Years ago, the same warm flush had suffused her at the news — news she had been so excited to share with Thranduil, who then had indulged her — that it had been her own words to decide Lord Luthor upon the course of joining the Inquisition. She'd felt meaningful, powerful, and—
it had come apart, of course. Luthor, the Inquisition. Thranduil.
She's still here. And he says someone, arch as you like, echoing back to her the thing that she has reforged herself around, and it strikes her that she doesn't feel wrongfooted in the moment. He catches her off-guard, but not...
it is comfortable, here in her parlour, with her cat and his company, and she looks back at him and for a moment doesn't know what to do with comfort.
She thinks about leaning over and giving him a shove. It passes.
“It only seems wasteful not to,” she says, eventually. “And fucking dull, besides, which hardly seems you at all.”
no subject
it had come apart, of course. Luthor, the Inquisition. Thranduil.
She's still here. And he says someone, arch as you like, echoing back to her the thing that she has reforged herself around, and it strikes her that she doesn't feel wrongfooted in the moment. He catches her off-guard, but not...
it is comfortable, here in her parlour, with her cat and his company, and she looks back at him and for a moment doesn't know what to do with comfort.
She thinks about leaning over and giving him a shove. It passes.
“It only seems wasteful not to,” she says, eventually. “And fucking dull, besides, which hardly seems you at all.”