Rory had never seen anything like it before: the fox ear growing from the man's head flicked at the touch, looking both so other and so .. given, as if they belonged there, in the white hair. And somehow, this did not surprise him. Jigano was most likely not from Caido, but Caido was—he had learned—not the only strange and wondrous place in the universe.
He chuckled as Jigano's head ducked, his heart warm at seeing the smile the other tried to hide. Warm, and taking flight, dangerous and wild.
If he stayed like that—if they stayed like that—whatever frail resolve he had left would break, and.. and.. it could ruin so much.
This wasn't the moment.
But this was the moment when he had an excuse: delirious, drunk on relief, drunk on pain.
Jigano shifted to sit next to him, a pose that put him not exactly further away, but out of Rory's control. It was not quite so suggestive to his mind anymore, and his shoulders throbbed: invasive, insistent. It had been drowned out by the flood of excitement and relief, but now that those waters thinned, it fell again like hammer-blows on an anvil, to the rhythm of his heartbeat. "I'd be happy to help her with that many times," he murmured, wondering what sort of commitment lay in those innocent words.
So with his rush, his thrill, fading to worry and pain, he let his hand leave Jigano's cheek when it was released. Not because he didn't want the touch, but because he couldn't justify the strain it put on his sore muscles; it half-fell, half-trailed, until it was back on his lap, gently curled around the gryphon.
He swallowed his anxiety as best as he could.
The fox's eyes kept him steady: promised him a good end to the nightmare story they had woven and spun between them. And still the void yawned and gaped inside his gut, warning and premonition, Jigano's voice slowly forcing it closed again.
And then his hand hovered above that which had threatened (and failed) to tear them apart; Rory watched with wonder as the blunt, large claws melted back into harmless, soft nails. Listened, in wonder, the first time he heard his name spoken by that voice.
"It's alright," he said firmly, because it was: he was alive, Jigano was alive, Amalia was alive, Edy was alive (and named).
Then he snorted, which he had held back from doing when Jigano told him of what had happened. It seemed to him the words had needed out, and he had been loathe to interrupt, but the truth was this: he was no better. The darkness had not discriminated between Natural and Outlander. "And please," he said, his voice a growl that only the initiated would know as embarrassment. "I shoved Edy and tried to hit Amalia. I thought about strangling your secret out of you. I-"
He cut himself off. Looked away. Licked his lips. Looked back; the shadow gone from his face. "This was a much nicer way of learning it," he murmured, finding his free hand hovering over Jigano's thigh, fingertips barely touching it.
Rory made himself look up, to those blue eyes.
"The point is," he went on, some of the darkness returned, "I was just too useless to cause anyone harm. It's not your fault. I'm just glad we're relatively okay—all of us."
He chuckled as Jigano's head ducked, his heart warm at seeing the smile the other tried to hide. Warm, and taking flight, dangerous and wild.
If he stayed like that—if they stayed like that—whatever frail resolve he had left would break, and.. and.. it could ruin so much.
This wasn't the moment.
But this was the moment when he had an excuse: delirious, drunk on relief, drunk on pain.
Jigano shifted to sit next to him, a pose that put him not exactly further away, but out of Rory's control. It was not quite so suggestive to his mind anymore, and his shoulders throbbed: invasive, insistent. It had been drowned out by the flood of excitement and relief, but now that those waters thinned, it fell again like hammer-blows on an anvil, to the rhythm of his heartbeat. "I'd be happy to help her with that many times," he murmured, wondering what sort of commitment lay in those innocent words.
So with his rush, his thrill, fading to worry and pain, he let his hand leave Jigano's cheek when it was released. Not because he didn't want the touch, but because he couldn't justify the strain it put on his sore muscles; it half-fell, half-trailed, until it was back on his lap, gently curled around the gryphon.
He swallowed his anxiety as best as he could.
The fox's eyes kept him steady: promised him a good end to the nightmare story they had woven and spun between them. And still the void yawned and gaped inside his gut, warning and premonition, Jigano's voice slowly forcing it closed again.
And then his hand hovered above that which had threatened (and failed) to tear them apart; Rory watched with wonder as the blunt, large claws melted back into harmless, soft nails. Listened, in wonder, the first time he heard his name spoken by that voice.
"It's alright," he said firmly, because it was: he was alive, Jigano was alive, Amalia was alive, Edy was alive (and named).
Then he snorted, which he had held back from doing when Jigano told him of what had happened. It seemed to him the words had needed out, and he had been loathe to interrupt, but the truth was this: he was no better. The darkness had not discriminated between Natural and Outlander. "And please," he said, his voice a growl that only the initiated would know as embarrassment. "I shoved Edy and tried to hit Amalia. I thought about strangling your secret out of you. I-"
He cut himself off. Looked away. Licked his lips. Looked back; the shadow gone from his face. "This was a much nicer way of learning it," he murmured, finding his free hand hovering over Jigano's thigh, fingertips barely touching it.
Rory made himself look up, to those blue eyes.
"The point is," he went on, some of the darkness returned, "I was just too useless to cause anyone harm. It's not your fault. I'm just glad we're relatively okay—all of us."
