#rupert cb.

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@forjanus said: i'd let her fuck me with a racket.

AS WOULD RUPERT.

Instead of saying as much, he licks the inside of his teeth then clicks his tongue against the newly-cleansed surface of his central incisors.

"Don't be a crude little shit."

He needs to be diplomatic. This is a crucial, integral trait of any politician - or wannabe politician.

"You're a smart man; I know you are." Finally, he faces Alec head on - as cool as can be. "So act like it."

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@topshelfperverts // tony said: "so obviously this isn't the result you wanted today."

NO, THIS ISN'T THE FUCKING RESULT HE WANTED TODAY, TONY, AND IF YOU'VE JUST COME TO GLOAT ABOUT IT—

"Oh, do fuck off, Lord Baddingham."

This insufferable fucking prick who dares to remain in such close proximity—who dares to fuck with, and fuck, Declan's wife. No further comment on that, of course, but if Tony still thinks he can have Cameron, or Helen, or, Christ forbid, Tag—

He can't think about that right now. This is about the election, and about the injustice suffered by Declan, and nothing more.

"Are you prone to stating the obvious very much these days? What with the accident, your brain's in disarray, I'm sure."

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@id1eyouth // harrison said: i'm not going to that party.

"Don't be silly."

Unfortunately, Rupert knows all too well that Harrison is rarely, if ever, silly. Not intentionally. Not even by some accident or misinterpretation. (It is somewhat exhausting.)

"Sir Mayhew's making an appearance. Is it the wife? Don't tell me it's the wife." But it might be, because: "You've been behaving awfully strangely."

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@topshelfperverts // declan said: "get your fucking confidence back. i can't do it for you."

ISN'T DECLAN SUPPOSED TO BE THE MOPEY DRUNKARD? Not only because he's Irish, and all Irishmen are that, but also because Rupert has the very real lived experience of wiping Declan's self-pitying tears before they drip into his wine glass. He's sensitive. Extreme.

It's sadly admirable. Admirably sad.

"When The Blessed Margaret's lost her faith in me after all these years," Her faith in Rupert against all odds, the Olympian, the bad boy, the goddamn Minister for Sport, "There's not much confidence left to take back, I'm afraid. If you'd ever fallen so far from grace, Declan, you'd understand. Surely."

He's so hungover that he's still drunk and, indeed, slurring.

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@gordiacea | x

IS THERE NO CAMARADERIE AMONGST MEN THESE DAYS?

Culturally, the United States confounds him. On one hand, you've got establishments such as this one—a convenience store on a street corner selling just about anything the owner could add to his inventory. On the other, you've got this fellow—who's being awfully standoffish, despite the humor inherent to this encounter, and he's certainly not being considerate of Rupert's pleasantly tipsy demeanor.

"Just okay, then?" Rupert muses. He does not flip through his magazine of choice. He tucks it against his chest, in the crook of his elbow. He's still a politician, for fuck's sake, a public figure. Maybe not here, but the instincts carry over.

"You can't possibly be committed to your studies at this hour."

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@killerdame said: i thought of you last night.

ONLY LAST NIGHT?

Rupert has thought of Dove every night and every day and every time of day in between, outside, what have you. When she moved here permanently, he felt something shift. Something that lives in his chest—something that affects the air breathed by everyone else, too.

He's got no business being in the kitchen, but people got used to this when he'd show up at the O'Hara's or various other dinner parties where Taggie'd been hired to help out behind the scenes.

Let's be clear, though: Rupert thrives in a shadowy corner with a woman leaning languidly against the wall perpendicular to him, or at a table of about eleven other guests where everyone's laughing at the way he's just told an otherwise unremarkable story—because it was him, and he matters, and he's good at this.

All the lights are on. Dove's husband (Rupert's friend from his polo days) hired a company with a small staff to handle the cooking and cleaning and serving—the things Dove might have once been familiar with, or thought she'd become familiar with, once upon a time, but can now afford to delegate.

There is no reason for her to be in the kitchen, either. The staff are taking out the garbage. Rupert is peering into Dove's cupboards and only her cupboards. He finds a container of oats older than Dove's marriage.

"I'm sure these thoughts were pleasant." He turns the container to inspect the archaic, incomprehensible nutrition facts label. "But fleeting as well, of course."