WHO: Expedition 33 (Gustave, Maelle, Sciel, and Verso) WHEN: post-mingle, pre-mission WHERE: the apartments WHAT: the remaining members of Expedition 33 NOTES\WARNINGS: spoilers for Acts 1&2 of Clair Obscur: Expedition 33
Her gaze drifts over him, the way his jaw moves when he chews, the little flex to this throat as he swallows. She gently presses back against his other foot with hers as he does, her smile momentarily crinkling her eyes. Yes, this is footsie. With affection: Idiot.
She just listens, attentive despite continuing to play with her foot between his.
"Alright," she says.
It all weaves together smoothly enough for her to see where things went wrong, but also where things are slowly correcting themselves. She's not sure why it's tripped him up so much, why this, of all things, is making him anxious. It makes her worry for him.
"Is this your way of saying you don't want to sleep together until you feel comfortable with Gustave?"
His head gives a small little shake "no." The area around his eyes twitch and tense as he thinks that the better answer is "yes," but not for the reasons that she knows.
"Well, you also didn't know he was my father before--"
His head tilts to the side. He feels that odd clenching feeling in his chest as he wonders about the many ways that he's betrayed her.
"--I wondered if I hurt you then, too."
Their situation has always been breezy and fun. Regardless of his feelings, he knew there wasn't anything serious between them. Yet he decides to ask a question that he had hesitated on.
"Our business is our own." He repeats what she said; he realizes he's using a lot of her words lately. "It just all seems to come together and I worried about all the times I trampled on your heart only to realize it later."
Not exactly a rousing refusal. Her foot stills, though she doesn't pull it from contact with him. She does set down her beer.
"I was frustrated that you didn't tell us, but I already knew the kind of man you were," she replies. It's not something she has to think about; she didn't dwell on it then and she won't dwell on it now, not with everything that's happened since Old Lumière. "You are not your father, nor are you responsible for what he did."
The Expedition was massacred, and Gustave murdered, and compared to that, any truth Verso has skirted around feels remarkably small. Her gaze drifts over his face, up the scar over his eye, and her smile grows a little sad at that.
It's like he wants punishment. But what, between them, has warranted it? They've had little disagreements, little tensions. Banter can pinch the wrong spots, he can push for stories he hasn't earned, but what does any of that matter? Little stumbles are the price of getting to know people.
"I'd tell you if you'd ever crossed a line with me," she promises. "I like our business, and our friendship."
One day, Verso believes she'll find out the kind of man he is. She may think that he's worse than his father could be.
However, there is far too much unknown about what is to come. He cares about her, about them; even though he doesn't have any right to feel that way. If he speaks the truth, he won't be able to watch over them, either. That may be an excuse, but the word stick in his throat and he still can't say them.
"You promise?" That she'd tell him? "I like it, too."
What has happened can't be changed. He hopes to be able to help them all at present. It seems they're still wondering if they should even try to return if everything is gone. Perhaps, living here is a possibility.
"Those are really all my thoughts on that bit." He's only been eating with one hand, picking up his beer with one to drink. It's so he would have the other able to reach out to rest casually on her thigh, sliding so his fingers gently rest on the inside in a small, gentle touch.
"But... living apart might be good just for..." His eyes roll in an exaggerated manner, like he's searching for the words. Fingers gently drumming against her. "... keeping things our business."
“I promise,” she repeats, seriously. She knows her word is true and sincere, and she can forgive the man of an apprehension of that. Even with a few dark and personal stories under their belts, they’ve much to learn about each other still, and she has her own fears about what he might think of her truths.
But what matters is he’s tried, evasive as he can be, and now they have nothing but time to get to know each other more.
And then his palm slides over her skin, resting right on the warmth of her inner thigh, just inches off the hem of her shorts. She takes a swig of her beer and the smile blossoms on her face again. She leans in his direction, shoulder pressing against his, looking at him through her eyelashes.
“It is an added perk,” she agrees. She adds, sly: “Should I give you my thoughts, since you’ve so generously shared yours?”
Rather than responding further to her promise, his smile only softens. It soothes something in him to hear; it adds a little more weight on his shoulders.
His fingers gently stroking the skin, playing with the hem of her shorts.
Leaning closer, he lowers his voice like they're sharing some secrets with each other. "I'd feel bad if I was the only one sharing my thoughts, actually." He tilts his head so that he can look at her properly -- his expression shifting to something a little more serious, little more sincere.
“Mm,” she hums, not breaking his gaze even as she takes another sip. All of the strife of the past few days feels lighter than air when they get like this, and the look in his eyes is softer than his usual blustering charm.
“I think even if you did want to stop this, I would have to insist on doing it in a bed at least once, before the end. For the novelty, of course.”
"That can be easily arranged." Verso leans in close as soon as she's done taking her sip. But he doesn't move to kiss her lips instead he places a quick, little peck on her nose. It seems to be his go-to when he's wanting to tease her.
"But is that all? Everything that you've been thinking?" He makes a small gesture with his other hand. "About everything?"
“Oh, that’s so greedy,” she says, amused, and she shifts to put her free hand on the edge of his seat so she can linger in his space. Here it is, another nudge into the dark and personal: “But alright. If you’re worried about Gustave’s opinion… then what do you think Renoir would think?”
Not that Renoir has any way to find out about them, much less a reason to, their business being what it is, but surely a man like him –– posh, powerful, wrathful –– has some opinion on his son’s prospects.
"I certainly can't help but be a little greedy when it comes to you." He draws his fingers up, teasing along the edge of her shorts. His eyebrows lift at the question and concern about Renoir.
"Unfortunately, he's always been very aware of how I am." Pressing his lips into a thin line, he shakes his head as his eyes slide away. "So, as far as thoughts go... it's probably just a general sense of disappointment in me."
Renoir is more worried about his heart being broken versus who is doing the breaking, as far as he's aware. Or rather, he's worried that his heart will be given to someone who will be an enemy later. By choice or circumstance.
Front row seats to watch his beautiful eyes flit around and his fingertips playing with the hem of her shorts? She’ll have to think of more uncomfortable questions.
“Popular, then? I had no idea. I thought I was your first.”
His eyebrow lifts as he jokes back with her. He reaches out to take his beer once more for a small drink. It's a little sad to have to pull away just enough to do that, though.
A slow swallow as he sets it back down. "But it's like I said... he's just an old man with his delusions." His shoulder, the one resting easily against her, gives a little bounce to indicate a shrug.
Verso slides his finger around the hem with a slight smile. "Does that ease any of your concerns?" He doesn't think so, but he thought it'd be a good try.
"Not really," she hums, noncommittally, with a pretend disaffect to her tone.
Verso never volunteers much in the way of information, and the reassurance that he does not care about what Renoir thinks feels shallow at best. Unsurprising, though. She smiles, a little bit goading.
"It's not like you had many people to have flings with, out on the Continent, so it just seems like there's more to the story than him being disappointed. Tell me what you were like in Lumière."
"I thought we were worried about you." He inclines his head in her direction. "Your thoughts and what you've been thinking about." Lifting up his free hand, gentle wiggling of his fingers, he realizes he's dodging out of the request but feels there's some similar evasiveness going on.
"I don't think we need to be worried about me," she says, a little more neutrally, but it's fine. She's blown him off for stories before, too, and the more animal parts of her mind don't exactly care when he's teasing her with his hand. If he doesn't want to talk, she isn't going to change his mind.
So she pivots.
"But alright, then. I've been wondering if immortal people make immortal babies."
"Well, I'd like to be. You can't always take care of everyone else without someone trying to take care of you, too." Verso would've made a joke that is his job. Although, it seems like he's been failing at that recently. He just needs to get back at it properly -- and he gently slides the hem of the shorts a little higher to touch skin he hasn't yet.
But his teasing fingers stop.
"Not that I'm aware of." Is about all he can say in reply.
She glances down at where his stilled arm disappears under the table, then back to his eyes with a wicked little smile blossoms on her face. Her teeth run over her lower lip. Oh, she doesn't think he liked that one, but it's cute that he doesn't pull away, either.
"So it's best to be at least a little cautious, then, now that an untimely gommage is off the table."
His eyes almost involuntarily glance towards her mouth. He notes how his gaze almost tracks how her teeth run over her lip before he looks away.
"Is this what I get for worrying about you?" Ah, well. He does lean in close, lowering his voice to try to whisper in her ear. "But all right -- I'll make sure my hands and mouth will be more than enough to keep you satisfied. So you won't want or worry about anything else."
No matter how many times he ducks and dodges away from normal conversation, he's kind. Generous. Willing to sacrifice his own pleasures. He's also wrong. Oh, Verso.
She laughs, reeling back a little bit, mock offended, before leaning right back in.
"No, silly, I still want you inside me," she says. And, with a little purr to her voice: "You just can't come inside."
His eyebrows do lift at her laughter, mildly surprised. It's almost funny how that thought hadn't occurred to him at all.
The rush of excitement does burn through him when she corrects him. "Well, that's quite the correction, but I think I can manage something like that for you."
He narrows his eyes playfully; they're already so close so he can kiss the corner of her mouth. "But do I have to make what might really be troubling you pillow talk?"
That little brush of his lips, that look, the hand still resting on her upper thigh; Sciel has half a mind to just crawl into his lap and see how much he wants to talk then.
“You’re relentless today,” she teases, but she doesn’t have it in her to bristle. “What do you like for pillow talk, then? Something lighter?”
"And you're more evasive than me, but I get it." He tips his chin down, and decides to stop asking. She'll tell him or, hopefully, find someone to tell.
"What do I like?" His tone shifts to a teasing, cheery one. "Lighter is good." Or something safe, comforting. "Sometimes, I just like getting to know the person a little more. An odd way to do it, I will say, but people do feel a little more open to chit-chatting about themselves. One has to wonder why."
Verso flashes a quick smile as he does finally pick up the piece of pizza that is only half-eaten. Be a shame not to at least finish.
She looks at him, smiling, even as he goes back to his pizza. There’s something innocent about the way he talks about people, sometimes, like they’re rare creatures. Who did he learn that from, she wonders. Did it come as a surprise, after so many years? Nostalgic?
“Why do people feel chatty after doing something so intimate?” she says, teasing. She sits up straighter, off him, just so she can twist in her seat to face him properly. “Do you want to break in your new bed and see if we can figure it out?”
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She just listens, attentive despite continuing to play with her foot between his.
"Alright," she says.
It all weaves together smoothly enough for her to see where things went wrong, but also where things are slowly correcting themselves. She's not sure why it's tripped him up so much, why this, of all things, is making him anxious. It makes her worry for him.
"Is this your way of saying you don't want to sleep together until you feel comfortable with Gustave?"
no subject
"Well, you also didn't know he was my father before--"
His head tilts to the side. He feels that odd clenching feeling in his chest as he wonders about the many ways that he's betrayed her.
"--I wondered if I hurt you then, too."
Their situation has always been breezy and fun. Regardless of his feelings, he knew there wasn't anything serious between them. Yet he decides to ask a question that he had hesitated on.
"Our business is our own." He repeats what she said; he realizes he's using a lot of her words lately. "It just all seems to come together and I worried about all the times I trampled on your heart only to realize it later."
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"I was frustrated that you didn't tell us, but I already knew the kind of man you were," she replies. It's not something she has to think about; she didn't dwell on it then and she won't dwell on it now, not with everything that's happened since Old Lumière. "You are not your father, nor are you responsible for what he did."
The Expedition was massacred, and Gustave murdered, and compared to that, any truth Verso has skirted around feels remarkably small. Her gaze drifts over his face, up the scar over his eye, and her smile grows a little sad at that.
It's like he wants punishment. But what, between them, has warranted it? They've had little disagreements, little tensions. Banter can pinch the wrong spots, he can push for stories he hasn't earned, but what does any of that matter? Little stumbles are the price of getting to know people.
"I'd tell you if you'd ever crossed a line with me," she promises. "I like our business, and our friendship."
no subject
However, there is far too much unknown about what is to come. He cares about her, about them; even though he doesn't have any right to feel that way. If he speaks the truth, he won't be able to watch over them, either. That may be an excuse, but the word stick in his throat and he still can't say them.
"You promise?" That she'd tell him? "I like it, too."
What has happened can't be changed. He hopes to be able to help them all at present. It seems they're still wondering if they should even try to return if everything is gone. Perhaps, living here is a possibility.
"Those are really all my thoughts on that bit." He's only been eating with one hand, picking up his beer with one to drink. It's so he would have the other able to reach out to rest casually on her thigh, sliding so his fingers gently rest on the inside in a small, gentle touch.
"But... living apart might be good just for..." His eyes roll in an exaggerated manner, like he's searching for the words. Fingers gently drumming against her. "... keeping things our business."
no subject
“I promise,” she repeats, seriously. She knows her word is true and sincere, and she can forgive the man of an apprehension of that. Even with a few dark and personal stories under their belts, they’ve much to learn about each other still, and she has her own fears about what he might think of her truths.
But what matters is he’s tried, evasive as he can be, and now they have nothing but time to get to know each other more.
And then his palm slides over her skin, resting right on the warmth of her inner thigh, just inches off the hem of her shorts. She takes a swig of her beer and the smile blossoms on her face again. She leans in his direction, shoulder pressing against his, looking at him through her eyelashes.
“It is an added perk,” she agrees. She adds, sly: “Should I give you my thoughts, since you’ve so generously shared yours?”
no subject
His fingers gently stroking the skin, playing with the hem of her shorts.
Leaning closer, he lowers his voice like they're sharing some secrets with each other. "I'd feel bad if I was the only one sharing my thoughts, actually." He tilts his head so that he can look at her properly -- his expression shifting to something a little more serious, little more sincere.
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“I think even if you did want to stop this, I would have to insist on doing it in a bed at least once, before the end. For the novelty, of course.”
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"But is that all? Everything that you've been thinking?" He makes a small gesture with his other hand. "About everything?"
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“It’s not all, no,” she replies. “But I have thoughts on everything, so you’ll have to be specific about what you want to hear.”
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He's happy that she's so close. It means that he can breathe her scent, watch every little shift in her expression.
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Not that Renoir has any way to find out about them, much less a reason to, their business being what it is, but surely a man like him –– posh, powerful, wrathful –– has some opinion on his son’s prospects.
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"Unfortunately, he's always been very aware of how I am." Pressing his lips into a thin line, he shakes his head as his eyes slide away. "So, as far as thoughts go... it's probably just a general sense of disappointment in me."
Renoir is more worried about his heart being broken versus who is doing the breaking, as far as he's aware. Or rather, he's worried that his heart will be given to someone who will be an enemy later. By choice or circumstance.
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“Popular, then? I had no idea. I thought I was your first.”
She’s kidding.
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His eyebrow lifts as he jokes back with her. He reaches out to take his beer once more for a small drink. It's a little sad to have to pull away just enough to do that, though.
A slow swallow as he sets it back down. "But it's like I said... he's just an old man with his delusions." His shoulder, the one resting easily against her, gives a little bounce to indicate a shrug.
Verso slides his finger around the hem with a slight smile. "Does that ease any of your concerns?" He doesn't think so, but he thought it'd be a good try.
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Verso never volunteers much in the way of information, and the reassurance that he does not care about what Renoir thinks feels shallow at best. Unsurprising, though. She smiles, a little bit goading.
"It's not like you had many people to have flings with, out on the Continent, so it just seems like there's more to the story than him being disappointed. Tell me what you were like in Lumière."
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"I thought we were worried about you." He inclines his head in her direction. "Your thoughts and what you've been thinking about." Lifting up his free hand, gentle wiggling of his fingers, he realizes he's dodging out of the request but feels there's some similar evasiveness going on.
"I can share that story with you another time."
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So she pivots.
"But alright, then. I've been wondering if immortal people make immortal babies."
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But his teasing fingers stop.
"Not that I'm aware of." Is about all he can say in reply.
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"So it's best to be at least a little cautious, then, now that an untimely gommage is off the table."
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"Is this what I get for worrying about you?" Ah, well. He does lean in close, lowering his voice to try to whisper in her ear. "But all right -- I'll make sure my hands and mouth will be more than enough to keep you satisfied. So you won't want or worry about anything else."
And other things, he supposes, but details.
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She laughs, reeling back a little bit, mock offended, before leaning right back in.
"No, silly, I still want you inside me," she says. And, with a little purr to her voice: "You just can't come inside."
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The rush of excitement does burn through him when she corrects him. "Well, that's quite the correction, but I think I can manage something like that for you."
He narrows his eyes playfully; they're already so close so he can kiss the corner of her mouth. "But do I have to make what might really be troubling you pillow talk?"
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“You’re relentless today,” she teases, but she doesn’t have it in her to bristle. “What do you like for pillow talk, then? Something lighter?”
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"What do I like?" His tone shifts to a teasing, cheery one. "Lighter is good." Or something safe, comforting. "Sometimes, I just like getting to know the person a little more. An odd way to do it, I will say, but people do feel a little more open to chit-chatting about themselves. One has to wonder why."
Verso flashes a quick smile as he does finally pick up the piece of pizza that is only half-eaten. Be a shame not to at least finish.
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“Why do people feel chatty after doing something so intimate?” she says, teasing. She sits up straighter, off him, just so she can twist in her seat to face him properly. “Do you want to break in your new bed and see if we can figure it out?”
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