More frightening things than a girl's stare

[lelaelle]

Who: Jensen and Laelle
Where: Jensen's Office
What: A chance visit includes some very nice talking and some not so nice silence. Trying to kiss Laelle turns out not to be a very good idea.


It's after dinner, maybe an hour or two past. The crowds have died down in the tunnels, thankfully, and some have retired to their rooms or offices or dormitories. Jensen has done so, recently judging by the fact that he's in the middle of taking his jacket off, hanging it on the back of one of the chairs. His door is wide open to the hall outside, anyone passing by and looking in given his profile.

It just so happens that Laelle is one of those passers-by. It's not unusual for her to be milling around in the caverns after meal time. Just now she has paused outside of Jensen's door to meet up with another student. Their voices are low and a few pages pass between them, studies of some sort or another. As her brief companion departs, Laelle looks up to see the Captain's profile. She holds still for a moment, watching him remove his jacket and hang it on the back of his chair. Then she decides to go ahead and rap her knuckles softly on his open door.

Jensen is expressionless and calm when involved in menial, everyday tasks. Hanging jackets, eating, sleeping. Those things are easy. This is the Captain Laelle gets while watching. When she knocks, though, things shift subtly. For one, the drawing down of his eyebrows. Then the glance, the recognition, the little quirk of his mouth that could very well be a smile. "Don't recall orderin' a student. Think I might just assume you're here for funsies."

"Something like that, perhaps," Laelle answers, her own lip quirking as his too, a small wry curl that could be the prelude of a grin. "I saw you," she says as explanation for the visit. "I thought I'd say hi." She doesn't enter the room though, but just stands in the doorway as if her toes dare not cross the threashold.

There is a line, just there, across the doorway. Usually it isn't so tangible as to keep someone out. Jen seems to notice this; his eyes have focused on her shoes. It might seem like he isn't paying attention. "Well." He was. "That's... /nice/. Everything okay?" Because no, people don't usually stop by his office to say 'hi'.

Laelle rolls a thin shoulder. "Yeah," she says simply. Her glance, so far having been fixed on the man, now flicks around his office. "I'll go. You're busy," she decides, not having been invited in. Her weight shifts, readying to move on.

"No." No, don't go? No. "Busy. 'M not busy." Jensen passes his hand through his tousled hair and quirks his mouth again. With his arm still lifted he holds his breath, considering the girl in his doorway, then lets it go in a sudden whoosh and gestures at the chair across from his desk. "C'mon in, you want to."

Laelle was all ready to turn away, ready to leave the man unpestered, but his 'no' stops her midmotion and refocuses her attention with a lifted brow. "If you insist," she says, "Captain." Her words are playful, her tone even, her expression fixed. She steps into the office in a few leisurely steps, allowing her eyes to drift more easily across the room before settling back on him.

She gets a look for her teasing, one of narrowed eyes and tolerance. Jensen waves his hand at the chair again, urging her to it. "Sit, if you... feel like sittin'." He does, apparently, for in the next he's lowering himself and sprawling, knees apart and hands flopping between them. "/Laelle/." Just so she realizes he won't be having anymore of that 'Captain' stuff.

Laelle is much more careful, stepping to fold neatly into the offered seat, legs closely crossed and hands folded in her lap. Her eyes do no drift over his contrasting figure, though she seems enough aware of it. Instead she watches his face. "Jensen," she replies, the name slow on her lips. She lets a beat passes. "You're well?" she asks, the inquiry proper and polite.

"Yep," Jen answers, too quickly. His elbow is up on the edge of the desk now so he can lean and prop his face up with his hand, fingers splayed across his cheek and his eyes lifted to watch her. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "Small woman hit me the other day." Pause. "How about you? How're classes?" It's safe territory, the topic of classes.

Laelle turns her head slightly, lifting her chin by a breath, showing him a freckled cheek and the watch of her eyes from the corner of her lashes. Something plays on her lips. "A small woman hit you?" she repeats. That something grows to the inkling of a smile, perhaps a smirk. "Do you have bruises?" She lifts a disinterested shoulder for her studies. "Classes are fine."

Classes are fine. There goes his plans for one-track, straight forward conversation. Jensen's mouth becomes a line straight across. "Mm. Mmhm." He lifts his head, drops his hand away, tilts his chin towards her. There on his jawline is the faintes shadow of a bruise. It's hard to see beneath the scruff but it's there.

She leans in a bit, craning her neck to try to catch this faintest of bruises beneath the rough of his jaw. That brow pops up again. "You poor thing. You must have been so frightened." Teasing, plainly. Laelle unfolds a hand from her lap and props her own elbow on the desk, a mirror of him. Her slender fingers wrap into a fist under her chin and smirking lips. "Whatever did you do to get that?"

She's getting that look again, the amused and wry one. "Terrified." And, "Y'might be surprised t'know that often all I need t'do is just be me." Jensen winces when he rubs his jaw - scritch - and looks down at his desk. "Maybe it's my ray o'light disposition." There isn't much of a pause between that and, "Classes're fine?" There's that again.

"I -would- be surprised," Laelle replies, her pronunciation less precise now that her knuckles stall the movement of her chin. "Yes, classes are fine," she rattles that off without another thought. "I now know more about the Tillek Tuber Famine than I ever thought I would." She breathes out a bored laugh through her nose, but her eyes have not left him and they don't look so terribly bored. "Who hit you?"

Why does she insist on going off his carefully laid trail? "Some woman. Ella. 'Parently she's from Tillek. Maybe she was still sore about bein' outta tubers. Still don't see how that'd be my fault." Jensen is watching her again. He doesn't often meet her eyes but there's some definite expression-studying going on. "Why's it matter?"

For that, Laelle lets out a much more entertained laugh, a bright bark paired with a rather rare bright smile. "You'd think they'd be over it after so many turns. Some people just can't let things go." When he looks at her, she looks back, not afraid to meet his gaze and watch what changes may happen on his face. "It doesn't matter," she admits, that smile long gone already, replaced by something mild. "I believe it is called 'small' talk for a reason." She snorts, though, amused again. "I can't believe you let the Tuber Girl land a punch." Tsk.

"You ever been swung at? Like t'see your dodgin' skills you think so highly o'mine." Jensen snarks but it has no real bite. She has, it would seem, achieved companion status. "'Sides, wasn't exactly expectin' 'er t'try. Shoulda been, her bein' female'n all."

"I'm not the Captain of the guard," Laelle points out, nothing but teasing in her voice. It might even be called 'warm' teasing. "I would have expected some of those fast warrior reflexes. And it looks like it was a pretty solid punch, if she's as small as you imply. I should hope, for your sake, that big, armed men are easier to deflect." The smirk is back and she arches that brow again as she studies him.

Jensen is silent after that. He watches her watching him, content to do so for another moment, then more. What comes out of his mouth next might be inappropriate or unexpected or both. "You've seen me. Without clothes on."

Laelle watches back, his silence cooling what amusement she wore, erasing the curl from her lips. Her eyes search his with gentle intrigue and when his words come they do nothing to register in her expression, no matter how inappropriate or unexpected they may be. "I have," she tells him quietly. And if he wants to talk more on that subject, she'll not be the one to push him.

This could easily turn into something lewd or light, sarcastic or snide. It isn't either of those. What it is is, "Then you know big, armed men ain't always easier t'deflect." Because she's seen the scars.

She lifts her chin just slightly, enough to relieve pressure but not to seperate it from her fist. She swallows and then lets her chin slip to the side so that her fist may take up purchase on her freckled cheek. The corner of her mouth is caught against her curled pinky. "I would not have assumed so," Laelle says quietly. Her eyes move, flicking over him with a soft sweep of lashes. "I only meant to tease you."

Jensen would once have minded being inspected so by her. Now he tolerates it. Whatever happened to temper him happened fast, somewhere in between meetings. Or maybe because of said meetings. "I know. Just sayin'." A little smile pulls his mouth up in the corners. "Tease away."

"I didn't think we were really discussing the reality of your life," Laelle points out anyway, her eyes scanning the play of a smile on his mouth before finding his eyes again. "I don't think that would be considered small talk. The big strong Captain, who can apparently survive anything," something changes in her eyes for that phrase, then shifts back again, "Getting beat up by a little Tuber Girl seemed an easier topic. Perhaps you'd like to pick the next one."

Though he doesn't contest the 'survive anything' part, Jen does look down again when it's mentioned. No comment is sometimes worse than anything. He continues on despite that little hang up, maybe because of it, and when he glances up he's smirking at her. "You." Shifting in his seat, he buries his fingers in his hair and leans. "I wanna talk about you."

Laelle's eyes hold as he looks down and up again, as he smirks and shifts. If his leaning closes the space between them, she does not feel the need to pull back. What she will do is return his smile, her own spreading with deliberate slowness cross her lips. "Go ahead," she tells him.

"You're from Nerat. You're in Caucus so I'm gonna go with Blooded. What d'you like? D'you have fun?" It's his turn to tease and he's taking advantage. But he must have meant some of what he's asked or else he would have given her the 'real', serious questions. Waiting, Jensen still watches.

She nods for each point, Nerat, Caucus, Blood, rotating on the pivot of her fist for each one. "I like things. I don't know that I'm particularly disposed toward fun, though." That to be an answer that half playful, as she still smiles while she delivers it. "I like many of my classes. I like... shopping for new clothes." Her brows lift at that, daring him to tease the Blooded girl for her wardrobe. "I like reading, watching people..." Laelle gives a shrug, but that last one probably rings quite seriously true anyway, judging from the way she returns his gaze now.

"Watchin' people." The crease that forms between Jensen's eyebrows is his curiosity physically manifested. "Why that part?" he wants to know.

"Sometimes they're surprising, funny in ways they didn't mean to be, weak or strong in ways they don't recognze..." Laelle's report is quiet, true. Granted, it's unlikely that anyone would be terribly surprised by this information. She shifts her hand, putting her chin in her palm and letting her fingertips rest along her eyes, careful not to smudge the dark shadows painted there.

The dark shadows that have become something of a favorite of Jensen's. It isn't every girl that chooses to mask herself in that way. "Hm." After rolling that around in his head he asks, his tone light now, "What about me?" Maybe he's expecting more teasing.

"Well," Laelle says with a seriousness that promises more mocking. "We've determined that you're a lousy fighter." Her mouth mocks him now, along with her words, a curl at the corner. Her eyes are still serious, though, watching the way he looks at her.

Jensen's way of looking at her is with that same self-deprecating smile and those same calm, grey eyes. He doesn't say anything for a long time. Or, more appropriately, what seems like a long time. Silence has a way of stretching itself out between people. When he finally does speak it's low. "That we have." And simple. Glancing down, he knocks the bones of his hand against the surface of his desk and waits. "Reckon that's somethin'."

Laelle has no fear of silence and doesn't seem hurried to break it herself. She drops her hand from beneath her chin, sitting up a little to compensate and letting her hand fall idle on the desk. Her eyes have started to narrow, closing faintly amid their darkness. She's watching this change in him and waiting in return to see where it goes.

This time Jensen doesn't seem all too aware of being watched so closely. The only reason he looks up again is to see what she's done, what that movement was. Noting the new placing of her hand - or nonplacing, it being limp - he goes further with his searching until he's meeting those dark-rimmed eyes. His eyebrows lift and he might be about to say something, ask something, but no. He /does/ stare, eyebrows furrowing now as if something's just caused him bemusement.

She meets his gaze for a moment or two feline-green eyes to grey ones, and then she slowly starts to smile, a quiet, knowing sort of smile. "What?" Laelle asks, perhaps for the something he seemed ready to say, perhaps for the bemusement written on his brow.

"Uh," Jensen articulates, his hand in his hair again. His brain catches up, takes stock of what's happening, and helps him out. Blinking once, he straightens some and looks down. The desk is a safe haven from those eyes. "Nothin'." No. Somethin'. But nothin' he's willing to share.

With his eyes avoiding hers, she'll cast a glance over his head, the hand in his hair, the line of his shoulder. But she finally gives him some reprieve and her focus drops to the desk away well, to her hand. She stretches her fingers, now that they have her notice. "Do you want me to leave?" Laelle asks quietly.

"Mno." Which is like 'no' but much less certain. Jensen stares hard at his desk, dropping his own hand to it to pick at the wood grain, fidgeting like a little boy might under his mother's reproachful and disappointed gaze. Then, slowly, his eyes come back up and he gives her a look through the hair that's fallen in front of his face "You wanna?"

Laelle delays her answer by a beat, eyeing that fidgety boy in him. "Maybe I should," her lips pressing to a line. "If I make you uncomfortable."

Jensen's hand lifts and drops again so quickly the movement could be written off as a spasm. What it was was a gesture of helplessnes or annoyance. Probably the former. "Fine. Go. Door's open." It really is. He never closed it.

And so Laelle stands up, but her hand does not yet leave his desk. Her pale fingers are splayed there as she spends a moment thinking and watching him.

Jensen doesn't move. He sits there with a fierce expression on his face, staring at his desk. No, her hand. He stares at her hand. Wire has snapped under less pressure.

That thin hand retreats, fingers dragging to the edge of the desk and then dropping off as Laelle turns to do just as he's bid.

His chair scrapes across the floor when he stands so suddenly. He moves, one step, and, as if of its own mind, his hand reaches to snag hers, catch her, stop her.

The rough scrape of wood legs on a stone floor is enough to stop Laelle mid-step and turn her on her toe, but her hand is snared so quickly that she hasn't time to seek his face before looking down at her captured fingers. The look comes afterwards. Her eyes lift to him, not startled but nonplussed.

Jensen looks down at her hand - their hands - too, dumbly. How and why seem important but all he can do when he meets her eyes again is falter. "I, uh." Back down to their hands, eyebrows twitching together, another beat, another glance, then he's leaning in to give her the sort of hurried, meaningful kiss that happens when you don't think about it.

Laelle doesn't think either, she just jerks her head back as her eyes widen in thier kohl shadows. "Jensen..." she says quietly, perhaps questioning. Her gaze searches him.

Abort! Nobody stops in their tracks faster than Jensen when he's realized he almost just did something insane. Inches from her mouth, his eyebrows lifting, he halts. It's his name wrapped up in her quiet voice, the way she's looking at him. He doesn't think to move away. "'M sorry," he murmurs, frozen. His eyes close and he makes a noise. It's a frustrated noise. Why.

Laelle doesn't move either. Her lips part in query but the words don't come readily and so she just looks at him, her hand still caught in his, her eyes watching as his close.

That silence is the worst. The right thing to do would be letting her hand go, turning away and waiting until she left. That would be the right thing to do. When his eyes open, when he sees her still watching him, he should do just that. But something changes in his expression, something that was once uncertain now resolved. It's something about her /watching/. So what he does instead is narrow those eyes, pull a little on her hand and lean in again. This time there is no hesitance in his claiming her mouth with a sharp breath in through his nose; he doesn't press forward and it wouldn't take much to push him away.

There is little time for Laelle to gauge that change in him, little time for her to mark it or react and little time for her to evade this more determined move. His lips find hers but find them stiff, too unready to turn easily pliable for his mouth. She breathes in hard through her nose and lifts her chin, a press that almost seems to kiss back and yet it does not come from her lips. Her hand slips free of his grip and as she pulls her lips from his mouth, her fingers replace them. They are gentle and there is something uncertain in her gaze.

Sometimes there is gasping after kisses. This is not one of those times. There is only easy acceptance of her pushing him away except... why is her hand there? The look on his face she'll find now when the distance between them is enough to see it is one of confusion. His eyes drop, presumably to what bit of her hand he can see. With them lowered he lifts his released hand and shoves his fingers into his hair again. Shit.

It's true that there is no gasping. There is only awkward silence. But Laelle is not unaccustomed to silence and so, in the quiet, she grows more calm instead of less so. The startled wideness leaves her eyes, but the fingers on his mouth have not left quite yet. They move slowly, a soft feather-caress of his lips before they slip away, a fleeting but deliberate touch. She swallows and watches him.

His eyes close again, squeeze, open again. Jensen is still while her fingers remain, during the touch she gives him, even after when she's back to watching him. After long enough of that though he reacts. In a low, even voice he mutters, "Why're you always starin'."

Laelle's breath is soft and shallow and the only thing of her that moves for a long moment. "To see," she answers, plain or cryptic or both, it is murmured in little more than a whisper. She glances at his mouth, retracing where her fingers had been, then meets his gaze again. "Why does it make you hide?" But she doesn't leave the question there, her lips quirk into a wry but sorry smile. "I'd think a guard be able to face more frightening things than a girl's stare."

"I don't know what you're lookin' for." Or if there's anything to /see/. Or maybe he was really, really telling the truth about not wanting to be here for her entertainment when he told her so those weeks ago. Jensen's jaw tightens, preventing further speech. He isn't moving either.

"Neither do I," Laelle admits. She presses her lips together, wets them. "Don't be angry," she tells him. Her hand starts to lift again, reaching for that tensed jaw, but it hesitates halfway there.

It's a stuble lift of his chin that brings Jensen's jaw out of reach, even if her hand did stop before touching him. Speech is difficult when you're almost grinding your teeth. He manages. "'M sorry." There's that again, followed by, "Maybe you should go," with his eyes off to the side.

This time Laelle does not wait. She drops her gaze as he looks away, turns and steps out the door.