[He hesitates a breath when she opens the door, warm light flooding out onto her porch and bathing him in a triangle of it- like a barrier to the darkening skies signaling dusk. But it is not that which catches him but for the look of her, softer than he's ever seen- even that night in Ishgard- and welcoming. Unbidden his tail flattens to his side- indecision and uncertainty curling inside of his gut like nausea, bidding him to run. To turn back now whilst he still can, as though he is on the precipice of yet another dangerous cave rather than on the front-step of a comrade's home.
It lasts only a moment, that hesitation, for his stubborn pride has always won the day- even when in doing so it is a detriment. He steps inside and stares straight ahead, fixating on a point on the wall as she speaks. A part of him thinks to mention that removing his footwear will hardly do her impression of his current state any favors... but she would have known- and likely would have been the same at one point- so he does not say anything, making to oblige. And when she moves behind him to take his coat, he cannot help the flicker of tension that slithers down his spine, ears flicking up and backwards before straightening again. That he is ill-at-ease is obvious, that he is fighting to maintain a facade regardless even moreso.]
Escorting a merchant to Gridania. [Is all he grunts as he undoes his gloves so she can take his jacket without issue, wincing at the unexpected soreness that arises from the motion.] Wanted someone to keep the Ixali at bay. [He adds as a gracious point of elaboration, choosing not to add he ended up all but abandoning them as soon as the gate and the Wailers protecting it were within sight, payment be damned.] Not that we saw so much as a scratch mark in the dirt. [He mutters in afterthought as he finally drags his footwear off and sets it aside as bid, leaving his gloves draped in the heap with less care than he ought to have.] Where can I wash up?
is it cozy there? also do I owe you any other tags?
[ Sarangerel notices Ze is a little jumpier and terser than usual and she’s not quite certain why. He’s seen her writhe with post-climax euphoria with not a single stitch on her before; surely it can’t be her that’s causing him to be so skittish. She shrugs it off as a result of the stresses of their line of work and hums in acknowledgement to his tale. He was nearby. That explains his quickness then— or at least as far as she knows.
The notion that he might have been so eager to see her as to rush his last contract doesn’t enter her mind.
She allows him to dress down as he wishes to, without judging him or tsk’ing at him. Instead, when she comes back around to stand in front of him and he asks her about washing up, she reaches out to take his hands in hers, coming close enough to smell the dirt and sweat on him easily. ]
Slow down… Come.
[ She gives him a small reassuring smile and turns away then to lead him through the small house by the hand to the bathroom. She saw him wince earlier. Thankfully, in addition to a shower, she has a spacious bath in which he can soak his aching muscles. ]
[He cannot help it- so ill-at-ease and unfamiliar with the emotions he is courting now by being in her home- by coming to her when bid for as small a thing as being missed. In battle or lust he is practiced. In hostility and insult can he find cover. Here, where his efforts are focused upon making peace- on brushing past established boundaries- he is unnerved.
She, unnerves him, in a way both vexing and humbling.]
Terrified I’ll botch the job? [The reply is as light as he can make it, thinking back to their shared night in Ishgard when she took to finger-combing his hair with a tenderness that did not belong in the early stages of this evolution of their relationship. He had pitted it to post-coital euphoria, a love of being close and content and little else. He had only distantly acknowledged the pleasantry of it, afterward, to be stroked so tenderly with calloused fingers so accustomed to violence.
Fingers that have now enclosed about his own and lead him onward- deeper into the house and past the entrance and all its trappings. Unbidden, his gaze wanders- seeking further and more about Sarangerel’s home and thus about her. Looking for trinkets, discarded belongings left to linger in forgotten corners, or if it is as desolate and deserted as his own imagined home to be should he have ever deigned to have one instead of drifting from one temporary place of lodging to the next.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
it's me. in the void.
It lasts only a moment, that hesitation, for his stubborn pride has always won the day- even when in doing so it is a detriment. He steps inside and stares straight ahead, fixating on a point on the wall as she speaks. A part of him thinks to mention that removing his footwear will hardly do her impression of his current state any favors... but she would have known- and likely would have been the same at one point- so he does not say anything, making to oblige. And when she moves behind him to take his coat, he cannot help the flicker of tension that slithers down his spine, ears flicking up and backwards before straightening again. That he is ill-at-ease is obvious, that he is fighting to maintain a facade regardless even moreso.]
Escorting a merchant to Gridania. [Is all he grunts as he undoes his gloves so she can take his jacket without issue, wincing at the unexpected soreness that arises from the motion.] Wanted someone to keep the Ixali at bay. [He adds as a gracious point of elaboration, choosing not to add he ended up all but abandoning them as soon as the gate and the Wailers protecting it were within sight, payment be damned.] Not that we saw so much as a scratch mark in the dirt. [He mutters in afterthought as he finally drags his footwear off and sets it aside as bid, leaving his gloves draped in the heap with less care than he ought to have.] Where can I wash up?
is it cozy there? also do I owe you any other tags?
The notion that he might have been so eager to see her as to rush his last contract doesn’t enter her mind.
She allows him to dress down as he wishes to, without judging him or tsk’ing at him. Instead, when she comes back around to stand in front of him and he asks her about washing up, she reaches out to take his hands in hers, coming close enough to smell the dirt and sweat on him easily. ]
Slow down… Come.
[ She gives him a small reassuring smile and turns away then to lead him through the small house by the hand to the bathroom. She saw him wince earlier. Thankfully, in addition to a shower, she has a spacious bath in which he can soak his aching muscles. ]
I can wash your hair for you. If you’d like.
no it is damp and gross. :(
She, unnerves him, in a way both vexing and humbling.]
Terrified I’ll botch the job? [The reply is as light as he can make it, thinking back to their shared night in Ishgard when she took to finger-combing his hair with a tenderness that did not belong in the early stages of this evolution of their relationship. He had pitted it to post-coital euphoria, a love of being close and content and little else. He had only distantly acknowledged the pleasantry of it, afterward, to be stroked so tenderly with calloused fingers so accustomed to violence.
Fingers that have now enclosed about his own and lead him onward- deeper into the house and past the entrance and all its trappings. Unbidden, his gaze wanders- seeking further and more about Sarangerel’s home and thus about her. Looking for trinkets, discarded belongings left to linger in forgotten corners, or if it is as desolate and deserted as his own imagined home to be should he have ever deigned to have one instead of drifting from one temporary place of lodging to the next.]