[ Bastien's transition out of Diplomacy and into Scouting is unceremonious. But he has a desk here now—only sometimes used—and today, after putting some things down on it, he spins an unclaimed chair around and sits across from Vega's desk as if he's been called in for a meeting.
Otherwise, he doesn't interrupt what she's working on. Quiet, patient, hands folded on his knee. ]
(Vega looks up when his chair spins and then immediately looks back down.
The dinner, at their place, with Benedict in tow didn't go exactly the way she was hoping it would. It was more awkward than it needed to be. She can feel her face getting hot but she makes herself finish her paragraph before addressing him, to give herself time to calm down.
[ During the time she needed to finished her paragraph—however quickly—Bastien's attention wandered. Or marched, more like, directly to the middle distance somewhere off to the side and a series of thoughts to distract from the desire to say something cute or try to read what she was writing upside-down or both. The dinner was a bit awkward, yes, and right now he'd hate to give her the impression he's here to put her through anything tortuous.
He doesn't startle at the sound of her pen going down. (He doesn't have a startle reflex anymore. For normal reasons.) His eyes slide over to confirm they're talking now before the rest of his head turns back to face her. ]
I hope so.
[ His smile is sheepish and fleeting. Business. This is his business face. Pleasant, but not grinning. ]
We don't all know each other, (she says witheringly and sits back in her chair, pressing her spine against the wood so it makes her as straight-backed as possible. She has a passing thought — that her mother, who ingrained this habit into her, might nod in approval if she could see this — then remembers how many letters she has sent to home (many) and how many she has had back (none).
Lacing her hands together, she rests them on her desk.
(Vega thinks about this for a moment, staring at him as she mentally weighs pros and cons.)
... Yes. (And then, after a pause, she forgets about maintaining good posture and leans in conspiratorily.) I may be able to get something on her, that could help. If we were to choose the stick.
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action.
Otherwise, he doesn't interrupt what she's working on. Quiet, patient, hands folded on his knee. ]
no subject
The dinner, at their place, with Benedict in tow didn't go exactly the way she was hoping it would. It was more awkward than it needed to be. She can feel her face getting hot but she makes herself finish her paragraph before addressing him, to give herself time to calm down.
Finally, she sets her pen aside.)
Can I help you?
no subject
He doesn't startle at the sound of her pen going down. (He doesn't have a startle reflex anymore. For normal reasons.) His eyes slide over to confirm they're talking now before the rest of his head turns back to face her. ]
I hope so.
[ His smile is sheepish and fleeting. Business. This is his business face. Pleasant, but not grinning. ]
Do you know a Thoris Ferron? Or know of her?
no subject
Lacing her hands together, she rests them on her desk.
Begrudgingly,) But I do recognise the name, yes.
What about her?
no subject
[ with polite—or politely intended, at least—lack of acknowledgment for the hostility. ]
Whether with a carrot or stick, yet to be determined. Is that the kind of work you are interested in?
no subject
... Yes. (And then, after a pause, she forgets about maintaining good posture and leans in conspiratorily.) I may be able to get something on her, that could help. If we were to choose the stick.
no subject
It is always good to have a stick, whether we use it or not. What are you thinking?