WHO: Athessa, Madi, and YOU WHAT: post-Dream catch-all WHEN: after part 2 of dream time WHERE: The Gallows/Kirkwall NOTES: tags will be slow, brain still bad
"It was also kinda a way to prove myself," she says even as she's nodding that yeah, it is quite a story behind a bit of ink. "Since I never got my vallaslin."
He releases her wrist, and the same hand lifts to brush a twist of hair from her forehead, about where he's seen those Dalish tattoos on the few he spots in the city. "What would it have looked like, if you had?"
She in turn brushes his hair back from his face to kiss his forehead, and draws some kind of winding pattern starting between his brows and arching up to his temples.
"Probably something that looks like antlers, or vines. I had ideas of which one I'd wanted, 'course, but ultimately it'd be up to the Keeper. Which one, and whether or not you were ready for it."
He ducks his head to accept that kiss, those tracing fingers, but his eyes are on Athessa's face. It's strange to imagine such a design on her -- he's never put much thought to it before.
"What would a Keeper base that sort of thing on?" He'd ask what a Keeper is too, but -- that one's sort of self explanatory, he supposes.
She's tried to imagine it herself more than a few times, standing in front of her own reflection and visualizing what it might look like. She's even tried to draw one on, before, with minimal success.
"Mostly it'd be about the role you fill in the clan, I think, but a little bit of it is also how you conduct yourself," Her fingers transition from tracing his skin to slipping into his hair, brushing it back a few times just to enjoy the feel of it. Silky and fine. "I used to want the vallaslin of Mythal, the protector. But I was also terrified of not being worthy of it."
He closes his eyes as her fingers move, dipping his head into the touch appreciatively. More soothing balm on the still-jumpy wreck of his mind, whether she knows it or not.
"I can't speak to what you may have earned yourself, had things been different," he murmurs, "But I should say something like that would well suit the you that I've come to know."
Athessa smiles, trying and failing to curb it a little bit, but it's one of those smiles that will not be denied. She brushes through his hair a few more times, grazing short nails across his scalp and she kisses his forehead again. Rests her cheek there, briefly.
"Thank you." It's a simple thing to say, probably nothing he had to really think over before saying, but it's something that hits just right to make her feel good. Especially after a dream where she was deemed unfit to raise her own child.
She leans to look at the kettle on the hearth, hearing it boil, and goes to fetch a towel so she can take it off the heat without burning her hand. From there it's the simple matter of pouring the water and letting the coffee steep.
An arm has snuck its way around Athessa's waist, but he releases her easily when she moves for the kettle. Then he only watches her, comforted just by the sight of such simple, mundane tasks under her hands. And isn't she always that -- a comfort, a protection?
He drops back into his comfortable lean against the counter, and holds out a hand for hers as she returns.
"Athessa," he says, tone gone pensive, "You would tell me if there were more I could do for you, yes? If there were any more I could give?"
He pauses, frowning, searching for an answer to this -- and is forced to concede a shake of his head.
"I'm not sure," he says, tone still low, as his fingers close around hers. These are more new ideas to him, he doesn't have the grasp on them that he wishes he did. "If I knew, I suppose I'd be doing it already. It feels as though I'm always the one taking from you, though -- you're always giving. I'd like to give back, is all."
"I wouldn't want you to give me anything if it was out of obligation," she says, gaze drifting from his face to look elsewhere, to sort out her thoughts on the matter. After a moment, she continues: "I don't like the idea of anyone feeling like they owe it to me to feel or act one way or another. If I didn't give of myself, I think...I think I might not be able to contain whatever it is and I'd burst."
That gets a quick laugh, and Vanadi nods faintly. "I'd believe that," he says, and finds that the thought of an ungiving Athessa is — foreign. An entirely different person. He shakes it off.
"In any case, it wouldn't be a sense of obligation. I've never felt beholden to one of those in my life," he says, and for a moment there's a younger, haughtier version of himself in the tone. It fades again quickly. "It would be — love, you know, something along those lines. I want to give more to you."
"Something along those lines," she echoes, a downright bashful grin spreading over her features. She looks down to check the coffee, an excuse to turn her face to try and wrest the grin into something a little less goofy, but she doesn't much succeed.
"I dunno what to tell ya, I don't know what I'd even ask for."
He grins as well, mostly for the sight of her bashful look, and the way it can't quite be controlled. He does so love being treated to one of those looks.
"One day you'll grow bored of romantic, candle-lit meals, and then I'll be out of tricks," he says, wistfully, although that isn't at all true. He had a whole stable of tricks once -- he's never put much mind into trying them and meaning them, though. That, he thinks, would be novel.
"You wanna know something, though?" She turns back to look at him, leaning in a little conspiratorially. As if what she has to confess is at all a secret, or even the least bit worthy of being called a confession. "I could take or leave the romance and candles."
Well that's a puzzling reaction if she ever saw one.
"It's all well and fine, but it's...well, ya know. It's whatever." She shrugs, still smiling, but her amused look is tinged with confusion as she takes in his reaction.
"What? I don't mean that I don't enjoy that stuff," she is quick to reassure, waving her hand to ward off that misconception. "But it's not what's holding my attention."
He doesn't know, says this concerned frown. It becomes skeptical as he glances down at himself, seeking and failing to find much else of interest in himself.
"What is, then?" he asks, like he's doubtful it's much of a list. "If you take away the cooking, there's — well, theres just not much left."
"Vanadi," she scoffs, disbelieving. But he's not kidding around, or fishing for compliments. He actually doesn't think there's anything worthwhile beneath his practiced charms?
Athessa tilts her head to look at his face even as he's frowning downwards.
"What was it you asked me, that one time...? Are you only really clever when it comes to other people?"
Athessa has his attention again, and his frown grows from puzzled uncertainty to something of actual upset. This feels as if it ought to be insulting — is it a joke, unusually mean-spirited? He isn't particularly clever, after all.
"Something along those lines," he agrees warily. "But I'm afraid I would have to object if you're trying to turn it on me, I have never claimed cleverness of any variety."
Seeing him upset by this is disquieting, and any playful teasing in her expression and tone give way to concern.
"Hey," she coaxes, stepping in front of him instead of leaning at his side. Her hand alights on his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone gently. "I just meant that spending time with you is reward enough, I didn't mean...I don't want you to think I don't appreciate the effort you put in..."
Is she helping, or just digging a hole even deeper?
The sight of her concern doubles his own, and he realizes — ah, he's doing it again. The jagged pieces of himself are stirring around, making issue where none needs to be, just as he's done with Byerly, with Mhavos. He sighs faintly, and settles his hand atop Athessa's as he tips his head into her touch.
"I didn't take it that way," he murmurs. "I couldn't, from you. There is some part of me that worries, even despite the dream we've just had, that perhaps you'll wake up one day and find yourself bored of what little I can offer, is all."
It's an unfair worry, he realizes even as he says it — she's never given any sign of such inclinations, he's demanding reassurance over nothing. And yet the worry remains, and guilt turns his eyes aside.
"Listen here, you —" Her touch is gentle, even if her words take on a firm, unyielding quality. She puts her other hand opposite the first, framing his face between her palms and making him look at her.
"— What you think you have to offer doesn't matter, because whether you do it consciously or not you make my life better. I like talking to you, and listening to you. I could listen to you talk about nothing for hours, even when you're telling me my jokes aren't funny. And sure, you're a great cook and better still at sex but beyond that? I feel like you understand me better than a few people I could mention who've known me longer."
He looks, because of course he must, and he listens. And the words are — a surprise, actually. He's put an awful lot of thought into how much he's come to crave Athessa's calming presence, her sturdy reassurance given simply by being, and what more he could do to prove his appreciation. He's thought less on what he may already be doing in her eyes.
The guilt weighs more heavily, and he squirms under that gentle touch.
"Ah, sorry, I– " He laughs, and it isn't humor in it, just an apologetic self-consciousness. More apology and self-deprecation would like to follow, but he tamps down on it. Instead, determined to tear himself away from nerves, "I appreciate you. I'm better for time spent in your presence. Your patience is boundless and I'm afraid I will occasionally take advantage of that."
She gives him a flat look and sighs. Her own laugh does have humor in it, despite herself. Despite him. Despite all of this.
"Shut up," she says, smiling. Not only is it embarrassing to be told you're appreciated, but what else is patience for? "I love you. Do you believe me when I say that?"
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She in turn brushes his hair back from his face to kiss his forehead, and draws some kind of winding pattern starting between his brows and arching up to his temples.
"Probably something that looks like antlers, or vines. I had ideas of which one I'd wanted, 'course, but ultimately it'd be up to the Keeper. Which one, and whether or not you were ready for it."
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"What would a Keeper base that sort of thing on?" He'd ask what a Keeper is too, but -- that one's sort of self explanatory, he supposes.
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"Mostly it'd be about the role you fill in the clan, I think, but a little bit of it is also how you conduct yourself," Her fingers transition from tracing his skin to slipping into his hair, brushing it back a few times just to enjoy the feel of it. Silky and fine. "I used to want the vallaslin of Mythal, the protector. But I was also terrified of not being worthy of it."
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"I can't speak to what you may have earned yourself, had things been different," he murmurs, "But I should say something like that would well suit the you that I've come to know."
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"Thank you." It's a simple thing to say, probably nothing he had to really think over before saying, but it's something that hits just right to make her feel good. Especially after a dream where she was deemed unfit to raise her own child.
She leans to look at the kettle on the hearth, hearing it boil, and goes to fetch a towel so she can take it off the heat without burning her hand. From there it's the simple matter of pouring the water and letting the coffee steep.
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He drops back into his comfortable lean against the counter, and holds out a hand for hers as she returns.
"Athessa," he says, tone gone pensive, "You would tell me if there were more I could do for you, yes? If there were any more I could give?"
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What more could she possibly ask?
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"I'm not sure," he says, tone still low, as his fingers close around hers. These are more new ideas to him, he doesn't have the grasp on them that he wishes he did. "If I knew, I suppose I'd be doing it already. It feels as though I'm always the one taking from you, though -- you're always giving. I'd like to give back, is all."
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"In any case, it wouldn't be a sense of obligation. I've never felt beholden to one of those in my life," he says, and for a moment there's a younger, haughtier version of himself in the tone. It fades again quickly. "It would be — love, you know, something along those lines. I want to give more to you."
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"I dunno what to tell ya, I don't know what I'd even ask for."
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"One day you'll grow bored of romantic, candle-lit meals, and then I'll be out of tricks," he says, wistfully, although that isn't at all true. He had a whole stable of tricks once -- he's never put much mind into trying them and meaning them, though. That, he thinks, would be novel.
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"Are you sure?" he asks, mouth twisting unhappily. "You aren't secretly an enormous fan of it all, and you haven't noticed yet?"
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"It's all well and fine, but it's...well, ya know. It's whatever." She shrugs, still smiling, but her amused look is tinged with confusion as she takes in his reaction.
"What? I don't mean that I don't enjoy that stuff," she is quick to reassure, waving her hand to ward off that misconception. "But it's not what's holding my attention."
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"What is, then?" he asks, like he's doubtful it's much of a list. "If you take away the cooking, there's — well, theres just not much left."
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Athessa tilts her head to look at his face even as he's frowning downwards.
"What was it you asked me, that one time...? Are you only really clever when it comes to other people?"
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"Something along those lines," he agrees warily. "But I'm afraid I would have to object if you're trying to turn it on me, I have never claimed cleverness of any variety."
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Seeing him upset by this is disquieting, and any playful teasing in her expression and tone give way to concern.
"Hey," she coaxes, stepping in front of him instead of leaning at his side. Her hand alights on his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone gently. "I just meant that spending time with you is reward enough, I didn't mean...I don't want you to think I don't appreciate the effort you put in..."
Is she helping, or just digging a hole even deeper?
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"I didn't take it that way," he murmurs. "I couldn't, from you. There is some part of me that worries, even despite the dream we've just had, that perhaps you'll wake up one day and find yourself bored of what little I can offer, is all."
It's an unfair worry, he realizes even as he says it — she's never given any sign of such inclinations, he's demanding reassurance over nothing. And yet the worry remains, and guilt turns his eyes aside.
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"— What you think you have to offer doesn't matter, because whether you do it consciously or not you make my life better. I like talking to you, and listening to you. I could listen to you talk about nothing for hours, even when you're telling me my jokes aren't funny. And sure, you're a great cook and better still at sex but beyond that? I feel like you understand me better than a few people I could mention who've known me longer."
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The guilt weighs more heavily, and he squirms under that gentle touch.
"Ah, sorry, I– " He laughs, and it isn't humor in it, just an apologetic self-consciousness. More apology and self-deprecation would like to follow, but he tamps down on it. Instead, determined to tear himself away from nerves, "I appreciate you. I'm better for time spent in your presence. Your patience is boundless and I'm afraid I will occasionally take advantage of that."
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"Shut up," she says, smiling. Not only is it embarrassing to be told you're appreciated, but what else is patience for? "I love you. Do you believe me when I say that?"
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