Saints preserve him. At least someone in this godforsaken place knows how to make themselves useful.

Despite this charmed turn where he appears to have neatly secured everything he might wish for, that irritable line remains live in him as he briskly snatches up the snarling dog-headed cane. A flick of the wrist slants the line of it after his chauffer for the day's boot toe. Back the hell up, thank you. He no longer requires him to be within arm's reach.

It's only once that space has been surrendered that the dark haired man with the faintly rumpled shirt collar and the sullen look in his eye twists up off the bench. He's quick enough about it. Tucks the cane under his arm rather than leaning on it. With a jerk of his chin at the other man—

"Go on, then."