Mistakes, Guilt and Drinking it away

Omen was walking down the streets of Los Angeles aimlessly after one hell of a rough day; he didn't bother to keep track of the time as he did so, but it seemed like an eternity since he'd started. His eyes stared blankly at the ground before him as he just kept walking forward along the sidewalk amidst the normal people who walked along with him. He was wearing his usual superhero garb, but he had removed his mask earlier that day; that particularly bloodied garment had been stuffed into his coat pocket. As he continued his mindless trek, the black storm clouds which flooded the skies over Los Angeles sounded off loudly with the sudden rumble of thunder. He removed his left hand from his coat pocket and tilted his hat up as he slightly raised his head to get a look at the storm clouds above. He sighed heavily before lowering his hat back to it's original position and tucking up the collar of his coat. Then, as yet another clap of thunder echoed, a torrent of water started pouring down from the sky to the earth below. Unlike the now rushing citizens around him, Omen had welcomed the cleansing rain. He went along walking for a while after the rain started, but he didn't mind, in fact to him it seemed to just add to the somber mood he had been stuck in all day. His hand clutched at the mask in his pocket softly in rememberance of exactly what happened.

Earlier that day
The only reason he had been in L.A at all was that he was trying to catch the culprit of an arson up in New York. The fire had occured within a working class family's home in the city and claimed the lives of two of the three residents in the building, a young woman and her three month old child. Omen had went to the scene of the crime and had learned the location of the missing family member, the father. When he arrived at the charred remains of the building he had met with one of the victims, the mother, and recieved a fairly vague message that instructed him that he must find her husband, as well as where he was going. Before he was able to get more clear information from her, she disapeared. He really hated how the dead tended to be unpredictable and hard to understand at times. He was then forced from the scene by the police, who at this point were still conducting their investigation into the case, but they didn't have the advantage Omen did at questioning homocide victims. Aware his target was still on the move and possibly a danger to others, he didn't waste time in getting to his location in L.A. Once he arrived into the city, it was only a matter of using his impressive intelligence and cunning to track the man down in the vast metropolis. That and the man's dead wife had given him very specific directions on which apartment he was staying in.

Omen got into the man's new place of residence with ease, he didn't even bother to lock his window. Then again, most don't when on the third floor. Once inside, he had expected to find him sleeping. It was two in the morning and he knew for a fact he hadn't left the building, he wouldn't make a rookie mistake like that. Yet, instead of finding a man asleep on a bed or even couch, he saw the very man he had been tracking sitting down on a chair in the middle of the room with a gun in his hand. Omen knew he could take the man, even if he did turn his gun on him, so he made his presence known and had confronted him about the arson. However, that's when things took a turn that Omen hadn't been expecting. Instead of fervently denying his allogations, the man seemed to break down and went into a tearful admission of his guilt. The story he gave though didn't add up, the way he made it seem the whole thing appeared to be an accident. He even said he tried to save his family from the fire, but burned his hands trying to pry the doors open. He even had burn marks on his hands which verified the story. At that point, the man had turned the gun on himself. To Omen's horror, he wasn't fast enough to stop him from pulling the trigger and the moment just before ending it he uttered the words 'I'm so sorry'. The resounding bang had echoed out through the building and the sudden blood splatter from the wound had covered the front of Omen's mask with blood.

The world seemed to stop then as Omen stared at the scene infront of him. Everything seemed to click then. When the dead woman told him where to find her husband, he wasn't meant to catch him or make him pay for what happened, he was supposed to stop him from taking his own life in guilt. At that point in his revelation, time started up again and he was reminded of what he needed to do. Knowing the police would be there soon after that ruckus, he got out the way he came and went down into the street. He took off his hat and peeled the mask from his head, it wasn't like he had a secret identity anyway so if someone were to recognise him it wouldn't honestly matter. After quickly tucking his mask into his pocket and placing his hat back on, he made his way deeper into the city for a walk to clear his head.

Present
Eventually Omen had felt that he couldn't take the rain which belted down anymore and decided to head inside somewhere. He caught sight of a bar nearby, while normally he wasn't much of a drinker, today he just felt the need to drink away his sorrows. He stepped inside of the less than sanitary looking establishment and silently took a seat in a booth at the darkest, loneliest corner in the back, waiting patiently for the clueless waitress chatting with a group of her friends in another booth to take his order. All he wanted to do was drink away the guilt.

An exasperated Omen had his head down down on the table with his hands resting on the back of his head. He felt like he could just curl up and die at that moment. Hell, the waitress still had yet to take his order and he was just too damned tired to bother to go to the bartender directly. He felt like a complete failure. Today, a man died and Omen had every opportunity to save him, but he had let his overconfidence and preconceptions cloud his judgement. When he first saw him there sitting with his gun, he should have disarmed him when he was still unnoticed, that's basic, but he wasn't thinking and confronted the clearly mentally unstable man sitting alone in the dark with a gun at two in the morning about the gruesome death of his family, that was not the right move. So here he was, sitting in the back of a bar, not even getting drunk. Omen knew he had to get over what occured today, but something like that can't happen in a couple of hours, an innocent man's death would weigh heavily on any decent man's mind. He could never forgive himself completely for what he did, but he knew he couldn't let it interfere with his work in the future.

Finally, the chatty waitress was done with her friends and approached Omen's booth. She was about to speak when he raised his right hand to her, silencing her unspoken words. "Scotch, and lots of it." He spoke demandingly, it wasn't a question, she would be getting him his alcohol. She nodded affirmatively to his not so request and went over to the bar to fetch it for him. She came back with a glass and a bottle of scotch in hand and placed them on his table carelessly, the bottle having almost tipped over when she did so. Omen caught the bottle as it almost fell and rebalanced it. He then reached into his pocket and pulled out fifty dollars, sliding it over to the woman. "Keep the change." he spoke uncaringly. That's when the waitress started to get annoying. She began flirting with him. The moment she uttered the first few syllables he automatically started tuning her out. Yet, despite his clear disinterest, she just kept plattering on. After a couple of annoying long minutes later, Omen took out another fifty.

"I'll give you another fifty bucks to walk away right now." The waitress seemed to take this badly and stormed off, apparently she took his lack of interest offensively. Although she still did take his money. With the annoyance finally gone, Omen grabbed the bottle of scotch and filled his glass. He then raised the glass to his mouth and was about to quench his thirst when a loud crashing sound filled the bar. Omen sighed tiredly, the refreshing alcoholic drink so close, yet so far away. Putting the glass back down on the table he muttered under his breath something along the lines of 'God damnit'. A quick glance outside the window of the bar and he knew he wouldn't be getting the stiff drink he oh so dearly needed. He saw an attractive young woman kicking the asses of three men outside the bar, the loud crashing sound earlier being the men having gone through the building's fire escape. He then studied the clearly skilled woman more closely. He assumed she was eastern european in origin, most likely Romanian, based on the thick accent she displayed and her looks. He was reminded of the time he had spent in Romania while traveling in Europe a number of years ago, but there was no time to reminisce as the slightly frightening woman walked in the bar and said that some kid needed an ambulance.

"Yeah, I got it." Omen said as he pulled out a cellphone from his pocket and dialled 911. He quickly told the woman who answered that he needed an ambulance and gave the address of the bar. Hanging up the phone and tucking it back into his pocket he stood up and walked over to the woman. "Ce sa întâmplat exact şi unde e copilul acum? (What happened exactly and where's the kid now?)" He asked in Romanian, assuming that she herself could speak the language.

Omen stood by the woman quietly as the romanian woman casually ordered her drink from the barman. Even from the corner of his sight, it was clear the barman was struggling to keep his focus around the attractive woman. He didn't necessarily judge the man for his enthrallment, Omen couldn't deny that she was captivating. When he was at the other side of the bar he couldn't get a decent look at her, but at this distance he could fully appreciate her beauty. He watched intently as the woman downed her vodka and noticed her displeased look after doing so. He couldn't really blame her though, where she was from vodka tended to be alot better standard than in the states and she was probably used to a stronger taste. Her attention then seemed to turn back to him and before he knew it, he had caught himself staring at her a little too much. He mentally berated himself for this and tried to stay focused. She once again ordered a drink before asking a question of her own. He wasn't too suprised why she asked where learned Romanian. An American who could speak fluent Romanian was an odd occurance, Romania being one of the european countries that was often overlooked by people. Omen had learned the language while travelling throughout Romania studying the occult. Of course he didn't really need to share that particular piece of information with the woman, no need to freak her out by letting her know he believed in that sort of thing.

"I spent some time in Romania a number of years back, beautiful country." He answered her. The still as of yet unnamed woman then sucked off a drop of condensation from her drink on her finger. He pretended not to notice, but it was like the woman wanted everyone in the bar to stare at her. Omen didn't really mind, not to mention the other men at the bar, she was probably going to be stared at in any case. He then followed the woman's line of sight to the wounded men at the door. They were busy trying to get away before they could be apprehended. Of course Omen could always just put them back down to the ground for the cops to find, but he honestly didn't care about them, they probably weren't worth the effort. Still, he was impressed at how easily the woman dispatched them, physically she didn't appear intimidating, but her skill was more than evident. She then downed another drink and started leading him away, which he did so immediately, stepping over the damaged door.

Once inside the alleyway which the beating had taken place, Omen saw the injured young man laying on the floor unconscious. Right away, Omen went to the kid's side and tried to aid him as best he could. He checked his pulse first, the kid's heartbeat was weak, the beating must have really been hard on him. The superficial wounds on his face and body were numerous and brutal, but that wasn't his concern right now. He rolled him gently onto his back and began put his hands on his chest, checking the poor guy's ribs.

"Alright, the kid's in a bad way. At least...two broken ribs and he's lost quite a bit of blood." He analysed, speaking in English. He ripped up the middle of the man's shirt, revealing a red, battered torso with a fairly large bloody slice on the stomach. Omen promptly removed his coat from his back and placed it onto of the bleeding wound to help stem the bloodloss, but while doing so the mask he had earlier pocketed slipped from his coat and fell onto the ground, gone unnoticed by the preoccupied Omen.

"Judging from what you did to those guys back there I assume you can handle yourself pretty well. Is there any chance of you telling me where you learned to do that?" He was speaking in Romanian this time, just trying to pass the time as he waited for the arrival of the ambulance.

Omen had stayed still at the kid's side, silently applying pressure to the wound. He had to keep the pressure heavy and constant so it wasn't like he could move around much. From the corner of his eye he could see the romanian woman standing by watching him work. While she didn't really show it, he was pretty sure she was feeling guilty. He could vaguely sense feelings of regret within her, and while not an expert in the ability, he was certain she felt bad about the kid's condition. The fact that she had been figetting earlier when he mentioned the severity of the injuries hadn't done anything to hinder his thoughts either. He was thankful for the assistance the woman had then started giving him in helping the guy. Though when she ordered the ice and vodka he had been given the idea she was going to help out. He noticed the quick look of relief that she displayed when the kid responded to the ice she put against him, The way she had sterilized the cuts had been greatly appreciated, she at least knew what she was doing. So she wasn't dumb, that was a plus.

Whilst applying the alcohol she finally answered his question. From the people I lived with he could decern very little, but the impersonal way they were referred to meant they probably weren't family. This could range from trained assassins to circus clowns for all he knew. The second part though, about her ex revealed a little more. The smile that she gave when talking about him/her meant that she thought fondly of them, so it wasn't likely a bad breakup situation. It was feasible that they had died or were at least on good terms. If they had died, Omen could relate with the pain of losing a loved one. Also, if he or she had taught her how to fight they could have been policeforce or military, no real way of knowing for sure without more information. He thought about asking more, but he couldn't pry too much, he wasn't about to interrogate the girl. He tried to stay focused on the bleeding for now, but then she asked a question he wasn't exactly keen on answering.

"Now why does a pretty boy like you hide behind this?" She asked him, holding his mask. Crap. It wasn't like he tried to keep a secret identity or anything, but he liked being thought of as at relatively normal, if she knew he ran around in a costume talking to the dead she'd think he was crazy. Then again, why'd he care what she thought of him? He couldn't actually answer that, but at least he could answer her. He chuckled slightly when she called him a pretty boy and started examining his mask.

"Found that huh?" He started. "I don't suppose you'd judge me if I told you I wear that for work would you?" Technically he could count his vigilante exploits as work, considering he didn't have a conventional job.

Omen was relieved by the arrival of the ambulance. The paramedics quickly took control of the situation and, thankfully, kept their focus on the man and not himself or the woman. It was to be expected, the man was in a bad condition and needed some serious help. At least they were better prepared to deal with his wounds and could get him to a hospital as soon as possible. He could remember the time in his life when he himself was a paramedic. It was a time he thought back on fondly, it was the only real time in his adult life he felt trully happy. Once they had left, Omen looked back to the woman keenly, watching the way she handled his mask and took place against the wall. He bent over to pick up his now bloodied coat from the ground which had been discarded once the paramedics replaced it with gauss to tend the wound the man had. Sighing, he tucked his ruined garment under his arm. Now two pieces of his clothes had been covered in blood. He himself taken standing in the middle of the alleyway, just in front of her. Omen's eyes never left the woman when she started to speak. Her statement about not judging a man for hiding who he was gave him a little hope that he wouldn't be thought of as a mad man if he chose to tell her what he did. He was pretty damn certain she knew in any case that he was a hero, but believing he really was able to talk to the dead might be a push.

When she handed him back his mask he was about to pocket it again, but stopped when he saw the blood stain which defiled his once plain mask, which caused a small pause in his movement. It was like a glaring reminder of his failure. Rubbing his thumb over the stain slightly, he finally shoved the mask back into his coat. He was definately going to be washing that later. His attention was brought back to the girl when she questioned him. He gave a small smile and looked her right in the eye. He could of course have lied, tried to convince her that he was anything but a hero. Though any kind of job that involved a black mask that wasn't superhero related was probably worse. So at this point he was commited to it and was going to have to tell her. It wasn't like he kept it a secret from people anyway.

"It's not like I'm a criminal or anything if that's what you're getting at." He chuckled slightly at the thought of him being a villain, that kind of lifestyle just wasn't in him. "I'm actually a vigilante."

Omen noticed the woman's smile as she surveyed the damage she caused, must have been out of some sort of pride for her fighting skills. It wasn't that he judged her for appreciating her 'work', hell he thought it was pretty impressive himself. He also noticed the way her smile had grown when he said he was a vigilante and said she was glad he wasn't a criminal, which had brought a relieved smile to his face as well. The fact that she reacted that way had meant she was clearly not a criminal, but then again he was certain of that when she had protected the man from being beaten to death and stayed around to help him after. Of course it didn't exactly mean she was a pure hearted goody goody, just not heartless and evil. Omen's eyes widened slightly when she flirted with him a little saying he could tie her up, that was unexpected. He wasn't entirely used to that kind of thing, most likely due to not socialising much anymore, but he did his best not to act like an idiot in front of the girl he was becoming friendly with.

"I'll keep that in mind." He said, meeting her smile with one of his own. He was a little suprised when she then stood up and took his coat from under his arm, but he didn't react, letting her get on with whatever she was doing. When she said she wanted to help him get the bloodstains off of his coat he quickly understood, however the reason why she cared about the cleanliness of his clothing was a bit of a mystery. Omen just assumed she didn't like dirty clothes in general, as it seemed like the only reasonable explaination. He couldn't think of any reasons not to let her clean his coat, he didn't really care about the blood, but he'd go along with her anyway. He followed obediently as she led him away out of the alley and down the following street. That's when she told him her name for the first time. He hadn't brought it up before, but it seemed a little weird that they hadn't exchanged names yet. So, her name's Arabella huh? Nice name. He thought. Arabella, a name with latin origins that means prayerful. His name however was less poetic, a french name meaning stone worker. Well, now that she had given her his name, social convention commanded he do the same.

"Mine's Mason, Mason Whistler." They then stopped up in front of a laundrettes. That's when Omen remembered the time and that there was no good chance of finding a laundrettes in the city that was still open. There was still the chance she worked here and had keys or that she might have even owned the pla...That's about the time he noticed she was picking the lock with a hairpin. Alright, so he should have probably guessed that's what the plan was sooner. For a genius he was really stupid at times. He kept her sights on her as she nimbly unlocked the door and stepped inside quickly. His eyes met hers when she turned back and teased him. It was true that he was a hero; that as one of the good guys he should be against every crime, no matter how small, but it wasn't Omen's policy to punish every little criminal offence. Hell, he wasn't even one for obeying every law. He had broken into a number of crimescense since being back in the states, and this was miniscule in comparison. A warm small crossed his face as he walked in after Arabella saying "So true..."

So this Observing business was pretty fucking boring. Zalmon had been going about the city, looking for crimes or interesting people, only to find absolutely nothing of interest. How annyoing, how frustrating, he could never get his kicks and plans together like this! ... Well, he was a Villain now. He was supposed to be the one creating the situations for the heroes to react to. Alas he didn't have his men sorted out yet, so that much was impossible. His gear was all prepared, but he couldn't do anything effectively without the manpower. He only wondered what was taking so long. He had produced the designs, creating them wasn't that hard right? Granted he didn't know anything about the creation process, so he thought he shouldn't judge. That would be unfair and reasonable and oh god he was so fucking bored. With a groan he lowered his mask-covered head into his hand, pulling it off slightly. It felt freeing, the mask making things ever so stuffy. But it was needed, what kind of person calling themselves The Observer didn't... Well, observe! The mask was how he did as such, watching from a distance... Zalmon placed it back on and looked around once more.

A mugging, so mundane... A couple of youths holding another man at knife point. Typical, boring. He wouldn't intervened if he thought the man's life in danger, though he was no hero, but it seemed he was willing to co-operate. His eyes then met a drugs deal. Again, mundane and typical. Not what he wanted. Hell all these crimes were nothing what he wanted, only half of it. Where were the heroes? The ones with the powers, the skills, the intelligence? The ones he wanted to curropt, to turn his silver-tongue upon and woo to his side. The pieces of his game. What game it was, exactly, he had no clue. But it was one he knew he would enjoy, he knew would grant him more power. More money, more men, more land... More everything! The mere thought of owning more things gave the man a rush inside, made him feel complete. He could only feel his best when he got more things. It was his drug, or his anti-drug. Whichever one the phrase refered to, he could remember from the high he felt.

Was he insane? This was the typical thoughts of madmen, people who lost themselves and their minds... Weak men. But he couldn't be. He wasn't so foolish... So stupid... So needlessly complex. Everyone had the things that they liked, his just happened to be owning things. Well, not just that. A long list of things, but mostly owning things. It was his human sin, something everyone had. Greed. Glorious, wonderful greed. Like gluttony, only it didn't make you fat. Generally. Sighing and shaking his head Zalmon began to look around again.

He found himself looking at a pair... Breaking into a laundrettes? Wat

Now he was interested. Why on Earth would anyone do that? A place such as a laundrette was not somewhere were money would be stored. What strange, interesting motives would these people have?

... Ok yeah it could be something stupid, but it was the most interesting thing going. With a shot from his Grapple Wrist The Observer made his way towards the pair, until he was standing on the building above them. He jumped off, using the Kinetic Field Generator to slow his descent, and turned to face them with his arms crossed. "Hi." It was a casual word, with a casual tone. Underneath his mask Zalmon smirked lightly. "Watcha doin'?" He raised his hand slightly and waved lazily. "Oh, I'm The Observer by the way."

"Nice to meet you to Arabella." He said returning her smile and taking a spot near the back of the room, away from the door. As she worked away at cleaning his coat of the blood, Omen stood back, leaning against the wall, watching her closely. She started killing the awkward silence which filled the room with idle chatter about what she was doing, Omen just listened intently and took mental notes for the future, blood stains in his line of work were not uncommon and actually being able to clean his own clothes would be helpful. Being superintelligent and not being able to do your own laundry right wasn't exactly something to be proud of. She then broke from speaking English and started to reveal a little of her history to him. Apparently her grandmother was a traveller, a gypsie, or whatever you wanted to call them. Omen had recalled a number of travelling communities he had come across during his time away from the states, mostly in Eastern Europe. While most of them weren't even remotely related to any occult practices, he had run into a few that had been involved in mystical rituals and teachings. From what she said Arabella and her grandmother were close, she even learned how to throw knives from her. Made sense, traveller communities would always pass on their skills to the next generation. At least he finally got a more in depth explaination as to how she could beat the guys back outside the bar, taught to fight from an apparently skilled ex and a professional knife throwing grandmother. It made sense enough he guessed. Omen chuckled along little when she said how men would 'cry for their mummy's'. Also, from what she said about how in Romania when they beat someone up it was for a good reason, he got the impression that's what she did defending the kid.

The sound of a new voice in the room had snapped Omen's attention to the doorway where the newcomer stood. The man was dressed...uniquely to say the least, not that Omen was anyone to judge. He wore a plain white mask and black coak which covered him from the neck down. Whoever this guy was, Omen wasn't didn't trust him. Instinctively, he crossed the room to the point between the door and the Arabella, but not directly in front of her. If things got violent he was in the best place to defend her from the man. His eyes narrowed when the guy said he was 'the observer'. This guy could have been either another hero here to confront them about breaking into the launderettes, or he was something less reputable. And he seriously doubted the first from the way he acted upon entering. His right hand hovered only inches away from his gun which had been tucked into the back of his pants (He removed the gun before using it to help the man earlier). The voice of Arabella brought his attention back to her. She had finished washing his coat and was smiling at the results. "Thanks for the help." He grinned at her briefly before turning back to the man. "What'd you want?" He said coldly, he really didn't like the feeling he got from this guy.

The Observer chuckled at Arabella's comment. "Well, my dear girl, it seems to me that you broke into this place. Not exactly the... Typical thing for anyone to do. Washing clothes, obviously. Unless for some reason my eyes decieve. I doubt as much." He sighed as he raised his hand, examining it intently. Not a shred of skin showed, from hed to toe. He was completely anonymous. He had no need to be the person he usually was to other people, and yet he was anyway. Granted he acted without facade to most people. Mostly. Lies here and there, tactically placed. He had to make sure he was always the one in charge in a relationship. Be it friends, enemies or even lovers. Not that he had many lovers, he never had the time. Never wanted a permanent relationship. They were... Distracting. Oh, and here he was again with his mind drifiing off away from the current situation. How foolish of him, how unneeded. No, he was sure he could find a way for the people in front of him to amuse him. If briefly.

Without looking away from his hand The Observer spoke, his smooth voice with charm so great it was rivaled only by the obvious maliciousness that came with it. "Don't reach for that gun. Shooting, or even aiming a gun, around me is a fool's mistake. One that you won't be quick to make again." He lowered his hand to look at Omen. While the gun wasn't seeable, it was clear to Zalmon that was what he was reaching for. It was the most obvious answer to what he was reaching for at least, and though people may say not to go for such an answer it was mostly the right one. Odds that this Englishman was willing to side with. Granted, if he was wrong he would apologize. No use being too... Prideful. Was that the word? Yes, Yes it was. It was a surefire way to gain enemies, which he did not want. Conflict was so... Meaningless. What couldn't be settled by a good chat? And manipulation. Manipulation was key to everything, at least in his eyes. There were few things, if no things, that you couldn't get through manipulation. All the great and powerful leaders used it, some of them without their manipulat-ees ever knowing. Those were the best of the best. Zalmon wanted to be among their ranks. If not above them. He wanted everything. He wanted it all, each and every speck of dust would have to belong to him. And even then he doubted he would be satisfied. He doubted he would ever be satisfied. He would never have enough, not even if reality itself bent to him and his will then he would not be complete. Oh, there he went again in one of his internal monologues. He really was quite villainous, if only he were to voice these thoughts he would be quite the stereotype. He was already hyper-intelligent, and he was even (half) English. The thought made him chuckle, though it would seem from thin air to the other two.

"What do I want?" He sighed, though it was less one of dissapointment or sadness and more one of thought. Of calculation. "Such a broad question. I want many things, but with you to?" He looked at Arabella and Omen, scanning them with his mask. "I only want amusement. Isn't that what all men want? Men and women..." He raised his two hands in front of him at the same level as his head and, with a forward flick of his wrists, pointed his index fingers at Omen, his thumbs protruding upward. "You see I'm the kind of person who gets so very easily bored, won't you please satisfy me?" He chuckled lightly at this last sentance of his, as if telling a joke no one else understood, as he lowered his hands to his side. He kept one eye on Omen, and one eye on Arabella. The eye on Omen for safety, the eye on Arabella for... Pleasure. "I mean no harm to either of you, I can be quite the nice fellow if you get to know me." There was particular emphasis on the 'know' part of his sentance, if only to make it more obviously that he clearly wasn't thinking of talking about his life story over a cup of coffee at some cheap place. He chuckled again, though louder this time, as he leaned on the wall beside me. "Ah, there I go again... I apologize if you fiound that un... Nice? No, that's not word..." He began to click his fingers, lowering his head slightly. "What's the word what's the word... Aha!" His finger pointed up as he raised his head with it. "Unchivalrous!" He turned his head to look at the pair. "Yes... I apologize if you found that unchivalrous!" He shook his head and lowered it in front of him again, tutting as he did. "So unlike me." He paused. "Well, not really."