For a split second he would be forgiven for thinking the answer might be a curt yes; when she says, "No," after a pause just this side of becoming awkward, it would not be unreasonable to suspect that the answer's only no because he said it and in doing so forced her to remove it from the agenda for this conversation. (There will come a day where he asks if he's about to get shouted at and she's going to roar yes right in his face, probably, but for better or worse, they aren't there yet.)
She turns properly in her seat, hands folding in her lap, neat and tidy and made of iron. The moment that passes is measured, like she's steeling herself to put her hands into fire -
"Dorian is an appalling romantic," she says, after a moment. "It's his only flaw, I think. But he did - not inaccurately anticipate my response, and it is my...preference that if conclusions are going to be drawn from my behaviour during your absence that it is nothing you don't hear from me." There isn't much romantic about this, as a declaration, about the unflinching way she holds his gaze as if she's challenged herself to do so.
(It's different, when it's only for her. Nothing is only for her.)
It softens oddly and unexpectedly when she says, "I'm going to outlive you," very suddenly, almost wry. "Barring some terrible misfortune. And it struck me - it struck me that I wouldn't be glad to look back and think of any time ... wasted. I don't care, you know, for waste. And I felt more strongly about it that I was entirely...I was very angry to have such a thought only in your absence." And only in grappling with the idea that it might have come too late, that he would not be back, and that she would never forgive any of them--
"But I don't mean to presume. That was not the...understanding into which you entered and you owe me nothing. I didn't wish you to hear that I - to think that I expect -"
It all goes a little bit to pieces at the end, and her mouth twists. In a flat rush, stumbling over words in her haste to have them said and coherent and finished, "I am aware that you are not mine to lose. Nevertheless, I'd have - I preferred that you return."
...this is the least eloquent she's been in all her life.
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She turns properly in her seat, hands folding in her lap, neat and tidy and made of iron. The moment that passes is measured, like she's steeling herself to put her hands into fire -
"Dorian is an appalling romantic," she says, after a moment. "It's his only flaw, I think. But he did - not inaccurately anticipate my response, and it is my...preference that if conclusions are going to be drawn from my behaviour during your absence that it is nothing you don't hear from me." There isn't much romantic about this, as a declaration, about the unflinching way she holds his gaze as if she's challenged herself to do so.
(It's different, when it's only for her. Nothing is only for her.)
It softens oddly and unexpectedly when she says, "I'm going to outlive you," very suddenly, almost wry. "Barring some terrible misfortune. And it struck me - it struck me that I wouldn't be glad to look back and think of any time ... wasted. I don't care, you know, for waste. And I felt more strongly about it that I was entirely...I was very angry to have such a thought only in your absence." And only in grappling with the idea that it might have come too late, that he would not be back, and that she would never forgive any of them--
"But I don't mean to presume. That was not the...understanding into which you entered and you owe me nothing. I didn't wish you to hear that I - to think that I expect -"
It all goes a little bit to pieces at the end, and her mouth twists. In a flat rush, stumbling over words in her haste to have them said and coherent and finished, "I am aware that you are not mine to lose. Nevertheless, I'd have - I preferred that you return."
...this is the least eloquent she's been in all her life.