WHO: Ellis + OTA WHAT: Homecoming WHEN: Guardian WHERE: Kirkwall NOTES: Thread collection. Closed and open starters in the comments. Holler if you want something bespoke or drop in a wildcard, I'll roll with it.
Her inhale must be very sharp so near to his ear. Her hand where it has slung across the back of his shoulder has tightened into a fist against the outer layer of his gambeson.
"Then just think of how we must feel," is both more insistent and less scolding, and requires no definition for 'we.' "Not knowing if you were alive or dead and miserable all this time over it. I have told everyone that you would be coming back soon, and I was beginning to—"
Here, the thing in her chest has unwound enough to catch in her throat. How dreadful it would have been so be wrong. Terrible enough that she is forced to veer from the image of it.
It punches into him like a knife to the gut. Ellis is silent in the face of it, eyes closing as he breathes out hard against her collar. She is holding on so tightly and he doesn't wish to be turned loose.
Here is a truth: he hasn't been able to slip this hold. The grip she has on him had held fast all across Thedas, to the very center of a place that Ellis had stood and considered whether or not he belonged there rather than here. And he'd followed the pull of it back, back to her, back to Tony, and back Richard and Jone and all the rest of the tangled mess of acquaintance he has somehow acquired.
"I'm sorry."
He's told her that before. Outside of Tantervale, with rubble still in his hair. It's hardly enough, but it's so weighted down with emotion that the words seem like to burst in the air.
She has made herself quite clear about how she feels about these disappearances and wordless periods of absence. She had been angry with him then too, hadn't she? In that horrible dream they'd all shared—
(Is she angry now? Not really. Or only a little, and that only because he's very worn down and she dislikes it's appearance in him and because she's so very relieved.)
"The roving around on dangerous business is one thing, but don't think I haven't noticed that you've yet to answer when exactly you returned." Here, finally, the clasp of her arm loosens so she can pull back—not far enough to look him sternly in the face, but the gesture implies it. "You have seen Mister Stark, haven't you? Or at least have sent him some note. Oh Déranger, for gods' sake!"
The serious briard has taken advantage of this very minor opening of space between them by sticking her nose directly into it. In an instant, the fawn colored dog has politely but firmly bullied herself further between them. Wysteria squawks in outrage, her loosened hold on Ellis slipping from shoulder to grasp at his forearm as she forced to wobble back to accommodate the dog's presence. She bends her neck directly to address the interloper:
"Déranger! Have you no manners at all? Do not smell there—!"
The unconscious tightening of his arms against the movement is such a minor form of protest, one that never quite comes together into something that might be spoken aloud. She stirs, and Ellis lets her go.
He allows her that sliver of space which soon, by necessity, widens to accommodate Déranger's inspection. Ruadh, largely unseen at the moment but very nearby, gives a low rumbling noise from the vicinity of Wysteria's hip in mild warning. Unheeded, likely, but a tangible expression of caution.
"It's alright," for the pushy little briard. (Suffering by comparison to Ruadh in this sense.) Two hands reluctantly slipping from Wysteria's shoulder and the nape of her neck to her waist, steadying her as this stalwart defender insists upon inspection. "We've not met."
Does any part of Ellis linger in that house? He's been gone a long time; scents fade.
To the question—
"I don't know what time it was," Ellis tells her. "Very late. I was lucky to find Tony still awake in his office after I stabled the horse."
Lucky more of a pretense; they're both aware of what kind of hours Tony keeps.
(The briard between them has pressed herself firmly against the front of Wysteria's legs through her shift, mop face turned pointedly away from the Warden. If she patiently ignores his presence and that of the mabari, clearly they don't exist.)
Wysteria makes a tsking sound between her teeth. Lucky indeed— "See. You really might have sent word. Left a message on my crystal for me while I was asleep. Something."
But this is the last bit of scolding she'll give him (this morning, anyway). Her feet are cold in their slippers and the dog is pushing against her and there is a great deal to tell him, and no sense standing out of doors in the misty grey morning to while they do it.
"Come inside. We can make all the proper introductions there."
Here, a moment of hesitation. They are still stood close, with the exception of her very determined chaperone, and Ellis balks at separating further as much as he balks at the invitation.
He has had a little time to understand the shape of hesitation in him, the fear that he will cross that threshold and find that he no longer fits neatly within the chaotic rhythm of Wysteria's house. His eyes move over her shoulder to the open doorway beyond her as Ruadh butts his head against Ellis' hip.
Briefly, his hand leaves her hip to touch her cheek. His fingers are cold against the flush of her skin. Ellis' thumb sets there for a matter of seconds as his eyes return to her.
As always, what answer is there to give other than the obvious?
"Aye," he answers, unhurried and easy in spite of any unspoken indecision. When he gives her his arm, it's as much to be led as because he knows Wysteria finds some amusement in such gestures.
If she marks any shred of his hesitation, it surely doesn't translate to the eagerness with which Wysteria gloms onto Ellis' offered arm. With a last shooing hiss at the briard who is skeptical enough with this whole arrangement and the mabari that she doesn't need much encouragement to lead the way back inside, Wysteria drags him eagerly across the little garden courtyard and over the threshold.
The kitchen beyond is as one might expect it to be: a riot of papers and books and half assembled prototypes of various nightmares, and a not inconsiderable side of dirty dishes. The fire in the great unused cooking hearth has been allowed to burn down to little more than embers, and the stairwell down into the cellar-slash-work room is dark. To say that is remains unchanged from when last Ellis saw it would be incorrect; but it is familiar in its chaos, the tenor largely unaltered despite ample evidence elsewhere (piled stones and working equipment crammed into one corner of the garden) that something has indeed been afoot.
"Sit, sit," Wysteria insists, loosing her arm from the crook of Ellis' elbow so that she might snatch at the big mop of a dog's collar. The leather band is comedically expensive, encrusted with a rich selection of stones better suited to dripping off a high born lady's neck than a guard dog's. "I'll put her in the hallway and then see to the fire and the kettle. Come along, Déranger. You're being shockingly rude to our guest."
"You don't have to," is contradicted by a low huff from Ruadh, but no one's asking him.
Regardless, Wysteria will manage her dog as she sees fit. The goat is at liberty to gnaw through whatever hay can be reached, for the moment.
Rather than sit, Ellis crouches at the hearth. Wysteria is certainly capable of this too, but Ellis takes up the task of kindling a fire without hesitation while Ruadh circles the space, snuffling through the clutter.
If Ellis were to examine any of it, the collection of items might give him some idea of what Tony and Wysteria have been poking their noses into since he's been gone. But he'd rather hear them speak of it. There is a pressure gathering at the back of his throat, the great ache of something like regret and something like relief, all mingling and making it hard to say much of anything else as he busies himself with wood and kindling.
"Nonsense. She'll only make a nuisance of herself. That's her profession," Wysteria explains, hauling the sullen briard by the collar to the door and finally through it. A brief conversation is held between the two in the corridor—'No, you must stay there. Sit. Don't look at me like that. Go sniff at the goat's bed if you're so broken up about it.'—and then Wysteria backs into the kitchen again, dredging the door to the hall firmly shut.
Poor, dedicated Déranger.
Unburdened by the objecting presence of her guardian, Wysteria in her shift and housecoat and wild unbound hair whirls back around to face Ellis at the hearth. It's a strange picture, even without taking into account the mostly empty sleeve.
"Now you must tell me everything! I insist. What's the point of you having been gone for ages and ages if you haven't returned with all manner of news? Don't tell me that it's confidential for the Division Heads or Warden business either."
Crouched, heel to haunch, Ellis pauses with flint in his hands and sparks growing into flame under his patient ministrations to watch Wysteria as she turns her attention back to him.
What a terrible thing, to see so clearly—
It is difficult, wanting.
Some complicated, tangled thing pulls taut in his chest. Maybe it works across his face, mingling with exhaustion for a long moment before Ellis scrapes himself back together.
"Some of it I cannot say much of," Ellis admits, true to form. "But only because I don't know what to make of it myself yet."
The simple fact that he's spoken not at all of Wardens and their duties and their politics to her before now is suddenly unavoidable. What would Wysteria make of anything he said?
"Nonsense. Exiting or no, I should like to have some notion of what you've been doing this whole time. And besides," she says—why does he look so drawn and miserable?—as she moves to fetch the kettle down from its hook. There's still water yet left in it from the day before. "Not knowing what to make of it is precisely why we ought to review every detail. It's precisely like when myself and Mister Stark find ourselves turning over a problem. It's always a considerable help to speak the thing aloud with others."
With a click of the kettle lid's tin lining, she seals it shut and makes to join him there before the kitchen's great hearth.
"You might begin by introducing your new companion."
By the time she's arrived, the fire has caught. Ellis is crouched there still, feeding crumpled, ink-splotched papers into the licking flame as it roots into the logs. Ellis thinks to rise and take it from her, but instead he maintains this balance to whistle over to the questing mabari.
An answering boof of sound, the butt of a head against a haphazard pile of books and equipment before Ruadh's nails click against the kitchen floor as he makes up his mind to heed the instruction.
Not that he comes to Ellis. He puts his snout instead to the hem of Wysteria's housecoat, nosing towards bare ankle, huffing all the while. His great brow is wrinkled up, visible even at this poor angle.
"Ruadh," Ellis says, anyone's guess as to whether the thick, fond burr of his tone is simply for the dog or whether it's incidental to the introduction he's meant to be giving. Roo-ah said so warmly, in spite of the lines and exhaustion written into Ellis' face. "He'll make himself known, in his own time."
Wysteria has, at this point, spent a rather inordinate amount of her time around dogs and goats and chickens and magical snakes and giant ants and so on that a dog, even an extraordinary large and grizzled one who puts it's big muzzle so directly near to her bare skin, is taken more or less in (metaphorical) stride. Were she still in possession of both her hands, she might twitch her hem slightly out of the way to get a better look at the great box headed animal. As it is—
"And where did you er—stop, that tickles—find him? At Weisshaupt?"
—she leans slightly past Ellis's stooped shoulder to hook the kettle over the fire.
"To meet me?" Wysteria's freed hand hovers briefly over the blunt shape of the mabari's great square head. After a moment, she offers a tentative pat pat between his ears.
"I think you greatly over estimate my affinity for creatures of all kind, Mister Ellis. You and— Well. I'm sure you're quite the grizzled old gentleman, Ruadh," she says, addressing the mabari directly. "And I'm sorry for Déranger's behavior. She doesn't mean anything by it. She has only been educated very strictly. And I'm pleased that you've attached yourself to Mister Ellis. Maybe now that he has you to mind he'll stop bringing me whatever little beasts be comes across in Lowtown."
The small pat of her hand seems enough encouragement that Ruadh bequeaths a brief lap of tongue to her palm.
"I found a bell in my mailbox," Ellis tells her, watching them. Neither confirming nor denying the status of future little beasts. "I expect it's for the goat."
He's sat back on his heels, looking up at her. It's good, for Ruadh to know her. To know everyone who needs protecting, and commit their scents to memory.
"I'm amazed anyone could fit anything else in your mailbox," she says airily, wiping her tongue wet palm off on the hip of her housecoat. Gross. "Given the prodigious amount of mail in—Oh!"
If Ruadh in his grizzled state is at all prone to starting from sudden exclamations, then this might send him twitching back. But surely he's witnessed things more dreadful than a young woman in her sleepwear abruptly rounding back toward his master in alarm.
"I've something for you! It wouldn't fit in your box, so I told myself I would just give it to you in person when you came back and now it's been sitting and waiting for ages."
Ruadh's ears flick, weight shifting but not transitioning into a retreat. Instead, he circles around behind her to hover at her right hip. All the better to observe Ellis, maybe.
"You needn't have done that," Ellis tells her. "You've been generous already."
In the early hours of the morning, he'd gathered the contents of his mailbox. Wysteria has left him so much.
"Well it's done, and for so long that I can't undo it so you'll just have to manage I'm afraid. Mind the kettle. I think there are clean cups still, and if not then the ones on the table have only been dirty a little while and only have had tea in them besides. I'll go and fetch it."
She has been making moves to crab walk out from between him and the mabari and back toward the door leading into the house—seemingly the only time she's spent stationary having been that brief moment where she'd been all but held in place by the anchor of his hands—, but pauses abruptly here so she might reach down and catch him by the collar. At some point when she'd thrown her arm about him, it was rumpled. Wysteria smooths it down now.
"Cheer up, Mister Ellis. There's no reason to look so tired. You're home now."
The reassurance catches at him much the same way Tony's casual reference had months ago.
Home.
His throat tightens.
Is this home? When had that become something true? He must have had some inkling of it, but it's been rendered in such sharp, undeniable relief by his return. Hearing it echoed to him from her feels much the same as pressing down on a half-healed bruise.
Ellis' hand lifts to catch Wysteria's, bring her knuckles briefly to his mouth. His eyes close, just for a moment, before he loosens his grip to tell her, "We'll manage the cups. Go on."
As if Ruadh is going to take some active part in the preparation of morning tea, instead of just trailing Wysteria as far as will be permitted.
This evidently satisfies her. After a brief pat to Ellis's bristly cheek, Wysteria makes her way promptly from the kitchen. It takes some shooing on her part to ward off a dog from either side of the door—no, Ruadh, stay here; absolutely not Déranger, and so on—, but eventually she affects her escape and the sound of her socked feet thump thump thumping fades off and away into the deeper interior of the house.
She's away for longer than it ought to take to simply fetch an item. The first presage of an explanation is the sound of her eventually returning footsteps—the harder, staccato tap of her sturdily shot boots. Then, bursting back into the kitchen—
"No! Back into the corridor! Oh for gods' sake."
The caramel colored briard butts insistently through the door ahead of her. Wysteria, hot on the dog's heels, has swapped her housecoat for a blue patterned dress. Her hair is loose still, but she's tugged a felt cap over it. Most significantly, her left sleeve is filled rather than pinned back—the brushed metal of the prosthetic tucked at a right angle against her side in parallel to her other arm under which she has clutched a sizeable package wrapped in brown paper.
Déranger makes a soberly sniffing beeline for Ellis, Ruadh be damned.
The prosthetic is new. Tony's work, Ellis knows. There's a faint pang of regret for it. He'd missed so much, and he'd missed what was sure to have been a number of lively testing sessions. It isn't a surprise that all had gone on apace without him, but it is unexpectedly bruising to consider exactly what he had been absent for.
Déranger is a fine distraction, in spite of Ruadh's outright consternation. All Ruadh's massive bulk comes sniffing along behind the smaller dog, watchful as Déranger butts up against Ellis' kneecap. Ellis clucks his tongue softly, though he permits the inspection, allows the dogs to continue their business as he steps around them to put mugs onto the table.
"Let it seep," is his instruction. "I've just poured it."
Though he pauses there, taking in the picture of her. Loose hair. Gleam of that prosthetic. The blue of her dress. Ellis draws in a deep breath.
What is there to say? There's no point in repeating himself, though he feels it deeply every time he looks at her. (He's missed her so.)
"Yes, all right. You really must forgive her, Mister Ellis. She's only doing the job she was engaged for," she insists, setting the parcel on top of a series of stacked papers. Without thinking, evidently having become some accustomed to adjusting it
—(or out of an absent sort of self consciousness, having caught a look at herself in a mirror as she'd swept upstairs and immediately feeling somewhat glum and embarrassed by the whole disheveled and disassembled look of herself. If he'd only said something before materializing in the garden)—
Wysteria touches the angle of her artificial elbow and corrects it from where it's clicked slightly out of place. The clamp end of the limb (there is no hand shape to speak of there at the end of her neatly buttoned sleeve) hovers benignly at side.
"Here." She pats the back of one of the little chairs, drawing it out invitingly. "Sit here and open your present. Oh, but wait until I've sat across from you to do it. I want to see your face."
(At what point does Wysteria's enthusiasm become ominous?)
That suits Ellis very well. He has not gotten his fill of her. She looks very well, color back in her face and upright again; she’s been fighting off illness and recovering from surgery when he’d left, and he hadn’t doubted her recovery, it’s only a very different thing to see the effect for himself.
Ruadh abandons him to the determined little briard to round the table and set himself down alongside Wysteria’s chosen chair with a great huff of breath. Perhaps all the better to observe the briard’s antics from beneath the table, who can say.
Ellis lowers himself slowly. His body is all aches and lingering stiffness not cured by the warm bath or truncated attempt at sleep in a proper bed. But he sets himself into the chair as he has done so many times before, and runs his better hand over the ties of the parcel without making any attempt to tug them loose.
“I had something for you. I hadn’t thought to bring it.”
He’d forgotten. Satinalia was an age ago. He hoped it was still where he had left it, tucked into a corner of his trunk.
"Oh that's all right. There'll be every opportunity for you to make it up to me."
Much like the moppish brown dog who has taken up a post just outside of easy reach from which she may studiously observe Ellis, Wysteria hustles around to the chair across from him. If by chance she happens to tuck a foot up between herself and the seat in order to elevate herself by a few eager inches, then that's between the fall of her skirts and the only likely witnesses—the two dogs at odds under the table.
"You must at least pretend to be impressed when you open it, by the way. I require it."
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"Then just think of how we must feel," is both more insistent and less scolding, and requires no definition for 'we.' "Not knowing if you were alive or dead and miserable all this time over it. I have told everyone that you would be coming back soon, and I was beginning to—"
Here, the thing in her chest has unwound enough to catch in her throat. How dreadful it would have been so be wrong. Terrible enough that she is forced to veer from the image of it.
"I was very worried for you."
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It punches into him like a knife to the gut. Ellis is silent in the face of it, eyes closing as he breathes out hard against her collar. She is holding on so tightly and he doesn't wish to be turned loose.
Here is a truth: he hasn't been able to slip this hold. The grip she has on him had held fast all across Thedas, to the very center of a place that Ellis had stood and considered whether or not he belonged there rather than here. And he'd followed the pull of it back, back to her, back to Tony, and back Richard and Jone and all the rest of the tangled mess of acquaintance he has somehow acquired.
"I'm sorry."
He's told her that before. Outside of Tantervale, with rubble still in his hair. It's hardly enough, but it's so weighted down with emotion that the words seem like to burst in the air.
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She has made herself quite clear about how she feels about these disappearances and wordless periods of absence. She had been angry with him then too, hadn't she? In that horrible dream they'd all shared—
(Is she angry now? Not really. Or only a little, and that only because he's very worn down and she dislikes it's appearance in him and because she's so very relieved.)
"The roving around on dangerous business is one thing, but don't think I haven't noticed that you've yet to answer when exactly you returned." Here, finally, the clasp of her arm loosens so she can pull back—not far enough to look him sternly in the face, but the gesture implies it. "You have seen Mister Stark, haven't you? Or at least have sent him some note. Oh Déranger, for gods' sake!"
The serious briard has taken advantage of this very minor opening of space between them by sticking her nose directly into it. In an instant, the fawn colored dog has politely but firmly bullied herself further between them. Wysteria squawks in outrage, her loosened hold on Ellis slipping from shoulder to grasp at his forearm as she forced to wobble back to accommodate the dog's presence. She bends her neck directly to address the interloper:
"Déranger! Have you no manners at all? Do not smell there—!"
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He allows her that sliver of space which soon, by necessity, widens to accommodate Déranger's inspection. Ruadh, largely unseen at the moment but very nearby, gives a low rumbling noise from the vicinity of Wysteria's hip in mild warning. Unheeded, likely, but a tangible expression of caution.
"It's alright," for the pushy little briard. (Suffering by comparison to Ruadh in this sense.) Two hands reluctantly slipping from Wysteria's shoulder and the nape of her neck to her waist, steadying her as this stalwart defender insists upon inspection. "We've not met."
Does any part of Ellis linger in that house? He's been gone a long time; scents fade.
To the question—
"I don't know what time it was," Ellis tells her. "Very late. I was lucky to find Tony still awake in his office after I stabled the horse."
Lucky more of a pretense; they're both aware of what kind of hours Tony keeps.
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Wysteria makes a tsking sound between her teeth. Lucky indeed— "See. You really might have sent word. Left a message on my crystal for me while I was asleep. Something."
But this is the last bit of scolding she'll give him (this morning, anyway). Her feet are cold in their slippers and the dog is pushing against her and there is a great deal to tell him, and no sense standing out of doors in the misty grey morning to while they do it.
"Come inside. We can make all the proper introductions there."
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He has had a little time to understand the shape of hesitation in him, the fear that he will cross that threshold and find that he no longer fits neatly within the chaotic rhythm of Wysteria's house. His eyes move over her shoulder to the open doorway beyond her as Ruadh butts his head against Ellis' hip.
Briefly, his hand leaves her hip to touch her cheek. His fingers are cold against the flush of her skin. Ellis' thumb sets there for a matter of seconds as his eyes return to her.
As always, what answer is there to give other than the obvious?
"Aye," he answers, unhurried and easy in spite of any unspoken indecision. When he gives her his arm, it's as much to be led as because he knows Wysteria finds some amusement in such gestures.
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The kitchen beyond is as one might expect it to be: a riot of papers and books and half assembled prototypes of various nightmares, and a not inconsiderable side of dirty dishes. The fire in the great unused cooking hearth has been allowed to burn down to little more than embers, and the stairwell down into the cellar-slash-work room is dark. To say that is remains unchanged from when last Ellis saw it would be incorrect; but it is familiar in its chaos, the tenor largely unaltered despite ample evidence elsewhere (piled stones and working equipment crammed into one corner of the garden) that something has indeed been afoot.
"Sit, sit," Wysteria insists, loosing her arm from the crook of Ellis' elbow so that she might snatch at the big mop of a dog's collar. The leather band is comedically expensive, encrusted with a rich selection of stones better suited to dripping off a high born lady's neck than a guard dog's. "I'll put her in the hallway and then see to the fire and the kettle. Come along, Déranger. You're being shockingly rude to our guest."
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Regardless, Wysteria will manage her dog as she sees fit. The goat is at liberty to gnaw through whatever hay can be reached, for the moment.
Rather than sit, Ellis crouches at the hearth. Wysteria is certainly capable of this too, but Ellis takes up the task of kindling a fire without hesitation while Ruadh circles the space, snuffling through the clutter.
If Ellis were to examine any of it, the collection of items might give him some idea of what Tony and Wysteria have been poking their noses into since he's been gone. But he'd rather hear them speak of it. There is a pressure gathering at the back of his throat, the great ache of something like regret and something like relief, all mingling and making it hard to say much of anything else as he busies himself with wood and kindling.
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Poor, dedicated Déranger.
Unburdened by the objecting presence of her guardian, Wysteria in her shift and housecoat and wild unbound hair whirls back around to face Ellis at the hearth. It's a strange picture, even without taking into account the mostly empty sleeve.
"Now you must tell me everything! I insist. What's the point of you having been gone for ages and ages if you haven't returned with all manner of news? Don't tell me that it's confidential for the Division Heads or Warden business either."
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What a terrible thing, to see so clearly—
It is difficult, wanting.
Some complicated, tangled thing pulls taut in his chest. Maybe it works across his face, mingling with exhaustion for a long moment before Ellis scrapes himself back together.
"Some of it I cannot say much of," Ellis admits, true to form. "But only because I don't know what to make of it myself yet."
The simple fact that he's spoken not at all of Wardens and their duties and their politics to her before now is suddenly unavoidable. What would Wysteria make of anything he said?
"It's not as exciting as you think."
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With a click of the kettle lid's tin lining, she seals it shut and makes to join him there before the kitchen's great hearth.
"You might begin by introducing your new companion."
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An answering boof of sound, the butt of a head against a haphazard pile of books and equipment before Ruadh's nails click against the kitchen floor as he makes up his mind to heed the instruction.
Not that he comes to Ellis. He puts his snout instead to the hem of Wysteria's housecoat, nosing towards bare ankle, huffing all the while. His great brow is wrinkled up, visible even at this poor angle.
"Ruadh," Ellis says, anyone's guess as to whether the thick, fond burr of his tone is simply for the dog or whether it's incidental to the introduction he's meant to be giving. Roo-ah said so warmly, in spite of the lines and exhaustion written into Ellis' face. "He'll make himself known, in his own time."
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"And where did you er—stop, that tickles—find him? At Weisshaupt?"
—she leans slightly past Ellis's stooped shoulder to hook the kettle over the fire.
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One correction follows, as Ellis watches Ruadh trade inspection of Wysteria’s ankle for butting his head at her hip: “He found me.”
And Ruadh choose Ellis too, though he might have spun out his days in service to a better Warden.
“I was eager for him to meet you.”
Whatever kind of meeting this is, it appears to be somewhat successful.
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"I think you greatly over estimate my affinity for creatures of all kind, Mister Ellis. You and— Well. I'm sure you're quite the grizzled old gentleman, Ruadh," she says, addressing the mabari directly. "And I'm sorry for Déranger's behavior. She doesn't mean anything by it. She has only been educated very strictly. And I'm pleased that you've attached yourself to Mister Ellis. Maybe now that he has you to mind he'll stop bringing me whatever little beasts be comes across in Lowtown."
She fires Ellis a sidelong look.
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The small pat of her hand seems enough encouragement that Ruadh bequeaths a brief lap of tongue to her palm.
"I found a bell in my mailbox," Ellis tells her, watching them. Neither confirming nor denying the status of future little beasts. "I expect it's for the goat."
He's sat back on his heels, looking up at her. It's good, for Ruadh to know her. To know everyone who needs protecting, and commit their scents to memory.
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If Ruadh in his grizzled state is at all prone to starting from sudden exclamations, then this might send him twitching back. But surely he's witnessed things more dreadful than a young woman in her sleepwear abruptly rounding back toward his master in alarm.
"I've something for you! It wouldn't fit in your box, so I told myself I would just give it to you in person when you came back and now it's been sitting and waiting for ages."
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"You needn't have done that," Ellis tells her. "You've been generous already."
In the early hours of the morning, he'd gathered the contents of his mailbox. Wysteria has left him so much.
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She has been making moves to crab walk out from between him and the mabari and back toward the door leading into the house—seemingly the only time she's spent stationary having been that brief moment where she'd been all but held in place by the anchor of his hands—, but pauses abruptly here so she might reach down and catch him by the collar. At some point when she'd thrown her arm about him, it was rumpled. Wysteria smooths it down now.
"Cheer up, Mister Ellis. There's no reason to look so tired. You're home now."
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Home.
His throat tightens.
Is this home? When had that become something true? He must have had some inkling of it, but it's been rendered in such sharp, undeniable relief by his return. Hearing it echoed to him from her feels much the same as pressing down on a half-healed bruise.
Ellis' hand lifts to catch Wysteria's, bring her knuckles briefly to his mouth. His eyes close, just for a moment, before he loosens his grip to tell her, "We'll manage the cups. Go on."
As if Ruadh is going to take some active part in the preparation of morning tea, instead of just trailing Wysteria as far as will be permitted.
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She's away for longer than it ought to take to simply fetch an item. The first presage of an explanation is the sound of her eventually returning footsteps—the harder, staccato tap of her sturdily shot boots. Then, bursting back into the kitchen—
"No! Back into the corridor! Oh for gods' sake."
The caramel colored briard butts insistently through the door ahead of her. Wysteria, hot on the dog's heels, has swapped her housecoat for a blue patterned dress. Her hair is loose still, but she's tugged a felt cap over it. Most significantly, her left sleeve is filled rather than pinned back—the brushed metal of the prosthetic tucked at a right angle against her side in parallel to her other arm under which she has clutched a sizeable package wrapped in brown paper.
Déranger makes a soberly sniffing beeline for Ellis, Ruadh be damned.
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Déranger is a fine distraction, in spite of Ruadh's outright consternation. All Ruadh's massive bulk comes sniffing along behind the smaller dog, watchful as Déranger butts up against Ellis' kneecap. Ellis clucks his tongue softly, though he permits the inspection, allows the dogs to continue their business as he steps around them to put mugs onto the table.
"Let it seep," is his instruction. "I've just poured it."
Though he pauses there, taking in the picture of her. Loose hair. Gleam of that prosthetic. The blue of her dress. Ellis draws in a deep breath.
What is there to say? There's no point in repeating himself, though he feels it deeply every time he looks at her. (He's missed her so.)
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—(or out of an absent sort of self consciousness, having caught a look at herself in a mirror as she'd swept upstairs and immediately feeling somewhat glum and embarrassed by the whole disheveled and disassembled look of herself. If he'd only said something before materializing in the garden)—
Wysteria touches the angle of her artificial elbow and corrects it from where it's clicked slightly out of place. The clamp end of the limb (there is no hand shape to speak of there at the end of her neatly buttoned sleeve) hovers benignly at side.
"Here." She pats the back of one of the little chairs, drawing it out invitingly. "Sit here and open your present. Oh, but wait until I've sat across from you to do it. I want to see your face."
(At what point does Wysteria's enthusiasm become ominous?)
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Ruadh abandons him to the determined little briard to round the table and set himself down alongside Wysteria’s chosen chair with a great huff of breath. Perhaps all the better to observe the briard’s antics from beneath the table, who can say.
Ellis lowers himself slowly. His body is all aches and lingering stiffness not cured by the warm bath or truncated attempt at sleep in a proper bed. But he sets himself into the chair as he has done so many times before, and runs his better hand over the ties of the parcel without making any attempt to tug them loose.
“I had something for you. I hadn’t thought to bring it.”
He’d forgotten. Satinalia was an age ago. He hoped it was still where he had left it, tucked into a corner of his trunk.
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Much like the moppish brown dog who has taken up a post just outside of easy reach from which she may studiously observe Ellis, Wysteria hustles around to the chair across from him. If by chance she happens to tuck a foot up between herself and the seat in order to elevate herself by a few eager inches, then that's between the fall of her skirts and the only likely witnesses—the two dogs at odds under the table.
"You must at least pretend to be impressed when you open it, by the way. I require it."
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literally makes you wait a million years for a dialogue-less tag, forgive
a GREAT dialogue-less tag
weLL
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bow on this y/y?
yyyy : ' )