closed.

[tender]

WHO: derrica + lukas
WHAT: Scything
WHEN: Solace
WHERE: Hinterlands
NOTES: Just a couple mages larping as farmers

The actual request to Riftwatch had sounded far more fraught. Or maybe, because Riftwatch has very few farmers in it, they'd mistaken "clearing some fields" as something that needed a pair of agents. In fairness, clearing the fields could have meant a number of things. But what it ends up being is a pair of scythes and a stretch of land. The elderly farmer and her wife are very sweet but also happy to leave the entire job to the two strapping Riftwatch agents and retire to the cool of their farmhouse.

After an hour or so, Derrica's perched on the fence, scythe resting against her thigh as she winds one soft plait up to pin at the top of her head. They've made a fair amount of progress, but not quite enough. And Derrica hadn't asked, but she is curious: will they have to come back to take in the harvest?

"You have straw in your hair," she says after a moment, when Lukas straightens up. His shoulders are turning pink. "It's very fetching."

Comments

[tensive]

"Is it," he says, too flat to be a question and too much lilt not to be amused. It's said between a few heavy breaths as he glances out over the work that's done and the work that's left, then casts a more careful look towards the small farmhouse windows. The old couple had watched their work to start, out in the sun and close enough to offer helpful instructions and critique. Then from the windows, at intervals, checking in on the progress.

The window's currently empty, which is all the permission he needs. The scythe swings upright like a walking stick as he steps through the maze of grass and runs his free hand through his hair, a blind and half-hearted attempt at finding the offending straw.

"Careful." He leans lightly on the fence, giving the house a slanting nod. "I'd hate for them to dock your pay."

[tender]

"I'll take my chances."

Is there actual money in this? Derrica would rather dinner, or a bottle from the crate they'd had tucked beside the firewood. But far be it for her to be picky.

She reaches out, fingers sliding into his curls. I missed you, she thinks, fond, as she gently shakes the straw from his hair.

"I didn't realize you were so talented when it came to farm work," she continues, as hair ruffling giving way to a brief slip of her fingers at is jaw. "Maybe you're in the wrong line of work."

[tensive]

Spoilers: there is absolutely no money in this. He tilts his head slightly under her touch, cooperatively angling to keep the straw from falling straight into his face.

"Don't think I haven't considered it." It's a joke. Or it certainly sounds like one, with nothing to betray the years and months he's spent actually considering it. His hand finds hers before she can mess his hair up too thoroughly (as if there's much margin left), touch light as he guides it down, idly noting the wear — or lack thereof — on her hands. Compulsively training with a staff's not so far off from working a scythe.

"How's it compare to farming in a jungle?"

Is farming the right word? Probably not.

[tender]

Idly, Derrica thinks about whether Lukas would let her put some small braids into his hair. It's almost the right length, though considering it for more than a moment she concludes he's unlikely to adopt any of the seafaring habits she'd been picturing.

"Well, the company is better," she begins, using his grip on her hand to pull him a step closer before she offers a more serious answer.

"And none of the foliage here has tried to strangle me, and none of it seems poisonous."

Surely the kind of details that make Lukas regret missing out on the jungle cruise.

[tensive]

"A rave review." Of the jungle, but also: his company, which is apparently at least better than a bunch of unwashed and unorganized Riftwatch agents muddling through the wilderness.

He follows when she pulls. The scythe's left leaning against the fence, freeing up his other hand to settle on her leg. It's covered in sweat and dirt, which would be more of an issue if her trousers weren't already coated in dust.

"But it has ruined my hair. Not an offense to be taken lightly. Worse than poisoning, surely."

Difficult to imagine what his hair would've looked like in the jungle, given how unmanageable it is in an office. Maybe braids would be an upgrade.

[tender]

"It would be, if I didn't think your hair looks nice like this too."

Though the less said about everyone's personal aesthetics in the jungle, the better. Derrica isn't going to be the one to mention the strangeness of Commander Flint's hair growing back in, the sprinkling of fuzz on Matthias' chin, or Bastien's mustache getting out of order. (Lucien's somehow maintained perfect shape, inexplicably.)

The weight of his hand on her thigh is nice. She chances a glance back at the farmhouse to affirm neither of the occupants are at the window before she tiptoes her fingers up his arm, gently over the muscle of his shoulder.

"Is this what you envisioned when you joined Riftwatch?" She asks, chin tipping towards the half-cleared field. "All the excitement of preparing for the harvest?"

[tensive]

"Oh, absolutely."

Humor on him doesn't feel light, exactly; more sharp, even with the slight smile as he watches her instead of the farmhouse or the field, trusting her to keep watch. He leans lightly against her legs, hand shifting to settle gently against the side of her waist. The gesture helps her keep her balance on the fence, so it's at least a little practical.

"I always expect chores." Anything official's got them, even war. That and paperwork, which Riftwatch had delivered on in spades. The only real shock had been that it'd been decently organized. "But I had expected a bit more fighting," he adds, mock-thoughtful, "and a bit less chatter."

[tender]

Is Derrica keeping watch? Maybe.

But she takes the opportunity to hitch her legs around his waist, urging him in closer. They've been left to their own devices for at least half an hour. Maybe their supervisors are occupied, or napping, or—

"I'll fight you," Derrica promises, very self-assured for someone half Lukas' height. "I promise I'll be very gentle."

There's a spark of curiosity behind the certainty of her victory. What kind of mage is he? It seems there are a fair amount that are useless in a brawl if they can't set something on fire. Is Lukas that way?

[tensive]

"How very kind of you."

He's never been particularly stoic or stern in her company (off Riftwatch property, at least), but the fond amusement's a more genuine slip than usual. There's no answering spark of curiosity. If there was, he'd have to wonder how she is with magic — strengths, weaknesses, how to pick them apart.

That's not quite right. The spark's there, he's just quick to throw his focus in a different direction.

"I'll need instruction," he says, in that specifically nonchalant tone that implies double meaning. His hand shifts again as she pulls him closer, a careful slide across her belt that settles at the small of her back. The other's abandoned the fence in favor of hooking casually under her thigh, keeping her steady.

"I'm very out of practice."

[tender]

Her heel digs into his thigh, encouraging him closer. Lukas' softer out here, pink from the sun, tone honeyed with amusement. The sweet tease of his tone with the press of his hands is uncomplicated, just good.

"I wouldn't say you're out of practice," Derrica answers, mock thoughtful as she stretches her arms over his shoulders, fingers ghosting at the nape of his neck. "But I can think of a few instructions I'd like you to follow."

None of which are on the agenda for the day, but—

She tugs lightly on a lock of his hair, head tipping to smile into his face. There are questions she thinks of asking, about his scar, about his life. But instead, she digs her fingers into the muscle of his shoulder, ignores her own scythe sliding to fall onto the ground beside the fence.

"It might take some time to teach you everything I know."

"uncomplicated"

[tensive]

The scythe hits the dirt with a dull thump; if he hadn't caught it sliding from the corner of his eye, he'd be inclined to check the house for open windows or doors.

"I happen to be a great student."

They're close enough to kiss. They have been for a while, and it's tempting to lean in at the insistence of her fingers digging into his shoulder. There's a smudge of dirt high on her cheekbone, and she smells like sweat and broken straw; they both do, oddly sweet. But they're playing a game, here: she can think of a few instructions she'd like him to follow, he can think of a few she'd like him to give.

*someone* complicated it with war crimes

[tender]

The assertion makes Derrica laugh, head tipping back as her thighs flex at his hips, keeping her balance.

"I think you have a lot of potential," she tells him, tone full of implication. Does she need to be explicit about all the things he's been good at so far? Even the first time hadn't been as clumsy as it could have been, considering the alcohol involved.

"Maybe start by putting your mouth here," she directs, releasing his shoulder to tap her collarbone. "And see where we go from there."

She's thinking about where she wants his hands, about whether a literal roll in the hay is as good as songs make it out to be. Is it worth pulling straw out of her hair for hours after this? Maybe.