Having pulled the small chunk of her hair off, she begins to braid it between her fingers. It makes a small, thin plait; her hair has never had much body. "Were supposed to be a surprise."
She elbows him gently. It feels like she hasn't stopped grinning in days. Even now, she begins to lament not being curled in the bed with him, leeching off his warmth.
Jone pulls out a small locket, cheaply made of poor metal. She bought it off a refugee in their journey back to Kirkwall, selling wares likely scavenged off dead soldiers. She'd found a lock of hair inside, and thought it clever. That lock is now long ago discarded, and Jone replaces it with her own, a tiny curled plait that will show a brilliant red against faux silver, when morning light hits it.
"I know it's daft," she murmurs, "but I thought... you might like it."
She presses the little thing into his hand. She settles back into bed, curling in next to him, hiding her face. "If you don't, throw it out. No harm done."
For a moment he says nothing. In the grand stillness of her gesture, he is left equally still, as though inert in quiet contemplation— that little gift held aloft within his own roughened palm.
And then, like the breaking of a wave in its presence, "The clasp is too small to be managed on my own."
If she wishes it to be worn, she'll need to fasten the chain around his neck herself.
Her head pops up, eyes wide with something like surprise. "I figured you'd..."
Throw it away? No, Gabranth is too loyal for that nonsense. Wear it on his belt? He wouldn't dare; it'd be lost in an instant. Yet, still, his gentle acceptance of her silly sentimentality catches her off guard. Still, he is able to surprise her.
She kisses his chin, because it's the nearest thing to her, and takes the locket back. "Hold still, Noah luv."
If there is a constant to be found, it is his willingness to accept what he is freely given. Perhaps in time she'll take it to heart, as she has already taken so much of him in full, patient stride: that expansive measure of cruelty and coarseness, dignity and resentment, pride, pain, silent loyalty— for now, all he can do is prove it to be hers with every halting step forward. Every moment of ceded ceremony.
Her kiss is warm in humid air where it graces his skin, he tips his head into it long after she's left, permitting her to tend to the matter of fastening the fragile gift in place as she sees fit.
It will, after all, be safer pinned across his throat. Tucked beneath his armor.
Jone tries to fit it around his neck, and then laughs, muffling it in his chest. "Blimey, it's too small for you." She sets the thing aside on the table, still huffing laughter. "Oh, I'm a fool."
He leaves her to laugh as she cares to, to press her mouth to him in quickened adoration before he moves once more to the mattress, easing himself down into the cushion of its bedding.
"After this," he murmurs, his eyes already drifting closed in a prelude to sleep, "no more trinkets made from your hair."
She has a tendency to find fervor in everything. There is much he can imagine.
"Elsewise you will have none left before the year is done."
She could defend her position, explain it's traditional, argue that she can do what she likes. Instead, she squirms closer to him on the bed, catching every bit of warmth, writhing with comfort, and asks for yet more. Selfish, always selfish.
One arm moves to encircle her as she inches nearer, an exchange that— by now— has become a matter of habit whether Jone is awake and aware of her tendency to seek him out, or whether she does so deep within the throes of sleep. A difficult accommodation for Noah, who in his most prevailing pattern of sleep rests stiffly, untouched and sequestered to whatever portion of the bed or cot or ground he feels is his own, exclusively.
"I shall look after it always."
Well, it isn't a yes outright, but it is a sign of fondness for it. That, to Jone's mind, may or may not count for something.
He scoffs softly against the rolling pressure of her relaxation, finding his own in turn. An easy thing, considering the fullness of their own self-appointed schedule right now.
Foolish. And yet not undesired.
"I am unused to receiving gifts, aside from those granted to me by Emperor Gramis when I was first chosen to serve as Judge Magister. Thus in truth, I have no scale to offer, nor comparisons to make. I admire it because it was given to me, by you— there is nothing else to want."
It's such an utterly Noah thing to say, and she loves it for that. Jone smears a kiss from his cheekbone to his ear in quiet thanks. "Just means I have to give you more gifts."
It offers him the rise of her shoulder, that sloping kiss she paints across him, and he, seizing on it, returns the gesture against the curvature afforded to him.
“You are all I need. I meant what I said: do not strain yourself to spoil me, I would not have it.”
His cheek lies there for a moment of contemplation against her arm. She has given him much. Too much.
She doesn't bother explaining how much she likes 'spoiling' him. She doesn't truly think she could spoil him if she tried, but she still likes trying. It's just not a conversation worth having when he's nodding off.
He shudders unbidden beneath the vibrant press of it, fingers tightening in their grip across her arms— one low, lone breath exhaling through his nose.
A noise escapes his throat, stern, impatient. It takes only a single moment— where her fingers begin the process of gracing her nightclothes— for him to reach high and snare her, yanking her to the mattress with a growl.
Victory is hers, it seems.
And neither of them will be sleeping for yet another night.
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She elbows him gently. It feels like she hasn't stopped grinning in days. Even now, she begins to lament not being curled in the bed with him, leeching off his warmth.
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"...you are cutting your own hair off as a surprise."
In the dark. In the middle of the night.
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"I know it's daft," she murmurs, "but I thought... you might like it."
She presses the little thing into his hand. She settles back into bed, curling in next to him, hiding her face. "If you don't, throw it out. No harm done."
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And then, like the breaking of a wave in its presence, "The clasp is too small to be managed on my own."
If she wishes it to be worn, she'll need to fasten the chain around his neck herself.
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Throw it away? No, Gabranth is too loyal for that nonsense. Wear it on his belt? He wouldn't dare; it'd be lost in an instant. Yet, still, his gentle acceptance of her silly sentimentality catches her off guard. Still, he is able to surprise her.
She kisses his chin, because it's the nearest thing to her, and takes the locket back. "Hold still, Noah luv."
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Her kiss is warm in humid air where it graces his skin, he tips his head into it long after she's left, permitting her to tend to the matter of fastening the fragile gift in place as she sees fit.
It will, after all, be safer pinned across his throat. Tucked beneath his armor.
Known only to them, and them alone.
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A kiss to his neck, his cheek.
"I'll get a longer chain tomorrow."
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"After this," he murmurs, his eyes already drifting closed in a prelude to sleep, "no more trinkets made from your hair."
She has a tendency to find fervor in everything. There is much he can imagine.
"Elsewise you will have none left before the year is done."
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"D'you like it?"
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"I shall look after it always."
Well, it isn't a yes outright, but it is a sign of fondness for it. That, to Jone's mind, may or may not count for something.
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She pulls the covers closer over them, another part of this pre-sleep ritual. Her legs tangle with his, her head finds his shoulder.
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Foolish. And yet not undesired.
"I am unused to receiving gifts, aside from those granted to me by Emperor Gramis when I was first chosen to serve as Judge Magister. Thus in truth, I have no scale to offer, nor comparisons to make. I admire it because it was given to me, by you— there is nothing else to want."
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“You are all I need. I meant what I said: do not strain yourself to spoil me, I would not have it.”
His cheek lies there for a moment of contemplation against her arm. She has given him much. Too much.
What has he done for her in turn?
“A bath, tomorrow.” He murmurs, without context.
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"You're right," she says, "you stink."
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He stops there, head lifting like a dog called to attention from its den.
“Do I...?’
They have kept busy. It would not be a stretch to imagine he makes himself less than pleasant for the effort of it, salt still clinging to his skin.
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She punctuates this by kissing at his neck hard enough she's basically tasting him.
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An attempt to steady himself, however futile.
“...I thought we were meant to sleep.”
Mild. Enduring. And far, far from scolding.
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She's already unbuttoning her nightgown. "Noah. I need you." Her voice is less need and more mischief.
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Victory is hers, it seems.
And neither of them will be sleeping for yet another night.