Crozier’s never been the one to serve as a mediator instead of participating as one side of two antagonistic parties, and he looks between them - Fitzjames’ fake air of indifference and Ram’s uncomfortable body language telling him all he needs to know. It won’t do.
He dips his chin in acknowledgment at Ram’s offer; it may help him to keep busy and have Crozier bear the brunt of the conversation, which he doesn’t mind doing this time. It’s James. How many conversations has he had with his ghost over the years, never once expecting a reply?
The comment about Fitzjames’ coat doesn’t fuel any ire or goad him into more annoyance; he’s worried for his second and the chill that’s certainly still in his frail bones. “Fire’s plenty warm,” he reassures Rama. “I’m sure he’s acclimating still. It’s been a while since he’s been indoors.”
He sits down as well, never as elegant or polished as Fitzjames, onto one of the two bench seats at the table. He leans forward, arms resting on the flat surface, his sleeve tugging and his unwrapped stump fully on display. He doesn’t think twice about it.
“The hostilities extend to more than just the maniacs in the forest,” he explains quietly. As much as he adores James Fitzjames, he can’t abide the continued hurt feelings over a misunderstanding. “Hickey’s been a particular nuance, as I’d mentioned previously. He’s promised to kill me, twice to my face by my reckoning, though clearly he can’t even manage that since I’m still bloody here.”
He huffs under his breath, though there’s a slight wheeze to it. “Rama found me that day when Hickey’d beaten me to a pulp. I was near death.” Crozier pauses, looking down at his hand as it taps the table. “Mn. I was. It’s a miracle I’m still alive. But with the round of newcomers and the people in the forest, it’s difficult to say who’s friend or foe.”
Crozier raises his eyes and meets Fitzjames’, smiling oh-so-softly in spite of himself. It’s just so good to see him once more. “I’m glad you’ve come.”
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Crozier’s never been the one to serve as a mediator instead of participating as one side of two antagonistic parties, and he looks between them - Fitzjames’ fake air of indifference and Ram’s uncomfortable body language telling him all he needs to know. It won’t do.
He dips his chin in acknowledgment at Ram’s offer; it may help him to keep busy and have Crozier bear the brunt of the conversation, which he doesn’t mind doing this time. It’s James. How many conversations has he had with his ghost over the years, never once expecting a reply?
The comment about Fitzjames’ coat doesn’t fuel any ire or goad him into more annoyance; he’s worried for his second and the chill that’s certainly still in his frail bones. “Fire’s plenty warm,” he reassures Rama. “I’m sure he’s acclimating still. It’s been a while since he’s been indoors.”
He sits down as well, never as elegant or polished as Fitzjames, onto one of the two bench seats at the table. He leans forward, arms resting on the flat surface, his sleeve tugging and his unwrapped stump fully on display. He doesn’t think twice about it.
“The hostilities extend to more than just the maniacs in the forest,” he explains quietly. As much as he adores James Fitzjames, he can’t abide the continued hurt feelings over a misunderstanding. “Hickey’s been a particular nuance, as I’d mentioned previously. He’s promised to kill me, twice to my face by my reckoning, though clearly he can’t even manage that since I’m still bloody here.”
He huffs under his breath, though there’s a slight wheeze to it. “Rama found me that day when Hickey’d beaten me to a pulp. I was near death.” Crozier pauses, looking down at his hand as it taps the table. “Mn. I was. It’s a miracle I’m still alive. But with the round of newcomers and the people in the forest, it’s difficult to say who’s friend or foe.”
Crozier raises his eyes and meets Fitzjames’, smiling oh-so-softly in spite of himself. It’s just so good to see him once more. “I’m glad you’ve come.”