A secret never comes free. But the years stretch, and he's kept worse than this. Hand curls into handkerchief. Gareth, Ilias, John. Charlotte. Leander, Derrica, even that list he handed Holden —
Secrets. He keeps them more often than not, a grisly little collection. People keep killing him insects, as though Isaac should want them skewered, arranged in neat rows. Under the belly of this boat, termites squirm unseen. Squalid and free.
"You don't," It's natural she shouldn't trust that. "Just don't get us both killed."
Gwen brings a hand to bruise. Isaac sets the cloth aside, and stands again, unsteady. It'll pass.
"Water, rest. More water than you think," The wings to support. "I'd advise bland food, but we are in Kirkwall."
"If you need call on me again, ask a delivery for Strange." Less like than an escort to draw attention. He thinks of offering some comfort, considers the hollow taste of it. Bland food. "I'll take myself back."
It’s not that she doesn’t listen to everything else he says — she does. Nods along, more water, bland food. (It will be some time before she keeps anything down anything like reliably, but no one is going to be surprised by that, least of all Gwenaëlle.) It’s just that he gets to the end of it, standing, and she reaches out,
her hand curling around his wrist, clammy with sweat, a firm grip. She says,
“I do,” quietly, like it means something that she is placing in his hand. And: “I’ll be alright. He and I can manage.”
Stephen, not Guilfoyle, who had stirred at her sudden motion, and moves no further.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
A secret never comes free. But the years stretch, and he's kept worse than this. Hand curls into handkerchief. Gareth, Ilias, John. Charlotte. Leander, Derrica, even that list he handed Holden —
Secrets. He keeps them more often than not, a grisly little collection. People keep killing him insects, as though Isaac should want them skewered, arranged in neat rows. Under the belly of this boat, termites squirm unseen. Squalid and free.
"You don't," It's natural she shouldn't trust that. "Just don't get us both killed."
Gwen brings a hand to bruise. Isaac sets the cloth aside, and stands again, unsteady. It'll pass.
"Water, rest. More water than you think," The wings to support. "I'd advise bland food, but we are in Kirkwall."
"If you need call on me again, ask a delivery for Strange." Less like than an escort to draw attention. He thinks of offering some comfort, considers the hollow taste of it. Bland food. "I'll take myself back."
no subject
her hand curling around his wrist, clammy with sweat, a firm grip. She says,
“I do,” quietly, like it means something that she is placing in his hand. And: “I’ll be alright. He and I can manage.”
Stephen, not Guilfoyle, who had stirred at her sudden motion, and moves no further.
“Thank you.”
She remembers to let go.