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Paradisa, unknown.
"I don't want to do lunch with Cesare anymore," Stephanie says, one day.
"It'll be difficult to explain to them why Lucrezia is welcome but Cesare isn't," Ezio replies, barely looking up from his journal. He misses the frown on her face, but catches every note of frustration on her voice. It says this is serious and don't fucking trifle with me, though perhaps with a sweeter choice in language.
"That's your problem, because you have to tell them."
That gets Ezio to look up.
"My problem?" he says, confused. "You're the one who doesn't want to see him. I can't even fathom why."
"You know why!" she protests. "And it is your problem!"
"If it were my problem, I would know why I didn't want to see him."
"Oh my god, you are so frustrating," Stephanie replies. She rounds the desk to him, and snatches up his journal to close it. "I can't sit there and continue to watch you two interact knowing that you're planning to brutally murder him."
"Stephanie," he starts, in that cajoling, don't be upset sort of way, and she loses it. She whaps him upside the head with the flat of her hand, and he falls silent so she can continue in a ramble:
"He's younger than I am. He's a weird, creepy, misguided teenager, but he's still just a kid! I know you don't get that, to you a kid becomes an adult the moment he can chuck a sword or something, but--"
"Chuck a sword?"
"-- Whatever! My point is, I can't watch you talk to your next target -- your next victim -- like it's all some elaborate political-intrigue mind game."
Ezio sighs. It's one of those long, exhausted sighs, the kind of sigh made only by a person who is hearing everything he already knows. He turns his chair to face her better, and then beckons her to come closer, even though she is already barely a foot away.
She just gives him a look that could kill, and for a split second, she seems to pour all of her resolve into not throttling him with her bare hands. The result is a frustrated shake from head to toe, her fingers flexing with agitation.
"Stephanie," he tries again, less cajoling and more pacifying. "I will see what I can do, but I have no intention of telling Cesare what my true intentions are."
"This is sick," Stephanie says. "Sick."
Ezio makes an annoyed noise, all what about my feelings, and then sighs.
It's hard to make a plan up as you go when others keep trying to tell you how to do it, but then again, it's his fault for letting them in on it in the first place.
"I don't want to do lunch with Cesare anymore," Stephanie says, one day.
"It'll be difficult to explain to them why Lucrezia is welcome but Cesare isn't," Ezio replies, barely looking up from his journal. He misses the frown on her face, but catches every note of frustration on her voice. It says this is serious and don't fucking trifle with me, though perhaps with a sweeter choice in language.
"That's your problem, because you have to tell them."
That gets Ezio to look up.
"My problem?" he says, confused. "You're the one who doesn't want to see him. I can't even fathom why."
"You know why!" she protests. "And it is your problem!"
"If it were my problem, I would know why I didn't want to see him."
"Oh my god, you are so frustrating," Stephanie replies. She rounds the desk to him, and snatches up his journal to close it. "I can't sit there and continue to watch you two interact knowing that you're planning to brutally murder him."
"Stephanie," he starts, in that cajoling, don't be upset sort of way, and she loses it. She whaps him upside the head with the flat of her hand, and he falls silent so she can continue in a ramble:
"He's younger than I am. He's a weird, creepy, misguided teenager, but he's still just a kid! I know you don't get that, to you a kid becomes an adult the moment he can chuck a sword or something, but--"
"Chuck a sword?"
"-- Whatever! My point is, I can't watch you talk to your next target -- your next victim -- like it's all some elaborate political-intrigue mind game."
Ezio sighs. It's one of those long, exhausted sighs, the kind of sigh made only by a person who is hearing everything he already knows. He turns his chair to face her better, and then beckons her to come closer, even though she is already barely a foot away.
She just gives him a look that could kill, and for a split second, she seems to pour all of her resolve into not throttling him with her bare hands. The result is a frustrated shake from head to toe, her fingers flexing with agitation.
"Stephanie," he tries again, less cajoling and more pacifying. "I will see what I can do, but I have no intention of telling Cesare what my true intentions are."
"This is sick," Stephanie says. "Sick."
Ezio makes an annoyed noise, all what about my feelings, and then sighs.
It's hard to make a plan up as you go when others keep trying to tell you how to do it, but then again, it's his fault for letting them in on it in the first place.