Miniver has a Marlowe staring at him. A Marlowe dressed in black, with his arms crossed and a dagger on his belt, and a Marlowe whose left eye is bright and cold and hard.
A faint smile and, given that Shakespeare has said that he has a heart as old and cold as the Thames, it doesn't mean anything.
"You'd probably be a fun fuck, Miniver..." And then he puts his hand on the table, and leans closer. "You are also, shall we say, a loose canon? Shove you against a wall and make you plead, but as I walk away you'll think that's you."
"I can learn not to care. And you haven't answered my first question." Which, really, is the one that matters. He knows Kit's beyond his reach, which is the only reason he's bold enough to suggest ianything to him.
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"You'd probably be a fun fuck, Miniver..." And then he puts his hand on the table, and leans closer. "You are also, shall we say, a loose canon? Shove you against a wall and make you plead, but as I walk away you'll think that's you."
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"I dunno. Would it?"
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"You tell me."
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And gets the feeling he should shut up.
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"Sure, I do. But I won't have you."
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"I know."
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"I think," he says at least, "you are going to give me a headache."
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"At least I'm cute."
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