undergrounds

A. Brunch
It isn't that Nightingale doesn't enjoy the cooking provided for him at home. It's rather that if he doesn't get out of the Folly and away from it at least once a week he's afraid he might turn into one of Molly's sausages. His life has stayed relatively untouched for decades now, and as such, every now and again he needs a little variety to keep himself from going mad.

Even if such variety is simply taking himself out for his own meals every now and again. Not that that's quite how he had described things to Molly herself. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, after all. (Who knows what she might make for him to eat the next time if he did.)

And so he sits, in a modest but homey little cafe, with a plate of Eggs Benedict in front of him and a coffee to the side. Looking as much at home as he can, sitting there in a three-piece suit and tie, complete with handmade, hand-shined leather shoes. Beside him a silver-topped gentleman's cane leans as inconspicuously as it can against the corner of the table while to his other side lays the newspaper as Nightingale casually flips through it. He's looking for any sign of supernatural foul play written between the lines of the local news. A method that, until the newspaper itself goes out of print, has always proved itself worth the effort.

He pays no attention to the looks he is receiving from the next table over. He is certain if they want something from him then they can jolly well ask.

B. Office Hours - Redbright Institute
Nightingale's office is just about as impeccable as one might expect it to be. The desk is clean and neat, the bookshelves full but organized within an inch of their lives. The room is small and tight with the desk and the shelves but he's managed to squeeze in another chair for the odd student meeting that might occur. For the most part however Nightingale's extracurricular tutoring sessions happen outside of both the classroom and his office. Sometimes in a laboratory. Sometimes in a private area of the gymnasium. Sometimes out on the streets of London itself. (Sometimes if they're simply discussing theory, Nightingale's rather partial to doing so over coffee or lunch. He'll even pay, if the student is keen enough.)

Despite that, he makes himself available for office hours when he's got nothing scheduled, however. For the odd drop-in that might happen regardless. And for the fact that, given that his mobile is currently switched off where it sits in lapel pocket of his jacket, it's probably the easiest way for any of his colleagues to get a hold of him either. And don't even bother thinking of emailing. Aside from the mobile, the most technologically advanced equipment in Nightingale's office is possibly the ballpoint pen he's using to grade.

C. At the Scene of the Crime
To say that the current situation with the vampires represented a problem with the Redbright Institute's Outreach Group is rather an understatement. It is their mission to protect the city against supernatural threat, after all, not to mention keep the nature of the supernatural secret from the rest of the world as they knew it. Such things however are rather difficult when the vampires have essentially granted themselves free run of the city.

Nightingale stands silent by the scene of the crime. Or perhaps the scene of the dump. He can't be certain as of yet. He moves to crouch, carefully keeping his cream colored coat out of the worst of it and balancing his silver-topped cane across his knees as bends closer. Narrowing his eyes as he takes in the violence of the kill.

"Reprehensible," he mutters to himself.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Natasha knows of Nightingale. Not out of any particular intention to dig into him specifically, but she's come across information in her general investigations into the school and its role in London's supernatural politics. His name comes up here and there, unsurprisingly.

At first, she didn't realize he had come back from retirement, though. She couldn't be blamed for not connecting the two immediately. They haven't worked closely on the Outreach Team, and even for a witch, his situation is... odd. Natasha hasn't seen or heard of anything quite like it. Assuming family had made more sense, at first, than believing he was the same person.

She is a quick woman though. She figured it out eventually.

And she has to wonder a little what he thinks of her presence here, if he thinks of it at all.

Tonight, she wanders in during office hours because with recently becoming a senior team member, she felt more responsibility to touch base with other members. To know who they were, and what they brought to the table. There is something both odd and oddly gratifying about it, finding her place here expanding. And, from her perspective, growing relatively quickly.

She knocks at the door, regardless of whether or not it's open, pausing in the threshold to his office. "Hey," she says, words very faintly accented. "Mind if I come in?"

Nightingale looks up from the paperwork spread out before him -- he is notorious for paperwork. His students should be grateful he allows them to type up their assignments in this day and age, for he certainly doesn't allow them to be submitted electronically. He makes a little sound of recognition before rising out of his chair in greeting, and gestures to the chair across from him.

"Please," he replies, his own accent old-fashioned, proper, and a bit out-dated in the sense that no one but someone's rich old grandfather -- or someone pretending to be someone's rich old grandfather -- might speak like anymore. Unfortunately for Nightingale, that's just how he is. "Please," he says again, "come in. Sit." He moves to clear the students work from his desk, taking in the measure of his companion out of the corner of his eye. Natasha, if he's not mistaken. They have spoken once or twice before, but never quite so intimately as this.

Natasha didn't have to wait for his invitation, but it was polite. It just seemed to her like the thing to do.

"I'm not interrupting then?" she asks as she steps inside, her eyes moving meaningfully over the stacks of books and paperwork on his desk. A small smile tugs her lips as she does. She's not particularly invested in analogue— and actually younger even than him—but it reminds her of some of her tutors from so long ago.

"Grading?"

Nightingale glances at the documents in question before back at Natasha herself, shaking his head. "Not interrupting at all. Certainly nothing that cannot be saved for a later time," he ammends. For yes, it certainly is grading. He'll need to get it done eventually, but per usual Nightingale has started this particular stack almost the second he's received it from the hands of the students.

"How can I help you, Ms. Romanoff?" he asks, taking his seat again as he moves the stack of grading aside and regards her across the desk with sharp, grey eyes. There has to be something -- such a visit isn't a common occurence after all.

Finally, she takes a seat. She doesn't make herself too comfortable, finding herself using the posture expected of her when she was in training—not out of any hostility on Nightingale's part, but there's something about his dated formality that she feels most comfortable mirroring, in her particular way.

Especially because she doesn't have a specific reason to be here. Her goals today are more general.

"Help might not be the word I'd use," she says, her tone warmed by a faint smile. "It struck me the other day that we've never really spoke. Not more than in passing. I suppose I thought I'd come by for a real introduction."

Nightingale does a passable search through his memory but he finds that she's about right. They haven't really spoken save for in passing and in niceties, a kindly 'hello how are you' or 'it certainly is warm today isn't it'. At least that's as far as Nightingale remembers his own contributions to said conversations.

"Ah," he replies. "Yes, quite. I suppose I'd never considered that we hadn't been formally introduced." He'd rather just peripherally known most of the team, and generally kept himself to himself. It seemed to work for mostly everyone the best that way. Seemed being the paramount word there, of course. "Forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive," Natasha says, waving off the apology smoothly. "There hasn't really been a reason for us to talk more than that before. I just thought... maybe a good time to change that? Especially if we end up working together more."

"Ah," he says, repeating himself, "yes of course." Of course, Nightingale isn't what you would call the expert conversationalist, though he can certainly hold his own. What he isn't good at is talking about himself. Which he's willing to bet she will be wanting him to do. She's certainly not there to ask him about the weather.

He gestures at Natasha herself. "I suppose a congratulations is in order, then. How are you finding your new position treating you?"

"I can't complain." She smiles slightly, encouraging. Natasha doesn't mind him turning the conversation on her, so long as he doesn't pry. If he's more comfortable with her talking about herself, she can lead the conversation that way.

"It's nice to feel like I'm making progress. I wasn't sure that would happen at first."

Nightingale nods slightly. "Yes," he concedes. "I'm afraid that we are a difficult bunch to gather together at times. It might frustrate a person, no doubt. You've done well holding your own thus far though."

Don't worry, Natasha, he would never pry. He knows how hypocritical that would be of him, all things considered. He's all for polite conversation and to let that be that.

OPEN

B

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject