2024-12-21 - Bridgertoning?

[TXT to Benedict] Miriam: Benny!

[TXT to Miriam] Benedict: That is to some interpretation, my name, yes.

[TXT to Benedict] Miriam: I could just call you Dick

[TXT to Miriam] Benedict: That's accurate in a different way, I suppose!

[TXT to Miriam] Benedict: What can I do for you?

[TXT to Benedict] Miriam: I see you are also off today. Play tourist with me?

[TXT to Miriam] Benedict: Well I had a full day of laying about doing nothing planned, but sure, I suppose I could do with some adventuring.

[TXT to Benedict] Miriam: Far be it from me to interrupt some good slothfulness...

[TXT to Miriam] Benedict: I don't mind it! Are we playing tourist at the resort, by chance?

[TXT to Benedict] Miriam: After our conversation the other day, I looked into it and the place is AWESOME. Spa, rock climbing gym, water park and beach when it's warmer? Restaurant with a cute and classy New American menu, the bar looks cute af.

[TXT to Miriam] Benedict: A rock climbing gym? Oh, that's brilliant, I've always wanted to do that. Think we need a reservation?

[TXT to Benedict] Miriam: On the website now, unless you know someone who works there who can sneak us in

[TXT to Miriam] Benedict: My social circle is very small.

[TXT to Miriam] Benedict: Which is just a delicate way of saying I don't have very many friends, so no, no sneaky sorts.

[TXT to Benedict] Miriam: I'm honestly surprised to hear that. You're really fun, smart, and charismatic.

[TXT to Benedict] Miriam: No problem, reservation made. Lunch after?

[TXT to Miriam] Benedict: That's very kind of you to say.

[TXT to Miriam] Benedict: I'll be there!

Miriam arrives in the lobby, dressed to be active. Once she leaves her coat with staff, she plops down in one of the plush lobby chairs, dressed in black leggings, hot pink sneakers, and a green sports bra under an oversized cotton tank top. She could easily get used to this level of cushy. A backpack and water bottle sit on the floor beside her.

They're of the same mind, as after Benedict unfolds himself from the peacoat he'd arrived in, he's in a pair of slim-fit sweatpants and a t-shirt, along with some running shoes that are in neat, if well-used condition. Almost all in black, but at least the t-shirt is closer to heather grey. Still, very monochrome.

He apparenly commits to the bit even outside of the arena.

Slinging his own backpack down next to Miriam's, he drops down into the chair next to her and purposefully sprawls out. "Hm. Yes. This will do," he decides after a moment.

Miriam eyes Ben's outfit. "I'm sensing a theme, Benny," she says dryly. "You know, we could just always rot on the hotel furniture in activewear," she suggests almost entirely unseriously.

Almost.

"Look," Benedict begins, as if to work himself up into a proper debate about the merits of method acting, but then he just waves the whole thought away and surrenders to the plush comfort of the chair.

He makes a wordless noise of agreement at the rotting suggestion. "I do love myself a good rot," he agrees, though he rolls his head to the side to look over at Miriam. "When is our reservation?"

"We've got like twenty minutes to rot before we go and do things our ancestors invented cushy chairs to get away from," Miri confirms, somehow managing to sink deeper into the chair. "Why do we do these things to ourselves?"

All Benedict says to that is, "Ugh," but he does say it with a smile, so he's probably looking forward to the challenge. He contemplates the very well-appointed ceiling above for a time as if it might have an answer to Miri's question.

Then he stretches his arms out above his head. "We can't do what we do without being a little bit masochistic about it, at the very least. I mean, we do agree to get beaten up in front of a crowd for money."

Miriam melts further into the chair. "Speak for yourself, Benny. I beat people up in front of a crowd for money. Maybe you need to git good, scrub."

Her grin is bright and impish, and the freckles do nothing to detract from the impishness.

"I'm too old to 'git good'," which probably sounds hilarious with his posh accent, "Thank you very much. Now I just suffer as my bones and joints slowly decay."

Of course this is right before he intends to try to climb a vertical wall with said decaying bones and joints.

More staring up at the ceiling happens, and after a little while his head starts tilting. "How much do you suppose that chandelier cost?" he asks, meaning the massive one hanging above them. "At least our yearly salary, don't you think?"

"You can't be much older than me, don't be dramatic," Miri replies, then catches herself. She laughs. "Who the fuck do I think I'm talking to? 'Don't be dramatic', she says." She shakes her head and runs her fingers through her hair, pullling out the hair tie and resecuring her auburn curls.

She looks up at the chandelier. "Easily the GDP of some tiny island nation in the Pacific. Easily."

Being told not to be dramatic has a predictable response: "My bones," he wheezes out, slumping down in his chair to the point he must be nearing the point of actually ending up on the floor. Could he really call himself an actor if he wasn't so theatrical?

Somehow he's managing to prop himself up in the chair, and so he crosses his hands over his midsection, still pondering the fancy chandelier. "You know, I've been out on my own for years now," he says, a thoughtful note to his voice, "And I still feel like I have absolutely no concept of how money works. The switch to the United States dollar certainly didn't help."

Miriam laughs, delighted, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "You are so easy to bait into foolishness. I adore this."

She is, after all, a fan of foolishness.

"So, let me help. There's this thing called 'money', and you exchange it for goods and services. It isn't actually worth anything and it's entirely made up, but our society revolves around it." She sits up a bit, trying to see if he's going to elaborate about what he really means.

"Ah, is it still bait if the fish knows it's bait and gobbles it up anyway?" Benedict asks, but then he snorts aloud and adds, "Yes, I suppose it's still bait."

He looks over at her, wide-eyed and nodding as she explains. Money? Why, fascinating, is what his expression says. And then he snorts again. "I grew up with enough of it that the entire concept of money was practically rendered meaningless. Of course, things are quite different for me now, but let me tell you: privilege makes you a complete idiot about things." After that particular revelation about his past, he lets out a big sigh and sits up... mostly because if he didn't readjust his seat in the chair, he would instead be sitting on the ground.

"I read Prince Harry's messy, messy memoir, so I think I have some idea of what you're talking about." Miri pauses. "Then again, all I remember is him totally absolving himself of responsibility for the Nazi costume and whining about getting his little prince frostbitten in Antarctica, so maybe I don't know what you're talking about."

It's clear she's trying to keep things light and easy so he can opt out of topics if he wants to, but listening if he wants to talk.

The grimace that crosses Benedict's face at the mention of Prince Harry is accompanied by a shudder. "I tried to read through that but it gave me hives," he admits. "Though I'm quite proud to say the only time I've gotten near a Nazi uniform was a production of The Sound of Music at school. And even then, I played..."

After a pause where he doesn't finish the thought, he eventually rubs his chin. "Liesl? God, I don't even remember. One of the von Trapp children." He folds his arms against his knees and leans forward. "How about you? You've said something about Renaissance Fairs, didn't you? I've never actually been to one, I think they're a Yank thing."

"You played Liesl? Is that one of those British all-boy school things? I love that for you. I did some theater in high school and college and I actually played the same role. I bet you looked better in the dirnrl, though." Miri looks highly amused. Highly. "Yeah, I worked at the big one down in PA 3 every summer for twelve years. I started out selling roast turkey legs and eventually became a knight. I saw this full-time, year-round gig with benefits and I just... I had to. I just had to."

"There is a non-zero chance I played Liesl," Benedict says. "But it could have been Louisa. And yes, I did in fact go to an all-boys school, so that wasn't the only genderbent role I played." Does he spill the beans on said other roles? Absolutely not.

Instead he shifts back in his chair, tucking one leg half-up underneath himself so he can turn towards Miriam. "It's a good gig," he says, of Spellbound. "I know there are some who do part-time but we are very lucky to have the Arena going year-round. And I'm sure we can use someone with your experience to help expand the shows. We're always looking for new ideas."

"So what do I have to do to get this information out of you? Because I am usually not nosy, but by god, this I must know." Miri glances at her watch and pops up to her feet, grabbing her backpack. "Okay, time to climb."

She reaches down to offer Benedict a hand up. "And I don't have enough ego to think I'm in any position to offer suggestions yet. Let me learn this show. One foot in front of the other."

Benedict announces that "I will take it to my grave," and means it, because there are certain things from everyone's childhood that are a little too embarrassing to relive even for comedic effect, and those plays definitely count.

As he stands to join Miriam, thanking her for the hand up after, he reaches down for his backpack and smiles at her. "Sure. No pressure." But there's a glimmer in his eye that suggests he's not quite ready to drop it entirely. As they head for the gym, he says, "You'll feel right at home with all the wretches and ghouls of Draugrheim, don't worry."

"Given the nature of Draugrheim, your grave isn't necessarily a permanent condition," Miri notes wryly as they head into the climbing gym.

"You do have me there."

The theme of the gym is pretty intense, but when is that not true, of the park? They're just there for the climbing wall, which... well, is by its very nature a fit to the theming too, after all. And despite the staff member who belays them making sure they stick to the beginner sections of the wall, Benedict finds himself needing a quick run to the showers after. It's certainly a very different kind of workout to the usual physical activity he gets up to in the arena.

Afterward, and very happy to have remembered a change of clothes, Benedict stands near the entrance back to the lobby for Miriam, doing some mindless scrolling through his phone as he waits. The new outfit is a little less athlesiure-coded, as he's in a pair of jeans and a sweater.

Miriam will surely never guess what color they are.

Yeah. Everyone needed a shower after that.

Miri takes longer, mostly because of all that hair, which falls around her shoulders in damp ringlets. She's in a white peasant blouse embroidered with blue flowers, jeans, and blue flats.

She's amused when she sees the color palette, and a thought passes through her mind, <<I am so getting him a neon green sweater for Christma-->>

Why the hell is her thought so LOUD? Pain sears through her mind and her eyes screw shut, stumbling.

Her first accidental use of magic, and this is how it goes.

Benedict looks up in time to catch Miriam stumbling, and within seconds he's at her side, a hand hovering over her elbow but not quite breaching the personal touch barrier unless it looks like she's actually going to fall.

"You alright there?" he asks, bending slightly to get a good look at her, his brows drawing together with concern.

Eyes still screwed shut, Miri tries to collect herself, taking a few slow breaths.

"I don't know what the fuck just happened. Like my thoughts were too loud and then an arrow through my skull. Is this a stroke? A migraine? Aneurism? Am I dead?"

With nothing to do except remain nearby and worry, Benedict lifts his head to look around, allowing himself a second or two of panic before he gets his wits about himself once more.

He has absolutely no medical training, despite the too-many times he's visited the medical tent after a show. So he has to find someone who does. First, though, "Come on, let's get you sat back down," he says, and finally makes physical contact but only to gently take hold of Miri by the arm and lead her back to those overly comfortable chairs out in the lobby that they were previously sprawled out on.

"I'm going to go find the resort medic. Are you alright to sit on your own for a moment?"

<<Fuck me. Fuck. Me. This is exactly how this day needed to fucking go. I'm in the land of cute guys with cute accents and my brain decides to explode. At least I had a drink with the Irish dude before I croaked? Fuck. I'm going to have to go back to the temp agency if I don't die. Fuck.>>

There goes Miri's pained internal monologue, broadcasting directly into Benedict's brain, entirely unawares.

She plasters a small smile on and says, "Yeah, I'm pretty sure I can sit without too much Grey's Anatomy chaos."

Oh dear, says Benedict's expression. There's a certain set to his eyebrows that remains concerned, but barely concealed amusement glitters in his eyes, and as he looks away, he presses a closed fist to his mouth. No laughing at the newbie starting to develop their magic, that would be entirely uncouth.

"I don't know how to tell you this," he begins, and he stands back, arms crossing over his chest as he looks to the heavens for help. Sadly, that expensive chandelier overhead has nothing to offer him. "Alright. Let's just be out with it, then." Benedict levels a serious look at Miriam. "You're telepathic and I absolutely just heard you mentally calling me and my accent cute."

He offers a sympathetic wince and adds, "I hope the Irish bloke showed you a decent time, at least? The good news is you aren't going to die."

Miriam blinks, then looks on in slack-jawed horror. Her cheeks flush crimson and she proceeds to attempt to disappear into the chair and never be seen again.

"Is this another one of those magic show things like at orientation? If you're fucking with me, I mean, congrats, you obviously nailed it because of course you and your accent are cute. You know you're Bridgertoning all over the place," she babbles, somewhat accusatory.

But he doesn't look like he's joking.

"Wait, what?"

"Bridgertoning," Benedict repeats, and he bites his lip to keep from laughing. He's holding real tight to that no laughing at the newbies edict, even if it's just something he made up in his own mind. "Right, well."

He gives a little shake of his head and, much as he fights it, a little chuckle does break its way out. And this is truly unfortunate, so he closes his eyes and steels himself, taking a centering breath.

After, he looks down at Miriam, and says, not unkindly, "The magic they showed you at orientation is real. There's something about the islands here that cause it." Benedict takes a seat adjacent to her, and frowns in thought, before he comes to a decision. "Here, let me prove it to you. Take my hand."

And then he offers it over to her, but something about his complexion is strangely off, all of a sudden. The color seems washed out from his skin, and upon further inspection he's... not completely there any more.

Of course, Miriam could just reach out and pass her hand straight through his when she tries to take it too, that would also make his sudden lack of corporeal form obvious.

The color drains from Miriam's face, too, but for a completely different reason. She does reach her hand out to pass through him.

She is speechless. She's glad she's sitting down, because she's starting to feel dizzy.

Finally, she speaks -- a dry, whispered, "What the fuck."

For a moment or two, Benedict is only sitting in this chair because he wills it, sort of. He's still not certain of precisely how it works, but he'd rather be sitting than hovering, so sit he does. And then like the iconic transition from black and white to color in The Wizard of Oz, the faint flush of life returns to his cheeks, and his eyes are bright blue rather than a somber grey once more. He's a real boy.

"Mm," is all he says at first, reclining back in his seat. Best to give Miriam a moment to take it all in, process, and then -- yes, there it is, the swearing. He steeples his fingers and crosses one leg over the other, a scholarly sort of pose.

Not that he's a scholar. He's just pretending, but he looks over at Miri with a knowing sort of look. "It's quite the shock, but... well, there's no but. It's just what it is."

"...are you a ghost?"

This is what Miri manages to ask next. This all is kind of bouncing off of her brain right now, her hazel eyes wide and confused.

"No," Benedict answers, quietly. Though it feels necessary to add, "Not unless something very tragic happened to me that I wasn't informed of."

He holds out his hand again just in case Miriam wants to verify the fact for herself, and yes, he's now very much alive. Warm to the touch, especially not too far removed from a heavy bout of physical exertion and a hot shower after. He offers up a patient smile, waiting to see if Miri might have more questions.

Miriam reaches out again, gently gripping Benedict's hand in her own. Her hand, warm and alive as well, bears signs of the strength necessary for sword work and trick riding.

"You definitely seem alive."

She's silent for a beat before sheepishly withdrawing her hand.

"My head feels better."

So there's that.

Benedict's, in turn, has all the expected calluses one might have from all of the martial activities he gets up to. And he doesn't mind that Miriam holds on for a little longer. It seems like she might need the support, and he's more than happy to provide.

"I'm glad to hear it," he says, once Miri says that bit about her head. "Are you feeling up to lunch still, or has this all been a bit much?"

After a moment of pause, though, he adds, "I suppose they aren't mutually exclusive, but I totally understand if you need some time to process."

Miriam has a crazy(?) idea. She's going to try and use telepathy intentionally

<<Lunch. Definitely lunch. I'm hungry after climbing and low blood sugar plus new crazy psychic powers will probably mean massive hellish hangry Miriam, and no one wants that.>>

And it didn't hurt. It just... happened.

She beams.

The mental voice is a bit of a trip, admittedly, for Benedict. Not one he's unfamiliar with going on, but his experiences with it have been tangential at best. Not directly aimed at his own brain.

"Well, let's solve that problem before it becomes one, shall we?" he offers, and then he's on his feet, holding that same hand out to Miriam should she need a steadying touch to help her out of the chair. "My treat, in celebration of your new magical discovery."

Miriam doesn't necessarily need the hand up, but she takes it anyway. This is some peak Bridgertoning and she is not going to pass it up.

"It's like my bat mitzvah all over again, just with less acne and I assume no one is going to be doing the Electric Slide."

Up Miriam goes, and once Benedict is sure she won't tip over, he withdraws politely. After all, she did say her head wasn't hurting any longer, so there's no need to continue with the hovering. He pauses near the elevator banks to say, "The spa is upstairs, if you ever have the opportunity to visit it you won't be sorry. I had a deep tissue massage that ruined me for half the week after. Entirely worth it."

He laughs as they make their way towards the restaurant. "I think we've moved past that, unless someone on Tiktok brings it back somehow." And then he's stepping forward to open the door for Miriam, though as he looks past her into the restaurant interior, his eyes go wide.

"That... is some impressive theming," is all he can say.

"Was it one of those massages where they beat the hell out of you and make you scream and you can't walk right for a week?" Miri's eyes light up at that. Weirdo.

The restaurant is... wow. Something else.

"How do they clean the ceiling?"

"Something like that," Benedict says, so he doesn't have to admit to crying like a little baby during a massage. Actor ego, and all that. He props open the door as he takes in the restaurant's decor, and it's only a polite clearing of throat from behind him that prompts Ben to move forward, properly in, so that the guests waiting behind him can do the same.

He approaches the host stand, and soon enough they're being escorted to the table. "How do they clean the ceiling?" he repeats, and the young woman leading them laughs and says, "Magic, of course!"

It's Spellbound, after all. Someone probably flies up there and does it.

Right. Magic. This is going to take some getting used to.

They're seated at a table by the window overlooking the lake. Miri settles in and turns to look at Benedict.

"Is everyone... really so cool and casual about this stuff here?"

As he drops into his chair, Benedict turns his gaze onto their view of the lake. Only for a moment, though, before he's looking back at Miriam, and he settles his arms on the table, leaning in a bit conspiratorially. "The longer you stay here, the more of it you see, so eventually ou just learn to... deal with it, I suppose. Some people love it; you'll see guests who come here over and over just to get a little taste of the magic."

He cups his chin in his palm. "I think that's why we have so many regulars. Not to say the entertainment value of the park by itself isn't worth a return, but we have something here that nowhere else does," he says.

"How is this such a well-kept secret? This is..."

Ooh. French onion soup.

<<Ooh. French onion soup.>>

"Ooh, French onion soup."

Apparently, Miri is excited about the French onion soup.

"In this day and age? You have to see it up close and personal to believe it. Everything else is fake. AI, or edited, whatever."

Like Miriam, he picks up the menu to being perusing. But then Benedict's face breaks out into an expression of amusement, crinkling at the corners of his eyes and his mouth twitching with barely-suppressed glee as he looks over at Miri, and her excitement about the French onion soup. He just shakes his head, and says, "You're handling this surprisingly well, you know. Not everyone manages to recover after their first experience with it."

"Am I recovered or am I just in shock and will need to get super stoned tonight and watch cartoons?" Miri asks Benedict casually, looking up at him with a quirked brow. She catches his look of buttoned-up delight and can't help but grin. "Also, the fact that you're talking about it like this and the hostess just is chill with it tells me that either things are okay or I'm in some kind of cult and am going to be sacrificed at the full moon, so I might as well get the soup."

Benedict's eyebrows lift, and he says, "I suppose only time will tell," about what Miriam's evening will entail. He's still amused, and as he flips the menu over to consult the wine list on the back, he lets out a quiet laugh.

"Insofar as these sorts of places do sort of inspire cultish behavior, I don't think that's precisely what's going on here." He purses his lips together as he debates the benefits of day drinking, though it is his day off. "Either way, you should definitely get the soup," he adds.

Miri seems to have no such compunctions about day drinking on her day off, but to be fair, she just got a bombshell dropped on her and a psychic feedback lance in her brain.

"French onion soup. Smoked salmon benedict. Bottomless mimosas."

She pauses. "Unless eating eggs benedict is cultural appropriation in the presence of a true Benedict, in which case I'll reconsider and be sensitive." Her eyes glint with amusement

"Bottomless mimosas?" The mere suggestion makes the entirety of Benedict's face light up again, this time with excitement instead of good humor. "Yes, let's."

And with the plethora of brunch menu options still available, he takes a moment or two longer to decide. "I think eggs benedict is an American thing, so I can't in good conscience make any claim to it. My titled ancestors would roll in their graves if I did," he says as his eyes roam over the options. Just in time for the waiter to arrive, he makes his choice, and orders the crème brûlée French toast, which sounds like it'll have enough sugar to sustain him and an entire army of children for a solid year.

"I'm looking forward to seeing the resort in the summertime, when more of it is open," he muses thoughtfully as he returns to looking out at the lake. It's surprisingly not frosted over, and he adds, "Though the weather is still unusual for winter in the area, I'm told."

"Oh look, they squeeze their own juice for the mimosas," Miri is also getting excited. It's the small things. "I did ask for swankified, I guess. How much does it cost to come here, anyway? I never really looked into it."

The mention of 'titled ancestors' catches her attention. "Okay, Earl Benny, you're Bridgertoning way too close to the sun. Was that a joke or is that actually your heritage? My heritage is mostly Russian anarchists who came to the US to start newspapers and organize labor."

Benedict hums in reply at first, distracted by the sight of a flock of geese out on the lake. Something about that seems wrong, but he's not so invested in American wildlife that he can actually say why. "I thought we had already discussed my complete financial illiteracy?" he asks, and then shrugs one shoulder lightly. "I doubt it's the most expensive place on the islands, there must be exclusive clubs that us lowly folk don't get to know about."

He chokes out a bit of laughter when he's given an earldom. "Hardly a joke. But my grandmother was the daughter of a Baron."

"I meant the resort in general. The menu, at least, has transparent pricing, and honestly, the prices aren't half bad? I was expecting Disney prices. Not that any of it matters, I have a google machine and can figure it out." Miri follows Ben's gaze. "Have you encountered those awful creatures yet? They're dinosaurs and won't let you forget it. Avoid at all costs."

She looks across the table when he explains his lineage. "How's it feel to be slumming it in the States?"

"Oh, then I haven't got a clue. The spa I used my employee discount for, so I can't even say what that costs for guests." Benedict leans back in his seat and crosses his legs as he does so. He can only shake his head about the geese, saying, "I know to stay well away from them, at the very least." One of the geese lets out a tremulous honk and Ben blinks once, brow furrowed.

He gives a little shake as he turns away from the bird-watching. "I was slumming it in dreary old London before I came here for a bit, so it's not very different. I will say, the sales tax on everything was quite confusing to me when I first arrived." Ben pauses, and then tilts his head, questioningly. "Not to say sales tax as a concept was unfamiliar, but here you only apply it at the register, rather than having it written on the sign in front of the products, and this is a very boring topic, I'm realizing, as I hear myself speak."

Breaking out into a fit of laughter, Benedict presses a hand to his mouth briefly. "Sorry. Sorry. Shall I talk more about the weather next? I'm sure I can outdo myself and reach heretofore unheard of levels of inanity."

"You're not being boring or inane. You're telling me about something that's different between here and home. What was the biggest surprise or culture shock thing for you?" Miri asks, closing her menu just fin time for a server to come, and she places her order. Soup. Eggs benny with smoked salmon instead of pork. Aaaaaand bottomless mimosas.

Bottomless mimosas for the table! Benedict passes his menu off to the server after ordering that and his french toast, and he sits back, his expression briefly closing off as he thinks about the question.

"Well, despite so much of our media being influenced by America, it was a big adjustment to make." He hesitates for a second and his brow wrinkles, but then he seems to come to some decision as he continues. "People in America are much more forthright in... everything. People would say hello to me on the street and launch into a full conversation just like that."

He looks mildly perturbed as he thinks back on a few choice examples, and adds, "Oftentimes it was to share some truly wild opinions, too." Lifting a hand, he gestures to himself. "Is there something about me that says please share your deepest, darkest secrets with me or I absolutely want to hear your wildest conspiracy theory?"

"Americans hear a British accent and they assume the person is some sort of genius and/or they will just talk and talk and talk to hear the accent. It doesn't matter if they're from Bristol or Yorkshire or whatever, all British accents sound smart and sophisticated to American ears, and most of us morons don't know the difference anyway or will ask you if you're Australian. That's my theory, anyway." Miri sips her water, unfolding her napkin and placing it on her lap.

"Some Americans are really uptight and don't talk about anything that might be controversial or unpleasant, but there totally is that other end of the sharing spectrum and goooood lord, it can be something. Where do you think I fall on the spectrum of weird Americans?"

"That's quite a theory. I suppose that is why we always end up as the genius supervillain in American movies," Benedict says. "To my ear there's quite a lot of variation in accents from back home, but you ask most Americans what accent they have and they'll say 'none'." The corners of his mouth lift at that, quietly amused.

He's most certainly nodding in agreement to that bit about the so-called sharing spectrum, having been exposed to it in the past, but then Miriam poses her question and Ben makes a thoughtful noise. Elbow on the table, he cups his chin in his palm and really looks at her. Not for long enough to be rude, just a moment of silent contemplation, before he says, "I think you have hidden depths that you're not sure if you want to remain hidden. I don't think anyone in this industry can be all that normal, so I'm sure there's something about you that you think qualifies as weird, but I just think that makes you interesting."

After delivering that, though, he just shrugs and sits back, taking a drink of water. "I could be entirely off-base, though," he concludes.

Miriam looks highly amused. "You know, that's a safe answer, but I'll take it. I could be obnoxious American number forty-seven, but I'm glad that I seem to have made a good impression. You know. In spite of..."

She taps her temple.

"I don't think you're obnoxious," Benedict assures with a smile. "I'm sure we've both met our fair share of those types, in our line of work."

When Miri taps her temple, he shakes his head in amusement. "No, no, you said -- well, thought -- some flattering things. That's hardly a negative against you, really. Given the amount of nonsense we think throughout the day, a compliment or two is nothing."

The mimosas are the first thing to arrive. Bless.

Miri raises her glass. "To sharing thoughts," she toasts. "And even though you have me at a disadvantage, no need to share any you don't want to. I'm just happy for the good company."

Benedict echoes the toast, his own glass in the air, with a quick, "To new, thoughtful friends," which is of course said with a cheeky smile before he tips the glass back for a drink.

Those champagne flutes do not contain a lot of liquid. He eyes it for a moment before he says, "This is going to be dangerous, isn't it?"

Miriam grins over the rim of her glass. "And since when are are you afraid of a little danger, Sir Black Knight?"

She sips and almost as soon as her glass hits the table, someone is by to top it off. Damn.

Like Miriam's glass, Benedict's is refilled before it's even completely drained, and there's no hiding the grin that spreads across his face at that. "Let it never be said that the Black Knight backs down from a challenge."

He resumes casually sipping, looking at Miriam over the top of his glass with a wry sparkle to his eyes. "Though I'm sure the food will soak up the worst of it," he says after.

Miri's soup arrives first and she pokes at the cheese until she finds the broth and bread for a taste. Her face lights up and quickly slides it across the table. "You've got to try this. Unless you're a vegetarian, because I think it's beef broth. Are you a vegetarian?"

Now, Benedict was perfectly fine waiting for his meal while Miriam enjoyed her delicious soup. But he's not going to turn down the offer to try, not when Miri was already so enthusiastic about the prospect of soup and is still willing to share.

"No, I am not," he confirms, and then takes a spoonful, his expression giving nothing away as he tries it. The moment extends, and then he cracks a smile, saying, "That is quite good. Pretty similar to what I've had in France, before, even. I won't say exactly the same if only to avoid my grand-mère somehow finding out and sending me a nasty letter."

"I'm generally assuming that if you went to France, it was before. Because there's no time-traveling here, right?" Miri doesn't know this for a fact, but god, she is hoping time travel shenanigans aren't about to become her life. Some of that comes through on her face and she drinks.

"But help yourself, please. Food tastes better when it's shared."

"I... don't believe so?" Benedict says, but it definitely comes out in the form of a question, so he must not be so sure himself. He grimaces faintly at that, his expression briefly mirroring Miriam's, before he sits back.

"I spent most of my summers growing up in the southwest of France. It's why I picked up a sabre in the first place. I was raised on stories of d'Artagnan and the Three Musketeers. My family there claims some relation but it's shaky at best."

He gives a tiny shake of his head, after. "It's become something of a shared delusion in that half of my family tree."

"I think that area of France is super full of weird legends and history, isn't it? Like France's answer to Appalachia? Isn't that where the Davinci Code church and the Cathars and everything were? Or am I getting my geography wrong?" Miri is happy to not have to worry about time travel FOR NOW ANYWAY.

Benedict narrows his eyes as he looks off to the side. "No, actually, I can see that comparison being fairly apt now that I think on it. It's quite rural. Lots of bastides, like the one at Montréal-du-Gers, which hosts a really spectacular medieval market during the summers I remember visiting." That makes him realize something. "I suppose that's as close as an equivalent to Renaissance Fairs as I got, growing up."

As the conversation turns literary, he makes a thoughtful noise. "Oh, I couldn't say. I remember the book featuring Paris fairly heavily but beyond that I'm not sure." Then Ben leans forward. "Have you done much traveling? Paris isn't my favorite city by a long shot but it has its merits. Worth at least one trip, I'd say."

"I would give anything to go to a medieval market in rural France. That's... that's amazing. Incredible." Miri looks genuinely enchanted by the idea, even abandoning her soup to imagine it. "I haven't had much of an opportunity to travel. I spent a semester at the University of Bristol as an exchange student, but that's really my biggest travel story. We went to Mexico once when I was a kid and I went to Canada on a trip with my high school choir."

Something in her shrinks a bit. Like she knows she is way out of here league here and can't keep up with the cool stories.

Benedict blinks once in surprise after Miri shares her travel experience, and then he asks, "Bristol?" If he notices her shrinking, his only response is to gently continue questioning with, "So you've had the reverse of my experience then. What was your biggest culture shock, living abroad?"

He pauses for another sip of his drink, which is ever-so-helpfully refreshed not long after he sits it back down on the table. So dangerous. "I was surprised at first how many Americans never travel outside of the country, though seeing how varied the cultures are from state to state, I think I've started to understand."

"Yeah, Bristol. University life is so much different than in the US. Students are expected to be so much more responsible and autonomous, and the grading scale almost gave me a heart attack. Also, there's no air conditioning anywhere." Miri seems to be a little more settled in the conversation, and mildly surprised that she's not being judged... but more pleased than surprised.

"It also doesn't help that the US is huge and kind of far away from most other countries, so travel is a big, expensive production, you know?"

The mention of air conditioning startles a laugh out of Benedict. "That is a creature comfort I've become very used to, very quickly," he admits. "And I understand. The scale of the country is hard to grasp until you're here and you realize it takes something like a full work week to travel from one coast to the other."

Fingers on the stem of his glass, he hesitates before taking another sip. Best not to get absolutely pissed on champagne before their meal even arrives. "Meanwhile we'd get off the ferry at Calais and you could make it across two countries and all the way to Hamburg in a single day of driving."

"All I know about Calais comes from smutty novels about the Tudor period," Miriam admits a bit more readily than she would have if she didn't have whoever-knows-how-much mimosa on board. "I would love to see all of the castles in Germany."

"Can't say I've read any of those, though only because I wasn't aware of their existence," Benedict replies easily, which is also maybe something he'd only admit under the influence of too much champagne. "The castles are nice, but best part of Germany is their Christmas market." Sitting back, he sighs and gestures with his mimosa, not spilling any of it only because it's almost empty. "You'd love them. Très romantique."

The French phrase has him laughing, for some unknown reason. He sets his arms down on the table and his smile is positively cheeky. "It feels like walking through a novel," he says with a sigh. "Though sometimes I feel an inkling of that here, I do miss it."

"I can get you a few if you want. Something about a king summoning a young maiden to his bedchamber in the middle of the night just... Mmph." Miri realizes that she's saying this with her outside voice and her cheeks flush. She looks at the mimosa like it somehow is to blame.

TOPIC SHIFT. She clears her throat.

"There's not much like that here. Nothing really with the same age and history, the same energy and weight of footsteps of countless generations... I wish I had more opportunity to travel and see places like that."

Benedict points at Miriam with his now-empty glass. "I never turn down the opportunity for a good read," he says, even if good might be entirely subjective. And then he sets his glass down, looking at it with suspicion, and moves it away from the edge of the table so that the roaming servers don't see it and feel the need to refill it.

Definitely time for a bit of a breather. "No, but you have a wealth of history here for the short amount of time the country has existed, comparatively. I can understand the desire, though. At times I feel I squandered all the traveling I did when I was younger by not appreciating it while I was there."

"Then I am definitely going to get you a copy of 'The Other Boleyn Girl', Miri declares firmly. "That's the grand dame of those sorts of novels."

Aha! Food arrives. Yesss.

Once more, she pushes her plate over for Ben to try. "This is like a regular benedict, but it has smoked salmon and capers instead of ham or bacon or what have you. The salmon and the hollandaise are such a great combination."

If sharing food is the name of the game, today, then Benedict is honor-bound to reciprocate. So his French toast, with the addition of vanilla custard filling and a glass-like topping of bruléed sugar, is thus slid in place in front of Miriam.

Sugar on top of sugar on top of sugar. At least he hasn't (yet) poured maple syrup on it, but a small carafe of it was deposited on the table, and he's most certainly going to use it. "Ah, more Henry the VIII, then? Have you seen Six, by the way? It's fantastic." Though as he cuts into Miri's eggs benedict with the side of his fork, he says, "I'm just assuming you're a fan of musicals. I know they can be polarizing." Bite secured, he chews and his eyebrows draw together, napkin rising to his mouth as he says, "Oh, that is amazing."

"Oh yeah, absolutely Henry VIII. He's a favorite in this fine genre of literature." Miri helps herself to a taste of the elaborate French toast. "Oh my god," she blurts out, hand in front of her mouth.

She approves.

"And do I like musicals? I danced through life in your presence, bro. I did see Six, actually, the last time I was in New York. It was a lot of fun, even if they all were dressed like robots."

"I think I blacked out when you did that," Benedict teases. "All of my acting trauma, come to bear." Though there's some truth in there that he doesn't go into, he is clearly joking around. And then he nods in agreement when he takes his own bite of the French toast, finding it to be exactly his kind of too-sweet.

Hand cupping his cheek as he eats, Ben pauses with fork held just above one of the plates to look across at Miri and say, "The outfits are certainly a choice, but I couldn't get Haus of Holbein out of my head for weeks afterward."

"You should sing it for me sometime. I'd pay good money to hear that." Miri is now entirely relaxed, seeming to genuinely feel comfortable in Ben's presence. A thought occurs to her.

"Speaking of dancing, do you have any plans to go to the Winter Ball?" she asks casually.

Benedict snorts. "Ja," he says, in as respectable a German accent as one can get across with a single syllable. "I honestly don't know if I can pull it off," he continues in his normal voice. "But the entire production is impeccable. Anna of Cleves' song? Ugh. It's entirely too good."

Now that they've got food in front of them, Ben is sly about how he moves his glass back towards the edge of the table, and makes a bit of eye contact with a server across the way. Then he clears his throat, looking back at Miriam. "Ah, no, I can't say I do. Were you thinking of attending?"

"It felt more like a concert than a musical, though. Which is fine, but I went in with different expectations." Glance at Benedict. Glance at her glass. Sliiiiiiide.

"I was considering. You know. I just." Miri laughs at herself. "I feel like a tween asking a boy to the school dance. No worries either way, I'm probably just being goofy."

Look, endless mimosas are meant to be endless, and they want to get their money's worth, don't they? Benedict shares a conspiratorial look with Miriam, and then when a server comes over with a carafe to top them both up, he grins.

"Oh," he says, after, when he realizes what Miri was asking. "Well, I've a suit or two I can pull out for the occasion, though they've both been stuffed into the back of my closet for ages. No reason we can't go, then!"

His lips purse, but whatever he's thinking of, a minute showing of hesitation on his face, ultimately Benedict doesn't share. He just takes another bite of French toast, which is clearly his favorite of the two. Sorry to his namesake dish, but he's got a massive sweet tooth.

"I'm going to try and sweet-talk someone in the costume shop to let me borrow something. If you'd care to be my accomplice, could do a theme. Is a masquerade after all."

Miri catches that look and makes eye contact, pursing her lips and brows drawing together slightly. "Was it something I said?"

"Well if we can get something matching, by all means," Benedict agrees. His head tips to the side slightly at the word masquerade, like he wasn't aware of that fact, but he doesn't raise any new objections based on that information.

He looks up in time to catch Miriam responding to the expression on his face, and immediately he shakes his head. "No, it's just. I don't really get out, do things. It's a bit out of my comfort zone, that's all."

"If it wouldn't be fun for you, then don't worry about it. It's just a party. If you'd rather skip it but still want company, I can show you a proper Jewish Christmas, albeit belated. Chinese food and movies while everyone else is celebrating something that's not really for you. It's a time-honored tradition, though these days I tend to go for Indian or Thai if it's available." Miri grabs her freshly-refilled glass and takes a long sip.

"Or, you know, I can also just go by myself and it doesn't have to be a thing. Am I overexplaining and backpedaling too hard? Probably."

Benedict takes another bite of food purely to give himself an excuse not to reply immediately. He chews it over both literally and physically, and then he sets down his fork, to instead pick up his glass too. "I think it might be time I stopped hiding," he says. "I've been in a bit of a rut, lately, and maybe this will be good for me. So let's do it."

He extends his arm to gently knock his glass against Miri's, and smiles over at her. "To a fresh start, or new beginnings, or something like that." Then he knocks back the entirety of the glass. Liquid courage!

Miriam leans into the toast. "And I'm not going to pry if you don't want to talk about it. If you ever do, though, you know where to find me. You know. At work. Every day. On fire."

"Thank you," Benedict says, quite sincerely. He sets his glass down again, and leaves it to the will of the universe if it gets a refill or not. For now he just leans on one arm, contemplating the spread of food between them. "I think this place is going to ruin me. How can I be expected to consistently wake up early enough for brunch?"

"Getting up first thing in the afternoon like some sort of plebeian," Miri remarks in an affected drawl that probably is a bad attempt at sounding like Astarion from Baldur's Gate 3. Maybe.

Sadly Benedict doesn't get the reference, but he does recognize an archetype when he sees one. Also he probably grew up with people who unironically used the word plebeian, so.

"I need my beauty sleep," is his only rejoinder. And it's the truth, even though he means it to come off joking. "Thank you for dragging me out for this. Shocking that I've been here as long as I have and never tried it."

"Oh, I'm with you there. If I don't get enough sleep, I get totally depressed and useless. And kind of mean? It's like the sleep-deprived version of hanger. We need a word for that." Miri's smile at the thanks is warm and earnest, though.

"I don't think I did much dragging, but you're welcome. I think we're going to make a good team."