the tuesday following the party

[billboyd]

Finding out where "Uncle Ian" lives isn't a problem, of course. He checks Nic's file (Monaghan, Dominic) and commits the address to memory. It's not difficult; it's in the Hills, and is unnervingly close to one of Dominguez's abodes

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[billboyd]

She says nothing, just looks at him over the rim of her tea cup. He isn't particularly interested in trying to stare her down, so he just lets her look, taking a drink of his own tea carefully.

It's good, proper English tea -- as he'd known it would be, coming from her, and he's willing to bet her 'Uncle' would make it just the same -- but he's so used to coffee now that it somehow doesn't satisfy. He drinks it anyhow, for the sake of politeness.

There's a book open on the table, something about stained glass, he sees with a bare glance, but it reminds him of the gown she'd restored, and since she clearly isn't going to facilitate any civil conversation -- a staple of any proper English Tea -- it's up to him to give it a go.

"I saw the work you did on Mary of Hapsburg's gown," he says simply, because it isn't like he has anything to use as a segue. "I'm obviously not an expert, but I did view both the before and after photographs, and it seemed like an amazing job to me."

So if you can do that, and if you love it-- and Bill doesn't doubt for a moment that she can, and she does, --why bother crossing the line of the law? To what end?

But he doesn't bother saying it. She won't answer, or if she does, she'll answer in half-truths or fairy-tale laden innuendo, and it's not really that important anyway. Given enough time, he'll figure it out on his own, most likely, and he can see no reason to offer backhanded compliments.

"Where do you go to be yourself, Bill?" she had asked, and it's a good question. A pertinent question, because everyone really does need somewhere to go where they can be themselves, and he is no exception.

[kateinthecoat]

She grins. Small talk from Bill Boyd. She thought Hell had been cooling off recently.

"Oh, yes?" She crosses her legs and leans back in her seat. "And what did you find most interesting? The inclusion of weft-woven silk brocade so early in the Northern Renaissance, or the fact that I managed not to steal it while I was there?"

[billboyd]

He snorts, amused. "You wouldn't steal something you were actually working with on behalf of the Gallery," he says. "You're not a bloody moron. And I don't even know what weft-woven silk brocade is, you snippy cow. And don't particularly want to. I was going for something non-threatening to discuss over tea." He arches a brow at her, more amused than annoyed. "It's tradition, you know. If you don't want to talk about your profession, you could try leading the bloody chit chat yourself, you know."

[kateinthecoat]

Kate laughs.

"You'll forgive me," she says, sliding lower in her chair, "but I had reason to doubt this was a social call."

She angles her right leg towards him, coral-painted toes aimed at the shoulder holster under his jacket. She reaches behind her and grips the chair seat for balance, and her skirt falls back from ankle to mid-calf as she extends the stretch.

He never takes his eyes off her face, and she can't stop smiling.

She'd forgotten what it felt like to have a friend.

[billboyd]

"I'm sure I haven't the faintest idea of what you're referring to," Bill says stiffly, his very best impression of a stodgy Brit (something that Nic isn't, Kate is only faintly, and Uncle Ian only does an uncanny impression of, he suspects), but he doesn't bother trying to repress his smile.

"Put your foot down, you tart, and behave like a proper lady." He gives the tea a disparaging look. "A proper lady would've offered me biscuits the second me arse hit the chair."

[kateinthecoat]

She laughs and stands. "Well, a proper lady would have baked the biscuits herself, as well, but you're safe on that count. I'm crap at everything but crepes, and those aren't for you."

She opens a few cabinets. "My God, these men keep a shameful larder," she mutters, kneeling to search the bottom of the refrigerator. "I can offer you olives...something called a 'Pleasure Box' that I am not touching, and - ah." She stands with a bakery box in hand. "Chocolate cake with cream cheese glaze. Satisfactory, Bill, or are you watching your girlish figure?"

[billboyd]

"I'm largely content with watching the girlish figures of others," he admits wryly. "It'll do, though the tea overall will suffer, you know. Without the traditional slightly stale, mostly tasteless, genuinely English biscuits."

She gives him a smirk over one shoulder, but doesn't comment as she puts the cake on a tray and slices it, handling the knife with quick, deft motions.

[kateinthecoat]

"And whose figure is that?" she asks as she brings over the cake and sets down two square porcelain plates, courtesy of MOMA.

Off his look, she raises an eyebrow. "Come now. You know who I'm sleeping with. It's your turn."

She sits and serves him a slice of cake.

[billboyd]

"Och," he says. "I could have lived forever without that mental image, thanks."

He doesn't bother to look up, just turns his plate and picks up his fork. She makes some kind of soft, grumbly noise, and he manages to refrain from smiling.

"The figure currently appropriating my attention belongs to Miss Knightley, if you must know," he continues. "All in all, a much more shapely one that your... well... whatever he is." He glances up briefly. "Less wrinkles, anyhow."

[kateinthecoat]

Kate nods. "The girl from the party."

The cake is rich and almost smoky. Excellent bakery.

"I would have thought you'd look for someone a little less...nude."

[billboyd]

It surprises a little bark of laughter out of him.

"Well, it wouldn't be any fun if you knew everything about me, would it?"

[kateinthecoat]

"You assume you'll keep my interest long enough. Cheeky of you."

The cake is fantastic, and she feels the tension in her neck (Ian calls it "librarian's headache") start to recede.

[billboyd]

"Keeping interest hasn't ever really been a problem," Bill muses, both amused and not remotely amused at how true that is. "It's getting rid of it once the gloves come off, so to speak."

The cake really is good, rich and not too sweet. American's always overdo the bloody chocolate, but this is just perfect. "Good cake."

[kateinthecoat]

Kate's tempted to tease him about the "interest" comment, but she suspects the interest has less to do with gently giggling women than it does murderers and guns and being afraid for your life. Why ruin a nice cake with talk like that?

Then again, she doesn't particularly want to talk about herself.

"When was the last time you went to a museum?"

[billboyd]

He pauses with a bite of cake perched on his fork and halfway to his mouth.

When was the last time he'd gone to a museum?

It takes him most of a minute to come up with it.

He had been twelve. His mum had taken him.

"Nearly twenty years," he says eventually, because Kate is waiting, and her posture seems to indicate that she will continue to wait until he answers. His voice sounds low and gruff and almost angry, and it occurs to him that this would be a good time to say something flippant and suggestive, but he can't quite manage it.

Instead he puts his fork down. As sometimes happens (and he never expects it, after all these years) when he thinks about his mother, his stomach roils with nausea.

He thinks it might be time to go.

[kateinthecoat]

Well, fuck. Apparently the man hates museums.

And of course there's no point in getting offended. He can't help the trauma of whatever museum it was.

But she so rarely extends invitations that it seems a shame to stammer to a halt and humilate him with silence.

"I thought, if you had free time from working with the naked people, we could go."

She keeps her voice low and steady, not flippant, but not ardent.