@nctposh/ @lcgistics
The man at the desk would be nondescript if it weren’t for the hair–pastel purple today, as a nod to the other man’s sensibilities; and the fact that there are currently three of him in the room. None of them are currently looking at Mr. Lane, though the one at the window and the one at the bookshelf at least have the far-off look that suggests they are paying more attention to what it is the other four of their number are up to.
Thompson’s voice is soft and does not quite match him as he runs his fingertips across the surface of the desk in slow patterns, nudging papers ever so slightly this way and that.
“You’ll forgive me for borrowing your chair, won’t you. I thought you might like to talk about that diplomat.”
The business of knowing things is, by its very nature, deeply connected with the various actors. Maintaining at least friendly relationships with everyone involved is par for the course. And not mistaking friendly terms with the indication of any leniency or slack, that is par for the course, too.
Mr. Lane closes his door without hesitation nor added urgency, he hangs his rainjacket up on the hook and sets his umbrella in the stand. Thompson is certainly startling but Mr. Lane has gotten very good at keeping his expression of proper neutrality. ( the first time was not so easy. Eric deals largely with international conflict, heads of state, and worse, given Ginny Bauer- the marvelous and extraordinary are largely outside of his realm of understanding. )
“Of course.” The Brit taps his electric kettle to turn it on. “Tea while we talk?” Not looking at any of the Thompsons until that question, small, polite smile in place as he focuses on the one who last spoke. ( Yankees of any stripe, he’s found, love their liberties. )
“I hope things haven’t made a turn.” But why else would he be here?
