Deft fingers push through the odd knot, continuing the untangling of her larger braids. Plucking at them, separating; the same, quick way she might for the fletching in her arrows. It is, now, a vie for time, but it happens yet again: a pleased smile, pitched not to the fire but the red of Astarion's eyes. Her own little flit of joy.
No. She cannot tell at all. But something inside of herself feels awfully rewarded, from cold to flush, now that he has handed her something very—
—well, concrete. ]
I am only so tolerable?
[ Mischief crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her hands drop to her lap, palms upward and relaxed. She leans, only the slightest fraction, into the circle of his space; sotto voce as she adds solemnly, the same way she might pass judgment on something much more serious: ] I believe you. [ Adds, with her own, very plain truth, ] I like that you do.
[ Tav wouldn't dare ask more of him, now. There are so many things she understands about the world, and so much more that she would like to — curiosity is her crutch, the thing that sends her peering at barrels and old shelves and standing before locked doors, thinking, only to mutter his name like a question — but, by the day, Astarion becomes that much clearer in shape.
She feels quite satisfied with herself, actually. Maybe that's terribly rude, but it buoys her. Her hands make short work of her loose hair, carding through quickly but haphazardly, rebraiding into two even parts. It takes a small beat of silence, but afterward, she wordlessly turns her head for him: a silent request to check that her work is even, since she only did so by feel.
And, perhaps, it is because her head is turned away that she can tell him: ]
He could find it in himself to be annoyed at that sheer earnestness, to deflect it, butβ instead, he bites the inside of his cheek, only half-stopping the slight smile that spreads across his features in return. He knows, to some degree, that the warmth she offers to him now is worth hanging onto, if only because he'd experienced firsthand the way it had faded, changed in shape, in the first portion of their journey, when he'd still had more of an air of coldness about him β when he'd found it easier to lie.
(She'd blushed for him so easily, once. Maybe that's not something he ought to be chasing, but, wellβ he's always been a little greedy. And it's hardly as though she lacks any freedom of choice.)
So, ] I thought it was only fair, [ is all he says in response to her thanks, as he scoots a little closer.
His fingers are gentle as they find her braids, teasing out one or two uneven spots β as deft with her hair as with any lock or trap. Not that they really need so much adjustment, but she'd asked, and it's in his habit, now, to answer. Besides, he's a creature given to preening, and an extension of that trait to another isn't so much of a burden.
Other answers hang on his tongue β don't get used to it; it's our little secret, alright; similar half-thoughts β and he swallows them all, a long moment passing with just the crackling of the fire between them. Then his hands fall away, andβ he doesn't move any further away, instead only repositioning himself to face the flames. ]
βHas it changed, for you?
[ A question she's already sort of answered, but, in the spirit of asking such things, he allows himself to speak the words aloud. ]
[ It's a little trancelike, at first. How warm it is, and how smoothly he rearranges the knots at the back of her skull. Her blinks slow, and then become slower still, like a moth coming to rest over light. She thinks, briefly, maybe impossibly, that this might be the last — the only, in some measure — another might do this for her. Who knows what awaits them in the city? After the cure, what will their lives look like? Hers will return, she is certain, to more of living just outside Baldur's Gate, to chasing birds and game through the woods, to Bosky's whines when he has mud on his nose. The two of them, just two, in amongst all the green.
But thoughts like that do so little to chase away the feeling that sits in her chest. It beats very strongly. It's that that emboldens her, makes her turn to look at him with a glint in her smile. ]
Yes. [ There's a laugh somewhere, tucked into the shape of her mouth as she echoes, ] Can't you tell?
[ Surely, it is very easy to guess, but he is speaking the words aloud anyway. It would be silly to mimic him much further, so Tav keeps her boldness. Offers more, and further. ]
I don't have anything very pretty to say. [ She hums lightly. ] I did not always see you very well. You are a very good liar. I did not always understand what you wanted, and it was very frustrating. Sometimes you are still very frustrating. And even when you said these things to me, about what you thought of, and what you needed, I could not always let myself trust them, because of the things I imagined you to be. It was very unfair. But I see you better now.
[ A fissure of something unpleasant worms its way past all that very solid surety. It always happens like this, in these times when it is more quiet at camp, late at night with her companions. Doubt. Self-consciousness. Her cheeks flush when she adds, a little haltingly, ]
[ He doesn't fear the idea of life after all of this β but he finds himself relishing it less than he once might have. Against his better judgment, he's grown used to their little camp β even fond of it, though he likely wouldn't say as much out loud. And he would miss them β miss her β were they all to splinter. The thought makes him uncomfortable, twists his gut into a knot he doesn't know how to untie.
Lonelinessβ he'd never liked it, per se (preferred it, perhaps, for the sake of self-preservation), but the idea of fearing it is somehow humiliating.
But she jokes, mimicking his cadence of speech, and it makes it easy for him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to think about other things β to think only about how close they are to each other, about the blush that colors her cheeks (that he'd once thought lost to him). ]
It doesn't require flowery turns of phrase for one's words to be considered pretty, little dove.
[ He glances at her sidelong, letting her parse his meaning for herself. Then, an allowance β a gentle confirmation:]
We see each other better, now. Besides, it wasn't so unfair.
[ A shrug, not argument so much as an understanding of what he is, how he works β he'd presented her with an image of himself that had not been entirely genuine. That she'd noticed the differences between what he'd put forth and what he was is not a fault. ]
All that to say β I'm glad of it. I suppose you'll do, as far as a mirror goes.
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Deft fingers push through the odd knot, continuing the untangling of her larger braids. Plucking at them, separating; the same, quick way she might for the fletching in her arrows. It is, now, a vie for time, but it happens yet again: a pleased smile, pitched not to the fire but the red of Astarion's eyes. Her own little flit of joy.
No. She cannot tell at all. But something inside of herself feels awfully rewarded, from cold to flush, now that he has handed her something very—
—well, concrete. ]
I am only so tolerable?
[ Mischief crinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her hands drop to her lap, palms upward and relaxed. She leans, only the slightest fraction, into the circle of his space; sotto voce as she adds solemnly, the same way she might pass judgment on something much more serious: ] I believe you. [ Adds, with her own, very plain truth, ] I like that you do.
[ Tav wouldn't dare ask more of him, now. There are so many things she understands about the world, and so much more that she would like to — curiosity is her crutch, the thing that sends her peering at barrels and old shelves and standing before locked doors, thinking, only to mutter his name like a question — but, by the day, Astarion becomes that much clearer in shape.
She feels quite satisfied with herself, actually. Maybe that's terribly rude, but it buoys her. Her hands make short work of her loose hair, carding through quickly but haphazardly, rebraiding into two even parts. It takes a small beat of silence, but afterward, she wordlessly turns her head for him: a silent request to check that her work is even, since she only did so by feel.
And, perhaps, it is because her head is turned away that she can tell him: ]
That was a very good secret, Astarion. Thank you.
no subject
He could find it in himself to be annoyed at that sheer earnestness, to deflect it, butβ instead, he bites the inside of his cheek, only half-stopping the slight smile that spreads across his features in return. He knows, to some degree, that the warmth she offers to him now is worth hanging onto, if only because he'd experienced firsthand the way it had faded, changed in shape, in the first portion of their journey, when he'd still had more of an air of coldness about him β when he'd found it easier to lie.
(She'd blushed for him so easily, once. Maybe that's not something he ought to be chasing, but, wellβ he's always been a little greedy. And it's hardly as though she lacks any freedom of choice.)
So, ] I thought it was only fair, [ is all he says in response to her thanks, as he scoots a little closer.
His fingers are gentle as they find her braids, teasing out one or two uneven spots β as deft with her hair as with any lock or trap. Not that they really need so much adjustment, but she'd asked, and it's in his habit, now, to answer. Besides, he's a creature given to preening, and an extension of that trait to another isn't so much of a burden.
Other answers hang on his tongue β don't get used to it; it's our little secret, alright; similar half-thoughts β and he swallows them all, a long moment passing with just the crackling of the fire between them. Then his hands fall away, andβ he doesn't move any further away, instead only repositioning himself to face the flames. ]
βHas it changed, for you?
[ A question she's already sort of answered, but, in the spirit of asking such things, he allows himself to speak the words aloud. ]
no subject
But thoughts like that do so little to chase away the feeling that sits in her chest. It beats very strongly. It's that that emboldens her, makes her turn to look at him with a glint in her smile. ]
Yes. [ There's a laugh somewhere, tucked into the shape of her mouth as she echoes, ] Can't you tell?
[ Surely, it is very easy to guess, but he is speaking the words aloud anyway. It would be silly to mimic him much further, so Tav keeps her boldness. Offers more, and further. ]
I don't have anything very pretty to say. [ She hums lightly. ] I did not always see you very well. You are a very good liar. I did not always understand what you wanted, and it was very frustrating. Sometimes you are still very frustrating. And even when you said these things to me, about what you thought of, and what you needed, I could not always let myself trust them, because of the things I imagined you to be. It was very unfair. But I see you better now.
[ A fissure of something unpleasant worms its way past all that very solid surety. It always happens like this, in these times when it is more quiet at camp, late at night with her companions. Doubt. Self-consciousness. Her cheeks flush when she adds, a little haltingly, ]
I— think I see you better now. You let me.
no subject
Lonelinessβ he'd never liked it, per se (preferred it, perhaps, for the sake of self-preservation), but the idea of fearing it is somehow humiliating.
But she jokes, mimicking his cadence of speech, and it makes it easy for him to laugh, to roll his eyes, to think about other things β to think only about how close they are to each other, about the blush that colors her cheeks (that he'd once thought lost to him). ]
It doesn't require flowery turns of phrase for one's words to be considered pretty, little dove.
[ He glances at her sidelong, letting her parse his meaning for herself. Then, an allowance β a gentle confirmation:]
We see each other better, now. Besides, it wasn't so unfair.
[ A shrug, not argument so much as an understanding of what he is, how he works β he'd presented her with an image of himself that had not been entirely genuine. That she'd noticed the differences between what he'd put forth and what he was is not a fault. ]
All that to say β I'm glad of it. I suppose you'll do, as far as a mirror goes.