lostcarnival | you must think that i'm stupid, you must think that i'm a fool

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you must think that i'm stupid, you must think that i'm a fool

Who: Nightrider Idiot and Acquisitioner Deadpan
When: D6, Early Afternoon
What: Wismuth's strange vibrancy amplifies emotions. Even emotions Lambert would prefer to pretend don't exist.
Warnings: Lambert, so. Crudeness and sexual references abound.

Childermass's report on the Starlight's warning was disheartening, and Acquisitioner ignoring him completely after their terse conversation on the radio is even worse. Still, if Childermass wants to sulk in the shadows, that's his own problem, and Lambert has no intention of apologizing for saying something that's true. If Childermass meant for it to be a secret, he should have made that clearer from the start.

Even then, Lambert would have disagreed. The potential of powerful enemies being dragged directly to their doorstep isn't a matter for discretion, like a third nipple or wart on the cock. It's a matter of security and lives -- particularly, of keeping them.

So no, Lambert decides. Childermass isn't getting an apology. And if the magician's company is something he finds himself looking for in quiet moments, glancing up expecting him to step from the shadows only to remember they aren't on speaking terms, it's not as though there isn't plenty else to occupy his time. They're not on vacation anymore, and that's a good thing.

He manages to convince himself of that right up until, of all things, he catches the smell of fried rice while he's walking down a street in Wismuth.

Lambert is dressed and glamoured to not stand out from the residents of the city. With his horns, t-shirts aren't really an option, so he wears the somewhat frumpy combination of a short-sleeved gray button up, faded blue jeans, and a red hoodie. He can't get away with wearing his sword around, much to his profound irritation, but the feather blade is tucked into his waistband if he needs it. He's not sure if he's imagining it, but the world feels brighter here, sharper in a way that makes it feel almost magical, even if he can't detect any trace of ambient magic around the place. He bought a pair of sunglasses to see if that might help. It doesn't.

It's while he's investigating that he finds the restaurant, tucked along a side street, and the memory hits him in vivid technicolor: sitting knee-to-knee in a room lit by strings of light, laughing over boxes of greasy food and awful drinks, and the taste of it lingering on their mouths. It feels like a kick to the chest and leaves him gasping, how powerfully he misses that simplicity, and his hands ache with how tightly he curls them. Who the hell gets nostalgic over food?

Apparently, Lambert does. He successfully puts it off for an hour, before he realizes he's been circling the same block and finally admits he isn't succeeding at anything except looking like an idiot. Before he can regret the impulse, he palms his radio and finds the channel he's looking for, pausing for a second before speaking.

"Hey. You want to get early dinner together?" He asks, hoping he manages to sound casual. "I found some Chinese."

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'As long as there's a lot of it' seems the key here, so Childermass will take the menu and run with that in mind. He's right in assuming Childermass will take over picking out the food, even if he doesn't actually know that much more about what is what exactly than the witcher does. He'll look up briefly at the sneeze, though, and raise an eyebrow.

"Too strong for you?"

With a nose like a witcher's, probably.

Anyway, he'll be ordering two orders of a few things for now. Steamed sausage rolls, soup dumplings, steamed pork ribs, BBQ pork buffs, turnip cake, and spring rolls, and, of course, at least one type of fried rice.

"Just surprised me," Lambert grumbles, but he's quick to put the lid back, nonetheless.

The smiling, aproned woman who comes to take their order glances over it with a practiced eye and no apparent nods briskly, her only other question being whether they want anything to drink to go with that. Lambert orders a beer for himself, and lets Childermass order whatever he wants. The drinks are out in short order, and she bustles away again and leaves them to wait for their food to come out.

In the meantime, Lambert fiddles with the chopstick wrappers, getting it open and breaking the sticks apart. It takes him a moment to remember how they're held, but then muscle memory asserts itself and he finds the right way to use them, and he grins in smug triumph once he's got them positioned right.

"You ever wonder how anyone came up with eating with a pair of sticks?" he asks conversationally, using the chopsticks to make grabbing motions in the air.

He orders tea, that's all. Admittedly, he won't be sure what to make of the pot of jasmine tea he ends up with, but he'll make do. Just because it isn't what he's used to doesn't mean he won't try it. Anyway, as Lambert fiddles with his sticks, his attention wanders around the rest of the restaurant curiously, up until the question draws it back to the witcher.

"Hm?" His brow furrows briefly as he looks down from him to the chopsticks. "No? No, not really. A lack of metal for silverware, perhaps, but that's really only a guess."

It's homey. The laminated floor is peeling but clean, and the smell of soy sauce, sesame oil, and garlic seems to have soaked into the furniture itself.

"Maybe we can look it up somewhere," he muses, idly. Maybe he can get 9S to do it. He knows there's the 'Internet' here, though he hasn't tried using it. But also-- "I saw a lot of museums while I was looking around."

Not just art galleries, but whole buildings devoted to preserving history and culture, though he obviously hasn't had time to look around that closely (none of the museums looked like they had anything about potentially deadly threats, anyway).

Childermass raises his eyebrows at that, that Lambert, of all people, would bring up museums at all. Those had art in them. Art and artifacts and musty old pots and other things he can't even fathom a witcher would want to spend an hour or two staring at. Only he doesn't say anything yet since their waitress returns with their drinks first — a beer for Lambert, a steaming little pot of tea for Childermass, complete with a cup for it.

He murmurs a quiet 'thank you' for that and then gives the tea a faintly puzzled look. Well, yes, that's a kettle, but not the kind he's used to. Not that it'll stop him from pouring himself a cup of it, the fragrant scent of jasmine filling the air though not quite strong enough to cover up the garlic and oil.

"Museums," he finally says, an echo of what Lambert was talking about. He looks up again. "Why were you looking for museums? I can't think of anything a Nightrider would have to worry about in those."

"I wasn't looking for them. They're just hard to miss," Lambert scowls, like it's somehow offensive to imply that culture is something he's deliberately sought out. "That's why they make good landmarks."

On the Path, landmarks are few and far between, depending on how much civilization or interesting topography there is. Most of the time, you find a road and you ride until you reach a settlement, or a village, or some other place that has work for you. Cities are different.

"Sometimes they can tell you something useful about a place. Greysol's were like that." Full of artifacts from other worlds and placards with scrupulously detailed information on what they were for and when they were retrieved.

Edited 2018-01-25 12:01 (UTC)

"But Greysol was an odd one," Childermass points out. It's not like he's against the idea of museums here, it just seems like good fun to tease Lambert about it. It isn't something he gets to do often. "So did you want to begin with an art museum? We'll undoubtedly learn the secrets of Wismuth by how they paint their naked women."

Predictably, Lambert visibly perks up, leaning forward a little too eagerly. "You think they'll have those?"

Guess who an expert in art is: hint, it's not Lambert. Though Childermass may have to pause on his answer as the first set of dishes arrive, their waitress briskly marking off the items on their little order slip and leaving them to navigate the bamboo steamers and their contents. At random, Lambert picks up a soup dumpling, and bites in with relish -- only to grab for one of the ceramic spoons on the table as tearing it open nearly spills a cascade of liquid down his front.

"Shit!" If Childermass tries the same, he'll unfortunately find that the dumplings' contents are scalding hot -- Lambert just doesn't feel that anymore. In any case, with disaster averted, Lambert manages to save the rest of the soup dumpling, and he slurps it down. Noisily.

"Guess that's why they call it a soup dumpling," he laughs after the near-spill, licking his lips. "Tastes pretty good, though." In fact, it's markedly more authentic than the takeaway they indulged in at Portland, not that Lambert has any way of knowing that.

Childermass stares for a second, two, three, then just... deadpans, "Yes, Lambert. That's primarily what men paint. Women and landscapes."

He isn't exactly the most well-versed person in classical art, either, okay? The man could tell you all about magical law of the past few centuries but don't ask him about much else. He sure won't know and what he does know was picked up the one or two times he actually managed to look at a few pieces in London's public museum. Considering the time and his usual appearance, however, they were always very brief visits.

Though he will crack a smirk at Lambert discovering that a soup dumpling does, in fact, have soup in it. He isn't keen on trying that one himself, fumbling with the chopsticks until he manages to get a steamed sausage bun out of a steamer instead.

That just gets him a grin, Lambert lifting a hand to his mouth to lap off stray soup. "Better eat fast, then, because I want to see what the museums around here have."

And with that he's digging into the food with relish, whether it's familiar or not. Whatever Childermass doesn't want to eat is quickly snapped up for the witcher' seemingly bottomless stomach. He won't be too much for conversation unless Childermass initiates it himself, and the waitress seems to keep coming out with new dishes for them to try just as they finish the ones on the table.

"Ah, he suddenly has an interest in art. Shocking," Childermass says with a snort but after that, he'll dig in. Lambert will be given a run for his money at grabbing food, the magician -- while not being a bottomless pit of hunger like the average witcher -- having not eaten all that much since dawn. He'll even add egg tarts and red bean buns to what they already have on the table when the waitress swings back around to check on them.

It's during this that he would typically let conversation fall to the wayside, however--

"So Strange thinks we have sleepovers," he says as he uses a chopstick to prod apart last turnip cake at the table.

Edited 2018-01-28 22:04 (UTC)

Unfortunately for Lambert, the question catches him just as he's washing down his food ( it's all good, and Lambert's not picky about flavor or texture) with a swig of his beer. Caught off guard, he snorts -- only to spent a few seconds sputtering as some of his drink attempts to shoot out his nose, making him clap a hand to his face.

"Come again?" he coughs, once the situation is relatively under control. He can't have heard that right, surely.

"He was spying on us while on the moon," Childermass says, evenly as always, like the revelation is somehow boring instead of upsetting. "I assume he caught us spending time together at your cabin."

Edited 2018-01-28 22:12 (UTC)

"That little shit," Lambert answers, automatically, wiping his hand off on his pants and scowling. It's not that he really cares about his privacy being invaded, since he does the same to Strange minus the actual magic all the time, and it's not even that much of a revelation that Strange uses his magic to creep on his friends.

That Childermass is bringing it up now, though ... Lambert sizes him up warily, trying to gauge his mood. He doesn't look like he's pissed, which is surprising in and of itself. There are a lot of ways they 'spent time together' on the moon, many of them distinctly explicit and definitely Not Safe for Jonathan Strange.

"How'd you find out?"

He's more resigned than he is angry, having long since gotten over the 'worried' part of this particular dilemma. Strange snooping shouldn't be such a shock, anyhow, considering they all already know he does it.

"He told me," Childermass answers simply enough, "Though I suspect he stopped watching before he saw anything of note."

That is to say before they did anything. There hadn't been much upset from the other magician, so he can only assume as much. He does give his head a shake, though, and looks down as he moves the part of the turnip cake he'd been picking apart over to his own plate.

"But that's only a matter of time, isn't it?"

Considering how often they were together back on the moon, it really is a miracle Strange didn't see anything worse. Lambert's absolutely sure if Strange saw anything, he wouldn't be talking to Childermass about 'sleepovers' (and what the fuck? Who just tells someone else they think they're literally sleeping with someone?) and would probably be bitching more about Lambert and Childermass yet again not telling him anything.

"Yeah, I guess it is." For something to do with his hands more than anything else, he reaches out to pick up the rest of the turnip cake Childermass has decimated.

"...Did you want to stop?" He keeps his eyes on his plate. That's the logical reason Childermass would be bringing this up now, right?

Strange does, apparently, which is the weirdest thing ever. He catches them sleeping together, literally sleeping, and doesn't figure it out? No, rather than treat this like it's a terrible ordeal, Childermass just lets out a quiet chuckle and looks up again.

"Somehow I doubt we could manage that," he points out. It would take avoiding one another constantly, that much he's sure of, and Lambert would sulk and bitch about it the whole time. So, no. He shakes his head. "Maybe we should just tell him after all... or wait until he traumatizes himself, I suppose."

Lambert looks up when Childermass laughs, caught off-guard by the sound, and ends up meeting the magician's eyes instead. If he's laughing, it can't be all that bad. Some of the tension he didn't realize he was holding slips from his shoulders as he relaxes, slowly grinning back.

They'd never explicitly agreed that there was something going on to begin with, but that's acknowledgement enough, isn't it? Although he certainly can't picture pulling Strange aside and sitting him down for a talk about how two of his closest friends also happen to be fucking each other. Just picturing it makes him snort.

"Up to you. But maybe that'll teach him to stop spying on people so much."

Oh, it's still pretty bad, but what can Childermass do about it? Short of pulling together a warding spell or asking for an artifact that does the same— well, maybe that is what he should do, but then it's a matter of when he can or if it'll be soon enough.

"Doubt it," he says, wrinkling his nose but trailing off into silence as the waitress swings by again with the desserts, picking up empty trays and baskets, and then moving on again. Once she's out of earshot, he'll carry on with, "He has more magic than he does sense, you know that. We may as well wait and see how he brings it up when he is that unlucky. It could be a spectacle worth seeing."

"You can say that because you're not the one he's talking about setting up with someone else," Lambert grumbles. That's a potential spectacle all on its own that he's sure Childermass would be more than happy to laugh at. There's enough dessert for both of them, and he sniffs -- neither of them smell too sugary, and it's more or less confirmed when he bites into an egg tart and makes a low, happy sound of satisfaction, chewing thoroughly then swallowing.

"But all right. Let's let him figure it out. But if he talks to you first, you'd better tell me about it." Because he's pretty sure it will be hilarious, and he'll be sorry to miss out on it. He's in no rush to tell Strange anything. He's pretty certain he's going to be the butt of a million jokes there, since teasing without physical contact is so relatively ineffective at getting under Childermass's skin.

"Oh, but if I do that and you're expecting him, he'll accuse us of plotting against him," Childermass says with an amused snort before picking up one of the red bean buns and taking a bite out of it. It's similarly not too sugary and he's just as glad for that. It gives him a moment to pause and chew, though, while turning the rest of what Lambert's said over in his head.

Of all the things Strange could be wasting his time on...

"Ha," he laughs again, a single noise, dry but nevertheless finding humor in the witcher's new dilemma. "I think I would like to see him try. Who would he even try and set you up with? The Ringmaster?"

"We are plotting against him," Lambert points out sensibly. Talking about how they're going to deal with inevitably traumatizing an English magician is basically plotting, whatever anyone else says. Though at the suggestion, he grimaces, not appreciating the obvious amusement in the magician's voice either.

"No thanks. Not my type," he grumbles. "He's probably just going to drag some random stranger into it. Can't imagine anyone else in the Carnival would fall for it."

"Mr. Lambert, this is a definite lack of plotting," Childermass refutes, complete with pointing the rest of the red bean bun at the witcher, as if that someone empathizes the point. "What we are doing is deciding to do nothing. If anyone is plotting against Strange, it's Strange. He just doesn't realize it."

Assuming he ever does, in fact, spy on something he definitely shouldn't be spying on. Seeing how he considers what he has seen as sleepovers... Anyway.

"And maybe not," he adds, carrying on with finishing the rest of the bun and shrugging as he swallows that. "There seem to be a few in the carnival who are inclined to sleep with just about anyone."

Lambert just huffs a laugh at that. He's mostly been considerate of Childermass's personal space until now, but he knocks his knee against him companionably under the table, shaking his head. He doesn't pull his leg away, afterwards, and he gives the gives the bun pointed at him a narrow-eyed look, but it's gone before he can act on the thought.

"Maybe I have standards. You ever think of that?" He pretends to be aghast at the clear slander against his character.

"Considering you're sleeping with me, they can't be very high ones," is what he has to say to that, though it's far from serious even if it is deadpan enough, as per usual.

"You're right," Lambert drawls, ankle hooking around Childermass's lightly. "I never thought I'd sleep with a magician, so they're lower than they used to be." He grins, making an exaggerated show of looking Childermass over.

"And it definitely wasn't your charming personality that made me change my mind. So I guess it was your dashing good looks that just won me over," he lets his voice drop into blatant suggestiveness, though he doesn't quite leer. He isn't usually so blatant with flirting, but with no one else around, he figures he can get away with it in public, for once.

And while he isn't usually this blatant, Childermass's reaction is the same — aside from his feathers ruffling slightly, something hidden to the mundane eye here. That is to say, no other reaction obvious besides raising his eyebrows at the witcher's flirtations. It's a look he holds for a few seconds before putting the ends of his chopsticks to the plate of buns and pushing them across the table towards Lambert.

"And I think I like you better with your mouth full," he says in complete and total seriousness (and fully aware how else Lambert, being as crass as he is, will take that). "It gives you less time to talk."

Predictably, Lambert waggles his brows outrageously, ignoring the clear cue of the buns shoved at him.

"Why don't you put something in it, then?" He does leer this time, licking his lips like a wolf running its tongue along its chops.

"Because you're an adult, Lambert. You're capable of feeding yourself," he says, completely misunderstanding on purpose.

"Hmm. Guess you're right about that." Lambert's grin just grows wider, eschewing the chopsticks entirely to just pick up a red bean bun and chew on it, swallowing before he adds, "But if you change your mind, just remember I always have room for dessert." Something else brushes Childermass's leg -- a tail glamoured into invisibility, running a firm, possessive stroke from his ankle to his knee.

And then it's gone, and because he said he'd be paying, he flags the waitress down to get their check. It's cheap as he thought it would be, and it's been satisfying on a number of levels, more than just appetite.

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you must think that i'm stupid, you must think that i'm a fool

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