there is stardust on your hands and a battlefield in your eyes

[apostasia]

WHO: Martel Leblanc + Cassandra Pentaghast.
WHAT: Martel has a bad dream.
WHEN: Uhhh recently.
WHERE: Skyhold.
NOTES: Contains nudity, the horrible contents of Martel's psyche, poorly handled interpersonal interaction.

Martel jerks awake.

It feels that sudden, to him - the hard stone of Zemoch's temple to the soft warmth of his bed, of Cassandra beside him - but it isn't, not when he's slept fitfully beside her for hours now, bitten off murmurings that had not spoken to any sweet sort of dream, his disturbed sleep a ready explanation for his usual reluctance to doze off beside her. There is no rest in it, tension winding him so tight that he's a coiled spring exploding, alert but not yet present where he is, his hands searching out weapons that he -

prudently

- has never kept so close to his bed when he has even the slightest expectation someone else might be with him when he wakes. He lands cat-footed when he rolls from the bed, and - swears, curving in toward himself, eyes pressed shut in pain. Unprecedented levels of Martel's willingness to let someone else lead had allowed Cassandra more or less free rein that had, mostly, meant 'taking great care not to strain Martel's still-healing body'; in the first few seconds of consciousness out of his dream, he very nearly undoes all the good work of being careful and he can feel his healing skin pull, his breath catch.

It is unlikely she's slept through this. It'd be nice, but it's unlikely.

Comments

[stabsbooks]

As Martel twitches and murmurs at her side, Cassandra sleeps soundly, sated and happy.

Tonight had been the first time they had been intimate since before his capture. She had hesitated, at first, not wanting to strain him...but he had been certain, and she had been as unwilling as ever to resist his charms. It had been...different than it had been between them in the past. Cassandra is unused to letting anyone else direct her in any arena of her life. But Martel had always been so determined to take charge, so unwilling to give up more than the most token control, and given her own minimal experience in this particular arena, she had never really pushed for more.

Tonight, though, with Martel still healing, he had been barely able to retain the strength to hold her waist as she rode him, much less reverse their positions or guide her to his liking as he so often does. It had been surprisingly freeing, to touch him just as she wished, to choose when and in what matter he might please her, and even if most of her decisions had been done with the overarching goal of taking care of Martel, of seeking pleasure for them both without risking further hurt to him, she had felt more satisfied than she had known she could be, when she gently eased off of him at last to curl up at his side; satisfied and confident, hopeful and lighthearted as she has not been in some time.

She wakes as abruptly as he had when he curses, aware at first only that he is gone, the mattress beside her still warm from his body but unnervingly empty. She sits up, alarmed, and when she sees him curled in tight on himself on the floor she gasps, her mind going immediately to disaster.

"Martel!" Flinging the covers aside, she drops down beside him, one hand settling gently on his bare shoulder as she peers anxiously at him. "My love - " Something else unprecedented, that particular moniker, but between her sudden concern and her lingering contentment with their earlier activities, it slips out without conscious thought. "Are you hurt? What has happened?"

[apostasia]

It takes him longer than he's proud of to see through the haze of pain and his past to her - to ground himself in this moment and none of those he left behind. The breath he takes shudders for more reasons than he'd care to admit to and he lowers his face into his hands for what feels like a very long time, forcibly steadying himself, before he says -

"A dream, only. Only a dream."

The raggedness of it isn't comforting. The force of a dream that could roll him out of bed ready for a fight isn't, either; his fingers press into his hair and his brows pull together and he doesn't need to remember all of the details to know what it was. It's the same thing it always is. He dreams, he dreams - he remembers. God, the things he remembers; always through it he can hear his little mother as if from terribly far away, the way she had murmured her blessing to him as he lay dying, how she had wept for him. How many tears had she wept for him, already?

How much pain. How many failures.

[stabsbooks]

"A nightmare," she says quietly, not needing to be told. That much is obvious, not only in the way he had all but fallen from the bed, but in his lowered eyes, the way he covers his face.

Cassandra is not a woman given to soft words and gestures of comfort. But she cares, and she does what she can to console him, rubbing her hand in soothing circles over his back, murmuring quietly. "It is over. You are safe now."

[apostasia]

He could almost - but safe now makes him stiffen and he can't explain to her why. He could, but he shouldn't; he knows it when the words she reassures him with are meant for her, words like good man and did your best. Things she needs to believe about him, illusions that his selfishness has yet to shatter.

What is he safe from? Himself? He's always been the threat, and is he? How much has he truly changed? How close to that edge is he, how hard a push would he need to be dangerous in a less useful, channeled way? The Inquisition gives him a cause he can be proud of, but when he's fighting - would it matter? Is it the cause he needs, or the bloodshed?

"I'm need some air," he says, quiet. There's a reserve in his voice; nothing so cruelly explicit as pushing her away, but a door closing, nevertheless.

[stabsbooks]

She pulls her hand away instinctively at the coolness of his tone, surprised and strangely hurt. He isn't looking at her. Isn't reaching for her in return, and his bearing is tense and closed-off.

"I could - I could go with you," she offers, but there's uncertainty in her voice. "We could both use some air." And she wants to help him. She can hardly imagine abandoning him to deal with this alone. Already, she's getting to her feet, looking around for whatever clothing she'd tossed aside the night before. "I will dress quickly - "

[apostasia]

Internal contradictions leave him in silence at first, rising slowly in her wake, rubbing a hand over his jaw. His instinct is a firm refusal, but the same instinct pricks at his conscience when she is so...there she is, preparing to care for him, and he should be grateful. He is grateful.

Guilt twists his gut and lodges there, ugly and sick. It's a little amusing when he thinks to himself, ah, he is always just trying to be the man Merrill already thinks he is - it is much less amusing when Cassandra twists herself around the sharp edges of the man he is still struggling to shed.

His hand catches on her elbow and he presses a kiss to her shoulder before she can cover it with fabric. Stays there, quiet, for a long moment.

"Sleep, Cassandra," he says, as gentle as the slide of a blade meant for mercy. "I'll be a little while, only."

[stabsbooks]

Cassandra's eyes close briefly as Martel catches her arm and presses his lips to her shoulder. It is a kindly, affectionate move, gentle and intimate - so why does it make her heart sink?

She turns, searching his face, worried now. But his expression is a mask. There's no telling what he's thinking, if he is annoyed or angry or afraid. There's no telling what he's thinking at all - and in one sudden, terrible moment, she realizes that that has always been the case. His is a handsome face, and many times he has smiled affectionately at her, or laughed, or nodded solemnly as she told him some tale of her day. He has always been attentive, and never cruel.

But she has never truly known his thoughts.

Almost, she asks again. It would take only a single word, perhaps. Please. But whether she fears another rebuff, or simply the prospect of a silent, uncomfortable walk in the night, hand in hand with Martel yet utterly alone, she doesn't ask.

Instead, she nods, almost unconsciously backing away.

"I will be here," she promises. "When you return."

When. When, still, and not if.