As he exits, Adeline lifts her head to regard him― then turns her gaze away, expecting reproach― before being pulled back with words. She's much too exhausted by not only this encounter, but the handful of days that hadn't seemed to end; it makes it difficult to quell the flicker of protest that appears on her feature.
"―it should be made clear to you," Ada says, smoothing her voice even, despite the quirk of her brow. One of her eyes doesn't match the other. "that there's no telling as to when, ser. It might be weeks, it might be..."
She shakes her head, frowning at even the thought, feeling her blood pressure rise with it. His question is terribly rude, something you don't simply ask a lady, but given what she's seen of his nature, this man has no notion of propriety. Adeline turns her back to him, moving down the hall, leaving him no choice but to follow if he seeks an answer so badly.
"Might I offer you tea, if you insist on staying?" Were he anyone else she would attempt to pull from the exhausted well of her charm, but the platitudes only seem to aggravate his temper. It feels foreign in her mouth, but she is nothing it not adaptable. "Sit, ser."
Too tired for the affectations she's so used to― perhaps for once in her life― Adeline stokes the stove, sets out teacups, puts the kettle on. The smiling mask is set aside, if only for a moment, but the gears of the mind still turn.
Regardless of what Mello might like to think, this is her domain. He will respect that, or receive nothing.
[The look he shoots Adeline is enough to crumble mountains; Mello doesn't want to consider the possibility that this won't end in his — in L's — favor. He's already lost him once, when he was too young to understand the magnitude of loss. A second time? Not happening. But he follows, all the same. What else can he do? In an already solemn house, his expression is enough to darken the atmosphere. Heavy steps trail after his host, and he's too fucking defeated to argue against something as useless as tea when the only thing he's ever known to be true lies without life within the same structure.]
[His body is as heavy as the weight on his shoulders when he sinks into the chair — defeat isn't a good look on him, never was — and a cold forehead immediately falls into his bare palm. It doesn't matter that someone who is almost a complete stranger is witnessing him in this state — nothing matters — and when he speaks, his voice is utterly expressionless.]
No one's insisted I take tea since I left England.
[He doesn't know why he's telling her this, really. Anything to distract him from the situation at hand.]
Americans have no hospitality; they're all so self-absorbed.
[As though he isn't. When he finally does glance up at Adeline, his eyes are placid. Almost as lifeless as his mentor.]
Take it you don't have any true magic in you. You're tending house; is that all you're capable of?
[Oddly, he means no insult. Mello just needs the who and the how where it comes to resolving this situation.]
"You wouldn't know hospitality if it had fangs with which to bite you, ser." Though her back is to him, her tone leaves little to the imagination with regard to the cutting look in her rolled eye. She reserves it for the spout of the teapot, however, her little hand on the lid as she pours. "I am nobody's maid, regardless of my flatmates and their faculties at present."
Adeline turns with two teacups, one for each palm― just in time to meet that hollow gaze. Her patience wears thin, regardless of his grief, but such a look works to restore the draining well in her. She sets the cups down, his first in hostess-fashion, then her own; the space between them on the little table she fills with a dish of sugarcubes and a pot of honey. She sits, curling up on the chair in distant grace, a manner that would be icy if not for the rosy hue ever-present in her skin.
"My magic was taken from me when I entered this place, yes." Lifting her eyes to the little glowing chandelier above their heads, she bends at the waist a bit― a ruffle of skirts reveals a newfound flask, bound in leather, blanched and dyed rose. After undoing the cork, an amber-coloured liquid finds its way into her teacup seamlessly.
She considers offering, given she doesn't know him, but decides to take a liberty given the ache his attitude puts into her head. She replaces her flask beneath her skirts and begins to add ample amounts of both sugar and honey, her eyes meeting Mello's own. "And I'm to assume you're a witch, given your attitude, yes? Or shall I attribute it to something much more ungentlemanly?"
She smiles cattily across the table, her spoon making circles in her tea.
[For such a lady, Adeline has quite a mouth on her, doesn't she? If Mello weren't in such a state, he would find it admirable. A world away from the skittish thing he met in the forest. It's because they're currently in her domain, he knows. And his weakness upon seeing L has proven him to be no threat tonight. Right now, he's a broken thing; the cards are in her hands as far as their interaction is concerned.]
[Though she might not be quite the lady. Is that liquor she's slipping into her tea? Amusing. Mello can't afford to ask for some. He's never been much of a drinker, and he needs to be in a clear state when his mentor wakes.]
[Dulled eyes are staring down at the cup, now. He supposes he should be grateful for any hospitality at all, given the manner in which he showed up at their door. But Mello has never been a humble thing, and he doesn't intend on changing that any time soon. Instead of thanking her, he proceeds to sweeten his tea to near-unbearable levels (a trait he shares with L, she might notice) before taking the first, scalding sip.]
[It burns. Good. It should. Everything burns right now.]
[When he does lift his eyes, it's with a questioning glance.]
Being a witch hasn't changed who I am.
[And there's his answer. Mello is no gentleman. Or at least he's never attempted it. No point.]
You dislike me.
[The grin is half-genuine. Half-mocking.]
Yet you invite me to your table and prepare tea. You haven't protested me sticking around until this is resolved.
[The slightest arch of a pale brow beneath jagged bangs.]
"―you grieve for someone who isn't dead, but just as deeply," Adeline replies matter-of-factly, letting her eyes flutter shut as she savours the warmth pooling onto her tongue. She lifts her eyes, a bit pointed in doing so. "you care for him, in some capacity. Perhaps I find you― disagreeable, but I am far from being heartless."
"Besides, ser, you've proven easily provoked― why, provoked by nothing at all. Consider it the path of patience, and of least resistance, too. A stroke of luck, yes?" She leans forward, balancing her heart-shaped face on the back of a glove, peering back at him with equal curiosity. "I'm not obligated to withstand your... shall we say, quirks, and as such I choose to avoid them."
The roll of her eyes she gives him is less than polite, but it isn't antagonizing― just frank, even if it seems contrary to her appearance. She waves a palm.
"I've proven kinder to you than you consider warranted, yes?" Her grin is partly-catty, partly-earnest. "It isn't that I dislike you, ser, you've just no sense of awareness. Good on you to take me seriously, but I'm not often perceived as a threat so quickly."
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"―it should be made clear to you," Ada says, smoothing her voice even, despite the quirk of her brow. One of her eyes doesn't match the other. "that there's no telling as to when, ser. It might be weeks, it might be..."
She shakes her head, frowning at even the thought, feeling her blood pressure rise with it. His question is terribly rude, something you don't simply ask a lady, but given what she's seen of his nature, this man has no notion of propriety. Adeline turns her back to him, moving down the hall, leaving him no choice but to follow if he seeks an answer so badly.
"Might I offer you tea, if you insist on staying?" Were he anyone else she would attempt to pull from the exhausted well of her charm, but the platitudes only seem to aggravate his temper. It feels foreign in her mouth, but she is nothing it not adaptable. "Sit, ser."
Too tired for the affectations she's so used to― perhaps for once in her life― Adeline stokes the stove, sets out teacups, puts the kettle on. The smiling mask is set aside, if only for a moment, but the gears of the mind still turn.
Regardless of what Mello might like to think, this is her domain. He will respect that, or receive nothing.
no subject
[His body is as heavy as the weight on his shoulders when he sinks into the chair — defeat isn't a good look on him, never was — and a cold forehead immediately falls into his bare palm. It doesn't matter that someone who is almost a complete stranger is witnessing him in this state — nothing matters — and when he speaks, his voice is utterly expressionless.]
No one's insisted I take tea since I left England.
[He doesn't know why he's telling her this, really. Anything to distract him from the situation at hand.]
Americans have no hospitality; they're all so self-absorbed.
[As though he isn't. When he finally does glance up at Adeline, his eyes are placid. Almost as lifeless as his mentor.]
Take it you don't have any true magic in you. You're tending house; is that all you're capable of?
[Oddly, he means no insult. Mello just needs the who and the how where it comes to resolving this situation.]
no subject
Adeline turns with two teacups, one for each palm― just in time to meet that hollow gaze. Her patience wears thin, regardless of his grief, but such a look works to restore the draining well in her. She sets the cups down, his first in hostess-fashion, then her own; the space between them on the little table she fills with a dish of sugarcubes and a pot of honey. She sits, curling up on the chair in distant grace, a manner that would be icy if not for the rosy hue ever-present in her skin.
"My magic was taken from me when I entered this place, yes." Lifting her eyes to the little glowing chandelier above their heads, she bends at the waist a bit― a ruffle of skirts reveals a newfound flask, bound in leather, blanched and dyed rose. After undoing the cork, an amber-coloured liquid finds its way into her teacup seamlessly.
She considers offering, given she doesn't know him, but decides to take a liberty given the ache his attitude puts into her head. She replaces her flask beneath her skirts and begins to add ample amounts of both sugar and honey, her eyes meeting Mello's own. "And I'm to assume you're a witch, given your attitude, yes? Or shall I attribute it to something much more ungentlemanly?"
She smiles cattily across the table, her spoon making circles in her tea.
no subject
[Though she might not be quite the lady. Is that liquor she's slipping into her tea? Amusing. Mello can't afford to ask for some. He's never been much of a drinker, and he needs to be in a clear state when his mentor wakes.]
[Dulled eyes are staring down at the cup, now. He supposes he should be grateful for any hospitality at all, given the manner in which he showed up at their door. But Mello has never been a humble thing, and he doesn't intend on changing that any time soon. Instead of thanking her, he proceeds to sweeten his tea to near-unbearable levels (a trait he shares with L, she might notice) before taking the first, scalding sip.]
[It burns. Good. It should. Everything burns right now.]
[When he does lift his eyes, it's with a questioning glance.]
Being a witch hasn't changed who I am.
[And there's his answer. Mello is no gentleman. Or at least he's never attempted it. No point.]
You dislike me.
[The grin is half-genuine. Half-mocking.]
Yet you invite me to your table and prepare tea. You haven't protested me sticking around until this is resolved.
[The slightest arch of a pale brow beneath jagged bangs.]
Why?
no subject
"Besides, ser, you've proven easily provoked― why, provoked by nothing at all. Consider it the path of patience, and of least resistance, too. A stroke of luck, yes?" She leans forward, balancing her heart-shaped face on the back of a glove, peering back at him with equal curiosity. "I'm not obligated to withstand your... shall we say, quirks, and as such I choose to avoid them."
The roll of her eyes she gives him is less than polite, but it isn't antagonizing― just frank, even if it seems contrary to her appearance. She waves a palm.
"I've proven kinder to you than you consider warranted, yes?" Her grin is partly-catty, partly-earnest. "It isn't that I dislike you, ser, you've just no sense of awareness. Good on you to take me seriously, but I'm not often perceived as a threat so quickly."