Oh, darling, if I ever cross your mind
It’s her terms, never pressuring and never too nosy to not be a decent friend, Thorn’s goal is to help her let off steam if she needs to. So he leaves the opening there – the dusty kitchen screen door on hinges that squeak, halfway between letting the sunlight through or closing fully to keep him out. He wouldn’t judge her either way.
She continues to clean and he half expects her to shift subjects and ask him what kind of product he was using in his hair this week that was new just to not talk about it, when she surprises him. “Yeah, I bet it is.” He hums his understanding, the courtesan sitting back a little but still in a way that allows him to get up should he need to. She double times on the leather with the cloth and he wonders silently how she doesn’t have a blister forming yet from the movement.
“Have y’all agreed to be anythin’? Or is it just kinda in the air?” He asks quietly, uncaring one way or another but figuring it would help him get a better idea of where her frustrations were tied to. Instead, he gets the snap of rigging, the way she jolts forward, the scent of leather and cleaner even more vibrant now as he shoots up to go and sit beside her. “Lemme help, Colt.” He murmurs, even if it wasn’t much of a help. Conjuring the telekinesis in his blood, he lifts the tack up and slips it over into the bucket of the rest that needed fixing (he’s been here often enough to know where she keeps things for her to-do list).
And rather than let her oil up her hair further, he reaches up to take it from her hands, running his jeweled fingers through it to start a little braid. “Tell me about what’s so special ‘bout him?” Maybe they could determine where the attachment came from, which portions she could try to guard against if she didn’t want to feel the sting so sharply. A bandage around the worst parts but not the whole so that she could still feel, it just wouldn’t be so gut wrenching.
She continues to clean and he half expects her to shift subjects and ask him what kind of product he was using in his hair this week that was new just to not talk about it, when she surprises him. “Yeah, I bet it is.” He hums his understanding, the courtesan sitting back a little but still in a way that allows him to get up should he need to. She double times on the leather with the cloth and he wonders silently how she doesn’t have a blister forming yet from the movement.
“Have y’all agreed to be anythin’? Or is it just kinda in the air?” He asks quietly, uncaring one way or another but figuring it would help him get a better idea of where her frustrations were tied to. Instead, he gets the snap of rigging, the way she jolts forward, the scent of leather and cleaner even more vibrant now as he shoots up to go and sit beside her. “Lemme help, Colt.” He murmurs, even if it wasn’t much of a help. Conjuring the telekinesis in his blood, he lifts the tack up and slips it over into the bucket of the rest that needed fixing (he’s been here often enough to know where she keeps things for her to-do list).
And rather than let her oil up her hair further, he reaches up to take it from her hands, running his jeweled fingers through it to start a little braid. “Tell me about what’s so special ‘bout him?” Maybe they could determine where the attachment came from, which portions she could try to guard against if she didn’t want to feel the sting so sharply. A bandage around the worst parts but not the whole so that she could still feel, it just wouldn’t be so gut wrenching.
Hawthorn
Won't you let me know?
