[ Claude Aubert, they say, has a heart of stone. He's carved from marble, congenial in a way that only affects the surface of his smooth exterior; when he smiles, the emotion begins and ends at the curve of his lips. A learned behavior, passed down from another hand— if anyone asks about the state of his personal distance with everyone and anyone, he'd refer them to his better, more exuberant half-sibling for lessons in affection.
"I'm your doctor," is his excuse. "It wouldn't do for me to be distressed should my assistance ever prove to be insufficient."
(the thinly-veiled implication that he deals in life or death is enough of a turn-off to most.)
What most people don't know, however, is that stone can warm over. With enough patience and firepower, even marble yields and fissures; it flakes, revealing the uneven underbelly, the hidden patterning.
Claude Aubert never stood a chance against Iona Oakes, who bleeds and burns as brightly as the sun.
So he's here, after a month fraught with ill-advised infighting. Some of his favorite arrondissements are in tatters, caught in the crossfire of territorial bickering ending in mass injuries and inconvenience; his phone's been ringing nonstop for balms and salves and splints, but he's taken the afternoon off.
Is it unprofessional of him to take a break for a personal visit? Probably, but he's beyond caring.
Polished shoes tap on reinforced roofing, and Claude shows up exactly on time. Not a minute or second out of place, even if his mussed hair and slightly crooked tie speak to the fact that he did, in fact, speedwalk his way on over. ]
Oh, I don't doubt that I will.
[ He heard that, Iona. Oh, ye of little faith.
He smiles, anyway. ]
No need to look so glum. You've seen worse, haven't you?
no subject
"I'm your doctor," is his excuse. "It wouldn't do for me to be distressed should my assistance ever prove to be insufficient."
(the thinly-veiled implication that he deals in life or death is enough of a turn-off to most.)
What most people don't know, however, is that stone can warm over. With enough patience and firepower, even marble yields and fissures; it flakes, revealing the uneven underbelly, the hidden patterning.
Claude Aubert never stood a chance against Iona Oakes, who bleeds and burns as brightly as the sun.
So he's here, after a month fraught with ill-advised infighting. Some of his favorite arrondissements are in tatters, caught in the crossfire of territorial bickering ending in mass injuries and inconvenience; his phone's been ringing nonstop for balms and salves and splints, but he's taken the afternoon off.
Is it unprofessional of him to take a break for a personal visit? Probably, but he's beyond caring.
Polished shoes tap on reinforced roofing, and Claude shows up exactly on time. Not a minute or second out of place, even if his mussed hair and slightly crooked tie speak to the fact that he did, in fact, speedwalk his way on over. ]
Oh, I don't doubt that I will.
[ He heard that, Iona. Oh, ye of little faith.
He smiles, anyway. ]
No need to look so glum. You've seen worse, haven't you?