General off-comm musebox for fabula(e)_victoriana

[someonetowatchoveryou]

September's comings and goings are almost predictable. He spends most of the day and evening out of the House, exploring the town, Observing significant events, sitting quietly in cafes and people-watching, or (recently) wandering and lost in thought.

Of a night, he can be found in one of the studies, reading and sipping wine and looking far too relaxed. If he doesn't fall asleep there, he sleeps in his small but cozy bedroom, buried under blankets on an insanely comfortable bed.

He never appears to object to company, no matter what he's doing.

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[someonetowatchoveryou]

September is completely bare of hair, save for some rather criminally thick eyelashes. Some men have all the eyelash luck, it seems. They're oddly pretty eyes, too, even with the lack of eyebrows.

He blinks a little sleepily at the question and pauses to put the words together. In this state, as relaxed and slightly drunk as he is, his motions go from 'eerily graceful' to 'almost sensually languid,' as is evidenced when he picks up the wine glass and takes a drink from it, the wine appearing to slide between his lips in a bizarrely unchaste manner for a simple drink. He is completely unconscious of this, however.

"I am known as September," he murmurs. He's given up trying to come up with a pseudonym for his pseudonym. It seems to serve him well enough. "Originally, I am from the twenty-seventh century."

He's learnt to be forthcoming, you see, because he still has a tiny glimmer of hope that someone he speaks to will know enough about time travel to help him figure out a way to return to his Observing job.

[la_maupin2]

Julie watches the Observer raptly. One day, in the history books, Julie will be described as "beautiful, valiant, generous and supremely unchaste." As such, it should come as no surprise that she has a sudden urge to lean over and taste the traces of wine on his lips.

"Julie d'Aubigny," she says, offering her name in return. Her eyes widen, at the prospect of calling such a faraway time home. Being a native of a more linear timeline, she offers her hometown instead of her home century. "I come from Paris." As an afterthought: "1791."

She casually slides a little closer to him, a finger brushing against the wine glass in his hand.

"Are you enjoying this century, Monsieur September?"

[someonetowatchoveryou]

He seems to have no objection to her coming closer. When she gets nearer, his scent becomes obvious, however subtly so: wool and ink, pepper and wine, a whiff of cool, wide-open spaces, a tiny hint of some warm, vague musk. His eyes are hazel. The wine glass has been warmed by his hand.

His gaze drops for a moment, then comes back up. "I have not been here long enough to make an assessment as to whether I enjoy this century or not. I do not... dislike it. I must see more of it before I form an opinion."

"What is your opinion of it?"