study. The wine bottle he opened specially for this visit stands half-empty (or perhaps, after tonight, half-full) on his desk. “What do you mean?”
Bonnefoy smirks. “The bastard rosbif is with your grandson.”
He falls silent and gently shakes his glass, hopefully dignified, though he isn’t going to drink just yet. There will be time for grandiose intoxication later; right now, he wants to enjoy the look on Harold’s face as he makes him nervous.
Harold’s reaction is exactly the same as the one Bonnefoy envisaged.
The elder Jones leaps from his seat, hands flying to his thinning hair, his worn suit trouser pockets, through the air itself. He finally settles on wringing his hands instead, unable to do anything else with them. He begins pacing immediately, his face paling.
“Why now?” he chokes. “Why is this happening now? It’s been... it’s been years. Why’s he back? Where’s he been?”
Though the exhibition is delicious, it’s not the one Bonnefoy wishes to see. He lets Harold wail and complain for a good few minutes more before deciding to intervene.
“You misunderstand,” Bonnefoy says, lifting a hand, holding his glass in the other.
Harold seems mesmerised by Bonnefoy’s raised palm and stares at it, frozen in place, his pacing ceased. He waits expectantly for Bonnefoy to speak again, hanging from the butler’s every breath.
“He has not changed,” Bonnefoy says. “He has not had the same... privilege as you. Rather, he is like me.”
Though it barely seems possible, Harold somehow manages to pale even more. “You mean he ain’t...?”
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