Roland Banning, The Ambitious Operative

“I feel like at least at the Royal Beth, wayward patrons are mostly harmless,” Casey says, leaning over to scratch Jasper behind the ears. “Knowing a tiger is inhabiting your quarters though will get word to spread quickly that you’d be best left alone.” They nick a teacake off of the tray and brake a small corner off, sneaking it to Jasper when Roland isn’t looking, and then take a bite.

"Cheer in winter is something like an act of war upon the cold, I think, and for spite alone I respect it," Cruz begins, thanking Roland as the cakes and tea comes out -- en loses their train of thought after that, though. Cherries. Cruz's mouth waters just to look at them. En takes a scone off the plate, and, never one to save the treat for last, en does pluck the cherry on top out with ens teeth, syrupy and treacle-sweet and still warm. A grateful sip of tea. It doesn't feel like something en deserves. En is struck again with the feeling of being a trespasser in ens own skin.

Roland seems a little relieved to not have to suddenly house a tiger, and if he's seen Cruz acting like en's capable of joy, he hasn't shown it. If there's any indication he's watching en's feelings, it's his expression softening when en seems a little embarrassed.

“Some sort of wintery Christmas spectre seems to possess Roland at this time of year,” Casey says with a dramatic sigh, feigning exhaustion. “Some of us take to this season with more daytime naps and solitude, but with him it’s a revolving door of baked goods and other tidings. Still, company is always nice.”

Cruz tugs off ens glove by biting it delicately between ens teeth, allowing ens hand to warm up naturally. Hard to ignore, indeed. Cruz can smell the tea-cakes, and it strikes en that en hadn't had a proper lunch yet. En feels a bit awkward, ungainly. Hard to settle. Not usually one for company for company's sake

Roland walks from the kitchen, the faint smell of some baked good coming through. "Welcome in! I've started a little bit of a sweet for the cold, if you'd like." He walks to Cruz and takes en's hand, lifting it to his lips. "It's good to see you again. Let's get you by the heat and get you comfortable."

“We’ve more than enough room here,” Casey explains as they lead en inside. “And with the added benefit of safety both outside and within here. I am not in charge of the holiday baking so there is no risk of being poisoned.”

"Oh, she has let herself into the room already," Cruz says -- may have been about to complain, but Roland takes ens hand then and leads en into the house. It's comfortable and spacious -- alive and inhabited. And warm. Quite warm. Yes, en thinks, much better than the empty rooms.

Roland seems a little relieved to not have to suddenly house a tiger, and if he's seen Cruz acting like en's capable of joy, he hasn't shown it. If there's any indication he's watching en's feelings, it's his expression softening when en seems a little embarrassed.

"In that case," Roland says, having just noticed the indecent scene he's become an accomplice in creating, "why don't we be on our way through the gardens? I'd love to be seen with you on my way to something nefarious."

Cruz accepts the offered hand, though they don't need it, rising with a little chuckle at the hubbub the two of them have produced. Their hand lingers upon his fingertips a moment, before they find reason to adjust their skirts and the pin upon their empty sleeve. They notice with a bit of chagrin that the parcel covers the expenses, and adds a couple of shillings to the tip

"Perhaps," Roland says with an eyebrow raise of his own, "I simply need a few reminders. Lucky for me I've found someone unafraid to give them." After they've managed to leave the coffee house without a(nother) scene, Roland looks up to the false-stars and the Bazaar's spires, half-expecting to see a new sigil. With nothing out of the ordinary just yet, he looks away before they can do any damage.

Roland, still coming back to... well, one could possibly call this earth, is smiling like a cat that knew it was too cute to be scolded. "You can't tempt me with an unforgettable kiss and think I wouldn't consider it~" he teases. He finishes his scone with a little chuckle.

Cruz wishes the season were warmer; they'd have reason then to grasp for their fan and something to do with their hands. They knew this would likely raise eyebrows, but they already felt as if they had been too well-behaved upon their return -- some had even made the mistake of of calling them reformed. The nerve.

"In that case," Roland says, having just noticed the indecent scene he's become an accomplice in creating, "why don't we be on our way through the gardens? I'd love to be seen with you on my way to something nefarious."

Cruz is not particularly trying to make a specific impression, which is a thought that surprises them, even as they think it. As such, Roland's interest doesn't slot into the same space in their head -- not a reward for intimation but a reciprocation, and in some respects, Cruz isn't sure what to do.

"You should keep me at least a little longer," Roland says, and closes the gap between them. Mercifully, the scene made by the chaperone fainting dead away at one, then two scenes of improper courtship behavior prevented any onlookers. Not that Roland notices, though, a kiss of violant emblazoning itself on him, the shades lingering on his own. Every moment of his fingers lacing through theirs, the way they breathe, it stays, bathed in an irrepressible violant glow.

It's their own concoction, a lip salve so heavily pigmented they were often asked to remove it at God's Editors. They learned the recipe one narrow winter in Paris, and improved it over time -- most recently, with the adding of violant pigment to catch the eye and the memory, to hold oneself within the heart, troublesome and necessary. But Cruz did not expect to be kissed today, and they don't expect the sparks -- or perhaps those are imagined, a phrase out of one of their own poems, the ones that don't see the light of day or the English tongue.

Roland, still coming back to... well, one could possibly call this earth, is smiling like a cat that knew it was too cute to be scolded. "You can't tempt me with an unforgettable kiss and think I wouldn't consider it~" he teases. He finishes his scone with a little chuckle.

Cruz is not particularly trying to make a specific impression, which is a thought that surprises them, even as they think it. As such, Roland's interest doesn't slot into the same space in their head -- not a reward for intimation but a reciprocation, and in some respects, Cruz isn't sure what to do.

"You should keep me at least a little longer," Roland says, and closes the gap between them. Mercifully, the scene made by the chaperone fainting dead away at one, then two scenes of improper courtship behavior prevented any onlookers. Not that Roland notices, though, a kiss of violant emblazoning itself on him, the shades lingering on his own. Every moment of his fingers lacing through theirs, the way they breathe, it stays, bathed in an irrepressible violant glow.

As Christmas approaches, visitors at any hour seem to increase by random degrees. Some days, it’s friendly carolers who just wish to share a song. Other times, it’s the post. There’s always a difficult dichotomy in Casey’s head about Christmas: putting up the happy front for others who earnestly just wish to spread holiday cheer, and the nagging dread of another difficult anniversary trailing not far behind. They’re not necessarily surprised to open the door and find Cruz towering in the doorway, but it’s such a departure from the types of visitors that have been coming around they’re quiet for half a second.

In the vaulting Bazaar-spires, Cruz doesn't quite have to duck to get in the door, but en does by habit anyway. The warmth is almost a shock after the cold damp of the street. Cruz shakes off some lacre from ens head and shoulders as en hangs up the jacket on the coat-rack and rubs warmth into ens fingers against the velvet of their skirt. And it is a skirt, again, today; petticoats are simply warmer than a woolen suit.

Roland walks from the kitchen, the faint smell of some baked good coming through. "Welcome in! I've started a little bit of a sweet for the cold, if you'd like." He walks to Cruz and takes en's hand, lifting it to his lips. "It's good to see you again. Let's get you by the heat and get you comfortable."

Roland exaggerates a sigh of relief at Cruz changing the subject, then adjusts into a proper posture for the time honored tradition of recreationally talking shit. "It's terrible. The biggest avenue to meeting the real power in London's industry, and then you realize you have to talk to it." His smile is mischievous, fingers perched on the edge of his coffee cup.

Cruz knew better than to linger on the subject in public, but it was exciting. Some foolish little part of them hoped to see Roland properly at work some day, to see the face he wore when familiarity was secondary to business. Perhaps, if Cruz kept dabbling in things outside their comprehension, they would.

Roland laughs, just enough pretend Vapid Socialite in his voice as he says "Me? Oh, nothing so secret. I'm all sorts of dreadful things that sound exciting to have at a party, and it's all true." He gives Cruz a knowing smile, inviting them to hear the unsaid words. He returns to his own voice with a dismissive eye roll. "In all honesty, I'm making investments and friends in the right places. Half of them think I'm a spy, the others think I'm a criminal mastermind. I enjoy the speculation."

Cruz knows how to read between the lines. He's not terribly familiar with the breadth of Roland's influence -- but knows he's a very dangerous man to know, in the way that serves people like Cruz. They're starting to get their feet under them again, the lingering glance to their lip color something they feel like they had control of.

Roland exaggerates a sigh of relief at Cruz changing the subject, then adjusts into a proper posture for the time honored tradition of recreationally talking shit. "It's terrible. The biggest avenue to meeting the real power in London's industry, and then you realize you have to talk to it." His smile is mischievous, fingers perched on the edge of his coffee cup.

Cruz doesn't miss the look that passes Roland's face at the mention of homesickness. Somehow, it surprises him to consider that the man may have died before -- he seems so in control of his surroundings, it's hard to picture. Everyone starts somewhere in London.

Roland offers a polite chuckle at Cruz’s joke, internally relieved to  have the subject broached. Even in the Neath, even if it’s socially  acceptable to ask a friend these things, unexplained missing limbs makes  for about as good a conversation as chopping one off in the first  place. Art, on the other hand, was somehow less of a minefield. Roland  adjusts himself in his seat, interest piqued. “You’re writing again!   Good, I’ve missed your stories. Nothing’s quite gotten your voice, and   it’s been like a little hole in the paper left unfilled.”  

That look flusters Cruz somewhat, masking it over with a bit of scone and coffee. They leave violant lipstick-marks upon the rim of the coffee-cup. They were perhaps an infamously flirtatious presence in London, but the Cruz that built that reputation... they are having a hard time stepping back into that skin again.

Roland laughs, just enough pretend Vapid Socialite in his voice as he says "Me? Oh, nothing so secret. I'm all sorts of dreadful things that sound exciting to have at a party, and it's all true." He gives Cruz a knowing smile, inviting them to hear the unsaid words. He returns to his own voice with a dismissive eye roll. "In all honesty, I'm making investments and friends in the right places. Half of them think I'm a spy, the others think I'm a criminal mastermind. I enjoy the speculation."

Cruz doesn't miss the look that passes Roland's face at the mention of homesickness. Somehow, it surprises him to consider that the man may have died before -- he seems so in control of his surroundings, it's hard to picture. Everyone starts somewhere in London.

Roland offers a polite chuckle at Cruz’s joke, internally relieved to  have the subject broached. Even in the Neath, even if it’s socially  acceptable to ask a friend these things, unexplained missing limbs makes  for about as good a conversation as chopping one off in the first  place. Art, on the other hand, was somehow less of a minefield. Roland  adjusts himself in his seat, interest piqued. “You’re writing again!   Good, I’ve missed your stories. Nothing’s quite gotten your voice, and   it’s been like a little hole in the paper left unfilled.”  

Roland waves off the apology. "If I'd known it was really you, we'd have talked. I was hasty and should have checked. All that said, I want to hear about what you've been up to." He reaches across the table to Cruz's good hand, discretely touching their fingertips with his. He looks at their face, eyes soft and welcoming. "I did ask a few people when you were away, but tried not to pry in case you were laying low. Not that I didn't wonder based on what I've heard." Roland's smile takes on a more intrigued note, and he leans in with a feigned conspiratorial tone.

Cruz doesn't anticipate how much the gesture affects them -- a brush of fingers, electric across their knuckles. Their fingers curl, then relax; an allowance. A trace tightness at the edge of Cruz's lip. The idea that they were asked after takes them off-guard in a similar way, that sort of daily realization that they are thought about when they aren't there.

It's not unheard of for a friend to be away for a long while in Roland's line of work. He'd known Cruz moved in the periphery of major players, so he didn't worry until someone claiming to be Cruz had said some half-informed thing about his "tastes," the implications hanging off of it like a caul. It wasn't a serious matter in the end, though. Some poisonous frog found its way to the person's washroom. Truly a terrible accident.

Roland is impeccably dressed, and, Cruz notes with chagrin, with a taste to make themself look conservative. Not that it was a high bar today -- he attire they've picked for the occasion is smart and reserved; a high-necked walking dress that wouldn't look out of place on a governess, except for their usual sinful red lips. If Cruz felt any lingering malady from the poison frog that had paid them a visit, they didn't show it. Their lip quirks wryly, and they take the offered scone, setting it on their plate as they settle into their chair with a great shuffling of skirts.

Roland waves off the apology. "If I'd known it was really you, we'd have talked. I was hasty and should have checked. All that said, I want to hear about what you've been up to." He reaches across the table to Cruz's good hand, discretely touching their fingertips with his. He looks at their face, eyes soft and welcoming. "I did ask a few people when you were away, but tried not to pry in case you were laying low. Not that I didn't wonder based on what I've heard." Roland's smile takes on a more intrigued note, and he leans in with a feigned conspiratorial tone.