"I don't think that's possible," Silver says earnestly, taking his own drink and thanking Charlotte with a smile.
"I find a man who's capable of appreciating good food and capable of holding good conversation to be incredibly important to keep by me." He smiles, and for the first time in what feels like forever (the bar seat he'd been at was merely a stool), he leans back. The contended sigh he gives out is definitely audible, and after he downs half of his pint in a go, he sets it down to stretch his arms. He's not on duty, after all. He can be a little more himself.
"Besides, I'd hate to miss the window of saying we're friends when you get famous for your artwork."
“You know, most artists aren’t famous until they’re dead. Like Toulouse-Lautrec or Vermeer.”
Benedict raises his eyebrows pointedly and takes another drink from his pint.
“But not Picasso. Everyone thinks he died poor but he was incredibly wealthy and famous when he did. And Van Gogh was supported by his brother, he wasn’t poor, either. Maybe I’m going to be like Van Gogh. Please don’t let me cut off an ear.”
"If you do, I'm going to sell it." This is strange, and this is weird, and did he imagine it, or is Benedict a little looser than he usually is? Not that he's too uptight, but he seems to be slightly inebriated. It means either he and his crew have been drinking at that exhibit, or that Benedict is a complete and utterly (charming) lightweight.
"Probably to a museum. Not one in Britain, though. Somewhere exotic. New York, maybe. Better money." It's not even a good joke or line of conversation, and mostly he's just rambling, but he can't help it. He's tired. All he knows is that he wants to talk to Beendict and the other is gracing him with his time.
"I'm sorry. About your friends, how they--you know."
“Oh - No, it’s not really a problem. One of them lost track of time and had to pick up their things from Henry’s, and they saw me talking with you so they assumed -“
Well. They assumed he was on his way to getting laid.
“- They figured I wouldn’t miss them much. They wouldn’t have actually left me here. I hope.” Benedict adds that last bit with a laugh.
Silver notices that, the way he pauses like he's about to say something, and he can't help but wonder if he's reading too much into things. Probably, he thinks, he's just too into Benedict's stupidly crooked smile.
"I'll take care of you," he promises, and maybe that's a little flirty, too.
Benedict's grin is looser now, and he feels the unmistakable haze of drunkenness wash over him even as he takes another long drink from his pint. Under the table, whether he means it to or not, he nudges their feet together.
"You should," Silver teases. "The truth is that the Admiral Benbow is a front. We're all bank robbers." If he can't make fun of himself and where he comes from, he's shit out of luck. At least with Benedict it sounds like a joke.
Oh, and that foot moves, bumping him lightly. Silver smiles.
"I doubt you," he says suddenly. "About if you're truly as happy as you seem."
“I’ve never been more thankful to be a person and not a bank.”
He laughs again, settling on an amused look in response to what he feels is another teasing question.
“And why shouldn’t I be happy? I have a wonderful family, I spend my days doing what I love to do, I have all of my meals made for me by a very good chef, and the freedom to do as I please.”
Silver's smile lights up his entire face. The chef comment in particular delights him, and even though he's exhausted and been on his feet all day, he's overjoyed to find that Benedict's still complimenting him. It makes him a little less tired.
Jack is still arguing with someone but Billy's sent another round of shots for them, and Silver is fully aware that this might be the one that tips Benedict completely over.
He's got his in his hand, however, and he looks somewhat concerned in Benedict's general direction.
"You can decline if you'd like," he says, still friendly--no one would be insulted. If anything, Silver will just have his.
Benedict’s reaching for his as well. He’s aware it might be too much, and he also isn’t sure what it might be, but he can’t bring himself to deny it. He doesn’t want Silver - or Silver’s friends - to think he’s just delicate socialite.
“To happiness, feigned or otherwise,” he says, a bit cheekily, as he raises his shot in a toast. And when he knocks it back he regrets it, but can’t help his laughter anyway.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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He says it more or less teasingly, because he does actually mean it. The last thing he wants is to become an actual bother to Silver.
Their pints arrive and Benedict takes a drink from his.
“I’d hate for you to get bored of me.”
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"I find a man who's capable of appreciating good food and capable of holding good conversation to be incredibly important to keep by me." He smiles, and for the first time in what feels like forever (the bar seat he'd been at was merely a stool), he leans back. The contended sigh he gives out is definitely audible, and after he downs half of his pint in a go, he sets it down to stretch his arms. He's not on duty, after all. He can be a little more himself.
"Besides, I'd hate to miss the window of saying we're friends when you get famous for your artwork."
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Benedict raises his eyebrows pointedly and takes another drink from his pint.
“But not Picasso. Everyone thinks he died poor but he was incredibly wealthy and famous when he did. And Van Gogh was supported by his brother, he wasn’t poor, either. Maybe I’m going to be like Van Gogh. Please don’t let me cut off an ear.”
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"Probably to a museum. Not one in Britain, though. Somewhere exotic. New York, maybe. Better money." It's not even a good joke or line of conversation, and mostly he's just rambling, but he can't help it. He's tired. All he knows is that he wants to talk to Beendict and the other is gracing him with his time.
"I'm sorry. About your friends, how they--you know."
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Well. They assumed he was on his way to getting laid.
“- They figured I wouldn’t miss them much. They wouldn’t have actually left me here. I hope.” Benedict adds that last bit with a laugh.
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"I'll take care of you," he promises, and maybe that's a little flirty, too.
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Benedict's grin is looser now, and he feels the unmistakable haze of drunkenness wash over him even as he takes another long drink from his pint. Under the table, whether he means it to or not, he nudges their feet together.
"I don't even doubt you for a moment."
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Oh, and that foot moves, bumping him lightly. Silver smiles.
"I doubt you," he says suddenly. "About if you're truly as happy as you seem."
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He laughs again, settling on an amused look in response to what he feels is another teasing question.
“And why shouldn’t I be happy? I have a wonderful family, I spend my days doing what I love to do, I have all of my meals made for me by a very good chef, and the freedom to do as I please.”
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Jack is still arguing with someone but Billy's sent another round of shots for them, and Silver is fully aware that this might be the one that tips Benedict completely over.
He's got his in his hand, however, and he looks somewhat concerned in Benedict's general direction.
"You can decline if you'd like," he says, still friendly--no one would be insulted. If anything, Silver will just have his.
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“To happiness, feigned or otherwise,” he says, a bit cheekily, as he raises his shot in a toast. And when he knocks it back he regrets it, but can’t help his laughter anyway.