soulforge | France

There's one hell of a lot running through Chloe's mind at the moment-- too much, really. At least more than she'd care to admit or display while surrounded by dozens of people cramped together in the same space breathing right down the back of each other's necks. So she's tried to play it cool. Kept her glances out the window to a minimum, thumbed through a magazine that was less entertaining than she'd hoped (she's already been to Munnar twice, thank you very much. She doesn't need to read about it again from a glorified tourist.) Even her trips down the aisle have hit the maximum limit of two and they're not even an hour in. (Wandering to and from the cafe gave her an excuse to scan the train on her way down. No, she didn't buy anything. Neither of them were hungry. On either trip.)

Hard to think about anything other than the fact that they're really heading to France. The train is responsible for that, actually. Though the pair of them thought it'd be easier for poor Charlie to swallow, the other half of her motivation was that planes were almost always for work. Taking a plane to Paris would feel like taking a plane almost anywhere. But a train? That's different. Nobody ever takes a train to run a job.

Maybe the Order, but they don't really count.

And with all the clutter upstairs in her thoughts, Chloe's admittedly somewhat numb to Charlie's. She isn't outright ignoring him, but when she's doing her best to not stare out the window like a five year old, and Charlie's face just so happens to be right there next to it, well...you know. Sometimes things slip by unnoticed. It takes a good few minutes for her to realize he's shifted his weight in his chair more times than usual, that his fingers are inching closer to the base of his seat where the cane's resting, and how the line of his mouth is pressed so thin she could swear he's trying to swallow his own lips to keep from letting anything out.

Put the clues together and she's fairly certain she knows what he's after. Fortunately for the both of them, she'd just love another excuse to stand. So she does.

"I'm beginning to wonder why we always give you the window seat."

If she doesn't think he's taken note of her antsiness, she's completely mad -- though honestly, it's unlikely Charlie's attributed it to anything other than travel jitters. Being stuck in a cramped train car with god knows how many other people for a number of hours, would make anyone want to stretch their legs. She could probably take ten trips up and down the aisle before he started to question her motives, particularly as the farther along they get the more steadily he stares at the seatback in front of him while trying not to compulsively check his watch. The train line is almost guaranteed to arrive within fifteen minutes of the expected destination time. That means he has just an hour and forty minutes on the outside before he can--

He starts slightly when she speaks, hauled out of his masochistic number crunching. For a moment he just looks at her sideways. Then he bristles: shoulders coming up and hands gripping defensively at the arms of his seat. Not because he gives a shit about the window seat, but because she's on her feet and almost definitely reaching for his duffel.

"Maybe because you'd have to crawl over me every time you wanted to wander about."

Oh how right he is. Not that she gives a damn.

"Uh-huh."

It's a clever remark, she'll give him that. One that would normally win him an approving smirk, but at the moment his obvious distress keeps her focused. She tugs the bag down and drops it off on her now-empty seat, unzipping the side pouch to track down where that tiny ass little bottle might've gone off to. By the time her fingers close around the medicine she's fairly certain he's all bristled up like a cornered alley-cat. The view doesn't disappoint.

"What do you want to take it with?" Chloe flicks the bottle his way, towards his lap. If he's fast enough, and not too stubborn to lift his hands from the armrests, he'll catch them. If not, she'll get to watch him wrestle it out from between his legs.

It could be the stubborn part or the speed part that gets in the way, but yeah - he's fishing around for the bottle so he doesn't end up sitting on it.

"Nothing. I'm fine." His hand closes on the bottle with the full intention of lobbing it back at her. An hour and forty minutes, he thinks. If he took the damn pills now instead of later, the nausea might wear off by the time they get to Paris.

He twists the top off the bottle and grudgingly shakes the right dose out onto his palm. "Just water," he says after a moment, quiet and trying not to sound so damn on edge. If he could get up and stretch his leg it might help, but he doesn't trust himself to keep his footing with the sway of the train car.

The look he manages to pull out of her with that response isn't all that pleasant. She gets that he's on edge and in pain, but for god's sake, he's being downright pissy. Maybe if she were petting the top of his head and coddling him like a toddler, that'd be different, but Chloe's not one to patronize and he knows it. Or at least he should.

She's about a half a second away from telling him to put the bag away himself if he's so bloody capable, opens her mouth to say something, and then shuts it again, thinking better of it as she tosses it back into the overhead bin.

"Sure thing, love."

It takes her a good ten minutes to come back, (the time of her past two trips combined) with two glasses of chilled water in hand for them both. She takes a good long sip of her own before passing off his and dropping herself down in her seat once again.

Edited 2012-10-31 11:58 (UTC)

There's the itch to push - just a little more. If he's just a little more aggravating, she'll crack and want nothing more to do with him. It'd be easy to do. Be just a touch more petulant; he's pretty sure that'd do the trick. But instead he keeps his mouth shut, the pills in his hand, and frowns after her back as she makes her way down the center aisle in the direction of the dining car.

He doesn't think to look at his watch until well after she's been gone. By the time he does he has no idea how to gauge how long she's been gone, just that it seems longer than it should be. Determined not to feel guilty, he shifts down in his seat and does his best not to jostle his leg. The scenery slips past the window. It's muggy and grey and not at all the sort of weather one hopes for when traveling. By the time Chloe returns the pills have gone tacky from the heat of his fist.

"Thank you," he says, and is momentarily angry at himself for how sorry he does sound. He takes the glass of water, downs the pills and follows it with the tiniest sip he can manage. You know, to be properly vindictive about it.

Chloe keeps trying to tell herself that he's just in pain and in a panic. Tries to work up the urge to set a hand on his arm, on his lap, even slip down to his leg. But this vacation-- much as she suggested it to get him up and away from his flat (and the pub, and the book shop, and the grocer on the way) which was monotonous enough to drive him mad in combination with all that horrid therapy-- is at its heart a somewhat selfish set of plans. She was thrilled about this ridiculous train ride, and now he's just pissing on the whole thing. Acting like he's five years old and just been forced to swallow a vitamin.

She's not his goddamn mother. She certainly doesn't want to be.

So instead of settling him down, Chloe tenses the muscles of her jaw. Shifts her weight. Folds her arms tightly over her chest. Picks a spot across from her and stares at it like she's capable of setting it on fire.

"Right, well, next time I'll just let you see to it."

"Fine." He does his very best to stare straight ahead, tentatively sipping at the glass of water every now and again. If he stared any harder, the little old woman in front of him might feel it through her seat.

It isn't the trip and it isn't the part where he's getting out of the bloody flat, getting away from his physical therapist and Chinese take out. In fact, until limping his way on board the train, he'd been all for the damn thing. He'd done some extensive googling, maybe had a travel book in his duffel next to his rolled up socks and toothbrush. If anything, it's just the frustration. His bastard leg jamming up on him isn't how he wants this to go and if he can't get through through the train ride without driving them both insane--

The glass is empty before he realizes. Charlie turns it absently, taps it on the tray table. Doesn't want to talk about any of this. "So what's on the itinerary?"

"Little over an hour left before we pull in to Paris. From there we'll catch a quick lift down to the hotel Moderne Saint Germain."

Talking about what's ahead eases her muscles just a bit, makes it easier for her to say anything at all. Before, she'd even planned on trying to spit out the hotel's name with proper pronunciation (It was silly, but why the hell not?) but now she just puts it out there very matter-of-factly, with her own mostly-Australian accent leading the charge "and if you're up for it we'll take a walk down to the local bookstore. Just about five minutes away. Not too far."

It probably isn't actually a peace offering, but what the hell - he'll take it as one. "Ah. Well I can probably do about five minutes," he says, nine levels of forced nonchalance.

He sets the empty glass on her tray and stows his own. He gives the percocet fifteen, twenty minutes max before it hits him. And his leg still aches, but there's something about knowing it won't soon that helps.

"Swap me seats. Might help to put my leg in the aisle - touch more space." And if the bookstore wasn't a peace offering, that certainly is.

It wasn't really a peace offering; if he was still acting like an ass by the time his meds kicked in, she had good plans to leave him in that bookstore and head out on her own. Still, the request to swap spots isn't lost on her, and she dips her chin in a nod that works like an agreement to the truce while sliding up off the seat. "Yep."

The cups are lifted along with her, storing the table with the top of her knee, much to the dismay and discomfort of the fellow sitting in front of her, but Chloe doesn't much care. Shouldn't be sleeping on a ride like this, anyway.

Edited (shh it's 6am what are words) 2012-11-02 10:51 (UTC)

Honestly, it probably would've taken him a day or two before he realized she'd left him there.

Fumbling under his seat for where the cane is stowed, Charlie braces himself on the arm rest. It takes a few moments to get his feet under him and his weight rocked forward, much less actually on his feet, but he does eventually manage it (with apologies to the little old grandmum in front of him, though she doesn't seem to speak much English). Once they manage to change seats, he stretches his leg out into the aisle. And it helps. Some. Or maybe that's the meds starting to hit. Or maybe it's just because if Chloe's by the window, she doesn't have to pretend not to look out it (and might be lacking an excuse to look past him, might not notice if he starts to look a little green around the gills).

A few minutes later though and, no. No, that's definitely the medication.

All right, so the weather's dreary enough to bring down the mood with or without the ache running up Charlie's leg, but being close enough to stare out the window without looking absolutely juvenile tugs all the tension out of her. Just about the time the pain meds start to dull his nerves, Chloe's settled enough to spare some sympathy.

Her hand finds the top of his on the armrest while her other keeps her chin upright, eyes still set on the scenery outside.

His fingers have gone all tingly and his whole body feels vague except for the heaviness in his leg so it takes him a moment to register the brush of her arm, the weight of her hand. His tongue feels heavy, but frankly he doesn't have anything to say anyway. His leg still aches and he can feel a knot forming low in his stomach in reaction to the medication. But it doesn't really matter. He can tolerate it for the hour and a half until they get to Paris. And then-- more walking. More trekking around Paris and cavorting around the French countryside and god knows what else, according to whatever Chloe has planned for them.

But it's fine. Granted his mouth feels like cotton, but it's better.

He fidgets with the tray table for a moment with his free hand and peers down the center aisle of the car. After what feels like a few moments (but may in fact be longer) he turns his hand, scuffs his knuckles against her palm and thinks vaguely about the gaps between his fingers and-- And it's probably not the greatest start to the trip, but it isn't long after the percocet kicks in that he crashes out asleep in the aisle seat.

She doesn't notice for about fifteen minutes that he's gone and dozed off. When she turns to slip her hand a bit lower is when she finally realizes he's out cold, head tilted awkwardly against the back of his chair. Which is fine by her. God knows it's better than having him count the seconds till he's out in the open air again.

Besides, she doesn't need to get out to the aisle any time soon.

The last bit of the trip is easy enough. Passes more quickly than she'd expected, but the quiet is calming and the view is lovely. Even the clouds start to let up just slightly. (Mildly overcast is better than threatening to rain; she'll take it.) So when the train finally pulls into the station, Chloe's quick to nudge him up before anyone accidentally kicks his leg. His tray table's up, the trash is cleared off, and she's tugging her jacket from his lap while leaning in close enough to keep her voice low.

"Come on, sleeping beauty. Rise and shine."

The loss of momentum and the general restlessness of the passengers in the car must start to rouse him, because by the time she's peeling her jacket off him and talking in low tones Charlie doesn't jerk awake so much as just shift up into it. Still it takes him a second - a few moments of blinking at the upholstery pattern on the seat back in front of him - before he straightens sharply and breathes in, presses the heel of his hand to his face and draws his leg back out of the aisle. People are getting up, getting their baggage down.

"Shit," he mumbles, voice thick from sleep. He helps untangle the sleeve of her jacket from where it's pinched between his side and the arm rest. "How long was I out for?" But it isn't really an important question, certainly not one he needs answered. He fumbles under the seat for the cane.

As much as he just wants to stretch his legs and get back on solid ground, he also has no desire to fight through the throng of passengers in the aisle. Instead he waits, spinning the cane absently on its base, as people work their way off the car. "Are you hungry? I'm starving," he says instead of apologizing for being so bloody slow. Anyway, surely she worked up an appetite hiking the length of the train right?

Edited (oh my god hands why) 2012-11-03 16:54 (UTC)

"Oh about twenty years or so. Got a nice price for all that rubbish you keep up in your flat."

Once retrieved, Chloe sets to work straightening out her jacket. She takes her time with it for much the same reason why Charlie's spinning that cane of his; pushing her way through a crowd? No thank you. She's old enough to wait five minutes for a peaceful exit.

And once the old lady in front of her has taken her leave, Chloe props her boots up against the back of the seat. Digging her heels into the cushion feels better than it ought to.

"Like you wouldn't believe, mate."

"Rubbish? I haven't the faintest idea what you're on about." Alright, so some of the dishware probably desperately needs to be replaced and there are a few records in his collection he isn't strictly proud of, but rubbish? Surely not. But mostly he just shoots her a quick sideways grin and taps the foot of the cane against the train car's carpet as people slowly gather their baggage and file off.

"Is there such a thing as French lunch? Seems worth it to at least do it properly the first time, doesn't it?" So he's had a nice nap, he's all high and tingly from percocet -- it's a lot easier to be invested in the whole 'French experience.'

She doesn't really mean it. Not entirely, anyway.

There's another quick glance out the window before she responds, trying to gauge about how much longer it'll take for all these slow, warm bodies to get out of sight and give them a free path to the exit.

"Oh, what, now you care?" Which is said as lightly as she can manage; it's more a jab at his appetite than him, really.

He pauses the incessant tapping. Charlie leans his chin across the knuckles of his hand and the top of the cane. Gives her a shrug and a sideways glance. "I'm high and hungry. No worries though, bright eyes - give me two hours and I'll bounce back."

The train car is mostly empty now. Figuring it's safe, Charlie levers himself to his feet and carefully moves out into the aisle. He braces himself heavily on the seat back as much as the cane until he gets his balance, then reaches up to dredge their bags down. He pulls Chloe's rolling suitcase first, hopping a little clumsily so he can set it down in the aisle before he turns and jerks his own duffel down as well.

She snakes her way over the chairs with her feet on the cushions, slipping out through the space just above the armrest and just behind Charlie's back. She could have waited, she could have done it properly, but fuck it-- she's excited and there's no one watching. No one aside from Charlie, anyway.

One hand on her suitcase, she gives him a light pinch on his hip with her other.

"Ladies first."

He gives her a little cheerful hiss, but doesn't have a spare hand to bat hers away. Instead he wrinkles his nose at her and bumps her leg with the end of his duffel. "People are staring," he jokes, all faux seriousness and affront.

Minding the gap between the train and the platform is the only part that takes any real maneuvering, but once over it moving through the station isn't difficult - just slow. It's the start of French then: signs that are half unreadable and the pre-recorded drone of a woman speaking over the loudspeaker system. The taxi wheel at the top of the station is crowded with people with briefcases and suitcases, tourists and professionals. With his duffel over his shoulder, he's got a free hand now: uses it to pinch back at Chloe's hip in full sight of France, the President and maybe God.

"Why don't you jog ahead and get us a car, love."

The pinch brings an eager grin to her face. She doesn't turn around all the way to glance back at him, the voice streaming in through the speaker system is too distracting, the sight of the crowds around them, even the architecture gives her something of an understanding for how Nate and Charlie must feel while out rummaging through ruins.

"Sure thing, sweetheart." Chloe says, pressing her hip against his fingers before heading off to flag down a taxi. The process doesn't take that long, and her luggage is passed off for loading while she waits for Charlie to catch up.

It's true that she's done this sort of thing before, but somehow a cab in Paris feels different. This-- the way she keeps an elbow on the door and her chin in hand, staring only out the window, eyes scanning every block, every shop-- is as close to a nerd moment as she could ever possibly get.

So for those fifteen minutes that it takes to arrive at the hotel she is completely and utterly silent.

Edited 2012-11-05 06:48 (UTC)

He hangs back until she waves down the cab and then works his way through the crowd of people thronging the curb. Handing off his bag, he clambers after her into the back of the car and pulls the door shut. It's strangely quiet, strangely familiar - the back seat of a French cab is much like the back seat of any other cab. But the drive from the station to the hotel is lovely, stop and start though the traffic is. The driver tries to carry on a rudimentary conversation and Charlie indulges him: speaking in some combination of fractured English and French until they reach the hotel.

The front of the Hotel Moderne St. Germain is more boutique than hotel, so much so that when the cab first pulls up to the curb Charlie is pretty sure something's been lost in translation. But no, the address is right and more importantly the sign on the front of the building seems right. Though that doesn't keep him from being a little wary, side-eying Chloe the whole way to the front desk. The whole place is unapologetically French avant garde. Bloody topiaries in the lobby.

Oh, she's taken with the whole thing. The glossy floors, the bold, cleverly coordinated colors and carefully arranged flowers. The sidelong glance is barely noticed (if it was, she'd make a point of playing it up just to ruffle his feathers) as she's more than ready to handle the business of checking in. Her French isn't perfect, but she gets by without a problem, taking the occasional pause to organize a decent sentence while running her fingertips along the mirror-polished surface of the counter.

A few later, key in hand, and she's scooting him along towards the elevator.

"Booked us a double, should be more than enough room if you don't sprawl out all over the place." There's the ass touch again. Yep. Undeniably good mood.

He scoots admirably, the rubber base of the cane squeaking faintly on the polished floors as they make their way to the elevator. "Right - I'll try not to sleep in the middle of the bed then if I can help it," he says and gently checks her on the shoulder with his knuckles just as the elevator door opens. "So long as you don't take all the pillows."

The ride up is a short one, though the hall their room is on is bright enough that it may have come straight from a crayon box. Charlie limps after her down the hall, just a half step behind -- the better with which to bump shoulders with, thank you. He's only a little apprehensive when they reach the door to the room.

"Wait." He covers the card key slot. "I'll bet you lunch that there's a potted topiary bush in there somewhere."

"As you like," is the response, without a second of consideration. "because whether there is or not, you're still paying for lunch."

Her eyebrows lift as something of a challenge, she bites eagerly into her lower lip. Come on, Charlie. Pretend you can best her at anything.

"Ah I see. Invite me along on your vacation -- 'It'll be a laugh,' she said. 'Drink a lot of wine,' she said --, but it's all been an elaborate ploy to never pay for your own dinner." He takes the key card from her and swipes it with all the vindictiveness that he can manage (read: not much). "I'm on to you, Frazer."

Charlie hands her back the key, lifts the handle, and lets the door float open.

"We live in progressive times, Charlie." She says, all grin as she slips in just under his arm the moment the door is open.

Chloe-- unlike Nate-- doesn't treat every minute like she's scaling the side of a temple or breaking and entering. This time? Well, maneuvering herself between the crack in the door and the space Charlie's inhabiting might as well be a vault lined with lasers judging by how quickly she slides past without so much as brushing against the fabric of his coat.

"I was under the impression most women like to buy dinner for their partners."

Compared to the unnaturally bright hall, the steely gray and violet interior is a sharp contrast. And yes, she could have gone for something more expensive, more dramatic, but her focus is what's outside those balcony doors (the doors she has to fight not to press herself up against, and instead just unlatches them to let in sounds from the busy streets below) and she can save the more expensive rooms for places that aren't nearly as fascinating as Paris.

Edited (how do english it is 6am) 2012-11-05 13:05 (UTC)

"Yeah well, I'm a bit old fashioned," Charlie counters, leaning around the door frame to give the room a thorough once over. It's not the eyesore that the hallway is - if he had wake up to a wall that green... --, but there's a decided lack of topiaries. He nudges open the door to the bathroom to glance in there too, but no dice. Just a lot of plush towels and small bathroom soaps made to look more expensive than they likely are.

Damn. Looks like she's in luck after all. He sets his bag down and then makes his way over to sit at the end of the bed, stretching his leg out in front of him. "How's the view?"

"Perfect." She responds absently, and more eagerly than she means to, but with just the two of them there, without the world peering in, she's all right with it. Her fingers are pressed against the glass of the open doors. She's not budging from this spot.

It takes her a good minute or so to muster up enough clarity of thought (because the river is right there, and the spirals of the church are visible over the rooftops, and there's this sudden calm that's finding her with all the city right there at her feet) to even bother carrying on the conversation. "How's your leg?"

"Lovely."

She makes for a pretty picture from where he's sitting on the bed: the cut of her shoulders and her fingers on the glass, the view (though from this angle he can't see much of it) beyond her. Seeing her so obviously enamored with the city takes some of the edge off the lingering discomfort from being cooped up on the train from London and he studies her for the long silence that follows, absently rubbing his leg in some vague attempt to work out the stiffness in the muscle.

"It's all right." Which it mostly is. He expects he won't feel too hot once the percocet wears off - whatever Chloe has planned, the day is likely going to rack up more mileage on it -, but it doesn't matter. Not really. He doesn't want to talk about his bastard leg. "We going out, or do you just want to stare at it all day?"

"Just five more minutes, mum." She says with a smile against the glass that he can't possibly see from where he's settled. Chloe's sure she'll have plenty of time to enjoy it later (when they're not both absolutely starving) but they've only just arrived. She just wants a few more seconds to let it all sink in.

And after that she pulls the doors shut once again, turns on her heel and gives him a quick once over with her hands in her pockets. "Should I call us a cab or are you able to manage it?"

He might not be able to see it, but the smile's written all over her and clinging in the sound of her voice so it's pretty damn hard to miss. So he doesn't press the issue - she can stand however long she wants to at the window.

Reaffirming his grip on his cane, Charlie shrugs. Cab, definitely cab. "I'm not glass. I'll manage." Because really, how far can it be? And there'll be more for her to gawk at on foot than from the back of cab, and he'd be loathe to take that from her.

He levers himself back up to his feet. "Just no roast duck, eh?" Because it would be a shame to end the trip subsisting on peanut butter and jelly after blowing their budget in Paris on the first day, right?

He might've said to walk, but her phone's already up and out, and she's pressing in the numbers to phone up the nearest taxi location. She slips a hand into his back pocket while passing off the name of their hotel, uses it as an excuse to press her hip up against his.

Once that's all settled a minute or so later, she aims a quick wink at him. "Too hungry to bother waiting. Food first, we'll walk back if you're up for it."

Edited (WOW OKAY MAYBE I AM SLIGHTLY MORE TIPSY THAN I THOUGHT) 2012-11-08 07:55 (UTC)

Well take the wind of his sails, why doesn't she? Still, he's not going to lodge any formal complaints if Chloe doesn't want to walk - particularly with her hand in his back pocket as she talks in halting French to the cab company.

"If you say so," he says, patting her hand through the pocket. "Now stop degrading me before I can buy you dinner. I might start to feel cheap otherwise."

Heading downstairs is a slow process; he leans heavily on the elevator wall as they ride it down, and almost immediately picks a chair to sit in until their cab arrives - regrets it when he has to get himself back up onto his feet. He's going to have to start to get more tactically efficient about when he sits - going to have to get better at clambering in and out of cabs.

"Oh darling you should never feel cheap around me no matter what we're up to; class has always been my day job."

She paces in circles while he sits. Not impatiently, there's not a trace of irritation in her right now except for what few moments where her eyes fall on his leg, or the cane that he leans a bit too hard on to even pretend that it's not vital. Still, it's not like this is a new development. She's had plenty of time to get used to seeing him carry on from pill to pill, and to be fair Charlie's come one hell of a long way from the worst of it. No, Chloe's stalking through the lobby because it gives her a clear view of the front entrance while not being too far from his side. Standing by the door sounds dull, anyway.

So when the taxi pulls up she signals it off to him with a wave of her hand. Gives Charlie the dignity of getting up on his own and taking a seat while she feigns mapping out just how far it'll take to reach the bookstore. The drive is short, barely anything at all. They could've walked there in a few minutes, even with his bum leg, and if the meter hadn't already been running by the time the cab had arrived, she'd have needed to circle around the block a few more times before they'd have enough for the required fare.

Either way, once they stop at the storefront (the cafe la bucherie just at its side) Chloe's quick to pass off the money owed with an easy pat to their driver's shoulder. Considering it's midday, the street's already crowded with fellow tourists. Eyeing them is like looking through the cage bars at the zoo. Gives her something to occupy herself while Charlie clambers out after her to hopefully spot the reason she had them dropped off here.

Oh lovely, socks and sandals. Paris ballcap, that's charming. Could be worse. No other manpurses in sight aside from Charlie's, and his is admittedly a touch more tasteful than the normal assortment. So there's that.

Edited 2012-11-08 15:58 (UTC)

Generally speaking, he isn't usually the sort of person to fail so fundamentally at taking in his surroundings particularly when it comes to playing the tourist - so he should already be fully aware of the bookstore before he even clambers out of the cab. But he spends the ride mentally mapping the turns they take, clocking out the walk in his head for the way back, eyeing the sidewalks crowded with tourists, and doesn't actually spend much time looking at store fronts. So he's fully out of the cab, hopping awkwardly up onto the curb and steading himself off the door of the car, before he catches sight of the tables across the heads of shorter tourists skittering along the sidewalk.

He closes the cab door very slowly, not fully aware of it as he studies the shop front. Despite the bustle on the sidewalk, the book store seems pleasantly quiet with it's benches and tables of books outside and-- and mostly none of that matters though. The place could be packed to the brim with crying babies and French police and it would still look inviting because the sheer volume of books in the windows is a little staggering. It's the sort of thing to make a man go weak in the knees if he isn't too careful.

Swaying slightly on him feet, he reaches out to steady himself off Chloe's shoulder as the cab is already pulling away. Once sure of his footing, Charlie gives her little check with his knuckles without looking away from the bookstore. "I hope you're not planning on going straight back after lunch." No, he's pretty sure she knows exactly what she's doing, the fox - which is trying to give him a bleeding heart attack apparently.

"Thought it might do you good to bury your nose in a few before heading back." The brush of his knuckles is as pleasant a 'thank you' as she could ever want or need. This time there's no ass-pat, no hand at his shoulder; the longer they spend batting at one another in public, the more time they burn while Charlie's meds slowly wear themselves out.

Once Chloe's sure he's balanced properly she moves on ahead. Gets a spot on the list that takes a good twenty minutes or so. Even with all the wonders of Paris around them, the novelty's beginning to wane. She's starving, okay. And while out in the middle of a bloody jungle on a four-day hike it might seem the norm to let the growling of her stomach go on for a few hours, in the middle of tourist-central it's just ridiculous.

With a last wistful book to Shakespeare & Co., Charlie slowly heads after her. Better not even set foot within ten yards of the door before lunch - he knows himself well enough that if he gets close, it'll be work to extract himself and as patient as Chloe has been he doesn't really want to get between her and a solid meal. Anyway, despite the fact that the bookstore's driven all human needs out of him for the time being, he's almost positive he was hungry. The books can wait, painful as it may be particularly when they've really nothing to do but loiter in the jammed bistro until a table comes free and they're eventually shown to a tight little table with very little elbow space.

The menu is in French and English - clearly enough of a tourist destination to legitimize it -, and Charlie's happy enough for it. It makes ordering easy: means there's generally less confusion when he speaks in pidgin French to order something to drink and a sandwich (sandwich seems safe, unoffensive -- and honestly at this point he just wants something he's familiar enough with so he can wolf it down and go running back to that bookstore).

"So I', starting to get the impression that you've been planning this for a while." It's partly a joke - he has some handle on the fact that she's been meaning to do a...tour de France. But the level of minutiae is a little... Surprising? Charming as anything, really.

Soup sounds filling enough to suit her for the moment, gets herself a beer for a pat on the back after all their traveling. The chair backs aren't all that comfortable, and she manages to elbow the pair crammed in behind her more times than she means to in an attempt to settle, but there's no helping it, so she doesn't feel particularly guilty.

"No, no. Not a clue what I'm doing in the slightest." She chuckles at him from across the table, drums her finger against the wood while her eyes settle oh the scenery outside. He'd have to be thicker than anything not to know better; she rubs at him more out of habit than sincerity these days.

The food takes longer to arrive than she'd hoped, so when she finally gets the first sip in of her order, she's already carrying a slight buzz. No matter how heavy the drink, booze does not make for a full stomach. Takes all her self control not to just tear into the bowl in front of her. Somehow she manages to hold in the larger gulps till Charlie's distracted with a mouthful of sandwich.

Charlie has no such reservations and tucks into the sandwich as soon as it's laid in front of him. Part of it's hunger, part of it's the weird hollow feeling his medication leaves behind, but mostly he wolfs it down because the faster he can eat it, the sooner he can get out of the cramped bistro and back to the bookstore. Which means he's wiping his plate the heel of the sandwich bread long before Chloe is even halfway done with her soup.

It doesn't take long for him to get a little fidgety, though to his credit he does try to mask it: attempts to hook his elbow on the back of the chair, but finds the space occupied by someone's back. He quickly crosses his arms instead, stretching his good leg out as far as he can under the little table without threatening to trip passerbys.

"So, how's the soup?" It's the kind of droll small talk that practically screams he's distracted and only half invested in what's coming out of his mouth (if that). "Smells good."

She pauses, spoon halfway to her mouth (there's not much left at this point, just the heavier stock that sits at the bottom) and her stare sharpens a bit, mouth thinning out at the edges.

"I'm not giving you the rest of it."

He balks, bristling a little at the accusation. "What? I don't want your soup. I was just asking how it tasted."

Jesus, you'd think she took him for some kind of two-bit scavenger. What's left of her beer, however-- Charlie unfolds his arms and reaches across the table for the glass.

France

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

when you spend two hours searching for a menu and there is none to be found sobbing grossly OH WELL

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject