CLOSED | a shadow crossed the sky,

[poleaxed]

WHO: scarlett johansson poleaxed & chris evans archademode
WHAT: Dirty jobs done dirt cheap.
WHEN: Mid-Cloudreach.
WHERE: Denerim.
NOTES: Discussions of past child abuse are highly likely.

Long travel after long travel, Jone only wants rest; unfortunately, there is none for wickedness. Taoran Hawkwind always struck Jone as a small minded mercenary. She's never met the man, of course, but they've mutual friends. He always sounded a little thick, and his camp, just outside Denerim's walls, proves it. Jone talks shop with him anyway, joking that her 'armed guard' is actually a qunari, and this far south? Everybody believes it.

Taoran is doing grunt work, trying to get a rich merchant out of taxes. Not terribly clever, especially since he's going through the Brecilian to do it. Then again, Jone's always had a bias against Gwaren and Amaranthine and does she just hate Fereldan nobles? No, not interrogating that night now.

She agrees to go with him, lying that they could use the cash. Half pay up front is bargained for, and Jone immediately uses it getting them a respectable room at a respectable inn. Within the walls of Denerim, a thatch-roofed city stacked with as many pickpockets as rich men (and more that like to slum, besides) The Wailing Willow doesn't double as a brothel, as far as Jone can tell, so she hopes Gabranth won't pitch too much of a fit.

They can only afford one room with the coin Jone's scraped together, though Jone requests a divider, explaining in her poshest accent that they're not yet married.

The innkeeper rolls her eyes, but gets the divider.

As soon as the door is closed, Jone collapses on the bed nearest the window, luxuriating in sleeping on tightly bound rope and straw mattress. She's slept on better. She doesn't care.

"Ah, this is the life, innit. Going off to do something pointlessly dangerous on the morrow, but after sleeping on a bed."

No one they've encountered in Denerim has Jone's accent, because they've steered clear of the part of the city Jone's from. She hopes Gabranth hasn't noticed.

"What d'you think of Hawkwind, Gab? Besides that bloody name. It ain't his fault; his Da picked it out of a hat."

Comments

[archademode]

“A man of poor habit, and even poorer morality.”

Said with cutting coldness a notch above the clink and scrape of metal catching against itself: a sure sign he’s already tending to the matter of removing his armor behind that partition— and it is, admittedly, a process he welcomes in this moment. No matter the extent of his time spent fully embedded within the guise of a Judge Magister, not one word of complaint was or will ever be spoken of it.

But the dense metal bracketing his shoulders has begun to gnaw deep tracking marks from use, and he finds he cannot help but breathe a little easier without the burden of it weighing him down.

“Were it not vital to the mission itself, I would not waste our time with his ambition.”

[poleaxed]

"He's just dodging tax, mate, not strangling orphans at midnight."

Because, of course, there's no profit in that. But she's genuinely surprised by the extent of Gabranth's disdain, especially when her disdain comes from a different place entirely-- Hawkwind could aim higher. She did.

The partition is hardly translucent, or it wouldn't be a partition. Still, shadows cast the slightest silhouette if you look for it. Jone turns herself on the bed, facing the wall, while she pulls off muddy boots.

"You don't have to go, if you don't like. This, I could do in me sleep. Even if savage bands of Dalish cannibals show up, which-- not likely."

[archademode]

"The man might well be a pirate for all his comportment."

Perhaps it's the fact that he's done too much shoddy work as of late to begin with, in order to right the matter of repair as far as Jone's armor is concerned. He'd never told her the extent of it, and he has no intention of it now, but the fact remains that he'd felt far more at ease amongst masks and spent lightning that he does dealing with mercenaries—

And for that, he can't help but wonder if perhaps he's been too long away from humankind to truly find himself comfortable anywhere.

Still, he pulls the last of the buckles from his wrists, leaving himself dressed in no more than leather and cloth, and expending a short exhale that sings of relief.

[poleaxed]

That's a new one. Gab has it out for pirates. Duly noted; she'll only tell him which members of Riftwatch are pirates when it'll be most amusing.

(Any pirate that fucks with Tevinter is a good pirate, which is... most of them.)

"Pirates have daring," she says, "pirates are creative. Hawkwind the Younger is doing the oldest merc work in the book, and thumping his chest for it. Embarrassing, it is."

She keeps her back turned when she finally slumps down on the bed, changing out of her heavy surcoat and breeches. She's left in loose underclothes that still cover most of her, but it's not really fit for society, thin as the fabric is.

Still, she's seen Gabranth's face, which is basically his underpants from the way he goes about things. They're even, if he happens to see her.

[archademode]

To that description, Gabranth only offers up a petulant scoff— his voice so much lighter without metallic reverberation working to bolster his intimidation.

Still, the idea that she might see him is only a moment later confirmed as he comes pacing around the partition’s edge, fiddling idly at the cuff of his dark shirt (high collar, long sleeves, leather breeches still— it’s as if the man dreads any amount of freedom) in order to more fully continue their disagreement.

She’s seen him without his helm regardless, there’s no point in trying to take that back, even if he’s yet to bring up the frustration of that night since.

“Pirates are little more than vermin, seizing every opportunity to steal from whatever lies within their reach.” Mercenaries, at the very least, ought maintain an air of dignity in their dealings— so for that, she is right: the man is an embarrassment in his work, necessary as it remains.

“No self-respecting Judge would suffer one.”

...or, as is so painfully often the case, become one.

[poleaxed]

So he finds Jone sitting in a tangle of long limbs and white (off-white, they're not new) fabric, trying to comb out the knots and nits in her hair. Why she keeps it this long, it's stupid, but it's the one thing she likes about her looks, so she suffers the consequences. She looks up to see Gabranth as a man, without any of that clanking metal, and it brings a bright smile to her eye.

This is a man, a real one. That head popping out of armor in the moonlight seems like a lifetime ago. The candle light casts soft shadows, making him look even more... himself. She can't explain it, but this is who she wanted to see.

But what she says instead is just, "Gab, luv, I'm gonna take a guess here and say a pirate did something t'you that ain't been answered."

[archademode]

“That—“

He starts, stops, his jaw briefly working, teeth clenched.

In truth, he’d tolerated them, briefly. Pirates. Sky and land alike. Moments upon moments in that void of a world meant only for endless warfare. It was an absolute necessity, and so long as their cause remained unified he withheld judgment.

But—

That time is done. Ended the moment he'd crossed through the Fade without so much as a second to gasp for breath— returned instead to the land of the living. And the living flee, for their world is wide.

“Are you not at all troubled by this? Working to impress a man that ill deserves it?"

[poleaxed]

Jone considers that. It's one of the things she's been trying to do more of, give Gabranth the full weight of her consideration. She knows it's not worth much, but it's one of the few things she has to give, her feeble and forgetful mind.

"The way you feel about pirates," she says, "I feel about slavers, me cousins, and certain Orlesians. This is shite work, like, but it's not hurting nothing but me pride."

[archademode]

That is, of course, exactly it. Pride.

And there's an irony to it somewhere, how much more candid he is without his helm in place, behind closed doors, pacing as he talks to someone he considers his own peer— a set of qualifiers for a harsher tone and more embittered commentary, free of all usual restraint.

Were they in this moment sharing space with someone set above their station, Jone might guess (correctly) that his tongue would be held, and he'd say nothing more than the usual cycle of 'As you wish', or 'I trust fully in your judgment'.

"We will do what need be done," he starts, stubbornly lifting his own chin by degrees, cinching his own fingers against his palm. Somehow, the armor makes him seem more passive than he truly is unmasked. "They will not dare to go back on their word once our work here is finished.”

A threat, a promise— the difference is so nominal it hardly matters.

[poleaxed]

Jone feels as though, watching these emotions unfold in Gabranth's posture and bearing, that she's finally met the real him. An honored place, this familiarity makes their tiny room at a grubby inn feel holy to a woman who places relationships between people above politics or even, truthfully, religion. The smile won't go away. She can't stop looking at him. Her expression reads of deep contentment.

What a fucking berk she is.

"'Preciate it, Gab, you looking out for me." Because that's what it is. "I've your back as well. You needn't worry for none, alright? Not while we're here."

Even if she plans to sneak out tonight. She'll be back by morning. Everything will be fine.

[archademode]

She sees it truthfully.

His emotions were never clean-flowing: kindness prompting anger, mercy giving rise to resentment, worry met with irritation and a willingness to make the world meet his own expectations, rather than permit it to pull he or those around him into its own designs. Protective, demanding, inflexible—

But when she thanks him, he stops.

Lashes flickering where they lower beneath a knitted brow, tight grip on thin air relaxing by cautious degrees. He realizes she’s watching him, recognizes at last her state— and his own— and all lividity leaves him, as if drained through his bare heels into the floor. Lip twitching where it pulls into a thin line, visibly resetting himself.

“Apologies for my intrusion.” It wasn't his place to snap his teeth over their given contract, just as it wasn't his place to press beyond the partition without warning, knowing full well she deserves privacy. A matter easily corrected with a single step back towards his own given portion of the room.

"Know that I meant no disrespect by it."

[poleaxed]

She snorts, laughter withheld, yet again amused at how chivalrously Gabranth attempts to comport himself. Had she been lying, when she told little Ben that Gabranth came from a land of faerie knights and honorable princesses, or had she accidentally told the truth.

"Gab, mate," she says, the smile obvious even in her voice, "grew up with three older brothers, I did, the four of us all stuffed in one room. I'll not be spooked for being seen in me knickers by a good mate."

She considers asking if he has anything to sleep in, or if he intends to try and find rest in that leather suit of his. She considers it, and recognizes it's none of her business. It'd only make him discomforted, judging from this most recent retreat.

"You've never disrespected me. Might be why I'm sharing a room with you, you knob."

The partition is for him. She wouldn't bother with one for Barrow or Si. She doubts they'd care.

[archademode]

He puffs out another irritable little sound at being called a knob, face only half-hidden by the divider, though he still stubbornly keeps his gaze trained well towards the wall instead.

“We should leave before sunrise. Acclimate ourselves with the start of our route.”

[poleaxed]

In truth, she's never been through the Brecilian before. She's never been to Gwaren. She lived fourteen shit-stained years in Denerim and ran north. If they were bucking for credentials, Jone would be the worse Fereldan, but she's of the opinion that only someone who truly knows the country would understand why it's better not to live there.

Not that anyone asks. On the bumpy, swampy, uncomfortable trudge south, the Blackstone Irregulars don't talk about the war, or informants, or taking bribes, or dodging tax. They tell stories of the savage Dalish said to live in the forest, cannibals all, or the swamp witches who seduce winsome fighters for their perverse needs.

Neither show. They make it to Gwaren late after sundown, receive their pay, and Jone once again spends a portion of hers on an inn. The same price paid, but the Smiling Dragon is nicer, owing to Gwaren being a port town and not a capital city and the birthplace of sodding Andraste. That'll drive the rent up.

But here, they'll even serve you your food in your room, with thick walls between so they don't have to listen to the dulcet tones of their neighbors fucking all night. The food is on the cheap side, mince pie and beer, but it's enough after a long day.

Jone doesn't ask for the partition this time. She just doesn't bloody care.

Their pies and beers are served, and she sets Gabranth's carefully on his bed. There are no tables; you're not really supposed to eat in your rooms, but Jone tips extra and elven lad they have serving looks at her like he's never seen an ha'penny before. Feeling utterly charitable, she closes and locks the door before turning her back to Gabranth so she can squirm out of her sweaty, muddy surcoat and breeches. Underneath, she has a man's chemise and braccae, it's not like she's naked, or some noblewoman where this level of undress would be inappropriate.

"So, what d'you think," Jone asks, "I think we'll have to bribe Lavelle, but she'll have the better intel. That lad, Emory? Ellis? He seemed half bright, might work for free..."

Their names are Laverne and Emmett, and Jone is horrible with names, but her descriptions aren't off.

[archademode]

"I believe him both to be a better prospect as our contact, and a far more trustworthy ally in whatever dealings are to come."

What Emmett might relay to them would most likely be truth, and he would no doubt be quicker to dispatch troubling news for the sake of relieving his own visible conscience. Those who think only of profit— of coin— too often bend the make of reality to suit their needs, if his own past experiences are prologue to anything here.

But then he supposes they've already been over his opinion in that respect.

Instead he rolls his shoulders from his taken position on the bed (once again) farthest from the window, clearly enjoying a chance to wash the stiffness from his spine, his neck— one foot tucked across the other leg, resting idly along the edge of the mattress. This, at least, between the softer give of bedding and the smell of a hot meal, is enough to lower his own bitter hackles for a change.

[poleaxed]

Jone watches Gabranth relax, or do the closest thing to it. She's been thinking, lately, of why she got spooked, seeing his face for the first time. It's because he's so grand. Not being made by the crooked Maker of this world, he's better.

She wants to touch him. She's wanted to for a while, a guilty part of her mind admits, but this is with new clarity. She ignores the desire, letting it fester in the back of her mind.

But she can't help smiling to see him attempting to relax.

"That's true," Jone says. "I worry we wouldn't get as much information, but I'd know it were all true for that lad."

She has a sympathy for younger men ever since attempting and failing to take Benedict under her wing. She didn't used to care. They were all Mattieus in the making, she thought, yet Benedict surely isn't, which opens up a world of possibility for the rest of humanity.

"I'll make the deal tomorrow, before we get passage back to Kirkwall. Though, a question- Gab?"

[archademode]

He lifts a bare hand, pressing it hard across the back of his neck in one last residual long-held stretch before reaching instead for the meal set out before him, crooking a finger along the edge of the tray— drawing it near enough to make meager work of it. Truth be told he’s still unused to the idea of ale as sufficient drink, but he’ll take no more of it than necessary, and sleep will manage the rest.

“If you’ve a desire to ensure nothing slips beneath our watch, then perhaps enlist them both and compare what missives they send— though I would be wary that they might interpret this as too much despotic interest on our part in their dealings.”

Her question, however, steals his attention away from food: hazel eyes drawn up for a tentative beat.

“Speak, then.”

[poleaxed]

"I'll talk to the bird, then." She says with a wink, "I don't think she'll care much for your particular charms."

She gets a few bites in herself, careful not to bother with the bland, inedible crust, using it more like utensils. The beer is lukewarm and weak and fucking glorious after the long day she's had.

"Gab, mate, d'you aim to sleep in that?" She gestures to the whole of him, piece of pie in hand.

[archademode]

Brow immediately cinching tight for that question, his hands stilling in their work— clear enough he'd not expected the tack of their conversation to change so rapidly, though he recovers a beat later when he responds, as dourly as ever:

"Of course."

What else would he sleep in, Jone?

[poleaxed]

"Oh, fuck's sake." Dropping her pie back on the plate, she turns to her assembled luggage, a small satchel of loose clothes. She pulls out a longer chemise, her spare, and throws it at him.

"Maker, sleeping in that must be like lying in a vice. Try'n take a load off."

[archademode]

It strikes him squarely in the chest, that overwhelmingly generous offer. The stare that continues to watch Jone— unblinking— over the way the chemise crumples against him before falling listlessly in his lap is so unmoved in its own arid lack of amusement that it might as well be cut from stone.

"I do not need to 'take a load off'."

[poleaxed]

Several repressed innuendos flash through her mind.

"Maybe not," she says, lying. "But... what if it were a favor to me? That you bloody relax?"

She's testing the waters, she knows. Gabranth has proven himself nothing but courteous and truthful, even when she's horrible to him. Which is to say, how far can that be pushed? She'd feel awful, if it wasn't for his sake. Acceptable selfishness, then.

[archademode]

Sometimes he does not need the mask of an expressionless helmet. Sometimes, in fact, as this moment is clear enough to illustrate: his own acidic countenance serves that exact same punctuating purpose. His eyeline fixed, he lifts the offering with a single heavy hand...

...and sets it beside him at the very edge of the mattress.

"I have granted you favor enough."

[poleaxed]

To Jone, spirits raised by food and distance from Denerim, this seems like a challenge. Setting her food aside, she gasps, holds both hands to her heart, and flops back on the bed in the parody of a noblewoman's faint.

"Breaking me heart, you are!" She grins at him, lopsided and with too many teeth. "C'mon, Gan, that can't be comfortable."

[archademode]

“A Judge Magister requires no comfort.”

Untrue, of course. Or at the very least more policy than practice for some of the judicial magistrate proper: those who valued their place at the emperor's heels over all sworn duty. Gilt power, snared favor, status in standing. Gabranth himself, however, was never among them. A point of pride as much as it was its own problem, at times.

He watches her fall across the span of her bed with a smile, his own expression placid as stillwater; drama hardly suits his taste, and if she expects him to budge on this, those thespian endeavors seem to stir nothing up in response.

"Why can you not let this rest?"

Let a man eat in peace, Jone.