The open swing of the door stirs chill air, cold gripped in through stone walls and floors around a dark hearth, full of coals. It stings the ears and bites toes to the bone. A desk to one side is host to a scattering of books and vials and bottles and papers; the table at the room’s center is host to a bottle of wine, a lamp, and a pair of careworn chairs.
Richard starts at the hearth, jacket dropped across his unmade bed.
There are a few logs in a stack, a tinderbox, the snap of a flint. It will take time for seeded flame to crawl up into the wood. He leaves it to transplant a bottle of whiskey from his desk to the table, stirring through the mist of his own breath on his way back to the chest at the foot of his bed.
Loxley’s old cot stands still and grey opposite his work.
If reaching for magic didn't feel so dangerous in the moment, Derrica might have tended to the hearth herself. Matthias had taught her enough that she could bring up flame, but it's volatile and she isn't—
It's a small room, but she hasn't stopped moving. All useless energy. What can she do? Nothing. All this is fear and desperation that goes nowhere.
Even Richard can't change what's happened. Coming here won't do anything, except it means she isn't alone now.
The quiet, hitching quality of her breath has slowed, but the tears haven't. Even when she swipes at her cheeks, it makes no difference.
"I'm sorry. I think I'm wasting your time."
She doesn't want whiskey. Or wine. Or anything other than to go back to an hour before when Holden had first knocked on her door. Maybe if she'd said something different or they'd gone into Kirkwall or down to the garden or anything other than sit together talking, the night would have unfolded in another direction.
Having stood to draw the ratty scruff of a great furry cloak up out of the open chest, Dick turns to look back at her with it in his hands. He’s always been rawboned, but is especially so now for the cold, elbows pinned in at his sides, not enough hair on him to keep a shiver out of his breath.
“I’m not sure Rifters have time to waste.”
He says so very reasonably.
Time taken up by engaging with Byerly Rutyer notwithstanding.
She might have laughed, had Richard tacked on that observation. As it stands—
"Don't say that."
Especially now. The sudden fear that Richard might fade away right before her eyes too catches at her isn't necessarily plausible, but it can't be dismissed.
But she doesn't know what to say next. Slowing, she puts her hands over her face briefly, heels pressing against her eyes to stymie the tears.
Because it’s true? Apology softens doubt in the furrow of his brow.
“Alright.”
There’s a disconnect to the way he watches her fret, another chewed up baby bird left on his stoop by the Gallows, or Thedas, or the more general circle of suffering that comprises mortal existence. Sometimes the kind thing is to stomp on them. It’s just that his feet are as heavy as the rest of him, reluctant to strike out.
“I only mean that we were pulled here to help.”
He still has the cloak, and steps to offer it out to her, knuckles bone white in the fur.
This, of all things, breaks Derrica's tentative composure.
We know that he was hellbent on helping.
This is a true thing. They'd argued about it. Maybe Holden had argued about it with Richard too, after what had happened in the medical tent. It's what he'd even been doing moments ago. His hands had been so gentle in her hair and they hadn't been talking about his tendency to make himself a shield against whatever danger rose up against them, they'd been talking about stars while he plaited her hair because she couldn't do it for herself.
The cloak smells of smoke. She puts her face into it anyway to hide her tears. This likely isn't what Richard had meant her to do with it, but.
Well.
Her shoulders shake slightly with the effort of trying to stem the tide of emotion. It's distantly mortifying, but there's nothing to be done for it now, unless she flees back to her room to do all of this behind a closed door.
Gauging the collapse as she begins to crumple, he holds the puff of a tight, private sigh until she’s hidden her face.
Everything in this room smells like smoke, skunkier than tobacco. Heady. It’ll take heat from the hearth to really bring it up out of wood and cloth, leather and paper. In the meanwhile there’s the cloak -- and mustier still, Richard Dickerson closing her up into a hug.
It’s a more comfortable gesture for him than one might suppose.
Paradoxically, humiliatingly, she cries harder for it. It's quiet, further muffled by both the cloak and Richard's chest.
If she's surprised by Richard choosing to do this at all, she won't be able to consider it until later. In the moment, it is a much needed sort of comfort.
It is, by all accounts, brief. Derrica burns through the worst of it quickly, or fights herself back to something in the vicinity of composure speedily. She doesn't pull away though, as the tears ebb.
"I'm sorry," is muffled too.
Sorry for crying on him, sorry for bringing him this news, sorry for barging into his room. There's a lot of contrition to go around.
Normal, natural. He’s warm and quiet and his hold on her is firm. The door is still tilted open, but there’s no rustling in the hall outside, no shuffling of footsteps down the nearby stairwell to threaten their privacy.
He’d encouraged Holden to invest in native relationships to buffer him from further heartbreak.
"He asked me to look after his things," Derrica says, into Richard's shirt. "After Val de Foncé brought up that Rifters should get their affairs in order."
This is not Val's fault, but there is some misplaced anger in her voice for him anyway. As if raising the topic had disturbed the universe in some minor way, just enough to pull Holden away from them.
"I didn't think it was necessary."
Even Derrica knows that the truth is more: I hadn't wanted to think of it.
She’s ill-positioned to see the tilt of his brows that marks him making note of his narrow window to get in there and pilfer before she’s had the presence of mind to take inventory. Thanks, Val. And Holden, for that matter.
“He thought highly of you.”
An elephant threatens to crowd into the room with them in the pause before he anchors away from it with a well-timed pat. His voice is even. Quiet. Assurance without ire.
Though when she says it like that, it sounds as if this moment was something Holden could control. And it wasn't. They both know that.
"I'm sorry," she says, tipping slightly back within the circle of his arms. "I'm sorry you had to hear it this way."
Hysterically, so much so that it trapped Richard into comforting her rather than making space for himself in his own rooms. And he'd been having a good night, she thinks.
She tilts back and he tucks his chin to look her over, damp, suffering, and partially-plaited. Looking directly at her as she apologizes proves to be very difficult. It’s fine. Of course. He nods, uneven, dismissing the need.
“Unbecoming for him to have left a job half-finished.” His heart squeezes behind his breastbone on a delay after he’s said so, unexpected enough to pinch at his throat before it reaches his brow.
But of course Richard knows. They're friends. Derrica breathes out, and her hands shift, leaving the cloak pinned between them as she reaches up to loop her arms around him in return.
He hadn't asked. But it must be hurting him, having lost Holden. That missed beat, the minor delay in response, they tell her something when set against what she'd seen in the medical tent not so long ago.
"I'll take the ferry," she says, tone muted and tired. "The next one that comes."
A snap from the hearth marks fire licking up through a split in dry wood, cold from the floor still aching up into his bony feet when she wraps her arms around. No snakes this time, only ridges of scar tissue and bone, rangy muscle buckled to his ribs. Hugged.
“Alright.”
Another sigh is easier to feel than it is to detect otherwise. Softer than the first.
He’s looked up again and it’s hard to see his face this close against him, little in the way of inflection to support his assurance one way or the other.
She draws back and he releases the lock on his hold, easy, fabric slithering. He doesn’t seem to clock the skepticism. You can’t address something you have no desire to perceive.
“Don’t mention it.” Quiet, a little wry in the glance he gives her as he turns back for his trunk.
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no subject
Date: 2022-02-07 06:13 am (UTC)Richard starts at the hearth, jacket dropped across his unmade bed.
There are a few logs in a stack, a tinderbox, the snap of a flint. It will take time for seeded flame to crawl up into the wood. He leaves it to transplant a bottle of whiskey from his desk to the table, stirring through the mist of his own breath on his way back to the chest at the foot of his bed.
Loxley’s old cot stands still and grey opposite his work.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-07 06:26 am (UTC)It's a small room, but she hasn't stopped moving. All useless energy. What can she do? Nothing. All this is fear and desperation that goes nowhere.
Even Richard can't change what's happened. Coming here won't do anything, except it means she isn't alone now.
The quiet, hitching quality of her breath has slowed, but the tears haven't. Even when she swipes at her cheeks, it makes no difference.
"I'm sorry. I think I'm wasting your time."
She doesn't want whiskey. Or wine. Or anything other than to go back to an hour before when Holden had first knocked on her door. Maybe if she'd said something different or they'd gone into Kirkwall or down to the garden or anything other than sit together talking, the night would have unfolded in another direction.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-07 06:49 am (UTC)“I’m not sure Rifters have time to waste.”
He says so very reasonably.
Time taken up by engaging with Byerly Rutyer notwithstanding.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-13 08:41 pm (UTC)"Don't say that."
Especially now. The sudden fear that Richard might fade away right before her eyes too catches at her isn't necessarily plausible, but it can't be dismissed.
But she doesn't know what to say next. Slowing, she puts her hands over her face briefly, heels pressing against her eyes to stymie the tears.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-13 09:27 pm (UTC)“Alright.”
There’s a disconnect to the way he watches her fret, another chewed up baby bird left on his stoop by the Gallows, or Thedas, or the more general circle of suffering that comprises mortal existence. Sometimes the kind thing is to stomp on them. It’s just that his feet are as heavy as the rest of him, reluctant to strike out.
“I only mean that we were pulled here to help.”
He still has the cloak, and steps to offer it out to her, knuckles bone white in the fur.
“And we know that he was hellbent on helping.”
no subject
Date: 2022-02-15 04:51 am (UTC)We know that he was hellbent on helping.
This is a true thing. They'd argued about it. Maybe Holden had argued about it with Richard too, after what had happened in the medical tent. It's what he'd even been doing moments ago. His hands had been so gentle in her hair and they hadn't been talking about his tendency to make himself a shield against whatever danger rose up against them, they'd been talking about stars while he plaited her hair because she couldn't do it for herself.
The cloak smells of smoke. She puts her face into it anyway to hide her tears. This likely isn't what Richard had meant her to do with it, but.
Well.
Her shoulders shake slightly with the effort of trying to stem the tide of emotion. It's distantly mortifying, but there's nothing to be done for it now, unless she flees back to her room to do all of this behind a closed door.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-15 06:47 am (UTC)That isn’t what he meant for her to do with it.
Gauging the collapse as she begins to crumple, he holds the puff of a tight, private sigh until she’s hidden her face.
Everything in this room smells like smoke, skunkier than tobacco. Heady. It’ll take heat from the hearth to really bring it up out of wood and cloth, leather and paper. In the meanwhile there’s the cloak -- and mustier still, Richard Dickerson closing her up into a hug.
It’s a more comfortable gesture for him than one might suppose.
He has spent most of his life among humans.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-16 04:03 am (UTC)If she's surprised by Richard choosing to do this at all, she won't be able to consider it until later. In the moment, it is a much needed sort of comfort.
It is, by all accounts, brief. Derrica burns through the worst of it quickly, or fights herself back to something in the vicinity of composure speedily. She doesn't pull away though, as the tears ebb.
"I'm sorry," is muffled too.
Sorry for crying on him, sorry for bringing him this news, sorry for barging into his room. There's a lot of contrition to go around.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-16 10:30 pm (UTC)Normal, natural. He’s warm and quiet and his hold on her is firm. The door is still tilted open, but there’s no rustling in the hall outside, no shuffling of footsteps down the nearby stairwell to threaten their privacy.
He’d encouraged Holden to invest in native relationships to buffer him from further heartbreak.
And here they are.
posts comedy tag, forgets actual content
Date: 2022-02-19 08:29 pm (UTC)This is not Val's fault, but there is some misplaced anger in her voice for him anyway. As if raising the topic had disturbed the universe in some minor way, just enough to pull Holden away from them.
"I didn't think it was necessary."
Even Derrica knows that the truth is more: I hadn't wanted to think of it.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-20 03:11 am (UTC)“He thought highly of you.”
An elephant threatens to crowd into the room with them in the pause before he anchors away from it with a well-timed pat. His voice is even. Quiet. Assurance without ire.
It isn’t as if he was wrong.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-23 04:50 am (UTC)Though when she says it like that, it sounds as if this moment was something Holden could control. And it wasn't. They both know that.
"I'm sorry," she says, tipping slightly back within the circle of his arms. "I'm sorry you had to hear it this way."
Hysterically, so much so that it trapped Richard into comforting her rather than making space for himself in his own rooms. And he'd been having a good night, she thinks.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-24 05:45 am (UTC)“Unbecoming for him to have left a job half-finished.” His heart squeezes behind his breastbone on a delay after he’s said so, unexpected enough to pinch at his throat before it reaches his brow.
He misses a beat.
“Shall I summon ser Loxley to whisk you away?”
no subject
Date: 2022-02-26 07:01 am (UTC)But of course Richard knows. They're friends. Derrica breathes out, and her hands shift, leaving the cloak pinned between them as she reaches up to loop her arms around him in return.
He hadn't asked. But it must be hurting him, having lost Holden. That missed beat, the minor delay in response, they tell her something when set against what she'd seen in the medical tent not so long ago.
"I'll take the ferry," she says, tone muted and tired. "The next one that comes."
Yes, she will go see Loxley.
no subject
Date: 2022-02-27 08:37 pm (UTC)“Alright.”
Another sigh is easier to feel than it is to detect otherwise. Softer than the first.
“Thank you for telling me.”
no subject
Date: 2022-03-13 03:55 am (UTC)On his own. Asked without breaking away; Derrica has to tiptoe up to manage this hug properly, but she maintains the contact.
Richard's lost something. Who does he have to turn towards to ease it?
no subject
Date: 2022-03-13 04:09 am (UTC)Why wouldn’t he be.
He’s looked up again and it’s hard to see his face this close against him, little in the way of inflection to support his assurance one way or the other.
This has been a long hug.
no subject
Date: 2022-03-13 04:20 am (UTC)There is faint skepticism in her expression when she does draw back. Her arms are full of his cloak now, and her fingers curl into the fabric.
"Alright."
Because it isn't really her place to contradict. Whatever she suspects, she puts it aside for the moment to tell him, "Thank you."
Richard has been very kind. He could have put her out the door rather than offered any comfort at all.
no subject
Date: 2022-03-27 08:37 am (UTC)She draws back and he releases the lock on his hold, easy, fabric slithering. He doesn’t seem to clock the skepticism. You can’t address something you have no desire to perceive.
“Don’t mention it.” Quiet, a little wry in the glance he gives her as he turns back for his trunk.
He means it.