[ she does him the grace of keeping quiet, of failing to point out how obviously he behaves like a creature once bitten and twice shy. (a comparison that's a bit too on the nose, she thinks, for what he is.) neither does she chase his touch, though she finds its absence shockingly ... disappointing. something she finds she misses, as soon as he removes its presence. it's been too long since her hand has known more than pain spiderwebbing down into her fingertips — longer than even she realizes, perhaps.
(in his place, her thumb skates across the wound that decorates the flat back of her hand, more than accustomed to the self-soothing gesture. when you've no one to bring you comfort, you learn to depend upon yourself for it, if not the conviction of your faith. and she is sorely lacking in one of those, in recent times.)
this, too, is equally overt: the intensity that colors his lingering looks, as though he's hoping to crack her open. she supposes she's proven as fickle and resilient against all efforts to do so, not unlike their prized artefact; can't fault him for the attempt to study her, even as it tickles her humor. it's a lonely life, yes, to fail to be understood — but there's a certain pride that emerges, with it, in knowing she's one riddle amongst their party he hasn't managed to fully parse.
now, there's no shying from it, on her end; she meets his stare with piercing directness, unnervingly steady, in how it refuses to skirt away. ]
You should rehearse more believable lies. [ a ghost of self-deprecation worms its way in, sobers her smile. ] I've made for miserable company, lately.
[ (it's hardly designed to invite self-pity. it's merely the truth of the matter, in her period of mourning. even now, she's yet to unpack the full breadth of her grief; doesn't yet have the knowledge to know how deep it must go, with such a large portion of her life denied to her, memories locked up so tightly even astarion's skills would fail to lockpick them free.) ]
But you asked me here all the same, even knowing that. [ in a softer husk, ] Of course I chose to come.
no subject
(in his place, her thumb skates across the wound that decorates the flat back of her hand, more than accustomed to the self-soothing gesture. when you've no one to bring you comfort, you learn to depend upon yourself for it, if not the conviction of your faith. and she is sorely lacking in one of those, in recent times.)
this, too, is equally overt: the intensity that colors his lingering looks, as though he's hoping to crack her open. she supposes she's proven as fickle and resilient against all efforts to do so, not unlike their prized artefact; can't fault him for the attempt to study her, even as it tickles her humor. it's a lonely life, yes, to fail to be understood — but there's a certain pride that emerges, with it, in knowing she's one riddle amongst their party he hasn't managed to fully parse.
now, there's no shying from it, on her end; she meets his stare with piercing directness, unnervingly steady, in how it refuses to skirt away. ]
You should rehearse more believable lies. [ a ghost of self-deprecation worms its way in, sobers her smile. ] I've made for miserable company, lately.
[ (it's hardly designed to invite self-pity. it's merely the truth of the matter, in her period of mourning. even now, she's yet to unpack the full breadth of her grief; doesn't yet have the knowledge to know how deep it must go, with such a large portion of her life denied to her, memories locked up so tightly even astarion's skills would fail to lockpick them free.) ]
But you asked me here all the same, even knowing that. [ in a softer husk, ] Of course I chose to come.