Brooding. Guinevere doesn't know anything about that, oh no, she doesn't.
She might even have been doing some of her own, quietly, discreetly, trying to not draw any attention, and particularly not Sebastian's, whom she is desperately trying not to hurt.
But brooding still, and finding herself going back, in her mind, to the strange and very tall young man who came of late.
And perhaps her moody walk simply takes her to where Sam is doing some brooding of his own, and she doesn't quite notice, at first, too lost in her thoughts to quite realize who is in her direct surroundings.
Nothing at all. Guinevere has never brooded. Ever. And certainly not right now. (We should have an Olympics, really. Typist wonders who would win.)
Sam, however, lifts his head as soon as someone moves even a little close, paying attention to his surroundings almost a little too much, as usual. He looks up and kind of pauses. He hasn't seen her since that night at the - whatever that was, and whatever that was, and...
Yeah, so just watching her, for the moment, beer dangling loosely from his fingers, frowning between his eyebrows and in a little crease around his mouth.
After a while, Guinevere feels observed, and she might then startle out of her moody contemplation. She doesn't see Sam immediately - it takes her a moment to drape her gaze over him, and when she does, she finds that it's an odd source of pleasure - almost a disconcerting one.
She notices the bottle, notices that he isn't greeting her, just watching, and she freezes, eyes a bit wide.
What if the bottle was a bad sign? What if it did things to him? What if Guinevere was too fanciful for her own good? What if she wasn't welcome? What if?
She colors for no apparent reason and stutters a quiet, timid greeting, eyes wide like a doe in a clearing.
She looks so - nervous. Sam feels an immediate and irrational surge of guilt, but then that's been his norm lately, and hastens to set the bottle down out of sight and if not smile, at least try to look less - under a dark cloud. "--hey," he says, a bit less eloquently. "Um - Guinevere. How're you - how've you been?"
Arms dangling over the porch as well as his legs after setting down the bottle, Sam manages to look even ganglier than usual.
No it's not! Totally normal. You're doing fine, Guinevere. Really. (And he can totally tell the difference, and it worries him. Your decorous smile, that is. Did something go wrong? Oh, hell, did he do something...)
..."Yeah? You don't sound too sure about that," he says, probably more because he's brooding already and fortified with liquid courage than anything.
It's out of sight now; that makes it out of mind, right? Right? (It should, dammit.) "--tired. Yeah, I know that feeling," he allows, with a twitchy not entirely honest smile, and then looks back out at the lake. "--me? Yeah, I'm good. I'm - good."
Such lies. But it's not like he could possibly complain to her. That's just be stupid. And dickish.
"Is that so?" Guinevere asks, "for I swear I saw you with liquor but a moment ago, and I feared that mayhap aught ill had come upon you." She takes another timid step in his direction.
She feels compelled to comfort him - part of her wants to sit with him in the grass and just hold him, perhaps caress his hair if he were to lay his head on her lap.
If Sam could hear her thoughts he would blush so hard. In the typist's head he's got this funny yearning look on his face. It's almost sad. In reality, though, he just flushes and looks uncomfortably away.
"--um. Yeah, I guess - it's nothing big. Just habit, really. And um. Yeah."
Habit? That doesn't sound too reassuring, actually. Guinevere's usually even brown creases in concern.
"-- I've never seen you in such disarray," she says as she takes another step closer. "Do tell -- would you not walk with me, tell me what is resting on your mind thus?"
There is nothing but innocent worry in her eyes, in all of her person, really.
It is, isn't it. Oh, Sam is a common phrase in this head. In life. Whatever. (And ha, he didn't even think about that being more worrying. Oops.)
"Disarray? Can't be that bad, I just started," he says, without really thinking about it, and then blinks and says, "--wait. I'm sorry, I probably - I'm not going to be very good company today."
Go Gwen! (Although Sam insists that he does kind of have a presence of doom and a bad track record with ladies. Which he does.) Meanwhile, though! Sam blinks, a touch, and then says, "Okay," a little bit to his surprise.
...and then adds, "What are you looking for, then?"
Guinevere blinks, looks at him, opens her mouth, closes it, looks ahead of her.
"I wish not to be left behind," she finally blurts out, and realizing that what she said made absolutely no sense, she finds herself biting her lower lip and looking, well..
Sam blinks, a little. And then his hands get stuffed in his pockets and he looks ever so slightly away. "Yeah," he says, after a moment. "I guess I kind of know the feeling."
After a second, he stands up and offers her a hand, not wobbling. He's only had enough to make him more broody than usual. "So. How about that walk?"
She might even have been doing some of her own, quietly, discreetly, trying to not draw any attention, and particularly not Sebastian's, whom she is desperately trying not to hurt.
But brooding still, and finding herself going back, in her mind, to the strange and very tall young man who came of late.
And perhaps her moody walk simply takes her to where Sam is doing some brooding of his own, and she doesn't quite notice, at first, too lost in her thoughts to quite realize who is in her direct surroundings.
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Sam, however, lifts his head as soon as someone moves even a little close, paying attention to his surroundings almost a little too much, as usual. He looks up and kind of pauses. He hasn't seen her since that night at the - whatever that was, and whatever that was, and...
Yeah, so just watching her, for the moment, beer dangling loosely from his fingers, frowning between his eyebrows and in a little crease around his mouth.
She looks - distracted. Or something.
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She notices the bottle, notices that he isn't greeting her, just watching, and she freezes, eyes a bit wide.
What if the bottle was a bad sign? What if it did things to him? What if Guinevere was too fanciful for her own good? What if she wasn't welcome? What if?
She colors for no apparent reason and stutters a quiet, timid greeting, eyes wide like a doe in a clearing.
"-- Good morrow --"
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Arms dangling over the porch as well as his legs after setting down the bottle, Sam manages to look even ganglier than usual.
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"I've been well, my thanks," she replies, lying as well as she can (not that well).
Thinking about not thinking of you, mostly.
Well, that's convoluted.
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..."Yeah? You don't sound too sure about that," he says, probably more because he's brooding already and fortified with liquid courage than anything.
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She saw that bottle. It worries her. A lot.
And then the excess worry is cause for concern.
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Such lies. But it's not like he could possibly complain to her. That's just be stupid. And dickish.
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She feels compelled to comfort him - part of her wants to sit with him in the grass and just hold him, perhaps caress his hair if he were to lay his head on her lap.
It's all in complete innocence, we swear.
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"--um. Yeah, I guess - it's nothing big. Just habit, really. And um. Yeah."
So convincing, Sam. Right.
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Habit? That doesn't sound too reassuring, actually. Guinevere's usually even brown creases in concern.
"-- I've never seen you in such disarray," she says as she takes another step closer. "Do tell -- would you not walk with me, tell me what is resting on your mind thus?"
There is nothing but innocent worry in her eyes, in all of her person, really.
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"Disarray? Can't be that bad, I just started," he says, without really thinking about it, and then blinks and says, "--wait. I'm sorry, I probably - I'm not going to be very good company today."
She's so...sweet.
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Not. Again.
Guinevere's face closes a little, as it always does when determination falls on her.
"I am not looking for good company," she states seriously. "And so it is meet that yours would not be so. Pray walk with me."
The latter? Is not exactly a request. When she can, Guinevere can be a queen. That's what she just did.
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...and then adds, "What are you looking for, then?"
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"I wish not to be left behind," she finally blurts out, and realizing that what she said made absolutely no sense, she finds herself biting her lower lip and looking, well..
Utterly insecure.
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After a second, he stands up and offers her a hand, not wobbling. He's only had enough to make him more broody than usual. "So. How about that walk?"
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