When Quatre opens the door into the bar, it's--a bit of a surprise, but not much of one. He tucks his well-polished shoe around the door as he stops, and tilts back inside. After he finishes (he's lost his tie and his waistcoast, but he's re-adjusted the tuck on his shirt), he steps back in the bar as he's setting a timer on his watch.
He grabs a rosewater lemonade from the Bar (now that he knows she makes them well), before stopping by Trowa's table.
Amiably, even though he knows Trowa's seen him coming: "Hi."
Quatre, on the other hand, lets himself laugh at Trowa's reaction. It's quick, but sincere.
"Do you want to walk?" he asks, after he's finished his lemonade (he's glancing it to the glass). "It's probably best I burn off a bit of energy before attempting to sleep."
Given that that's a thing he's supposed to do these days.
Pause, thoughtful: "I'll need to borrow shoes from the Bar, though."
Quatre shrugs into his jacket as he heads out (he pops the door so that it stays open for Trowa), zipping it up somewhat jaggedly.
He takes a deep breath in the clean pseudo-rural-Scottish air, and grins brightly, turning slightly to Trowa. "Have you been investigating the garage any more?"
Trowa would be, too, if a six year agenda with a suspicious government was finally making official steps towards paying off.
Which is to say, yes, he feels a bit like a kid in a candy shop, except he never had much of a sweet tooth.
Quatre makes a noise of agreement, tucking his hands lightly into his jacket pockets. "The security measures seem a little worrisome, honestly," he says, a little more serious than he'd been otherwise.
He's headed towards the lake, because it's too dark to really stray into the forest.
"Bar's reputed to be mostly disinclined to give out weaponry." Trowa hasn't personally tested this. (He's thought about it, for verification. But it would be a little more conspicuous than he's bothered to be, both for Bar and for passersby. Maybe sometime.)
"It would be consistent if so."
Milliways' management in general seems highly disinclined to official statements of policy, the three rules aside.
Trowa doesn't object to this. He does, however, find it interesting.
Most of the time Quatre does better than all right. He has misleading with honesty down to an art form.
And then, you know, there are the times when he's very nearly humming jauntily as he strolls along. The fact that he only does this with trusted friends doesn't make it any less amusingly foreign to Trowa.
"Now you're just mocking me," Quatre accuses without any heat (but fond amusement in his glance), as they round the near edge of the lake.
He takes his right hand out of his jacket pocket, and brushes the back of his fingers against Trowa's--the sort of unspoken may I? that expects a yes but it's still polite to ask. Especially given the technically-public space.
They are technically in public, and it's not full dark yet -- but it's deepening dusk, and there's a broad stand of trees between them and the bar, and no one in sight anyway. Trowa's fingers shift cooperatively into the touch.
He grabs a rosewater lemonade from the Bar (now that he knows she makes them well), before stopping by Trowa's table.
Amiably, even though he knows Trowa's seen him coming: "Hi."
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"Do you want to walk?" he asks, after he's finished his lemonade (he's glancing it to the glass). "It's probably best I burn off a bit of energy before attempting to sleep."
Given that that's a thing he's supposed to do these days.
Pause, thoughtful: "I'll need to borrow shoes from the Bar, though."
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He comes back, a couple minutes later, wearing a pair of loafers and with two light jackets over his arm.
(He pauses a moment, before handing the appropriate one to Trowa.)
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And, hey, the pockets are big enough to hold a book. Handy.
Off they go, then?
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Quatre shrugs into his jacket as he heads out (he pops the door so that it stays open for Trowa), zipping it up somewhat jaggedly.
He takes a deep breath in the clean pseudo-rural-Scottish air, and grins brightly, turning slightly to Trowa. "Have you been investigating the garage any more?"
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"Some."
"It's extensive."
Quatre knows that. You only have to glance at it once to know that. But restating facts is a valid form of emphasis, once in a while.
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Which is to say, yes, he feels a bit like a kid in a candy shop, except he never had much of a sweet tooth.
Quatre makes a noise of agreement, tucking his hands lightly into his jacket pockets. "The security measures seem a little worrisome, honestly," he says, a little more serious than he'd been otherwise.
He's headed towards the lake, because it's too dark to really stray into the forest.
(Well, they could, but.)
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"Yeah."
"It's a pretty democratic set-up." This is a little dry, though you'd have to know him well to detect it.
A set-up like that is better than good security in untrustworthy hands, but it's a lot worse than a trustworthy security system.
"There could be magical safeguards. I haven't found any evidence either way."
It's not really his field of expertise.
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"Given the lack of incident so far...," he not-quite-shrugs. Magical security hopefully is already in place.
Quatre's all for the honor system, except when potentially extremely destructive weapons are involved.
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"Bar's reputed to be mostly disinclined to give out weaponry." Trowa hasn't personally tested this. (He's thought about it, for verification. But it would be a little more conspicuous than he's bothered to be, both for Bar and for passersby. Maybe sometime.)
"It would be consistent if so."
Milliways' management in general seems highly disinclined to official statements of policy, the three rules aside.
Trowa doesn't object to this. He does, however, find it interesting.
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And bites his lip lightly so he doesn't start humming, but it doesn't do much to suppress the grin.
"I think I need to work on my poker face," he says, after a few minutes, thoughtful.
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Bland: "Most of the time you do all right."
Most of the time Quatre does better than all right. He has misleading with honesty down to an art form.
And then, you know, there are the times when he's very nearly humming jauntily as he strolls along. The fact that he only does this with trusted friends doesn't make it any less amusingly foreign to Trowa.
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He takes his right hand out of his jacket pocket, and brushes the back of his fingers against Trowa's--the sort of unspoken may I? that expects a yes but it's still polite to ask. Especially given the technically-public space.
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But affectionately!
They are technically in public, and it's not full dark yet -- but it's deepening dusk, and there's a broad stand of trees between them and the bar, and no one in sight anyway. Trowa's fingers shift cooperatively into the touch.
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(And possibly considers, briefly, humming-- before deciding that's overkill, even for a joke.)
He brushes his thumb once across Trowa's knuckles, as their hands slide together.
"What else have you been reading?"
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