“Still,” he sounds distracted, “I’ll have to get him something for Satinalia. Appreciation for his services and what-have-you. Do any Kirkwall businesses do gift cards?”
It’s not tipping the building superintendent at Christmas, but it’s also not not that.
Stephen’s still standing with his back to the door, surveying her in this private space. Looking for more of those hairline fractures or signs of distress, the quiet fidgeting. They’re past that particular crucible, he thinks, but it’s still worth saying it aloud, so he reaches out and his fingertips graze Gwenaëlle’s bare wrist, her pulse-point.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “About him being back.”
He’s no longer talking about Guilfoyle. (Once upon a time, Cosima’s quarters upstairs been Tony’s which once had been Thranduil-and-Gwenaëlle’s. Bizarre, to think about now.)
no subject
It’s not tipping the building superintendent at Christmas, but it’s also not not that.
Stephen’s still standing with his back to the door, surveying her in this private space. Looking for more of those hairline fractures or signs of distress, the quiet fidgeting. They’re past that particular crucible, he thinks, but it’s still worth saying it aloud, so he reaches out and his fingertips graze Gwenaëlle’s bare wrist, her pulse-point.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “About him being back.”
He’s no longer talking about Guilfoyle. (Once upon a time, Cosima’s quarters upstairs been Tony’s which once had been Thranduil-and-Gwenaëlle’s. Bizarre, to think about now.)