She's Good

Originally posted here February 13 2023:

writing-prompt-s:

You’ve just joined an adventuring party. The rogue wordlessly gives you a handkerchief and slinks away. “Ah, it’s his way of handling his kleptomania. Instead of stealing things at random, he’ll be going specifically for that.”

You were confused about it, at first, because you’re particularly sharp-eyed. You’re the party ranger, you’re often the lookout, you have to be. You watch her in towns, eyeing the fancy lordlings that pass you on the street. The hunger in her eyes.

(Is it anger?)

But she was really cool about that one fuckup with the bear that first time out, even though she got a bit… mauled.

(You still feel bad about that.)

And she does stay out of trouble when you’re in town, even when someone is practically dangling their coinpurse in front of you, even when you’re tempted.

And she’s, like, really pretty.

So you try to help.

At first, you leave it in a pocket, but just a little bit out. Like you stuffed it there in a hurry. You do that for days.

(You watch her for days, and she smiles at you when she catches you at it. Like you have a private joke, together.)

She sidles up to you, at one point, and leans around you, tucking the handkerchief into your pocket, right before you’re arriving at a big town. Her warm hand on your hip, her other slipping the hanky deeper into your pocket.

“You have to be careful with your things, in a place like this,” she said, giving you a wink. “Anybody might grab them.”

“Right,” you said. “Of course. How silly.” You’re a bit embarrassed, really.

(Your hip tingles where her hand was. Silly, silly, silly.)

But you’ve worked it out, now. You figured it out, you get it. She picked you out because she wants the challenge. She picked you because you are sharp-eyed. That makes sense- it’s not fun if it’s easy, right?

And she’s good.

She’s good enough that even you have trouble seeing the dip, even when you know it’s coming- taking an important bit of paperwork off a repugnant and pompous dignitary, you were watching for it, you knew when it was supposed to happen, and you still missed it.

You resolve to keep a closer eye on the handkerchief.

(And her. Because she wants you to. It’s not weird. Right?)

You tuck it into an inner pocket on your vest, close to your skin, where she’ll have a harder time getting her hand without you noticing.

Still, two days later, you are sitting at a campfire that you had set up on your journey to the mountains, firelight limning her skin in gold as she sews on something, and she gives you a sly smile- and you realize she’s embroidering the handkerchief.

“How?” you ask.

She just winks at you.

(She’s good.)

She finishes what she’s doing and comes over to sit next to you, her shoulder pressing into yours. She puts the handkerchief in your lap, draping it to display it.

A soft pink rose is embroidered in the corner. It’s actually very fine work. The handkerchief is fine, too- soft, tightly woven cotton, smooth to the touch. Not lacy, or silk- it’s meant to be used, not for show.

And now, a soft pink rose. “This is like those wild roses we saw earlier.”

“Yeah,” she said.

“It’s pretty.”

“You like it?” she asked, looking maybe like she could possibly be a little bit worried.

You nod, smiling at her. “I like it.”

She grins at you.

It goes on like that. The embellishment around the edges grow. Wood violets and pink clover.

Firewheels, brilliant red and orange- you found a field of them and the whole party stopped and you braided flowers into each other’s hair.

(There was violence, yes- but there were also flowers.)

You’d braided her hair into a crown, tucking flowers into them, and she’d stolen the handkerchief while you did it, the minx, and started embellishing it right away.

It just made you smile, soft and fond. You still weren’t sure how she was doing it.

(Maybe that wasn’t the point at all. Maybe it wasn’t about the challenge at all. You’re not sure what the point is, but it’s fun, so that’s okay.)

Daisies, dandelions, henbit- little, tiny, purple, bunny-shaped flowers. How she even noticed you’d noticed them, you’d liked them, is a question you don’t think about until much, much later.

Aster and goldenrod and milkweed and pink thistle. On and on and on, in tiny, but perfect, detail.

A chain of flowers around the edge of the handkerchief, finely and beautifully embroidered by steady, clever hands.

You become very, very, extremely aware of her, every time she is close, every time she puts her hands on you.

(Extremely extremely extremely aware. She smells like leather, most often, because of her armor. But likes sandalwood soap when you get the chance to stop and clean up. Is that weird? That’s weird, right?)

She is close a lot more often, and she touches you so often, so casually, that it’s hard to notice and impossible to ignore.

Brushing your hair out of your face. Once, pinning it back when your hair pins came loose- clever, gentle, soft, warm hands. Straightening your shirt and gripping your shoulders- reassuring you- when you have to talk to the Queen.

You’re a bumpkin from nowhere who prefers the forest to the city, talking to the Queen was never a thing you thought you would have to do, but she makes sure you look right.

A quick squeeze of your hand before she slips off- so you know she’s stepping into the shadows, that she didn’t just vanish.

(You squeeze back, so she knows you know, and to feel her warm hand before it slips out of yours.)

You’re sharp eyed, observant- and you have only become more so. But you have a blind spot, shaped like a beautiful rogue, who smiles and laughs and always, always, always stops to look at even the tiniest, raggediest, meanest of roadside flowers with you. She sees the beauty in them.

You think you maybe are starting to get it. It was never about an urge she couldn’t quell.

You think maybe, possibly, it could be something about you.

But you shy away from the thought. You were never good at such things. There’s a reason you stuck to the forest- figuring out people was hard and you were bad it at.

It probably doesn’t mean anything.

(Maybe.)

But she makes you smile, and you’re grateful for that. Damned few things to smile about, some days, but she always gets one out of you. And she smiles back, too. That’s important, too, maybe more important.

Time goes on. The stakes get bigger. As they do, in such things.

(The stakes get bigger, or you leave, or you die.)

And you all have your reasons for being there, doing what you’re doing.

And there’s some fights you can’t say no to. Not even if you think you’re going to lose, not even if you’re sure. There’s some fights you have to fight because to do otherwise means you’re not you.

Someone has to stop him.

(Someone has to try.)

She’s good.

She’s good at staying out of sight, appearing only long enough to get a shot off, and then disappearing again. You’ve never worried about her, much.

But there’s nowhere to hide, and she falls, and you can’t stop, not even for her, because you have to fight. Fight and win, or fight and die, but stopping is just not an option.

(Not even for her, but you do howl. In agony, and fury.)

Somehow, you win.

Broken and battered and bleeding, all, you win. The others are all up, somehow you only had one fall.

You run, limping, and fall at her side, ignoring your own wounds, though they are many.

Pulling your last health potion out and praying to every god you can think of that it’s not too late, that she’s not gone.

(Please. Please. Please, please, please.)

She opens her eyes, and smiles, and holds up the handkerchief in her bloodied hand.

You understand, now.

You finally, really understand what she’s been saying, all this time, speaking with no words at all.

You kiss her. Smiling, crying, grinning, you kiss her. And she knows you understand, now, and you rest your foreheads together, and just take a moment. Just a moment.

A moment to breathe.

It’s a long road home, after that. Your limp doesn’t quite ever go away, and you both have nightmares. She sometimes has panic attacks that you never know quite how to deal with, except to be there with her. There’s arguments and just plain bad days.

But at your wedding, there are so many flowers. And many, many more, in all the years that follow.