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Description
Oliver tapped against the table, an absentminded yet intricate piece of music.  With anybody else, it would have been rhythm for rhythm's sake.  With Oliver, it was always some concerto that he'd memorized decades and centuries before. He wasn't the sort to do things pointlessly.

Jean would have asked which one, would he not likely have been snipped at for not already knowing.  Were he to hear it on the piano that night, instead of on the desk, he might be able to recognize it.  If, of course, Oliver was interested in playing the same thing he was, then.  He seemed to have moved into something far more staccato, now.  Or, even more, if he were even willing to allow Jean to come back with him.

Oliver poured over the paperwork.  He'd been given computer printouts of resignations, estimates, and predictions which had already been laid out.  Surely, there were more to come.  He glared periodically as he read, and all the while his fingers tapped fiercely at the wood.

He managed to rein them in only when he needed to rub at his eyes.  "I should have known that you'd start talking to me again only when you had something impossible to take care of."  He put the papers down.  "You're a real piece of work, Jean."

"I wouldn't have called you if I could handle it on my own, you know," Jean told him.

""It's nice to know how much you care about me, beyond what I can do for you."  He crunched numbers into his calculator, and all over his notebook.  The page was mostly filled when he shook his head again.  "I can't see it.  Not for this budget, and not in this time-frame."

"It needs to be," Jean said simply.  "I don't really have an option otherwise…"

"I know you say that, but…"  He tried to figure out where to begin.  "Alright, let's see where we can make some cuts.  Like… oh, I don't know… Not building a fucking island?"

Jean's mouth pulled tight.  "Have you met the guys that I'd have to lease from?  It'd take me the whole time-frame just to negotiate a lease."

Oliver's fingers had begun to tap, softly, as he recalculated.  "Alright, we're building an island."

He tossed about other cuts delicately, carefully side stepping the political issues that Jean had created within his home.  Oliver hit into every section to try and cut the budget except, rather pointedly, security.

Jean wondered if Oliver believed that he hadn't noticed.

The music he tapped out was fierce and nervous as he weighed the threatened rebellion against the necessary logistics of this fair.  The rhythm wished, as had every other person now tied into this, that the Soviets had stepped up to the obligation that they'd put upon themselves.

There was no choice, though, but to try and continue to work together and keep it from imploding.

Maybe, if they went far enough, Jean would be invited back to find out what song this was.  If nothing else, he'd push for that.

Description
Oliver tapped against the table, an absentminded yet intricate piece of music.  With anybody else, it would have been rhythm for rhythm's sake.  With Oliver, it was always some concerto that he'd memorized decades and centuries before. He wasn't the sort to do things pointlessly.

Jean would have asked which one, would he not likely have been snipped at for not already knowing.  Were he to hear it on the piano that night, instead of on the desk, he might be able to recognize it.  If, of course, Oliver was interested in playing the same thing he was, then.  He seemed to have moved into something far more staccato, now.  Or, even more, if he were even willing to allow Jean to come back with him.

Oliver poured over the paperwork.  He'd been given computer printouts of resignations, estimates, and predictions which had already been laid out.  Surely, there were more to come.  He glared periodically as he read, and all the while his fingers tapped fiercely at the wood.

He managed to rein them in only when he needed to rub at his eyes.  "I should have known that you'd start talking to me again only when you had something impossible to take care of."  He put the papers down.  "You're a real piece of work, Jean."

"I wouldn't have called you if I could handle it on my own, you know," Jean told him.

""It's nice to know how much you care about me, beyond what I can do for you."  He crunched numbers into his calculator, and all over his notebook.  The page was mostly filled when he shook his head again.  "I can't see it.  Not for this budget, and not in this time-frame."

"It needs to be," Jean said simply.  "I don't really have an option otherwise…"

"I know you say that, but…"  He tried to figure out where to begin.  "Alright, let's see where we can make some cuts.  Like… oh, I don't know… Not building a fucking island?"

Jean's mouth pulled tight.  "Have you met the guys that I'd have to lease from?  It'd take me the whole time-frame just to negotiate a lease."

Oliver's fingers had begun to tap, softly, as he recalculated.  "Alright, we're building an island."

He tossed about other cuts delicately, carefully side stepping the political issues that Jean had created within his home.  Oliver hit into every section to try and cut the budget except, rather pointedly, security.

Jean wondered if Oliver believed that he hadn't noticed.

The music he tapped out was fierce and nervous as he weighed the threatened rebellion against the necessary logistics of this fair.  The rhythm wished, as had every other person now tied into this, that the Soviets had stepped up to the obligation that they'd put upon themselves.

There was no choice, though, but to try and continue to work together and keep it from imploding.

Maybe, if they went far enough, Jean would be invited back to find out what song this was.  If nothing else, he'd push for that.