After last night’s little…hiccup, Brynjolf thought it best to set things right as soon as he woke. He dresses in an orderly fashion and fast-walks over to the wooden divider at the foot of the Guild Master’s bed, knocking politely. There would never be a time that he would not knock again – the first had resulted in a very intimate portrait and a good punch to his cheekbone that Brynjolf swears he can still feel today whenever he thinks about her. “Lass? You decent?”
He hears a chest snap shut behind the divider, a note of haste to the way it rang in his ears.
“Lass?” Deciding the risk was worth it (and not only because he wouldn’t mind to see his lass naked, either. Not at all), Brynjolf side-steps the divider. The charming smile he’s been working up is crumpled in an instant. “Pax?”
“Now’s not the time, Brynjolf,” his Guild Master says, voice soft but reprimanding all the same. She snaps her head up, eyes shut, stamps her foot, takes in a sharp breath through the nose – what she does every time she messes up. “Oh, damn it!” Returning to her work at a snail’s pace, Pax packs a bag filled with basic necessities for what he estimates could last a week. “I wasn’t supposed to talk to you,” she mumbles, but this was something he assumes he wasn’t meant to hear.
“What are you doing, lass?” Brynjolf hasn’t been one to show his emotions up front, would much rather play the card of charm (because charm was easily fabricated and just as easily bought), but even his silver tongue couldn’t catch the hurtful, accusatory tone it suggested.
Pax’s eyes are shut again, fingers knotting around the buckle of her satchel. “I’m leaving,” she tells him, but continues to mutter as she sets back to work again, “have to go see someone. Won’t be too long.”
Brynjolf shook his head. “Lass, who? Who are you going to see? You keep leaving and coming back, and every time you do, you look halfway to Shor’s halls!”
He doesn’t know why she laughs, but she does. The soft, bitter sort of chuckle born from secrets under lock and key. “It doesn’t matter. My business is my own, Brynjolf.” She turns to look at him as she shoulders her supplies. There was none of the fire, the sheer heat, from the night before – just a tranquil, soothing brown that Brynjolf has become so fond of (used to, he automatically tries to correct it). “And, um – I’m sorry. Really.” He tries to catch her wrist as she passes, but the woman is craftier than her character lets on.
“Pax!” No matter how often he tries to shout her name as he chases her to the Cistern’s hidden entrance, she wouldn’t respond – wouldn’t even look back at him, probably wondering why he even bothered to chase her for so long.
Defeated, he retreats to the Flagon, drink on his mind.
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timeasmymeasure
Brynjolf/F!DB, "Peace" [2.1/?]
Date: 2012-11-17 08:21 am (UTC)He hears a chest snap shut behind the divider, a note of haste to the way it rang in his ears.
“Lass?” Deciding the risk was worth it (and not only because he wouldn’t mind to see his lass naked, either. Not at all), Brynjolf side-steps the divider. The charming smile he’s been working up is crumpled in an instant. “Pax?”
“Now’s not the time, Brynjolf,” his Guild Master says, voice soft but reprimanding all the same. She snaps her head up, eyes shut, stamps her foot, takes in a sharp breath through the nose – what she does every time she messes up. “Oh, damn it!” Returning to her work at a snail’s pace, Pax packs a bag filled with basic necessities for what he estimates could last a week. “I wasn’t supposed to talk to you,” she mumbles, but this was something he assumes he wasn’t meant to hear.
“What are you doing, lass?” Brynjolf hasn’t been one to show his emotions up front, would much rather play the card of charm (because charm was easily fabricated and just as easily bought), but even his silver tongue couldn’t catch the hurtful, accusatory tone it suggested.
Pax’s eyes are shut again, fingers knotting around the buckle of her satchel. “I’m leaving,” she tells him, but continues to mutter as she sets back to work again, “have to go see someone. Won’t be too long.”
Brynjolf shook his head. “Lass, who? Who are you going to see? You keep leaving and coming back, and every time you do, you look halfway to Shor’s halls!”
He doesn’t know why she laughs, but she does. The soft, bitter sort of chuckle born from secrets under lock and key. “It doesn’t matter. My business is my own, Brynjolf.” She turns to look at him as she shoulders her supplies. There was none of the fire, the sheer heat, from the night before – just a tranquil, soothing brown that Brynjolf has become so fond of (used to, he automatically tries to correct it). “And, um – I’m sorry. Really.” He tries to catch her wrist as she passes, but the woman is craftier than her character lets on.
“Pax!” No matter how often he tries to shout her name as he chases her to the Cistern’s hidden entrance, she wouldn’t respond – wouldn’t even look back at him, probably wondering why he even bothered to chase her for so long.
Defeated, he retreats to the Flagon, drink on his mind.