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Halgrim's flat, which straddles the definitions of studio and one bedroom due to its odd shape at the corner of an irregularly designed, angled building, is an example of a unit having a great deal of wallspace and yet little floorspace. The ceiling is fairly high, and in the main living room and the bedroom (a tiny affair with no door to separate it from the rest of the space, only a doorway) he's taken advantage of this by having bookcases anywhere they could be shoehorned in. It's almost like he's living in someone's private library. A good quarter of the books are rare editions or otherwise valuable. The one exception is a large cabinet with slide-down glass doors; this is filled with a variety of photographs and small personal effects, and sits next to the doorway leading into the bedroom.
The organization of the books seems haphazard and unobvious, though anything which might be considered 'work' related is clustered in the two bookcases that flank the plain desk pushed up against the wall adjacent to the apartment's entrance. There's a pair of filing racks on the desk, all with a variety of manilla folders and papers in them. On the other side of the entrance is the kitchen, another small nod to necessity with a truly minuscule refrigerator, a modest range, and a table that can barely handle one person. The corner of the apartment, where there's a pair of large windows facing one another, appears to be his preferred reading space; there's a large, comfortable, wingback chair with an ottoman and a burlwood side table with a dilapidated lamp, and a stack of books in the process of being read. Almost but not quite in the middle of the space is an old couch and a coffee table, a nod towards the notion of company.
The floors are all scarred-and-refinished dark hardwood, with thin, faded, oriental rugs (nothing fancy, probably just whatever he could afford) laid out in specific locations (under the reading chair, couch, and coffee table, under the work desk, under the bed).
*
Ah, fire escapes — most beloved by the master-thief who utilizes them regularly, depending on the architecture of the building he wishes to enter (or exit, usually at a swift pace, if even a harried one). All too easy to ascend this one and jimmy open one of the two large windows of the professor's apartment. Let's face it: Ambrose got bored. Nothing to steal today, given he's been successful on his latest string of run-abouts in the city. No wiring about the windows speaks to the modest income of the man or perhaps a lack of care by the landlord for security.
Once within, the brunet pauses and surveys the room from where he stands. The air this evening is chill and brushes against the back of his neck where the stocking cap won't pull low enough to press hair against skin. Once he's certain that no one's present, he turns around and slides the window shut. He shrugs off his jacket to reveal himself in a fitted athletic undershirt, grey as mist; the outer garment is slung over the wing-backed chair and then he decides to look further. The maroon cap is tossed atop the coat, leaving him to run fingers through his tresses to ward off hat-hair.
Of course, the desk first. Information stored here. He flicks with fingernails through the manila folders without removing them or paying much attention to their contents. Each drawer is tried, of course — the locked one receives an interested squint, but no, not this time. Another time. Then to the kitchen, bypassing the bedroom entirely. Too personal, that. He's attempting to remain at some peace with the man…relatively speaking. The fridge is opened, its innards looked over, and Ambrose decides again food for now. But that wine bottle…?
What a sight to come home to. The Jackal, slung across the wing-backed chair as if he belonged there, one leg up over a chair-arm whilst the other foot remains on the floor. The hanging boot bounces its toe in idle motion; no shoes on the furniture, of course. One hand keeps a book from the stack in-progress splayed against the line of his thigh while the other holds a wine glass, filled nearly to the brim with a second refilling. He looks far too comfortable. How rude.
*
The window opens easily and quietly, and there's no indication anyone outside has seen or suspects anything. Save for the confusing ordering of the books, it's about as neat an apartment as one could ask for. The contents of the desk's folders are nearly all work related: a few syllabi for his classes, some reading lists, tests (yet to be given), homework assignments (the same), and a stack of papers to grade (for the MFAA class, to go be the titles). The unlocked drawers are similarly mundane in their contents; pens, pencils, erasers, rulers, a protractor and compass. Nothing very interesting.
The wine is a Black Muscat, sweet and full bodied, from somewhere on the West Coast of the United States. A sample or gift from a Californian colleague, maybe?
It's not long before Ambrose hears footsteps approaching out in the hall; a door opens, and someone calls out, to which Halgrim's unmistakable voice replies in Danish. They have a brief conversation, then the key rattles in the lock, and Halgrim comes inside, bundled up against the approaching chill of night in his black pea coat and vibrant scarf. He gets the coat and scarf off before realizing that his reading chair is very much occupied, and slowly comes across the corner, wariness and concern hardening his expression…until he sees who it is. He sighs explosively, scowls at Ambrose, and heads into his bedroom without a word.
*
The sound of footsteps makes the man's face turn from his reading. Ambrose listens to the banter back and forth, not recognizing the language but for its inflections as one of the northern dialects. His eyes return from their distance as he hears the lock turn and the most pleased smirk melts from his lips by the time the door opens properly. He takes a fortifying sip of wine from the glass, decreasing its contents by a noticeable amount, before continuing to read — or, at least, putting forth the bluff of the action. Cool as a cucumber. Don't showcase an iota of concern.
The sharp huff is nearly enough to make him break his facade; internally, he sniggers. "Oh come now, professor, you knew it would only be time before I tested your security. Lacking," he calls out towards the bedroom, glancing briefly over his shoulder towards it before back to the writing on the page. Still not reading it, all senses geared towards the bedroom and potential reaction to provocation. "You should speak to your landlord about matters. It was far too easy to shift the lock. There's a glass on the table — by all means, pour yourself some. No doubt you've had a long day tending to your students. I saw there was cheese. Would it go well with this blend?" He considers the glass and its contents with a thoughtful little frown. "Rather sweet, but I won't complain."
*
In the bedroom a drawer opens and shuts, and after a few minutes of shuffling around Halgrim emerges rubbing at his neck and wincing. He's wearing a mock turtleneck sweater in dark green and plain denim jeans, and apparently while in the bedroom has traded his black workboots for a pair of leather slippers. Ambrose's comment about a tiring day seems to hit home, attenuating his waspish attitude into resignation. "Oh, so this one meets with your tentative approval?" he says on his way to the kitchen. He stops in the entrance, staring at the bottle and glass, rubs at his eyes. What's done is done. "Chevre, in my opinion. And I've some crackers for it."
He sets to assembling the cheese and crackers onto a tray (along with a small knife, the bottle of wine, and his glass) and brings it all out. He places it on the coffee table and settles himself on the couch. Pouring himself a glass, he says, "As you can imagine I don't have much to fear from prowlers." He looks around at his belongings, which are truly meager by the average thief's measure. "No jewelry, no obvious antiques—who's going to rifle through this," he waves a hand at his bookcases, "without knowing what's in them?" He shrugs, smells the wine, has a sip. "Ah…very nice. Patricia said her brother makes this, they're in the wine region of California, somewhere."
*
Upon Halgrim's reappearance, the master-thief can be seen to look away from his reading yet again. He watches the man with due caution, almost like a feral dog hunched over scraps. A small crane of neck, to see precisely what he's getting into in the kitchen — oh good, not a knife, excellent — and then out comes the cheese itself.
Ambrose is silent until the professor's all settled on the couch. Perplexion brings forth a small frown between his eyes. He gives the surroundings another cursory once-over, cued by the sweep of Halgrim's hand, and then closes the small hang of his mouth as if just realizing his lips were parted. "…indeed, for an American red, it's not terrible." Another drop in gaze to plate of cheese and crackers within reach and then back to the man's face. "No prowlers but myself, I suppose…and you've nothing of interest to me, no. Perhaps a better lock," he offers in hesitant opinion, still watching his unexpected host like a hawk. He's not reached for the food just yet.
*
Halgrim looks askance at Ambrose, raises an eyebrow. "Nothing? No interest in rare first editions, even?" He pulls a face, regretting that the second he says it, only to shrug the regret aside. He'll have to find them, atfer all. He sips at the wine, slathers some cheese on a cracker and nibbles at it. Settling back on the couch, he says, "I'll look into a better lock," in a tone which indicates he may in fact do so. "There are…some things, I wouldn't want to lose," he glances at the glass-door cabinet and its photographs, "and anyways it puts my neighbors at risk, which I don't want to do." Around another swallow of wine, he says, "Of course, if you're just going to break my next lock, why should I bother."
*
That last thought is enough to bring forth the flash of a grin, quick to show and quick to settle away behind a politely interested moue. "You should bother, professor, because not only will you…eventually…perhaps," he allows with a small shrug, " - find a lock to keep me out, but it will, in turn, keep others out. That window is the weakest entry-point to your flat. You've your neighbors, yes, but they're at no risk from me. Anyone living here like as not has nothing I seek." Ambrose means no insult in his evenly-delivered opinion. "The majority of my ilk prefer not to be seen in any capacity. Your neighbors are your own defense in turn, are they not? That leaves us with…" A point of finger from the hold about the wine glass's stem. "…your window."
Convinced for now that the yellow-eyed collective within Halgrim isn't about to show, he then closes the book with respectful care and sets it aside on the stack once more. With a sigh almost contented, the Jackal returns to slouching in the chair again. He eyes Halgrim. "Tell me of these first editions, hmm?" he asks in a tone almost velvety, fully aware of the slip and willing to play with it as a cat might briefly paw at a loose string sure to unravel.
*
"Mmmmm, all true." Halgrim finishes off his cracker and cheese, eyes the pair of windows. Of course, only one is a risk; the other has no access unless someone's willing to get out their mountain climbing gear, and anything *that* dedicated is a problem for wholly different reasons. His eyes drift from bookcase to bookcase, suggesting the rarer titles are, in fact, all over the flat. "My mother's a librarian and my father's a bookbinder," he says by way of a round-about explanation. "He'll often go to estate sales, looking for older copies which have been abused and restore them. Like, ah," he gets up, moves to a bookcase flanking the glass-doored cabinet, "this one." He takes down a single volume that appears to be part of a set of three; the spine is dark red with gold lettering and an ornate edgework with a floral motif, and the front cover is bold crimson with a browned marble inset. "Robinson Crusoe. First edition, all three. Well loved by a man and his siblings, but his children and grandchildren had no interest in keeping it once he passed on. My father restored it and gave it to my siblings and I…" He gets a distant look, stares out over the apartment. "I suppose I was eight, that Yule." He leans over to offer the book to Ambrose. As he does so, he asks, "And do you have a lock manufacturer you recommend?" half joking, half serious.
*
Ambrose listens and as he does, he loses a degree of the distrusting stiffness about his person. He appears…genuinely interested, to an extent, to hear exactly what brings these rare books into the professor's home. Family causes its usual muted pang in his chest, pushed aside as not to dwell upon the idea. He watches Halgrim retrieve the book in its fine binding and looks from it to him when he's offered the tome. To hand something this precious off to a known thief…?
With marked mindfulness, he sets aside the wine glass on the chair's side-table to take up the Crusoe. His fingers are kept as far away as possible from Halgrim's hand. A swing of his leg down and now he's sitting almost properly in the chair as he dares to open the tome. Everything is remarkably well-preserved indeed. "If I were to recommend one, you might install it and then how would you know whether or not I'd offered an opinion in jest? A pigeon might peck it open on an avian whim." A small smirk at Halgrim and he offers the book back, holding it firmly yet with minimal contact. "I would be defeating myself to tell you which lock stymies me. Though…" A squint off to one side of Halgrim. "If I did tell you which lock does and manage later to bypass it… I suppose I could consider it readily-available practice. You'd need to pay a pretty penny, unfortunately, for such a thing." He does seem at least partially rueful to inform the professor of that as he looks back to him again.
*
His tone unnaturally light, Halgrim says, "Oh, I've no concern over this one," Hin response to Ambrose's look. "You see, you're the only person on this continent who knows it's in here. So if it goes missing, I know whose limbs to tear off." He chases that with a trite smile, lets it fade for a more genuine interest in how Ambrose finds the book.
He accepts the volume back, makes a low, Scandinavian sound of understanding. "I'm not surprised," he says, and returns the volume to its location. "I know at least one other thief I can ask for an opinion, never fear. We'll see if he can recommend something capable of confounding you."
He scans the bookshelves. "I've a first edition of The Prophet, though that's not considered as valuable." His mouth flattens, and he gives Ambrose a look that telegraphs 'you can probably guess why'. His eyes stop on a shelf along the wall adjacent to the kitchen. He seems to debate internally, comes to a decision, and moves to take down the book, a volume from a pair. The spine is tawny and gold, and looks like calfskin; the cover is a lovely brown marble. "Monte-Cristo. There's around twenty wood-engraved plates between the two volumes."
*
"Puh." The short, dismissive retort in regard to another thief's opinion is the paramount of British disdain. Ambrose leans back in the chair and takes up his wine glass again, watching the professor in his wanderings about his collection. A shrug to the look in regards to the first edition of The Prophet in relative understanding. He shifts again, interest sharpening to see how Halgrim lingers at a particular shelf and its contained titles. Which book now…?
"Ah," and the master-thief seems to let out a sharp sigh, the attempt at a laugh deflated. A look aside and he scratches the line of his chin almost anxiously. "Monte-Cristo, yes. I know the tale well," he allows as he settles himself to relative stillness again. About the corners of his eyes, a faint tightness.
*
Halgrim stops short of offering the book to Ambrose, raises an eyebrow. He seems about to inquire further, taps the spine, decides against it, and puts the book back. "Ah. Here's something less literary." He pulls out a tall, long, narrow book from one of the lower shelves meant to accommodate the pieces with stranger dimensions. It's an old, mid-1800s atlas. "From your time, even," he says, and hands over the unwieldy tome, moves back to the couch for more wine, cheese, and crackers.
It's a gorgeous piece, filled with numerous color plates; of course they're all wildly inaccurate compared to modern maps, but they've got artistry to spare in the fine details at the corners and margins. Several takes on Africa and Australia, South and North America, parts of Europe, as well as West and East Asia and the Indian subcontinent fill the collection.
*
Apparently a far more comfortable topic to hand off to Ambrose, for he takes it with lifted brows and obviously-displayed interest; almost painfully on display, as if to draw attention away from his near-cringe at the previous book.
"Bloody hell, it's a Mitchell's School atlas. I had one of these." He gives Halgrim a translucently delighted glance before setting aside the wine glass. Most carefully, he opens it and turns to the plates of the world continents. A fingertip brushes at the serpents stylized in their spoutings and curlings through the waters. He turns a few pages, enamored by what he sees, before pausing on a certain illustration of Africa. The fingertip alights more cautiously here near to the Persian Gulf and he sighs as if transported a thousand miles away and returning in an instant. "A delight," he murmurs with a flicker of attention nearly through his lashes at Halgrim. The atlas is closed carefully on his lap. "I remember it well."
*
Halgrim has made himself comfortable on the couch again, wine glass in hand. "Mmmm, the genuine article I see." Not that he had any reason to believe it wasn't, but it's one thing to generally know the provenance of a piece, and another to have it validated by one who previously possessed a copy. He pointedly notes how Ambrose is still holding the atlas, eyes moving from the book to him and back, then he returns his attentions to his shelves. "And there's a copy of Against Apion in here, somewhere," an affectation, he no doubt could pick it out immediately if asked, "obviously not a first edition, just a very old antique copy, in Hebrew."
He considers Ambrose and his wine glass by turns. "So. Why, exactly, are you here. Aside from," he indicates the cheese and wine with his glass, "enjoying my food and drink and getting me to tell you about the books you'll think about stealing."
*
Recognizing the attention he's accidentally brought upon himself by settling the book upon his thighs rather than handing it back, Ambrose smiles in a knowing way down at the atlas. He then makes a point to set it carefully upon the small table out of immediate reach of cheese or cracker crumble and then leans back in the chair. See? No takie. He glances to the shelves once more and back at Halgrim with a silent nod. Yet another title he knows, Apion.
"I've not yet enjoyed your food," he correct the man in light pique. A part of him was hoping to avoid this line of questioning, but he seems resigned to it nonetheless. "I'm also not going to steal your books. Have a little faith in me, hmm? You know full well that while they're interesting, they're not of my particular line of interest." That, and he likes his limbs intact. "I suppose boredom is a good enough reason?" A soft snort. "If not that, then to inform you that I've made initial contact with Mister Rosencrantz's…cadre. They are as you said, of my trade. A refreshing take on it, might I add. Noble, in their way." A flick of brows and slight tilt of nodded head in agreement with himself.
*
"Faith?" Halgrim echoes, following it with a sip of wine. "Not sure we're quite to faith, Atherton. We're still working on trust. Faith is a whole other level. However," he nods at the atlas Ambrose has placed onto the table, "I take your point."
He shrugs, accepting boredom is the reason even as Ambrose offers a far more interesting option. He raises his eyebrows, finishes off his wine. "Noble," he says, laughs softly. "I wonder how JP would react to being called that. Elmo would laugh. Vitale, he'd find a way to prove you wrong, just so you'd regret it." He pours himself another half-glass. "Well I hope it proves productive for them, and," a veiled look, "yourself as well I suppose."
*
"Thank you, professor, for your well-wishes if not for your trust or faith," replies Ambrose drily. A roll of eyes towards the window and to the city beyond it. "I did not meet this Vitale of whom you speak. Upon your description, I'm not sure that I'll appreciate doing so. I don't deal with regret well."
He sips deeply of his own wine, draining its volume in the glass to all but a fifth left. This he spins about idly within the clear bulb above the stem even as he glances back at Halgrim. "Jean-Pierre must be the leader, for all he strutted about and showed his spurs. A young cockerel yet, proud of himself, though like as not for good reason. He appears to have a level head. They're in good hands, I suppose, as long as they continue to pick their fights wisely. Robin Hood did not engage the Sheriff of Nottingham on a whim, after all."
*
"You sound so disappointed I won't trust you and place my faith in you easily, and yet if I did you'd know me for a complete idiot, and teach me a hard lesson just so I'd know better." Halgrim shakes his head, sighs. "Quite a bind for me," he says, entirely unconcerned, and has more chevre on a cracker.
Around a bite, he continues, "Vitale takes a great amount of enjoyment in being contrary." He can't help a small, wry smile. "So if you're not used to taking your own medicine, no, you may not like him overmuch." A little wine, and a gesture with the glass. "Yes, JP is the head of their group. Older than his years would suggest," he raises his eyebrows at Ambrose in an 'if you take my meaning' kind of way, "and I think quite aware that they must act tactically. Particularly given," he makes a face, glances away, "the sociopolitical climate they're operating in." He falls silent, eyes unfocused as he stares at a spot on the floor and contemplates the war, and the Norwegian Resistance, and several other, similar things.
*
While Halgrim has his moment of inwards contemplation, the Jackal finally reaches out to snag a cracker and spread some chevre on it. He takes a bite, not quite leery, and then nods, pleasant appreciation dancing through his expression.
"Not bad," he mumbles before shoving the rest of the bite into his mouth. A sip of wine and a soft sound in the back of his throat. "I believe we'll have to do this again sometime." Especially if the professor's hosting, knowingly or not. Shouldn't feed the strays!
He makes up another two crackers-and-cheese before leaning back into the chair with his small tower of deliciousness and wine. "I can tolerate a good number of things from young people. They know no better and if I don't teach them a lesson, then life will, and she's far the harsher mistress. You and I know this well. Perhaps Jean-Pierre and his comrades have more yet to learn." A pause and then on a more velvety, mocking note, "Would that I could help you in your bind, but unfortunately, that knot you'll need to work yourself." Smirk. Shove of both crackers into mouth at once.
*
Halgrim can't help but give Ambrose an inordinately pleased look. It might be irritating to host him, but he can reward himself with the knowledge that he's still managed to be a reasonably attentive host. Even to someone he doesn't like. Dr. Morbius would probably approve.
He sips from his wine, fixes up another cracker for himself. "Yes I've no idea how on Earth I'll manage to live with your disappointment." He has a bite of the cracker, washes it down with some wine. "It's truly crushing, you've no idea." He finishes off the cracker. "That said, I wouldn't recommend trying to teach lessons as you are probably inclined to." His expression and tone turn serious. "JP won't tolerate anyone bringing trouble to his people. You're powerful, but so are they, and they have allies who are far more so—and I'm not referring to myself." He holds out the wine bottle, offering a top-off.
*
The wine glass is held out for said topping-off. Once content with the volume, he nods to signal a cease-pour. The Jackal leans back in his chair and sighs. "Mmm," a sound to the negative, and Ambrose lifts a finger to wag it back and forth. Mouth full, please hold, he's not about to spit cracker crumbs all over his lap. A swallow.
"I've no interest in teaching lessons. I made it crystal-clear that all I was offering was assistance as necessary, since they've not got any shared interests. They'll have to make a point of bringing one of my lessons upon themselves. But myself? Powerful? Professor, you're too kind — and wise, acknowledging the truth of things. My disappointments will wear at you, however, have no fear." He speaks drily, still wearing that smirk. "It'll eat at you. Slowly. At random moments. You'll be reminded. Little slips, here and there, in the middle of your lessons or delving into one of your ancient texts. I've all the time in the world to watch you realize it."
*
Halgrim pulls back the bottle, adds a little more to his own glass. "Now you're trying to flatter me. It's hardly wisdom to acknowledge reality in the face of concrete evidence. That's just common sense." He takes a drink, raises his eyebrows. "And let it not be said I ignore the obvious for the sake of my own pride. I'd no more fail to be wary of or recognize what you can do than I would any other individual of consequence. Such as," he lifts a hand, "Mr. Constantine, or Adam. They might be my friends and you might be," he gives Ambrose a sour look, "something else, but I've no intention of failing to account for what any of you can do."
He crosses one leg over the other, sighs dramatically. "Yes it will be the purest torture. I'll go through twice as much port to numb the pain, maybe, find comfort in the arms of some handsome sous-chef or lovely botanist, but all for naught. Your disappointment will be my ruin. I'll lie on my deathbed, annoyed at it." He takes a good long drink.
*
"As long as your tombstone makes some insinuation about my ability to have literally irritated you to the grave, I will be able to continue at my existence without regret," Ambrose deadpans back in that singular way only the Brits can. "And I assure you, it's wisdom. I've run into far too many individuals who daren't entertain the idea that I can do half of what I can. You are refreshing, in your way." A small nod to accompany the sincere comment.
Then he gives Halgrim a searching look. "What something else might I be then…? Since I fall into some indiscriminate category, it appears," he says, voice gone quieter. He then kills his glass of wine in one fell swoop and a few loose-jawed swallows.
*
"Tombstone?" Halgrim says, sounding offended. "Really Atherton, I thought you understood by now, I'm no Christian to have my moldering body locked in a box." He shudders. "No. It's the pyre for me, and the ashes spread where my…" He catches himself, stricken for a moment, soldiers on, "Nieces and nephews so choose." He toasts to his own inevitable end in a forest in Sweden somewhere, feeding the trees, sips from the wine. "Though if you're willing to foot the bill I'll pick a little Christian church somewhere and have a headstone put up which will read 'Because Atherton wanted reassurances it was his irritation which did me in. — HSL'"
And when Ambrose gives him that Look, Halgrim huffs a breath and tries not to be absurdly annoyed. Warring desires struggle to control what he says next; on one side is Elmo, and on the other, the theft of a scroll. He studies Ambrose, intently and quite seriously. Eventually, he says, "Since I think friends trust and have faith in one another, we're still working on that. Call it," he searches for a term, settles on, "proto-friendship." His eyebrows go up. "We'll have to see if it manages to evolve out of this initial phase. Who knows, by the early middle period I might not have to threaten you with bodily harm ever other week."
*
By the time Halgrim hits his brief dissertation on the evolution of their prospective friendship, the interested moue on the Jackal's face can't withstand the interior blows of repressed laughter. Perhaps the eyes give it away even before the snort leaves him, half-escaping past his hand by way of his nose. The man can laugh! Warm and honestly amused, he leans back into the chair to keep from falling to one side. Maybe the wine just hit his brain?
"Oh-ho-ho-ho! The bloody box! My god, your face!" Eighty-six years alive, stuck mentally around twelve, apparently. He keeps laughing until he honestly has his arms tucked about his torso. Poor Halgrim. He has a mad-man sitting in his chair. Another handful of seconds and then Ambrose wipes at the corner of one eye. "Oh…bloody hell, I'll pay for the box myself," he says before another breathy chuckle slips. "And you're welcome to try bodily harm. Is that a threat or a promise, professor? I quiver with fear!" And then he starts laughing again because apparently, there's nothing so very funny as potential evisceration.
*
Halgrim seems, if anything, pleased with himself for making Ambrose laugh so hard. Consummate host indeed. He warms to the topic of Christian burial and how truly awful it is. "It's a ghastly ritual, burying oneself like that. Gods of all the horrible things Christianity did to my people, convincing them to bury themselves like that is—elch." He shudders; this is apparently something he really hates. "The pyre is clean and sends you on your way to whatever awaits you. And since I've now every reason to believe necromancy is real…" His eyes widen and he shakes his head. "No. An empty box and a headstone somewhere you can pay for, but I'm being returned to my ancestors properly."
He lets out a long breath, Ambrose's laughter and his revulsion at crypt burial somewhat tiring on an emotional level. He swirls his wine glass. "Mmmm, I think you're well aware that it won't be me delivering said bodily harm." He bobs his eyebrows. "And unlike myself, she's not known for her sense of humor."
*
"Yes, yes, I remember well enough — your collective," and the Jackal sighs, slouching a little in the chair. Mmm, wine buzz. "Perhaps one day I'll tweak your nose hard enough to make her show, professor, and then we'll see what comes of it. For now…" A shrug, lazy smile. "I am in a mood for self-preservation. And now that I've your permission to purchase the box and stone, we've reached our first accord. Look at that." A lifted hand then drops to his own thigh. "Not such a difficult thing to accomplish, was it?"
*
"Perhaps you will. Or perhaps I'll have already merged with her and there won't be any such thing anymore, it'll just be one continuous stream of existence." Halgrim's voice lowers as he says that, maybe realizing what track he's stumbled onto. He shakes himself out. "Of course, we might still be prone to outbursts." A bob of his eyebrows.
He pulls a face. "Oh, yes, we certainly have arranged an…agreement. But what happens when, five decades from now, you discover I changed my will at the last minute so that the headstone now reads something akin to, 'I left off your name on purpose'." He raises his eyebrows, smiles sweetly, polishes off his glass of wine.
*
"How I will weep to see this on your part…from laughter," the Jackal amends with an equally saccharine smile. "That you spent your entire life planning for that last-minute arrangement will be just as delightful. It will authenticate your spine, sirrah, rather than a lack of one. I will count myself a true expert in irritation." A glance to the window and a thoughtful frown. "You've not another bottle of wine about, have you? I looked, but not thoroughly — and the port, I know better than to touch. I might be of the habit of breaking and entering, but not of opening aged bottles of port." A small smirk at Halgrim to pair with the glance and lift of brow before he then goes back to watching the city fall to dusk.
*
Halgrim sighs, throws back his head in feigned drama. "And now I've no spine. Your compliments are overwhelming—truly, you're the most gracious guest I've had in years. How did I do without you." That said, he gets up and moves to the kitchen. "No, not the port, that's for," he waves a hand, "special occasions. When you've something amazing to celebrate, mmm? Not for just enjoying after work. Have to make it last, it's a 1924, after all." He starts to add to that, catches his breath, shakes his head and goes into the kitchen.
There's the sound of him moving things about in the kitchen. Ah, there's at least one more bottle, out of sight. "I do but it's a full bodied red—a Castelao. Portuguese." He sticks his head out of the kitchen. "Interested?"
*
A soft snort for the sass he receives and Ambrose continues watching the lights of the surrounding buildings come on, one by one, as families arrive home and gather together. The note of query in the voice in the kitchen makes him glance over. As if drawn back from some distant time or place, it takes the Jackal a second to regain alertness from his momentary trance. Halgrim receives a mild smile.
"You're too kind of a host, Lindqvist. Forgive me, I spoke in jest, testing that I had overstayed my welcome." His voice is quiet, respectful now. "I shall bring my own the next I find a reason to test your attempt to barricade your home. Truly, you've been more kind than necessary, given my actions. What should I bring?" He seems earnest in his question in turn.
*
Halgrim grunts, puts the bottle back. "Your loss—Tobias assures me it's quite incredible." He leans in the doorways of his kitchen, giving Ambrose an inscrutable look. This goes on for several seconds, like he's trying to make another of those decisions where mutually exclusive options lie before him. Presently this expression is replaced with an airy smile and a dismissive shrug. "Don't be in a hurry to canonize me, I was going to begin cooking myself dinner and entirely neglect to make enough for two." A sideways glance, eyes narrowed, and he considers the offer with sincerity. "It's unlikely you care to drink anything I don't, as I'm famous for being willing to try just about anything. So: something you like." He spreads his hands, "Surprise me. In," he points, "a good, positive way, not a terrible one. Don't be bringing some vile concoction filled with maggots or, gods know what."'
*
"Puh. Maggots," and Ambrose wrinkles his nose, even going so far as to showcase teeth and tongue. "No, I've no interest in the odder delicacies of the world of liquor. Simplicity is a thing not to disturb. I'll introduce you to a favored blend of mine then, a red, since you've an affection for them." He takes one last cracker, smears cheese on it, and pops it into his mouth even as he's rising to his feet. By his actions of shrugging on coat and affixing that awful stocking cap over his head, he means to vacate the premises. "I shall get out from under your feet then, professor, given that you've dinner to make and," - a nod towards the desk - "Papers to grade. An entire stack of them. The bane of the teacher, to muddle through the attempts, both good and poor, at professing knowledge." A small smirk that fades. "I suppose I shall bid you good night then, and again, thank you for your equanimous hosting. I shall leave via the fire escape, have no fear of your neighbors twittering," he's sure to add.
*
"Well there's something we can agree on, make sure to write it down somewhere," Halgrim says. He follows Ambrose's gesture to the desk, makes a low sound of displeasure. "It would be easier if any of them knew how to write," he mutters. "Then I could get through them faster. And, you're welcome, always happy to host people who break in and tell me my security is wholly inadequate." A light, testy smile follows that.
He watches Ambrose put on the stocking cap, rolls his eyes. On a grandiose sigh, he says, "Oh, Atherton, whatever would they have to twitter about? You don't even like men." A sly, knowing smile, and he ducks back into his kitchen to get started on dinner. "Good night," he calls over shoulder.
*
A flinch at the rejoinder to neighboring chit-chatter and even as Halgrim disappears around the corner, Ambrose is left mildly stunned. A frown and a glance to one side before a suspicious squint, as if the man could see him through the walls. …that wasn't…or was it?
"Bloody presumptuous man," he mutters. "And good night to you," is his own terse volley back across the court, loud enough to be heard. There's the sound of the window rising and then shutting, followed by the muted thuds of the Jackal making his way briskly down the fire escape.
*