(no subject)
stuck, ten/rose, g
And there's that feeling again, the two of them falling through space, anchored only by the press of their fingers and palms., 698
He leads her down a quiet road on this quiet evening, all of it quieter still because she seems a million miles away. Her hand is in his, yes, but he can't help thinking he could drop it, could just let go and she might not notice, might not resist. The thought bothers him more than he’d like, makes him hold on tighter than he wants to.
It’s fine, really it is. It’s just that… well, he's certainly not obsessing over it or anything, but she's holding his hand wrong. Almost like it doesn’t matter either way. She's holding his hand wrong, and she’s not laughing properly at his jokes, and it's making him insecure and irritable, despite the fact that he's fairly sure she's not doing it on purpose. Even if she were, it absolutely shouldn’t feel so monumentally important.
He follows her gaze, the natural thing to do when it’s not directed at him. They’re just cresting a hill, and she glances towards a nondescript little house, its wooden door painted a very familiar blue. Aging shingles, white stucco glowing red in the light of the sunset. There’s a window open on the second floor. She’s not even looking at the house, just happened to glance in its direction, but he's ready to seize on any possible conversation topic, no matter how insignificant.
“Excellent colour choice for the door,” he comments. He couldn’t care less about it, not really, but he’s missing the sound of her voice, the sound both their voices make as they bounce and tangle together. He watches her hopefully as she turns to look at him. “Nice little place,” he adds, offering a grin he’s fast becoming desperate to have returned. Instead, she gives him a half-smile. It almost makes him feel worse.
She shrugs. “S’okay. Probably full of doors and carpets, though,” she points out.
“Yeah,” he nods resignedly.
It’s only been a few days since Krop Tor. They haven’t talked about it, not much, but still it lingers. Anyway, he doesn't want to talk about it. What he wants to talk about is whether it’s really too much to ask that she hold his hand the way she’s supposed to.
~>~>~>~>~>~
Half an hour later, he’s found them the best seat in the house, the perfect perch on a hilltop. This is why he brought her here. To see the light in her eyes as a multitude of luminous, brilliantly-coloured hot air balloons rise into the night sky. When he turns to take in the expression on her face, though, she’s already watching his. He raises his eyebrows as she interrupts the question, only half-formed in his mind.
“On the sanctuary base…” she begins, her eyes searching his face. “I would, you know.” She takes his hand, holds it properly now. “I will,” she tells him, and she’s sure of this.
“Would - will what?” His lips wrap around the alliteration while his mind grasps at straws, wondering what she could possibly be talking about. And there's that feeling again, the two of them falling through space, anchored only by the press of their fingers and palms.
“Be stuck with you. Stick with you. Both. All of it,” she tells him, never dropping his hand or his gaze.
He blinks at her, body stationary as his mind races. He’s speechless, and really, it doesn’t seem as if she’s waiting for an answer. He feels her relax beside him now, sigh against him as her head finds his shoulder. They sit in silence as the last of the balloons sail into velvety darkness, as he marvels at what a marvelously Rose-y thing it is, for her to give him this so unreservedly.
He tightens the arm that’s somehow found its way around her waist, turns to press his lips to the top of her head. She may be brave enough to make these declarations face to face, but he’s still a coward. His voice is just a whisper in the quiet night air when he finally answers her.
“I want you to.”
And there's that feeling again, the two of them falling through space, anchored only by the press of their fingers and palms., 698
He leads her down a quiet road on this quiet evening, all of it quieter still because she seems a million miles away. Her hand is in his, yes, but he can't help thinking he could drop it, could just let go and she might not notice, might not resist. The thought bothers him more than he’d like, makes him hold on tighter than he wants to.
It’s fine, really it is. It’s just that… well, he's certainly not obsessing over it or anything, but she's holding his hand wrong. Almost like it doesn’t matter either way. She's holding his hand wrong, and she’s not laughing properly at his jokes, and it's making him insecure and irritable, despite the fact that he's fairly sure she's not doing it on purpose. Even if she were, it absolutely shouldn’t feel so monumentally important.
He follows her gaze, the natural thing to do when it’s not directed at him. They’re just cresting a hill, and she glances towards a nondescript little house, its wooden door painted a very familiar blue. Aging shingles, white stucco glowing red in the light of the sunset. There’s a window open on the second floor. She’s not even looking at the house, just happened to glance in its direction, but he's ready to seize on any possible conversation topic, no matter how insignificant.
“Excellent colour choice for the door,” he comments. He couldn’t care less about it, not really, but he’s missing the sound of her voice, the sound both their voices make as they bounce and tangle together. He watches her hopefully as she turns to look at him. “Nice little place,” he adds, offering a grin he’s fast becoming desperate to have returned. Instead, she gives him a half-smile. It almost makes him feel worse.
She shrugs. “S’okay. Probably full of doors and carpets, though,” she points out.
“Yeah,” he nods resignedly.
It’s only been a few days since Krop Tor. They haven’t talked about it, not much, but still it lingers. Anyway, he doesn't want to talk about it. What he wants to talk about is whether it’s really too much to ask that she hold his hand the way she’s supposed to.
~>~>~>~>~>~
Half an hour later, he’s found them the best seat in the house, the perfect perch on a hilltop. This is why he brought her here. To see the light in her eyes as a multitude of luminous, brilliantly-coloured hot air balloons rise into the night sky. When he turns to take in the expression on her face, though, she’s already watching his. He raises his eyebrows as she interrupts the question, only half-formed in his mind.
“On the sanctuary base…” she begins, her eyes searching his face. “I would, you know.” She takes his hand, holds it properly now. “I will,” she tells him, and she’s sure of this.
“Would - will what?” His lips wrap around the alliteration while his mind grasps at straws, wondering what she could possibly be talking about. And there's that feeling again, the two of them falling through space, anchored only by the press of their fingers and palms.
“Be stuck with you. Stick with you. Both. All of it,” she tells him, never dropping his hand or his gaze.
He blinks at her, body stationary as his mind races. He’s speechless, and really, it doesn’t seem as if she’s waiting for an answer. He feels her relax beside him now, sigh against him as her head finds his shoulder. They sit in silence as the last of the balloons sail into velvety darkness, as he marvels at what a marvelously Rose-y thing it is, for her to give him this so unreservedly.
He tightens the arm that’s somehow found its way around her waist, turns to press his lips to the top of her head. She may be brave enough to make these declarations face to face, but he’s still a coward. His voice is just a whisper in the quiet night air when he finally answers her.
“I want you to.”