leslibertes:
Who cares?
&& it certainly takes one to know one, does it not?
To be precise, he couldn’t care less, why with those soldiers again nipping at his fleeing heels. Have they nothing better to do than to wander these halls endlessly?
Such a mundane life they lead, how do men like this even live. Much less the one who’s report he accidentally ruined. With something so petty as a coffee spill, no less.
It does turn out to be everything he knew it would be. Pissed off boss is always pissed off, no surprise there, but.. to beat the man is going much too far.
That man, moody or not, is a genius and anything he has so written before, silly chicken scratch to the troublesome boy, can and most certainly will be rewritten.
Only better.
He’ll not be seeing the man beaten again and please, do not drop dead. Because it would be a such shame after he’s returned with an equally busted lip and black eye to oppose the doctor’s own.
"Five days was it? … I’ll see that it gets done."
Who cares? If not blatantly obvious by now; he does.
Mercer is hunched over his desk when the Frenchman strolls in and speaks. One eye opens; obviously the good one that isn’t bruised and stares at him. Blandly. He cannot understand you, nor does he have any motivation to even want to try. Antisocial to the bitter end.
However, he can blatantly see your grand hospitality and it’s rare for Mercer to acknowledge it. After all, you did ruin his report and the blame lies with you. Something tells him that Arno is blamed for many things — consider him not outwardly blaming the other an act of xenodochy.
A scuffle with files before hands settle cordially. Glasses re-adjusted.
“Thanks, but—”
Mercer trails off, shoulders hunching and head in hands. He gives his face a good scrub and leans back in the office chair.
“—You’d get beat up more trying to help me.”
And he’d rather not see that happen. Really.
