[ barty's been to enough galas and fundraisers that they all sort of blend together. rub elbows with a few high rollers, check in with a former client or two, huddle with his colleagues to talk shit on people they don't like - it's a practiced dance. he doesn't much care for whoever this is honor of, some billionaire who wants his ass pat. for people who know about bartholomew rook's extracurriculars, he's well-regarded. for anyone else, he's a professor of archeology, easily able to acknowledge and ignore.
he's definitely not as well-off or as polished as effie is, but barty knows how to clean up well enough: dry-cleaned suit, shoes with minimal marks on them, scruff tidied up so that it looks like an actual choice, and not just that he was lazy about shaving. he's listening to a story about some new discovery in mozambique, champagne flute in hand, when he feels the hand on his arm and the warm presence next to him.
to his credit, he doesn't double take too obviously when he realizes who's speaking. ] Sure. [ an apologetic smile towards the small circle, and he murmurs into effie's ear as he's led away. ]
[ she leads him off away from the party, hand slipping from his elbow to slide down to his wrist, fingers brushing his before she lets go entirely. she's leading them toward the sections that have been blocked off, but that doesn't seem likely to stop her. ]
My name's on the bloody sign, innit? [ ah there is effie. underneath all the glamour she is still just her usual trash self, dressed up pretty and voice low. ] Did you really not notice?
[ in his defence, the wing has been re-christened in the name of evangeline van horn grey and effie doesn't use her full given name or her father's name in general, definitely not in school, so if he simply missed it she wouldn't be shocked. most people don't even consider effie to be short for evangeline — because it's not, effie comes from a three year old struggling to pronounce evie. ]
Or did you get so many invites to posh galas you don't even read 'em anymore?
[ there we go. for a moment, barty thought he was having an out-of-body experience, or had stumbled into some alternate universe where effie wasn’t a brat. but no - put her in a nice dress with nicer heels, and effie is still effie. (though really, it’s not like he’s one to talk).
barty’s been through the private wings and back rooms of the museums more time than he can count, he doesn’t hesitate before following her. when he pauses in a doorway, it’s not out of nerves or anxiety, but sheer disbelief at what she’s said. ] I’m sorry, it’s what?
[ one gala leads to another leads to yet another and no, he really doesn’t look at the invites all that closely. almost belatedly, he steps through the doorway and out of the main foyer of the museum. ]
Since my father made a substantial donation. [ her eyes roll, hand flinging out into the air in a dismissive gesture. ] Because he cares about culture.
[ the words drip with sarcasm, her dad doesn't care about shit but tax write offs and oh boy this is a big one. she can't really tell if barty is shocked because of the amount of money involved, these things don't happen with a $20 donation after all, or at her full name or that she isn't a broke university student. maybe all three, she isn't going to stop him from processing it all, looking up at him with a placid expression.
looking up at him because even with towering heels she is still tiny. ]
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he's definitely not as well-off or as polished as effie is, but barty knows how to clean up well enough: dry-cleaned suit, shoes with minimal marks on them, scruff tidied up so that it looks like an actual choice, and not just that he was lazy about shaving. he's listening to a story about some new discovery in mozambique, champagne flute in hand, when he feels the hand on his arm and the warm presence next to him.
to his credit, he doesn't double take too obviously when he realizes who's speaking. ] Sure. [ an apologetic smile towards the small circle, and he murmurs into effie's ear as he's led away. ]
This is a surprise.
no subject
My name's on the bloody sign, innit? [ ah there is effie. underneath all the glamour she is still just her usual trash self, dressed up pretty and voice low. ] Did you really not notice?
[ in his defence, the wing has been re-christened in the name of evangeline van horn grey and effie doesn't use her full given name or her father's name in general, definitely not in school, so if he simply missed it she wouldn't be shocked. most people don't even consider effie to be short for evangeline — because it's not, effie comes from a three year old struggling to pronounce evie. ]
Or did you get so many invites to posh galas you don't even read 'em anymore?
no subject
barty’s been through the private wings and back rooms of the museums more time than he can count, he doesn’t hesitate before following her. when he pauses in a doorway, it’s not out of nerves or anxiety, but sheer disbelief at what she’s said. ] I’m sorry, it’s what?
[ one gala leads to another leads to yet another and no, he really doesn’t look at the invites all that closely. almost belatedly, he steps through the doorway and out of the main foyer of the museum. ]
Since when?
no subject
[ the words drip with sarcasm, her dad doesn't care about shit but tax write offs and oh boy this is a big one. she can't really tell if barty is shocked because of the amount of money involved, these things don't happen with a $20 donation after all, or at her full name or that she isn't a broke university student. maybe all three, she isn't going to stop him from processing it all, looking up at him with a placid expression.
looking up at him because even with towering heels she is still tiny. ]