soulforge | 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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"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

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