denverkane-blog

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it's a hypothetical question. who would you hire on paper alone?

The answer is, I wouldn't. 

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Can I get a piece of that?

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no one's asking you to make such an 'ill informed' decision; only if you had to make one, who would you hire?

It would be ill-informed. Any decision made on such flimsy evidence would be idiotic.  

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looking at the database - assuming you haven't met anyone in it - who would you hire just on the database alone?

Do you typically make such ill-informed decisions? 

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First impressions of the Apartments so far?

First impressions can be quite deceptive, you know. 

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How big of a piece are you working with in the bedroom, hot stuff?

I assume you’re familiar with the phrase, ‘It’s how you use it.’

Or, alternatively. 'Piss off.' 

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Take Me To Church | Denver & Red

We were born sick, we heard them say it

My church offers no absolution Tells me worship in the bedroom...

His skin is too damn tight, feels like he's gonna burst his seams, come tearing out all vicious teeth and rockslides. Flattening everything in his path.

He lost count of his Scotches somewhere around 7. 

But his hand is still steady as it taps the bar, still steady as it raises the liquor to his lips. Always steady. Top of the damn class in marksmanship. Lethal. 

The pub is rowdy, drowning out the rush of blood in his ears. 

Swish. 

Someone is singing an Irish drinking song. Denver's tempted to smash his glass on the bar, just for something to break. Just to hear that beat of silence.  

Swish. 

The job had gone south, practically nose diving from the moment Denver had left the UK. 

Swish. 

Undercovers compromised, years of carefully maneuvered intelligence wasted. A leak that nobody could plug. 

Three agents, not murdered, massacred. Slaughtered like nothing more than butcher's meat at the Sunday market.  

Denver could do nothing more than damage control. Clean up with his already bloody hands. Tie up loose ends. Control the chaos. 

Swish. 

The bartender reaches for his glass, ostensibly to pour him another, but Denver's done with small-time shit. He leans over the bar and tips the bottle of Macallan off the shelf, the thick glass a comfortable weight in his own hand. 

"He—"There's the token protest, but Denver pulls a £100 out of his back pocket, tucks it into the kid's palm, curls his fingers around it with a touch that might be a mite too familiar, and pulls back. He stands up from the bar, towards the billiards table, and the haze of cigarette smoke. Somebody is raucous and stupid is standing up on the bar, and Denver watches from the corner as two men rack a game. 

Swish. 

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brandonmathers:

[Silence and sound, that was what surrounded the two. His peripherals took in the dark man, ruggedly shaven, built with a twinge of pain possibly? An injury in the scapula or clavicle, maybe. He wasn’t a doctor of that sort, and didn’t know more than the basics of the human anatomy, but a hitch in the way he moved himself somewhat clued Brandon in.

His specialty was what attacked the human form, not what put it together. A sweep of his eyes downwards noted a bag, too large for a job nearby and yet not small enough to indicate a normal day-to-day routine. It was quite possible that this was a new resident, nothing about him bespoke an escort, unless he was a stoic type who was here especially to be an elusive, highly sought after escort. It was also possible that he could be here for security purposes; he had that build about him, strong and harsh with too aware eyes that flitted carefully over Brandon even as he responded in kind.

The elevator doors slid closed, boxing the two of them in as it began it’s swift decent, as the as yet unnamed man motioned towards seven, he reached a hand out and pressed the button, and that button only, noting that he was also headed for Brandon’s floor. Seeing as he was situated in the middle of the three suites, this could very easily be his new neighbor. An affirmative nod was all that came from Brandon in reply to the non-verbal statement.]

[His eyes fell down to the message, half opened as from the US lab that had been working in tandem with them, and as his eyes swiped over it with practised ease — - and he swore under his breath. More than once, and was almost, almost temped to rip the paper to shreds, it trembled in his hands. They were so careless that he marvelled at the concept that anyone in that lab was allowed to work around contagious substances. On a project that was supposed to be headed for the CDC headquarters,no less,  a female lab assistant completing her post-grad work after being allowed in due to her thesis being exemplary, had fainted (from causes yet unknown, the paper said) and smashed a petri dish on the corner of the lab table. Fear of airborne contagion had run rife and all the samples had to be cooked, the lab and surrounding areas evacuated and the whole air vent system cleaned out, sanitised and the lab was rendered unoperational as all the workers went through a routine quarantine. All to determine whether or not the Filoviridae family virus had turned airborne rather than only being transferred through skin on skin contact and bodily fluids. Full evac and emergency proceedure had been put in place.

Mumbling to himself, he swore and ripped out his own phone as the strangers, coincidentally, went off. Dialling in the number for his old coworker and correspondent in their sister lab in the US, he began hissing, angrily, into the phone. He was trying to not make his anger more obvious than it should be but it sounded far to harsh in his American accent. Grace picked up on the fourth ring and he didn’t even give her a chance to respond;] No, how could they be so fucking careless? That was months worth of samples that they had to cook! Do they even know how hard it was to collect active samples that didn’t destroy everything they touched? — - Yes, yes Grace I know. I know Isabella, and of course it’s not her fault — - why didn’t she — - what do you mean her supervisor wouldn’t let her go? Is he fucked in the head? She needed to take her insulin, I hand-picked her from the applicants, she has a genius level IQ, more so than Doctor Fucknut Supervisor, actually, and he couldn’t figure out that she needed to take her fucking insulin? She’s a diabetic, for fuck’s sake, it doesn’t take a genius to know —- ugh, yes, I understand, but you know full well that he could have documented the cell growth himself while she stepped out for all of ten minutes. She’s a grad student and a lab assistant, he’s been there for what, eight years? He could have done it himself, he can do the tedious grunt work that self indulged prick — - I get it, I really do. But seriously… the absolute fucking giraffe. [Not his finest insult, not by far, but he was exasperated to say the least.]

[He exhaled loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose as Grace spoke in her rapid-fire Spanish-English mix, luckily they’d known each other since med school and he was more than used to it,] alright, alright. No, filoviridae isn’t traditionally an airborne virus, they should know that but I guess — - yeah, it depends on how they had used the samples — - no, that’s fine. Just have the notes transferred to the system here when you get a chance and — - well, did they cook everything or just that part of the filovi section? Well that’s alright then, we’re working on Group V here as well. We should be able to make it work. You tell what’s his face —- Grace, honestly, I don’t really care, I’m just going to call him Doctor Fucknut, that he’s to finish his stint in quarantine then I want his ass in London and he’s going to be my assistant because Isaac’s out of the lab for the time being and I need a new bitch to break in. I don’t care that he’s a supervisor, it’s his fault we had to cook those samples, not hers and now he’s going to be punished for his fuck up. That’s life. He can go sing Kumbaya and pop Xanax when he’s working on his own dime and not a part of my research team. — - Isaac? Long story. — - no, no he’s fine. Yeah. Excuse you I’m perfectly calm, obviously. Heading up to the suite now — - it’s nice, seventh floor. 7B, I’m pretty sure. You’re more than welcome to visit, of course, I’ll send you the details. Post dealing with Doctor Fucknut and his monumental oversight. [He let out a small laugh as she chided him on his language; a foul mouth that appeared only in the bedroom and in his work.] Of course, adiós, take care Grace, I’ll be in touch.

[Sliding his phone locked, he turned his head to the man next to him and gave a small smile;] apologies sir, I hope I didn’t interrupt your conversation with my own.

[They echo each other, for a few scant seconds. Eyes cataloguing each other, analytical and blank faced. The only lit button, 7, glowing impatiently on the wall. Neighbors then.

Denver's truly not functioning at full capacity, pain starting to override some of his more sharpened senses, but it's difficult to miss the whisper soft swears the man is muttering, the way the paper is starting to crinkle under tight hands, and the tight twitch to his eyes as they skid across the lines of text. There's a seal at the top, something American, but Denver can't catch the letters long enough. The bottom half of the page is obscured by something that looks vaguely like medical data, and Denver files that away as another page in the profile.

There's sudden, furious movement from him, out of the corner of Denver's eye, just as his own mobile starts its falsely tinny ring.

O Lord our God arise Scatter her enemies And make them fall

... Likely someone in the tech branch is pissed he didn't return the equipment in one piece — as if Mi6 doesn't have enough buckets of money to replace one paltry handgun. Or it's a national emergency. 

They could bloody well piss off. Denver wouldn't give a damn if the whole of headquarters was on fire right now. 

He carefully silences it in his pocket, irritating vibration digging into his hip, as his lift-mate begins to truly and impressively hand someone on the other line their arse. 

Cell growth. Active samples. Lab Assistant. 

Not often does Denver get such neatly gift-wrapped insights into people. It's almost overwhelming, how little work he has to do to get an idea of this man, his motivations, his character, his history. 

American accent. Justifiable anger, but anger nonetheless. Controlled anger. Does not particularly value privacy, tends towards openness if he's willing to discuss something so serious in the presence of an absolute stranger. Places great stock in intelligence if his impressively-resume'd intern is anything to go by. 

Compassionate. Aware. Finds mistreatment of employees intolerable. Unafraid of 'grunt work'. 

Built from the ground up? Humble beginnings...? 

There were conclusions that ended in question marks, those Denver stored for later examination, but the man in front of him was giving him almost more information than he could sort through.

It's unnerving, slipping back into a world where people don't hold their cards so damn tight to their chest. 

He thumbs through his calendar again, for something to do. Rearranges his physical therapy appointments purely out of spite. 

Filoviridae. It rings a dull bell in the back recesses of Denver's mind, and it comes to him in pulses. Encoded genomes. Ebola. Viral Hemorrhagic Fever. Marburg. Bodily Fluid Transmission. 

He'd been schooled in possible biological warfare agents, years ago before one of his first assignments in southwest Sudan. The virus wasn't airborne. Had never been, and probably wouldn't ever be. But it was terrifyingly effective at bringing entire countries to their knees. 

His paranoia sings through his skin for a second. 

He's never liked the lab types. Their obsession with way to break the human body down strike him as even more morbid than his own job.

But the conversation is winding down, and Denver only listens with half an ear as the man promises to exact punishment on those whose mistake had cost him all while bright-eyed and concerned.]

[He inclines his head.] You didn't. I would venture to say that yours was far more pertinent than my own. 

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gabrielle-elk:

[There’s no quite denying the stand-offish demeanor of what must be one of the new Masters in the building, even if he is kind enough to press the button for her floor.]  Thank you, heart.  [Gabrielle tries to be polite and not just blatantly stare at the man, or do what it’s so obvious he’d rather not do and engage in pleasantries and small talk.  But her upbringing almost demands that she doesn’t stay silent in the elevator, stance shifting from one foot to the other as upper teeth find bottom lip.

But then the clouds part and the choirs sing and the direction of his gaze is apparent.  There’s genuine interest in the food she’s carrying, and not just the benign interest one might have when arriving to a new city.  The gaze lasts too long than to be just wondering the closest grocery store - it’s too distinct and calculating.]  There’s a store a block away, but my favorite is Borgoyne.  I can show you sometime, if you’d like.  It’s always difficult to remember that I’m not cooking for an even dozen when I’m in there.

[And then the Mistress that despises being called as such remembers herself.]  I’m sorry, my manners.  I’m Gabrielle, 8A.  Welcome, love.  [Gabrielle shifts the bags in her arms to extend her hand even though his arms are crossed.  It’s only proper, after all.

Mistake.

The bottom of the paper bag falls out and all of her produce goes tumbling, Gabrielle almost comically left standing there with the baguette wrapped with brown paper, all the other contents tumbling.  The cheese, the tomatoes and spinach, cream (which thankfully stays in its carton) and fresh eggs (which aren’t quite so lucky).]  Merde.

[He knew she would try to fill the silence. Chirp like a bird, uncomfortable with the solitude of the woods.

But she's observant, he'll give her that. Catching his eyes, knowing how to properly address curiosity. That leap in intuition is admirable, something that can't be taught, can't be drawn out of someone the way Michelangelo drew figures out of marble.] The owner is from Avallon in the Bourgogne region. Makes his own cheeses and imports his family wine. [The name is familiar. Christ, it's been years since he's spent longer than a week or two in London, but the memory solidifies like a camera coming into focus. That market used to be one of his favorite haunts, an odd respite from the oppressively stale air of his flat.

He moves to extend his hand.]  

Denv—

[Denver lunges forward as he sees it happen, hears the rip in the cheap paper bag, but all he gets for his efforts are a few tomatoes he catches that won't be bruised. The carton of eggs hits the polished wood floor of the lift hard, along with spinach, and a frankly lucky carton of cream. Already there's yolk seeping out of the cardboard, as Denver gingerly steps around it to salvage what he can. There's nothing to fill his voice with but dry amusement as the blonde surveys the damage.] Tout ce qui peut aller mal, ira mal. 

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[Denver is dripping marginally less now, having shaken out his jacket, yet he can still feel rainwater sliding down his hairline, persistent and irritating. The concierge hands him his key, simple, classic and gold, and he pockets it before moving to the elevator, heedless of curious eyes on him. 

A commodity, a new face, and he wonders what the bloody hell he's doing here for at least the thirteenth time. 

'You're on extended leave until I deem it otherwise.' M had said. 

'You're running yourself ragged.' That had come from one of the assistants, chiding as they tested the full rotation of his shoulder and his clenched his teeth in an effort not to scream.

'Perhaps it's time to settle down, 009.' M's secretary, figure framed the doorway of the rehab room, just as they decided to wrench his bones more fully into the proper alignment

He'd snarled at her. 

The elevator door is inevitably closing as he approaches, and of course, an arm extends to be buffeted by the doors and hold it for him.] Thanks. [It comes out huffy, brusque as he always sounds.] 7 if you don't mind.  

[Denver only takes a cursory glance, too broodingly irritated to be paying much attention. Yet his instincts, drilled into him by countless years of knife-edge paranoia, don't allow him to dismiss the man entirely. The spread of his shoulders, the way his weight is balanced seem military-grade. The shaggy hair, and schoolbag doesn't. It's a curious juxtaposition that Denver can feel piquing his interest and also setting his teeth on edge.]  

  [Tate’s going to school. It’s laughable, really. As in: Andrew and Jonathan are definitely laughing at him. He swears he can feel it, coming to him all the way from North Carolina.

Because he was the kid who had only stayed in high school because he needed the diploma to enlist. And then, when he’d come back, he’d lived with Jonathan and gone to school because the GI Bill existed and because he had no idea what else to do with himself. And he’d kept at it because, as someone had said, “we can’t expect to ever be on the cover of TIME if only one of us has a college degree.”

And he’d found out a surprising thing: that school wasn’t that bad, once he actually liked what he was studying. And the self-disciplined soldier that went to college was a far cry different from the reckless kid who’d almost dropped out of high school.

And so, he’d originally come to London not to move into a brothel, but to go to school, to take some time off from the company and get a Master’s in Security Studies. The brothel part had just come after, on a whim.

It’s a funny kind of blending in, being the not-quite-kid with the shaggy hair in the back of the lecture hall, then ducking through bustling rain-drenched streets with his bag tucked under his jacket, worried about the health of his laptop. He’s not sure yet if it suits him, but it is a nice break.

The warmth and dryness of the lobby is welcome (and he’s pretty sure that it must be somebody’s job to mop up all the water after he’s done tracking it through, because the floors are pristine) and as he waits for the elevator, he strongly resists the urge to shake his hair out like a dog, slick from where the wind had pushed it up under his hood.

The doors open, and as they’re about to slide shut he sees someone approaching, sticks an arm out to stop the doors, which protest with a kind of echoing ‘ding.’] Sorry about that. Going up? 

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[The girl at reception lets him go, finally, with a toothy smile and a shaking of his hand that lingers somewhere between professional and a little unnerving in its intensity. He's still currently on Bahrain time, Arabia Time Zone, and the three hour difference is just enough to make him want to do nothing more than topple into a set of fresh sheets. 

Plus, his shoulder hurts like hell. Painkillers be damned. 

He only looks up as he nears the door, busy thumbing through his updated calendar. This one looks a little bit like a bow pulled too tight. It's fascinating for Denver to watch in an abstract way, as the man's tendons tighten up before he forcibly relaxes himself. It's the kind of echo of his own trained habits that leaves a dull impression. Like watching a mirror fogged with steam from the shower. 

Close-cropped hair, practically military grade, but something about his bearing doesn't quite fit that rigid mold. He's lean, lithe frame of a runner, someone fast, and efficient. 

It's the cut of his coat, really, that pushes the weighing scale in Denver's mind towards Master. It's the game they all must play, really. Fifty-fifty odds. Once it's figured out, there's no more brain power required. If anything, the label simplifies, and overexerts itself in pushing interactions one way or another.

Denver's black leather bag creaks as he steps into the lift, everything simple and matter of fact between the two of them, and he manages a simple nod to the lit '7', to indicate that that's just fine with him.] 

[Of course his mobile goes off. 'God Save the Queen', that Q no doubt in a fit of pique and patriotism thought appropriate. Denver barely saves himself from rolling his eyes.]  

[He’s never been so ticked off in his life (it might be an understatement) as he slips his way back into the lobby and slips off his rain slicker. A careless mistake could have so very easily resulted in an outbreak during the mid afternoon and he’s lucky to have caught it. One of his interns who works in the lab itself had nicked himself with a syringe and nearly contracted a highly mutated strain of VHF they had been trying to work with.

Now he was in quarantine, stable thank Christ. He’d been able to take over and clean up the metaphorical mess that was left behind, and ensure that Isaac, his intern, was properly taken care of. He was lucky enough to escape infection, but he’d most likely be laid off or moved to desk work now. Pushing his hands through his short cropped hair, most of the drop beaded off and he wiped them on his pants. Stopping by reception, he collected the messages left for him, Brandon slipped through the thinning crowd and headed to the elevator, thumbing through his messages as he absently pressed the button for level seven.

He was vaguely aware that someone had stepped up beside him, equally as wet, but dark and almost mysterious. Clearly with an air of don’t-fuck-with-me-ness around him, Brandon wasn’t off put. He’d learned, long before his station here in London that those with important secrets, important facts or a complicated past tended to keep their mouth shut and avoid small-talk. He was in one such mood; mind whirling with thoughts of contamination, the virus, the mutated strain and what would happen should his intern become susceptible and start showing symptoms. It was a particularly nasty strain of viral hemorrhagic fever; somehow a mix of the ebola virus and malaria. Not something one wanted to come down with.

The ping of the elevator sounded and pulled him from the message he’d just been looking over, sent in from a lab in the US, and looked up — - stepping in he passed a glance at the strange face.] What floor?

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[The boy is staring. Has been lingering with his eyes for the past two trips he's made, lugging what looks like heavy sound system and music equipment to the elevators. Either he's an escort who's starting a rock band, or he's a Master who's made his money in the music industry. His shaggy dark hair gives neither away, and while his face is young, his eyes seem more steady. Denver, who cares naught either way, is hyper aware of the wandering eyes as he passes the desk towards the elevators. He can feel the air between them stretching taut and tense, can feel the nervous flick of eyes and it does little more than irritate him. As he's already a pariah, having missed the opening party, an unfamiliar face who's now dripping dirty London rainwater in the lobby, it's beyond uncomfortable. 

Denver always did prefer the shadows. He was never flashy. Never opulent. He preferred efficiency, surety, instead of the shallow security of the bright spotlight.] 

It's impolite to stare, you know. [It's mild. Gruff, as he always is, but mild for him. He's moved to wait for the lift with the boy.]   

[As he dragged all of his crap back in (mostly heavy music equipment), he can’t help but paused and stare at the new face. There’s something disappointing about seeing someone so attractive who is clearly a Master. It eventually comes to a point where he’s just awkwardly staring at the other, unsure of whether or not to introduce himself, if he was to, or if he should just quietly go back to his room.]

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[Denver's finalizing details with the concierge, his leather shoulder bag at his feet stuffed with only light clothing, when he hears the dull shuffling thud of bone hitting metal, and he spins on the balls of his feet, adrenaline already burst in his veins. 

The security guard mirrors his posture to a lesser degree, tension in the lines of his back, but a certain resignation to the set of his feet as if this happens often and he's not about to abandon his post at the door. Denver lets his spine unwind, lets himself slowly settle again, grounding.

It always takes him a while to re-adjust to civilian life, his reflexes always on a hair trigger.  

Freckles — Who Denver had initially assumed was part of the smattering at the bar — is rubbing his jaw tenderly, and failing to look nonchalant. Denver can feel his eyebrow climb up his face. 

He almost laughs. He really does. He's half expecting a salute at the end of that fumbling. He can feel the giveaway twitch in his jaw, as the kid tries to make up for what had to have been a painful collision with the elevator door. He's got mismatched socks on, Denver can see where the fabric of his denims has worn thin, his hair slightly more flat on one side, and he thinks he spies a pillow crease on the kid's cheek. 

Everything about him screams 'messy', young and bumbling, nervous energy and frenetic movement. 

It's all a breath of fresh air in its authenticity.

And yet...

... Denver's paranoia is harsh at the best of times. This kid is clearly an escort, no Master would stumble into the chandelier-lit lobby yawning and dressed in what look to be thrift store cast offs. Manufactured personas are the bread and butter of an escort's trade. What would make this one any different?]  

The shiner on your cheekbone would indicate otherwise. [He's picked up his bag, weathered leather strap over on shoulder, and meets the boy at the elevator doors as they inevitably step in together.]

[It was official. Taz had a hangover; correction, he was coming down from a hangover. The sharp pain in his temple was enough to make him stay in bed all day and just live in the shade of his room, but Taz rarely got what he wanted. He woke up to Red strumming her guitar, and while that was something that he should be used to at this point, today was not one of those days. He wasn’t in the right mindset to deal with Red at the moment—well at least not before breakfast and a crap ton of pills. He needed to be on the Fourteen floor like  yesterday. It had been a while since he last had food from there and figure that there was no better time than the present. And it was fucking raining outside so there was no way, he was going to go outside.

So the first part of the day was already figured out, now came the hardest part: Actually getting up. He grunted, removing the sleep from his eyes before just laying in bed for five extra minutes. A half an hour later, he finally got enough strength to get out of the bed, wash his face, brush his teeth and put on something that resembled proper clothing (He’s doubts that a plaid shirt and jeans with holes in it count as proper but it was gonna have to do for today.) Shuffling his way out of room—not before kissing Red on the forehead and rolling his eyes at the finger that he received, he finally made his way to the elevator. He almost takes pleasure in the soft ding of the door closing, only for the elevator to go down instead of up.] Son of a bitch! [His string of curses, echoed in the elevator shaft  and he can’t help but kick the metal door because FUCK YOU DOOR FOR NOT GOING UP.

[He manages to get himself together before the door arrives at the lobby and he gets out to switch to the elevator that goes UP. Taz glances around the lobby, lazy amber eyes taking in both the familiar  and not familiar faces. There’s no many people in the lobby, but it did look like someone new just checked in, if the small amount of luggage was anything to go by. Taz squints to take a closer look at the person and HOLY SHIT. He was hot. Like ridiculously so, the little rivets of water did nothing to help Taz’s case.  Like it was unhealthy and unrealistic for someone to look like that. NATURALLY.

Taz was too focus on Greek God of a newcomer, that he didn’t notice that the elevator had closed in front of him until he walked into it and slamming the side of his face against the metal door.] Fuck! [He cups his cheek as he continues to curse under his breath. It’s a pretty bad day already and when Taz looks up the security guard AND the Norse god imposer is looking in his direction with a raised eyebrow. Great, play it cool Evan. You can do this. He laughs sheepishly, and rubs the back of his head in a horrible attempt to be causal.] Don’t worry about me, I was just doin’ some things…over here, by the elevator. That’s not runnin’ into ‘em. Good day to ya both. [ A+ for effort, Evan.] 

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He wears the smell of blood and death like perfume  there is fire in his eyes  and ice in his veins

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Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger. But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.

Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence (via yesyes)

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[Her smile is honey-sweet, a veritable sun flower with a hint of a Louisiana accent, peeking over the paper bag in her arms, and he obediently pushes the 8 as the doors slide shut. For an instant, he regrets holding the elevator, thinking that she's going to fill it with idle, sun-bright chatter, and he's not in the mood. He rarely bloody is. But her warmth seems genuine, more subdued than he's expecting.    

He lets his eyes slide over her bags, a baguette almost comically poised, on-the-vine tomatoes ready to spill out of the bag she has slung sideways on her left arm. There's a farm cheese, garlic, and what all looks like vibrantly fresh produce, the likes of which are rare in a city that has to import 90% of its food from other countries. He refrains from asking where she'd gotten it, it's likely he'll figure out soon enough where to track down good produce, and twice as likely he'll spend most days ordering take away. She must have just missed the rain, and the curl of the collar of her jacket, the floor she's getting out at, are all simple indications. 

If he were more prone to friendly small talk he would ask why she has enough food to cook for six. Or perhaps some bland comment on the quick turn of the weather. 

Denver's never been fond of small talk. Especially when it's unnecessary. 

So he crosses his arms, his wet jacket soaking through the arm of his shirt, and keeps a steady, silent, polite set to his jaw.]

[Gabrielle had moved herself in just a couple of days prior.  Sure, the option was there that someone could do it for her, but she liked having a place for everything and everything in its place.  Not to mention, she didn’t like the idea of paying someone to do something she was perfectly capable of doing herself.  It was likely why her fortune would survive well past when she was no longer walking on this earth, passed down to any children she may or may not ever have.

But there was only so long that she could eat at the restaurant until she felt the itch to cook for herself, ducking out earlier that morning to the store that she had become quite familiar with the last time she had been in London.  The best of every ingredient she could possibly ask for, a plethora of fresh fruit and vegetables, meat so fresh she could have sworn there was a farm attached to the store.

In other words - it was her idea of food heaven.

Arms laden with groceries, she made her way back to her new and old home, almost wanting to chuckle at the fresh baguette that was sticking out of the paper bag as if she had just returned from a boulangerie in Paris.

The people milling about went mostly ignoring, though she certainly had smiles for all of them, Southern upbringing ingrained especially having spent the last year there.  The elevator doors closing caused her to rush her step, a soft call -] Please hold it!  [before slipping in.]

[He was handsome but unfamiliar, eyes finding the button for floor seven lit up and question answered before she could even think to ask it.  Hands otherwise occupied, she had to ask with a warm smile -]  Do you mind pressing the button for 8?  I would but I’m not sure how well my aim with my elbows is.