[ On a throne of rich leather, lowly lit and draped in nostalgic veil of grief, he's nearly convinced of romance. But Lorca hears it for what it is: He's just what's left. Over and over, he has to prove himself to her; try and quantify his success and the scientist balks. That's what the truce with Philippa was at first. He admitted it fell by the wayside, by the end.
Was that a play too? She's the only one he asks himself that question around.
Not enough. ]
Scraps, Michael. [ The detached air with which he'd been discussing himself thins. He leans forward to set his glass down. ] Don't make it sound like a feast.
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Date: 2026-02-05 06:26 am (UTC)Was that a play too? She's the only one he asks himself that question around.
Not enough. ]
Scraps, Michael. [ The detached air with which he'd been discussing himself thins. He leans forward to set his glass down. ] Don't make it sound like a feast.