Valerian was interested in the boggart, if only because he was still wondering whether or not it would shift into the same image or not, but really he was more interested in listening to Greengrass talk about something he was interested about (and something that Valerian couldn't dream of grasping in his inebriated state). His gaze was directed somewhere off near the bar, but his eyes were glazed over and not focused on anything particular. He listened to the words, but even more than that he listened to Greengrass' voice, soaking up the sound of it to replay in his mind at a later date.
"It would make sense why some boggarts are more detailed than others," he said, considering it but not considering it that deeply. His own boggart was a mere reflection of his own image—an imagine he looked at every day, multiple times a day, in his mirror at home while he got ready for work, dinner, other social commitments, and eventually bed.
Bed. He wondered what Greengrass would be like in bed. It was such a lewd thought to have, but an unavoidable one now that the look Greengrass had worn just moments ago was embedded in his mind. It had been so long since Valerian had company in bed—when he thought of it like that it made sense why he'd shown such a physical reaction to Macmillan even in the middle of a scuffle. His gaze found its way back to Greengrass, his gaze still glazed over with something, but he was not mindlessly staring off into space. He was looking at Greengrass—his eyes, the shape of his nose, the curve of his jaw, and his full lips. He'd always had a bookish sort of look to him—not the type who was too promiscuous. He certainly didn't act like that. Valerian decided he liked that.
Finally he caught Greengrass' eye, and this time to smile did not come too easily, but instead a lone eyebrow slid up and his gaze remained fixated on him, following his every shift in his seat. "I wonder what the boggart would take the form of if it saw me now. I've always had a good imagination." He brought his glass to his lips, but didn't break eye contact. He wanted to see Greengrass' reaction, to make sure this wasn't some wine-induced hallucination of his. Tatiana's acceptance of his proposal even when it seemed an impossibility had given him hope—given him confidence.
"It would make sense why some boggarts are more detailed than others," he said, considering it but not considering it that deeply. His own boggart was a mere reflection of his own image—an imagine he looked at every day, multiple times a day, in his mirror at home while he got ready for work, dinner, other social commitments, and eventually bed.
Bed. He wondered what Greengrass would be like in bed. It was such a lewd thought to have, but an unavoidable one now that the look Greengrass had worn just moments ago was embedded in his mind. It had been so long since Valerian had company in bed—when he thought of it like that it made sense why he'd shown such a physical reaction to Macmillan even in the middle of a scuffle. His gaze found its way back to Greengrass, his gaze still glazed over with something, but he was not mindlessly staring off into space. He was looking at Greengrass—his eyes, the shape of his nose, the curve of his jaw, and his full lips. He'd always had a bookish sort of look to him—not the type who was too promiscuous. He certainly didn't act like that. Valerian decided he liked that.
Finally he caught Greengrass' eye, and this time to smile did not come too easily, but instead a lone eyebrow slid up and his gaze remained fixated on him, following his every shift in his seat. "I wonder what the boggart would take the form of if it saw me now. I've always had a good imagination." He brought his glass to his lips, but didn't break eye contact. He wanted to see Greengrass' reaction, to make sure this wasn't some wine-induced hallucination of his. Tatiana's acceptance of his proposal even when it seemed an impossibility had given him hope—given him confidence.
