A rare thing for him to say to anyone about anything. But it's only partly kindness or affection. When he hears her on the stairs, he's still standing in front of the griffon's enormous face, arranging the grey feathers one by meticulous one.
He lowers his hands and says, "Good enough."
The answering crawk could just as easily be disgruntled as satisfied, but Kostos pats him on the beak and turns to look at Derrica. The first person he's been actually glad to see in more than a month.
There's a slightly windswept quality to Derrica when she appears. Sweater and shawl tugged on hastily, a little breathless despite Kostos' assurance that there was no rush.
The speedy arrival is less about eagerness to get in the air and more about the pleasure of Kostos' return.
"It's good to see you," is suffused with such warmth. It stands in for the urge to throw arms around him, an action only staved off because Derrica doesn't think it's the sort of thing Kostos would appreciate. But that impulse still telegraphed in the way she stops just short of him, smile bright on her face as she takes him in.
His eyebrows comment in silence on how rarely he hears that or is looked at this way—and rightly so—but he only says, "You too," and straightens the seam of her sweater on one shoulder.
He steps away to retrieve harnesses. Two of them, human- rather than griffon-sized, for clipping onto the saddles in case of a slip. He holds one out to her.
Shrugging on the harness and turning her attention down to the buckles, Derrica shakes her head. Her smile has softened, but it lingers, remains while she cinches the fastenings.
"Was it terrible?" she questions. "I hadn't heard anything."
Which typically means a mission is going well. A diplomatic venture where no splashy report of disaster hits the crystal seems like the ideal, and yet.
He's quiet for a stretch, cinching and buckling, while his reflex to complain dissolves in the calmness Derrica inspires.
"No. It wasn't that bad," he says. "It was only—family."
He's too old to have his cheeks pinched, but never too old to be wrapped in bear hugs by the barrel-chested, booming-voiced men or had his face held with urgent, sharp-nailed affection by the women on his mother's side of the family.
Somehow he still avoided his parents. They'll be hurt when they hear, if they haven't already.
Family. A hum of understanding, her eyes searching his face for a long moment. She doesn't find any obvious consternation, but even if she had, the question would have had to be phrased carefully. She is very aware that family is not an easy thing for him.
There's room for him, if he wants to speak on it. But to his question—
"I took over Project Haven," she tells him, followed by, "Will you check these?"
Lifting her arms, baring the buckles for his inspection.
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A rare thing for him to say to anyone about anything. But it's only partly kindness or affection. When he hears her on the stairs, he's still standing in front of the griffon's enormous face, arranging the grey feathers one by meticulous one.
He lowers his hands and says, "Good enough."
The answering crawk could just as easily be disgruntled as satisfied, but Kostos pats him on the beak and turns to look at Derrica. The first person he's been actually glad to see in more than a month.
no subject
The speedy arrival is less about eagerness to get in the air and more about the pleasure of Kostos' return.
"It's good to see you," is suffused with such warmth. It stands in for the urge to throw arms around him, an action only staved off because Derrica doesn't think it's the sort of thing Kostos would appreciate. But that impulse still telegraphed in the way she stops just short of him, smile bright on her face as she takes him in.
no subject
He steps away to retrieve harnesses. Two of them, human- rather than griffon-sized, for clipping onto the saddles in case of a slip. He holds one out to her.
"To begin with, you aren't Antivan."
It doesn't sound like a joke, but it is.
no subject
"Was it terrible?" she questions. "I hadn't heard anything."
Which typically means a mission is going well. A diplomatic venture where no splashy report of disaster hits the crystal seems like the ideal, and yet.
no subject
"No. It wasn't that bad," he says. "It was only—family."
He's too old to have his cheeks pinched, but never too old to be wrapped in bear hugs by the barrel-chested, booming-voiced men or had his face held with urgent, sharp-nailed affection by the women on his mother's side of the family.
Somehow he still avoided his parents. They'll be hurt when they hear, if they haven't already.
"Did anything happen here?"
no subject
There's room for him, if he wants to speak on it. But to his question—
"I took over Project Haven," she tells him, followed by, "Will you check these?"
Lifting her arms, baring the buckles for his inspection.