Nils holds a Salon

## professionally charming

"Nils, o light-of-my-heart," the Saint inquires (there's a clink of glass and a rustling of fabric, he's setting his drink down and crossing his legs), "do you enjoy being professionally charming or is it something you put up with to make a living?"

Nils' head tilts slightly, today's tightly-pincurled, sleekly silver hairstyle barely shifting in the ship's gravity. "Please don't put a fucking cup on my blessèd harpsichord, my love, and be more explicit, I beg."

"You do not," Simon counters casually, and continues. (Another rustling of fabric. A pause for a sip of his retrieved drink.) "And I explicitly do not refer to anything explicit - as has been represented, another major part of your prior duties involved simply playing the host- " He doesn't stumble here, he's not caught out, but he has to pause anyway; the form of the language in which they're conversing doesn't lend itself as immediately to the wording he wants as would some others. Nils can feel the *concept* caught between them; Nils can guess at what Doctor Rodriguez would say in *his* alternate dialect, and Simon ends up at it too almost immediately: it's "-é," it's the word *hoste* instead of either *host* or *hostess*.

Nils is not charmed by the use of an appropriately-agendered made-up word. Nils is charmed by Simon just fucking saying the word and not taking the time to make funny jokes. Simon would absolutely take the time to make funny jokes at other people, after all. "Oh, I love playing hosté," with a gratified little leaning-in toward the Saint, and a laughing lilt on that é as if it's the charming joke between them after all. "For vhy? Vill it be criminals? Shall I be laughing at their little jokes and plying them vith cocktails until they confess for to impress me? Or just do you have to let that other Inquisitor visit again and I serve the coffee?"

"Oh, it's a bit of this chocolate and a bit of that peanut butter, and a bit of hazelnut paste just to keep everyone lively," says Simon; he's so self-satisfied when he says nonsense that only makes sense to himself - his sense *of* himself becomes nearly visible to Nils without borrowing anybody's eyes at all, just a very firm awareness of Simon's ridiculously tall form lounging across an armchair he'd dragged in to Nils' quarters from the Emperor only knows where, smiling ridiculously handsomely because he's such a clever little boy.

"I adore you vith all mijn heart," Nils tells him, hand briefly caressing collarbone in a sort of pledge gesture, "but I hate your fucking metaphors, Saint. Unless are you just hungry? Am I a terrible hosté, I should have offered you cookies?"

"Oh, throne, no, it's been cookies all week, angel-doll, since the Whiteshields shipment came in; Roger's been stuffed half-full of Samoas" (*and the other half with jizz* Nils thinks not particularly kindly) "and everywhere one goes there's a box of Thin Mints - far be it from me to mintshame, incidentally, but one *would* rather like a Thicc Mint sometimes, wouldn't one?"

"The metaphorical cookie, so," Nils says, trying to stay on track. "But - a Thicc Mint, von takes two Thin Mints and presses 'em together. Is it not known?"

"Ah - children truly are the future," Simon says, and sighs beatifically. "But yes, the metaphorical cookie, so." The feeling of him now is not as photographic as the self-satisfied moment earlier but it is just as strong, and more familiar. This is Business Saint, a palpable point of Purpose located quite clearly near Nils but not *looking like* anything. Just the Presence of Purpose. "I'm going to need your decorum and formal manners and what-have-you but of course also your ears and all the loveliness that lies between them. You'll have fun with this one, I surely hope -- "

## the metaphorical cookie, so

Professor Malachi is Nils' betrothed, for current purposes. "It's an arranged marriage," Nils informs Mal as they ride in the back seat of Roger's van together, "so ve needn't be very affectionate. Perhaps ve haven't long known each other - I'll have to flirt vith you, as I'm trying to make a good impression on my future husband here."

Simon's riding shotgun, and the piloting compartment's been sealed off. Roger's presence is sturdy and steady and his thoughts are tidily tucked into his head where Nils would need to reach on purpose to eavesdrop, which Roger in particular would definitely notice. Simon is fully invisible at the moment, though, so they must not be talking Business Saint matters just now. Therefore Nils would guess they are canoodling.

Mal is easy to read in that he's not been trained to keep closed off; he's not very easy to follow, for he thinks even more in a self-referenced shorthand than almost everybody does, and Nils is not precisely familiar with him nor the matters he studies and thinks of with metaphors. Also: lots of Church Gothic, which Nils knows only for two major prayers and a few phrases of liturgy. He's self-contained and upright over in the opposite bench, like a stick of incense; he's giving a little bit shy but not discomfited. "Should I be flirting back? I'm very bookish, and knowing we're to wed I'll likely be too shy to look at you half the time."

"No, you're right - likely you vill be too shy, and looking down for anything to read." *If you see anything interesting, I can pass it on right away. Try thinking at me hard, try to get my attention. Not right now, I'm already paying attention. Wait until later, but we need to test it.*

Nils is objectively right and justified in popping in to Mal's head unannounced just now, because both of them will need to be doing that sort of thing all night. Mal feels startled by it but not angered, so that's good! A very good sign.

"Are we using fake names?" Mal asks aloud after a second of re-collecting himself. "Or rather, are *you* - they know my publication history, it would defeat the purpose - "

"Oh, no, I think I've already been named as Nils." Clear chagrin: "A fake name would be *fun*, *though* - o beloved, give me a surname fit to marry yours?"

Nils is waiting for spoken words and what Nils gets is the thought *Caiserius*, and before Nils can echo it aloud and question it there's a follow-up: an image of an eel hiding in the shadow of some rocks and it will dart out suddenly to grasp prey and the prey is a fish labeled Thoughts. "You're *good* at that," Nils says, sitting up straighter in the seatbelt harness. "Caiserius, an eel?"

"An ancient genus represented on six Imperial worlds and extinct on five of them, so you're a *rare* eel." This is obviously meant to be a compliment. There's a hint of that lemon-lime tinge with which Doctor Rodriguez thinks things, though.

"And to this rare eel you are to be vedded," Nils says proudly, hand flirtatiously placed beneath chin. "Listen, if this veil makes everyvon think *she* at me, I vill need you to call me *he* vith your whole chest solely for to piss off and confuse people."

"Alright. Will you think it at me after you've checked in on the audience?"

"Just so shall I do."

The window to the cockpit rolls open. "Our lovebirds aren't canoodling back there, are they?" sing-songs Simon.

Nils draws the jeweled veil aside, tongue out.

Mal thinks something in Church Gothic but also that it means *Wilt thou see it?* and it means he's offering Nils his eyes, which Nils *instantly* accepts, of course, and Simon is in the middle of climbing through the window to come join them in the back seat, which is worth seeing; warm gratitude and Lulz sent to Malachi about it.

"So this Professor Dangerpuss - "

"Dan'quebusse," Malachi says helpfully.

"Professor Dank-of-Bussy," Simon says with glee, "is the one-in-particular we're cozying up to."

"Of the dankness of his bussy shall ve become experts," Nils vows solemnly, hands folded on knees.

"Please don't speak of his bussy once we're within the audium," says Malachi, all plaintive and earnest.