Summer Q&A — Part 3

• Hadrian is sick, and Romanus is at his bedside. 

You watch his chest rise and fall. 

It's not rhythmic, or at least, it's not any rhythm you know. Hadrian doesn't breathe steadily, like he always does. His chest rises in grading rasps, then falls in slow hiccups, as if a board is wedged deep inside his throat. 

He's large in the small, narrow cot, the bottom bending dangerously underneath his weight. The moth-eaten quilt you found in a corner barely covers Hadrian's stomach, but you've shed your clothes to drape over the rest of him. Yet still, he shivers. 

"C'mon on, big man," you whisper, and because he's sleeping, you allow your voice to waver. You're shaking too, from top to bottom, the flimsy undershirt and undergarments you wear doing nothing to fight off the night chill. "Warm up."

Hadrian rasps a shaky, feeble breath. He's big and heavy, but, lying in front of you, his face ashen white, his lips drained of color, and his eyelids fluttering to feverish dreams, Hadrian looks... weak. Fragile. Vulnerable in a way you never thought Hadrian could ever be. 

Tears pool in the corners of your eyes. 

Plop

Water drips from between the loose boards of the ceiling. The rain outside is unrelenting, soaking the scarce hay on the ground and the dirt beneath. The granary creaks with the wind, wild gusts slipping through the walls and billowing inside. You shiver again and pray to a God you despise that the granary holds true. 

"... m'gel."

You almost didn't hear him; it was spoken so softly. You lean in and lay a hand over Hadrian's forehead. "God's entrails," you curse. He's colder than before. "Hadrian," you call, not knowing if he should be awake or not. "Hadrian," you call again, more desperately, your hand cupping his frigid cheek. 

But he doesn't answer. He shivers and breathes that broken, raspy breath like the wind soaring between the ribcage of a dead whale. You don't know whether Death has a voice, but if she does, you imagine she sounds exactly like this. 

Plop

Tears cloud your vision. Hadrian's face is paler still. "Hadrian," you whisper hoarsely. If this keeps going, he's going to die here. 

He's going to die. 

And you won't let it. 

Your bones creak when you get up, as if your joints are made of ice. All the wood you found is too soaked and rotten to ever hope to start a fire, but there's one last source of heat you can give him.

The undershirt goes first, then your undergarments. Bending over, you even shed your damp socks. All you're left with is your glove, as much a part of you as your skin. "The things I do for you," you mutter through rattling teeth. You almost wait for his answer, for that slight, once shy, smile that creases his eyes. For Hadrian to tell you that he'd do the same for you, a thousand times over.

Yet, the only sound is the screaming wind. Tears roll down your cheeks when you lift the bundle of clothes on top of him and slip inside. "Ah... elg," Hadrian mutters feverishly as you drape your body over his, fitting yourself the best you can into his nooks and crannies.

The shock of his ice-cold skin makes you gasp, but you lace your arms around his neck, pressing your chest into his, hoping to warm his heart. He's stiff below you, all harsh angles and hard muscles, nothing like the soft, warm body that embraced you before. It doesn't even smell like Hadrian; all you smell is rain and earth.

You press your face into his neck, your shivers now in time with his. "I— I'll start thin— thinking of ways for you to—" Your teeth rattle. "Repay me." You tap his temple playfully as another tear rolls down your cheek. "I’ll give you h— hell, bi— big man."

Hadrian's raspy breath doesn't even warm your ear. It's so faint, it chills you instead.

"Or just— wake up," you whisper, "wake up."

The wind billows against the abandoned granary, somewhere in the fields of a long-dead farm. The rain abates at the witching hour, but you've long since slipped into a restless, nightmare-plagued sleep to notice.

What you also don't notice are the arms that slowly wrap around you, nor the lips that whisper, right beside your ear. "Angel."

---

A ray of sunshine shines directly at his face.

Hadrian opens his eyes with unexpected difficulty. His head pounds, as if he's been drinking himself to sleep, but the pains and aches in his body tell him he must have been fighting instead.

Slowly, his thoughts as sluggish as his tongue, Hadrian realizes he's looking at a ceiling. It's round and ends in a point. His brows furrow. There's a pressure right underneath his eyes that begs him to close them and go back to sleep. His throat is sore; his lips are cracked. Hadrian begins to suspect he didn't battle after all when an overwhelming, rattling cough shakes his whole body.

But it's not the only thing it shakes.

Puzzled, Hadrian realizes something is weighing down on him. As the coughing fit slowly wanes, Hadrian gathers enough strength to crane his neck and look down.

He sees the top of a head; one he'd know anywhere. Through split, stiff lips, Hadrian calls your name.

You stir, your hair tickling his chest, before you tilt your head up and lock eyes with him. Your face is sunken, like you haven't slept for ages, with worried lines carved around your mouth and forehead. Your hair is wild, shooting out, and there's a light in your eyes, or the lack of one, that has him instinctively tightening his grip on you.

"Hadrian?"

But it isn't until you speak, your voice so feeble, a gust of wind would kill it, that dread burns in his stomach. "What is it?" he asks, willing his useless body to move.

You press your hand into his chest, and Hadrian falls back. Lord, how weak is he? He feels you pulling yourself up, sliding over him, and only now he notices how warm you are — or how warm his body is where you touch him.

Your face pops into his vision. "You're awake," you whisper, eyes darting over his face. Hadrian watches, mesmerized, as you raise a hand to cup his jaw. "You're awake?"

He doesn't register the question; he gapes up at you. Even fatigued, you're beautiful. The dread abates as he tilts his head into your palm. The world can't be that wrong, he thinks, if he has you in his arms. "Where are we?" Hadrian rasps, his eyelids sliding closed.

But they snap right open when you make a noise that's too close to a sob. "I don't know," you retort. "Why in the hell are you asking me that?"

With trembling, weak hands, Hadrian tries to comfort you. "I'm sorry," he says, as confused as he is worried. "I, uh. What should I ask?"

"Nothing!" You raise your head, and red, swollen eyes glare at him. "You should say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry," Hadrian repeats.

But it has the opposite effect. You look even more upset. "Don't apologize," you whisper, "you big oaf."

His head is pounding; whatever sickness has him makes it hard to think, so Hadrian cups your cheek, noticing how cold it is, and rests his forehead against yours. "Angel," he begs, "I'll say whatever you want me to say. Just don't be angry at me."

He thought he was saying the right thing. But once again, Hadrian's clumsy tongue made everything worse. Because now, you're crying. You bury your head in his neck and wrap your arms around him.

Pieces of last night come to him. The freezing cold, the frantic search for shelter when the storm broke. The joy when you saw a man-made road that led to an old farm, and then the desperation when the farm was abandoned, and the only building standing was a—

"Granary."

Your warm breath tickles his throat. "Yes. You fell into a deep sleep as soon as you lay down."

Hadrian closes his eyes. "Lord."

"Hmm."

"You—"

"I’m fine." Your voice is clipped with emotion. "How are you feeling?"

"Sick," Hadrian admits, playing with the strands of your hair. "But warm."

A gentle kiss on his jaw has his heart leaping. "What else?"

He smiles. "Grateful for you.”

"I almost lost you."

The words send a pang of guilt through him. He wants to thank you, to assure you he wouldn't go that easily, that he wouldn't have left you, but he can't articulate it, so Hadrian hugs you tighter.

... and he realizes what he's hugging is bare skin. "Uh..." Hadrian slides his hands down, and then nearly has a heart attack when he feels the dips of your lower back, and beyond, the soft curve of your—

He nearly jumps out of the cot. "You're—" Good Lord. He's naked too. "Lord in Heaven."

You raise your head, shooting him a confused look. That was bad. Because now Hadrian can see your bare chest and—

His soul leaves his mortal body. "Father, help me."

His ears are burning, as is his face. He slides his eyes towards the ceiling, but it doesn't help. God have mercy, he can feel you on top of him. Your legs are laced with his, and your stomach is in his ribcage.

"Hadrian?"

"You're naked," he says, curling his hands into fists.

You two have never... not yet at least. He's pleasured you in the hideout, and he's thought of it every night since. But you haven't yet, and he's trapped between wanting to flee and pull the cover off.

"How did you think I kept us warm?" you ask, moving your head to catch his gaze.

Hadrian looks elsewhere. "I don't—" God, you're soft. "I didn't think of that."

You laugh. It's a much better sound than your cries. "Hadrian, look at me."

"I don't think I can."

"I'm covered."

His cheeks feel so hot, he's about to pass out again. "I can feel you," he admits in a guilty murmur.

You laugh once more. "So can I," you say, then bend and kiss his cheek. "Hadrian, please, look at me."

He does. You're smiling, but it doesn't reach your eyes. Those are still heavy with emotion, with a worry that only now Hadrian is beginning to grasp. "I'm so glad you're awake.”

How close was he to death last night?

His shame evaporates. Hadrian pulls you to him, as tightly as his feeble arms allow. "So am I, love.”

• What would Neia do if Romanus was tortured in front of her? Would she break?

The fourth blow is brutal.

The impact bounces off the stone walls, that sickening crunch of bone under duress. A scream doesn't follow, not even a groan. You're silent as death, your jaw locked, the blood spilling from the corner of your lips dripping down your chin.

They've stripped your shirt, and the ends of the red streaks painting your back are visible at the bend of your shoulders, the side of your ribs, and the curve of your waist.

Neia doesn't take her eyes off yours.

You're staring at her, and she knows that look. It's the steely, faraway look of one trying to escape themselves. She's seen it countless times, on countless faces. But yours isn't just any face.

There's a dripping sound somewhere in the basement, drip, drip, from the ceiling. It laces with the sickly-sweet voice of the main Interrogator. "Disgraced sister," he sizzles, his breath oozing out of his mask to warm the side of her face. Neia would have curled her lips in disgust if her face hadn't been swollen and bloodied. "Save what's left of that ruined soul and tell us her whereabouts."

Neia doesn't take her eyes off you. Her left eye is cloudy, as if the eyeball is swollen. She was beaten first, but they soon realized they wouldn’t break her.

So, they switched to you. That was their second mistake.

"Speak."

You part your lips, just barely enough to mouth 'no'. Neia opens her mouth. "Fuck off."

She can feel the Inquisitor smile beneath the mask.

Wack

Another crack, another echo on the walls. Not a sound from you still.

Neia watches you intently. She knows torture. She hasn't performed it much in recent years; the job was delegated to underlings, but she knows it like the back of her hand. She knows when someone is near their breaking point.

You're slumped heavily forward; your tied arms extended to the ceiling. Sweat clings to your forehead, and you must have bitten your tongue again, because fresh blood spills from your mouth. But your eyes are bright, and they're sharp on hers.

You're far from breaking.

The Inquisitor behind you brings the whip back, curling it in his gauntlet hand.

"Free yourself from evil, child, and speak," the puppet speaks near her ear. "The whip is but a caress. You wouldn't want us to abandon gentleness, now, would you?"

Neia holds your gaze. They're bottomless, your eyes, and they tell her everything you dare not speak. Neia wonders if you can read her reply. 'Leave it with me, sweetling. They won't hurt you for much longer.'

The Inquisitor licks his lips beneath the mask. "There's corrupted lust between you both, is there not?" A hand touches Neia's collarbone. "You wouldn't want to witness her bleed, would you? To drag her to hell with you?"

An ancient rage surges from deep within Neia. It paints her vision red, for a moment only, but she pushes it back. The rope is taut around her wrists, twisting her shoulders back so tightly that the sockets are close to popping.

That was their third mistake.

Neia slowly spins her right hand, closing it in a fist. "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name," Neia prays, her calm, steady voice filling the dimly lit cellar. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth, as it is in—"

A punch snaps Neia's head to the side. "You've lost the right to utter His name," the Inquisitor spits, all mock-composer gone. There's venom in his voice, real malevolence. "Filthy aberration."

He straightens up and strides to the table propped against the wall. The small cellar is far from an interrogation room — it's in the nearest peasant house they could find. They lack the proper tools, devices, and time to properly exercise the interrogation. Neia supposes they're in a rush.

That was their first mistake.

"Let's see," the Inquisitor says, picking up a long, thin blade. It's like a needle. He turns toward you, but his mask looks at Neia. "Will this make you chant, demon? Do you have any piety in you still?"

The needle presses into your arm. Neia sees it, then, your flinch, the horror flashing across your face. You're terrified, she knows, and that nearly breaks her. Her arm creaks, rotating even more. She doesn't bother trying to hide it, now that he's out of eyeshot.

The Inquisitor digs the needle just enough to pierce your skin. A thin line of blood pools forth. "Where is Romanus?" he asks Neia. "We know you're hiding her. Tell us, and we may be moved to bless your corpses."

Neia doesn't look away from your eyes. "Right in front of you."

Three things happen at once. The Inquisitors exchanged glances, then swirled together in your direction. You scream, a terrible, anguished yell of betrayal. "No!"

And Neia twists her arm so far back that the shoulder pops from its socket and her bloodied hand slips off the rope.

She rises to her full height, and as the Inquisitors turn to face her, shock in their featureless masks, Neia throws the chair at the nearest one. A bang follows, but Neia doesn't care whether it hits. She's running for the table, and when her left hand grabs an iron club, a maniac, feral smile splits her face in two.

She turns, towering so high that her head grazes the ceiling. There's no more control, no more safeguards. Neia lets her bloodlust run free. "I'd start praying," she advises, and as they scramble for their swords, Neia the Dawnseeker descends upon them.

---

Neia cuts the ropes, and you fall.

The ground below is slick with blood, so you lose balance, but Neia catches your shoulder, stabilizing you. She's as bloody as the dead Inquisitors at your feet, breathing heavily, her white hair coated in red.

Her right arm hangs awkwardly from her sleeve. You clench your teeth at the sharp pain in your back, but press on, taking the club from her hand. "I could have helped," you say, surprising yourself at the coldness in your voice.

The mark burns, sending spasms up your arm.

Neia spits blood from her mouth. "Couldn't cut it while fighting," she says. One of her eyes is swollen, but the other watches you intently. "How bad does it hurt?"

You don't answer. Squatting down, you rip off the Inquisitor's masks. Two ordinary faces stare at the ceiling, their eyes clouded by death. Just two mundane men.

You want to rip their flesh to pieces.

"Sweetling." Neia lays her hand on your shoulder.

You close your eyes, rage bubbling from your core. But as Neia calls your name, you breathe out and let go. "I'll live," you say, standing up to face her. She quickly hides her worried frown, but you saw it. "You're worse than me," you note, wrapping your fingers around her good wrist.

"Pain is more than physical."

Your smile feels enigmatic even to yourself. "I want to hunt them all, Neia," you whisper, staring into her yellow eyes. "Every single one of them."

And Neia, the specter you’ve grown to love, holds your gaze right back. "We will."

• How would the Pirate react to Romanus getting hurt taking a blow that would've otherwise hit him?  

It happened in the blink of an eye. Literally.

When the Pirate closed his eyes, bracing for impact, the bolt soared across the sky like the angel of Death, coming finally to collect his ruined soul, but the thud that followed wasn't felt.

Only heard.

The Pirate opens his eyes, a grin already pulling at his mouth, only to see you standing before him, as if you materialized by the wind.

There's something wrong with you, he notices at once. There's something wrong with the way your shoulders hunch, and your daggers clatter to the ground. There is something terribly wrong because your legs buckle, and the Pirate catches you midair before you fall to the ground.

The world is entirely wrong. Because his hand is coated in blood.

"You didn't." His voice sounds distant underneath the ringing in his ears. The Pirate watches the rapidly growing red stain around the embedded bolt, right beneath your ribs. "You fucking didn't."

He's kneeling on the ground with you in his arms, and the world stops still. Time freezes, the clock hands stuck to the face. Sounds contort. The ringing gets louder, filling his head.

"Couldn't... let the captain fall." Your feeble, broken voice is laced with pain. Your eyes are barely open, just two slits, and your lips are rapidly losing color. Even still, you manage to smile.

There's something wrong with him, too, because for the first time in his life, the Pirate freezes. He simply stares at you, eyelids pulled back, heart thumping in his chest.

"Couldn't let my..." Your hand inches closer to his, where he presses on your wound. "My pirate..."

Your fingers touch his, and the time pops back into place.

Woosh

Another bolt, this time soaring past a foot above his head. The Pirate ignores it, gathering you in his arms. "Stay awake," he commands, his voice back in full force. The voice of a leader. He hopes you don't hear the dread beneath. "Keep talking to me, peach."

He runs, then, runs as he's never run before. "Francis!" He bellows, leaping over a dying man, not caring whether it's ally or foe. He needs to get back to his ship; he needs to get you to safety.

Chancing a look down, he sees your eyes drifting closed. "Look at me." He pulls you into his chest, fingers digging into your arms. "Look. At. Me."

You do, thank the spirits. "It's cold," you whisper.

He'd burn the whole world to keep you warm, but, right now, all he can offer is empty words. "Not for long." His ship comes into view. It shouldn't be possible, but he runs even faster. "I'll lay you in front of the fire, with a silk blanket. You’ll drink mulled wine and complain about the smoke in my cabin. Sounds good?"

His heart isn't one to break. But it does, at the smile you give him. "Yes," you say, and he knows you don't believe him. "As long as... you lie next to me."

He’s never once lied to you before. “I promise.” His boots thump on the planks. He shoulders past sailors. "Francis!"

At last, the surgeon pops his grey head into view. He's frowning, but the old man's face drops when he sees you. "In here," he says hurriedly, opening the door to his cabin.

The Pirate doesn't want to let go of you, but he forces himself to lay you down. Francis pushes past him, kneeling before you. He sheds your armor and cuts your tunic.

Your blood is already soaking the cot. The Pirate doesn't look at it. He can't take his eyes off yours. You're still awake, hanging on by a thread, like the warrior you are.

His hands start shaking. He reaches for his axes, squeezing so tight, his knuckles turn ashen white. He's angry with you, he realizes. Furious.

But he's never loved you more.

Finally, the old man speaks. "She's lost a lot of blood."

"Fix her."

Francis looks up. "I’ll do me best, but—"

The Pirate's eyes drag from yours to fix on the old man's. "You fix her,” he murmurs, his voice as dark as the depths of the ocean, “or I'll wrap your guts around your neck."

Francis stares back at him, one of his oldest friends, then cackles. "You're serious, ain't you?"

The Pirate doesn’t need to answer.

Francis laughs again, then rolls up his sleeves. "Right, then, lady, my life is tied to yours." He jerks his chin at the door, not bothering to look away from his work. “You, leave.”

The Pirate is chief everywhere on the ship, but here, Francis reigns supreme.

Walking over, the Pirate bends to cradle your head. He kisses your temple, then your eyebrow. You're unconscious, but he hopes you can hear him. "You keep talking about Heaven, but it's not your time yet." He gives a last, reverent kiss to your lips. "If you see the Gates, my heart, run the other way."

---

The battlefield stretches to the horizon.

He's going to burn the land with the corpses of his enemies and then salt it, so nothing ever grows here. "Keep the archers alive," he tells his second. He doesn't know which one shot you, so he'll skin them all. "Kill all the rest."

Lia nods, her eyes glinting with the crazed, bloodlust thrill of upcoming battle. He doesn’t need a mirror to know his eyes look the same.

Behind his back, there's his ship. A tiny room in the heart of it. The Pirate can feel the walls around him cracking, grief waiting on the other side, heavy and cold like an empty room.

Spirits, keep her here.

Spirits, give her strength.

Spirits, deliver the blow that was destined for me, and trade my life with hers.

• Vallen and Romanus are 'interrupted'.

Lips press along the pale lines of her throat.

Vallen's skin warms below your touch, like glass does when you press your palm against it. It's addictive, this slow heat that radiates from her into you. Or, perhaps, it's you who's warming her. You don't find it in yourself to care.

Her long, scented hair is loose, and it frames your head as you press another kiss a bit down, right where the neck meets the shoulder. She giggles when you lick her collarbone, then slender, elusive fingers drift up your nape to plummet into your hair.

You groan, deep, your chest rumbling, and you suppose she likes it, because Vallen arches into you to chase the vibrations. "Nearly two fortnights," she says, her minty breath tickling the top of your ear.

A pair of heart-shaped, red lips close around the earlobe, and you smile when the tip of her canines grazes the sensitive skin. "Nearly two."

Vallen straddles you, where she pinned you down as soon as you closed the door of your room for the night. The fireplace casts a soft glow, candles are lit along the wall, and snow drifts in gentle swirls against the windows. The night beyond is dark and impregnable, but here, you rest your weary feet.

And get to squeeze Vallen's shapely behind.

"Do I sense disapproval in your tone?" You hum between kisses, pulling her tunic down so you can smooch along her shoulder. Your stomach is so empty, it clings to your back, but the more you touch her, the more you inhale the scent of her, the less your hunger craves food and wants her instead.

Vallen taps her nails reproachfully. "It shouldn't have taken you more than a tenday."

Definitely disapproval. "I came as fast as the storm allowed," you say, lifting your head to face her. Vallen's hazel eyes are already on you. If you were to guess, they've been watching you this entire time.

She does it often. Even, you know, while you sleep.

Your mark tingles in warning, but as you stare into the depths of that blank gaze, you feel yourself being pulled in. "Say your piece," you tell her, "I know it eats you inside."

Vallen smiles, and you like that smile too. It's the same she gave you at the top of the Devil's Bridge. "I've no piece to say, silly, only a promise."

She waits on top of you, tunic half done, cheeks flushed, and hair like a golden waterfall. "Tell me your promise, Red Guard," you say, reaching out to tug on her bottom lip. Food is forgotten, now, all you want is to consume her whole.

Vallen turns her face, takes your finger into her mouth. "We won't separate again." Her tongue licks around the first knuckle. "Where you go, I'll follow."

You take your finger out, grab her chin, and pull her in. Vallen kisses you, hands tugging off your coat as you shed her tunic. She's nude below, and soon, so are you. Tilting your head, you deepen the kiss, that familiar, dark hunger sizzling like a fire inside your ribcage.

You're vaguely aware of her nails, scratching down your back, then coming around to grab at your belt. You pull at her leggings, helping her sit up so you can—

Knock, knock.

The door swings open. "Supper is served, Sires! Hot soup, warm bread, and a bottle of mead that'll make you write home to your mama about! Just a silver coin apiece and— AHHH!"

The knife flew so fast, it distorted the light.

It vibrates on the door frame, now, the sound bouncing across the room's walls. A hairsbreadth away, a young man's face is ashen white with horror.

Vallen is half turned on your lap. Your hands cover her chest, but she doesn't seem concerned with nudity as she stares down the servant. Her face is blank, but the absence is not empty. There's an underlying threat in the vacant gaze. "Why don't you close the door?" she asks in an upbeat, cheerful tone, completely contrasting with her expression. "And save us two plates for later?"

"Y-yes." He slams the door closed. You hear his footsteps running down the hall.

Vallen turns to you. Her eyes are blazing.

You look from the knife to her. "Where the hell were you keeping that?" you ask, laughter bubbling up your throat.

Her only answer is to grab your chin and lock lips back with yours.

• Interaction with Beka.

She has a foot positioned back.

You already know where this is going. "It's cold tonight," you note, tilting your head up at the glass ceiling. The rain is but a slight drizzle, but the less it rained, the colder it got.

Tarragona is silent. Fear and dread cling to the streets. You can't help but wonder where Beka will sleep. Will it be warm? Will it even be dry?

"Pff, you really are a softie," Beka says, glancing at the sky as if it couldn't touch her. But her wild, knotted hair is damp, and her flimsy shirt still clings to her like a second skin. "This is nothing."

"Don't you want a cloak, at least?" you try, your voice in a nonchalant tone. You can't ever sound eager around Beka. She's like a dog; she can sniff it a mile away. "I have a spare one."

You see it, uncertainty clouding her expression. The light of the hideout shines in the whites of her eyes, and it makes them softer. Almost hopeful. But then, Beka shakes her head, putting her weight in that back foot. "I don't need one," she lies, to herself more so than you. "I got thick, perfect covers at home."

None of you acknowledge that she doesn't have a home.

Beka takes a step back. "'Sides, I didn't come here for ya help, Richie!" She states, lifting her chin defiantly. "Just needed to give you the info."

The info was inconsequential, and you both knew it. What she really wanted was a warm meal.

You nod your head. "Thanks again."

Beka huffs once more. "Don't know what you'd do without me."

You smile. "I'd be lost."

"Damn right." She smiles back, then, openly and gleefully, like the child she truly is. But it dims too quickly as Beka casts her eyes to the ground. "I'll be goin'. See ya around, Richie."

With a wave, Beka turns and runs for the tunnel.

"Beka, wait!" you call after her, more out of instinct than anything else. Never once has she waited, she's always just—

Beka stops.

Slowly, the young girl turns around to face you. The light is just enough to let you see the frown carved on her brow. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why d'ya always say that? 'Wait.' You always tell me to wait." Beka crosses her arms. "Whatcha want me to wait for?"

You lick your lips, fighting back a smile. "Well, I suppose..." You take a tentative step forward. She glares but doesn't shrink away. "I want you to wait for me."

That disarms her. "You want to come with me?"

"I'd rather you stayed with me, if I'm honest."

The young orphan watches you for a long while, the whites of her eyes scintillating. Silence falls, heavy and tense. Darkness hides most of her expression from you, but you can feel her eyes boring into yours, nonetheless.

"Why?" Comes Beka's small whisper.

"We're partners, right?" you ask. "We should stay together."

Beka crosses her arms again, but this time, she hugs herself. When you take the next step, you see her glaring at the ground. "You don't know what ya're saying."

You crunch down, getting to her level. "I think I do."

She scowls at you; her eyes are wet with unshed tears. "Ya don't! If you let me stay, but then— then—"

You hold out a hand. "I won't change my mind."

Beka looks at your gloved palm. For a moment, you fear she'll yank the glove off, but she doesn't. "I can sleep in tonight," she says, lips pursed and cheeks flushed, but she's betrayed by her trembling lip. "Just tonight."

You smile softly. "Deal?"

Slowly, Beka lays her hand in your palm. "Deal."