There’s a Villiers and an Imriel curled up on a sofa, and a teeny tiny rabbit on the table busily munching on some hay.
What? Where’s Le Chiffre, you ask, and why is the local doormat snuggled with someone so young and devastatingly gorgeous? Well, perhaps you missed their
dramatic and slightly pyro-tastic breakup. Perhaps not. It's been a while,
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Well, actually, one might not be able to see him just yet, for his many years as a stalker type have meant he's quite capable of watching from afar.
Seething would be a good word for how he feels about what he's viewing. Jealous, too. Murderous, maybe. Psychotic, almost always.
None that he shows though, impressively. Even as he's on his feet without even realising, and moving to approach the two, very little in the way of emotion, except the usual glare.
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--shit.
Imriel nudges Villiers and sits up a little straighter, wondering why he has the urge to feel guilty, trying and failing to suppress it.
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It's a Le Chiffre.
And Villiers has the gall to keep an arm wrapped lightly around Imriel as he blinks over at his ex. Then again, it's been a while for him -- without a Le Chiffre around to care for, he's had the opportunity to go back home, and honestly, it's done him some good.
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".. It's been a while," he mentions, glancing between the two, though more than likely addressing Villiers.
His tone is pleasant enough, and lacking in any possibly expected malice.
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...A familiar rabbit! Momiji's seen that rabbit before! He's seen the people curled up near the rabbit before, too.
Well, he's seen them before. Not necessarily curled up. And this last part might be the reason he's leaning over the back of the sofa, looking down at them more than a little curiously.
"Hi, Imriel. Hi, Villiers."
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Imriel grins up at him. (When does Imriel ever grin like this?)
"Hi."
The greeting still sounds odd, from him, but something about Momiji incites imitation.
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It's a Momiji. Momijis make everything better.
And look! Even Imriel is smiling, which is clearly a good thing and totally worthy of a light hair-ruffle.
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The inquisitiveness on the young man's face fades away at the smiles and the hair-ruffle, and he justs leans over farther, planting his hands on the back of the sofa and smiling down at the pair.
Not that this stops him from asking the obvious question, of course:
"What'cha doing?"
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