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The key unlocks a small lounge with armchairs, a changing table, a refrigerator, an enormous stock of diapers in what seems like hundreds of brands. (One particular brand seems designed for infants with multiple tentacles.) Bran, his arms fully occupied by a fussing Owen Arthur, lets Will open the door for him.

"Now that is better," Bran says, setting his son neatly down upon the changing table. "I will take care of the little one, and we can have some quiet to talk in."

Bran occupies himself with the child's needs for a little while. If he is waiting to see whether Will volunteers information, he says nothing about it. But when little Owen Arthur is cleaned and changed, and resting in his father's arms again, Bran says, "Rather young, you are looking today. Time is a funny thing, isn't it?"

Date: 2009-11-26 05:44 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sign-seeker.livejournal.com
Will lets out a breath of surprised almost-laughter.

Bran always (did) has had a knack for cutting close to the quick, and often closer than he knows.

"Yes. You could say that."

He tucks his hands in his pockets, and the gesture is comfortably casual, but Will's face is not, quite; Bran is someone who does not get the amiably bland mask. For many reasons.

"I did just meet Jamie a little while ago," he says, after a moment. "But it was not in Milliways. It was outside the door, and not precisely in nineteen eighty-six. Nor eighty-one, which is when I am from in one sense just now."

The words are calm. The tone, and Will's face, are all Old One now.

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Bran Davies

November 2009

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