( the slight amusement that tilts her mouth when she casts a look back over her shoulder is lopsided, and fond, and not oblivious to the complicated undercurrents of what she has determined to make simple. )
No, ( she says, but: ) and neither are you obligated to join the conversation, had you rather not.
( her crystal's chain around her fist as she sits back up, following the grip of his hand back to the warmth of his side, she says, thoughtful: ) What neither of us could abide would be deceit. And certainly it would be preferable for anything explored to be...shared, where possible, but ultimately the most important thing is what we share, the two of us. Honesty.
( it's more than what he asked, but it's matter of fact. )
I wouldn't care to have him sneaking around with someone ignorant of me any more than he would care to think I might hide you in a closet. ( a quirk of one eyebrow: ) Perhaps under my desk. A negotiation for another day.
[A ghost of this conversation is looking at him from the corner of his vision. His eye slides compulsively away from the shadow it casts.]
I'll take it up with my knees.
[he says; if there had been less laughter this evening, it might sound light as he settles against the headboard. It isn't a withdrawal - his hand lingers there between her legs -, but it is a hand span of space, a slight distance from which to watch her.]
( for all her—sincere—talk of honesty, it is easier when the matter is a practical one hand in hand with sentiment. she speaks little of her husband to her lover, and she has allowed julius more silence than another woman might have done on the subject of his father. if she notices that hand span of distance (and she must; she does), she allows him have it.
if he would prefer to imagine the brush of her fingers against his wrist is merely a new habit and not acknowledgment, she will not stop him. if he looks at that consideration in the eye, she will not deny it, either. )
How I have come to be surrounded by men so concerned with their knees, I am sure I don't know. ( it's funny because julius isn't much younger than flint, see. but then, to her crystal— )
[His fingertips press quietly into Petrana's soft inner thigh.
It's a thoughtless thing, distant like the concept that he'd prefer to be wearing more than just his own skin for this and almost as involuntary as the thing he can feel his face do. What the thing is, he can't say exactly. Instead, he catalogues some carved edge of the headboard and where it draws a line against his back. He regards her bare knee and thinks he won't listen too closely to what either of them has to say, as something in the sound isn't so different from a hand pressing on bruised ribs and he's sore.]
( it is as natural to bend her knee, to fold the two of them comfortably together while she speaks with that warm voice at the other end of the crystal, as it is to answer with the same fondness; she had spoken with him only briefly and by crystal in the whirlwind of polite farewells earlier in hightown, and so there is no need now to be too elaborate in explaining— )
As it happens. (most satisfactory. ) I wouldn't have you wait up for me—I shall remain with the Commander for the night.
[The warmth of his laugh isn't so different from his public persona, but that small difference is marked for someone in a position to observe. A glimpse at something he rarely lets slip elsewhere.]
I was. Though only tangentially for work; it's a rather fanciful account of dragon-hunting that makes better bedtime reading than research material, it turns out. Frustrating on a professional level, but otherwise entertaining.
I'm glad things went well, though. You should take more chances to relax, when you can.
( if she might have been inclined to make brief the conversation and spare awkwardness, flint joining in does slightly shift the weight of consideration; though so does moving his hand. is she relaxed, or is she carefully scrutinizing the smallest shifts in the tide to stay afloat them, )
[Said as if Madame de Cedoux is staying late to continue some discussion they are only partly through, as if this conversation is being held across a desk and not with Petrana warm against his naked side. Certainly it isn't a conversation which requires some investment of meaning or familiarity, or to inspire any ache made remote to travel the length of his spine.
Flint leans to fetch the the pitcher and his cup, refilling it. He offers to do the same with her cup.]
[It's fondly said, in part because he loves her as she is, and in part because he's aware he wouldn't have a leg to stand on if she chose to turn the tables on him.]
Well. I am glad, then, that you're relaxed and pleased, both. Perhaps I shouldn't intrude further, though I'll be interested to hear the details when you return.
[He could just mean the details of the party, and his tone isn't particularly suggestive. But Petrana knows him well enough that she can guess he might ask for other details too if she proves willing to share them.]
( he could mean that, and anyone merely overhearing this conversation and not privy to its context might well think so, except that before she even says anything petra's expression does something wonderful, and she breathes out a laugh. )
You have not yet run out of industrious application of my notes which you already had found, ( and how could she be surprised, she had said, that a man should find himself a most diverting topic of study.
to flint, an aside, and context for amusement that had in the moment not really seemed to need any: ) You asked me my notes; it is a flaw of mine, that I remain so thoughtful as to have them.
[And that is that. The crystal goes quiet and the space should narrow once more to just the two of them, the anchor of her warmth against his side ruling over the thought of what details Julius might later work out of her (and how).
He takes a drink. He doesn't consider the width of the room.]
So you do have an opinion of me, [he finally says instead of anything else, all hypotheticals and flattened levity.]
I have had an opinion of you since we met, ( she returns, pertly if languidly delivered from the general vicinity of the freckles on his shoulder, of which she is becoming fond. ) It is ever-evolving.
[The freckles are fewer and farther between there and more distinct for it when compared to how darkly speckled his forearms are, the back of his neck. Once upon a time, a very long time ago indeed, James Flint was probably a boy who burned in the sun.
He tips his head toward the sound of her voice. There is kind of wry affinity in the tilt of his mouth near the edge of his cup.]
In which direction would you like it to evolve next, do you think?
[There had been a kind of momentum in this, an almost inevitable motion which had carried them from Hightown to this bed. The languid quality of the aftermath, more alien than anything else than had preceded it, apparently requires some parsing on his part.]
( she tips her head, weighing that question more thoughtfully than her own pert lead-in might have suggested she intended to, holding the rim of her cup against her closed mouth. (it is the more dangerous shape, marius had once said, for it meant she was still thinking, and that was never good.)
eventually, she says, )
I think within this evening there was an entire moment of ease.
( she holds up her free hand, thumb and forefinger. just a little one. )
I should wish to extend it, just a little.
( a true answer, if not the only one she thought to give. )
So no pressing the discussion of Nevarra just yet, then, [is probably a thought better reserved rather than spoken, but if she is asking for ease then this is what it warrants from him - throwaway remarks regarding how a thing might be reassembled.
Flint breathes an amused huff into his cup, drinks, and then leans briefly away from the warmth of her to set the glass aside on the narrow side table with all it's miscellany assemblage-slash-fire hazards of books and candles and now ladies' hairpins. When he shifts back to her, it is to touch her side - broad calloused hand at pale skin, thumb idle at the point of her hip.]
( despite herself, it makes her laugh—rueful, sinking deeper yet into the bedding as if it might close over her and spare her going back to the work that she can barely be drawn away from most days. )
If you wish to whisper me sweet nothings of Nevarra, ( droll, and sliding her fingertips from his knuckles up the slope of his bare arm, ) I'll not say no.
( or anything else. tell her your secrets, flint, it's probably fine. but she says on, )
It is my instinct to be at ease with you, ( to trust him, she means but will not say, ) and I study the shape of that very carefully.
( the shape of him, too. and this. but it is a frank thing, and not the musing of someone experiencing regret. )
[The wandering line of her hand warrants a further collapse—his turning nearer, settling closer. He comes to rest either over or against her or some combination of the two, propped up on an elbow as his thumbs traces absently over her pale skin.]
Do I seem so untrustworthy?
[He isn't serious; that much is evident in every line of him, and especially in the slant of his mouth. The curve in his timbre. I understand, he might say instead, but that must be obvious.]
( she tips her head, studying him with openly trouble-making thoughtfulness from this slightly-beneath-him vantage point, blonde hair spilled behind her on his pillow and a warm flush still lingering in her skin.
[Her laugh in that darkened room, all slashed through by moonlight, seems like a warm thing. The crooked line of his mouth widens behind his whiskers in reply, slow and smug and something roguish in that glint of teeth.
That self satisfied smirk is still firmly in place as he shifts by those narrow degrees necessary to—] Hazards of the profession. [—kiss her.]
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No, ( she says, but: ) and neither are you obligated to join the conversation, had you rather not.
( her crystal's chain around her fist as she sits back up, following the grip of his hand back to the warmth of his side, she says, thoughtful: ) What neither of us could abide would be deceit. And certainly it would be preferable for anything explored to be...shared, where possible, but ultimately the most important thing is what we share, the two of us. Honesty.
( it's more than what he asked, but it's matter of fact. )
I wouldn't care to have him sneaking around with someone ignorant of me any more than he would care to think I might hide you in a closet. ( a quirk of one eyebrow: ) Perhaps under my desk. A negotiation for another day.
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I'll take it up with my knees.
[he says; if there had been less laughter this evening, it might sound light as he settles against the headboard. It isn't a withdrawal - his hand lingers there between her legs -, but it is a hand span of space, a slight distance from which to watch her.]
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if he would prefer to imagine the brush of her fingers against his wrist is merely a new habit and not acknowledgment, she will not stop him. if he looks at that consideration in the eye, she will not deny it, either. )
How I have come to be surrounded by men so concerned with their knees, I am sure I don't know. ( it's funny because julius isn't much younger than flint, see. but then, to her crystal— )
Put your book down a moment, my love.
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[Except he's clearly smiling when he replies, so he definitely was.]
Have you had a satisfactory evening?
[Since he doesn't know where she is or if she's with anyone, he phrases it in a way that could just mean the party.]
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It's a thoughtless thing, distant like the concept that he'd prefer to be wearing more than just his own skin for this and almost as involuntary as the thing he can feel his face do. What the thing is, he can't say exactly. Instead, he catalogues some carved edge of the headboard and where it draws a line against his back. He regards her bare knee and thinks he won't listen too closely to what either of them has to say, as something in the sound isn't so different from a hand pressing on bruised ribs and he's sore.]
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As it happens. ( most satisfactory. ) I wouldn't have you wait up for me—I shall remain with the Commander for the night.
( a beat. )
You were reading.
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I was. Though only tangentially for work; it's a rather fanciful account of dragon-hunting that makes better bedtime reading than research material, it turns out. Frustrating on a professional level, but otherwise entertaining.
I'm glad things went well, though. You should take more chances to relax, when you can.
[Said the pot to the kettle.]
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I've yet to see much evidence that Madame de Cedoux knows the meaning of the word.
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Am I not relaxed?
( if she might have been inclined to make brief the conversation and spare awkwardness, flint joining in does slightly shift the weight of consideration; though so does moving his hand. is she relaxed, or is she carefully scrutinizing the smallest shifts in the tide to stay afloat them, )
Do I not sound relaxed?
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[The sparest pause.]
Good evening, Commander.
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[Said as if Madame de Cedoux is staying late to continue some discussion they are only partly through, as if this conversation is being held across a desk and not with Petrana warm against his naked side. Certainly it isn't a conversation which requires some investment of meaning or familiarity, or to inspire any ache made remote to travel the length of his spine.
Flint leans to fetch the the pitcher and his cup, refilling it. He offers to do the same with her cup.]
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I am perfectly relaxed, and perfectly acquainted with the concept, gentlemen. I am merely,
( hm, )
sparing with its application.
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[It's fondly said, in part because he loves her as she is, and in part because he's aware he wouldn't have a leg to stand on if she chose to turn the tables on him.]
Well. I am glad, then, that you're relaxed and pleased, both. Perhaps I shouldn't intrude further, though I'll be interested to hear the details when you return.
[He could just mean the details of the party, and his tone isn't particularly suggestive. But Petrana knows him well enough that she can guess he might ask for other details too if she proves willing to share them.]
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You have not yet run out of industrious application of my notes which you already had found, ( and how could she be surprised, she had said, that a man should find himself a most diverting topic of study.
to flint, an aside, and context for amusement that had in the moment not really seemed to need any: ) You asked me my notes; it is a flaw of mine, that I remain so thoughtful as to have them.
—goodnight, my darling.
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Sleep well, love. I'll see you later on.
[And on that warm note, he ends the conversation.]
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He takes a drink. He doesn't consider the width of the room.]
So you do have an opinion of me, [he finally says instead of anything else, all hypotheticals and flattened levity.]
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He tips his head toward the sound of her voice. There is kind of wry affinity in the tilt of his mouth near the edge of his cup.]
In which direction would you like it to evolve next, do you think?
[There had been a kind of momentum in this, an almost inevitable motion which had carried them from Hightown to this bed. The languid quality of the aftermath, more alien than anything else than had preceded it, apparently requires some parsing on his part.]
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eventually, she says, )
I think within this evening there was an entire moment of ease.
( she holds up her free hand, thumb and forefinger. just a little one. )
I should wish to extend it, just a little.
( a true answer, if not the only one she thought to give. )
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Flint breathes an amused huff into his cup, drinks, and then leans briefly away from the warmth of her to set the glass aside on the narrow side table with all it's miscellany assemblage-slash-fire hazards of books and candles and now ladies' hairpins. When he shifts back to her, it is to touch her side - broad calloused hand at pale skin, thumb idle at the point of her hip.]
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If you wish to whisper me sweet nothings of Nevarra, ( droll, and sliding her fingertips from his knuckles up the slope of his bare arm, ) I'll not say no.
( or anything else. tell her your secrets, flint, it's probably fine. but she says on, )
It is my instinct to be at ease with you, ( to trust him, she means but will not say, ) and I study the shape of that very carefully.
( the shape of him, too. and this. but it is a frank thing, and not the musing of someone experiencing regret. )
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Do I seem so untrustworthy?
[He isn't serious; that much is evident in every line of him, and especially in the slant of his mouth. The curve in his timbre. I understand, he might say instead, but that must be obvious.]
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( she tips her head, studying him with openly trouble-making thoughtfulness from this slightly-beneath-him vantage point, blonde hair spilled behind her on his pillow and a warm flush still lingering in her skin.
she laughs. )
You are conspicuously untrustworthy.
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That self satisfied smirk is still firmly in place as he shifts by those narrow degrees necessary to—] Hazards of the profession. [—kiss her.]