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

No, they would not have found time to have much in the way of informal conversation, she doesn't say. Instead she takes her cup back and takes a more formidable sip from it and fetches one of the scones to her.

"Not quite," she lies. A question for a question is far too easy a game. And is easily wriggled out of. She searches for a moment for an alternative, covering the pause by breaking her chosen scone in half until she finally settles on—

"It's a game where questions are asked and kisses are exchanged for answers. To be sure, ah, that by the time a couple is married that they know one another quite well."

Yes that sounds very possible.

"But it can't be played very well over dinner," she hastens to add. Obviously. "So we will have to talk about something else in the mean time and you may use the time to think up what you still care to ask me."

Questions don’t come as easily to him as Wysteria might imagine. The difficulty lies with Ellis’ disinclination to pry and the rest in that for the most part, whenever he has had some curiosity, she has very agreeably answered it when pressed. Ellis hums softly over the terms, nodding as he reaches to lift the covering over the roast duck meant for their supper.

“I’ll try to provide some challenge for you,” Ellis assured her gamely.

After all, he has been forewarned of all the things Wysteria has stored up thus far.

“Can I ask about the experiment you and Tony were working on last night?”

Tony’s comments on it had been mostly promises that the chemical reaction had been very minor, and unworthy of lengthy discussion. Ellis is expecting the exact same from Wysteria, but perhaps with a little more detail as to the chemicals involved. It would be a help, if he knew what he should need to counter in the future.

And while she explains, he can consider questions. Less ones he might ask, and more how he might answer ones Wysteria might put to him.

"Oh that."

Without thinking to preface it with a coy flutter of eyelashes as she ought to—'Yes, but what will you give me for it, Mister Ellis?' a clever woman in one of those terrible little books Alexandrie sometimes reads would say—, Wysteria promptly launches into an explanation of how she and Tony had been testing various components for smelting lighter armor plating, and how their latest combination requires fire treating and a glaze of liquified serpentstone ore, which naturally requires a powerful solvent such as—

So on and so forth, chattering along at breakneck speed as they share the dinner he's so studiously arranged for them. She is so pleased to tell him every little detail that by the time she reaches the end of the explanation, Wysteria has nearly forgotten that sense of foolishness she'd felt when he'd first snatched her up off her feet.

Had this dinner not been preceded by a kidnapping, it might very well be business as usual. They share meals. Wysteria tells him at length of what she has gotten up to in her work. Ellis listens and poses a handful of questions, as they split the food between them. When Wysteria winds to a close, Ellis is tearing one of the last rolls into pieces over his plate, watching her with a small smile.

"It sounds as if it's going well."

Minor fires aside.

"I was going to ask you how your game is started, but we needn't play if you'd rather read, or talk of something els.e"

She has made efficient work of her half of the meal and a great deal of the little bottle of wine (of which she has always been perfectly capable of drinking more than her fair share without much in the way of ill effect), and in another half mark or so the pleasant hum of the latter may begin to strike her. One might deem this, between the food and the patter of conversation, being lulled into a false sense of security. She has almost forgotten her lie by the time Ellis returns them to it.

If there is a flicker of trepidation in her expression—

"No," she resolves. "No, it can't be helped. It's tradition, you know. And we can read any other evening. Or even after the game, I suppose. If you still care to. —Which I don't see why you shouldn't, of course. But, er—"

She gives the table setting a once over, and then searches her own skirt pockets until she produces a coin. Some of the dinner things are cleared to the side and the coin is poised for spinning.

"Heads or tails? Whichever of us loses will have to answer first."

Across the table, Ellis reaches to stack their plates, refill her cup, draw the clay jug of water towards himself as he asks, "Remind me, what is the penalty if we aren't able to answer?"

A kiss is the exchange, he knows. But if there is a reward, there is likely some penalty, and it's better to know ahead of time so he might consider how best to offset it.

And in all their time together, he has grown used to the idea of how exacting Wysteria is regarding certain kinds of rules.

Here, Wysteria's hesitation is so pronounced that even she must recognize that there's no real masking it. The coin remains poised between her forefingers for spinning and after a long beat, she confesses—

"There must be a penalty. But I don't remember what it's meant to be. Would you like to suggest one?"

Here, Ellis might say any number of things, skeptical or otherwise.

But whatever he takes from the long moment of quiet study, it culminates in:

"I don't suppose forfeiting the kiss is enough of a penalty."

A joke, really. Ellis knows she expects more than that.

"It wouldn't be fair if I were drinking water and you drinking the wine," is a different sticking point. A neat solution struck from the list of possibilities. "Would you like something off me?"

His hand comes to his chest, rests over the burnished copper fastenings of his gambeson. And with that movement, the assumption: Ellis is the one who will be doing most of the forfeiting.

For a split second, she fails to comprehend exactly what he's suggesting. No, no, of course forfeiting the kiss wouldn't do. That is far too simple, and besides if he refused enough time than maybe she might begin to think he didn't care for her kisses or was being purposefully obtuse and neither of those would make a particularly good foot with which to step into a marriage, now would they?

You know. Hypothetically speaking. If this were a legitimate game and now some foolishness she were making up for her own amusement.

And then all at once Wysteria registers his meaning and in the same moment some flush of color registers at the back of her neck. It rapidly spreads into her ears and hairline, growing briefly very pink.

"Yes, that will do," is quite assertive despite her embarrassment. "Call it if you please, Mister Ellis."

She spins the coin.

Had Ellis spent even a moment considering the possibility of a reversal, he might have mirrored her reaction quite closely.

But it seems inevitable that he loses soundly to her, and so—

"Heads," is said very steadily, as he leans back in his chair. One hand remains on the table, toying with the folded hem of the napkin while he watches her tend to the coin.

If Ellis really is doomed to playing a losing game, he at least starts with advantage. After spinning there there in the empty spot on the table, glinting dully in the candelight, the copper finally falls over with a muffled click on the thin table cloth.

Heads.

Wysteria raises her attention expectantly. The color is still warm on the back of her neck.

Considering the odds, Ellis might have settled on a question. He'd be obliged to ask one sooner or later.

But he hadn't. And so there is a beat of silence as he examines the coin on the table, then lifts his eyes up to her face. Wishes, briefly, that they were sat closer. He'd like to take her hand as they speak.

With table between them, Ellis is resigned to straightening in his chair, setting elbows on the table. Clearing his throat.

"It feels as if you've told me everything I might have asked at a first meeting," he says, a little rueful, a little amused. "What would your parents make of your marriage?"

"That's not true at all. I was very cold to you when we first met, you remember. I would be shocked if I said more than two words to you."

As if Wysteria has ever limited herself to two words with even the most hateful of Tevinter kidnappers.

She has snatched the copper from the table and disappeared it back into the pocket of her skirts. This minor point of outrage has cooled the heat of her flush considerably. And anyway, it's a simple question.

"My mother would dislike it and my father would think it was perfectly suitable. He comes from common—if you'll forgive the term; you know my meaning—stock too, you know. I think she could be swayed over on account of your Warden business being just a little like the northern Hausseurs. Very, very little like it. In the sense that they are both engaged in protecting against threats, and also that they have secrets and so on. And the money might be a point of contention, of course. But if we were there or they were here, I don't see how it would matter. It would sort out either way."

Is this the first he's heard of her father? Thinking back, it might be.

Common doesn't sting, but it does prick the way a splinter might. Some small discomfort, easily set aside.

"Aye, I imagine so," Ellis agrees. "I've never known you to be swayed from a thing once you've set your mind to it."

Why would marriage be any different then the various explosives and contraptions she's been gambling with for as long as they've known each other?

"Do I collect a kiss now, or later?"

She raises her chin by a fraction in reply to that first mark—a stubborn sort of pride flashing in the angle of her face and some brief flash in her very blue eyes. That's true. They'd not managed to stop her when it had mattered before, and it seems highly unlikely that they'd have managed to dissuade her in this either—

"Oh now, I should think. Otherwise we might ask one another questions all evening and never get round to doling out the prizes."

That is a very attractive look on her face. Ellis knows it well. It has preceded arguments before, and it has come in the wake of some proposed idea before, and he has found it attractive each time. He sits a moment considering her in the light cast from the fire in the hearth, before rising from his seat.

He might say something. Wysteria's old rules, instructing: You're meant to ask first.

There is a slight pull of a smile instead, working at Ellis' face as he lifts a hand to set gentle fingers along her jaw. Ellis tips her face up as he bends down to meet her, and set a kiss to her mouth. He takes his time there, lingering close, kissing her thoroughly because there was no mention in the rules as to what sort of kiss he might give her.

Wysteria has shifted slightly in her chair as he'd risen, sitting up straighter and taller as if in anticipation of this very thing, her hands patiently folding one over the other on the table before her. And so she is very willing to have her face turned up at the behest of his fingertips on the soft underside of her jaw. Like someone easily motivated by the earning of good marks or praise, she is all rapt expectation as he bends down to her.

That said, it's a better kiss than she's expecting. If their positions were reversed, she might have kissed his cheek or his temple or only given him a chaste little kiss on the mouth like a playful tug at his tunic hem. This is not that. It's full and sweet and patient. The scrape of his beard is pleasantly chafing. It doesn't bring the heat back into her face. Rather, the kiss serves to cool some nervous impulse. It makes for a fine point on which to focus so that when they do part, the buzzing of her attention has narrowed and quieted considerably.

Nevermind the silly subterfuge and her almost stabbing him to death with a hair pin. The room is very thoughtful, and it's kind that he's gone to so much effort to make her happy.

Wysteria's face remains turned up toward him, her mouth soft. But she doesn't let him withdraw very far before asking—

"Which is your favorite color?"

See. She can be kind too.

The question brings him back down to her as if reeling in by fine threads.

"Generous," is not a color, but it's said almost against her lips, murmured against the corner of her mouth. It's against the rules, isn't it? Stealing a kiss when he hasn't given her an answer.

So he tells her, "Blue," as his fingers slip along the arch of her neck, graze the fabric of her collar, as he kisses her again. It's just as thorough. He braces his free hand on one arm of the chair as he bows down to her.

Maybe these aren't the sort of kisses the game requires. But they are what he has to give, all tenderness and focus narrowed down to every place their bodies meet before he straightens up.

"Do you prefer the Gallows or the Hightown house?"

That's cheating, she doesn't protest, but there is a tell tale slant to her mouth which suggests the only reason she keeps it to herself is because Ellis has already checked himself by that point. The glint in her eye and the arch look she gives him at the next opportunity says he should consider this part where she doesn't demand two questions in a row to he an extension of that preciously mentioned generosity.

"Hightown," she says. Her hands are still neatly folded on the table despite the wandering of his. "But only on account of what's been done with it. Your little garden is very sweet and I like the privacy of my work room and its very amusing to have a little side gate and all that. I don't dislike the Gallows like some people do though. And I enjoy the ferry. Now bend so I can kiss you, or help me up from this chair."

She waggles a hand impatiently at him.

Wysteria is allowed to keep her seat, if only because Ellis has considered alternatives and discarded them in turn. They might move to the bed, where they could sit side by side, but it seems as if it would put a specific sort of pressure on Wysteria. As pretty as she is when she blushes, it is simpler to bend his body down to her.

Their noses bump. Ellis presses his smile once more against the corner of her mouth. His thumb slides along her jawline.

He kisses her again. He takes his time about it. Maybe this is less about the game and more about how good it is to hear that the garden pleases her. All this time later, and he is still glad to hear it.

"Am I allowed to give you a gift on our wedding night?"

Something that risks innuendo, surely, but.

Now he really is breaking the rules. Without drawing back to chastise him for it, and so into that narrow little space barely exists between them, Wysteria says, "It's my turn. Who is your favorite friend? Discounting myself and Mister Stark of course."

And then because it's only fair, she steals a brief kiss from the corner of his mouth. If he's going to be such a cheat then turn about is only fair—

"But yes. I don't see why that shouldn't be allowed."

"Of course," Ellis echoes, body lowering downwards into a crouch so his back might be given some reprieve from bending into her. All amusement in his face as he looks up at her, readjusting the placement of his hands. One turns at the armrest of the chair, and the other laces through her fingers, settling their linked hands in her lap.

It is a surprisingly difficult question.

The fact that he has to think on it at all is what makes him pause. The strangeness of the thing draws out the space between her answer and his, Ellis' thumb running back and forth across her knuckles as he thinks.

"Suppose I haven't a favorite friend?"

Apart from the pair of them, of course.

She is happy enough to be rearranged (and then to make some further adjustments of her own) in deference to him lowering himself there. Partly it's because no one likes to think they're being an imposition and she shouldn't like him to have to twist awkwardly to kiss her, and partly because she finds it pleasant whenever he kneels or crouches or makes any effort to be low near her. It's charming, particularly when Ellis is as a rule a full hand or so taller than she is.

"I'm not counting that as one of your questions." Obviously. "If you really can't rank them, then I will make do with the names of whoever comes most instantly to mind today. I know that some days it can be difficult to pick favorites."

(She's heard, anyway. She could name her preferences at any moment.)

"Generous," Ellis repeats.

She is being gentle with him. Ellis can sense the difference, though he can't quite decide how he might thank her for it.

There is another moment though, where Ellis turns the question over. Considers, casting about until settling up—

"Richard."

Punctuated by a little squeeze of her hand, silent request for payment now that an answer has been provided.

"Oh I think that's a very good pick. And very in keeping with your obvious preferences, you know. Mister Dickerson is very clever and has lots of opinions even if he doesn't say them, and you clearly must find that kind of thing pleasant otherwise I don't know how you could stand Mister Stark. To say nothing of present company."

Ha ha ha we have fun here.

Pleased with herself, she tips forward and kisses Ellis primly on his brow. Maybe this marks the end of her generosity.

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