[He takes a sip before answering. The coffee's appropriately black, this time of the night he's really not in the mood for resolutions. On the surface, Claude's basically telling him that even cheap things can be worth something and really, he doesn't disagree in the slightest. It's worth whatever use its got. Flashback to Monsieur Verlinden's old, almost rickety house. Damp and creaky as it were, it was a place to be and though the man's later proved himself a complete arsehole, even now, there's an almost indescribable worth to it. Largely connected, of course, to the people who lived there. Marcel's coming home from Italy tonight.

He looks at Claude, brow furrowing slightly.]

She may have. When they cleared the house a few years ago after her death, she'd left it for me.

[They shipped it by post, using his professional address in Parliament. Fucking ridiculous, but of course, where else would they send it? Those people. Nobodies. Keeping most of the irritation off his face, he sips his coffee again, mostly to do something with the excess energy. Half a smile, pushing a lighter tone into his voice:]

Unfortunately, it doesn't go with the rest of our apartment. It's still in boxes somewhere.