heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

"Water," she scoffs, all good cheer as she takes another sip from the beer.

"I wouldn't dare impose on your lady's generosity then," Walden insists. The man has a charming smile, quick and lopsided. His attention flicks from Ellis to Wysteria— "Though should your Mister Ellis tire and you find yourself at loose ends..."

He smile flexes, almost apologetic. Wysteria, stood in very close to Ellis' elbow (or vice versa) laughs in reply.

"I will take it under consideration, sir. But it is quite against his character. Isn't that so, Mister Ellis?"

She tips her face up to him, the line of her mouth quirking wide.

Had he not been soundly admonished once already this evening, Ellis might have leaned down to meet her. The impulse diminishes to a small, crooked pull of a smile, grip flexing on the cup of water to stave off looping a hand around her waist. The intent is there, even if it comes to nothing. There's a line somewhere with Wysteria, drawing sharply between what is and isn't allowed in public. Ellis doesn't want to trip over it again, especially not in front of Walden.

It's not lost on him that Walden might be perfectly nice. Maybe even better suited than he is for Wysteria. The hot burn of that knowledge flares up in the back of his head, smolders as he looks back to Walden.

"Aye, it is."

Delivered seriously, or at least, in a staid enough manner to be exaggerated by the environment they're standing in. He wonders just what it is Walden studies, whether or not it's something that would hold Wysteria's attention.

"But it's early yet. I shouldn't rule out the possibility," he allows, more for Wysteria's benefit than Walden's. Maybe Wysteria wants to dance with someone else. Ellis isn't going to warn off her prospects any more than he already has done.

Edited (words) 2021-04-06 04:01 (UTC)

Something in her face flickers, a very brief pinch of her brow that forms and is gone again as quickly as it first appeared. And then she turns her attention back to the rather tall Mister Walden, all smiling and good cheer.

"As the gentleman said. I will fetch you should I find myself without a partner, sir."

She takes a drink of beer all but through her smiling teeth. And in reply Mister Walden flicks a glance between them, adopts his most courteous smile and tips his head. He must be a clever kind, to recognize both a dismissal and an opening so long as he doesn't press.

"Of course. I'll be just there loitering should you need me. Miss Poppell." He nods to Ellis. "Mister Ellis."

And then Mister Walden, he of superior height, is gone. Wysteria's smile lingers for a half beat before being ruthlessly stripped away. She looks to Ellis, something fiery in the point of her attention.

"Really, Mister Ellis."

Was what the wrong thing? It must have been, even if Ellis can't divine exactly what aspect of it fell short of Wysteria's expectations. With Walden's retreat, he's free to turn fully in towards her. On the way to cupping the tin of water in his opposite hand, his fingers graze her wrist, more or less unnoticeable beyond the two of them.

His eyebrows raise, questioning.

"Don't you raise those eyebrows at me. How dare you make me seem so undefended." There is a certain waggishness in it, and to the small way she turns her wrist from his drifting to fingers so she might turn and give his knuckles a little slap. But neither is she fully joking, if the tell tale wrinkle at the corner of her mouth is any indication.

She takes a swig from her cup, shooting a glance in the general direction which Mister Walden had disappeared in, and then pivots back toward Ellis with the faintest realignment of the angle of her shoulders.

"Never mind it. I know you meant nothing by it. Or that it is only a difference between Thedas and other places."

"You're not undefended."

But that's speaking in the very literal sense of the word, not necessarily the same as what Wysteria means now.

The pause that comes after, filled with the stomp of boots on floorboards and someone shouting in time to the thudding of the drum, is space for Ellis to study her face.

Untangling the impulse to step aside is a complicated task. It's likely not meant to be done in a venue like this, if it's done at all.

"You wouldn't have been insulted if I'd been more forceful with him?" is a complicated question too. Or it feels complicated to Ellis, in the moment.

She opens her mouth, breathes in a hitch of air to answer immediately--then pauses, her gaze flitting away and then down into her cup. It's a split second of indecision. Would she have been?

"Well." Maybe. she might have bristled just a little. But perhaps only in the moment. "I hardly expect you to drop everything to drag the man out and fight him in the yard. But a firm word," she resolves. "No, I don't believe that would have been amiss. Unless you truly have no preference on the subject."

She glances back up at him and frowns to cover some spark of embarrassment.

"But I should hope that you do."

"I do."

His hand shifts along the side of the cup, grip breaking to reach for her wrist and skim his fingers along the back of her hand.

"But I trust your decisions."

A truer sentence: I trust you.

"And I wouldn't begrudge you a dance with someone else, so long as you dance the rest of them with me."

She scoffs. But for all that it is a loud, skeptical sound and despite the distinct roll of her eyes as she shifts her attention from him back toward the dance floor, it's clear that he's said the right thing. That she's pleased. No matter that she says, "Really, Mister Ellis. You are quite ridiculous."

With a secondary prim sniff, she drinks further from her cup.

No rebuttal. Ellis smiles instead, letting the conversation lapse while his fingers graze once more up and down the back of her hand before he leaves off.

"Do you think the musicians can be bribed?" he asks instead. What he'd like to ask is if she'd care to go back to their rooms. Her room, his room. The specifics of it don't matter. It's only for the pleasure of being able to touch her without checking himself, and maybe kissing her, just once, before they sleep. But it's early, and Ellis knows without asking that Wysteria intends to dance more.

And so, the consideration of a bribe. Or at least, a heartfelt request from a man whose sweetheart would prefer not to dance another reel just yet.

"I believe all artists can be bribed, Mister Ellis. It is the mark of their trade," she says, settling close against the wall. The clatter of the drum and the stamping of feet across the dance floor is very loud. A woman out there is laughing in the arms of her partner, her dark hair loose and flowing prettily behind her as she's run round.

"The question is only how high their price is, and how many people before you had the idea and have beaten you to making requests."

Wysteria looks to him, holds his gaze for a moment, and then pointedly drops her attention to where she has tucked her spare hand between the small of her back and the wall. Her fingertips are just there, waggling invitingly. Well. If he should care to touch her hand, there are ways to be discreet—

And then her attention drifts back toward the dance floor, the assembly in the hall, and musicians and the dust drifting down from the rafters.

Yes, he does care to touch her hand. A slight smile warms his face as he takes the smallest step forward, reaches to lace their fingers together, neatly out of sight.

"I should have made my demands when we first arrived."

His thumb runs gently over her knuckles as he looks away from her to study the musicians. Which of them would be the better prospect? The fiddler's tunic is very fine, so perhaps he's the sort who needs the extra coin more than his partner.

"I'll know better next time," Ellis says, though he should point out, "It's easier, when it's Bastien we're asking."

More like: it's easier when they're dealing with people who know to be intimidated by Wysteria already.

The moment his hand is touching hers, Wysteria delicately shifts her arm to gently close her fingers about his wrist. It is an easy thing, then, to draw his hand safely behind her into that secret unseen place between herself at the wall.

"That is because Bastien is remarkably weak for all things that have even the veneer of romance. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a great collection of cheap novels on the subject. --Oh," she says, as if the following thought is only in this moment occurring to her. She laughs. "I hope that's what he used to print with his press. That would be very charming. And a little funny. Anyway, you can hardly be blamed for falling behind. Who could have guessed that Markham has such an aversion to anything slower than the pace of a sprint."

There, unseen, Ellis' fingers turn in hers to find her palm. His thumb sets against the soft center, presses there a moment as he listens to Wysteria relating her assessment of Bastien's interests.

"When you were last here, was it like this all night? A sprint?"

As he speaks, Ellis' fingers leave her hand to settle at the small of her back. His eyes never leave her face as his hand splays carefully outward, palm flattening across the fabric.

He'd dance more with her if she wanted, waltz or not. But he wishes again for a quieter place, even if he's warmed to the charm of this lively tavern.

"I truly don't remember. We spent most of the evening at one of the tables out of doors arguing over some mathematics. Dancing had very little to do with the conversation at all. We will have to ask Brown when we see him," she decides, attention fixed toward the center of the room and the spiraling patterns of the dance happening there like a counterweight to the quiet sprawl of Ellis's hand.

Her own hand has shifted too, settling lightly against his. The angle is not wholly natural, and so the absent scuff of her thumb along the joint of one of his forefingers is light but not unintentional.

"But if it is going to be like this all evening, I'm not sure I've really the energy for it. We were up at such an early hour."

The invitation in that statement is marked. Ellis' fingers flex against her back, beneath the light pressure of her hand on his own. It's a small thing, but his entire focus narrows to that little point of contact between them.

"Are you hungry?" is not quite the question Ellis wants to ask her. But it's close, within arm's reach of Would you like to leave now?

She finishes her drink before answering, turning her attention from the center of the room back on him—all wide eyed faux guilelessness.

"Are you?"

"There was a tavern I saw, several streets back. Before the window with the cat," he tells her, which is not an answer exactly but approaching one. His thumb runs up and down across her back, cup of water untouched in his opposite hand. "I thought we might have a later dinner."

And it had seemed quiet, the kind of establishment with a devoted clientele and little excitement beyond that. Maybe there would be a little music. They had to walk back that way regardless, and he wants—

Nothing resolves into one clear thing. He can feel the warmth of her through the fabric and it muddles his thought process.

Ellis tacks on "If you aren't too tired," a little absently, a concession the little game they're playing.

There is a multitude of small buttons down the back of her dress. Which is technically speaking an unimportant and highly irrelevant detail, save for the fact that she thinks of them in relation to the drift of his thumb and feels an immediate flicker of something like guilt behind her ribs. So she puts them promptly out of her mind and says instead, all airily and untroubled by anything at all in the entire world,

"Well, it sounds as if you've decided. I shall hardly argue with you, Mister Ellis. We've nearly a whole week of evenings to fill before us. I imagine there will be other opportunities for all sorts of dancing."

There is a restaurant more or less where Ellis recalled. The proprietor is gregarious and chatty and possibly Orlesian, promises a trio of musicians and a singer in two days time and gives them a bottle of wine on the house. Maybe they've been mistaken for newlyweds, though no one says those words exactly.

Ellis drinks none of the wine, and leaves a little extra coin on the table when they go.

Tony arranged two rooms for them in one of the better dormitories. He might have opted to demand two rooms on his own, but Ellis had asked. It had felt important to him, that Wysteria have space of her own to retreat into. Now, after having climbed the narrow stairs and come more or less to the end of the journey, Ellis thinks of all the things he should ask her, or perhaps should have asked her earlier in the evening or on their journey here.

Instead, he lifts one hand to touch her cheek first, looking her over.

"Your hair's coming loose," he observes, expression softening as his opposite hand lifts to brush the curling wisps back from her face. "Do you want me to serve my penance now, or over breakfast?"

Somewhere in the midst of dinner, her thoughts had begun to naturally pivot toward the great stack of notes waiting for her back in her little borrowed room. To the small mountain of annotations she would like to attend to, and the copying and rewriting she might like to do before the point of the day's lectures becomes smoothed over and nonspecific.

However the bottle of wine, of which she had drunk a significant portion, had successfully chased that thought well away. By the time they have wound their way back to the dormitories, she has chattered on at length about theories of perpetual motion and friction free machines and has forgotten entirely all question of alchemical science much less the notes strewn about the foot of her bed on the subject.

Her cheek is very warm in his palm, but her face is only a little flush and she has come all this way without stumbling or acting like a dredge off his arm. If she is drunk (and she personally wouldn't use the word), it's the pleasant kind had at the end of a long and unhurried evening.

"I'm not surprised. I've hardly touched it since morning. In fact, the whole thing will probably have to be refashioned and I'll have to dredge myself up an hour earlier to see it done. I cannot in good conscience recommend wearing your hair so long that it requires pins, Mister Ellis."

Her hand quests out behind her to find the handle of her door.

"I can't remember what I meant to ask you. Tomorrow over breakfast will have to do. So," she laughs. "You may kiss me goodnight and be about your business, if it is only your honor that is keeping you here."

"Wysteria," comes softly, Ellis' voice dipping tender over the syllables of her name.

His honor was a spotty, fallible thing. If he had so much honor, wouldn't he have let her be that night in her kitchen?

The impulse that had been tugging at him all of the evening unspools; the space between them closes as he leans into her, careful with his own body not to sway her backwards in the process. His hands so gentle at her face, at her neck when his hands shift to allow him to kiss the corner of her mouth and stay there a moment, forehead set against hers.

You're keeping me here, he wants to say, in which here is a bigger thing than her doorway. But the words catch. He says them with his hands and the bow of his body in towards her instead.

She is already turning her face up to him, cued by the shift of his hands and what has so rapidly become a kind of habit. It isn't so unlike leaving him notes in his kit, or teasing him about his gray hairs or the scratch of his beard, or minding to keep beyond the swing of his mace's arc in the field. These are all practiced things, aren't they? And she is, in her way, such a quick study.

The corner of her mouth quirks under his kiss. She wrinkles her nose at him, close enough that the pull of it must be a felt thing rather than a seen one.

"Nevermind. I have thought how I might embarrass you."

The answering smile curves against her cheek, his thumbs stroking gently along her jaw. She's flushed and smiling and beautiful. If it didn't feel near impossible, he'd like to lean back and look at her, commit to memory her right now.

"Aye?"

"Aye," she echoes him, all gruff and play stern. His whiskers bristle at her cheek when he smiles, and Wysteria makes some little noise of mock offense even as she turns slightly further toward his nearness.

"You must tell me what you're thinking," she says, checking her balance against the door handle; the hardware rattles a little and she half snorts a laugh against his cheek. "What it is you want without first qualifying it based on what you think I'm thinking or what you believe I prefer. That is what I would like to know right now. And it must be a real answer. No conceptual or metaphorical nonsense."

Is she tired? Is she hungry? What would she like to see and do while they are in Markham? Would she prefer beer or water or to dance a reel or waltz? They are perfectly fine questions, of course. It is kind these he asks them. But she knows all the answers to them already, so there's hardly anything to be pleasantly surprised by in them now is there?

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