Lady Croft was one of the most animated storytellers Hillary knew. When she had a serious story to tell, or a factual lecture to give, she would spit out the data with all of the gravity and poise of a tenured university professor. She could make anything compelling, from geography to history to her limited knowledge of paleontology, by her obvious interest in and enthusiasm for the subject matter. But it was the adventure tales that she truly relished, and when she would tell those, she would come alive. Her normally suave and implacable demeanor would fall away; her eyes would sparkle, her hands would move frantically to convey the actions of the narrative, and she came close to stumbling over her own tongue in her haste to get to the next part.
And then...
And then...
Hillary could only listen with tight-lipped tolerance, torn between two reactions. His visceral one was horror and disapproval, knowing the one woman he cared about most in this world was so casually flinging herself into mortal danger on a regular basis. He knew, from the rare times that he had accompanied her, that she tended to downplay the hazard to herself in the retelling. The more analytical side of him knew that this was what she lived for, and not to risk her life would not be living, as far as she was concerned. Retelling the adventure was, for no reason he had ever been able to understand, very important to her; it was a cathartic conclusion of some type. So he bit his lip and tried to look as excited as he knew she wanted him to be. And in turn, she overlooked his poorly squelched distaste.
Bryce was a welcome addition to her spontaneous storytelling sessions. He was unequivocally thrilled by her stories. Hillary suspectsed it was because Bryce did not care about Lara as much as he did, and noted with mild horror that the man who watched with no outward sign of distress when Lara recalled a close flirt with death over a deep chasm, or the whistle of an arrow next to her ear that left a slash she interrupted the narrative to proudly show off, was the man who winced when Lara hit the point in the story when one of the gadgets he had made for her was smashed, shot, blown up, or drowned, as they tended to be on almost every outing. Lara sometimes noticed, and swatted Bryce across the back of the head, but Hillary noticed every time, and cringed.
This question of priorities came up, against Hillary's better judgement, when Bryce was fluttering around the once-again shot-up Simon with an expression of heartfelt concern and horror.
"You're in real pain, aren't you?" he asked with incredulity. "Over a robot made of old vacuum cleaner parts?"
Bryce gave him a withering look. "It's not just a robot. He's me mate, he is."
The correct thing to do at that point would have been to pat Bryce reassuringly on the back and find something else to do while he fixed the android back up.
"Most people have human beings for mates, you know, rather than expired home appliances."
"Tha's stupid of 'em," Bryce said with conviction. "Yeh can trust machines."
"And not humans?"
Bryce assured himself of something having to do with Simon's condition; he set the android in some kind of grotesque seated position, patted it on what passed for the top of its head, sat in the chair next to it, and swung his feet back onto the desk. He gave Hillary a mischievous look. "Well - let's just say that the standards are higher for humans. A lot of effort, they are." Hillary sniffed. Bryce continued, "I know the bird means the world to yeh, man, but ta me, she's just another bird." He grinned. "With some really good stories."
"Effort," muttered Hillary to himself, aghast, and started to walk out of the room. With one of his random spurts of extreme energy, Bryce hopped out of his chair, vaulted the desk, grabbed Hillary's face between his hands, and kissed him soundly on the lips. "Not that some of yeh ain't worth the effort. Just that most aren't."
Bryce then ran back to where Simon 'sat,' and began to fuss over him with a bag of tools. "Daddy's here..."