nothing ever absolutely has to happen

[trouvaille]

WHO: Gwen Wynne-York & Alfie Solomons.
WHERE: His place, Maurtia Falls.
WHEN: Aroundish now, an evening.
WHAT: A spontaneous visit.
WARNINGS: May contain discussion of medical treatments, cancer. Their personalities.

When Alfie answers his door, Gwen holds up a bottle of scotch and a paper bag that smells like it contains food that she more than likely paid for and did not cook. It's hard to tell if these are intended as offerings or as a preemptive protest against having the door closed on her, since she didn't call ahead—

“I was...not in the neighbourhood,” upon reflection, because she definitely can't sell that and isn't going to try to, “I was trying to decide what I wanted for dinner and I thought, you know, it'd be nice to have company, and then I thought, who do I know who almost certainly doesn't have any plans, and I did actually think of a couple of people,”

but Bruce might actually have plans, just not ones that involve socializing or, like, smiling at people,

“but I decided you were my favourite.”

Or the least likely to tell her to fuck off.

Comments

[devoutish]

"Oh, he can't be all that bad," Alfie says lightly, his eyes drifting shut again. "He has good taste, doesn't he."

[trouvaille]

“You should see his wife,” on that note, because Prisca Beauchamp is a stunner by any measure and to anyone who hasn't seen them at their most scheming and theatrical together it is a bit of a mystery as to how he pulled that one off. It's because, Gwen has realised, they are as bad as each other.

(She loves them both very much.)

[devoutish]

"Mm. Describe her to me."

[trouvaille]

“Tall,” she says, after a moment where she'd considered pointing out that if he opened his eyes she could just show him— “like, five ten, I think? And she wears high heels, so she's over six foot most of the time, I've only ever seen her in heels or bare feet. She probably has shoes to work out in, but you'll never see my aunt Pris out and about in athleisure.”

The way her voice softens with fondness is easy, familial, wistful; she misses her terribly.

“Her hair's—I was going to say it's like mine, but it's more like I wear mine like hers. Hers is long and dark and she has that sort of wave naturally, mine's curly if I leave it to its own devices.” Which: she doesn't. “Hazel eyes. She's more tan, all year round, sort of golden. High cheekbones—always smiling. She was quoted in some article about high flying socialites, like, before I was born, saying how she planned to live in sin with a priest, but she married Uncle Dess and in the announcement about it she said she'd just never been able to find a man of the cloth who could compete. My father nearly got into a fistfight at the wedding with her sister-in-law's husband—I sort of remember but I was all of about four so I think I just assembled memories out of the pictures and how they talk about it—and she pushed Uncle Dess into the champagne fountain to distract everyone. Worked, too.”