contact part deux

[bouchonne]

if this were modern times byerly would probably make you listen to total eclipse of the heart before you were able to leave a message

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[bouchonne]

[ And let's see if that impartiality cracks, good Prince Alistair.

Without asking, By rises and goes to pull a bottle of decent Fereldan whiskey. ]

Ooh, I like that. I think it'd have to be a very fancy seal, though. Either that, or our advice would have to be written very wittily.

[coquettish_trees]

[ It's so hard. It's so hard to hear the way he hurts through the noise of her own, and there never seems to be anything to say that might be a salve for both. Seems the choice is always to let her hurts go unattended, or let his.

Alexandrie presses her fingertips delicately to the bridge of her nose, her eyelids, cupping her own face for a moment while she breathes so when she speaks it will be gentle rather than a snap, so when she lowers her hands again so she can look at him there will be nothing but a plea for understanding in her eyes. ]

Which do you have faith in? His good, or his bad?

[bouchonne]

I don't have any faith in him. One way or the other. He's unpredictable.

[ A stiff shake of his head. ]

But I do think that it's far better to anticipate danger rather than safety, as a rule. [ A rough breath. ] I should think you and I should know that better than most.

[coquettish_trees]

I have come to think that more often than not whatever it is we look for in the world, in another, we can find.

[ She is quiet. Smooths her dress rather purposelessly over her knees. ]

I am doing that now, [ she admits. ] Looking for the things in you that might hurt me, rather than looking for what is kind. Searching out the ways I am not seen, not heard, not loved, rather than the ways I am. I have been trying to prove my fears real rather than my safety, and it is not better. It is horrible.

[byblow]

Between the two of us, I think we could manage.

[ About the bottle, he thinks, ooh, grown-up drinks, but says nothing, because he is nearing forty. ]

A fancy seal, I mean. Wit might be beyond us, but a dwarf showed me how to draw a really fun S.

[bouchonne]

[ He pours two reasonable glasses of whiskey. The pours can get deeper later. ]

My good man, I don't have a single s in my name.

[bouchonne]

[ He looks down, melancholy at that thought. Ashamed. In some way he wants to offer comfort when he says: ]

I do deserve it. And if you see those things, at least then it's harder for me to disappoint you.

[coquettish_trees]

I do not care if you deserve it; I do not want to continue making myself afraid as I have been.

I do not want to make myself safe from you. I want to make myself safe with you.

[ She looks up at him with remorseful eyes. ]

I am sorry. That I have not trusted you.

[bouchonne]

[ Byerly, so clever in so many things, so perceptive and cunning, so stupid when it comes to the roiling and complicated emotions inside himself, doesn't understand this apology. Doesn't fully understand all of what she's saying, the emotions and logic behind her revelation. So he watches her, puzzlement cutting through his unhappiness. ]

You're here without a chaperone. That's trust, isn't it?

[byblow]

[ While he leans forward to steal his glass, Alistair is mouthing the spelling of Byerly's name—or a spelling of Byerly's name, B-I-E-R-L-E-I-G-H. He doesn't bother with his surname before he shakes his head. ]

The seal would say Unwanted Sons, [ with a half-circle gesture, where it'd be written across the top of something round, and then a half-circle for the bottom, ] of Ferelden. And in the middle we could have a sad-looking dog or something.

[bouchonne]

Ah.

[ He lays a finger alongside his nose. Clever. ]

No one can resist a sad-looking dog.

[ Which, speaking of which - By gives a little whistle, and after a pause, Whiskey comes trotting out from By's private chamber. No one can resist. ]

And who will we badmouth first? The Ferryman made a great show of not being able to understand my accent the other day, but he might be a little small-potatoes.

[coquettish_trees]

[ Her look in return is every bit as puzzled as his. ]

Y—es. But trusting you to behave honourably is not of a kind with trusting that you love me.

I have no fears of the first. I believe it entirely, and so I do not look towards guarding myself from the possibility that you might act in any other way.

I am afraid that I am not loved.

[ Softly, half to herself: ] I am always afraid I might not be loved.

Since I am afraid I have watched you as I might watch someone whose intentions were entirely unknown, who might well pose a threat to me. In my fear I have looked for signs that I am right to be afraid, and not at all for signs that I should feel myself safe. I have ignored your kindnesses in favour of any small thing I could call cold. I have ignored the time you have chosen to spend with me, the parts of your heart you have given me, and paid attention only to all the moments you are gone and the parts of your heart you share only with him.

[ She shakes her head a little, again speaks quietly. ]

I am making both of us miserable and it is because I have given my trust to my terror instead of you. I am sorry for it.

[bouchonne]

[ He watches her as she speaks. Puzzlement gives way to gradual understanding, and then to quiet sadness. And then, because it's Byerly, to guilt, and to - ]

I - If I were better at showing kindness, you wouldn't feel that way. If I could just find the right words to soothe, or - I could make it better if I were better.

[ Even though he feels that that's not entirely true. Even though at times, when he wants to be able to sway her emotions, she's beyond him. Even though there are times when her heart is beyond him, even though he wishes he could touch it directly. Make her happy. ]

I feel like I'm just - always failing you.

[coquettish_trees]

No, my Byerly.

[ Murmured, as she smooths her skirts again and finally— unsteadily— raises from the ground so she can go to him and touch his hand. ]

It is in me, this fear. Something in me still believes it keeps me safe. It would not matter what you did, I would find a way to feed it.

[ She lifts one of his fingers, puts it down again. ]

I think such things; that I am always failing you.

[bouchonne]

Then -

[ He looks up, miserable and desperate. His fingers close around hers. ]

If that's true - [ a big if ] how does it get better?

[coquettish_trees]

I—

[ Alexandrie closes her eyes, tries to feel only the way his hand folds around hers. Tries to remember it better, brighter, than she remembers every time she reached for him and he would not reach back. ]

I try very hard to stop looking for ways to hurt myself with you.

[ To let go of the very first armor she had to craft in the wretched aftermath of the betrayal that had plotted the course of her life.

She opens her eyes, smiles small and soft beside the tear that tracks down towards her chin to fall. ]

And you try very hard to be patient with me.

[bouchonne]

No.

[ His voice is soft, unhappy; he shakes his head. His expression is pained. ]

You cannot - It is not your fault alone. It is not your fault. [ It's him. It is him. He knows it is. His failures, his shortcomings, his stupidity, his wretchedness, his evil, his selfishness - She is, after all, a wonder, brave and strong; he's a fucking piece of shit. It's why every time, with every fight, he's sunk further and further into self-loathing, wondering why he can't simply fucking do it right, why he's so hurtful and cruel without ever even trying. ]

You shouldn't try to spare my feelings. I know I'm - not satisfactory.

[coquettish_trees]

Stop, Byerly.

[ Her voice is soft to match, and she lifts their hands to her mouth so she can kiss his fingers and whisper there. ]

Stop.

[ She shakes her head, presses another kiss against his hand, and pulls it to her chest to hold it there. ]

Tell me instead everything that you can think of that is true, that you want me to believe. That it hurts you when I doubt.

[bouchonne]

[ But he shakes his head, says - ]

Maker, Lexie, it doesn't matter if I hurt. Nothing could matter less.

[ Which, of course, is the heart of so many of their problems. He is unwilling, or perhaps outright unable, to see his own unhappiness as being of any sort of consequence. But that doesn't mean it isn't there. ]

What matters is how to make you feel comfortable. I - I know I should try to -

[coquettish_trees]

It matters. It matters to me and I am telling you.

[ She strokes the back of his hand with her thumb, tries hard to think that this is honest struggle, not dismissal. That he cannot seem to hear her not because he does not care for her but because he cannot understand the way she cares for him. She tries hard to be patient, to be clear, to not let into her face any bit of her silent war lest he think it means she fights him not herself. ]

I am telling you right now what it is I need for my comfort: to hear what is true. I need for you to tell me what is true of your heart so I may believe it instead of the awful stories I tell myself of it that make me so afraid.

[bouchonne]

My heart is an ugly creature. Whatever stories you tell of it are likely kinder than the truth.

[ His heart is still a vulnerable, frightened thing. Even with her, he's afraid to show the truth of it. Maybe especially with her.

But: he makes his best effort; he doesn't leave it there. Instead, with difficulty, he says: ]

I think you have - given me too much credit, often. Assumed I knew what I was doing. But after you, there was no one, you know.

[coquettish_trees]

[ He does not mean he does not love me, Alexandrie thinks, making a desperate grab for the reins of her heart to try to gentle it before it throws her and runs wild. He does not mean that I should be afraid; be even more afraid than now I am. He takes aim at himself and does not know the arrow goes through clean and hits me too.

She is trying not to curl around herself. She is trying not to shut her eyes. She is trying, trying to believe there's something else he cannot show her because he is afraid of her heart too.

For a mercy he keeps speaking and she manages to only hold his hand to her and nod. ]

[bouchonne]

[ Her silence nearly makes him flinch. What's he supposed to say into that silence? He wants a drink so badly. He wants to drown all of this in a sea of booze. It fucking hurts.

He swallows. Shrugs. Looks down. ]

I know that what I'm good for is - service. I know that I'm good for being of service. And I want to figure out how to serve you. I'm trying to get better at it.

[coquettish_trees]

You do not have to be of service. I do not—

[ She pulls his hand to her lips again to speak against it. ]

I want you. To be held by you because you want to hold me, not because you want to make me happy and think it will. You do not have to be good at this. You do not have to know what you are doing. You do not have to know anything. You do not have to do anything but try to trust me too. Try to trust that I think you are worth loving as you are.

[ Softer, then: ]

To try to believe, if you cannot trust.

[bouchonne]

[ His eyes press shut. His hand tightens around hers, but his eyes shut, and he swallows hard. ]

I'm not worth that, Lexie.