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Randall is moping.
That’s the best word for it, though Angela is sure that Henry could find something more kind to call it. She has no qualms with calling it what it is, though.
He’s sitting in the armchair, looking out the window and moping.
“Are you feeling alright, Randall?” She asks, setting a tea tray down and taking a seat in the armchair opposite her fiance. He’d been sighing and brooding and staring out the window all morning, so Angela had taken it upon herself to talk with him about it.
“Hey, Angie. Yeah, ‘M fine…” He leans his head against one of his hands, not meeting her eyes as he huffs again.
A very blatant lie. “Are you sure? You aren’t acting yourself, love.”
He seems to deliberate for a moment before eventually confessing, “I miss Hershel.”
“You’ve just seen him this past weekend, haven’t you?”
“Aye, but… I dunno.” Randall unfurls from his tense posture to sprawl in the armchair instead. “I wish he lived closer. I’m bored.”
Surely he wasn’t implying that Angela and Henry were boring, or that the city of miracles they’d created for him was boring, no? “We could go out today, and find something to do?”
Randall waves her off, and Angela smothers her irritation. “Nah, it’s just… What would we even do anyways? Go to the circus? Out to the races? The casino? It gets repetitive after a while…”
“There’s always work to be done. We have jobs that are more laborious if you need to get energy out.”
“No…”
“Henry’s been swamped with paperwork these past few days…” Not to needle at her lover, but they’re back in hot water about Randall’s lack of punishment for his crimes.
“That would just make me more bored.” He huffs, twisting around petulantly. “Besides, I can’t read.”
“You very much can. Don’t exaggerate.”
It’s getting harder and harder for the blonde to keep her calm. Was he always this infuriating, or did Angela just not get enough proper sleep?
Before he can respond, Angela stands back up and starts walking away. If she stays any longer, she might just lose what’s left of her sanity.
The armchair Randall was in scrapes against the floor, indicating that he got to his feet too. “Angie? Where are you going?”
“To help Henry.” She wants to make a clipped comment on how she’ll help if he won’t, but Angela doesn’t want to cause a fight.
They’ve been arguing more recently. It’s not pleasant. Angela’s not even sure how it starts, just that something will bother her and Randall will get defensive when she brings it up, and it all spirals from there.
Perhaps Angela has just gotten too used to Henry’s mannerisms. Henry who avoided arguments like the plague and cleaned obsessively and apologized when it wasn’t his fault. The biggest arguments they ever had in almost two decades of marriage were about Henry overworking himself.
Angela would argue that the man should sleep, he would argue back that there’s work to be done. She wanted him to rest, he wanted to search the ruins again. She wanted him to come to bed, Henry would much rather vacuum the carpets again.
“Are you mad at me?”
She doesn’t look at him, just continues marching up the stairs. “What do you think?”
“You are, definitely. What did I do?”
Angela stops, turns to give him a look, then keeps walking until she’s at the study door. “Henry!” She pounds on the door. Henry hadn’t been out of the room since early this morning, not emerging for breakfast or lunch. This would help them both.
“Angela, I’m sorry!”
“What are you sorry for, then?”
“You won’t tell me, but whatever it is, I’m sorry for that!”
Henry peeks his head out, “Angela? Master Randall?”
“Just Randall, Henry.” Randall replies as Angela very firmly tells the blond that they’re trading places.
“Did something happen?” Henry doesn’t protest as Angela grabs his arm and pulls him out of his office. He mostly looks confused and bedraggled. His hair is sticking up in multiple directions and his blazer is crumpled.
“You’re going to eat lunch.” She smooths Henry’s hair to the best of her ability. “Randall’s going to take you out to lunch, and you’ll both enjoy it. Go see Dalston at the circus or something, I don’t care.”
Both men protest. Henry that there was work to be done and Randall that she was avoiding him. Angela ignores them both and shuts herself in the study.
There’s some knocking for a few minutes, some muffled conversation, then nothing. The blonde woman settles in Henry’s seat.
As it turns out, hours of filing taxes does wonders in turning someone’s anger into pure bored exhaustion.
She twists the ring around on her finger. It’s a pretty golden thing with a hefty diamond on top that Randy got her for their engagement. They hadn’t yet gotten around to planning a wedding date.
The diamond glimmers in the light, and for a moment it feels as heavy as a chain.
Some part of Angela yearns for when everything was simpler. Not that she wants Randall gone, but in the time before he was back, there wasn’t much thought to be put into her feelings on things. She had been Angela Ledore, wife of the city’s founder. She was waiting for his master’s return with hope and sorrow, and her largest problems came with public appearances and making sure that Henry didn’t work himself to the bone.
Soon she would be Angela Ascot. She already knew that his mother gave Randall the wedding rings passed through their family. That which once sat on the elder woman’s finger would sit on hers, and Angela would be trapped effectively with a wedding band and a husband who’d prefer to be anywhere besides Monte D’or.
Sometimes, Angela thinks that Randall is more in love with Hershel than with his own fiancee.
A knock on the door interrupts her bitter thoughts. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.
“Hello, Randall.” She sets the completed papers off to the side and rubs her eyes.
He’s got a bouquet of flowers. Chrysanthemums. Her favorite. “Hey, Angie… I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re alright. I was the one out of line.”
“No, you definitely weren’t. Henry told me that I’ve been acting weird recently.”
She snorts. “He said that?” No chance in hell that Henry Ledore was so direct about it to Randall’s face.
Randall laughs too. It’s a sound that she adores, but she can’t recall hearing it much as of recently. “No, no. He said I’ve been withdrawn from the two of you.”
“That you have.”
“So sorry. For that. It’s just-”
Angela holds up her hand, and his mouth shuts so fast that she hears it click. “You miss Hershel. I know.”
“Yeah…” He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I was saying it so much.”
“I understand that he’s one of your best friends, but-” How to word her sentiment clearly? “Sometimes it feels as if you want to be there more than here. That you like him more than us.” More than her is what Angela wants to say, but she’s afraid of coming off as clingy or jealous.
Maybe she is a bit jealous, who’s to say?
“That’s not it at all! Angie-” He drops the flowers into his lap to grab her hands, “Angie, look at me. You don’t really think that, do you?”
Her gaze trails from his ring finger to his face. Randall’s being entirely earnest.
“I don’t. It just gets to me sometimes that you seem so unhappy here with Henry and I.”
The ginger squeezes her hands. “That’s not it at all! I’m very happy here, and I’m so grateful for what you’ve both done. I love you.”
I know, she wants to say. “But…?”
“... I miss adventuring. And new things.” He seems a bit sheepish. “And Monte D’or is nice and great and all, but-”
“I get it.” Hershel offers something they can’t: novelty. He’s got new stories, new puzzles, new adventures that she and Henry can’t. They might run the city of miracles, but the most interesting thing that ever happened was the Masked Gentleman.
No one would be thrilled if they let Randy run loose to amuse himself by picking the mask back up, and the ginger would hardly be comfortable with the idea either.
So London it is.
“I was thinking that next year I might try applying to Gressenheller, actually.” The admission is quiet. “And get a degree in archaeology. If that’s alright with you.”
“I see. That’s,” what to say? “...fine.” That works.
“Really?” Randall perks up like a dog that had just been offered a treat. “And you’re not mad?”
“Should I be?”
“I don’t know. No. I don’t think you should be mad.”
She squeezes his hand. “You need something new, and that’s alright. Plus, I’d like for you to go off on adventures while actually knowing what you’re doing. It’s the safest option.”
He bites his lip for a second. “...Are you sure it’s alright, actually? Your brother…”
“It happened a long time ago, and it’s not as if archaeologists just go missing these days. I trust that you’ll be safe, and that you’ll come back to me.” Trust is a foundation of relationships, and Angela needs to reckon with that. Keeping her fiance in a bubble would only hurt him.
“I won’t let you down. And besides, what are the odds I get lost for another 18 years with a head injury, eh?” He chuckles, then grimaces when Angela doesn’t laugh with him. “Too soon?”
“Much too soon.” She huffs and brings his hand to her lips. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Angie.”