No, After You (Clarisse)

[John Thornton]

In the week or so following Doctor Prideaux's accident and his own assistance, there had been a lot going on. Some uproar at the yearly sexual education seminar (he had not been present, for which he was extremely grateful), L.C's sudden disappearance (which bothered him much more then it should have), new students.... With so much on he had quite forgotten about the promise of dinner.

Well, he told himself that he had. Every few days. Just in case she had forgotten.

And so, when in the staffroom she had asked if he was free that friday, he had managed to agree without an unseemly display of enthusiasm.

Well, he hoped so anyway.

A wrapped parcel under his arm, Mr Thornton quickly brushed his hand over the shoulders of his dark grey suit to discourage any dust from settling, checked his tie was straight, and then tugged the brim of his bowler down slightly. The expression on his rather forbidding face was one of a man talking himself into an act that required extreme bravery. Moving to the front line in a battle, maybe. Or bungee jumping.

Taking a deep breath, through his nose to make it less audible, John reached out and rapped his knuckles on the door.

[Clarisse Prideaux]

Clarisse had half been hoping that Mister Thornton would forget her promise of dinner, been half excited, and half nervous. The fact that she was three halves of a whole testified to her nervousness. She wasn’t sure why she was so nervous, other than the fact that Thornton was simultaneously lovely when he was smiling (or trying to be lovely) and wretched the rest of the time. She was worried that the brief flashes of lovely wouldn’t be enough to help her deal with the constant stand-offishness and shortness. She made the sign of the cross over herself before she opened the door, smiling brightly.

“Right on time, Mister Thornton.” She greeted pleasantly (frankly surprised at her own enthusiasm and that it wasn’t contrived). Stepping aside lightly to let him in, she looked at him from a new angle; that is approximately five inches shorter. Clarisse was in bare feet, her injured ankle wrapped up tightly, as per doctor’s orders. She could walk on it, but only gently, and only for short distances. At least for a week or so more. Thank God she was no longer on crutches.

There was a tiny kitchenette, which still smelled of rich, savory food, and a tiny table, obviously meant for one, but set for two. As she closed the door behind John, she moved in that direction. “Welcome to my home, do you drink wine?” For Clarisse, the words really just went together. All of her of-age guests were offered wine, and usually simply given it barring a decline. “Or rather, can I get you anything?”

[John Thornton]

His first thought: Excellant, good start. This was closely followed by bugger, what if I seem overeager? After this, he was left with is it still polite to be fashionably late when there are only two people? And finally pull yourself together, man.

This inter monologue over, he managed to give a slightly stilted smile. "It's a habit," he admitted, stepping over the threshold and removing his hat. It had appeared his host had shrunk, until he glanced down and saw the bandage. "How is your ankle?" The moment the words left is mouth, he wished he could grasp them from the air and stuff them back in. Mr Thornton mother had raised him thinking asking a woman about her ankle, or her legs, or, well, anything except her hair, was rude and even sleazy. "I mean, ah, health wise of course," he added a little desperately.

So much for a good first impression. Still, he managed to hold in the sigh of relieve that pushed up as the sent in the air didn't contain anything remotely like chilli or soya sauce. While the rather conservative englishman would have eaten just about anything Clarisse had cooked, he did sent a quick murmur of thanks to God that it was not Asian, or Indian, or, well, anything too different.

"It's very cosy," he went on, sincerely. "Reminds me of where I lived back in Warwickshire." Depositing the wrapped box and his hat on a surface not in use, the englishman took a deep breath and rubbed the bridge of his Romen-esc nose before turning with yet another smile. "Yes, of course." he accepted gratefully; a drink would help calm the rather jarring sensation he assumed was nerves. Possibly.

"How long have you lived here, Doctor?" he asked, managing to stop his brow from dropping into the frown they were so used to. It was strangely exhausting, but when he ran a hand over his brow there seemed to be a lot less furrowing so he could only assume that was a good thing.

[Clarisse Prideaux]

Clarisse blinked at John and looked down at her foot. Of course he meant health wise, what else would he mean? Her mind was pretty much always as far from the gutter as east was from the west, and while she understood propriety, she just assumed that John had it. He really didn’t need any disclaimers, stiff as he was. “It’s doing much better, thank you for asking.” She picked it up, putting it gingerly back on the floor again as if to demonstrate it’s functionality. “I’m keeping off it mostly.” She added.

Usually Clarisse would have offered to take Thornton’s hat, but he’s already taken care of it.
“Warwickshire?” She inquired cordially. “Where in England is that?” Clarisse knew absolutely nothing about geography, especially that of England. At least it was something to talk about.

She pulled out a chair at the small table, gesturing for Thornton to sit as she moved to peek in the oven at the turkey pot-pie she’d made for dinner. A small waft of heat and steam lifted the wisps of hair falling down from her bun, but they quickly settled again. Clarisse smiled warmly. “Just a few more minutes on dinner.” She explained, reaching up and turning off the oven to allow the pie to both finish cooking and cool.

“Oh, about eight years?” Clarisse mused, moving to pull down two wine classes and pour servings from a nearby bottle of red wine. “Cabernet Sauvignon, if you care to know.” She explained. Bringing the glasses to the table and setting one before Thornton before she eased herself into her chair. “What about you? How long have you been here?”

[John Thornton]

"Good, good," Thornton nodded, the rim of his hat bending slightly as his hands tightened. This was... uncomfortable. Conversation had never been so stilted when she was insulting him, and he had found it so much easier to talk when it was about her injury.

There was a reason he had remained single for most of is adult life after all.

But he could talk about where he came from. "It's in the west. Near Birmingham. It's about a six hour drive to London, where I work, but I bought my mother and my sister apartments. Mother's in Wimbledon now, and Mary's in Camden. Apparently it's very popular with the younger generation, but she keeps on holding parties and needing repairs," He sighed and shrugged in a what can you do? sort of way. "That was after I got back from Switzerland, though."

His tension had eased obviously while talking about his family, and he even managed to huff a laugh. "Mother likes Wimbledon, but she still gets lost on the underground." Smiling more to himself then to his companion, he glanced up with an apologetic look. "Sorry for rambling on there."

Well, whatever she was cooking smelt amazing. "That's, that's red wine," he clarified, glancing at the bottle and almost wincing with relief. It was red. And that was just a bit humiliating, really. He scowled at his wine glass for mocking him, then glanced up at the next question. "Oh, only four or five months," he frowned to himself. "Kocher had mentioned there were issues with meta terrorism and I am, well, suited to security and protection. Also, there was a better chance that-"

No, no time to mention that.

"May I ask why you left France?"

[Clarisse Prideaux]

“Mary’s your sister.” Clarisse interjected to clarify, listening astutely as he explained. Whereas Thornton’s default expression seemed to be a scowl, Clarisse’s was a neutral smile, and so the corner’s of her mouth twitched occasionally upward in appreciation. “You bought them apartments?” She parroted, obviously impressed. Not only with such a show of money, but of care. “You must be very close.” She mused.

Clarisse laughed genuinely as he explained that his mother got easily lost in the subway. “It’s quite alright, Mister Thornton.” She said, idly swishing her wine in the class. “Conversations are sometimes just lovely one-sided.” She took a sip, humming delightedly. “Besides, you can a learn a lot from someone based on how they talk about their family.” She was surprised that he was still turning out to be a fairly decent man.

She nodded encouragingly. “Yes, it’s red wine.” She raised her glass to him, especially when he had the sense to cut himself off. “Welcome to Pilot Ridge.” Clarisse added, a hint of sadness in her tone. It was such a shame that he had to arrive that way, as part of the cavalry, even if he was invaluable in the fight.

And then he asked.

Why did people always have to ask about France?

Blanching slightly, Clarisse cut her eyes to the side and swallowed hard, looking as if she’d just had a great fright. She closed her eyes as the timer went off on the oven, cutting through the heavy silence between them. She sucked a breath in through her teeth as she stood to fetch dinner.

“The…politics. In France. Were not particularly conducive to meta-humans at the time of my life in Paris.” She said carefully, her voice low and tight. “And I lost my best friend, my godson…” She pulled the pie from the oven, staring into it harshly.

“And my husband.”

She placed the entrée on the stove-top to cool slightly, removing a bowl of green beans from the microwave where she’d been keep them warm. Silently she fetched two immaculate white plates and dished up the food. “Forgive me if I seem short on the matter.” Clarisse added with a small measure of darkness.

Like Thornton had said, there were some thing that were just not meant to be discussed.

[John Thornton]

"My younger sister," John clarified, smiling ruefully. "She's a handful. I may have spoilt her a little," If the way she tore through money was anything to go by, in any hand. "But yes, I owe mother everything, it was the least I could do." He honestly believed that, and was thankful Clarisse had not noticed the absence of a mention of his father. It would have been... awkward. Shameful, really. Didn't some people believe that sort of weakness was hereditary?

Raising his own glass, his own smile was appreciative. "Thank you." Sipping the wine, his eyes widened appreciatively. He'd be damned if he knew what sort of grapes it was, or how old it was, or if it was supposed to taste like cherry or blackberries or those other things that it said on the bottle, but it was very nice. He didn't often drink wine, but this was tasty.

But the moment of comfortable appreciation was broken, once again, by him putting his foot in it. "I didn't mean to pry," he started, following her with his eyes as she moved into the kitchen. "And I am so sorry for your- wait, you're, I mean, you were married?" As she set the food down before him, blue eyes glanced at her left hand. No ring. He'd noticed that before but still, what did lost mean? If he had died, that was tragic. If they had, well, parted ways....

John did not agree with divorce but it wasn't his place to disapprove of his host, especially since he had no clue what exactly she had meant. "The anti-meta movement was never very violent in england, and my parents, I mean, my mother is human and so is my sister so they've never been targeted, and my abilities were not exactly obvious when I was working as an accountant..."

He was blabbering. He never blabbered. To shut himself out, he stuffed a forkful of beans in his mouth and chewed and looked firmly at his plate. Then, he swallowed. "This is very good," John said, then took another mouthful and looked back at his plate.

Bugger.

[Clarisse Prideaux]

Clarisse laid her hand over her heart, warmed by his love for his mother. Clarisse was pretty easy to charm when it came to family matters. Anyone who could hold on to their family like that, even if it wasn’t all of it, was certainly worth entertaining…even if he was a grump. “That’s a wonderful way to think of things. I wish I had the same relationship with my mother.” She smiled knowingly at his pleased look, glad that he liked the wine.

Setting the plate before him, she sat gingerly in her own seat, her stomach turning too fast to bother to eat just yet. She continued to stare at her food, too worried that she’d loose her composure to meet Thornton’s eyes. “He died.” She quickly cut in. He was murdered she thought to add, gripping her fork with white knuckles, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.She hadn’t thought about it such a long time.

Clarisse took in a ragged breath, choking back tears. “The anti-meta movement…Mister Thornton, Paris was a very different place at that time than many believed.” She pursed her lips. “I believe I already told you about my schooling.” Clarisse vividly recalled their first meeting, where she had confessed that she’d done most of her (incredibly inadequate) powers training in a military institution. “Yves and Gui were eradicated in a car bombing.” She added stiffly.

She turned her eyes back up to him when he began chewing. His eyes had already turned down, even as the tired look in hers washed over him. “I’m glad you like it.” Clarisse said waveringly, knotting her napkin in her lap.

She’d never told anyone.

Never.

Especially not about her husband (though there were those who knew), but in particular: “I’ve never told anyone about the bombing. You’re…you’re the first.” She added, still staring him down unsettlingly, her chest rising and falling in breaths that were too forced to be truly even.

Clarisse couldn’t believe she’d just blurted it out like that, and to Thornton no less. He was only recently becoming sufferable.

[John Thornton]

Oh dear lord.

"I, I'm so sorry," Thornton murmured, and reached out to touch her hand, but wavered just above it. "I didn't mean-" but he had said more then enough, obviously, and so pressed his lips together as his brow furrowed. He gets invited to a beautiful woman's house for dinner, because she nearly breaks her ankle. Then he manages to bring up her dead husband.

Oh bugger it,

Carefully, he rested his fingers over hers, light enough that she could pull back easily but still, well, touching her. "That's terrible," he said honestly, finally looking up from his plate having swallowed his green beans. "I remember, on the news... " it had shocked Britain to see bombings so close to home, they were used to seeing the violence in Russia, in South Africa... Not Europe.

Well, it looked like he really had two options. Either act like nothing had happened and ask about the weather, or try and share something with her to show that he appreciated being let in.

He was the only person she'd told. It was hard to tell if he should be glad or worried by that. Well, what did he have to share that he had never told anyone. "Ah, my father killed himself not long after Mary was born," he said slowly, looking down again. "I was fourteen. Mother had to pull me out of school after, to help with the bills. It's why I didn't want to go to Kocher, I had a family to look after, you see."

The atmosphere couldn't have been darker if someone literally painted it black. "Look, Doctor, I didn't mean to bring up something so, well, unpleasant," he started, then sighted and rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he frowned. "I've made a bit of a mess of things, once again," he told his beans gruffly.

[Clarisse Prideaux]

She didn’t even notice his fingers hovering over hers. She was looking at him, but seemed to be focused elsewhere. It was remarkable she was even able to hold back the tears, stuffing them down somewhere where they wouldn’t burst out. When he did finally touch her, she almost didn’t react.

As he looked away, deciding to share something as well, Clarisse looked to his fingers, gently taking twining them with hers. What had even possessed either of them to say anything? “Mon Dieu…” She whispered, swallowing again. Clarisse cut her eyes to his, holding them only briefly before she looked at the floor again. “That’s why you were a late starter in school.” She murmured.

She had been listening during their first conversation, after all.

Clarisse pulled her hand back and let it slip back into her lap when he apologized. “No, Mister Thornton. You haven’t done a thing wrong.” She managed a thin smile. “It seems you were right. Certain things are simply…not meant to be discussed.”

The urge to grab her wine glass and simply tank it’s contents was strong, but she resisted. She was officially determined to make this dinner at least a mild sort-of success. “At least I didn’t sprain my ankle this time around.” She joked tentatively, hoping to coax at least some manner of light-heartedness out of the evening.

[John Thornton]

She had interlaced their fingers. It was hard for him to not just stare at her hand, tangled with his larger one as he breathed in sharply through his nose.

He had missed being touched.

But then it was over, and she seemed to be as determined as he was to avoid further details. Still, Thornton reached for his wine glass and, unaware the exact same thought had crossed his host's mind, finished off the glass in one go before looking at Clarisse sheepishly. It was a habit he had, and an almost automatic response to any situation he found at all stressful.

He found this situation very very stressful.

Still, realising what she was aiming for and more than happy to oblige, he have a moderately strained chuckle, though he looked at her with obvious interest. Clearly, she had been through hell, and yet since the moment he had met her the french woman seemed determined to put on a happy, elegant front. Was she honestly that high-spirited? And if not, what did it cost her?

But maybe that was the wine talking so Mr Thornton just smiled. "I do hope I won't have to rely on the hand of fate delivering you to my door step every time I get to talk to you," he added. "You quite depleted my first aid kit." The joke was mildly made, then englishman obviously still concerned about offending Clarisse. "If any other beautiful women get into accidents, I'd be quite unable to be of any help."

It took him a good two seconds to realise what he'd just said and he instantly stuffed some more beans into his mouth.

[Clarisse Prideaux]

Clarisse met his sheepish look, and really considered it nothing more than an invitation. She quickly followed suit without so much as a flinch, then carefully stood to fetch the bottle. She brought it back to the table and refilled the glasses dutifully, setting it nearby for when it would inevitably be needed.

Giggling hesitantly, Clarisse finally took a bite of her food, savoring it though it had grown semi-cold. “Do you make a habit of scouting for beautiful injured women?” She teased, flattered by his compliment and hoping he would at least try to play along.

Somehow she doubted he would.

So she changed the subject. “This dinner is hardly enough thanks to you for the help you gave me, Mister Thornton. Words fail too.” She pointed out, nodding softly. “I’m not so sure I would have been able to heal so well if you hadn’t insisted when you did.”

[John Thornton]

If Thornton had had any more wine, he would have snorted into it at seeing Clarisse scull her drink. Instead, he smiled somewhat more widely then usual, even chuckling lowly at her giggle. It wasn't exactly something he could see his mother approving of, but it was nice to see a woman who wasn't horrified at the concept of need a drink right now.

And maybe it was the wine, or maybe the laughter had triggered some sort of chain reaction in his usually humourless brain, because while his initial reaction was of course to take offence, he actually gave a sort of crooked smile at her jest. "No, just the french ones," he said, and while it was not particularly funny, it was as rare as a blue moon for him to try to be funny, or even for him to understand a joke. Needless to say, it was not exactly painless.

At her further thanks, the englishman took another sip of wine and shook his head. "Stubbornness runs in my family," he said by way of an explanation. "Really, this more then makes up for it. It's nice to have dinner with someone other than myself."

And that sounded rather more pathetic then he had intended it to, so to make sure she didn't do anything horrible like take pity on him, he cleared his throat and tried to think of a new subject. Small talk was not his strong suit. "So, after eight years, you know most of the staff here, Doctor?" he tried gently. "Anyone I should watch out for? Any students to avoid?"

[Clarisse Prideaux]

Clarisse blinked at him for a moment. Had he—?He had! She covered her mouth to keep the food inside, huffing in laughter. It also conveniently hid the blushing. When she had swallowed, and looked back to him, her hand still rested against her nose, hiding her wide smile. “Touchè. I’m flattered.” She tittered.

Tittered.

Goodness, were they flirting?

Preposterous. (though his smile was lovely)

Sharing the sentiment, Clarisse gently tapped the base of her wineglass. “Yes…It really is.” She murmured, having never really thought about it until now. Clarisse was usually so involved in work that dinner was a quick respite before shower and bed. The last time she’d had such a telling, albeit relaxing dinner, was with Dalton.

“Some better than others.” Clarisse explained, strangely quick to forget Dalton. “I wrote my doctoral thesis about Mister Morrison. The librarian?” She offered, wondering if Thornton would be familiar. “And Midori and I have become good friends.” Clarisse took another thoughtful bite of her food. “As for students?” She chuckled. “Vincent Verax.” She added with a somber nod. “He’s…” She sighed. “Impossible to describe, I’ll tell you that.”

[John Thornton]

If Thornton could blush, this could have been the moment for it. Instead, he just smiled somewhat hesitantly as she giggled. This was going so much better then expected; she was looking at him and laughing at his jokes which was an unknown for him. Still, it was entirely possible she felt sorry for him... it couldn't be that she was actually enjoying herself...

Could it?

It was possible that a part of him was letting himself hope that maybe this elegant, captivating creature no longer thought him wholly repugnant. However, if he kept on just looking at her like he was doing it was bound to be awkward, so Thornton went back to the safety of his wine glass. Still, his eyes strayed from his drink as she agreed with him, and she did seem to be speaking as if she was enjoying herself. Or that she had been so bored even his company was preferable.

He wasn't that fussy. Either would do.

"The quiet fellow? Keeps to himself, I thought," John had, admittedly, not spent a lot of time in the library. He was not bookish by nature, and as much as he realised this was an opportunity to work on his rather lacking knowledge of the world.... it was just off-putting, a whole room full of things he didn't know about.

The name Verax was strangely familiar, and Thronton almost spoke through his mouthful of food, coughed to hid it, and swallowed. "He was on a list I got, there were students to look out for," he gave a thoughtful frown as he tried to remember. "Lyra was on it too, as well as, ah, LaRousse," there was no way he had said that right, "Keystone... a few more. I only train physical powers though, and mostly the ones that, well, might do some damage if the student looses his tempter." One hand reached out to rub at his nose, as he did when he was thinking, but he caught himself and stuffed them both under the table. "My insurance doesn't cover replacement shirts, unfortunately, and iron spikes didn't exactly agree with them."