The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
”I think I picked a location very close to my house for a reason,” she says, furs in hand, coming to settle before him. It’d hardly be the first time she stumbled home drunk, after all. But inside the Citadel was a safe enough place, and though there were always dangers, Weaver had enough of a reputation and enough knives around her waist that no one really bothered her and many would make sure she was alright, whether she needed it or not. ”Besides, I do not think there is enough room on the couch for us both,” she says with a teasing grin.
Unlike any decent Halovian though, he’s shrugging out of his furs and his shirt. She chuckles, placing the furs down beside the couch, knowing how cold it could get in here. The guild room holds heat, but still, nothing is truly warm in Halo. At his words though, she finds herself sitting down on the ground in front of the couch, fingers reaching out to trace the scars along his abdomen. There’s nothing particularly suggestive about the gesture, not between them, despite all the flirting that came too easily to them both. No, it is a curious touch, a question in it, though she does not ask.
”Even my mother tucked us in,” she says. Straia may have been unusual in her methods, but she had loved them so much. She’d tell them stories at night and tuck them in, kissing each of them on the forehead before leaving them to sleep. When they were afraid, she’d comfort them, but always make them go back to their own rooms. They’d grown stronger beneath her loving but firm touch. They’d learned not to be unafraid, but how to live with the fear. They’d learned how to love too. ”Though it seems to me you would prefer I find you frozen tomorrow morning,” she says, not insisting on the blankets.
Unlike any decent Halovian though, he’s shrugging out of his furs and his shirt. She chuckles, placing the furs down beside the couch, knowing how cold it could get in here. The guild room holds heat, but still, nothing is truly warm in Halo. At his words though, she finds herself sitting down on the ground in front of the couch, fingers reaching out to trace the scars along his abdomen. There’s nothing particularly suggestive about the gesture, not between them, despite all the flirting that came too easily to them both. No, it is a curious touch, a question in it, though she does not ask.
”Even my mother tucked us in,” she says. Straia may have been unusual in her methods, but she had loved them so much. She’d tell them stories at night and tuck them in, kissing each of them on the forehead before leaving them to sleep. When they were afraid, she’d comfort them, but always make them go back to their own rooms. They’d grown stronger beneath her loving but firm touch. They’d learned not to be unafraid, but how to live with the fear. They’d learned how to love too. ”Though it seems to me you would prefer I find you frozen tomorrow morning,” she says, not insisting on the blankets.
Weaver
