She has to suppress a snort at the apology, if only because the thought of him leading her on, despite everything, still remains anathema to who he is. It only truly counts as leading her on if his ultimate intention is to abandon her, and she doesn't believe he will. Not least of all because he was clearly so terrified of her leaving him. And now that she knows why, the reverse is... rather difficult to imagine.
Perhaps that's a bit smug of her -- as if no one else in Darrow might be so forgiving (and as if her own motivations are as pure as the driven snow). But still, she can't imagine this whole process is one he'd fancy repeating.
There's a part of her that's still restless: the part that anticipated a different sort of evening, or the part that's still waiting for a melody to make this all real instead of strange and unsettled, like a joke without a punchline. But she's soothed by the hand in her hair, and touched by the vulnerability in his voice. There's really only one answer she can give.
"Of course," she says, shifting a little to get more comfortable, then settling, pressing an idle little kiss against his collarbone. "As long as you like." Or as long as he needs, more like, but she's not nursing an invalid (he hasn't had that much gin). She hadn't known whether she'd be returning home tonight or not, and had planned for either eventuality. There's nowhere else she needs to be.
After a few moments of companionable silence, she muses, "I don't think I have any great secrets left." She's told him about the Prince, which seemed like the most grievous of them, so the others hadn't exactly clamored for her attention. "Well. I swindled Jack out of his cow. But she wasn't much of a cow, and the beans did turn out to be magic. And he and his mother wound up fabulously wealthy, so... did him a favor, really."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2018-03-28 03:44 am (UTC)Perhaps that's a bit smug of her -- as if no one else in Darrow might be so forgiving (and as if her own motivations are as pure as the driven snow). But still, she can't imagine this whole process is one he'd fancy repeating.
There's a part of her that's still restless: the part that anticipated a different sort of evening, or the part that's still waiting for a melody to make this all real instead of strange and unsettled, like a joke without a punchline. But she's soothed by the hand in her hair, and touched by the vulnerability in his voice. There's really only one answer she can give.
"Of course," she says, shifting a little to get more comfortable, then settling, pressing an idle little kiss against his collarbone. "As long as you like." Or as long as he needs, more like, but she's not nursing an invalid (he hasn't had that much gin). She hadn't known whether she'd be returning home tonight or not, and had planned for either eventuality. There's nowhere else she needs to be.
After a few moments of companionable silence, she muses, "I don't think I have any great secrets left." She's told him about the Prince, which seemed like the most grievous of them, so the others hadn't exactly clamored for her attention. "Well. I swindled Jack out of his cow. But she wasn't much of a cow, and the beans did turn out to be magic. And he and his mother wound up fabulously wealthy, so... did him a favor, really."