Enter, Master Snakebite

[not_snake_bite]

"Ha! You ill-begotten, unworthy wretch!  You did not kill me!  Nothing can kill Master Steerpike, nothing!" He claims, repeats, singing and dancing madly as he flails in the darkening, rainy night.  Until... In a surprising deft movement he turns and stares at an uncanny source of light, a beacon in the night, and he suddenly realized he is no

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[hardlyagravated]

Laurel's had a long day; snapped at by a suicidally depressed teenager, utterly unsuccessful at finding her husband, and feeling very alone at present. But she's long internalized manners as a survival skill, and curtseys shallowly.

"Good eve, sir," quietly but not timidly, perhaps the fairer for her preoccupation, though it's been long enough since anyone found her so.

[not_snake_bite]

Steerpike steps in, very intrigued by the refrigerator, and a little reluctantly, leaves Laurel's arm. "Fascinating magic," he says with wonder, his hands caressing the cold surface. "And it is full of anything one's heart might desire?"

[hardlyagravated]

"Usually food, but mostly yes."

[not_snake_bite]

At this, Steerpike laughs - the sound might resemble a hyena's a little, but he catches himself. "Yes, that was the expectation, fair maiden."

Happier than he's been in ages (he defeated Death and is in a masterless place where he can get anything he wishes), he takes Laurel in his arms and proceeds to waltzing to a happy tune.

The typist apologizes for this. The man's irremediably insane pleased.

[hardlyagravated]

This draws a startled laugh from her. "Well. I'm glad you're so pleased."

[not_snake_bite]

"Oh, you are but the flower crowning the vase of my happiness, lovely Laurel," he sings to her, still waltzing, albeit madly and a little faster, perhaps than one aught to.

[hardlyagravated]

She clutches his arms a bit for balance, but follows well enough. "You truly don't need to flatter. I won't leave you to fend for yourself when you've only just arrived."

[not_snake_bite]

How pleased he is that she is holding on to him tighter (oh, the deluded git, if only he knew!), and says, "But flattery is not this, lovely Laurel," he says with a charming smile. Oh, Steerpike would come up with new compliments, but his typist likes the alliteration to much not to enjoy it once more. "Flattery would be to claim falsities to gain an advantage, and nothing is false about the beauty and joy which you exude."

And he believes his own words, too - though he may still be convinced that there is gain to be had, he is far too deep in his temporary excitement to think much on it. For now.

[hardlyagravated]

It's been years since she blushed at a man's flattery, but it seems like may be a little. Or maybe he's just been spinning too fast. "Sir..."

[not_snake_bite]

The mad dance continues on some, and panting, he pulls her closer to him to hear her voice. "Yes, My Lady?" He is breathless a little for it, and his hair got mussed in it all. Somehow, his lips got within an inch of her face - he looks adoring. Guess the madness, or whatever it is, has not worn off yet.

[hardlyagravated]

Her breath catches. "...mercy, sir. I'm not a young maiden any longer, used to frolicking."

[not_snake_bite]

"Forgive me," he stops, but he does not relinquish her. "I am not so young as I used to be myself, My Lady Laurel, forgive my impetuosity."

[hardlyagravated]

"Forgiven, once I catch my breath a bit." She hasn't tried to pull away yet.

[not_snake_bite]

He is somewhat... bemused? awed? that she hasn't cringed from his masked visage in the time they have been together - and this, more than anything else, makes him more acutely aware of her as a woman. Yes, a woman. He has never seen anyone as such, for the ladies of Gormenghast are mostly reminiscent of some off animal, save Fuschia, whom he never stopped seeing as anything else but an unattainable maiden.

"But of course," he replies easily. "Would you rather sit?" he offers with easy elegance.

[hardlyagravated]

It has been so long since anyone looked at Laurel, truly looked at her, that she's almost unnerved. Not her family, kind as they are to her; they all have troubles enough, and she's always been one of the few stable members of the lot. Certainly not her husband, who's been mostly absent, and critical when present for years now. And there is some small part of this that seems dangerous... but he's been nothing but polite so far, and she's used to overly emotional men. And she might not admit it, but the danger makes him all the more interesting.

"I'm alright, thank you. Is there anything else about the house you'd like to see?"

[not_snake_bite]

"The attic." His response is clear, rapid, unreflected. It is with reason, really, for attics always did have special meanings for him, ever since he entered the life of Titus Groan. Or rather, ever since Titus Groan entered life. It's really one and the same, anyway.

And so he lets her go, albeit reluctantly, but offers his arm, once more.