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"That sounds wonderful, I'll see you then."

He thinks about dressing down for the occasion, an extra show that he's not whatever his younger self presented to Siebren. But that's as much an armour as the nice suit he wears every day. So he doesn't.

All but incapable of showing up late to an appointment as he is, George is already waiting when Siebren makes it to the Oak & Iron. He's sitting uncannily still, but he cracks into a smile once he spots Siebren.

“There you are.” His smile unfolds like a flower blooming at the sight of ‘his’ George. The right George. The tension drains away and he comes over to the table at a faster float than usual. “You did age beautifully.”

"Thank you," George's smile broadens, his cheeks colouring a little, "I think I'm doing quite well for 132."

He'll just put that out there, it's not as if Siebren couldn't have worked it out with the information he has now.

"No signs of arthritis, either. I am utterly jealous." Siebren tuts softly. "The timeline must be convoluted, somehow, beyond our current displacement. Unless something else made you age slower? Relativity?"

"I spent a little over 90 years trapped in a place outside of reality while the rest of the world moved on without me."

George taps the table, his nails chinking against the surface.

"The less that is said about that, the better."

"Outside of reality." That's not a question. That's not a request. That's just working to synthesize it with what he already knows. His mind goes back to the House of Cards. It makes sense, all of it as a shining whole. He knows what marks trauma has left, and now he knows the tiniest corner of what shape that trauma took.

In the end, he just nods, and lets George decide how to continue that thought, if at all.

"Yes."

He's expecting questions to follow, but they don't, and the tapping gets slower as his breathing gets easier.

"Well. I think we should get those drinks, and then I'd love to hear what the self-important arse I used to be said to make you so annoyed."

Siebren nods, gesturing for George to lead the way to the bar. The orchards on the island have been turning apples into cider already, and so that's what he favors, a hard cider. He also asks for some bread and cheese, anticipating a potential need for George to temper his own "three strong drinks" with some food.

For George, wine is his drink of choice. Despite earlier statements he has no intention or desire of drinking too heavily. At least for now, the evening is still young after all.

"Bread and cheese is a wonderful idea, thank you," he says as they return to the table.

"Gladly." He settles back into his seat, and then decides to jump into the actual conversation at what seems to be the obvious starting point, to him.

"He was very surprised I didn't know you're a viscount. He made sure I knew it almost immediately. Clearly I haven't been showing you the correct deference."

"Of course he did," he sighs, "You could have been His Majesty King George V himself and at that age I'd have been more concerned about whether I was getting the respect I thought I deserved than anything else."

George rolls his eyes. He knows why he was like that, of course. It doesn't make him any happier with the man he was.

"And I'm not a viscount, for the record. I would've been, but I was taken before I could inherit the title. Even if I wanted it I have less than no claim now."

"Noble or not, I'll still give you just as much respect as you deserve." That's said playfully, with an almost impish look on his face, because what George deserves is something dear and warm and informal, at least until they discuss other forms of respect. "I know it doesn't need to be said, but I like you better."

"Will you just?" George laughs, an eyebrow raising to the impish look. Testing and teasing, "And how much is that?"

He doesn't care what people think of him anymore, except for all the ways he does. He taps the base of his wine glass. Once. Twice. "It might have been a little needed. Thank you."

“Anytime you need to hear it.” Siebren nods. “I rarely mind repeating myself.”

George doesn't blush, but he feels like he ought to. Why does he feel like he ought to?

"I'll keep that in mind." He hesitates a moment, he doesn't like to keep forging ahead while he's on unsure footing, "I believe you said there was someone from your past at the visitor's centre too?"

Because that's certain to be safer ground.

“Ah. Yes, there is. My minder, I suppose you could call her.”

‘Keeper’ would be as accurate, as well.

"Minder," he repeats softly, he can put together the dots as to when the 'minding' might have been, "Not a friendly face then, I take it? You needn't tell me anything if you do not wish to."

“She has been refusing to refer to me by name, I hear. Only using my subject designation from when I was under her study. No, we are not friends. I will not be visiting her.”

"You deserve far better than that, Siebren." George says his name as if it's something sacred, not fragile but so important.

Were he someone else, George might offer to exact revenge on Siebren's behalf, but he's not. Instead he reaches his hand across the table, palm up, an offer of comfort for Siebren to accept or not as he desires.

It’s good. Others have offered to get their revenge, already, but what Siebren needs more now is support. An anchor for his hot-air balloon self to tether to, for a moment or for more. He settles his hand atop George’s gingerly.

“Deserving is a lie. The world doesn’t keep a tally of what is owed, as much as the gambler’s fallacy insists otherwise.”

George squeezes Siebren's hand gently, he can be a grounding force, that much he knows will do gladly.

"I'd say one can deserve without being owed, but perhaps it's not the right word either way."

“I want more than that. Regardless of anything like deserving. And I am slowly figuring out how to…” a pause, as he realizes how fucking new age the next words that we’re going to come out of his mouth were. …manifest my desire, really, what is he? Some sort of almond mom?

George doesn't precisely know how that sentence was supposed to end, but he can make a guess at the shape of it. The scent of leather conditioner that always hangs over him grows a little stronger as his Mantle swells for Spring of it.

"That's very important work," he says, and he means it, "What do you want?"

“To live. To build a life that recognizes the aftermath of my pain, without revolving around it. To walk forward and try new things, even things I feel fear or trepidation about. To build bonds with people who I choose to trust, not just who I am forced to obey.”

Is any of this really news? No, not as such. But something in it feels powerful to say aloud.

"All wonderful things to want, " George says warmly, "I'm honoured that you trust me enough to share them. I hope you'll tell me if I can help in the pursuit."

"You already are helping, and I think you know that." Siebren lets out a bit of a warm laugh. "You've been kind to me in a way I had grown not to expect."

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