“Fancy seeing you here.” There’s a sense of irony twisting the cambion’s voice to a more humorous tune--the spectacle is not unusual or unexpected in the slightest after the shedding of blood outside and a show of Aramis’ cool generosity in the middle of it all. The table he strides to is occupied by the large and skulking shape made of limbs that are half man, half machine; impressive at first glance, though evidently not without their weaknesses. His fingers press to the wood in front, thin body bent forward to let his lowered voice more clearly sink home. “Haven’t we quite a bit to discuss after that rabble outside, sir?” More things than he thinks either of them can count immediately--even with the fluttering sense of being quite unwelcome to this one’s moment of sulking privacy. Necessary evils and all that. Aramis smiles distantly and slips himself into the neighbouring seat. “And I’d venture to guess you’re at last feeling somewhat more hearty if you’ve sat down to a drink. What a little liquid courage won’t do for a man, mm...?”
A folded hand serves as perch for one pale cheek, the other toying absently with the knot of his tie flush to his throat and then the beaded chains of jewellery hidden somewhere beneath his collar. “I’ve never met someone quite like you,” he adds conversationally, “A man between so many worlds and designs as this. I admire the steadfast devotion to your belief, if nothing else--many more besides you give it up entirely.” And who might know that better than he? At this stage in his young life, he imagines he might be more intimately familiar with that than most. He lowers that neatening hand instead to the table beneath where it retires itself to a tame little fist.
“Let me guess...you’d rather we do away with the small talk when there are so many questions you likely need to ask, right? Come now, I can tell--I see that look in your eye all too clearly. Well, by all means, ask away.”