(no subject)

[the_cupbearer]

Ganymede is in the bar, with a pomegranate fruit in hand where he's sitting on one of the couches, and a wineglass on the floor beside him. He's fairly efficient with the birdsbeak knife that's being used to take the segments apart, handling it easily as he skins the husk away from the pith and fruit arils. He hasn't even dropped the ash from his cigarette, held in the same hand. There's also a leatherbound notebook in his lap with a series of names and dates written in his elegant looping hand.

He's trying to come up with origin points, and may be flagging at this juncture.

Feel free to distract him.

Comments

[cook_the_rude]

"You are very adept at that," Hannibal says, approaching with another glass of wine in hand. "Pomegranates are among my favourite fruit. But tell me, Ganymede, what particulars are you taking notes on?"

[the_cupbearer]

"Sadly," Ganymede says, "It is almost time for Benjamin Prince to die. He has...maybe another ten years at most. So I am making plans for who I will be next."

So far he's got maybe nine names written down; what he doesn't choose this time will be useful the next time he has to do this.

[cook_the_rude]

"Why is the name so important?" Hannibal asks. "Transferring all the funds and other resources would be much harder, in this time and age."

[the_cupbearer]

"I like not being labeled as a terrorist when people find out that I under that name didn't exist ten years ago," he says, voice dry. "It really isn't so difficult, since I have several years to do it. And I rather want to at least like the name someone will be calling me for the next thirty years."

[cook_the_rude]

"Not being labelled as a terrorist isn't that hard," Hannibal says. "You try not calling yourself something that sounds Muslim or Irish, maybe avoid South and Middle America as well, and you're golden. Well, perhaps also eschew Slavic or Italian sounding names, if you want to avert any suspicions of organised crime in one fell swoop. But other than that, the world is your oyster."

[the_cupbearer]

"It's not the origin, it's the lack of slow-built backstop, usually," he says. "Leave out all those, hm? Have you looked at my face lately, Hannibal? How well do you think I could pass for not being any of those?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Greek?" Hannibal suggests. "Spanish? General USian of untraceably mixed origin, with a WASP-ish name?"

[the_cupbearer]

"I'm not Greek," he says. "Heard enough of that in the last three thousand years."

He may have a grudge. He's not Greek and never was, by any definition.

[cook_the_rude]

"Well, there are still enough options left," Hannibal says.

[the_cupbearer]

"And what name would you give me, given the choice?" Ganymede asks, knife slicing through the pith of the fruit easily and coming to rest against his thumb.

[cook_the_rude]

"You could be southern French," Hannibal muses. "What do you think of Michel Valvert?"

[the_cupbearer]

"I don't think I'm a Michel," he says. "Nor do I think I can pass as French."

[imthepilot]

Bodhi watches him with quiet fascination. Not Ganymede so much as the fruit. It's beautiful. And the smell of it.

"Excuse me? What is that called?"

[the_cupbearer]

Ganymede pauses at the question, knife stilled mid-slice of the skin. His cigarette sends up a thin tendril of smoke as he turns to look at the man asking. "Which part?" he asks.

The knife, the pomegranate, and the cigarette have all been subject to that question at some point. As has he himself.

[imthepilot]

"The red thing. Is it a fruit, or a vegetable, or something else?" Bodhi shrugs. "I'm trying to learn about foods from other places."

[the_cupbearer]

"It's a fruit," he says. "It's a pomegranate. Would you like to try it?"

[imthepilot]

"Please? It's eaten raw like this?" He asks, a little eagerly.

[the_cupbearer]

"Well, yes, but you only eat the seeds. The rest is too bitter."

He finishes cutting off the calyx end of the fruit, spiked like a tiny crown, and scores down the sides to reveal segments. Breaking that open, several dark red arils fall into the bowl in Ganymede's lap, and he flicks more off the segments and away from the papery white membranes with his thumb.

"Take some. They're tart but sweet."

[imthepilot]

"Thank you." He takes a few of the seeds and tries them, tasting them slowly. "Pomegranate. Is that an Earth fruit? Can you tell me about where they're grown?"

[the_cupbearer]

"They grow on trees," he says. "And yes, they're an Earth fruit, they're from Persia. They grow all the way around the Mediterranean. I've grown them before, they're not hard to cultivate."

Ganymede scoots back on the couch, closing the notebook and balancing the bowl on top in his lap. "Would you like to have some?"

[imthepilot]

"Is Persia a warm or cool place? And do they need much water?" He asks with the curiosity of someone keen to grow his own.

"Thank you." He takes a small handful and tastes them, one seed at a time. "Hmm. You're right - sweet and tart. They would go well with a sharp cheese."

[the_cupbearer]

"Persia is warm," he says. "And not overly much water. About the same as citrus trees."

Ganymede smiles as Bodhi eats the seeds. "They do. They also make quite good wine if treated properly."

[imthepilot]

"Earth citrus is oranges and lemons and limes, right?" He tilts his head, tasting the last couple of seeds in his palm. "I've never tried to make wine. Is it hard to do?"

[themerlin]

"Greetings, Ganymede, and welcome." The voice is quiet but cultured, and Merlin steps out of the air in the middle of the sentence. Hmmm, not where he intended to be, but that is okay.

"How have you been, good sir?"

[the_cupbearer]

"Hello, Merlin," Ganymede says, looking up as he cracks open the pomegranate. "I've been well. And you?"