3

I promise to depart, just promise one thing (kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep)

"My friend, Marquis Machina."

The words linger in the air far longer than they ought, and Francis bristles for lack of anything better to do. Saint Germain does not speak again, that perpetual smile glued to his face. It's creepy, disgustingly so, the way he smiles so vapidly. It's nothing more than a façade for there is no joy to be found in him, not when one need only to peer into his eyes to see the vast universe of grief they contain. It's why she doesn't like making eye contact with him; the blankness of that stare creeps her out. Looking at them feels like standing on a thin sheet of ice and knowing that beneath her feet are turbulent waves ready to drown her. One misstep and it'll shatter, sending the world into turmoil once again, so why then is he here? Surely not just to make conversation about deeds long past. Exasperation broils in her gut, an annoyance that only ever appears when faced with this particular monstrosity. "How bad is it?"

"Hmm?"

"You heard me," Francis snaps, rounding an irate look toward him but he isn't even looking in her direction, ideally toying with a honey dipper. Holds it to his lips and laps it up slowly, as if he actually enjoys the taste. A possibility given how much he enjoys sweets, but not likely when he's making an absurd mess of it. There's honey on his chin now, dripping onto the table, and Francis is grossed out enough to search for a cloth. Snatches one and flings it across the table. "You're lucky this place is void of insects, what with all the crumbs you leave lying about."

A snort, fake amusement once more, and she nearly curses. She holds herself back in extremis because he is still the Shapeless One, no matter his current state, and while he might allow some disrespect, there's no telling where the line has been drawn. "Why don't you use those eyes of yours to look?" Said eyes flit her way, barely visible through the thick shield of his eyelashes, and she stiffens despite herself. Such a gentle expression should not belong on the face of a man so perfidious.

"Are you sure? I might see more than you'd like."

"Even if you did, it's not as if you'd understand."

"Oh stuff it!" Francis snaps, rocketing to her feet in burst annoyance all over again. "If no one understands you, it is because nothing you do is comprehensible! Maybe start making sense before you go about preaching to others." Stomps toward him as she speaks, and anyone else might have been alarmed, but he only laughs, "and what were you even thinking, snatching up one of mine like that? Didn't your mother ever teach you not to take things that don't belong to you?" The table is in the way so she kicks it aside, sending treats and toys flying everywhere. All except for the honey, which he saves because of course he does. Holds it tenderly in his hand as if it were some sort of treasure. Lifts a thumb to his mouth and wipes away a drop of honey, ignoring both the cloth she'd thrown at him and her approach. He fears nothing, not the queen, not the humans, and certainly not her; the reminder only fuels more annoyance. Plants a foot onto his chair and leans into his space until he is forced to stop eyeing the honey. One eyebrow arches, a warning that she ignores stubbornly. "I encountered that boy you snatched; he's an utter ignoramus!"

"Well," Saint Germain tuts, "I suppose his upbringing was rather lax." That smile morphs and twists into something broader, more dangerous, "should you really be getting so close, Mademoiselle?"

"I didn't linger, not with Blue's hair running amok," Francis answers, "only long enough to see what sort of boy you'd raised. He leaves much to be desired."

"I'm quite fond of him," Saint Germain replies, with the same tone one employs when talking about the family dog. Up close, even without trying to pry, it's clear that he's not looking well. His skin is pale, transparent as if it's been stretched too far, his veins crisscross underneath it, the only spot of color. Francis briefly entertains the idea of biting him, but she's not feeling that reckless, even if she is rather curious as to what she'd see. His eyes remain lidded when he meets her gaze, not an unusual expression for him, but she wonders now if it's merely because he's too tired to open them properly. When Saint Germain exhales his chest barely rises, and Francis wants to curse for an entirely different reason. Curse the Comte for whatever reckless thing he'd done to become so drained, and curse herself for still caring. Their world has become what it is because of the machinations of one arrogant man, but if that man were to disappear, then who knows what new horrors would unfold upon them. Better to ensure that he doesn't die, not least because she needs a player on the board whose goals align somewhat with her own.

"How long are you planning to hide here?"

A huff. "I come to pay you a visit after decades, and you accuse me of being a coward. How disrespectful." Rolls his eyes as he speaks, his head tilting to smirk at her. And she could take him at his word, leave him here to recuperate on his own, or do what she would have done back in those days when the war had been destroying the world but they had been united in their desire for survival. "This is stupid," the words slip out all on their own, soft enough that he likely wouldn't have heard them if not for his absurd hearing. She catches the flicker of confusion on his face, a question forming before dissipating just as quickly. "You're impossible," Francis repeats, stepping down from the chair, "how it is that you've survived this long is an insolvable mystery."

Moves away from him, striding out into the messy space around them fueled by the confidence that his curiosity will ensure he follows. Saint Germain is nothing if not predictable in that regard. Francis looks around, humming until she finds what she's looking for. There aren't many areas to sleep in this place; it was never constructed with that in mind, but she remembers leaving a handful of large pillows here once. Finds them now and piles them into a nest of sorts. Casts herself down on it and spreads out with a contended noise, relishing in the few moments of peaceful bliss before he inevitably interrupts. "What are you doing?"

So predictable, she thinks again, smirking because he'll surely find it annoying. "It's called relaxing, have you never heard of it?" Opens one eye to peer at him, and Saint Germain stares back non-plussed. It's cute. "Sit down before you collapse," Francis orders, shutting her eye again. "We've played your stupid game for hours; now it's my turn."

"There's nothing comfortable about sitting on the floor," is the haughty reply, but the pillows shift anyway, and she feels him settle down beside her. The pillow nest isn't small by any means, yet he still settles down so close to her that their sleeves brush. Francis debates hitting him, but in the end, she only rolls over, propping her head up with a hand. Saint Germain meets her gaze evenly; he's wrapped his arms around one of the pillows and curled up like such he looks almost harmless. Almost being the imperative word because she's seen what happens to people who cross him. Or what remains of them after he's through; there's nothing harmless about the monster lying next to her, but she reaches out anyway and strokes his hair. It's soft, like a kitten's fur and when her hand doesn't explode, she repeats the gesture, mussing his hair out of that annoying slick-backed style.

"You can rest, you know. That is why you came, yes?"

"I came because I felt like seeing you." He's pouting now. Nose scrunching and lips pursing, centuries old, and he still sulks like any average person. It's ridiculous, it's stupid, and yet somehow, it's also endearing. It's been decades since Francis last bothered to set foot outside in this form, longer still since she's encountered someone she might call a "friend," and maybe that's why she's feeling so lenient now.

"Okay," Francis agrees, "you've seen me now, so be good and close your eyes." Hesitates, but she's already initiated this, and it's far too late to back out now; it's liable to put her in more danger, in fact, because if there's nothing that Saint Germain hates more than being bored. Moves her hand out of his hair, down his forehead until it covers his eyes. Feels the feathery soft brush of lashes against her palm when they close. That he's allowed her to touch him so, to seal his sight like this isn't a show of trust, not when he's powerful enough that to fight him would be to sign her own death certificate, but it means something in its own way. When she draws her hand back, his eyes do not open, breathing still disturbingly shallow, but he remains beside her. Francis sighs and summons a book; it wouldn't hurt to relax here for a while. There aren't many areas within Altus or the human world that she would consider safe, not since Faustina fell; to waste this opportunity would be absurd. Even if it means she has to spend some of it guarding the sleep of the most dangerous creature in the known universe.