For a time, Derrica was of so little consequence that she escaped notice. When it came to these sorts of events, she could avoid them if she chose.
But having elevated herself, she is inescapably included when banquets and dances held by eccentrics in search of exciting party guests. She is not so miserable, perhaps, as some of her fellows, but there is a certain way southerners approach her that can be—
It is insulting, there is no other word for it, though Derrica knows they don't mean anything by their pointed queries and long-winded airing of opinion on Rivain and it's culture, their thoughts on what might be done differently, and did she agree with their understanding? In some respects, she is the perfect person for this work; she is patient, and capable of gracefully excusing herself when she senses her tolerance waning.
Her bracelets jangle down her forearm as she reaches to catch hold of Marcus' elbow. She had seen him across the room, easily marked in his grays and whites. There is a tension in his posture that feels very familiar, though maybe she is the one more in need of respite than he is.
"Enchanter," is due respect, though rarely used. (In this moment, she is demonstrating to their audience how they might address him, the consideration he is owed.) "I needed a word with you. Please, excuse me."
To the nobility and otherwise that had circled her, now watching her fall into step alongside Marcus and depart.
"How are you?" is an aside, meant for him rather than pitched that others might hear and invite themselves into the conversation. She feels frayed, having navigated so much attention for such a stretch of time.
Of those he might have spied in the crowd, and gravitated towards—
Well, Marcus would name Derrica first among them, he thinks, now that her hand has found his arm and there is nothing he need do to remove himself from this situation but step with her. The murmur of conversation in their wake is a little hushed, and in this particular crowd, hitting the exact correct resonance of avoiding being heard but making it clear that chatter has been evoked nonetheless.
Marcus doesn't care, empty wineglass at a negligent dangle from his fingertips as he bends his arm so that Derrica can keep a hold of it.
"Sober," he reports. His tone sketches wry, like maybe he'd fished for the most positive of status reports, or a problem he's contending with. The confusion of enjoying the music that emanates from the corner and the quality of the wine and even the selection of his own clothing and the clash of colour of everyone else's, everything fine and luxurious and bright, and then simply having no idea what to do once amongst it all.
He doesn't wear a robe for the way it marks him as being from the Circle, but these things have a way of doing the very same.
"I hope my rescue isn't stealing you from anything important."
It had occurred to Derrica somewhere within the first few minutes of her time in this room that the style of dress she'd chosen was very much at odds with the other women in the room. The rich purple is not necessarily the problem; it is the cut of the dress, the tattoos it reveals, the gleam of gold at her throat and wrists. It is all very Rivaini, and while Derrica doesn't know how else to present herself, she is aware of how it can make her into an oddity.
Which is the point, she knows. It is why they are here. But it invites a certain measure of—
Inspection. Or observation. A regard not dissimilar to a tiger in a cage, wheeled through a ballroom.
"Only Count Randolph's story about the last time he traveled to Rivain," Derrica tells him. "I think you can imagine the gist of it."
The squeeze of fingers at his elbow punctuates the statement. Does she have to outline exactly such a story would be tedious at best, affronting at worst?
The empty glass is transferred onto a passing tray, resisting the urge to reach for a refill.
Instead, when Derrica squeezes his arm, Marcus transfers his now free hand over the top of hers, communicating with the swoop of thumb over her knuckles that he can, indeed, imagine. There is a worldliness to these sorts of people that is only rivaled by their absolute disdain (even veiled as it might be in curiousity) for anything beyond their ordinary.
"The Lady Olstice was enjoying listing off stories of the rebellion and bidding me to name each one true or false," he says.
Tigers in cages, who also do tricks. He scopes the crowd for Count Randolph, idly. Just for reference. And if it'll make her feel any better;
From Marcus, the compliment draws a smile, a light nudge of her elbow against his. He is entitled to the observation. It lands far better than a similarly phrased by far more leering offering she had fielded earlier in the evening.
“I wish I had saved it for Satinalia,” she tells him, by which she means she should have saved it for their people, to celebrate alongside them rather than offer it up to gentry who observe her critically, measuring and weighing and clucking their tongues over the impression it gives. (Or covetously, the way one might observe something dazzling and dangerous while imaging it at their beck and call.)
She intends to say something else, about how pleasing she finds the fabrics he’s chosen for himself, though neutrals are not exactly her preference. It separates him in a way that suits, she thinks; stark and bright and unyielding amid the aggressively lavish array of their host and his chosen companions.
But instead, a strike of chords and a rap of drums from the front of the room draws everyone’s attention. The band, having drifted back to the raised dais in the corner has taken up their instruments. Derrica sighs, seeing immediately within the crowd a flurry of movement.
“Will you dance with me? Lord Brattle asked, but I’d rather avoid him.”
And his partner, who had frowned throughout the entire exchange before Derrica had extricated herself from their company.
It’s not a request she would usually make of Marcus. Almost immediately, she second-guesses the impulse, the position it puts him in.
The more likely response from Marcus would be the proposal that they simply leave, and the standing behave or else orders can be tested against the true depth of these people's pockets, and the diplomatic use of treating rifters, mages, and their other oddities as more for entertainment than a means towards sympathy. Perhaps he still will.
But she asks him to dance, and, despite everything, he thinks that might be nice to do.
"Aye," he says, and turns to lead them away, drawing them from the suggestion of a person trying to cut his way towards them. How strange, that standing alone in this place had marked him inside and out as an outsider, but moving through the crowd alongside Derrica feels like something else. Not a sense of superiority, exactly, but,
well, maybe a slight sense of superiority. Some mutual ability to declare each other unapproachable, around people he can think less of.
A brief commotion behind them, likely Lord Brattle attempting to bypass the cluster of elderly women positioning themselves to commentate on the dancers, comes to nothing. Or perhaps not exactly nothing, but he does not manifest to attempt to part Derrica from Marcus so it demands no more of her attention.
This melody may be familiar to Marcus, but it is not so for Derrica. Even after so much time among Riftwatch and spending all their efforts liaising southwards, the tunes she recognizes skews heavily northward.
The few turns she'd taken around the room had been stiff, diplomatic affairs. Now, with some lingering self-consciousness (lessened slightly by Marcus' lack of hesitation) she lifts her hand from his elbow to offer properly, a little pantomime of what she's observed other women on the floor to be doing.
This is perhaps not diplomacy as they had been instructed to do. But maybe they are both entitled to a few moments where neither of them are occupied with best behavior in the face of gilded rudeness.
"I've been pretending to know the steps," she admits, a slight smile breaking across her face.
It was petty, maneuvering herself constantly into the lead of any given dance and politely apologizing for her northern ways when her partner finally objected. But it is only a minor crime, not worth diplomatic incident.
None of those Marcus had found himself in conversation with had quite plucked up the courage to ask him to dance, if they had even wished to. It's one thing, perhaps, to play at conversation with a mage known to be particularly dangerous, and another to be seen at all embracing him.
But, you know. He'd gotten some practice in, just in case.
He didn't know he'd been practicing for Derrica in particular. He takes her hand, half-bowing over it as he's seen other men do. The dance currently happening is not so coordinated that all are following steps in synchronisation with one another, but there is a shared movement of rotation that they will need to dip into shortly.
"They're not so difficult," is his assurance that he can likely lead them along, drawing in close enough to rest a hand at her waist, and turn his other so that her palm can lay against his. It's gentle, the fold of his fingers over hers.
There's been no opportunity for a cigarette break, but there's still the subtle trace of that distinctive, stubborn scent on his person from earlier that day. Wine, fresh silk and linen, the sharper note of the alcohol content of some kind of cosmetic, all a distinct layer when pulled in closer. (Normally: horse and griffon, and smoke, and leather.)
"Alright," he says, more for his own sake, counting down in his head, before directing them into the first step.
This is far from her first dance. It is certainly not the first time she has been held this way, nor the first time her partner has taller than her, broader than her.
But the frisson of reaction is unexpected. Not new either, not really. But perhaps noteworthy because it was Marcus that provoked it. Awareness follows after, of the proximity of their bodies, the way he holds her hand in his own and the sensation of his palm there, his fingers at her waist. It prompts a moment of hesitation, maybe easy to mistake as uncertainty in the dance, even paired with a brief, searching look turned up to his face.
Having taken a turn about the room with a highly powered lady who smelt so aggressively of lavender, the familiarity of Marcus (smoke, and maybe soap, all other things specific to him and recognizable despite their comparatively distant habitual orbit.) is an extremely welcome thing. Welcome too is the way he leads her; less a sense of dragging or possessing, but instructive as their turns about the training yard.
"You're a good teacher," is not a surprise, or even a newly expressed sentiment. "Thank you for saving me."
A little joke. They are both of them capable of saving themselves, best behavior or not.
It's not very unlike the training yard at all, the way Marcus dances. A going through of motions, a certain measure of good form that stands in for and to some extent, makes up for a lack of innate grace. There is an objective to it he can understand, which is to lead them through this path, in this particular way, and that is also not so different from putting her through her paces back at the Gallows, swooping staves and casting forms.
Except they aren't in a training yard, or practicing combat. They're here, in a ballroom, and they're dancing, existing in a sustained kind of closeness. Gold glitters at her throat and in her hair, the rest of her dressed in the drapery custom to Rivain. He can detect without feeling it directly, the flutter of her skirt hem against his legs when they turn.
It won't be the first time that he is struck with exactly how lovely Derrica is, but perhaps the first time it occurs when he is right in front of her and she is studying his face.
Maybe she catches it, then, subtle: a self-conscious upturn at the corner of his mouth, a darting away of a look past her.
"Mm. I can set him on fire if this doesn't take," is exactly the sort of comment, joking or otherwise, that they hadn't even bothered to tell him not to make in this setting, it being so apparent.
But maybe here, just quietly, a small glimmer of rare humour.
Though in the moment, Derrica has tried to re-examine all those points in which they came together there. Yes, it was briefer contact, and their attention was otherwise occupied, but had she ever felt some similar flicker of reaction then?
Admittedly, what she wears into the training yard tends to be of sturdier stuff than the gauzy layers of fabric this dress is built from. She is very aware that if his hand shifts slightly, his fingers will find bare skin; the embroidered drape of her shawl has masked and teased the open back by turns as she moved within this room, but none of her other partners had sparked this concentrated prickle of—
Anticipation? Maybe. Derrica cannot quite pin the feeling, as her fingers run back and forth over a fold at of is sleeve where her hand has come to rest over his elbow.
Her study breaks at that, a chuckle even as she skims the crowd, checking for reaction before her gaze returns to Marcus. (Turning over in her mind that flex of his mouth, the shift of his gaze away and back.)
"Spare him, and try the drapes," Derrica suggests. "So we might leave instead."
She has had her fill of diplomacy, though the night will go on and on regardless of that.
And maybe they mean a general we, that all who don't feel welcome at this party should simply abandon their posts, but the conspiring nature of this conversation doesn't feel quite that inclusive. Here, there is a step where they briefly part, her hand and the stroke of her fingers leaving his arm, his palm from her waist.
A shared turn, and coming back together. His hand, high on her waist, and fingertips slip past the edge of silken fabric and find skin.
Marcus is not unaware of boundaries, for all that he tends to cross them with as much care as if they were made of cobweb, and not the rigid structures of acceptability. Conscious of them when he cares to be, and Derrica is certainly someone he cares for. How awful, if the lay of his hand were to make her feel as though the sanctuary she'd sought, here, with him, was not that at all?
He doesn't move it, though. It's only a pulse of concern, and then his fingers spread a little where they lay, slipping beneath the shadow of her shawl now that he's discovered it. The fabric of his coat is more textured up close than far away. He'd turned it over in the shop, admiring the glint of silver in the weave of it, the raise of an arboreal pattern only seen at certain angles. It wouldn't impress much, but it had pleased him, and that was enough.
Her hand tightens over his, an unconscious underscoring of that near-silent inhale. The music is at such a pitch that small things might go unobserved.
Derrica is more than capable of relocating an offending hand. Even more so in this moment, because she is so very certain of Marcus. If she were to apply enough pressure to relocate his hand and arm, she has no doubt he would take it in stride. He is safe; they're more than proven that to themselves in the wake of shared dreams and apologies rendered thereafter.
His hand is permitted to stay. Under the press of his fingers, she is coaxed just that much closer. The space between them is so narrow. Instead of his elbow, Derrica traces the subtle pattern of his coat over his chest, eyes moving still over his face as she finds her way to an answer. There is a question contained somewhere within her expression, even as she stops just short of asking it.
"Home," is closest to hand, comes with a little smile as she finally looks away from him, casts about before settling, "Somewhere quiet. Without an audience waiting to pick at us."
It would be easy enough to observe their closeness, speaking of audiences. Easy enough to dismiss it, too, and dismiss the disappearance of half his hand beneath her shawl as the natural positioning required by their dance.
So it is private, and known only to them, the way Marcus curls his fingers, lets the tips of them play light across her skin. Too deliberate in the circular pattern of that touch to be excused as accidental, serving first to let him touch her now that he is already touching her, and also to provoke sensation, a quiet little signal.
"That would be nice," Marcus agrees, able to speaking quietly despite the noise of music and laughter and slippers scuffing across marble.
His expression is ever subtle, as she reads him. Searches. Something receptive, though, in his regard of her.
Oh lives more in the exhale of breath than as a fully formed sentiment. The impression of a thing, telegraphing the same reaction as the slight arch of her back underneath his fingers.
The way he is touching her is deliberate; the illusion of accident has fallen away.
"We could go without the fire," is an express deviation from their assignment. (Stay in the ballroom, speak to anyone who will tolerate a conversation, endear yourself to them.) And it feels like a risk, like toeing up along the ledge of a very high wall and looking down.
Maybe the light skim of his fingers on the bare skin of her back means nothing, and she is about to embarrass herself. Splinter their relationship to each other.
It is a rare thing, being so unsure of a man's intentions. Maybe if she had met Marcus first as a stranger, her read of him would be better. But with so much affection between them already, she finds herself uncertain if she is parsing the expression on his face correctly.
There are things in this moment that are certain, to Marcus. That Derrica would not suggest they leave this place if she had objection to the splay of his fingers against her skin. That Derrica is intuitive enough to mark the deliberation of that touch. That she is more then capable of discouraging him, and probably doing so in a kind enough manner that he'd only be left feeling a little chagrined.
It is a certainty that means he can interpret, well enough, the uncertainty reflected back at him.
Leading her through a dance has been a simple affair, telegraphing the next step through the subtle tip of his hand under hers or the press of his touch at her waist and back. If she's picked up the rhythm and pattern of it, the next movement is a deviation, but communicated all the same. A step, two, and three, that pushes them both out of the broad circle the other dancers make.
Safely at the edges, when Marcus draws them to a halt, where no one is liable to crash into them.
He isn't slow to release her, though. That narrow space between them feels charged, and it is more for her sake than his own that he doesn't simply close it, here, although the press of his hand against her back communicates some desire to do precisely that.
"Alright," he says, as if they were as serious about the fire part as they seem to be about leaving.
As if it is so simple a thing as extricating themself from the crush of this ballroom and it's packed edges in search of a quieter venue. Marcus would smoke. They would talk freely about something or other, maybe of politics, maybe of the future, maybe of their frustrations with Riftwatch. And then they would return to their duty. It would be unremarkable on any other night.
Tonight, though, his fingers have not left her skin. Her breath went shallow somewhere after he'd first started trailing circles there, and it remains so now, as she looks back at him appraisingly. She is so aware of their closeness, more pronounced for the carefully preserved strip of distance maintained even as his fingers flex against her back.
A pause here, in which she looks into his face. Not so dissimilar to that day in the training yard in the wake of the dream where he tried to kill her. Incisive and intent, resolving eventually to—
Marcus moves his hand from her back, the bracket his arm makes around her, taking the one she turned in his other to encourage her arm around his. Respectable, at a glance, if more intimate than the polite position they'd been in on moving towards the music.
That day in the training yard, there was a moment where Marcus had considered turning down her friendship. Where in some ways, he'd given consideration to the fact that it might be a better thing for her to have distance from him. And perhaps it might have been given more weight if she were as prominent in Riftwatch's diplomatic affairs then as she is now, but—
No, he would have accepted that friendship anyway. Just like right now, when he considers (passingly) if there is a more responsible, selfless choice than the one he is making, and it too is set aside.
Sometimes, he wants things, and doesn't hesitate very much in the reaching for them.
There's an archway he'd already been considering before Derrica had swooped in, and he steers them that way now. The edge of his thumb settles at the ridge of her knuckles, a minor little rub of contact as if to communicate something he feels less equipped to do while they move through the crowd. Anticipation.
Here, the corridor is not unpopulated. A couple of lingering individuals in small, private conversations. It might have been to their liking, had Derrica chosen an escape path alternate to the dance floor.
The walk on. Past the murmuring pairs of couples, past all manner of gilded ornament and plush draperies, until Marcus finds the archway he had been considering. The music and conversation of the ballroom has faded down, inaudible and muted.
Her entire body feels wound tight, a coiled spring under the slight pressure of his thumb.
"Marcus," she says, grip on his elbow loosening only so that she might face him properly. Her hand lingers there, light clasp over his forearm.
Not exactly a question. She has a sense of his intention, the answer she would receive if she asked it.
The impression of his fingers at her back lingers, still prickling, skin flushed warm even in the absence of his touch.
He responds with a sound, swift and quietly hummed, as if her saying his name were the press of a hand or some kind of halting gesture. That slight pivot in where she faces him, and now there is no getting away with communicating only with touches and barely perceptible changes to his expression.
Unless there is! Unless there are whole sentences in the way he turns his arm, catches his hand gentle at her elbow, thumb finding a tender place to lay just there.
It's quiet, here. The room they've ducked into has no light, just the sheen of moon through the window, some ambient bleed in, unlit candles and lanterns. Book shelves, desk, places to sit. Here, too, they could talk of politics and the future and Riftwatch.
This is unique too: the way her skin feels electrified, like the application of his thumb to the soft bend of her elbow will draw sparks up along her skin.
"Yes."
To a different question, maybe. Something Marcus hasn't asked.
Her hand is still caught up in his. Derrica hasn't given it up, hasn't drawn back. There is space in this room. It is cool and dark, quiet. She could shrug off her shawl entirely, and they could talk free.
Instead, her opposite hand comes back to his chest. Runs along the subtle patterns to thumb at one gleaming button high at his neck.
There is an urge in him that would love to push against that hand. For the one he has at her arm to firm its grip, and direct her backwards and then nearer once her back finds the wall. It is the kind of urge he has practice keeping a firm leash on, where his other instinct is not to quicken away the present gentleness.
An instinct made stronger with a reflexive version of that gentleness where Derrica in specific is concerned.
So instead, his hand moves up her arm, fingertips trailing a soft line up the back of it. Past her shoulder, and then to her jaw, the brush of his knuckles.
He doesn't need to invade her space so abruptly to do this, for it to feel a little like a pleasing transgression, when he goes to tilt her chin up a little further, and duck his head to meet her lips in a kiss.
Between them, that sliver of space has narrowed near to closed. Preserved only in the most minimal of ways, only in that she hasn't flattened herself in against him.
Marcus' hand at her jaw, curled beneath her chin, hooks her attention so thoroughly that when he bends nearer it almost doesn't register. She is still considering the drag of his fingers and the nudge of them at her jaw that it is almost a shock to find him so near to her.
Almost.
As he kisses her, Derrica grips the collar of his fine, pristine coat. She makes a sound right up into his mouth, a gasp of impression as her grip tightens over the fabric. An echo of yes, unmistakable, as her mouth opens under his. She pushes up on her tiptoes, meeting him, or maybe countering any possibility that he might draw back from her.
It is difficult to be less opaque than is his habit, and so maybe the measure of relief detectable in the quietly rough sound rasped through his throat is a surprise. Relief not just that he hasn't made a misstep, because no, he'd been at minimum sure of something reciprocal in her, but just simply this,
her body, warm against his, and the softness of her lips yielding to him. His hands move, arms winding around her as she lifts up onto her toes, encouraging her against him.
The complex swoops of her dresses are still less layers than his formal clothes, and so there is less heat there than there is just the solid press of each other. His hands find places to be against her back, as if to take advantage of what he'd only let himself touch gently back in the ballroom.
Not grasping, not grabbing, flat palmed and savoring the feel of silk and skin beneath the heel of his hand.
More abstractly: a clench felt deep in his chest, something tightening.
Relief mirrors back to him. Relief that she hadn't presumed and embarrassed them both, and relief at even this controlled breach of the tension winding into her from the moment he'd put fingers to her skin on the dance floor. Not such a great deal of time, no, but he had spent all of it touching her in one form or another; coupled with the uncertainty of his intentions, it had been—
Good can only be settled upon because he is kissing her now, because all the coiled-tight anticipation in her has somewhere to go.
The worry is not completely gone; this may still be a misstep. Only Derrica thinks they can come through it together. Trusts Marcus to take all in stride.
Like she trusts him too with the enclosure of his arms. (Has trusted him in the training yard for months and months and months now, and even beyond it.) Marcus loops arms around her and she sways into him, sliding her hand from his collar to the nape of his neck. Makes a softer, more insistent sound directly into his mouth. Encouraging all of this, all the ways he is touching her and holding her and kissing her in this moment.
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no subject
But having elevated herself, she is inescapably included when banquets and dances held by eccentrics in search of exciting party guests. She is not so miserable, perhaps, as some of her fellows, but there is a certain way southerners approach her that can be—
It is insulting, there is no other word for it, though Derrica knows they don't mean anything by their pointed queries and long-winded airing of opinion on Rivain and it's culture, their thoughts on what might be done differently, and did she agree with their understanding? In some respects, she is the perfect person for this work; she is patient, and capable of gracefully excusing herself when she senses her tolerance waning.
Her bracelets jangle down her forearm as she reaches to catch hold of Marcus' elbow. She had seen him across the room, easily marked in his grays and whites. There is a tension in his posture that feels very familiar, though maybe she is the one more in need of respite than he is.
"Enchanter," is due respect, though rarely used. (In this moment, she is demonstrating to their audience how they might address him, the consideration he is owed.) "I needed a word with you. Please, excuse me."
To the nobility and otherwise that had circled her, now watching her fall into step alongside Marcus and depart.
"How are you?" is an aside, meant for him rather than pitched that others might hear and invite themselves into the conversation. She feels frayed, having navigated so much attention for such a stretch of time.
no subject
Well, Marcus would name Derrica first among them, he thinks, now that her hand has found his arm and there is nothing he need do to remove himself from this situation but step with her. The murmur of conversation in their wake is a little hushed, and in this particular crowd, hitting the exact correct resonance of avoiding being heard but making it clear that chatter has been evoked nonetheless.
Marcus doesn't care, empty wineglass at a negligent dangle from his fingertips as he bends his arm so that Derrica can keep a hold of it.
"Sober," he reports. His tone sketches wry, like maybe he'd fished for the most positive of status reports, or a problem he's contending with. The confusion of enjoying the music that emanates from the corner and the quality of the wine and even the selection of his own clothing and the clash of colour of everyone else's, everything fine and luxurious and bright, and then simply having no idea what to do once amongst it all.
He doesn't wear a robe for the way it marks him as being from the Circle, but these things have a way of doing the very same.
"I hope my rescue isn't stealing you from anything important."
no subject
Which is the point, she knows. It is why they are here. But it invites a certain measure of—
Inspection. Or observation. A regard not dissimilar to a tiger in a cage, wheeled through a ballroom.
"Only Count Randolph's story about the last time he traveled to Rivain," Derrica tells him. "I think you can imagine the gist of it."
The squeeze of fingers at his elbow punctuates the statement. Does she have to outline exactly such a story would be tedious at best, affronting at worst?
"How has it been for you?"
no subject
Instead, when Derrica squeezes his arm, Marcus transfers his now free hand over the top of hers, communicating with the swoop of thumb over her knuckles that he can, indeed, imagine. There is a worldliness to these sorts of people that is only rivaled by their absolute disdain (even veiled as it might be in curiousity) for anything beyond their ordinary.
"The Lady Olstice was enjoying listing off stories of the rebellion and bidding me to name each one true or false," he says.
Tigers in cages, who also do tricks. He scopes the crowd for Count Randolph, idly. Just for reference. And if it'll make her feel any better;
"I like your dress."
no subject
“I wish I had saved it for Satinalia,” she tells him, by which she means she should have saved it for their people, to celebrate alongside them rather than offer it up to gentry who observe her critically, measuring and weighing and clucking their tongues over the impression it gives. (Or covetously, the way one might observe something dazzling and dangerous while imaging it at their beck and call.)
She intends to say something else, about how pleasing she finds the fabrics he’s chosen for himself, though neutrals are not exactly her preference. It separates him in a way that suits, she thinks; stark and bright and unyielding amid the aggressively lavish array of their host and his chosen companions.
But instead, a strike of chords and a rap of drums from the front of the room draws everyone’s attention. The band, having drifted back to the raised dais in the corner has taken up their instruments. Derrica sighs, seeing immediately within the crowd a flurry of movement.
“Will you dance with me? Lord Brattle asked, but I’d rather avoid him.”
And his partner, who had frowned throughout the entire exchange before Derrica had extricated herself from their company.
It’s not a request she would usually make of Marcus. Almost immediately, she second-guesses the impulse, the position it puts him in.
no subject
But she asks him to dance, and, despite everything, he thinks that might be nice to do.
"Aye," he says, and turns to lead them away, drawing them from the suggestion of a person trying to cut his way towards them. How strange, that standing alone in this place had marked him inside and out as an outsider, but moving through the crowd alongside Derrica feels like something else. Not a sense of superiority, exactly, but,
well, maybe a slight sense of superiority. Some mutual ability to declare each other unapproachable, around people he can think less of.
The melody being struck is one he knows, as well.
no subject
This melody may be familiar to Marcus, but it is not so for Derrica. Even after so much time among Riftwatch and spending all their efforts liaising southwards, the tunes she recognizes skews heavily northward.
The few turns she'd taken around the room had been stiff, diplomatic affairs. Now, with some lingering self-consciousness (lessened slightly by Marcus' lack of hesitation) she lifts her hand from his elbow to offer properly, a little pantomime of what she's observed other women on the floor to be doing.
This is perhaps not diplomacy as they had been instructed to do. But maybe they are both entitled to a few moments where neither of them are occupied with best behavior in the face of gilded rudeness.
"I've been pretending to know the steps," she admits, a slight smile breaking across her face.
It was petty, maneuvering herself constantly into the lead of any given dance and politely apologizing for her northern ways when her partner finally objected. But it is only a minor crime, not worth diplomatic incident.
no subject
But, you know. He'd gotten some practice in, just in case.
He didn't know he'd been practicing for Derrica in particular. He takes her hand, half-bowing over it as he's seen other men do. The dance currently happening is not so coordinated that all are following steps in synchronisation with one another, but there is a shared movement of rotation that they will need to dip into shortly.
"They're not so difficult," is his assurance that he can likely lead them along, drawing in close enough to rest a hand at her waist, and turn his other so that her palm can lay against his. It's gentle, the fold of his fingers over hers.
There's been no opportunity for a cigarette break, but there's still the subtle trace of that distinctive, stubborn scent on his person from earlier that day. Wine, fresh silk and linen, the sharper note of the alcohol content of some kind of cosmetic, all a distinct layer when pulled in closer. (Normally: horse and griffon, and smoke, and leather.)
"Alright," he says, more for his own sake, counting down in his head, before directing them into the first step.
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But the frisson of reaction is unexpected. Not new either, not really. But perhaps noteworthy because it was Marcus that provoked it. Awareness follows after, of the proximity of their bodies, the way he holds her hand in his own and the sensation of his palm there, his fingers at her waist. It prompts a moment of hesitation, maybe easy to mistake as uncertainty in the dance, even paired with a brief, searching look turned up to his face.
Having taken a turn about the room with a highly powered lady who smelt so aggressively of lavender, the familiarity of Marcus (smoke, and maybe soap, all other things specific to him and recognizable despite their comparatively distant habitual orbit.) is an extremely welcome thing. Welcome too is the way he leads her; less a sense of dragging or possessing, but instructive as their turns about the training yard.
"You're a good teacher," is not a surprise, or even a newly expressed sentiment. "Thank you for saving me."
A little joke. They are both of them capable of saving themselves, best behavior or not.
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Except they aren't in a training yard, or practicing combat. They're here, in a ballroom, and they're dancing, existing in a sustained kind of closeness. Gold glitters at her throat and in her hair, the rest of her dressed in the drapery custom to Rivain. He can detect without feeling it directly, the flutter of her skirt hem against his legs when they turn.
It won't be the first time that he is struck with exactly how lovely Derrica is, but perhaps the first time it occurs when he is right in front of her and she is studying his face.
Maybe she catches it, then, subtle: a self-conscious upturn at the corner of his mouth, a darting away of a look past her.
"Mm. I can set him on fire if this doesn't take," is exactly the sort of comment, joking or otherwise, that they hadn't even bothered to tell him not to make in this setting, it being so apparent.
But maybe here, just quietly, a small glimmer of rare humour.
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Though in the moment, Derrica has tried to re-examine all those points in which they came together there. Yes, it was briefer contact, and their attention was otherwise occupied, but had she ever felt some similar flicker of reaction then?
Admittedly, what she wears into the training yard tends to be of sturdier stuff than the gauzy layers of fabric this dress is built from. She is very aware that if his hand shifts slightly, his fingers will find bare skin; the embroidered drape of her shawl has masked and teased the open back by turns as she moved within this room, but none of her other partners had sparked this concentrated prickle of—
Anticipation? Maybe. Derrica cannot quite pin the feeling, as her fingers run back and forth over a fold at of is sleeve where her hand has come to rest over his elbow.
Her study breaks at that, a chuckle even as she skims the crowd, checking for reaction before her gaze returns to Marcus. (Turning over in her mind that flex of his mouth, the shift of his gaze away and back.)
"Spare him, and try the drapes," Derrica suggests. "So we might leave instead."
She has had her fill of diplomacy, though the night will go on and on regardless of that.
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Leave.
And maybe they mean a general we, that all who don't feel welcome at this party should simply abandon their posts, but the conspiring nature of this conversation doesn't feel quite that inclusive. Here, there is a step where they briefly part, her hand and the stroke of her fingers leaving his arm, his palm from her waist.
A shared turn, and coming back together. His hand, high on her waist, and fingertips slip past the edge of silken fabric and find skin.
Marcus is not unaware of boundaries, for all that he tends to cross them with as much care as if they were made of cobweb, and not the rigid structures of acceptability. Conscious of them when he cares to be, and Derrica is certainly someone he cares for. How awful, if the lay of his hand were to make her feel as though the sanctuary she'd sought, here, with him, was not that at all?
He doesn't move it, though. It's only a pulse of concern, and then his fingers spread a little where they lay, slipping beneath the shadow of her shawl now that he's discovered it. The fabric of his coat is more textured up close than far away. He'd turned it over in the shop, admiring the glint of silver in the weave of it, the raise of an arboreal pattern only seen at certain angles. It wouldn't impress much, but it had pleased him, and that was enough.
"Where would we go?"
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Her hand tightens over his, an unconscious underscoring of that near-silent inhale. The music is at such a pitch that small things might go unobserved.
Derrica is more than capable of relocating an offending hand. Even more so in this moment, because she is so very certain of Marcus. If she were to apply enough pressure to relocate his hand and arm, she has no doubt he would take it in stride. He is safe; they're more than proven that to themselves in the wake of shared dreams and apologies rendered thereafter.
His hand is permitted to stay. Under the press of his fingers, she is coaxed just that much closer. The space between them is so narrow. Instead of his elbow, Derrica traces the subtle pattern of his coat over his chest, eyes moving still over his face as she finds her way to an answer. There is a question contained somewhere within her expression, even as she stops just short of asking it.
"Home," is closest to hand, comes with a little smile as she finally looks away from him, casts about before settling, "Somewhere quiet. Without an audience waiting to pick at us."
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So it is private, and known only to them, the way Marcus curls his fingers, lets the tips of them play light across her skin. Too deliberate in the circular pattern of that touch to be excused as accidental, serving first to let him touch her now that he is already touching her, and also to provoke sensation, a quiet little signal.
"That would be nice," Marcus agrees, able to speaking quietly despite the noise of music and laughter and slippers scuffing across marble.
His expression is ever subtle, as she reads him. Searches. Something receptive, though, in his regard of her.
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The way he is touching her is deliberate; the illusion of accident has fallen away.
"We could go without the fire," is an express deviation from their assignment. (Stay in the ballroom, speak to anyone who will tolerate a conversation, endear yourself to them.) And it feels like a risk, like toeing up along the ledge of a very high wall and looking down.
Maybe the light skim of his fingers on the bare skin of her back means nothing, and she is about to embarrass herself. Splinter their relationship to each other.
It is a rare thing, being so unsure of a man's intentions. Maybe if she had met Marcus first as a stranger, her read of him would be better. But with so much affection between them already, she finds herself uncertain if she is parsing the expression on his face correctly.
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It is a certainty that means he can interpret, well enough, the uncertainty reflected back at him.
Leading her through a dance has been a simple affair, telegraphing the next step through the subtle tip of his hand under hers or the press of his touch at her waist and back. If she's picked up the rhythm and pattern of it, the next movement is a deviation, but communicated all the same. A step, two, and three, that pushes them both out of the broad circle the other dancers make.
Safely at the edges, when Marcus draws them to a halt, where no one is liable to crash into them.
He isn't slow to release her, though. That narrow space between them feels charged, and it is more for her sake than his own that he doesn't simply close it, here, although the press of his hand against her back communicates some desire to do precisely that.
"Alright," he says, as if they were as serious about the fire part as they seem to be about leaving.
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As if it is so simple a thing as extricating themself from the crush of this ballroom and it's packed edges in search of a quieter venue. Marcus would smoke. They would talk freely about something or other, maybe of politics, maybe of the future, maybe of their frustrations with Riftwatch. And then they would return to their duty. It would be unremarkable on any other night.
Tonight, though, his fingers have not left her skin. Her breath went shallow somewhere after he'd first started trailing circles there, and it remains so now, as she looks back at him appraisingly. She is so aware of their closeness, more pronounced for the carefully preserved strip of distance maintained even as his fingers flex against her back.
A pause here, in which she looks into his face. Not so dissimilar to that day in the training yard in the wake of the dream where he tried to kill her. Incisive and intent, resolving eventually to—
"Alright," as her hand turns in his. "Let's go."
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That day in the training yard, there was a moment where Marcus had considered turning down her friendship. Where in some ways, he'd given consideration to the fact that it might be a better thing for her to have distance from him. And perhaps it might have been given more weight if she were as prominent in Riftwatch's diplomatic affairs then as she is now, but—
No, he would have accepted that friendship anyway. Just like right now, when he considers (passingly) if there is a more responsible, selfless choice than the one he is making, and it too is set aside.
Sometimes, he wants things, and doesn't hesitate very much in the reaching for them.
There's an archway he'd already been considering before Derrica had swooped in, and he steers them that way now. The edge of his thumb settles at the ridge of her knuckles, a minor little rub of contact as if to communicate something he feels less equipped to do while they move through the crowd. Anticipation.
Here, the corridor is not unpopulated. A couple of lingering individuals in small, private conversations. It might have been to their liking, had Derrica chosen an escape path alternate to the dance floor.
Marcus continues on, unhurried.
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Her entire body feels wound tight, a coiled spring under the slight pressure of his thumb.
"Marcus," she says, grip on his elbow loosening only so that she might face him properly. Her hand lingers there, light clasp over his forearm.
Not exactly a question. She has a sense of his intention, the answer she would receive if she asked it.
The impression of his fingers at her back lingers, still prickling, skin flushed warm even in the absence of his touch.
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Unless there is! Unless there are whole sentences in the way he turns his arm, catches his hand gentle at her elbow, thumb finding a tender place to lay just there.
It's quiet, here. The room they've ducked into has no light, just the sheen of moon through the window, some ambient bleed in, unlit candles and lanterns. Book shelves, desk, places to sit. Here, too, they could talk of politics and the future and Riftwatch.
"Is this better?"
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"Yes."
To a different question, maybe. Something Marcus hasn't asked.
Her hand is still caught up in his. Derrica hasn't given it up, hasn't drawn back. There is space in this room. It is cool and dark, quiet. She could shrug off her shawl entirely, and they could talk free.
Instead, her opposite hand comes back to his chest. Runs along the subtle patterns to thumb at one gleaming button high at his neck.
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There is an urge in him that would love to push against that hand. For the one he has at her arm to firm its grip, and direct her backwards and then nearer once her back finds the wall. It is the kind of urge he has practice keeping a firm leash on, where his other instinct is not to quicken away the present gentleness.
An instinct made stronger with a reflexive version of that gentleness where Derrica in specific is concerned.
So instead, his hand moves up her arm, fingertips trailing a soft line up the back of it. Past her shoulder, and then to her jaw, the brush of his knuckles.
He doesn't need to invade her space so abruptly to do this, for it to feel a little like a pleasing transgression, when he goes to tilt her chin up a little further, and duck his head to meet her lips in a kiss.
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Marcus' hand at her jaw, curled beneath her chin, hooks her attention so thoroughly that when he bends nearer it almost doesn't register. She is still considering the drag of his fingers and the nudge of them at her jaw that it is almost a shock to find him so near to her.
Almost.
As he kisses her, Derrica grips the collar of his fine, pristine coat. She makes a sound right up into his mouth, a gasp of impression as her grip tightens over the fabric. An echo of yes, unmistakable, as her mouth opens under his. She pushes up on her tiptoes, meeting him, or maybe countering any possibility that he might draw back from her.
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her body, warm against his, and the softness of her lips yielding to him. His hands move, arms winding around her as she lifts up onto her toes, encouraging her against him.
The complex swoops of her dresses are still less layers than his formal clothes, and so there is less heat there than there is just the solid press of each other. His hands find places to be against her back, as if to take advantage of what he'd only let himself touch gently back in the ballroom.
Not grasping, not grabbing, flat palmed and savoring the feel of silk and skin beneath the heel of his hand.
More abstractly: a clench felt deep in his chest, something tightening.
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Good can only be settled upon because he is kissing her now, because all the coiled-tight anticipation in her has somewhere to go.
The worry is not completely gone; this may still be a misstep. Only Derrica thinks they can come through it together. Trusts Marcus to take all in stride.
Like she trusts him too with the enclosure of his arms. (Has trusted him in the training yard for months and months and months now, and even beyond it.) Marcus loops arms around her and she sways into him, sliding her hand from his collar to the nape of his neck. Makes a softer, more insistent sound directly into his mouth. Encouraging all of this, all the ways he is touching her and holding her and kissing her in this moment.
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i sense we are approaching bow territory we must generate new content
it's all on you
challenge accepted