rage is a promise kept

She could tell that he didn’t recognize her right away, and just as instinctively, she could pinpoint the exact moment when he did. Although she was loathe to admit it, it was a fascinating transition to observe; the way a haze seemed to cloud up the frigid lightness of his eyes while he traced her face, lingering with such unexpected quietude before it gradually began to clear and grow cold. But by then, it was too late – she had already been reeled in with no hope for retreat.

Detached from reason by the lull that followed, Magdalena eased into his embrace without fully realizing it; her hand trailing further across his shoulder blade of its own volition and drawing her further into the circle of his arms. She certainly registered how minuscule the space between their faces was now, if the ever-familiar hitch in her heartbeat was anything to go by, yet that awareness felt strangely distant at that moment; as though held at bay and kept out of reach by the stillness that had been struck by their newfound proximity. “Took you a second there to recognize me,” She noted with a tip of her chin that nearly sent it ghosting against his mouth. Her ears warmed. She inched her head back, hiking a brow. “Don’t tell me it’s because I’m all dressed up.”

It was a baseless dare; as she was always dressed up the same way she was now, only in darker colors and less flashy styles, especially when it came to social functions where their paths usually crossed. In addition to that, she doubted that Bill was even attentive towards her presence in the first place, let alone her attire. In truth, she wasn’t entirely sure why she had made that comment or what had compelled her to drop her guard and tease him in such a manner. It had been utterly, mindlessly impulsive. Still, she couldn’t deny that she was curious about what he would say and whether he would play along.

“Of course,” She drawled, tipping her head to the side in a dramatic motion of exasperation that just so happened to be timed perfectly with their next twirl. It left her slightly dizzy as she turned towards him again. “You never do anything, do you?” His following words gave her pause, stilling her expression and drawing more warmth to her ears. She looked down at their clasped hands, her eyes soon drawn to the scarred skin of his knuckles. She felt compelled to run a finger along them, and although she didn’t, her thumb still succumbed to the impulse, skirting along his in a fleeting caress. She gritted her teeth, channeling her frustration at herself into her response. “Right, because I totally put myself in that humiliating position in the middle of the street just to draw your attention and totally danced towards you on purpose just now – oh, and totally went to that seance for no other reason than the fact that you were there,” She widened her eyes with dramatic emphasis to match her equally dramatic remarks. “That makes so much sense.“

For a split second, a part of him contemplates pushing her away, expelling her from his arms quickly as she was deposited there. But he cannot. Unbidden, the thought only causes him to draw her closer. He is bound by propriety to dance with her now, but there is more than that under his gesture. He cannot walk away now, but neither does he wish to, the very idea of it sending a wave of indignation that he cannot fully explain away. Perhaps is is better that he doesn’t, that whatever she stirs within him is left completely untouched and unacknowledged. 

But then her hand brushes over his shoulder, and it takes every inch of restraint that he has to suppress the shudder that follows. Against hers, his whole body tenses, the muscle in his jaw flaring. She is far too close for comfort, but his reluctance to put any semblance of distance between them render him incapable of breaking it. His eyes bore into hers, but a smile does not tug at his lips, warmth does not creep into his eyes. “Tell me,” he asks, and despite the fact he is agitated and unsettled, his voice is calm and collected. “How is your current attire much different to usual?” 

It occurs to him too late that she is teasing him. For Bill, a man who takes pride in his ability to read every fleeting thought that was concealed by the outer face that a person presents to the world, it is a moment of weakness, a chink in the armour. His cheeks darken half a shade, barely perceptible to any as close to him as Magda is. It is uncharacteristic of him to make such an error in judgement, but the error has been made, and there is no way to turn back the clock now. And so, Bill opts for the only other option available - to pretend it has not happen at all. 

Magda twirls, and the second of separation between them leaves Bill unsettlingly incomplete, but then she returns again, another jibe on the tip of her tongue that send his eyes rolling skyward. “Not to you,” he mutters, for isn’t that the truth? There are many misdeeds on the tips of his bloodied fingers, the twisted scars on his hands telling the stories of sins unspoken, but he has never directed his malice towards her. The brush of her thumb against those scars burns, and like her, he drops his gaze to them, wondering for a maddening minute if her own hands would leave this encounter stained simply by the proximity to his.

“nonsense, i think it’s the best display i have seen all evening.” one corner of her mouth curves up in a mockery of a smile when her gaze travels from the man to the balcony behind him. the illusionist fleetingly wonders why she hasn’t heard anyone release a string of curses, but pushes the thought to the back of her mind with practiced ease.

if there is a chill to the air, bonnie doesn’t feel it. warmth and vibrancy are the only things that she can feel against her skin; most likely a byproduct of the excitement that she has absorbed so readily from tonight’s events.

there’s something fascinating about the lights helping to highlight her and everything behind her while the politician’s frame is nearly entirely obscured from vision by the darkness. her hand slowly withdraws from his grasp to intertwine her fingers in front of her stomach; a grin forms around her next words. “one way or another, i’m certain the poor fellows outside have a lot more cause to complain than i do.”

but it’s quiet, and all she hears is the sound of cicadas. has she simply missed the best part? bonnie releases a breath. what a pity.

leaning back on her heels with the expression of one who is quite pleased with herself, she regards him with a long look. there isn’t much she knows about bill barker beyond the fact that he is a man of the people; one who lends a voice to those who aren’t heard. that, in and of itself, already warrants enough respect in her book.

“that’s terribly observant of you, mister barker. did you know that some cultures do not approve of public displays of affection? so your actions would make you a paragon to them all the same.” she cocks her head to one side, her left hand coming up to rub her chin thoughtfully before flashing him a delighted grin. “it’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?”  

“Then your evening can’t have been that exciting,” Bill tuts, makes a show of rolling his eyes. Bonnie seems easily approachable, the corners of her lips turned up and her demeanour relaxed, open even. It seems to Bill that he has her exactly where he wants her, though perhaps that is more to do with the general sense of mirth in the air than with Bonnie herself. 

But say it is true, and he does have her in the palm of his hand, what would he do with her? What is there that can be done? Zoya is no longer a tool at her disposal, well past her use-by date in Bill’s eyes. Perhaps Bonnie would do well in the actress’ shoes? He does not know yet what kind of tool she could be, but he won’t discard the possibility just yet. 

And so, Bill remains in the shadows, wine-sodden guests forgotten, and simply studies Bonnie’s countenance, mind running at a mile a minute. 

She is either completely at ease in his presence, or a far superior actress to Zoya Fox. Both can be utilised effectively - the only thing is discerning which is true. Bonnie looks at Bill, and Bill looks at Bonnie, a silent moment of thought passing between the two. 

Indulging in the unexpected room that she had been granted by Bill’s retracted gaze, Magdalena placed her elbow atop the desk and lay her palm across the side of her face. The pose could easily be perceived as her simply bracing her jaw against the heel of her hand, yet the two blanched fingertips pressed against her temple betrayed the casual impression. However, it was the best she could do to maintain any sort of stance before her companion’s nonchalant yet keen appraisal, especially when considering the way her head was being caved in by an intangible vice.

Suppressing a wince, Magdalena sighed through her nose. She pretended not to notice Bill’s gaze, eyes tracking the smooth, unblemished surface of his desk before skirting across the various ornaments directly within her line of sight. Then Bill chuckled, and Magdalena looked up at him instinctively, lulled by the gentle, surprisingly lighthearted sound despite herself. She frowned, though this time the expression was underlined with confusion rather than scorn. She silently watched him for a long moment, tracing the unfamiliar smoothness to the harsh angles of his face and the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Swallowing with sudden nervousness, or perhaps a tinge of panic, she glanced away – then back, pausing briefly before relinquishing a snort of her own. “Well… I suppose I do owe you some gratitude. But whether I will actually offer it has yet to be seen.” She looked away then shrugged, disguising her appreciation for this moment, however uncanny it was. “I’ll have to think about it.”

As the humor faded away from Bill’s face, Magdalena couldn’t help but wish for another glimpse of its earlier lightness, realizing as she watched the hollows and harshness seep in once more that she would have liked to appraise their absence a little longer. The sentiment was so unexpected yet also felt so true that she was left completely at a loss in the wake of it, gaze growing hazy and pulse spiking into an anxious rhythm that thrashed in tandem with the throbbing in her head. Registering Bill’s words absentmindedly, she looked up with a mildly startled blink, lips parting slightly as she noted his sudden proximity. Suddenly she could no longer distinguish whether the pounding of her heart was indeed spurred by anxiety or something completely different.

Hand dropping to her lap, she cleared her throat, once again resisting the urge to look away from his keen, daring eyes. “I don’t need any time.” She snapped, the patronizing comment instantly rousing her irritation. “It’s not your work itself that’s objectionable to me. No one can rightfully deny that it has done a lot of good for the city and continues to do so. It’s the fact that all that good is shadowed by a lot of bad that equates it and perhaps even exceeds it. There’s a reason why there are as many people who admire you as there are people who are terrified of you. I’ve seen it firsthand so I assure you, I’m not judging blindly.” She abruptly realized that it was now a lot easier to hold his gaze, and she took a moment to relish it, eventually giving in to the urge to display it by surrendering a spiteful smile. “Would you look at that? I replied instantly after all, and didn’t even stammer. Incredible.”

.

It is gratifying to watch her wrestle with herself, to watch her conscience comes to blows between manners and morals. It gives him the same sort of sense of triumph as a debate won, as a victory secured. For a moment, his worry for her evaporates almost entirely, replaced only with a sense of having won. But then Magda shifts herself forward, elbow on the mahogany of his desk to support herself, and he does not overlook the tension in her skin where tips of fingers press to her temple. For a moment, he vaguely wonders if he should contact Doctor Bell to check her over. 

But the thought is dismissed. That is the action of a man who cares, and Bill does not. He repeats that mantra to himself, internally. You do not care, and this means nothing. An irritation, and nothing more. 

Perhaps if he says it enough times, he will believe it to be true. 

“Didn’t have you down as rude,” he pushes back against her, morals winning out in her own internal battle. “Well, that’s a lie. You are rude,” he corrects himself. “But I at least thought you would know your manners. They’re fairly simple to learn, I can assure you.” He is taunting her now, cruel mockery seeping into his tone as he does his best to steer this back into familiar territory. The air between them feels charged, as though one wrong move will see a steel trap snap either of them in two. “Well, don’t take too long. I’m too busy to waste time helping people who don’t deserve it.” 

He is no longer pretending to be Bill Barker, a man so filled with effortless charm and concern for the people of the city that they cannot help but like him. His public persona has all but vanished, and in truth, it’s almost a relief. It is a full time job, keeping up with every lie he tells, every falsehood he spins. But Magda has already made up her mind. She does not like him, and he does not like her. She has nothing to offer that he does not already have, and the worst she can do is tell people that they have butted heads. Bill doubts that will do much damage to his reputation. Let her hate, let her push back. He will not waste another second trying to convince her to do otherwise. 

Bill’s eyes skirt the room, trying to identify men and women he knew. He was a proud man, but he was also one who did not like being caught unawares. The way that this event had been conducted had taken away any of his capabilities to make those preparations, and that left him feeling woefully unequipped. It felt a little like going to a knife fight blindfolded, and that had him on edge, jaw clenched and teeth grinding until it was almost painful. 

He lurks on the edge of the dancefloor, slowly circling the dancers. Is that the Duchess of Devonshire?  No, the Duchess is a little shorter and broader than that. Lord Daverell? No, the Lord is more hunched at the shoulder. There is a number of faces that seemed almost familiar behind their masks, but never quite right, never identifiable. Something is afoot, the uneasy feeling in the pit of Bill’s stomach growing. 

He’s been holding a glass of wine for an hour now, unwilling to dull his senses by getting drunk. There are plenty who seem to be having a good time, and he supposes it would be better for him if he joined them, but he cannot bring himself. Not until he has the answers he seeks. 

But that will have to wait. 

His eyes rest on Winifred Littledale, and he recalls another mystery, a widow awoken to her husband’s demise, rumours of poison, rumours of her involvement. And if they were true, then what a woman. 

He approaches, and holds out his untouched glass of claret like he had collected it for her. “Mrs. Littledale.” He did not know James Littledale well, but he is dead. He cannot refute it if Bill were to tell a little white lie and claim friendship, and that is what he plans to do. “It is good to see you out and about. Did you come alone tonight?”

     It seemed ridiculous of her to be so surprised by his presence. Should this not have been expected? A man can run all of London, but her theatre was to be the exception? Foolish, she internally chastised. There were other issues, far more pressing issues, on her mind at the time regardless; the location of Bill Barker was a pale, pale comparison. 

     ❛❛Oh! N-no, not at all.❜❜ Prudence offered him as weak a smile as she could muster, unsure how she would possibly get out of this one. It was not as though she became a ballerina because she had such a way with words after all. ❛❛I just meant that, uhm..❜❜ She stumbled, again. Weak, came the voice of her mother. ❛❛You’re not dead?❜❜ A poor offering, but the best that her brain could muster up under such circumstance. ❛❛You’ll need a crown. Then it won’t be ridiculous at all. Not that it is ridiculous now.❜❜ Her performance of late, while still better than those that joined her on stage, was not the greatest that it had been. Any type of poor review - especially one from him - could send her career plummeting south. Could he smell her breath from here?

      ❛❛I did. Perhaps our host just is not a fan of the mail service. Or maps. Anonymity can be nice.❜❜ She wished she could be anonymous. Live in a place nobody had heard of, interact with them via specific invitation only. Would have certainly made her year far easier. Maybe she still could. Get out of London, head to the country somewhere, change her name, raise chickens. Silly. A silly idea. Her head shook slightly at her thoughts, utterly lost in her own mind before she registered that his hand was outstretched, awaiting her own. ❛❛Prudence. Prudence LaVoie. Most people call me Prue. Rarely dense.❜❜ Her hand reached to his, a slight curtsey as they met. ❛❛Poor joke.❜❜

.

  It strikes Bill that she is nervous. That happens from time to time - men like Bill intimidate those who are unused to them. It is not, however, the way he wants to present himself, save for a select few, and the little ballet dancer in front of him does not number amongst them. And so he takes his silver cigar case from his pocket, opens it, and holds it out to her first, offering her one with a polite chuckle. 

“My apologise. That was my attempt at a joke.” her smile is weak, but his is kind, and reassuring. “I should certainly hope I’m not dead, but I’m sure at a costume ball I won’t be the only one dressed as the deceased. Her suggestion of a crown has his eyes snapping back to his reflection in the full-length mirror. Yes. She is entirely right. A crown would certainly improve the look. “You’re a genius.” He declares. “Laurel leaves, wasn’t it? For the Romans? Or was that The Greeks? Not that there’s much of a difference,” he adds. Either way, he’s going to show up looking like he’s draped himself in a bedsheet. 

“Perhaps not.” Anxious little thing she may be, but the girl he’s found company with is bright and quick - his favourite type of people. “Still, it does give me pause. The idea of walking into the home of a man I can’t find on any electoral register.” he pauses thoughtfully, but when she curtseys, his lips twitch upwards in a genuine smile, and he bows in response. “I can’t imagine anybody calling you dense, Miss LaVoie. And I am rarely wrong about these things.”

•

BILL NARROWS HIS eyes at Rahat, but Rahat keeps their expression still, waiting for his first zinger of the night. Until now, they’ve done a good enough job of avoiding the man, having learned to distance themself and simply tune his existence out entirely ( a sizable feat, considering what they’d, er, discovered about him last year, thanks to a few certain individuals in their life ), and they’re only disappointed that Mr Ashton’s ball has ruined that streak for them both. They don’t care to show it on their face just yet, though, even when Bill unceremoniously shortens their name, or talks about the outfit Polly had painstakingly made for them. 

“Ah, well. I’m nothing if not consistent, Billiam,” Rahat smiles when it’s their turn, the sheepishness put on, mixed with a kind of wry irony that’s almost mocking, albeit very subtly so. It disappears as soon as it had come, their expression masked yet again just as they turn the conversation over to how they had come to acquire their costume. They are not appreciative of the way Bill derides the ensemble, not out of any personal offense but out of offense for the person who’d done most of the work for it. Polly had done a marvelous job, and better too, they think, than most anything a good deal of money could buy.

“Since you’re so curious, this was made for me by a friend,” they answer, vaguely. “No shame in sticking to a budget and making do with what you have around you.”

This time around, Rahat takes a step back and gives the politician a once-over. They’d already seen the outfit, but they make a brief display of thinking about it. “On the other hand, you look positively smashing tonight. A self-aware choice, I dare say.” They nod and look back up at Mr Barker, tilting their head and narrowing their eyes slightly in feigned curiosity, that same wry smile from earlier deigning to make a comeback. “Do you play the fiddle, by any chance?”

.

No matter what Bill does to provoke Rahat, they never seem to rise to his bait with anything other than polite indifference, and something that feels a little like mockery, albeit in a less aggressive way than Bill derides him. It is both admirable and infuriating. Still, Bill follows his lead, false smile plastered upon his face, unwilling to show that his commentary has had any impact. He had long since dismissed the undertaker as one of life’s weirdos, below Bill’s capacity to care what they said, did, or thought, and yet he was still here, entertaining the conversation, despite the part of his brain that told him it wasn’t worth his time. 

“Well good for you, Hattie.” It is almost childish how Rahat brings out the very worst in him, in such a similar way that Zoya does. Rahat smiles, but it fades quickly when Bill references their costume, and he notes with triumph that he has struck a nerve. Even Bill has to begrudgingly admit that the costume is a good one, and looks well upon Rahat, even if he would never utter those words aloud. “A friend, you say?” He reaches out, uninvited, and flicks one of the gold discs of Rahat’s cape. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were mighty angry at you. I certainly wouldn’t let my friends go out like this.” 

He moves back, out of Rahat’s space, and gives the white fabric drapes around him a tug. Rahat makes some cutting commentary about his choice, and Bill smiles, sharp and pointed. “Funny thing about Nero, Hattie,” Cigar is raised to his lips as he pauses, making a show of inhaling and exhaling again for the theatrics of it all. “The senators? Hated him. But the ordinary, working people of Rome? He was their hero.” Thus comes the reason Bill has chosen this outfit, the grand symbolic gesture behind it all. “But history is written by the victors, which Nero was not. Fascinating what comes to light with a little perspective.” 

Cigar burned, Bill grinds it under his heel. “Why? Is London burning?”

＊☾＊

We are in agreement — it should be a cry of victory, a sense of pride that a politician is on the same page as him. That someone else sees that so much more should and must be done for residents who deserve more than surviving.

But right then, the acknowledgement is bittersweet on his tongue. Perhaps later, when he presses the gun against the MP’s head, or maybe slips a knife between his ribs, will satisfaction run through his veins. One more life extinguished is one more life that won’t cause harm anymore.

                      ( and yet, the everlasting question: how many lives will be enough? )

Sucking a breath, he withholds the urge to roll his eyes at Bill. “I’ve learned early that not being thorough always leads to trouble. It’s the bare minimum to do.” That I should always do. He swallows the unspoken. How true is that thought now, in the time-span since he started accepting Bill’s targets?

He pushes the question away, focusing on Bill’s response. It’s a decent plan, and the land would do better under Bill than someone else wishing to buy it from the son. But —

“And where would the residents house in the time it would for you to finish the improvements?” A pause, then, “An estimate. I’m not one to believe that you know all the improvements needed at this point. But like you said — it’s been funny weather lately.“

.

There were times when Bill wishes he could see exactly what Toshiro was thinking. There were people who were easy to read and people who were not, and Toshiro falls into the latter camp. It is difficult to predict what may be next from his mouth, and that makes him unpredictable, hard to control. 

It is not lost on Bill that he treats Toshiro as a weapon, and he is not arrogant enough to ignore that one day, he may find himself on the wrong end of the knife, victim rather than wielder. Oddly, that does not frighten him. 

“Yes,” he adds, noncommittally. “And I suppose in your line of work, you’d want to minimise the risk of trouble.” It is a casual comment with a pointed edge. Bill can afford to instigate trouble, for there will always be somebody like Toshiro placed to take the blame should the worst occur. 

But the next question is an easy one to combat, one Bill has been all too prepared for. “We take it one house at a time. And whilst work is being carried out, the residents may stay at Victoria Homes Boarding House. I plan to allocate council budget to cover the cost of their stay.” And with luck, those who benefit from it will remember when the time comes to vote, and it will be Bill who wins their allegiance in the end. 

“Or do you have a better suggestion?”

-

“Oh?” Gilly cannot conceal his surprise as the document is slid across the table. In truth, he had not expected Bill to live up to his promise. His lack of faith is less due to his distrust towards the MP—though that still makes up a large portion of it—and more due to his own lack of development in the case, which has translated to his own lost interest. Evidently, though, politicians make for good allies, and are able to cross boundaries that a simple academic like him cannot overcome. 

“Well, I sure hope I’m not included in this,” Gilly remarks as he reaches for the envelope. There’s a chuckle that accompanies his words, though it comes off rather stiff. He’s almost curious at how much the other knows about him, what metaphorical skeletons from his closet that he has been able to dig up. His words come to address the Palmers next, which elicits only a deep sigh out of him. “I knew Priscilla personally,” Gilly volunteers the information, because to conceal their connection feels like a discredit to her memory. “And August, I knew by association. It’s awful, what happened to them, but I suspect it’ll just be as unexplained as the others.” He hums. “We’ve been having more of those recently, I’m afraid.”

It’s ridiculous that the willing audience Gilly has chanced upon to listen to his theory is among the people he least expects to be receptive to it. For a brief moment, Gilly is afraid how much his words might come to sever the momentum of their dynamic—though he suspects he must be doing something correctly if he had been invited back. 

Regardless, he isn’t about to question his luck. “I doubt Mr. Ashton is a real person. He won’t be showing his face to us any time soon—in fact, I’d wager he keeps a mask through it all. Perhaps he doesn’t even have a form underneath it.” He takes the other’s silence as a signal to continue. “It reminds me of that one Poe story, with the Red Death, how everyone flocked together only to be trapped by the very entity from whom they are escaping.” 

Shrugging, Gilly grabs his drink and leans back further into his seat. “It’s a trap. That’s what I think, at least.” He takes sips from his glass, longer and more thoughtfully this time, as if he’s acquainting himself with the flavors. “Well, what do you think? Can I expect you to be in attendance, regardless?” 

.

Bill raises one eyebrow, coolly, but not coldly. “Should you be?” he cannot help but ask. He does not know how honest Gilly will be with him. If the roles were reversed, he cannot say he would respond to such a question with the truth. But this is Gilly. If there is one thing that can be certain, it is that Bill can never quite anticipate what he is about to say or do - or what bizarre circumstance is about to occur around him. “You easily can be, I suppose, though I don’t think there is any point trying to dig up information on yourself.” Now, Bill laughs, slipping easily into joking comradery, replacing his previous straight-faced questioning.  

Bill does not wish to linger on the deaths of Priscilla and August Palmer. The murder of two people he does not care about, in a part of London he does not govern, holds very little interest to him. He still finds Gilly’s reaction peculiar - is he trying to make a point of his grief, or is it genuine? Bill isn’t sure he will ever truly know, but the professor is volunteering far too much information for him to truly trust it. That is the mark of a good liar - knowing just the right amount of detail to ensure there is no doubt, without overcompensating for falsehoods. “In that case, will you allow me to extend my condolences for your loss?” He bows his head as a mark of his respect, but does not tear his gaze from Gilly. 

“I have considered the same possibility,” he admits, grudging respect wrung out of him by the fact that the professor and he seem to be on the same page. “I have searched landowner records from here to Hampshire looking for a mention of an Ashton of Ravensmoor Manor, and found nothing since the seventeenth century. Either this is a display of showmanship, or he has something he wishes to hide.” 

As quick as it arrives, his respect for Gilly dissipates, the moment of intelligence pushed back by talk of silly stories. “Come now, professor De Leon,” Bill finishes what is left in his glass and shakes his head. “You truly think we are stepping into a ghost story? For what reason would this man have to entrap us there?” It does give him something to ponder, he supposes. Gilly’s position is bizarre, but Bill has to admit that his own guard is heightened by the mysterious invitations. 

“I will be there,” he confirms, nod of his head punctuating the statement. “Who knows? If what you are saying is in fact true, you may need me there.”

stifling laughter and turning away to hide her joy at the comical display unveiling in front of her, bonnie is completely thrown for a loop when the politician’s attention suddenly lands on her. moments such as this one have her recalling why she really ought to stop hanging about like she has any actual reason for stopping near the balcony.

as a matter of fact, isn’t he the one to be accosted? if the sight before her hadn’t been so funny, she would have had an easier time concealing her snort of amusement. and besides, what’s the worst he can do now that he’s caught her tittering like this? laugh at her as well?

for onlookers, they must make for a strange pair, bonnie thinks; with her grinning like she’s about to burst at the seams in opposition to his sobriety. not the type of picture one commonly thinks of.

“mister barker,” she returns the greeting, hand stretching out to shake his. her lips are still twitching and she is transported back in time; feeling like the girl of six who could never sit still and whose teacher threw a fit when little bonnie couldn’t stop giggling for two entire hours. adults are so terribly boring and nothing about that realization has changed in the years that have passed since then, except maybe for the way she laughs at everything more freely now.

“either that wine isn’t to your taste or you’re the type to hold a grudge.”

.

For a moment, Bill dares to hope that Bonnie may not have seen what has just transpired, the childish act of frustration he has just enacted. The moment comes crashing down all too quickly - but though Bonnie has seen, she doesn’t seem to care. In fact, she seems to find the whole thing rather amusing. Bill is glad for that, he supposed. It is easier to deal with her laughing, than if would be if she, outraged, demanded to know what the hell he was playing at. 

And so Bill shakes her hand, and Bill smiles as the introduction is accepted. Her laughter makes it easy to laugh too, a rueful chuckle that rumbles out of his throat. “I regret that you have caught me not quite on my best behaviour - I hope you can forgive my transgressions.” 

His head cocks to one side, and he ponders how to answer the question. He does know how to hold a grudge, but also how to pick his battles, but does not think such a revelation would endear him to Bonnie Hwang in this moment. 

A different tactic is needed. Bill prefers to know who he is talking to, even just a little, before attempting to woo them to his side, but he does not have that luxury here. Mentally, he reviews what she knows. Bonnie is an entertainer, and in turn, he has entertained her. The tossing of the wine seems to have earned him a little favour, and so, Bill continues in the same vein. 

“Is it not enough of an explanation that I saw a couple together, and thought to give them a shock?” He flashes her a grin. “We cannot all be paragons all of the time.”