Giles

Giles is stoic in the older sense, not sullen but unmoved, and there is a difference he would consider it beneath him to explain. He dresses for a version of the evening that is not happening, plays three instruments to rooms with nobody in them, and holds the whiskey up to the light before every sip as though the glass owes him a demonstration. Nothing in this bedroom has ever met his standard. He has not lowered it.

The apathy is not a pose. He does not care what anyone does, including the man at the desk, including Penny, including you. But he stays. He has been on the headboard, the nightstand, the floor and the desk, always facing the middle of the room, never once caught moving between them. And roughly once a volume something in the mix gets past him and his eyes close for four or five seconds. He would deny it. Everyone watching has seen it.