finds a low enough window, looking in, seeing all the strange devices

(do you like gags?... girls look so much cuter with something in their mouths)

Golly, the way she said his name, with the accent on the wrong syllable, was ever so endearing. He would never tire of hearing her say it, no matter how it might have been shouted, or in this case, exclaimed in his direction. He turned the most apologetic expression upon Mlle DuPont, then.

“Ah, well yes you see, ah apologies, of course. It was the um.. the ah smoke, from them camera. Yes. A wee itch in um, in my nose. The dead, of course, not speaking. I would very much not like a trip to St Giles, thank you.” He knew what happened there, he had heard the tales of Mister Gideon dragging the undead there to be killed upon the high altar itself. Not for him, thank you very kindly indeed.

All the while, the unpleasantly coppery tang of the pig’s blood lingered. When Miss DuPont moved to pour him a glass – from her private reserve, no less, he was inordinately grateful, even if whisky did make his eyes water awfully.

He gulped down the first mouthful and then swished the second around in his mouth, erasing the taste of the blood completely. Of course, this was replaced by peaty smoke and the burn of the alcohol, but he manfully managed not to cough his way through the dram. Tally a point for Angus Balfour!

“Oof… which is to say, thank you. Yes.”

Was her laughter not the sweetest sound? Gosh.

But then his attention was commanded by the arrival of Mr Alexander Kincaid, and he sat up quickly before jumping up to his feet. “O-of course, yes. Cleaned up, right away. Will we be needing the camera, Sir?”

He glanced quickly to Miss DuPont, his smile suddenly apologetic. “If of course you have finished with it for now, Mademoiselle?”

We certainly can

Many diabetics I know
Do not properly take care
Of themselves...

It's one of those things
Where people don't think it will
Happen to them
And then they are in a mess

I'm sorry your mom died

But it sounds like she did it on her terms
And those are the best deaths

As far as the guilt

Guilt is useless
Damaging
And has no point

She's dead
You can't change it

Learn from you mistakes
And keep in touch with those you love

Regret is a horrible thing
And useless too

((no worries and I'm not sure but maybe?))

(looking up hucows now)

DARLING

Deeply
Apollo
Rams
Libidinously
Into
Nymph
Gash

Next Word: GASH

(wondering if there are male versions... hubulls?)

(i wish io could but i wouldn't not know what to do... too subby!)

Snickers and smiles. Then it fades to a more sober expression.

"What about traumas? My mom died over 5 years ago now. She was Type 2 Diabetic and stopped taking her meds. I didn't call her enough."

Nods lots.

Market
*nodding and rising, making my way to the House and gone* (L/P)

((though if you want to play the part and capture me and turn me into the newest hucow... feel free))

He had taken the steps down to the sub-basement two at a time, a leather document slipcase tucked beneath an arm, heading for the office which young Balfour kept down here. Since the lad had become Mlle DuPont’s assistant in all but title, it seemed prudent to be within shouting distance.

Shout she frequently did, too, the cries of Bal-four commonly heard echoing up the stairwell. Much like now, as it happened, though this one had that distinct tinge of Parisienne exasperation that he, if he were pressed, would admit to feeling a frisson of pleasure from hearing.

It was just so… enjoyable, to wind her up. It was also part of a game played on both sides, so neither did he feel any qualms about the joy he took from it.

At the bottom of the stairway then he turned towards the offices of the Archive instead, and came upon a scene so farcical it could have been written by Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan themselves.

He was pleased to find that the lad was not being berated, which admittedly Rosalie tended to do with a far gentler nature than she had begun with, and indeed, the diminutive tyrant seemed to be laughing instead – with a grinning Livingston as her accomplice no less.

Stranger and stranger still.

Turning his attention to the prone form of young Balfour, he commanded simply, “Mister Balfour, do kindly belay that request – but do get yourself cleaned up, man. We have work to do.”

He looked then to Livingston and allowed the ghost of a smile to touch his lips before he shifted his attention to Mlle DuPont. “I see you have taken to photography like one of your three-legged ducks takes to water, Mademoiselle.”

Again that nearly-there smile as he raised a dark brow at the Archive. His misuse of her odd, French idiom was, he knew, certain to provoke a reaction. “I trust that you can spare young Angus from his… duties, just now?”

What would you like to talk about 7 ..

*Smiles *

Just teasing.... Seven

A

Apollo

noticing Clifton has been busy... hoping helena b got used as she desired...

((I try))

(shame... you sound perfect!)

Small, happy grunt.

"Thank you. So...what do you wanna talk about now?"