soulforge | France

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France

The intention behind taking a train had been a good one. Theoretically, it could have been less cramped than a plane - certainly less so than the tiny puddle jumper they'd taken back from Syria when his leg had been in a massive cast and he'd been choking down enough pain killers to knock out an elephant. A shame then that the reality of travel by train isn't nearly so roomy as the idea of it; not even an hour out of London and Charlie can feel his leg starting to cramp up in the narrow space between his seat and the row in front of them.

His bag is in the overhead storage. He has spent the last twenty minutes mentally going through the steps to get to his duffel, or more specifically in the end pocket where he packed a bottle of prescription percocet. It goes like this: he will get his cane under him, grab hold of the seat in front of him and lever himself to his feet (apologizing profusely to the elderly woman sitting in front of him), then brace himself off both the cane and a hand hold on the edge of the overhead-- It's a slowly tipping scale between the pain in his leg and the effort it would take to get his medication, one that right now doesn't seem worth the effort. Not yet.

And sure he could lean over, touch Chloe's arm and ask her to just pull down the bag for him. It would take her half a minute to haul the damn thing down. But that isn't how he wants to start this trip, so to hell with it.

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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.

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France

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

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