This was absurd. She had no reason to be here, sitting on the couch with her teacup in front of her face and her lips pursed like they were, demanding he give her some biscuits, and for what? Because he'd told her to leave? He shot her a sideways glance, his brows furrowed.

"Would you like me to put some in the oven?" he asked, his voice thick. Never mind that he didn't really know how to bake, but he didn't keep biscuits in his home without reason. He wasn't even sure why he was entertaining her requests when he should have been explaining that, yes, she could go and he wouldn't do anything stupid—whatever that meant. At least then he could wallow in his guilt without having her simmering on his couch.

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

This response made her irrationally exasperated, though honestly it probably had less to do with the comment itself and more to do with everything that had come before it.

"Who keeps tea without keeping biscuits?" she demanded angrily. She had half a mind to storm over to the floo and go home and get a tin herself (the Binns pantry was always well stocked with these sorts of things), but she had the presence of mind to recognize that it would be ridiculous to leave and come back over something so inconsequential, on the surface of things.

"You," Juliana said, turning on the couch and bringing one leg up beneath her so that she was facing him, in a very similar fashion to what he'd done to her earlier. This was actually what she was angry about, not the biscuits, and now that she'd decided to say it all the words spilled out in one quick speech. "Need healthier coping mechanisms. You should not be relying on a woman you only met two weeks ago to talk you through your — well, whatever you think we need to talk about," she said. "This is not my job. I'm not responsible for your well-being, just because you happened across me in that garden and we were seen together. And you shouldn't be sitting there drinking whiskey and contemplating stupid, impulsive things because I said something mean to you one time," she finished.

(Well, it had been more than one time — but the point stood).

The following 2 users Like Juliana Ainsworth's post:2 users Like Juliana Ainsworth's post
   Fallon Gillespie, Lachlan MacFusty

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

Her anger about the biscuits seems misplaced, and he nearly opened his mouth to say me, obviously before she cut him off.

Nothing she said was objectively untrue, but he was already beginning to list off the all the misinterpretations she'd made over the course of their last conversation. For one, he wasn't relying on her to help him through his problems. He only didn't want her to disappear off the face of the earth and lead him to fend off questions about the article that she'd written without letting him know, just in case he went and messed everything up like he had a habit of doing. He also thought her comment about his whiskey was out of place, mostly because she hadn't even bothered to try it. He only kept the best whiskey, and it was good for many things—not just moping around and contemplating stupid things.

But he didn't say any of that out loud, because then he'd be sucked into a conversation about his feelings, and despite what she seemed to think, he didn't actually want her dissecting those with her super clever brain. Instead he rolled his eyes, managed a half-smile, and made a show about putting his whiskey glass down in favor of a teacup. He cocked a brow at her as if to say okay, one thing down, but made no comment on her assessment of his life.

"For the record you didn't hurt my feelings," he said, but only after taking a long sip of his tea. "You just don't make any sense."

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"I'm making perfect sense!" she insisted, realizing as she said it that this was coming off far more intense than was probably useful for this conversation. She stopped, forcing herself to breath for a moment (although in her current state breathing sounded more like heaving disgruntled sighs). She added another scoop of sugar to her tea, even though it didn't need it, just to have something to do with her hands. She stirred the tea until the sugar was dissolved, and then a little longer; really, it was less about the sugar and more about the need to compose herself enough that she could continue calmly. She reminded herself that she wasn't angry at him, necessarily. Just angry at — this.

"What do you want, exactly?" she asked, when she finally looked up at him again. "You asked me to explain why I wrote it, and I did. What else do you need from me?"

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

He wondered if she realized how silly she looked, aggressively stirring her tea and the tense expression on her face. She wanted to talk about his coping mechanisms, but he wasn't sure he would call the extra scoops of sugar healthy. He had a feeling mentioning that would not do him any favors, though. Instead, he opted to continue his pigheadedness.

"I didn't ask you for anything," he replied. And she was, even if he did not exactly want them to part on bad terms—but he'd committed to his self-sabotage and it was difficult to stop once he'd started. "You don't owe me anything. You said it yourself, it's not your job." That part was true; none of what he was working through could be helped, especially not by someone he'd met a mere two weeks ago. He knew his request to stay in touch was illogical, because really if they wanted to keep the rumors at bay it was best if they were no more than passing strangers. But they weren't passing strangers—not anymore—and he was almost a little bitter she hadn't been as impacted by the whole ordeal as he'd been. That was the root of this, that she thought it was a just another problem to be solved rather instead of a painful moment to endure, but rather than explain that it was easier to deflect and blame it on her stubbornness.

He took a sip from his teacup, wishing it was the whiskey he'd been drinking from a moment ago. He did not want to get into a fight with her. Being yelled at was not his brand of self-sabotage.

"But you never told me what you write," he said suddenly. It was what he'd meant to ask before she'd gone on a rant about how he was pretending to be interested in her life. At the very least, it might take the attention off him.

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— way too attractive set by mj <3 —

She frowned into her tea cup at his first set of comments. He was just being stubborn, but she thought she could wait him out and he would tell her sooner or later. He had to want something from her, after all, or else he wouldn't have been so stubbornly emotional about her wanting to leave. Then he asked her what she wrote, and she set the teacup back down on the tray a bit too hard, demonstrating the sudden frustration she felt at the question. Emotional blackmail, again, and now he was trying to use it not only to get her to stay, but to get her to keep doing... this, whatever this was. She couldn't do this. She was right in the middle of everything, now that the article had been published, and she had to focus if she was going to pull it off. She didn't have time to be manipulated into becoming this man's friend, or lover, or whatever it was that he wanted from her. Emotional crutch, from what it seemed like so far.

"Right now, I write idiotic anonymous scandal pieces for Witch Weekly," she said curtly. "And that's all I'll have time to write for the next several weeks, I should think, while I try to work us out of this mess. In the meantime," she said, standing and smoothing out her skirts. "You may write me if you like, but not before five in the afternoon. I can't have someone at the House of Lytton noticing I'm receiving letters from Lachlan MacFusty. And if you think, for some reason, we need to see each other, I'll need at least three day's notice," she continued abruptly, as though this were a business transaction. "And we'll keep to the same schedule as tonight, and you'll have to get biscuits from somewhere."

  

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Prof. Marlowe Forfang

Jules

It did not seem to distract her, not even a little bit. But she was preparing to leave, it seemed, and he was momentarily relieved; at least she left an open channel for communication, even if it did not seem like she wanted to communicate at all. She sounded like she'd been worn down, and he hadn't intended to do that—he didn't want anything from her that was not given by her own desire to do so. In fact, with all these requirements, he was not sure he'd ever get around to writing at all, but he couldn't deny that the option to do still comforted him in the moment.

"I'll try not to bother you," was all he said in response, because it felt like something she'd like to hear.

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