"Oh, no, I have an antique white Bentley." He smirks faintly, because of course he's proud of his car, even if it's never come to life and had to be chased around the Nexus. "But they're both antiques, imports, and we've both had them from new." He's quick to pull a chair over to the sink, where he can sit to dry the dishes, even if he'll need help putting them away after.
Horvath tells her of his vaults carved out of an old abandoned train station in New York, and the library that's built up there. He tells her about Smoke and Whisper, born in his wardrobe and abandoned by their feral mother. He had to nurse them on bottles of kitten formula, and then stepped on Whisper by accident when she was barely six months old and ran under the prosthetic foot while he was walking. Stroking one of the resident cats, he freely admits to his terror at how badly he might have hurt her, and his immense relief when she turned out to be relatively unharmed apart from a lasting fear of feet. He tells her about Bel, too, with an affection and flattery that rivals the way he talks about his cats. Bel is, she may guess, his only close friend, his only family. Being together again as friends makes them both forget their aches and the long ages, and he sheepishly says they're sometimes downright childish at each other. He's looking forward to Bel's welsh cookies for Christmas, and to spending the day with him, a bright spot in the gloom of the impending winter.
It's a little hard for him to not talk about Bel, once he's started. She may notice references to the other sorcerer having done or said this or that slip into his conversation often.
The walk around the yard and gardens is leisurely and pleasant, and he's a fairly knowledgeable herbalist, even if it's not his primary focus. He insists on helping with a midday tea, to tide them over until supper, and shoos her off to nap as soon as she mentions the need for one. He'll content himself with the cats and any books he finds, and keep half an eye on the oven. He's not used to spending so much of the day talking and being with anyone, and the chance to sit and rest quietly is welcome on its way. Her home is peaceful and welcoming even while she's dozing, and when she wakes she'll find him in the same quietly content mood she left him in.
He's quick to catch the difference in her mood, though, sobering a little at her proclamation. It's been a wonderful day, but they both knew the hunt was waiting at the end of it. It was pleasant to put off thinking about it for a while, but now she has a duty ahead, and all he has is the waiting. Horvath rises on the crutches with a nod, heading for the kitchen and thinking to say something about offering to serve her dinner, but then she's drawn to the window, and cuts herself off mid-sentence, and that throws all else out of his mind. In a few strides he's close, frowning mildly at the sweeping fog that can only be a supernatural element. His view over the top of her head is clear enough, and he knows exactly what to think of a gate that appears out of the mist, so like how she brought him here.
He doesn't draw away from the view until she already has, making an exclamation of surprise over her escort. Who the man is precisely, he doesn't know, but obviously he means much to her. The sense of urgency is clear to read, though, and he puts one crutch aside quickly to give her a one-armed hug when she hugs him, and gives her a reassuring little smile when she pauses at the door. There's a farewell nod, his expression gently encouraging, then she's away and he's left alone to the house and the cats and the uneaten dinner. Taking up the other crutch again, he moves back a step or two to watch her through the window, marveling at the many faces she wears. Everyone has their masks in life, but hers are more varied and artful than most. He watches until the figures and the gate have gone, then considers the view of the mountains a moment more before he moves away.
There's food, and she'd be upset if he didn't eat, but his appetite is considerably less, tonight. When he's had what he wants, he makes sure the rest will keep warm for at least a number of hours. Quietly he cleans up after himself, and stirs up the fireplace, and settles in the same chair he spent the night in. With the cats for company he tends to his leg again, and works on recharging his rings, and when there's nothing practical left to be done he simply watches the cats and candles on the mantel.She said not to wait up, but how can he do anything else? Alone in the night, warm and safe though he is, he recalls their moments of terror huddled together in a cold scrape of a cave, with the monster breathing down their necks.
He may doze a little, fitfully, but never for long. It's a vigil, however pointless, but he's a little too anxious over his new friend to do anything else.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
no subject
Date: 2015-02-28 01:55 am (UTC)Horvath tells her of his vaults carved out of an old abandoned train station in New York, and the library that's built up there. He tells her about Smoke and Whisper, born in his wardrobe and abandoned by their feral mother. He had to nurse them on bottles of kitten formula, and then stepped on Whisper by accident when she was barely six months old and ran under the prosthetic foot while he was walking. Stroking one of the resident cats, he freely admits to his terror at how badly he might have hurt her, and his immense relief when she turned out to be relatively unharmed apart from a lasting fear of feet. He tells her about Bel, too, with an affection and flattery that rivals the way he talks about his cats. Bel is, she may guess, his only close friend, his only family. Being together again as friends makes them both forget their aches and the long ages, and he sheepishly says they're sometimes downright childish at each other. He's looking forward to Bel's welsh cookies for Christmas, and to spending the day with him, a bright spot in the gloom of the impending winter.
It's a little hard for him to not talk about Bel, once he's started. She may notice references to the other sorcerer having done or said this or that slip into his conversation often.
The walk around the yard and gardens is leisurely and pleasant, and he's a fairly knowledgeable herbalist, even if it's not his primary focus. He insists on helping with a midday tea, to tide them over until supper, and shoos her off to nap as soon as she mentions the need for one. He'll content himself with the cats and any books he finds, and keep half an eye on the oven. He's not used to spending so much of the day talking and being with anyone, and the chance to sit and rest quietly is welcome on its way. Her home is peaceful and welcoming even while she's dozing, and when she wakes she'll find him in the same quietly content mood she left him in.
He's quick to catch the difference in her mood, though, sobering a little at her proclamation. It's been a wonderful day, but they both knew the hunt was waiting at the end of it. It was pleasant to put off thinking about it for a while, but now she has a duty ahead, and all he has is the waiting. Horvath rises on the crutches with a nod, heading for the kitchen and thinking to say something about offering to serve her dinner, but then she's drawn to the window, and cuts herself off mid-sentence, and that throws all else out of his mind. In a few strides he's close, frowning mildly at the sweeping fog that can only be a supernatural element. His view over the top of her head is clear enough, and he knows exactly what to think of a gate that appears out of the mist, so like how she brought him here.
He doesn't draw away from the view until she already has, making an exclamation of surprise over her escort. Who the man is precisely, he doesn't know, but obviously he means much to her. The sense of urgency is clear to read, though, and he puts one crutch aside quickly to give her a one-armed hug when she hugs him, and gives her a reassuring little smile when she pauses at the door. There's a farewell nod, his expression gently encouraging, then she's away and he's left alone to the house and the cats and the uneaten dinner. Taking up the other crutch again, he moves back a step or two to watch her through the window, marveling at the many faces she wears. Everyone has their masks in life, but hers are more varied and artful than most. He watches until the figures and the gate have gone, then considers the view of the mountains a moment more before he moves away.
There's food, and she'd be upset if he didn't eat, but his appetite is considerably less, tonight. When he's had what he wants, he makes sure the rest will keep warm for at least a number of hours. Quietly he cleans up after himself, and stirs up the fireplace, and settles in the same chair he spent the night in. With the cats for company he tends to his leg again, and works on recharging his rings, and when there's nothing practical left to be done he simply watches the cats and candles on the mantel.She said not to wait up, but how can he do anything else? Alone in the night, warm and safe though he is, he recalls their moments of terror huddled together in a cold scrape of a cave, with the monster breathing down their necks.
He may doze a little, fitfully, but never for long. It's a vigil, however pointless, but he's a little too anxious over his new friend to do anything else.