recreatable | open post.

"I suppose you're right," Verso agrees, because 'waiting' is pretty much what they've been doing for the past week. Waiting and recovering, in Jasnah's case. She strikes him as the sort of person who doesn't do well staying put for long; it's not difficult for him, having decades of boredom under his belt, but it must be for her.

A pause. He taps his fingers against his knee.

"—Your hair looks nice that way," he offers. Very nice. Dark, shiny even now, spilling down her back. It's probably wrong how appealing it is to see her loose, unbound. He clears his throat. "Do you need help putting it back before we go?"

More reflexive than self-conscious, her hand reaches to touch her loose hair — fingers combing through waves that threaten to coalesce onto almost-curls. Leaving it down like this is nearer to the Veden style. And Jasnah much prefers the careful, curated approach. It's not safe to wear her gold hair pins, but she misses them. And the slight, grounding tension of at least one braid. Like this, she feels so — unstructured. Unmoored.

She cards her fingers up against the nape of her neck and combs the length of her hair out — fighting briefly between the compliment (your hair looks nice that way) and her inclination to bring it back to heel.

"Yes, actually. I think I could manage," she goes as far as testing her range of motion, shadowing the movements necessary for a good braid. It hurts, but she knows not to push too far. "But it wouldn't be neat enough."

Neat enough. Because neatness matters.

Verso fetches a hair tie, then settles back on the divan with Jasnah in front of him. He doesn't use the brush this time, instead combing his fingers through the length of her hair; he tells himself, as he works out a tangle with his index and middle fingers, that it's more efficient than using a brush. Deep down, though, he knows it's an excuse to touch her in a way that she would otherwise never allow.

Despite that little bit of self-indulgence, his work is dutiful and expedient, fingers not lingering anywhere that he doesn't have an excuse for. The braid is neat and taut, as requested, and when he ties it off he shifts back, feeling—

A little hot and bothered, honestly. There's something seriously wrong with him. It's the proximity, getting to be so near her in a way he's usually only ever been with another person with his clothes off. Or, well, partially off. It's kind of a waste of time to take them all the way off.

He scoots back further, creating more distance. "All done."

It's...nice. And not simply because she's accustomed to being attended to. Rank and station have ensured a lifetime of hands nearby, once upon a time. Fewer now, by choice. By age. By paranoia. Even then, this moment is something different entirely: the rare, fleeting permission to let someone else take care of her without obligation or hierarchy attached. A sensation she both resents and craves, and has never quite learned to balance.

This morning, she lets herself enjoy it. Trust itself is invigorating. And it's less what he's doing, and more that she allows it. As if a thread has been drawn through her sternum and anchored gently to his presence. A quiet, steadying bond. When his fingertips brush her scalp, gooseflesh rises along her neck. At one point she exhales a short, surprised laugh — quick reassurance following, soft and monosyllabic: she's fine, yes; no, he hasn't pulled too hard on that tangle.

Her head begins to bob almost unconsciously with the practiced over-under motion of the braid taking shape. She offers the smallest resistance, holding still, knowing it's her part of the work to be steady, to give him something firm to braid against.

And when it's finished, her shoulders drop. Her right hand traces the pattern, familiar and new all at once, before she flips the tail over one shoulder.

"Well done," she says, measured but warm. "I daresay they're getting better." And because she's learned some of his patterns by now, she adds: "And they started out good."

Hard to imagine they were both squabbling over hours just moments ago.

"—It looks nice that way, too."

Verso rubs his hands against the fabric of his trousers, palms gone a little sweaty. Flustered from the mere experience of being close to a beautiful woman. Clearly, it's been way too long. A decade, at least. More. After getting so far with the 58s, after watching Renoir slaughter them, he'd distanced himself. Doing the same thing over and over again without different results is insanity. 25 years, then, of loneliness. It's really no wonder that he can't keep his feelings on a leash.

"Uh," he says eloquently. "I'll go looking for a place that we can eat."

...Disappointment crowds onto her face. He'll go looking? Yes, alright, when she plays the conversation back in her point-form recollection, she can understand how that must have been his original intent.

Still.

Jasnah flattens a hand on the end-table and uses it to push herself to her feet. Look, she's steady! Look, she's stable!

"I thought we'd go together," she tells him — ignorant of why he might want to escape alone for a time before lunch.

"Hey," he scolds, standing up an instant after she does, hands hovering a few inches away from her to catch her if she falters. "I thought we'd both agreed on no sudden movements."

Or maybe he'd just assumed they did, because that's common sense.

"...It might take a while to find somewhere." Yes, he'd like a moment alone to disgustingly yearn and then maybe slap himself and psych himself up for being normal and platonic on this lunch absolutely-not-a-date, but there's also pragmatic reasons behind it, too. "You might get tired."

Oh, how she wants to snarl at him that she is not made of glass. Except, except, except — she kinda is, just now. More fragile than she's ever been in years. More fragile right now than she was curled around the knife, on the deck of the Wind's Pleasure, the last time she'd been stabbed. At least then all she'd had to do was wait the assassins out and heal once she'd made it to Shadesmar.

Now — hmm. Jasnah doesn't knock his hands aside, but she does intervene by sliding her palm against where her wound sits. The tick in her jaw suggests the movement was indeed too sudden.

Ah, yes, she reminds herself. Here comes the resentment after the craving.

"I will only know my limits if I test them."

His hand lingers there for a few beats—not quite touching but close enough that he can feel her body heat radiating—before it drops. She isn't Alicia, small and delicate and in need of protection. She isn't an Expeditioner, either, bound to die in one horrific way or another in front of his eyes.

"Okay," he says after the silence stretches a little too long. "You're right. We'll go, then."

All that puffed up, feral animal energy — the defensiveness, the argumentative instinct, the sternness — suddenly has nowhere to go. And she finds herself disinclined to inflict it on him just so she can excise it from herself. Huh.

So her jaw works and her shoulders roll and she busies herself with looking for an appropriate container to move Ivory into, so that she needn't leave him behind. It's slow and careful going, walking herself towards Jochi's kitchenette — but it would be silly to have made such a fuss and then ask for Verso's help to travel a mere few feet.

"I just need to borrow one of Jochi's spice tins..."

Verso watches Jasnah, her movements prolonged and halting, and stuffs down the urge to scurry after her and assist her. Still, he can't help but walk after her—and then past her—to the kitchenette, crouching down to dig through the cupboards for a small tin. When he stands, he holds it out wordlessly, knowing she'd rather be the one to place Ivory inside than allow him to do it. He understands; it's hard to trust someone with your most precious person.

He waits patiently all throughout the process, hovering nearby in case something happens but not so close as to be breathing down her neck. When Ivory is safely nestled in the tin, he doesn't offer his arm, but he does say, "You can lean on me, if you get tired."

She stands — stunned, one hand on the wall — when he hands her precisely what she's seeking. All the wild, displaced frustration flees and buries itself somewhere deeper for the time being. Instead, she simply feels understood. Verso had no reason to recognize what she was after, or why — except perhaps camaraderie. Familiarity enough to understand what her next highest priority was going to be, and how she might seek to solve it.

A jolt of something sweet but scary shoots through her. The more potent cousin to whatever soft connection she'd felt when he'd sat behind her, braiding. Jasnah frowns.

Nevertheless, she claims the tin and (slow, steady, avoiding sudden movements) she returns to gently nestle Ivory into the tin's interior. She uses enough linen lining to keep him snug, she thinks. Comfortable. She's not sure spren even feel physical discomfort, given their nature, but she doesn't want him rattling around in there all the same. Once accomplished, she slips the whole thing into a pocket — along with last night's spheres.

"I know," she finally answers. It's not chippy or sulky. Rather, forthright. Factual. Yes, she knows and expects she can lean on him. "Help me with the stairs," she indicates, "and I'll see how I manage myself once we reach the street."

Verso does help her with the stairs, a slow and laborious process, one palm pressed against her back to steady her and the other hand curled around her forearm. He makes idle conversation to distract her as they go, knowing she must find his assistance embarrassing at best and cloying at worst. When they finally make it down to the ground floor, he releases her arm, although his hand remains at her back for a lingering moment before he slowly peels it away.

In the bakery, Jochi waves—more to Jasnah than to him—although there's a little flicker of concern on his face as he watches her moving independently already. On an emotional level, he's worried about Jasnah's well-being; on a pragmatic level, he really doesn't want the queen of Alethkar to get hurt again in his shop.

Out on the street, Verso tries and fails not to think about how she'd needed to hold his hand for support the day before. His fingers twitch a little, and he presses them flat against his thigh.

"So far, so good?"

The excursion won't be easy. Already, she can feel a lick of sweat along her spine from the stairs. And she'd had help with those. Jasnah pauses just outside Jochi's door. Silently, stubbornly, she gives herself a challenge: make it to the end of the side-street under her own steam. After that, yes, she'll lean on Verso.

There are good reasons to be cautious. But there are also good reasons to be bold. She won't let herself grow too accepting of the wound. She won't let her sense of self warp around it.

So, she answers him with a stiff nod. Sipping in a breath, she starts with slow measured steps. Hand still on the bakery's outside wall. One, two, three, and the a glance over her shoulder to see how he follows.

"... Don't help until the fountain at the earliest."

She jerks her head forward, indicating a modest water feature.

Verso holds his hands up, palms out, as if to show her physical proof of his innocence. "Not helping." No matter how badly he wants to!

He turns around, walking backwards a few steps ahead of her so that he might catch her if she stumbles, although he doesn't dare reach out unless she does. Clea always accused him of coddling, and if there's anything he knows Jasnah will hate, it's being coddled. So, instead, he just keeps a careful eye out while he takes slow steps back. Coddling only in his mind and not in reality.

"I've noticed something," he says idly. "You usually do something to your food before you eat it."

Her attention tracks him as he moves to a forward position — but walking backwards, facing her. Acceptable. But even so, her fingers graze the wall to her right. Every third or fourth step, she leans her full weight through her palm against the wall. Brief, necessary support.

She's doing well enough. Slow, certainly. But she isn't rushing.

"—Is that so?" She responds to his question, neither confirming nor denying anything.

"It is," he bats back, playful, teasing. "It may surprise you, but I actually have quite a keen sense of observation."

Also, it's obvious.

"Is it because of the taste?" Because she doesn't like sweet things; perhaps, without someone to swap with her, she's been surreptitiously changing the taste all this time.

Jasnah grimaces, but not due to effort. Rather — she's thinking about how so often soulcasting a bite of food makes it worse. If it's something she hasn't had before, if it's too processed beyond its whole self, she struggles. Storms, she's not strong with organics in the first place. No — it's never been for taste.

"All I ever do is try to re-create whatever it is. If something is meant to be stew, I soulcast it to stew. If something is meant to be a ship's biscuit, I soulcast it to be a ship's biscuit."

She hasn't done it once since arriving at Jochi's. No stormlight, no soulcasting. It's almost a relief not to have to ask herself whether or not she trusts the pastries that come up from the kitchen. She's not certain how she'd feel about revealing such fresh depths of distrust.

Verso takes a few more steps back, nearing the fountain now. He stops there, watching to see if the independent walk has winded her enough that she's willing to ask for help. Or, as the case will probably be, imperiously command help. Maybe it feels better that way. He's not going to begrudge her the opportunity.

"Why would you do that?" he asks, head cocked in confusion. "Seems rather redundant."

"Most of the time, it is redundant."

Oh. She hadn't anticipated how vulnerable she would feel walking — shuffling, more like — through the streets. Yesterday, she'd been distracted first by the prospect of locating Ivory and second by the alarmingly helpful Cryptic. She's now suddenly all-too-aware of every stranger in eyesight.

She focuses on Verso like a lifeline. Eyes on him, letting his backwards steps set her pace.

"But if there's something in a ship's biscuit that shouldn't be there, soulcasting will catch it."

Jasnah reaches his side — facing forwards as he faces backwards — and leans a hand on his shoulder.

Jasnah's hand settles on his shoulder, her weight leaning into it, and he wills his mouth not to quirk up. It isn't just her closeness or the sensation of her touch, although of course both of those things are pleasant to experience. It's also—and perhaps most importantly—the knowledge that she's depending on him, allowing him to take care of her. That might actually be more degenerate than the physical attraction.

"Clever," he says, wishing he could have soulcasted on the Continent instead of poisoning himself over and over. "And exhausting."

Slowly, he turns so that they're facing the same direction again. "Speaking of exhausting," he points out, "you're sweating a little."

One meager street. That is all she manages on her own. Jasnah firmly reminds herself that this was the exercise's purpose: identify the limit, then plan to exceed it. Tomorrow, another walk. The day after that, another. As many repetitions as it takes to convince the very fibers of her being that the wound is temporary, not defining. Acceptance would be the greater danger. If she grows used to it, it will be harder to mend when stormlight returns. It will be more likely to scar.

She lets her hand fall from his shoulder as he turns, transferring the weight instead to the stone lip of the fountain. The sideways look she gives him when is sharp enough to cut, though threaded with just enough self-reproach to admit that he is, unfortunately, correct.

"Disappointing," she says coolly. "I'd hoped to make it farther before requiring your arm."

Jasnah's looks could kill if she were so inclined; Verso responds with a pointed look of his own, albeit significantly softer. Only Jasnah would find it 'disappointing' that she'd made it all this way on her own for the first time since being grievously injured. Jasnah probably finds it disappointing that she isn't able to do jumping jacks in the middle of the street right now.

"You've already gone farther by yourself than you have in the past week." Journey over destination, hm? "Is my arm that bad?" Teasing: "Do I smell?"

— Some day, mark my word, she is going to deeply regret having taught him the First Ideals. That's gonna bite her in the ass for sure.

But for now she's still stewing in her own limitations. Her expression remains clouded and cantankerous, but she stops short of ad hominem attacks. "No," she answers sullenly, "you don't smell."

At least not badly. They have access to decent water and facilities at Jochi's, and it's an improvement after the ship. If anyone's at risk of smelling, alas, it's going to be the woman who can't take the luxurious little baths she's used to because of her wound.

Wait until they get back to Urithiru and he can procure some cologne! But until then, at least she isn't gagging just being near him.

"That may be the most flattering thing you've ever said about me," he quips, amiable. But also not entirely insincere; 'you don't smell' is high praise coming from Jasnah. There isn't any physical aspect of him that she seems to find appealing, so being found neutral is as good as it gets.

A second of thought, and then he loops his arm through hers, as if they're just having a casual stroll together. "We can make it look like you're walking on your own." If that helps her ego.

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