"I've been trying the Buckler, lately," Marcus says, a shrug in his voice. Kirkwall has no absence of near identical taverns, likely half of them dependent on the same handful of breweries. But, "I've not seen much of Riftwatch there, and it gets rowdier earlier than most. We won't want to linger."
Which is, clearly, a credit to it. "There's the Oak and Ivy, in Hightown," he adds, almost a dare. "Has its own rooms. If you're paying."
"I'm sure their rates are entirely reasonable," is mild, and sounds identical to 'Fuck off, Rowntree.' Meanwhile, the crystal has reached the end of its cord again.
"I know a passable boarding house that won't turn away early guests."
Somewhere else, in equally sedate golden lantern light, a brief gleam of teeth, a snatch of a smile.
"Passable," Marcus repeats, but then, "Alright," that follows is leaves off any teasing that might cling to his tone. A lifted knee, heel settled on the mattress. A thumb idly sketching over the hooked scar just next to it. "Will you want that, when I get back in? Or should I still come interrupt whatever it is I find you doing."
"Surprise me," doesn't sound like strict endorsement of the latter so much as it does exceedingly rare encouragement that Marcus do as he pleases. Permissive to the point that it demands some bracket amendment to the tune of—
"Speaking of,"—interruptions; the blue crystal glow is cool inside the fingers and doesn't stretch far enough to interrupt the lamp light or complicate the cast of shadow on the stacked reports—"I've some papers to see to tonight."
It's endorsement of a kind, satisfies in in the way a kiss might, or the barest movement of a thumb that recognises that the hand its attached to is laying on him purposefully. Endorsement of having done this, too, that he might do it again sometime. An itch to respond in kind, but his impulse only provides the urge to kiss the other man, which—
Later. "Alright," Marcus says, a more final tone, still simmered in contentment. "I'll send to you when we're due back."
In answer: a low rumble of assent, the last turning of the crystal between the fingertips. And he might snip the connection shut here, but instead says, "Good luck with your charges, Rowntree," first.
And then, some of the heat in him having faded to a more manageable simmer, he does twist to cut the line between them. The stone's color fades promptly, leaving him alone in the room with his lamp and his papers, and the twinging sensation of something unsatisfied paired with the flush quality of something (less easy to name) that is.
Rather than take up the discarded pages immediately, he fumbles for a moment more with the stone between his fingers. Unwinds the cord, wrapping it loosely about his fingers instead. Lays his fingernails on its binding knot and contemplated the flexion of it. Considers, distantly, picking it free. Ultimately lets it be.
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Which is, clearly, a credit to it. "There's the Oak and Ivy, in Hightown," he adds, almost a dare. "Has its own rooms. If you're paying."
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"I know a passable boarding house that won't turn away early guests."
no subject
"Passable," Marcus repeats, but then, "Alright," that follows is leaves off any teasing that might cling to his tone. A lifted knee, heel settled on the mattress. A thumb idly sketching over the hooked scar just next to it. "Will you want that, when I get back in? Or should I still come interrupt whatever it is I find you doing."
no subject
"Speaking of,"—interruptions; the blue crystal glow is cool inside the fingers and doesn't stretch far enough to interrupt the lamp light or complicate the cast of shadow on the stacked reports—"I've some papers to see to tonight."
no subject
Later. "Alright," Marcus says, a more final tone, still simmered in contentment. "I'll send to you when we're due back."
no subject
And then, some of the heat in him having faded to a more manageable simmer, he does twist to cut the line between them. The stone's color fades promptly, leaving him alone in the room with his lamp and his papers, and the twinging sensation of something unsatisfied paired with the flush quality of something (less easy to name) that is.
Rather than take up the discarded pages immediately, he fumbles for a moment more with the stone between his fingers. Unwinds the cord, wrapping it loosely about his fingers instead. Lays his fingernails on its binding knot and contemplated the flexion of it. Considers, distantly, picking it free. Ultimately lets it be.
Later.