#told you i screencapped and played with filters with this interview

[perusasion]

happy birthday dreamboy ♡

[thorndale-industries]

RE: This Post

By any metric it has been, Bob thinks, a remarkably satisfying day. His gambit with Zaaphire has succeeded, despite Morgan’s incessant complaints. Heaven’s OCM has been coaxed back into a somewhat functional condition. Picus has got Cassan’s recent fluctuations controlled for. And then there’s Gillian, smiling when he walks in, scrolling through her phone with her other hand resting on Pan’s head.

He, of course, remains blissfully unaware that he is trending on Twitter.

Gillian scrolls past another screen-capped still. Bob, mid-gesture, saying something astute about something important, speaking as if he has yet to be told he is presented as Bob Page, Gillian Thorndale’s Husband.

She’d planned to greet him with a friendly, hello darling, did you know that you’re a meme now?

And yet…this was a singular opportunity.

His footsteps are light and not quite even, the odd arrhythmic one two one two of someone whose world was entirely in order, and who was justifiably pleased about the situation.

She waits until he walks by, then stops him with one hand held out, an offer of her phone and the open twitter app.

“Hm?” he says, sounding as if he’s been interrupted mid-thought.

“You’re trending,” she says, and gives the phone a small shake.

“What?”  His eyebrows knit together in confusion. His eyes are glowing red, more noticeable in the flat than under bright interview lights and the filtered effect of photons traveling through Picus satellites. He hasn’t looked at the phone yet, only her. She can imagine the general shape of what he’s thinking. I can hardly trust the public when it comes to a media disaster, can I?

The urge to crack a smile is growing. She’s suffered through Council meetings less difficult.

“You should see it for yourself,” she says, as solemn and as serious as she can.

The change in his breathing would be unnoticeable, if she didn’t know him. But she does, so she catches the slight annoyed huff of air, the slight increase in pace, the ‘getting ready for whatever it is that has alarmed Gillian so’.

Keeping a straight face is nearly impossible.

Bob scrolls quickly at first, landing on a screencap of him after only two swipes. It’s a good still, especially given the way netizens cling to those who look foolish, rather than those who are refined. There’s nothing wrong, as far as he can tell. He scrolls through several more, all the same still. If memory serves, he’s answering a question about VersaLife and humanitarian work – nothing controversial. His suit is pristine, an excellent cut, modern enough that no one should have a problem – not a problem worth tweeting about. He’s not making any obscene gestures with his hand, unless the reference is wildly obscure, but still – not worth trending.

Gillian covers her mouth with a hand, not fast enough to hide the quick smile.

He looks up from the phone, several imperatives already forming, when he notices something off about the picture. He can’t quite place what it is. It’s not him – every pixel is exactly as it should be. The Picus overlay in the top right – yes, he was on the correct channel. His name in the bottom right – spelled correctly, and-

Now she doesn’t bother hiding the smile. The change in Robert’s stance isn’t instant, but it is precise, a series of sharp shifts. His hand curls tight around the phone. Tension lances across his shoulders. His eyes don’t start glowing harder, but when they narrow, the light in his irises certainly seems to intensify.

“Everett,” he hisses.

“Oh?” Gillian says, amused. “You sound strangely upset, for having received a compliment on international television.”

“Everett,” he repeats, with marginally less aggression.

She reaches out and begins the slow process of prying her phone from Bob’s grasp. He’s not helping. Pan shakes herself awake, sleepy and content one minute, the next minute exuberant and hyperalert and Very Aware that something suspiciously similar to tug-of-war is happening RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Bob says, letting go of the phone quickly.

It’s too late, though. The Malinois has already set her sights on him. She scrambles over to say HELLO, and starts attempting to herd him back towards the front door, where her harness hangs.

“Darling,” Gillian says lightly, teasing. “You can play with Pan later. Right now, you have an adoring public to make use of.”

She pats the sofa next to her. Bob trudges over, Pan’s claws clicking alongside him as she settles at their feet.

“Everett,” he mutters, one last time.

“This happens when your adoptive dad likes your wife more than you,” she says, poking his side with her phone.

“Morgan, one day I swear…” he says with a sigh, then adds, “But for now…shall we?”

“Always,” she says.