Derrica is soft and kind and has big brown eyes; he can feel them on him without looking up from the flecks of serum dried stiff into his sheets.
Her prowess at the quintain aside, it is easy to see why Loxley is fond of her.
There’s a thread of obligation there.
Never mind the deal they made when they were last alone.
So he nods, no resentment to his acceptance. He’s laid up in this bed like a greasy piece of twine, in various states of unravelling end to end. All unkempt and with nowhere to go.
At that nod, she takes up a perch on the edge of his bed. Derrica is careful with her encroachment. Even with the many repairs that have been visited upon Richard between the scorched stone floor he'd been peeled from and now, she knows that jostling him would be unappreciated. Too much of him is still injured
"I know you're still hurt," Derrica tells him. "But I wanted to know if you're alright. After what happened."
After almost dying, she is delicately not saying.
A question in which she hopes alright registers beyond just the physical. Is Richard okay?
Bony and raw in his blanket, Dick Dickerson studies Derrica’s sympathy at a remove. It’s too low energy to evoke contempt or even cynicism -- the distant interest of a surgically shaved cat curled up in a dog’s bed, unapologetically troublesome. Surely he’s earned the right.
“That seems unkind.”
Brother Gideon's actions were selfless; he died for his cause.
The first, amused flicker of a smile gives way to a more contemplative frown.
"I see."
There's some humor in it, but when set against the bigger picture, all the other instances in which Byerly Rutyer had expressed himself in regards to Rifters and mages—
"Does he know about you?"
Not the rift shard. The rest. The other things Richard is capable of that Derrica knows only parts and pieces of.
“I’m marked as a mage on the list of Rifters maintained by the Research Division.”
Isaac saw to that for him. Or perhaps the Provost. He’d like to think it wasn’t Wysteria. Regardless, distaste carves close along the bones of his face, hard in his nose through a glance down the blanket to his feet.
And she is, as complicated a thing as it might be.
But the worse thing is surely what has been demonstrated: anyone, including someone like Byerly Rutyer, could skim that list and pluck out a private thing, just like that.
"And I'm sorry that he knows."
Derrica doesn't put her hand on his knee over the blankets. But she does bump her knuckles up against his calf as she rearranges position, adjusts how she is leaning her weight. It's a very small thing, easily ignored.
It only makes sense he should have some level of awareness. Dick’s eyeline shifts from the foot of his cot to the nudge of knuckles at his leg, and inevitably from there back to Derrica.
“The caliber of cowardice it suggests is frankly quite impressive, never mind the open insult to my service.”
He could go on like this, probably, but doesn’t, whatever else pent up and released in a short sigh.
"He is a coward. It's what guides him in his dealings with us."
One of the few things to recommend Byerly Rutyer: his willingness to admit his own shortcomings in that arena.
Though admitting it doesn't shift the harm that cowardice causes. Derrica's gaze has also dropped to her fingers tucked against Richard's leg, and she shakes her head.
"Is it only the Ambassador, or is there something else that concerns you?"
He’s quiet again, the rasp of his breath mingling with the rustle of his bedding when he stretches against it.
It’s a question that doesn’t bear answering, really, an impulse towards dry honesty -- the list of things that don’t concern him would be substantially shorter -- lifted up and let off in a huff of salt, the ghost of a scoff.
“I’m just tired,” he tells her. Tired and unhappy.
Derrica recognizes the sentiment. I'll be alright standing in for so many things that cannot be easily solved.
But that's the trouble: the understanding that what is troubling Richard cannot be solved by Derrica, as much as she might like to.
"You can tell me, if it helps," is the best offer she can make. Someone to listen. Someone who will likely agree. Her fingers nudge very gently against the bend of his knee, underscoring the silent offer.
A slight shake of his head will have to stand in for more specific discouragement.
He follows it with an even look in aside, half apology in earnest, half a probe through her feelings on being turned down for a vent session. A conversation about the totality Dick Dickerson’s troubles isn’t in the cards.
However:
“You asked me previously where my magic comes from.”
There's no disappointment. The offer is made. It's Richard's choice what to be done with it. If there's no comfort in speaking of his troubles, then she doesn't intend to press.
Maybe he will remember the offer sometime later. Maybe not.
Regardless, she turns in towards him, bringing up one leg to rest carefully on the edge of the bed. Settling in, if he intends to speak of it now.
“There is an entity that comes to me in my dreams,” confessed as matter-of-factly as he might report on a delivery of fresh towels to the baths, Richard adds, by necessity: “Less often, now.”
His affect hasn’t changed with the subject any more than it has with her settling in, tattered and listless under his blanket.
“I thought for a time it might be my god working to reach me through the veil.”
Listening to him, Derrica straightens, spine stiffening at the strangeness of Richard's admission.
There is some familiarity. Derrica has drawn spirits to her. She has heard spirits murmuring to her through the Veil. This is a skill she's been honing her whole life, but it doesn't sound as if Richard is referencing something quite the same.
"Do you not think that anymore?" she asks, carefully, softly.
Heat rises beneath the hard planes of his bony face, stings at his eyes, wrung back by a tendon-cracking flex at the back of his jaw. It stays set out of alignment for a moment. He sniffs. Dry, as if in evidence. A steady breath clears the rest.
And he’s back again, locked onto her knuckles at his knee as to assert to himself that they’re the only part of her really here for him to have this very normal and professional conversation with.
The restoration of dignity makes answering easier with this particular cat out of the bag.
“I’m certain it wants the same things most of you do.”
He, it.
Resentment sits harsh in the lines around his mouth but there is nothing evasive about his reluctance to resume eye contact. Nothing to signal deception.
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Her prowess at the quintain aside, it is easy to see why Loxley is fond of her.
There’s a thread of obligation there.
Never mind the deal they made when they were last alone.
So he nods, no resentment to his acceptance. He’s laid up in this bed like a greasy piece of twine, in various states of unravelling end to end. All unkempt and with nowhere to go.
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"I know you're still hurt," Derrica tells him. "But I wanted to know if you're alright. After what happened."
After almost dying, she is delicately not saying.
A question in which she hopes alright registers beyond just the physical. Is Richard okay?
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“It doesn’t matter.”
She knows this, surely -- charity tested in a level look aside. Let’s not deceive ourselves.
“I miss my cat.”
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"It does matter," she persists, softly enough for it to pass without being argued.
But she cannot bring back his cat, and she cannot do more for him without exhausting herself, so.
"Would it help to curse his name?"
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“That seems unkind.”
Brother Gideon's actions were selfless; he died for his cause.
“May I tell you something in confidence?”
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But rebuttal is stalled by the introduction of a question. It's unexpected. Derrica doesn't expect to be the top choice for Richard's confidences.
Her answering "Yes," is tentative, as if expecting Richard to change his mind.
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“When I attempted to communicate my suspicions about Brother Gideon to Rutyer he was reluctant to meet with me in my quarters.”
This is likely to make her unhappy, he suspects -- something a little sharper in the way eye contact narrows in aside.
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"Why?"
Why was Rutyer reluctant?
Why tell her this at all?
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Obviously. Crow’s feet etch in stark where the crook of half a smile might fit, could he be bothered to force it.
one more time
"I see."
There's some humor in it, but when set against the bigger picture, all the other instances in which Byerly Rutyer had expressed himself in regards to Rifters and mages—
"Does he know about you?"
Not the rift shard. The rest. The other things Richard is capable of that Derrica knows only parts and pieces of.
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Isaac saw to that for him. Or perhaps the Provost. He’d like to think it wasn’t Wysteria. Regardless, distaste carves close along the bones of his face, hard in his nose through a glance down the blanket to his feet.
“Not that it was a secret closely kept.”
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And she is, as complicated a thing as it might be.
But the worse thing is surely what has been demonstrated: anyone, including someone like Byerly Rutyer, could skim that list and pluck out a private thing, just like that.
"And I'm sorry that he knows."
Derrica doesn't put her hand on his knee over the blankets. But she does bump her knuckles up against his calf as she rearranges position, adjusts how she is leaning her weight. It's a very small thing, easily ignored.
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It only makes sense he should have some level of awareness. Dick’s eyeline shifts from the foot of his cot to the nudge of knuckles at his leg, and inevitably from there back to Derrica.
“The caliber of cowardice it suggests is frankly quite impressive, never mind the open insult to my service.”
He could go on like this, probably, but doesn’t, whatever else pent up and released in a short sigh.
“I’d initially considered Riftwatch a reprieve.”
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One of the few things to recommend Byerly Rutyer: his willingness to admit his own shortcomings in that arena.
Though admitting it doesn't shift the harm that cowardice causes. Derrica's gaze has also dropped to her fingers tucked against Richard's leg, and she shakes her head.
"Is it only the Ambassador, or is there something else that concerns you?"
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It’s a question that doesn’t bear answering, really, an impulse towards dry honesty -- the list of things that don’t concern him would be substantially shorter -- lifted up and let off in a huff of salt, the ghost of a scoff.
“I’m just tired,” he tells her. Tired and unhappy.
“I'll be alright.”
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But that's the trouble: the understanding that what is troubling Richard cannot be solved by Derrica, as much as she might like to.
"You can tell me, if it helps," is the best offer she can make. Someone to listen. Someone who will likely agree. Her fingers nudge very gently against the bend of his knee, underscoring the silent offer.
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He follows it with an even look in aside, half apology in earnest, half a probe through her feelings on being turned down for a vent session. A conversation about the totality Dick Dickerson’s troubles isn’t in the cards.
However:
“You asked me previously where my magic comes from.”
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There's no disappointment. The offer is made. It's Richard's choice what to be done with it. If there's no comfort in speaking of his troubles, then she doesn't intend to press.
Maybe he will remember the offer sometime later. Maybe not.
Regardless, she turns in towards him, bringing up one leg to rest carefully on the edge of the bed. Settling in, if he intends to speak of it now.
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His affect hasn’t changed with the subject any more than it has with her settling in, tattered and listless under his blanket.
“I thought for a time it might be my god working to reach me through the veil.”
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There is some familiarity. Derrica has drawn spirits to her. She has heard spirits murmuring to her through the Veil. This is a skill she's been honing her whole life, but it doesn't sound as if Richard is referencing something quite the same.
"Do you not think that anymore?" she asks, carefully, softly.
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“No.” He doesn’t.
And that seems to be the end of it.
Good story, Richard.
“I can never quite make out what he’s saying,” he continues, unprompted. Why not. “It’s cruel, in a way.”
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There is, fortunately, no place on the leg nearest her where Derrica could put her hand without hurting him. But the instinct is there, to reach out.
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And he’s back again, locked onto her knuckles at his knee as to assert to himself that they’re the only part of her really here for him to have this very normal and professional conversation with.
“Not directly.”
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It is not accompanied by a nudge of her knuckles. The slight pressure of that contact remains unchanged. But her eyes are very intent on his face.
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“I’m certain it wants the same things most of you do.”
He, it.
Resentment sits harsh in the lines around his mouth but there is nothing evasive about his reluctance to resume eye contact. Nothing to signal deception.
“I don’t believe there is any cause for concern.”
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bow on this y/y?