Sorry, do I know you? {Westley}

[Westley Roberts]

It had been less of a question than a prompt; Westley expected nothing less than for two glasses to appear on the desk. Clearly, this office was arranged for pleasure over business. He wouldn't have been surprised to find table tennis set up in one corner and a shooting range in another. With a practiced hand, he began pouring two generous shots of deep amber bourbon, exactly equal in height, grateful he'd siphoned it from Inigo's personal stash before he'd left. Not that he'd have predicted in a thousand years that this would be the use he'd have found for it.

"So you are." Capping the flask, he tucked it back into his jacket. "Another thing we have in common." The words left Westley's mouth before he had any idea he planned to say them. Potentially, they could have baffled him as much as anything else he'd said or heard so far—or disgusted him, for that matter—but for some reason, he felt himself beginning to move beyond the incredulity. Either he'd reached the point where nothing more could faze him (a state he was regularly proven wrong about reaching), or some subconscious level of his mind had decided where he was going with this in the long run. If it was the latter, it would certainly be helpful if his subconscious could be bothered to inform the rest of him, but in the meantime, a drink was enough.

Picking up the shot glass nearest him, Westley raised it toward his former enemy and current tentative...something-or-other. "To putting what we can behind us," he proposed. Briskly, he threw back the shot, swallowing without even the slightest wince. 

[Gaston]

Watching Westley pour, Gaston's eyebrow raised as he commented on their similarities. He wasn't sure he saw anything they had in common, but the comment had him somewhat intrigued. He couldn't help but think it was a shame the other man was so close to his arch-nemesis. Or one of them, at least. He felt they may have made a decent team if it that hadn't been the case. But alas, these things just weren't meant to be sometimes.

He picked up the other glass and raised it, mirroring Westley's movements, before downing his own drink and setting the glass back on the desk. He couldn't help but feel intrigued at Westely's toast, at what he was doing here, at why the two men who had apparently hated each other enough for Gaston to murder him - although, if he thought about it, hatred didn't always come in to his wanting to murder someone - were sat drinking together, civil and with very little hostility in the air than Gaston was used to.

He leaned back in his chair again, narrowing his eyes slightly as he looked at Westley. "So, tell me, why are you here?" He asked, raising an eyebrow slightly. "You came for information - information I couldn't provide - so why are you still here? Why are sitting here, drinking together like old acquaintances? What are you after?"

[Westley Roberts]

Setting his shot glass on the desk's polished surface, Westley leaned back once more in his chair. He hadn't known it definitively until a moment ago, but Gaston's question was precisely the opening he'd been waiting for. Because he was right: there was nothing orthodox about this meeting. (There was a famous person Della had mentioned from her homeworld, someone who'd said something to the effect of 'This might as well happen. Adult life is already so goddamned weird.' Relevantly, it crossed his mind now, if only momentarily.) Westley himself had essentially been thinking so the entire time. In a way, that itself was par for the course—he often found himself surprised at life's little quirks, especially in this place—but rather than peel at the layers of meta psychology that'd led them here to cocktail hour, he was prepared to cut straight to the point.

"I'm still here because I must admit, however astoundingly, that you've proven to be a reasonable man." Or at least shown capability of impersonating one in select, specific circumstances. Let's not poke at that one either; it wouldn't come off near as well, I'm afraid. "I humbly confess I never expected as much when I came here. Now that you've shown me my error," he ventured, aiming to foster a 'buttered-up' feeling in the other man (he'd never claimed himself a saint), "I've had the idea that you and I might come to a gentleman's agreement. Something purely pragmatic for the both of us." Westley folded his hands in his lap, leaning against one arm of his chair, leveling with Gaston. "What I want is quite simple. I don't expect you to sympathize, of course, but to simplify vastly, Della is the closest I have ever had to a sister, and frankly, her plate is overbearingly full at the moment. I merely propose, requiring no action on your part, that you rotate your grudge against her to the bottom of what I can only assume is a lengthy list of enemies. Leave her be, at least for the forseeable future. You'll benefit as well—a clearer schedule, no risk of igniting the protective hatred of half the campus for harming a hair on such a widely beloved head—and in return," here Westley spread his hands, "I am at your service for one favor of your choice. Barring murder or kidnap. Perhaps there's someone I can speak to on your behalf, should you like to solve some grievance via proxy, or some quest you haven't the time to complete. This is the part where I mention my past as the most feared pirateship captain in all Europe, as well as a practiced negotiator, in case my competence lay in question." Westley allowed the spread of an amicable grin. "You're an intelligent man, Gaston. I'm sure you'll agree it's a deal you stand only to gain from."

[Gaston]

Contrary to popular belief, Gaston was not stupid, and was very good at reading people. It was pretty much how he’d survived as long as he had, despite pissing off numerous people on a regular basis, many of them considered dangerous or at the least friends of those considered dangerous. And so he knew when he was being flattered, when someone was trying to butter him, ready for asking for something the chances were Gaston would not want to give. That wasn’t to say he didn’t thoroughly enjoy the flattery, however, and this case was no different.

Which was why he didn’t interrupt Westley, why he let him continue and build up to his request. And there it was. Leave Della alone. Gaston sat silently contemplating the offer for a few minutes, taking his glass in his hand and studying it, rolling it along the table as his expression showed him deep in thought.

A favour for a favour was never a bad deal. And anything, barring kidnap or murder? Gaston has no problems with these conditions - he didn’t believe in kidnap and he was perfectly capable and happy to carry out his own murders if the need arose. There were plenty of other things an afeared pirate could be useful for, threats, intimidation - and the other man hadn’t stipulated no theft as a condition either. Plenty of options there, to be sure. And Gaston did love having people in his debt. Of course, if he agreed to this his own condition would be that he could redeem his favour at any time, without question - that was only fair after all.

But then there was the question of what Westley was actually asking for. Not to dissolve his grudge on Della entirely, but simply to lower it in priority. It was a big ask, and as Gaston’s gaze drifted back to her photograph, he felt the acid of hatred boil in his gut once more. If he was honest with himself, if anyone asked he would not be able to explain why he hated Della so much, just as he could barely remember stabbing Westley he could barely remember why she made him so angry, other than that the two faded memories were linked. And as that was the case, since he couldn’t remember why he hated Della in the first place, would it be so hard for him to lower it in his list of priorities for a while?

His gazed flicked across to the other two pictures on the door, and he realised that no, it wouldn’t be hard at all. The only thing that might make it difficult would be her link to the headmaster, but even Thatch was merely second on his list at the moment. It was Lancelot that claimed his full attention, his anger and hatred for the man was all consuming. Until that was taken care of, he realised he couldn’t care less what Della was doing, so long as she stayed out of his way.

He finally looked up at Westley, one eyebrow cocked. “Very well. I’ll leave her be for now.” He offered Westley his hand to shake, withdrawing it for a moment as he offered his own condition. “Any favour, barring murder or kidnap, to be redeemed at any time, no questions asked. That’s my deal.” He re-offered his hand.

[Westley Roberts]

Westley waited with confidence through the moments of Gaston's deliberation, gaze unmoved, assured smile in place. True, there was always potential for an upset, perhaps an indignant response or a refusal for the sake of being difficult, but there existed no reason to anticipate either case. He knew full well the terms he'd proposed were more than agreeable. Any person possessing a shred of practicality would take them. Even a fool would take them, and Gaston—depending on the definition being used in a given moment—both was and was not a fool. It was perfect, really. He was covered one way or the other. 

The words he'd been hoping for didn't take long at all to arrive. Right on schedule, in fact. The only hiccup came in the form of Gaston's pause, his momentary withdrawal tempting Westley to question the signals he'd read, but he was right not to move or react, not so much as a furrowed brow. It was only a clarification. An unnecessary one, even. I believe that's precisely what I just said, but by all means, I have no problem you stating it again for the record. When the ceremonial gesture returned across the desk, Westley's former smile of knowing patience broke into a new grin of triumphant satisfaction. Untwining his hands, he shook firmly, a crisp twice, binding the terms in the eyes of both gods and Grayle.

"I accept," he said. It was a bit redundant—they'd all been his own suggestions, save for the 'no questions asked' bit, which quite frankly worked for him due to the fact he didn't want to know in the first place—but the success of the arrangement left him feeling jovial enough to let it go. "Wonderful." Mentally, he drew a line through the first item on his to-do list. He hadn't known it concretely at the outset, but this was the true reason he'd come: Gaston had always been an iron question mark above their heads. Now, at least for the time being, they could rest assured he would pose no further threat. (Not that he ever planned to tell Della he'd done this. It was a metaphor.)

With the handshake settled, Westley stood, even compelled by his typical courtesy to push his vacant chair back into place. As amusingly surreal as this meeting had turned out to be, it had reached the logical end of its life, and it was time for him to go. "I thank you for your time," he said pleasantly. I'd hate to take up any more of it. The rest of the photographs might survive 'til morning, and that would just be irresponsible. "It's been a genuine pleasure doing business with you, Gaston." It would baffle him that he'd meant that, if he hadn't sworn off being baffled by things for the day. "I'm in the faculty dossier; you'll have no trouble finding me when the need arises."

[Gaston]

He smiled darkly as Westley shook his hand, their deal struck and the agreement made. Gaston was going to enjoy this, he did love having people in his debt. Of course, not antagonising Della was going to be a significant challenge, but he enjoyed a challenge, and it wasn't like they made a habit of spending time in each other's company. No, it would be worth it to know he had this debt to call on, someone to do his bidding - even if it was only once. He would have to pick his opportunity carefully - he wasn't going to waste it on something small and trivial.

He leaned back in his chair as Westley stood, raising his feet to rest on the desk and lacing his hands behind his head with a smirk. "A pleasure indeed, Roberts." He conceded with a slight nod of the head. "Don't worry, when I need you, I'll find you." He waved his hand dismissively at Westley; their meeting was over, Gaston was done with him now. Reaching down to the cupboard under his desk, he pulled out his own bottle of scotch and a clean glass, pulling the top of and pouring himself a generous measure, before picking up the glass and turning his chair to face the window his back to Westley. He didn't need to watch the man leave, as far as Gaston was concerned he was already gone.

[Westley Roberts]

With a nod, Westley took his leave into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. He spotted the formerly-projectile knife still lying on the ground, where any innocent passerby could trip on it and lose a toe or two. Bending to pick it up, he deposited it in the box affixed to Gaston's door (the one clearly intended to collect paperwork it would probably never see).

As he walked down the hall, he idly fingered the vial of iocane in his coat pocket, grateful he hadn't been given a reason to bring their toast to a far more unpleasant end. Still, he was glad he'd thought to bring it from home. It was a comfort to have a plan B, in the event he became the only one to hold up his end of the bargain.

Mind, he didn't suspect that would be the case. The meeting had given him an unexpected hope, and he chose to trust Gaston's word. He was prepared to undertake whatever task the man concocted for him, and hopefully, this peace would be preserved as he intended.

But he'd been wrong before. He would leave nothing to chance these days.

Should this drink turn out to be in vain, they could always sit down for another.

___