Gwenaëlle’s enthusiasm and excitement is contagious, endearing, and so he can feel it sinking in: some of that old magic, early mornings and reaching beneath a plastic tree, functional hands ripping into wrapping paper and tearing open boxes, eager and impatient. The Stranges hadn’t been able to afford much, so the day had been special for what little they’d scraped together for their children.
After he’d been able to afford buying himself anything he wanted anytime, he’d sort of stopped caring.
So it’s nice, it mattering again. Stephen unwraps the bundle and shakes out the long coat first thing, its arms spilling loose, and he props it up against her chest so he can see it better: the lovely dark red colour, the Research sigil at the lapels, and she can see the delight spreading across his face at the sight of it. “Oh, I can wear a stylish uniform again,” he declares; it’s not a cloak, but it’s nice to have options which aren’t just throwing a cloak on over nondescript clothing.
He goes through the rest with meticulous care: a bottle of Orlesian cologne, which he automatically daubs on, to please her.
He lingers over-long at the poetry, pressing ruined fingertips to the pane of glass, the lipstick kiss. When he shoots a look back up to her, he’s wearing a smile that can only be described as shy. “I’ve had news articles written about me, but poetry’s still new.”
But it’s the last object which takes most of his attention: the dwarven-made pocket-watch. Stephen barks a small incredulous laugh (on so many levels) once he removes it from its case, holding it up to the dawn light filtering through their windows, turning it over carefully to examine the workings and admire the craftsmanship. A flick of the stem and the front springs open; it’s been already wound to the steady tick tick tick of counting time. Had he ever told her about his watch collection? No, and she hadn’t been invited into his bedroom at the Sanctum, so how could she have known—
He’s thunderstruck into silence for a moment.
“Is this,” he says slowly, “from Orzammar? What made you think of it?”
He can sort of guess — he’s a goddamned time wizard, after all — but he’s still stuck on it, his own gears catching.
no subject
After he’d been able to afford buying himself anything he wanted anytime, he’d sort of stopped caring.
So it’s nice, it mattering again. Stephen unwraps the bundle and shakes out the long coat first thing, its arms spilling loose, and he props it up against her chest so he can see it better: the lovely dark red colour, the Research sigil at the lapels, and she can see the delight spreading across his face at the sight of it. “Oh, I can wear a stylish uniform again,” he declares; it’s not a cloak, but it’s nice to have options which aren’t just throwing a cloak on over nondescript clothing.
He goes through the rest with meticulous care: a bottle of Orlesian cologne, which he automatically daubs on, to please her.
He lingers over-long at the poetry, pressing ruined fingertips to the pane of glass, the lipstick kiss. When he shoots a look back up to her, he’s wearing a smile that can only be described as shy. “I’ve had news articles written about me, but poetry’s still new.”
But it’s the last object which takes most of his attention: the dwarven-made pocket-watch. Stephen barks a small incredulous laugh (on so many levels) once he removes it from its case, holding it up to the dawn light filtering through their windows, turning it over carefully to examine the workings and admire the craftsmanship. A flick of the stem and the front springs open; it’s been already wound to the steady tick tick tick of counting time. Had he ever told her about his watch collection? No, and she hadn’t been invited into his bedroom at the Sanctum, so how could she have known—
He’s thunderstruck into silence for a moment.
“Is this,” he says slowly, “from Orzammar? What made you think of it?”
He can sort of guess — he’s a goddamned time wizard, after all — but he’s still stuck on it, his own gears catching.