HARPER
His smile is sheepish even beneath the heavy bags below his eyes. As if he could ever presume to order Maeve about, as a man or a councilman. “Maybe I am, forgive me my Lady,” he croaks over his burned tongue, grateful for the chance to find amusement in something again. For now he merely clutches the tea in his tired hands, letting the warmth soothe the aches of the heavily scarred joints that throb from too many extended days of use. And when she reaches for him, something behind her eyes that he can’t place, Harper leans into her touch trustingly and closes his eyes.
It makes the delivery of her words more profound, more difficult to argue with, but he doesn’t regret it. With his eyes closed everything else is closer, sharper. The scent of her perfume, the tea in their hands, the faint scent of milk staining his own shirt. This sitting room alone has a smell so familiar to him he could pick it out blind. And the reason why is exactly as she says - because he had practically lived her when Edmund was a squalling baby. Phoebe had been in Stormbreak, and all Harper had of his own was an empty house and her fading scent on the sheets. So he’d stayed. Occupied Edmund when Maeve needed a nap, bathed and changed and fed him as needed. It had seemed simple to him then. Now, with the shoe on the other foot, he supposes it just seem simple to Maeve. But it seems infinitely large to Harper. Had it felt like that, to her, when he’d done it?
Resting their foreheads together, Harper huffs a tired laugh. “Telling you no has never worked for me in the past,” he teases fondly. Falling quiet for a moment as he thinks, lifting one hand to cover hers where it cradles his cheek. “Okay,” he whispers, vulnerable in a way he’d only ever been with her and Phoebe. “Okay, we’ll stay.” Opening his eyes slowly, finding them still gritty - her promises couldn’t fix everything immediately after all - Harper shifts back just enough to part their foreheads, leaving room to place a lingering kiss on her brow. “Thank you Mae-bell,” he murmurs against her skin.
It makes the delivery of her words more profound, more difficult to argue with, but he doesn’t regret it. With his eyes closed everything else is closer, sharper. The scent of her perfume, the tea in their hands, the faint scent of milk staining his own shirt. This sitting room alone has a smell so familiar to him he could pick it out blind. And the reason why is exactly as she says - because he had practically lived her when Edmund was a squalling baby. Phoebe had been in Stormbreak, and all Harper had of his own was an empty house and her fading scent on the sheets. So he’d stayed. Occupied Edmund when Maeve needed a nap, bathed and changed and fed him as needed. It had seemed simple to him then. Now, with the shoe on the other foot, he supposes it just seem simple to Maeve. But it seems infinitely large to Harper. Had it felt like that, to her, when he’d done it?
Resting their foreheads together, Harper huffs a tired laugh. “Telling you no has never worked for me in the past,” he teases fondly. Falling quiet for a moment as he thinks, lifting one hand to cover hers where it cradles his cheek. “Okay,” he whispers, vulnerable in a way he’d only ever been with her and Phoebe. “Okay, we’ll stay.” Opening his eyes slowly, finding them still gritty - her promises couldn’t fix everything immediately after all - Harper shifts back just enough to part their foreheads, leaving room to place a lingering kiss on her brow. “Thank you Mae-bell,” he murmurs against her skin.
lord don't let me break this, let me hold you lightly
give me arms to pray with instead of ones that hold too tightly
give me arms to pray with instead of ones that hold too tightly
