Who: Leo Gryffiths & Balthazar
What: Mid-morning stroll interrupted by demonic activity. For once, Gryff is not the one to fear.
Where: Lincoln's Inn Fields -- a public square close to Haven.
When: Monday morning.
The papers across the desk were not shuffled together in anything like chronological order, oh no. Chronological order, organizing this shite by the meek, polite dates that marched across the top of the page and demanded cash in line with the time of the month wasn't cutting it. Those stamped in red were to the left (and a signed check atop each, sharp, curt signature that was made it quite clear he parted with the money under duress) and it fanned across to the right, the inevitable balancing act of books and bills and what was needed and what was wanted. Too many damn balls in the air for a man who had never wanted to learn to juggle in the first place. With a final sweep of the heavy black ink, a final 'Gryffiths' signed and underscored as if to put an end to the drain on the not-quite-empty coffers, Gryff capped the pen, set it down and with a grim sort of satisfaction, began stuffing the checks into envelopes and filing the bills with slow and solemn care. This was paperwork that no one else poked their noses into, paperwork that was as onerous as the worries over that young woman with a demon tied up inside her (a worry that he took out and examined each evening among the list of worries, smoothed it out and assessed it with a weight that made his frown that much deeper) but paperwork was of the ordinary world and the ordinary world could not be put off with how necessary it was to lay in more complicated wards for the building so it didn't taste Ophelia and label her something she was not (almost).
He didn't even give a cursory look to the cup of cold tea on the edge of his desk (she'd crept in with that, but if she was going to play hostess in his kitchen to residents, there was not enough tea in the world to make up for it) but pushed back his chair, slung his coat over his shoulders from the back of it and shoved the envelopes full of money Haven didn't have, roughly into the pockets. A barked word into the reception as he strode through the hall, "Out," and Gryff was in the crisp and clear cold of a November morning and off on the usual stroll. Few things were done for pleasure and most of those were done as part of a routine so old, Gryff would have followed it regardless of remembering whether or not it was enjoyable. The walk down the street -- cramming envelopes into a letterbox with a sense of settling begrudgement for those now paid -- was followed by a sharp left and a couple of turns later, he was in the wide and coldly green spaces of the square.
It was that time of day the businessmen and women, the journalists and the fuss of those living around the place, were packed off doing something for once that was actually necessary. This man, this too-straight backed man with the broad shoulders beneath the shabby coat, with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and let his eyes drift over shedding trees and drifts of leaves along the path without seeing the beauty of deep autumn become stark winter -- this man was almost alone as he followed the slow and steady circuit he took most days, to completion. Almost, but not quite.
![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}