[ He doesn't move away from her hand on his hip in any hurry, but he doesn't let it tether him, either, when he has to put his feet on the floor and stand up to get his pants all the way back on.
He watches her while he's fastening them, though. He can see why people might stare at her in taverns. ]
[ Derrica sits up in his absence, combing fingers through her hair as she pulls her tunic into her lap. There's no disagreement. She's said as much to Flint, to Ilias; the Chantry could come and take them all back. It would not be difficult. ]
[ He scoops up his shirt from the floor and sits on the edge of the bed again. With some people, most people, he would be out the door. Boots unlaced. Putting his shirt on in the hall.
It doesn't mean he likes her more, that he's still here. For the record. It's just that she feels like water. There's nothing to grasp or tangle. ]
I think we will die trying. But maybe some of us will die old, still trying, and if they were stupid enough to have children—maybe then.
[ The glow of warmth is fading, cooling in the wake of his response. He is not wrong. Derrica's worries have looped around to the same outcome, the idea that it will take more than the end of this war to negotiate a better life for whoever comes after them.
She swings her legs out of bed to sit next to him, bare feet on the floor. ]
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I'm not used to it yet.
[ His belt was still attached, so no hunting for that. ]
I hear something outside and my first thought is still that we're in trouble. [ Which— ] It's really fucking annoying.
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Whenever someone stares too long at me in a tavern or on the road, I think of mage hunters.
[ Her smile is only slightly bitter. ]
I don't know how long it takes until you get used to the idea that you're beyond their reach. [ Maybe when it's actually true, Derrica doesn't say. ]
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We're not.
[ He doesn't move away from her hand on his hip in any hurry, but he doesn't let it tether him, either, when he has to put his feet on the floor and stand up to get his pants all the way back on.
He watches her while he's fastening them, though. He can see why people might stare at her in taverns. ]
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Do you think we ever will be?
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[ He scoops up his shirt from the floor and sits on the edge of the bed again. With some people, most people, he would be out the door. Boots unlaced. Putting his shirt on in the hall.
It doesn't mean he likes her more, that he's still here. For the record. It's just that she feels like water. There's nothing to grasp or tangle. ]
I think we will die trying. But maybe some of us will die old, still trying, and if they were stupid enough to have children—maybe then.
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She swings her legs out of bed to sit next to him, bare feet on the floor. ]
That's something to look forward to.
[ One small, uncertain hope. ]
Thank you, by the way.
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[ His head is inside his shirt when he asks, but it emerges shortly to look quizzical. Is thanking people a thing? Was he supposed to be doing that? ]
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[ Which she thinks he knows already, and wasn't the point, not really. She reaches up to smooth his hair as she continues— ]
But not just that. I've had a lot on my mind, and this was...good.
[ Good falls somewhat short, but it'll do. Kostos didn't come here to hear all of her troubles. ]