He gave the little gryphon a smile after the grimace, this one real, his mouth changing shape. As he grabbed the fallen flowers he extended a finger, rubbing it by the side of her beak again, trying to assure her that everything was alright with him. He was hungry and perhaps a little low on quality sleep and he had too much on his mind, but he wasn't sick, or dying, or about to faint.
He was just lost.
Worried.
Feeling like he had lost some significant part of himself in the week-long darkness, somewhere in between opening his door and nearly dying, and he didn't think he could ever get it back. Stressed about Flowerbirth and some impending attack on the Spire, one he knew nothing of, hadn't asked Remi, there hadn't been enough time, he was so, so tired but the crops needed planting and—
Then he was looking into Jigano's face again, drawn in by the clear blue of his eyes. His cheek was warm against cold fingers; the fire Rory had built in the workshop had died a while ago, and the temperature was not optimal for fine-motor precision work anymore. He let his thumb stroke across the skin, taking the moment when Jigano closed his eyes to drink his face in with unabashed wonderand hunger—
His gaze fell to Jigano's chin when those blue eyes fluttered open again, his heart skipping a beat like a thief found out. He saw the grin, and he was acutely aware of how close they were standing, his fingers on his cheek and there was only one way out of it. He caught a straying lock of white hair, tucking it behind Jigano's ear and chuckling at the sly comment. "Of course," he responded, letting his hand trail down Jigano's arm to his clasped hands. "It won't be anything amazing, though." In fact, Rory had lived on a sub-par diet for many, many days. He was out of bread, and hadn't baked any new, nor gone to town to buy from Amalia. The last time he'd had a proper, cooked meal was the stew Wessex made for him, the first proper night after Long Night. Since then he'd subsided on cured meat and anguish.
Bouquet in one hand—and possibly Jigano in the other, if he accepted the silent invitation—Rory led the way out of the workshop and into the spring world beyond. He blinked owlishly in the sunlight, heading up towards the homestead and through the door. Within, it was surprisingly neat, considering how badly he had been feeling lately. The kitchen was mostly clean. He'd washed up the pot at some point, probably intending to cook but then never getting around to it.
But if he was going to avoid chopping his fingers off, he needed to eat something before he could even think about putting anything together. He handed the flowers back to Jigano, abandoning him in the too-cold house—Rory was shit at banking coals and he hadn't made a fire since last night, and with an apologetic grin he asked Jigano to light it—and disappeared somewhere, reemerging with a carrot in his mouth and a handful of different root vegetables in his hands. He put it all on the counter (except for the carrot he was eating, which he gave the more dignified position of being in his hand, so he could also eat it) and procured some dried herbs and strips of cured goat meat from some other place. Then he filled the pot with about enough water to not make it too soupy, tossed in the herbs he wanted, and set it over the hopefully-lit fire, before settling into the task of preparing the vegetables into stew-friendly bits—while trying not to eat everything at the same time.
He was just lost.
Worried.
Feeling like he had lost some significant part of himself in the week-long darkness, somewhere in between opening his door and nearly dying, and he didn't think he could ever get it back. Stressed about Flowerbirth and some impending attack on the Spire, one he knew nothing of, hadn't asked Remi, there hadn't been enough time, he was so, so tired but the crops needed planting and—
Then he was looking into Jigano's face again, drawn in by the clear blue of his eyes. His cheek was warm against cold fingers; the fire Rory had built in the workshop had died a while ago, and the temperature was not optimal for fine-motor precision work anymore. He let his thumb stroke across the skin, taking the moment when Jigano closed his eyes to drink his face in with unabashed wonder
His gaze fell to Jigano's chin when those blue eyes fluttered open again, his heart skipping a beat like a thief found out. He saw the grin, and he was acutely aware of how close they were standing, his fingers on his cheek and there was only one way out of it. He caught a straying lock of white hair, tucking it behind Jigano's ear and chuckling at the sly comment. "Of course," he responded, letting his hand trail down Jigano's arm to his clasped hands. "It won't be anything amazing, though." In fact, Rory had lived on a sub-par diet for many, many days. He was out of bread, and hadn't baked any new, nor gone to town to buy from Amalia. The last time he'd had a proper, cooked meal was the stew Wessex made for him, the first proper night after Long Night. Since then he'd subsided on cured meat and anguish.
Bouquet in one hand—and possibly Jigano in the other, if he accepted the silent invitation—Rory led the way out of the workshop and into the spring world beyond. He blinked owlishly in the sunlight, heading up towards the homestead and through the door. Within, it was surprisingly neat, considering how badly he had been feeling lately. The kitchen was mostly clean. He'd washed up the pot at some point, probably intending to cook but then never getting around to it.
But if he was going to avoid chopping his fingers off, he needed to eat something before he could even think about putting anything together. He handed the flowers back to Jigano, abandoning him in the too-cold house—Rory was shit at banking coals and he hadn't made a fire since last night, and with an apologetic grin he asked Jigano to light it—and disappeared somewhere, reemerging with a carrot in his mouth and a handful of different root vegetables in his hands. He put it all on the counter (except for the carrot he was eating, which he gave the more dignified position of being in his hand, so he could also eat it) and procured some dried herbs and strips of cured goat meat from some other place. Then he filled the pot with about enough water to not make it too soupy, tossed in the herbs he wanted, and set it over the hopefully-lit fire, before settling into the task of preparing the vegetables into stew-friendly bits—while trying not to eat everything at the same time.
