faderift | Sigh no more, no more

It is incredibly difficult not to be a nervous wreck about this. Despite a lot--a lot of careful planning, there's so much that could go wrong, in so many ways, and there is a worrying lack of things she can do to stop any of it. But being a wreck will only make things worse, so she tries not to focus on it. Instead, she goes to where she agreed to meet Alistair, a ways from the camp, besides the river.

Despite her resolution to not be a nervous wreck, she paces by the shore, running the words that she's spent so long planning in her head, over and over.

She only snaps out of it when she hears Alistair's footsteps, and looks up, smiling brightly, despite her nerves. "Ah! Hey. Thanks for agreeing to meet me out here."

They're noisy footsteps—his new boots are very sturdy, and the snow coating the valley floor is crunchy where the uppermost layer melts under direct sunlight and freezes again every evening, and he stumbles a little over a block of ice and only stays upright with some arm-flailing effort. He's also eating the leg of some large bird or another. With his hands. Dashingly.

"It was a terribly long way and very inconvenient," he says, which is not even slightly true, "but you're welcome." He comes close to taking a bite, meat hovering near his mouth while he considers Beleth, then decides against it. Manners! He winds up with one arm crossed and the other elbow resting on top of it like a meat-delivery lever, and he lowers that lever forward to ask, "What's up?"

He's very dashing, enough that Beleth has to cover her mouth and giggle a little as he dashingly approaches. She does eye the leg reproachfully, this isn't quite how she pictured it, but--she'd make do. She can adapt. And she adapts by studiously ignoring the meat lever.

Instead, she looks up at his face, her fingers fidgeting with each other as she keeps them from any of her other nervous habits. No messing with her scarf or pacing, not now.

"I wanted to thank you, for coming to my clan with me. And, ah. Having to deal with the Keeper. It wasn't...entirely easy for me, but having you there helped, and I'm grateful." She bobs her head politely, flashing a brilliant smile at Alistair, before continuing. " Since I've returned, I've spent a lot of time thinking about what the clan expects of me, and what I want. I've spent most of my life devoted to those expectations, and even now, it's been difficult for me to try to...realize what it is I even want in the first place, let alone pursue it."

She pauses for a moment, her hand reaching for a pouch at her side. "That's the other reason I wanted to speak to you. Because I think, for the first time in my life, I'm finally starting to figure that out."

Beleth's gratitude is answered with a scrunchy-faced head shake and shrug—the fidgety nonverbal equivalent of don't mention it. Nonverbal in particular because once she starts talking he goes back to eating, listening with his head canted to demonstrate attentiveness through the biting and chewing, which slows down in concern as she reaches the end of her introductory remarks. He swallows a little too fast.

"I'm not making you a Warden."

Punctuated with a gesture with the pheasant leg. He means it.

There's a brief moment of bafflement, where Beleth can do nothing but stare at Alistair in abject confusion. But that moment passes, and--still looking perplexed--she shakes her head.

"If I wanted to be a Warden, I'd talk to Teren," She replies reasonably, "She's the liaison. But I don't want to be a Warden. No offense, of course." She adds belatedly, even though Alistair just said that he didn't want her to be a Warden, anyway. Or maybe he just didn't want to be responsible for making her one? Who knows.

She turns her attention to her pouch, and fishes around in it for a few moments, before finally pulling out a little cloth bundle. "Usually, this is where I'd give you an animal I'd killed, and you would be incredibly impressed by my skill, but--I've been advised that that's not. Appropriate." And she holds out the cloth bundle to him, looking nervously at the pheasant leg. Please don't get food on her present.

Which was, it would be revealed upon pulling the cloth aside to see what was in the center, a ring. It was, admittedly, not an expensive one, but what you would imagine was within a scout's price range, had she saved up for a decent period of time. Which she did.

"I hope you like it anyway, though."

Alistair opens his mouth to explain that Teren isn't that kind of liaison, maybe to mention the terrifying fact that he has seniority and will change his entire personality in an instant to pull rank if that's required, but—right. She doesn't want to be a Warden. Good.

He is so busy being relieved by that that it takes a moment for the rest of what she says to sink in, and once it's sunk it still doesn't make any sense. He unfolds his arm to take the little bundle regardless, picks it carefully open with two fingers not necessary to keep his food from falling out of his other hand, and grins—immediately, instinctively, confusion temporarily set aside, because he's a sucker for gifts. "You got me a present." In case she hasn't noticed.

He lets the cloth fall into the snow so he can hold up the ring and look at it better. He'll pick it up later. He isn't a barbarian.

After a couple of seconds examining the little griffon, he remembers to be confused again. He lowers the ring so both gift and pheasant leg are held awkwardly at chest level, at clear risk of being knocked together if he stops paying attention, which is likely, because his attention and squinty brow-furrowed gaze are both on Beleth now.

"Why did you get me a present?" Why would she ever consider giving him an animal she'd killed? There is a switch in his head trying to flip but not quite managing.

Beleth doesn't answer him right away--or even bother being apprehensive about finally starting to get to the point of why she wanted to speak to him. She's too busy being concerned about the ring's chances against getting food all over it, and slowly reaches out to take Alistair's arms, gently steering them apart. Creators, this man was going to give her heart palpitations.

Okay. Time to focus. And the words are there, she's had them memorized for--how long, now? But. Now that the time is here, now that she's actually telling him, that she's not just trying to replay the scenario over and over in her head, she feels a bit of panic starting to rise. It's actually happening, this isn't a drill, what if everything is ruined forever--

Breath. Slow, deep breaths. Then she straightens up, hands clasped together, eyes on his eyes. Confidence!!!

"Alistair, you--you make me happier than anyone I've ever met before. The more I'm around you, the more I find myself wanting to be around you. The more I find myself laughing, smiling, just...feeling like maybe the world isn't as terrible as it used to seem. And--" Here, she falters, looking like she might start to panic again, but she catches herself, takes another breath, and carries on. "--I want to stay around you. I want to be with you."

She allows a timed pause to let that sink in, then quickly moves forward. "I--I know that there are, ah. Considerations to be made. Between me being a Dalish, you being a Warden, and other things. And I'm not going to say that I don't care about them, because those issues are important, and they'll need to be addressed. But--I'm willing to do that. To sit down and address them with you. Because I think that you're worth it, Alistair. Whatever discussions need to happen, whatever complications that need to be worked out."

And now for the part she had the hardest time with--trying to make sure that she didn't sound like a total waste of his time, that she could be worth it. "And--I'll do my best to make you happy, too, Alistair. I know I'm not perfect, but I'm a fast learner, and I'll listen to whatever you have to say. And I promise, I'll try my hardest to make you as happy as you make me." By now, her steel resolve has melted somewhat, and she's chewing on her lip, nervous, but resolved to go through on this.

"Just give me a chance."

It takes until I want to be with you for the baffled line to disappear from between Alistair's eyebrows, smoothed out by surprise and his widening eyes. They stay wide during her pause. Then they narrow--not much, but enough to no longer qualify as wide--and lower to her shoulder out of inward-focused concentration while he tries to keep up words like considerations and issues and discussions and complications. If she'd worked in negotiations she might have gotten Bingo on his Panic Bingo card.

He cracks his mouth open, but she's not done, so he shuts it again.

And he gets it together enough to look her back in the eyes for the rest of it, although the effort that that requires means he forgets about his hands and lowers both to hover in front of his abdomen, once again dangerously close to getting pheasant juice on the ring, until he thinks she's finished.

"Beleth," he says, in the tone of someone who's about to try to reason with someone who's being unreasonable, but that's all he has at the moment. He leaves his mouth slightly ajar in case more words happen to come out, but in the meantime he looks down at his hands, gaze darting between them, like maybe the ring or his pheasant leg will have some sage advice for him, beyond say something you idiot, which is advice he can give himself, thanks.

It takes a great deal of effort not to stare at him with all the intensity she can scrounge up, and she only barely manages it. But she's still watching him carefully, every expression and movement, trying to gauge his reaction. The tone isn't...promising, and the panic edging the corners of her mind threatens to take over.

But she didn't come this far just to give up. Not when she wants something--someone--this much, not when she's spent her whole life giving in, and she's finally ready to go after her own desires.

She bites her lip, staring up at Alistair, apprehension and worry clear on her face, but there's still a stubborn resolve there. She patiently waits for him to continue, but. He...doesn't. He's just staring at the ring and he's going to get juice on it, for the love of--No. Stop, ignore the pleasant leg, focus. This is entirely off the rails from anything she had planned out, but. She could do this. She had to believe in herself.

"I'm sorry if, um. I said anything wrong, I've never done this--" Wait, no. Shit. That's not believing in yourself. Deep breath. Try not to cry, because that will probably not help (or maybe it will? Would that help??). "But I mean it. I'm tired of saying I don't deserve to have desires, or that they don't matter. So--I care about you, Alistair. Please, give me a chance--even a small one--and I promise, I'll do my best."

Well. That'll have to be good enough. Hopefully.

"Of course you deserve—" Alistair attempts to interrupt, without looking up from his half-eaten meat, quietly enough that it's easy to talk over him, which is good, because he would never have been able to make himself say desires, right now, in this incredibly sincere context. Even coming close to the word makes him wonder if Beleth was desiring him while they were sleeping... together...

Someone is probably going to kill him. He's probably going to lie down and let them.

Since he has to continue living in the meantime, he looks up and smiles at about 60% his usual voltage while he says, "You sound like you're asking for a job."

Is smiling good? Smiling might be good. It's better than frowning. Probably. So she gives him a nervous little smile, and sheepish laugh at his observation. "Am I? Ah--I'm sorry. Like I said, I've never really. Done this before. And, um..." She clears her throat, and breaks eye contact, staring down at the ground.

"...I know you could do better than me. There are a lot of perfectly good people out there, and--I'm just. Me." She gives a shrug, still smiling, though it's more bittersweet than anything else. "Which...isn't a whole lot." This whole confidence thing was. Not working out well for her. Creators damn it all. Okay, focus.

"But--! I know I have my own strengths! I figured, if I asked for a chance, that I could show you that I can be...good enough--No, that still sounds weird, doesn't it..." Shit. She sighs, and finally looks back up at Alistair. "I just--I'm not good at talking myself up. Clearly. But. I was afraid that if I didn't try, I wouldn't have a chance with you."

"You don't need to talk yourself up," Alistair says, still smiling out of habit and will; "I know you. You're great. But as much fun as it would be to see if I could make your mother faint, I don't—"

The ring gets a brief reprieve from the constant danger of being meat-greased when he raises that hand to rub his forehead with his back of his wrist. Mild distress. He's never done this before, either. Not precisely. Saying no, thank you to strangers in taverns is entirely different than trying to say it to a friend who is—really—funny and pretty and perfectly nice, and trying very hard, and only not getting hugged because he does have some sense. A small amount of sense.

But he's also fairly good at explaining his feelings once all attempts at deflection and dodging have failed. Or when deflecting and dodging would make him Skyhold's Biggest Bastard. Like now. So.

He lowers his hand, closes a fist around the ring and shakes it awkwardly in the pocket formed by his fingers, and smiles again in a thin, meager way that's more look at this obvious gesture of goodwill I am making with my face than an actual smile.

"It isn't you," he says. "I don't mean that as a line. It isn't really me, either. I've just never looked at you that way. Maybe I could, but right now I'm—looking at someone else, and. Well." On some other level of thought, disconnected from everything else he's thinking and saying, he's started compiling a list of people who he should not trust near him with knives for the foreseeable future. "I'd rather do this to you than do that to you."

She had told herself, if he said no (because she was always very aware of that as a possibility), that she wouldn't cry. But that decision was always a pipe dream at best. As soon as the first but, gets out of Alistair's mouth, her eyes are misting, and it only gets worse as he continues on.

There's someone else. He could have, but--she was too late. She waited too long. She fucked up. She wasn't good enough, she wasn't good enough, she fucked up. A quiet, hiccuping sob escapes her lips before she turns away from Alistair, hand pressed against her mouth. She failed. It hits like a punch in the stomach, and she should say something, do something besides just standing there and crying like some pathetic ass (maybe that's one of the reasons?). But it's hard to think of anything to say, hard to think of anything besides she failed.

In the end, she falls back on an old favorite.

"I--" Her voice cracks, and she tries again. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Th--This was so stupid. I'm sorry. I should've--" She shakes her head. "I'm sorry."

So

this is terrible.

"Beleth," Alistair says, helpless-toned, "it wasn't stupid. Maybe you shouldn't have—" Wait, he thinks, this probably isn't a good time, but his mouth keeps moving anyway, because that's just how he operates. "—wound yourself up so much over it. It's just me. But you don't need to be sorry. I'm sorry."

He looks back down at his hands and their contents, which still do not provide any advice, unfortunately. The ring—he'll give that back, or try, or something, but not right now. That seems like a bad idea.

There is one pause in the sniffling and hiccups, right when Alistair offers his incredibly helpful and informative advice. Alistair has probably pissed off enough people in his illustrious career of being Alistair that when Beleth's eyes slowly turn toward him, he can recognize the look of someone seriously contemplating hitting him.

Wound herself up? He thinks she shouldn't have wound herself up about it? --While this is probably true, the appreciation Beleth has for it, however good-willed it was, might be a new historic low. For Beleth, Skyhold, and possibly Thedas in general.

"It was worth getting wound up to me. Or. I thought it was." She is probably entitled to be at least a little bitter about this. That's what she's decided, so that's how it is. "I'm--I'm going to go now." And sure enough, she turns around, but stops after a final afterthought. "--And by Mythal herself, if you get meat grease on that ring, I'll get my ancestors to haunt you."

It's with that incredibly terrifying threat that she finally takes off back towards the Warden camp.

He does recognize that look. He hasn't provoked it on purpose—this time—but he might have if it had occurred to him. That look is vastly preferable to the one with the big watery eyes. It fits him like a familiar old coat. Much more comfortable.

It's comfort enough that he manages to keep his mouth shut instead of flailing around helplessly some more, if barely, until she's turned on her heels and walked away from him. Then it bursts out of him, in an under-the-breath mutter that it's definitely good no one is around to hear: "If I'd worn it I'd have gotten all sorts of things on it."

Beleth is not usually a heavy drinker. That's not to say that she doesn't drink, she can often be found in the tavern nursing a cup of hard cider or ale. It's just that she doesn't usually drink to the point of getting well and truly drunk. But this is a Special Occasion, in that Beleth would like a break from being a melodramatic miserable shit, and drinking until she forgets to be upset seems like as good of an idea as any. So she keeps getting drinks, and eventually Cabot makes a face at her and tells her to go home.

Obliging even when intoxicated, Beleth stands and heads for the door. She leans one hand against the wall, and grabs the handle, pulling it firmly. The fact that the door requires pushing to be open is lost on her, and she frowns, giving a few more pulls. After some thought, she pushes the door open slightly, which might lead someone to conclude she figured out her mistake--but she just uses the extra space to slam the door closed harder than before. This, surprisingly, does not cause the door to open, either.

This completely unfair turn of events just confirms to Beleth that the world is against her, if even doors refuse to work for her. The unforeseen betrayal proves to be the final straw in what she felt was some very formidable self-restraint, and she begins to tear up, rubbing at her eye as she kicks at the door, which stays shut, since she thoughtfully closed it enough for it to latch.

Cade is a bad friend, in that he hadn't even noticed Beleth was here until he heard the door slam. He's been sitting at a little table in the corner, sipping tea and reading a book, and he now sees the error of this when the small elf fails to maneuver a relatively basic standard of civilized construction.
When he sees that she's just floundering and everyone else is just staring, he slinks to his feet and hurries over to her, keeping his head low as though that will draw less attention to the fact that they're about to be talking.
"Beleth," he whispers, "you have to push it."

Beleth blinks at the door, then slowly looks up at Cade, eyes already beginning to water because of the cruel unfairness that is this door. But he recognizes that he's trying to help, and nods, turning back to the door with a determined look and an equally determined sniffle. She takes a deep breath, to prepare herself for this monumental task, then places her hand on the door and gives it a firm push.

The door, still latched closed, does not budge.

"It hates me." She tearfully informs Cade.

Oh no... she's crying. This is horrible.
Cade stands there stupidly for several moments as Beleth tries again, and, spotting the flaw in her approach, he carefully reaches over to unlatch the door. Maybe now??

Agreeably, she gives it one more push, and through the magic of basic engineering, the door swings open. Beleth's eyes go wide for a few moments, and she stares at Cade with the same astonishment that one would normally reserved for someone who had managed to accomplish something that was actually interesting. Now released from her tavern prison, she takes her first steps out into freedom.

Then she slips, falls, and lands with her face firmly introduced to the ground. There's a pause as this new event is chugged into her brain and slowly computes, before she rolls onto her back. She stares up thoughtfully into the sky, admiring the stars and the moon--weren't there two of those?--before she turns to look up at Cade.

"I'm dead." She decides, interlocking her fingers and resting her hands on her stomach.

"No--" Cade squeaks, and steps forward to catch her, but it's too late. She's down. He stands there for a terrified moment, clenching and unclenching his fingers, hoping and praying that she is not actually dead. Then she rolls over, and he searches her face for blood, his own white as a sheet. Is anyone here?? Did they see this, do they think he pushed her??

"Beleth," he weakly hisses, "...Beleth, please get up."

There is no blood! Her nose is made of sturdy stuff, it takes more than that to break it. Stuff like grabbing her head and slamming it into the ground, for instance. But what would Cade know about that?

She studies his face as intently as he studies hers, then seems to find something that she agrees with--or maybe she is just tired of the ground. Either way, she nods, and raises her hands up to him. Because she is not getting up from this ground without some kind of help. Whether she actually requires that help or not is a moot point, stop questioning her, Cade.

"Like an ancient elven spirit, wrested from my eternal slumber," She whispers to him, "I rise."

Not that there will be any actual rising unless he gives her a hand. Maybe two.

Cade knows a lot about that. He's thinking about it a little too much right now.

He's a little slow on the uptake, but when he realizes what Beleth's doing, he quickly kicks into gear and steps forward to grasp her hands, pulling her upright. Being that he's quite a bit heavier than she is, this shouldn't be a problem.

"Have you been drinking?" he asks, a bit suspiciously, voice tinged with dread. He thinks he knows what drunk people are like, but he never wants to assume anything.

Sure enough, she's pulled up pretty easily. She lurches to a standing position, and promptly teeters, risking tumbling over again, but grabs a hold of Cade's arm. Since he is indeed a lot heavier than her, he makes a good anchor, and she stays standing.

"Yes," She replies matter-of-factly, putting her head against Cade's shoulder in an attempt to get the ground to kindly stop spinning. Then she remembers why she'd been drinking, and her shoulders slump. "I drank a lot." She confesses, voice quieter. "Cabot made me stop. I wanted to drink until I stopped being sad. But I think I'm still sad. Everything is terrible. Maybe I should have stayed on the ground."

Luckily for everyone involved, she doesn't actually try to correct that, and remains solidly clinging to Cade.

This is alarming. He's never had anyone hold onto him this way, let alone lean on him, and although this is highly unusual for Cade, it's not... unwelcome?
But she's drunk. He isn't sure.
He stands still to allow Beleth to get her bearings, listening silently as she makes her confessions. "...why?" he asks, his voice gentle.

She doesn't move for a few moments as she thinks over this question. The idea had been to drink until she forgot, but she's not sure if she can drink that much and still be conscious. And while not being conscious is not necessarily undesired, she'd like to at least be somewhere private for that. But she's getting off track.

"I told someone I had feelings for him," She whispers it into Cade's sleeve, voice starting to shake. "But he didn't feel the same. I was stupid--no one's ever liked me like that, why would they start now." Her tone grows sullen. Not quite angry--more akin to pouting. "There's something wrong with me."

Of all the topics on which Cade has absolutely zero expertise, this is the one he's now having to field with a sad drunken elf hanging off his arm. Surprisingly, a small part of him wonders who exactly she was so interested in, and... what's special about them, but it's not really the time to ask questions or get weird. Not that it isn't always time for him to get weird.
"I'm sorry," he offers helplessly. Advice isn't really his strong point.

Beleth doesn't respond for a few moments, shoulders trembling just slightly. Then she moves her head, so the side of her face is resting against him. Now free to speak more clearly, she stares up at him sullenly. Because Beleth happened to be great at advice-giving. Or at least, saying things that were comforting, which was close enough. Kinda.

"No, you're used to tell me that there's nothing wrong with me, and that I am perfectly acceptable to date." She explains, voice dismal. "Then I wonder, if I'm so great, why doesn't anyone I like ever feel the same way? If I'm such a damned catch, why do they always pick people who are apparently even better catches?" She sniffles again, dabbing her nose on her scarf, lest Cade have to suffer getting snot on his shirt, on top of everything else. "Then I realize that even if I'm okay, there's always someone better, and I'm going to die alone and forgotten."

She muses on that for a few moments. "I'm going to lay back on the ground. And stay there. Forever."

Cade tenses further when Beleth angles her head. He's beginning to look like a realistically-colored statue with a vaguely terrified expression. He has no basis for either relating to this or assuaging it, because despite perhaps having the occasional favorable feelings toward someone, it never even occurs to him that they might be reciprocated. He quits while he's ahead, invariably. But that's not what Beleth wants to hear.
"Sorry," he murmurs again, this time apologizing for not saying what he's supposed to.
But upon Beleth's decision, he shakes his head quickly. "Wait, don't," he says, "you should, um. You should go to bed." He's dealt with drunken brothers in arms before, he knows how this works.

Well, at least he got that much right. If he'd been about to let Beleth sleep on the ground, she would have had to really lecture him. Or, just go ahead and lie there, and lecture him tomorrow. Luckily, no one needs to worry about any lecturing at the moment. Beleth instead considers his suggestion, then nods. She takes a step away from Cade, so she isn't quite all over him--her hand still grips his arm, though.

"Yeah, I guess I should go to bed. That sounds nice. Um--" She hesitates as this decision is mulled over, then worriedly tugs on Cade's arm. "Will--Will you help me? I have a really long way to go, and I have to take the lift..." The idea of trying to navigate all the way to the Warden Camp was...very daunting. "I guess I could stay in Skyhold, but...I can't tell any of my clan what happened." The idea that she could show up drunk at her clanmate's rooms and not give them the full explanation is a concept she doesn't quite consider. "...Maybe I can stay in the stables. Then I wouldn't have to bother you."

"No," Cade says quickly-- he hasn't been able to get a word in, but when Beleth considers sleeping in the stables, or... worse, somewhere near him, he has to intervene. "No. No. I'll walk you home."

Cade is rewarded for his compliance with a warm smile, and Beleth quickly nods, rubbing her eyes free of any more tears that had threatened to spill. "You'll do that for me?" But if Cade has changed his mind between when he already assured her that he would and now, then he was truly out of luck, as she takes off for the gates with no further preamble. Beleth has the sense of mind to lower her hand to resting on Cade's forearm, so she appears to be escorted by him, rather than hanging off of him. This, however, does not stop her from attempting to drag him around.

He can't imagine why she would ask if he'll do that for her when he literally just said he was going to, but Cade can't pretend to understand the way women talk. He's content to let her lead, which is a good thing, because her hand on his arm is commanding all his attention like a thousand burning needles right on the surface of his skin-- not painful, per se, but pretty much all he can focus on.
He nearly dies tripping over a loose brick, but manages to catch himself before either he or Beleth end up facedown in the dirt.

She pauses when he trips, teetering a bit, but he catches himself and she remains upright. "Did you drink, too?" She asks, tilting her head curiously. Well, he'd been in the tavern, after all. It made sense. With this new conviction, she carries on, dragging Cade slightly more carefully. But by the time they get to the lift, her mind has already moved on to the more pressing topic at hand.

"It's just--it's just not fair. It's not fair that the effort you put into confessing your feelings doesn't effect if you succeed. I tried! I know I'm not really that great, I know there's a whole hold of people better than me, but--I wanted it so much. And I spent so long preparing, trying to say the perfect words, and give the perfect gift. And I try so hard to be likable, to be nice and funny and accomodating. But it doesn't matter. I might as well have just said it off the top of my head. It's not fair." Romance is proving, much to Beleth's irritation, to be the area in which she can't simply act her way into someone's good graces, and it stings, because they are always the people she desires it the most of.

"I try so hard to just--just be good enough. And it doesn't matter. No matter how much I want it, or how much effort I put into it, I'm never good enough."

"No," Cade replies, mortified, and mutters, "I'm just an idiot" under his breath as Beleth drags him along and pushes forward in the conversation.
He continues to plead the fifth on the majority of what she's saying, because any advice from him would be along the lines of 'just give up, it's not so bad'. Instead, he begins to phase out, Beleth's voice a patter in the back of his mind as he wonders if he'd ever have the courage-- or will-- to do something so brave as confess affection for someone. Is that something he's even capable of feeling?
The chowder at lunch was really good today.

Beleth does not (usually) chatter quite so much, particularly so one-sidedly. But she has a lot of feelings and almost as much alcohol in her system, and she doesn't need an active listener as much as she needs to get the words tumbling in her off her chest. Preferably, at something vaguely peopleish, because that's slightly less pathetic than yelling into the uncaring void. Cade serves the purpose well, and his lack of commentary only improves matters.

There's a slight delay as Beleth stumbles onto the lift, and the operator glances at her, then lifts an eyebrow at Cade, but doesn't comment. Which is for the best, because Beleth isn't done.

"I don't get it--what am I missing? Is it my personality? My looks?" And Cade is clued in that he should phase back in when Beleth wheels around to face him, tugging at his sleeve. "I'm not--I'm not ugly, right? Do you think I'm pretty?"

Perhaps his reaction is a little slow, but Cade at least looks at Beleth, vaguely horrified as she meets his eyes and demands this opinion of him.
Even he knows what a wrong answer would look like in this scenario. He's intensely socially awkward, but he's read his share of romance novels. "...yes," he says timidly, then quickly adds, "yes you're..." Is it appropriate to compliment her? Will it ever be? "...not ugly."

The operator turns and holds a fist to his mouth, but can't quite muffle the amused snort he makes at Cade's words. Even Jim admires your Smooth Moves, Cade.

Beleth's face just scrunches up into more of a frown, and her temper flares up, briefly, just enough for her to stomp her foot, causing the lift to sway a little. Which, in turn, makes Beleth sway even more, and she has to hold onto the side for a moment. But that doesn't stop her from snapping out, "But I'm not pretty. Thanks for clearing that up, Cade. Can't you--Can't you say anything nice about me without me making you?"

The lift finally reaches the bottom, and Beleth steps off of it, probably so she can stomp her foot on more stable ground. "Or maybe I really am that plain."

Cade flinches when Beleth stomps, and actually, ironically, seems briefly afraid she's going to strike him-- but his worry for that is quickly overcome by his worry that they'll both go flying off the lift, and instead he grabs the railing.
"I'm sorry," he says anxiously, glancing down at the great height they still have to traverse, "you're pretty."

The tension in Beleth's shoulders loosens, as Cade acquiesces to her request. Or. Demand. Loudly shouted demand. She glances to the side, rubbing the side of her neck, anger now replaced with sheepishness, upset that she had become so upset.

"...Sorry I yelled," She murmured, and gently reached out to take his arm again. "Thank you." Her eyes dart to Cade, then to the ground. "...You are, um. Too. Well, not pretty, but. You know. The...guy version..." She paused, then without another word, wheels around and starts back off along the path. Bye.

Although silently praying for this interaction to end, Cade can't help but be affected by Beleth's parting words. She doesn't see it, but he goes a bit pink in the face, a detail that isn't lost on the lift operator. Jim smiles and begins the ascent, and Cade thinks about his entire life.

Sigh no more, no more

Alistair

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Cade

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject