Ownfic: "A Fugue in Furtive Moments" for daiseechain
Title: A Fugue in Furtive Moments
Author: liriaen
Recipient: daiseechain
Characters: Lucius/Ron (et al.)
Rating: mild R
Warnings (highlight to view): AU, humour in unexpected places, blood on custard
Wordcount: ~2330 words
Summary: In His Majesty Harry Potter's service: an interstitial spy tale in which Ron resorts to sleeping in hotel bathtubs, Lucius gets to smugly wear turtlenecks, and the both of them share some interesting magic.
Author's Notes: Because I seem to need double handicaps on top of my habitual writer's block... this story comes in five-sentence-ficlets, using the prompts and sequence of 5sentence_fics' Table Five.
To the casual observer, the very curve of his back spells defeat. Hands clasped between his knees, elbows resting on black-clad thighs, Malfoy slumps in one of those overstuffed chairs in the lobby and... waits. He doesn't hang his head - Ron would be surprised if he ever did - but his eyes have that far away look that, in Ron's book, signals resignation.
Then again, this is Malfoy, so who knows. Working with him these past weeks has been a nightmare; at least their daily relations have improved from near unlimited mutual loathing to the merely glacial.
"Weasley. Finally." Malfoy gets up in one sinuous move, belying his previous slouch, and while Ron and he are of the same height he still manages to make Ron feel... small.
Azkaban has pared the older wizard to something lean and feral that has absolutely no right to look this sleek in a simple turtleneck, especially when his partner-cum-warden fills his expensive Muggle three-piece-suit like a log. As usual, Ron's first impulse is to apologise (for being late, for having to confiscate his wand, for breathing) but he smothers it with a cough.
"Hello, Lucius," he says, "I trust you've been enjoying yourself?"
"No, they haven't let my so-called Dark wizard friends out to play yet," Malfoy snaps. Ron throws him a sour look. He has every reason to consider Malfoy's ex- or maybe not-so-ex-associates a real, a deadly threat, and Malfoy's snide flippancy doesn't sit well with him. Even if it's their sole mode of communication.
Malfoy gazes at Ron with a facial expression mostly bestowed upon jesters and dwarves. Now that riles Ron, really fucking riles him: Malfoy’s serenity, accentuated by a curl of the lip.
"Ronald, Ronald," Malfoy tsks, "I will have to tell Potter if you continue to hover around the bar instead of aiding me in this… what did he call it, 'stake-out'? If you can’t summon a little more dedication, I might feel tempted to re-evaluate my risk management in this entire, odious affair," Malfoy croons, leaning in. "By the way, your tie is askew.”
Ron's hand is up and fingering the Cardin before he can control his arm muscles. "Fuck you," he mutters under his breath.
Malfoy's smile is slow in creeping in. "Mmh, you would like that, wouldn't you, but I'm afraid I must decline; there's something quite sordid about lying with one's former enemies, I believe, and from my point of view you certainly qualif-"
The man likes to hear himself talk... too... much, Ron thinks, even as Malfoy goes down and Ron feels his knees buckle and his tongue turn to treeeahcullll~
***
"Great, just great," Ron wheezes and probes his head in the dark to check if he still has a skull, "just because you couldn't shut the fuck up we..." did what, turn out to be the most ridiculously sorry excuse for a pair of operatives Harry Potter ever had the misfortune of having to rely upon? Oh god, he is already starting to sound like Malfoy, too - they really must have hexed him something fierce.
"Malfoy?" he rasps, voice creaky with irritation. "Hey, Malfoy," he repeats before he can contemplate the notion that he might be... lost, and alone.
***
"Come now, Lucius," Rabastan drawls and administers another kick to prone and unprotected side, "you expect us to believe that? Sounds rather like a flight of fancy to me."
Bellatrix watches, ensconced on something appallingly throne-like, and taps her lips. "It's possible," she smiles. "Why, look at the poor dear, he's wandless; practically unmanned, aren't you, cousin?"
Slow... and steady. Lucius reminds himself to center and block out the kicks. It's harder with the hexes and curses (there's only so much concentration even a skilled practitioner can muster when he keeps slipping in his own drool) but eventually he gets there, finds that spot four fingers deep underneath his ribs, that tight golden nugget of something that carried him through Azkaban with only a chipped tooth. Never mind the effete charade, there's been no dropped soap for Lucius Malfoy, and there never will be.
When he slams out his hand, finally, wood cracks and Bellatrix screams like the unhinged harpy she is - it's all beautifully economic, really.
The redhead seems to be in quite a bind there... Hands and feet cold as ice, cheeks and chin sporting the imprint of Lestrange's seal ring, young Weasley is tied in a stranglehold more mechanical than magical and has taken on a fetching blue tinge.
"Oh my god, Weasley," Lucius drawls, "don't tell me we're compromised. Because if that is the case it's probably best if I leave you here," he announces, eyeing the knots.
"Sure, just do it," Weasley hisses, "and Harry will have your spleen, man."
Lucius squats next to him and looks amused. The quirk of his eyebrow suggests that he can think of better things than freeing Weasley; that there's a myriad of options, actually, most (if not all) of them foregoing his current involvement in Potter's government and cultivating an armagnac-soaked life of leisure instead. If only the thought of exile weren't so jarring.
"Very well," Lucius sighs, "lift your leg a little."
Weasley's squeals are delightful, but Lucius is merely trying to help. "Ronald, Ronald," he sighs as he slips the final knot, "always ascribing hostile intent. Look, it's not my fault Mistress Lestrange likes to wrap her prey like a spider."
"Bug fucking crazy, the whole lot of you," Weasley grinds out.
Lucius's voice is dry and pleasant as he says, "You have no idea, boy."
***
"Gentlemen," Harry says, pacing with a tired glance at Ron (which is unfair, because working with Malfoy could try a saint), "need I tell you that I am disappointed in the outcome of your most recent mission?"
Malfoy stands at ease and has absolutely no right to look this relaxed during a dressing down - even if he brought in the Lestranges, which was sort of their objective, but.
Ron clears his throat. "Listen Harry, with all due respect-"
"Indeed, Minister," Malfoy interrupts, "with all due respect, perhaps it is time authority in this team changed hands?"
***
Another hotel, another soft shoe shuffle on anti-static carpet, and Ron knows this might the big one, their trial by fire, and if Malfoy fucks things up he's going to kill him with his bare hands. Speaking of which...
Ron looks up from his ankle-crossed slump and sees Malfoy standing by the window, very tall, very slim, index finger painting whorls across the pane. "Just out of curiosity," Ron says, "but let me recap. You're not allowed a wand, you don't have one hidden, you certifiably didn't use either Bella's or Rabastan's, who, I'd wager, already had you on your back with your pants down, and yet..."
Softly, Malfoy pads over. He doesn't stop in front of Ron who lounges on the bed, safe behind the palisade he's built from the contents of the mini bar; no, Malfoy walks on and bends to pick up an envelope someone must have shoved under their door a second ago, wards be damned.
"RSVP," Ron carefully studies the invitation in turn and scratches himself, "I've always wondered what that stands for."
Malfoy pensively taps the letter against the pale line he calls a bottom lip. "Répondez, s'il vous plaît," he says.
Ron could swear he's seen that look before. It's Lucius weighing his options, doing the quick arithmetics of blackmail, honour, and despair. There may be some variables Ron doesn't know about, but there is always Draco, still under house arrest, and there's the Malfoy name, a little tarnished, sure, but not irretrievably so.
"Take a shower and get... dressed," Malfoy orders, and Ron is disgusted by how promptly he jumps off the bed to comply. "You still haven't told me how you did tha-" he blurts, even as he is unceremoniously shoved into the bath.
"This really goes too far," Ron splutters and blushes while Malfoy calmly assesses his handiwork.
"I don't know," muses Lucius, "it looks right to me. Not too far up, at any rate. Cheer up, Weasley," he says and gives Ron's arse a rousing slap, then proceeds to re-tie the blue ribbon around the base of Ron's cock. "And if you can't do that, lie back and think of England."
They're on their way down and Ron grumbles quietly, "What kind of Death Eater party is that, anyway, where you get to show off your toy of the month?" which earns him a right smart tug on his leash. "A very exclusive one," Malfoys says from the corner of his mouth. "Thus I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly."
Dragged into the reception room, Ron marvels whether now is the moment where he should question the loyalty of his partner, especially considering the writing on the wall, which ornately spells "Welcome!" in bright, arterial Muggle blood.
***
Their eye contacts are fleeting - too brief, perhaps, to convey anything past terse command and answering moan - and yet they envelop him in sudden stillness. So there's Voldemort's heir apparent, together with a new generation of bootlickers and arsekissers mimicking the days of glory - but despite all their braying, above the din of their wining, dining, and whoring, there's this moment of utter clarity. There's Lucius's hand flat on his stomach like a hardening seal, calling up the filaments that reside there; feel it, it seems to say even as Lucius holds the gaze of Voldemort's hatchling, trust it, for this is their blind spot-
There's a sharp intake of breath, and then there's Ron, not really thinking of the enemy's Achilles' heel but coming quite, quite helplessly until he lies spent on the dessert table, bitten tongue bubbling blood on the Crème Brûlée. "Look, ma, no wand!" he smiles and closes his eyes.
***
It's intoxicating, sweet and intoxicating to be back among one's own, Lucius thinks, until the thought sours and rots because no, no, they're not his kind. They are pale imitations, children playing at depravity, and every sin they indulge in now will make them twice as sick tomorrow.
Was that how the Emperor Augustus felt as he surveyed his brood, the weak-chinned and narrow-chested misfits that scrabbled for the throne? He gazes at Ron and passes a white hand over freckled flank and knows it's the end of an era - the flat line for pure blood society - and it's... it's...
Perhaps it is just as well.
The realisation comes as a relief. It washes over him with the same flood of images and sensations he felt when his innate magic kicked back to life, weeks after they'd taken his wand.
"That's it," he gently spurs Weasley on, "like that." Exactly like that. Isn't it strange how we cripple ourselves, generation after generation?
"We absolutely must do this again," he tells the heir-elect with a glittering smile. Faux as it is, Lucius is appreciative: he delights in the coalescing darkness as much as the next black mage. The squirming tendrils with their little hands and eyes and snap-snapping teeth, the dirt-coloured aura of someone who's past selling his soul - these are things he can both enjoy and compartmentalise, like an art gallery owner discovering new talent.
Signalling deference, he steps back to let his Weasley be petted (the poor thing fidgets, lamenting its rope-burn) then turns away to find his ear-piece. It pleases him to discover that Potter is already on executive override; no man likes to bet on a losing horse, after all.
Celebrations in Potter's office tend to be subdued. A bottle of Grand Cru and one or three caviar crackers, if Potter's personal assistant feels charitable, but that's fine; Granger's parsimony matches Lucius's unwillingness to toast the demise of another Dark Lord, even one that had been stillborn.
He walks to the window and looks across the city, drab like grey underwear on a clothes line. It will be good to be back at the Manor, he thinks: see Draco again, spend time in his library, create an oasis of calm refinement to ignore the signs of decay.
And then the genteel part of his brain can only gape at him as he wheels around and requests a week's furlough with Weasley.
"Oi, ow! What now, you berk," Ron gasps and shoots up the moment Lucius turns on the shower.
"You are wasting space," Lucius snaps. "There is a perfectly serviceable bed wide enough for two, a bedstead you are eschewing out of sheer contrariness, one must assume, or to keep the quality from taking a bath, but whatever it is, Weasley, STOP IT."
He has rehearsed this, true, yet he's surprised when Weasley slumps back and pulls him in and flips the dial to hot water.
"Whatever happened to not bedding former enemies," Ron pants as Lucius curls a hand over his stomach. He recalls that tingle, the unfamiliar, visceral glow that unraveled him on the dessert tray, and would tap into it again if he knew h-
"Stop being so pedestrian," Lucius whispers and closes his eyes. He likes to maintain the illusion of control just that little bit longer. He'll leave, he tells himself, once Weasley gets the hang of it.
***
Hands clasped between his knees, elbows resting on black-clad thighs, Malfoy slumps in one of those overstuffed chairs in the Minister's anteroom and... waits. He doesn't hang his head, but his eyes show that distracted look that, Ron has learnt, is Malfoyesque bravura in the face of certain defeat.
"So," Malfoy says, not bothering to get up (that's good riddance then, isn't it?), "may I congratulate you on your new partner."
"If you wish," - Weasley shrugs - "although that might smack of conceit, y'know, seeing as it's you, and we're, like, the worst tag team in Ministry history, but there you are; happy now?"
Malfoy rises in a sinuous move that belies his previous slouch and smiles warmly.
*
Author: liriaen
Recipient: daiseechain
Characters: Lucius/Ron (et al.)
Rating: mild R
Warnings (highlight to view): AU, humour in unexpected places, blood on custard
Wordcount: ~2330 words
Summary: In His Majesty Harry Potter's service: an interstitial spy tale in which Ron resorts to sleeping in hotel bathtubs, Lucius gets to smugly wear turtlenecks, and the both of them share some interesting magic.
Author's Notes: Because I seem to need double handicaps on top of my habitual writer's block... this story comes in five-sentence-ficlets, using the prompts and sequence of 5sentence_fics' Table Five.
To the casual observer, the very curve of his back spells defeat. Hands clasped between his knees, elbows resting on black-clad thighs, Malfoy slumps in one of those overstuffed chairs in the lobby and... waits. He doesn't hang his head - Ron would be surprised if he ever did - but his eyes have that far away look that, in Ron's book, signals resignation.
Then again, this is Malfoy, so who knows. Working with him these past weeks has been a nightmare; at least their daily relations have improved from near unlimited mutual loathing to the merely glacial.
"Weasley. Finally." Malfoy gets up in one sinuous move, belying his previous slouch, and while Ron and he are of the same height he still manages to make Ron feel... small.
Azkaban has pared the older wizard to something lean and feral that has absolutely no right to look this sleek in a simple turtleneck, especially when his partner-cum-warden fills his expensive Muggle three-piece-suit like a log. As usual, Ron's first impulse is to apologise (for being late, for having to confiscate his wand, for breathing) but he smothers it with a cough.
"Hello, Lucius," he says, "I trust you've been enjoying yourself?"
"No, they haven't let my so-called Dark wizard friends out to play yet," Malfoy snaps. Ron throws him a sour look. He has every reason to consider Malfoy's ex- or maybe not-so-ex-associates a real, a deadly threat, and Malfoy's snide flippancy doesn't sit well with him. Even if it's their sole mode of communication.
Malfoy gazes at Ron with a facial expression mostly bestowed upon jesters and dwarves. Now that riles Ron, really fucking riles him: Malfoy’s serenity, accentuated by a curl of the lip.
"Ronald, Ronald," Malfoy tsks, "I will have to tell Potter if you continue to hover around the bar instead of aiding me in this… what did he call it, 'stake-out'? If you can’t summon a little more dedication, I might feel tempted to re-evaluate my risk management in this entire, odious affair," Malfoy croons, leaning in. "By the way, your tie is askew.”
Ron's hand is up and fingering the Cardin before he can control his arm muscles. "Fuck you," he mutters under his breath.
Malfoy's smile is slow in creeping in. "Mmh, you would like that, wouldn't you, but I'm afraid I must decline; there's something quite sordid about lying with one's former enemies, I believe, and from my point of view you certainly qualif-"
The man likes to hear himself talk... too... much, Ron thinks, even as Malfoy goes down and Ron feels his knees buckle and his tongue turn to treeeahcullll~
***
"Great, just great," Ron wheezes and probes his head in the dark to check if he still has a skull, "just because you couldn't shut the fuck up we..." did what, turn out to be the most ridiculously sorry excuse for a pair of operatives Harry Potter ever had the misfortune of having to rely upon? Oh god, he is already starting to sound like Malfoy, too - they really must have hexed him something fierce.
"Malfoy?" he rasps, voice creaky with irritation. "Hey, Malfoy," he repeats before he can contemplate the notion that he might be... lost, and alone.
***
"Come now, Lucius," Rabastan drawls and administers another kick to prone and unprotected side, "you expect us to believe that? Sounds rather like a flight of fancy to me."
Bellatrix watches, ensconced on something appallingly throne-like, and taps her lips. "It's possible," she smiles. "Why, look at the poor dear, he's wandless; practically unmanned, aren't you, cousin?"
Slow... and steady. Lucius reminds himself to center and block out the kicks. It's harder with the hexes and curses (there's only so much concentration even a skilled practitioner can muster when he keeps slipping in his own drool) but eventually he gets there, finds that spot four fingers deep underneath his ribs, that tight golden nugget of something that carried him through Azkaban with only a chipped tooth. Never mind the effete charade, there's been no dropped soap for Lucius Malfoy, and there never will be.
When he slams out his hand, finally, wood cracks and Bellatrix screams like the unhinged harpy she is - it's all beautifully economic, really.
The redhead seems to be in quite a bind there... Hands and feet cold as ice, cheeks and chin sporting the imprint of Lestrange's seal ring, young Weasley is tied in a stranglehold more mechanical than magical and has taken on a fetching blue tinge.
"Oh my god, Weasley," Lucius drawls, "don't tell me we're compromised. Because if that is the case it's probably best if I leave you here," he announces, eyeing the knots.
"Sure, just do it," Weasley hisses, "and Harry will have your spleen, man."
Lucius squats next to him and looks amused. The quirk of his eyebrow suggests that he can think of better things than freeing Weasley; that there's a myriad of options, actually, most (if not all) of them foregoing his current involvement in Potter's government and cultivating an armagnac-soaked life of leisure instead. If only the thought of exile weren't so jarring.
"Very well," Lucius sighs, "lift your leg a little."
Weasley's squeals are delightful, but Lucius is merely trying to help. "Ronald, Ronald," he sighs as he slips the final knot, "always ascribing hostile intent. Look, it's not my fault Mistress Lestrange likes to wrap her prey like a spider."
"Bug fucking crazy, the whole lot of you," Weasley grinds out.
Lucius's voice is dry and pleasant as he says, "You have no idea, boy."
***
"Gentlemen," Harry says, pacing with a tired glance at Ron (which is unfair, because working with Malfoy could try a saint), "need I tell you that I am disappointed in the outcome of your most recent mission?"
Malfoy stands at ease and has absolutely no right to look this relaxed during a dressing down - even if he brought in the Lestranges, which was sort of their objective, but.
Ron clears his throat. "Listen Harry, with all due respect-"
"Indeed, Minister," Malfoy interrupts, "with all due respect, perhaps it is time authority in this team changed hands?"
***
Another hotel, another soft shoe shuffle on anti-static carpet, and Ron knows this might the big one, their trial by fire, and if Malfoy fucks things up he's going to kill him with his bare hands. Speaking of which...
Ron looks up from his ankle-crossed slump and sees Malfoy standing by the window, very tall, very slim, index finger painting whorls across the pane. "Just out of curiosity," Ron says, "but let me recap. You're not allowed a wand, you don't have one hidden, you certifiably didn't use either Bella's or Rabastan's, who, I'd wager, already had you on your back with your pants down, and yet..."
Softly, Malfoy pads over. He doesn't stop in front of Ron who lounges on the bed, safe behind the palisade he's built from the contents of the mini bar; no, Malfoy walks on and bends to pick up an envelope someone must have shoved under their door a second ago, wards be damned.
"RSVP," Ron carefully studies the invitation in turn and scratches himself, "I've always wondered what that stands for."
Malfoy pensively taps the letter against the pale line he calls a bottom lip. "Répondez, s'il vous plaît," he says.
Ron could swear he's seen that look before. It's Lucius weighing his options, doing the quick arithmetics of blackmail, honour, and despair. There may be some variables Ron doesn't know about, but there is always Draco, still under house arrest, and there's the Malfoy name, a little tarnished, sure, but not irretrievably so.
"Take a shower and get... dressed," Malfoy orders, and Ron is disgusted by how promptly he jumps off the bed to comply. "You still haven't told me how you did tha-" he blurts, even as he is unceremoniously shoved into the bath.
"This really goes too far," Ron splutters and blushes while Malfoy calmly assesses his handiwork.
"I don't know," muses Lucius, "it looks right to me. Not too far up, at any rate. Cheer up, Weasley," he says and gives Ron's arse a rousing slap, then proceeds to re-tie the blue ribbon around the base of Ron's cock. "And if you can't do that, lie back and think of England."
They're on their way down and Ron grumbles quietly, "What kind of Death Eater party is that, anyway, where you get to show off your toy of the month?" which earns him a right smart tug on his leash. "A very exclusive one," Malfoys says from the corner of his mouth. "Thus I expect you to conduct yourself accordingly."
Dragged into the reception room, Ron marvels whether now is the moment where he should question the loyalty of his partner, especially considering the writing on the wall, which ornately spells "Welcome!" in bright, arterial Muggle blood.
***
Their eye contacts are fleeting - too brief, perhaps, to convey anything past terse command and answering moan - and yet they envelop him in sudden stillness. So there's Voldemort's heir apparent, together with a new generation of bootlickers and arsekissers mimicking the days of glory - but despite all their braying, above the din of their wining, dining, and whoring, there's this moment of utter clarity. There's Lucius's hand flat on his stomach like a hardening seal, calling up the filaments that reside there; feel it, it seems to say even as Lucius holds the gaze of Voldemort's hatchling, trust it, for this is their blind spot-
There's a sharp intake of breath, and then there's Ron, not really thinking of the enemy's Achilles' heel but coming quite, quite helplessly until he lies spent on the dessert table, bitten tongue bubbling blood on the Crème Brûlée. "Look, ma, no wand!" he smiles and closes his eyes.
***
It's intoxicating, sweet and intoxicating to be back among one's own, Lucius thinks, until the thought sours and rots because no, no, they're not his kind. They are pale imitations, children playing at depravity, and every sin they indulge in now will make them twice as sick tomorrow.
Was that how the Emperor Augustus felt as he surveyed his brood, the weak-chinned and narrow-chested misfits that scrabbled for the throne? He gazes at Ron and passes a white hand over freckled flank and knows it's the end of an era - the flat line for pure blood society - and it's... it's...
Perhaps it is just as well.
The realisation comes as a relief. It washes over him with the same flood of images and sensations he felt when his innate magic kicked back to life, weeks after they'd taken his wand.
"That's it," he gently spurs Weasley on, "like that." Exactly like that. Isn't it strange how we cripple ourselves, generation after generation?
"We absolutely must do this again," he tells the heir-elect with a glittering smile. Faux as it is, Lucius is appreciative: he delights in the coalescing darkness as much as the next black mage. The squirming tendrils with their little hands and eyes and snap-snapping teeth, the dirt-coloured aura of someone who's past selling his soul - these are things he can both enjoy and compartmentalise, like an art gallery owner discovering new talent.
Signalling deference, he steps back to let his Weasley be petted (the poor thing fidgets, lamenting its rope-burn) then turns away to find his ear-piece. It pleases him to discover that Potter is already on executive override; no man likes to bet on a losing horse, after all.
Celebrations in Potter's office tend to be subdued. A bottle of Grand Cru and one or three caviar crackers, if Potter's personal assistant feels charitable, but that's fine; Granger's parsimony matches Lucius's unwillingness to toast the demise of another Dark Lord, even one that had been stillborn.
He walks to the window and looks across the city, drab like grey underwear on a clothes line. It will be good to be back at the Manor, he thinks: see Draco again, spend time in his library, create an oasis of calm refinement to ignore the signs of decay.
And then the genteel part of his brain can only gape at him as he wheels around and requests a week's furlough with Weasley.
"Oi, ow! What now, you berk," Ron gasps and shoots up the moment Lucius turns on the shower.
"You are wasting space," Lucius snaps. "There is a perfectly serviceable bed wide enough for two, a bedstead you are eschewing out of sheer contrariness, one must assume, or to keep the quality from taking a bath, but whatever it is, Weasley, STOP IT."
He has rehearsed this, true, yet he's surprised when Weasley slumps back and pulls him in and flips the dial to hot water.
"Whatever happened to not bedding former enemies," Ron pants as Lucius curls a hand over his stomach. He recalls that tingle, the unfamiliar, visceral glow that unraveled him on the dessert tray, and would tap into it again if he knew h-
"Stop being so pedestrian," Lucius whispers and closes his eyes. He likes to maintain the illusion of control just that little bit longer. He'll leave, he tells himself, once Weasley gets the hang of it.
***
Hands clasped between his knees, elbows resting on black-clad thighs, Malfoy slumps in one of those overstuffed chairs in the Minister's anteroom and... waits. He doesn't hang his head, but his eyes show that distracted look that, Ron has learnt, is Malfoyesque bravura in the face of certain defeat.
"So," Malfoy says, not bothering to get up (that's good riddance then, isn't it?), "may I congratulate you on your new partner."
"If you wish," - Weasley shrugs - "although that might smack of conceit, y'know, seeing as it's you, and we're, like, the worst tag team in Ministry history, but there you are; happy now?"
Malfoy rises in a sinuous move that belies his previous slouch and smiles warmly.
*