Camilla is, in fact, home -- which is how she thinks of it these days, not even noting her own technical incorrectness in her head, though technically she still has her other apartment. The two of them live a spartan enough existence that it's not a strain on funds so much as a little ridiculous.
Then again, she has learned many, many times that having something you don't need is much better than the alternative.
Even had she been more obviously present than she is, legs crossed under her and curled into the corner made by the back and arm of the armchair, reading, Cam has seen Palamedes do this exact same maneuver in their rooms in the Library, the sound of the door opening barely registering before the next one -- his office, usually, there -- is clicking closed. She's well aware he wouldn't have processed her either way.
"Hi, Cam," she teases the shut door softly, but it's with a very warm smirk.
It does make her wonder what he's gotten hold of.
There are two ways this always goes: either he re-emerges wild-eyed relatively shortly, asseverating some hypothesis to her in a manner suggesting he is both entirely sure he's correct and would like nothing better than for her to rip his thesis to pieces OR he doesn't emerge for -- well, she's never actually let it run its course. Days, at least, if she didn't intercede.
That first option usually takes at least an hour, so she reads for a little while longer -- it's Pre-Resurrection history of the United States at the moment, A People's History it calls itself, advertising itself as extracanonical to what's normally put in textbooks -- and then goes for a run and a shower, not being particularly quiet in case he is contemplating her opinion on anything.
No stir or any sign of emergence from the room. Not even so much as snacks disturbed.
Camilla makes tea and, while it steeps, sits a container of hummus on a plate and surrounds it with olives and cheese and crackers: easy to eat while busy, but nutritious. Then, plate and cups balanced, she tries the door handle.
It turns for her. Palamedes is writing at top speed, pausing every so often where notation doesn't flow quite the same way. Cam has to fight a strange and irritating flip of her stomach: she'd recognized the behavior, but she still hasn't seen him at it in quite this particular intensity, the near-possession of academia, since ...before Darrow. She approaches without sound, identifying a reasonably safe spot to set down the plate and cup as she does, so that by the time she's a halfstep behind she can put them down pragmatically without making him move his things.
On an impulse, she lets herself reach to rub the cord of muscle at the curve of his shoulder and neck: she can almost see the cramp from his hunching.
no subject
Then again, she has learned many, many times that having something you don't need is much better than the alternative.
Even had she been more obviously present than she is, legs crossed under her and curled into the corner made by the back and arm of the armchair, reading, Cam has seen Palamedes do this exact same maneuver in their rooms in the Library, the sound of the door opening barely registering before the next one -- his office, usually, there -- is clicking closed. She's well aware he wouldn't have processed her either way.
"Hi, Cam," she teases the shut door softly, but it's with a very warm smirk.
It does make her wonder what he's gotten hold of.
There are two ways this always goes: either he re-emerges wild-eyed relatively shortly, asseverating some hypothesis to her in a manner suggesting he is both entirely sure he's correct and would like nothing better than for her to rip his thesis to pieces
OR
he doesn't emerge for -- well, she's never actually let it run its course. Days, at least, if she didn't intercede.
That first option usually takes at least an hour, so she reads for a little while longer -- it's Pre-Resurrection history of the United States at the moment, A People's History it calls itself, advertising itself as extracanonical to what's normally put in textbooks -- and then goes for a run and a shower, not being particularly quiet in case he is contemplating her opinion on anything.
No stir or any sign of emergence from the room. Not even so much as snacks disturbed.
Camilla makes tea and, while it steeps, sits a container of hummus on a plate and surrounds it with olives and cheese and crackers: easy to eat while busy, but nutritious. Then, plate and cups balanced, she tries the door handle.
It turns for her. Palamedes is writing at top speed, pausing every so often where notation doesn't flow quite the same way. Cam has to fight a strange and irritating flip of her stomach: she'd recognized the behavior, but she still hasn't seen him at it in quite this particular intensity, the near-possession of academia, since ...before Darrow. She approaches without sound, identifying a reasonably safe spot to set down the plate and cup as she does, so that by the time she's a halfstep behind she can put them down pragmatically without making him move his things.
On an impulse, she lets herself reach to rub the cord of muscle at the curve of his shoulder and neck: she can almost see the cramp from his hunching.
"What've you got, Warden?"