If you're implying I'm a deal more mature than you are, I won't correct you.
[ It's not unlike him to employ a level of condescension in his speech, especially not around France, but this is a hesitant sort of insult, in which he's not really sure and the tremble in his voice is subtle but obvious enough to indicate he's wondering if he's saying the right thing. His body doesn't budge, even as France advances upon him, just a few feet away from him, and he tries to look anywhere but at the crimson splashed across his cravat. ]
But yes, your observations are surprisingly accurate. Welcome to Discedo, France. You look like you've had a rough day. Would you like me to make you a cuppa and have you to bed? [ All little jokes, jests that he wouldn't hesitate to drop between France and him if this was just the France he knew from his time, even if he was seething angry. But Arthur knows he is playing with fire here, because he knows exactly who this is. ]
[ Regardless, he doesn't shy away from France's gaze. He meets it, and tries not to pick out the details in the blue of the Frenchman's irises, the dulled edge of a guillotine's blade or the shadows of a group of terrorists controlling his mind. It's not the clothes, nor is it the tone; it's the look. The collected glance that betrays the mark of insanity below its layers of faux-resolve. ]
Anyway, you've said what you wanted to say. So, let's have you back inside, shall we? [ And then he does something stupid. ]
[ Arthur advances, and lays a hand against France's bicep. ]
no subject
If you're implying I'm a deal more mature than you are, I won't correct you.
[ It's not unlike him to employ a level of condescension in his speech, especially not around France, but this is a hesitant sort of insult, in which he's not really sure and the tremble in his voice is subtle but obvious enough to indicate he's wondering if he's saying the right thing. His body doesn't budge, even as France advances upon him, just a few feet away from him, and he tries to look anywhere but at the crimson splashed across his cravat. ]
But yes, your observations are surprisingly accurate. Welcome to Discedo, France. You look like you've had a rough day. Would you like me to make you a cuppa and have you to bed? [ All little jokes, jests that he wouldn't hesitate to drop between France and him if this was just the France he knew from his time, even if he was seething angry. But Arthur knows he is playing with fire here, because he knows exactly who this is. ]
[ Regardless, he doesn't shy away from France's gaze. He meets it, and tries not to pick out the details in the blue of the Frenchman's irises, the dulled edge of a guillotine's blade or the shadows of a group of terrorists controlling his mind. It's not the clothes, nor is it the tone; it's the look. The collected glance that betrays the mark of insanity below its layers of faux-resolve. ]
Anyway, you've said what you wanted to say. So, let's have you back inside, shall we? [ And then he does something stupid. ]
[ Arthur advances, and lays a hand against France's bicep. ]