"...Surely not," Jasnah protests. She's said kinder things, hasn't she? Hasn't she? Her expression darkens, and it's obvious that she's rotating through past conversations — determined to find some other sentence that was (at least) equally flattering.
She's still thinking about it when, without comment, she tightens the hold around the arm he hooks with hers. The movement zips them closer, almost hip to hip, and she adds a hand — crossed over her body — for an additional anchor point.
It's difficult being this close to Jasnah. It's too pleasant, and pleasantness is dangerous. Pleasantness only makes him want more of it, of something he can't have. It makes him wish she'd ever want to be near him for reasons that aren't pragmatic. This is why it's safer to sit on the far edge of the divan, never touching.
He inhales sharply, then exhales. It's just helping someone who's injured while she recovers.
With forced levity: "You look as if the gears are turning so quickly that steam is about to start coming out of your ears."
"I complimented your braiding skills," she tells him — almost as though she never even heard his comment about gears and steam and her ears. Her ears are a little red, though. Like being caught stealing spheres from the palace braziers. Like realizing all your careful self-work hasn't paid the dividends you hoped it might.
"And I'm sure I've told you I like your playing. The piano and the guitar. Both. And the way your voice gets when you talk about your little sister..."
It's like he's stumbled across Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start for a small windfall of sincere compliments. Soak it up now, 'cause it's gonna be patched pretty soon.
Verso's ears darken a little, too, although for a different reason. Luckily, they're mostly hidden beneath the thicket of his hair.
"—I don't think you said that last one, no," he points out, because he would certainly remember if she'd ever said she liked anything about his voice. Every other compliment is about what he can do; that one is about something that he is.
He clears his throat, taking a step. "It wasn't a complaint." Not... exactly. Of course, he'd like to be the recipient of her praise, but he wouldn't dream of demanding it. "Merely an observation. You're"—he waffles, trying to find the right word—"quite judicious with your flattery."
Oh. Well, she's absolutely thought that last one. And a cavalcade of others, but she bites them down because she regrets what she's already spit out. It's a good thing that they're beside one another, and she can fix her focus on the path ahead. One foot, then the other, and then the first again. However, she's letting him lead. Some combination of fatigue and knowing he's got at least three-to-four more excursions outside than her.
"I should think so," she answers — voice once again cool and distant. "My is never to flatter."
Verso walks as slowly and as casually as he can, trying to make it look less like he's helping a hobbled stab victim walk and more like they're just taking an incredibly meandering stroll together.
"—Praise, then," he laughs. "Compliments. Approval. Your choice of appreciative synonym." With a glance her way: "Flattery isn't the worst thing." Some people happen to enjoy it!
It's difficult not to think about Shallan. Ultimately, the young woman's attempt on her own life had been a manipulative tactic to cover her theft. Still, Jasnah remembers pacing outside the hospital room questioning every thing she had and hadn't said. And she remembers the clumsy apology once she'd been allowed to see the girl.
Jasnah knows she can be withholding. Distant. Hard. Half the reason why she's rejected so many potential wards hasn't been because the girls didn't meet muster, but because she knows she's not the teacher that most of them need.
"Noted." She answers. Simple and direct. Unwilling to gild a lily she's already flushed with compliments a minute earlier.
And he drops the subject. He hadn't been intending to needle her into compliments, exactly, although he's certainly not mad at having received a few. It's just that it would be nice if she were to spare a little more approval, that's all, and his communication style is far too passive-aggressive to say that directly.
Moving on— "There are a few places to eat the street over." He remembers because of the smell; he'd been glad just to smell something that wasn't yeast and sugar. "Think you can make it?"
...Except in her mind, it absolutely was a good talk. And while Jasnah certainly doesn't intend to trip over herself to dispense praise at every turn, it's helpful to realize there are things she perhaps shouldn't leave unvoiced. Not everyone is as patient and understanding of her silence as her blood relatives.
But! Yes. Moving on.
There is a mild list to her her walk — canted ever so slightly towards him. It's enough to make it seem like they're tête-à-tête, conspiring. Reality is far, far more pragmatic.
"One street?" She considers. "I'd like to try. I'll — I'll tell you when I need a pause."
A brief, intentional squeeze on his forearm. As though it might replace signing on a dotted line.
The trek down the street is lengthy, but Verso works hard at keeping her distracted with idle, inane comments. Pointing at the window of a shop and asking her about the product on display. Looking up at the sky and noting that a cloud sort of looks like a snake riding a magic carpet. That sort of thing. When she wants to pause, he pauses. When she wants to go, he goes.
Eventually, they make their way all the way down to the next street over, where he leads them not by sight but by smell into the establishment that has the strongest aroma of spice. Not his first choice as a fantasy Frenchman, but it seems a good reward for Jasnah.
He pulls out her chair, helping her into her seat, saying, "Good job. Tomorrow, maybe you'll do two streets."
But — oh, the spice on the air makes her stomach rumble. The thought of something more than bread and various stuffings within bread is just-almost-maybe enough to erase some of her current worries. Verso helps her into a chair and she can be grateful that they're in Thaylen City. Where some of the population still worship the Passions, and the strict divides between men and women aren't quite so strict. At least they didn't encounter too many horrified stares as they'd walked down the street arm-in-arm.
...However, a slightly agitated waiter now hems and haws on the periphery of their table. Jasnah makes a split-second decision to fall back on their previous ruse. Maybe it'll be slightly more reassuring to have a man and woman dine at the same table if they're man and wife.
"—Gemheart," she snaps a glance at Verso. Trusting him to pick up on the tactic. "Let's stick to the pink wines today, hm?"
For a split second Verso looks confused, but as trusted to, he picks up quickly. His hand slips away from its place between Jasnah's shoulder blades, where it had been steadying her as she lowered herself into the seat, and he settles in the chair across from her, fingers tapping against the table. They'd spent so much time in close quarters—privately, without prying eyes—that he'd already forgotten about Rosharan sensibilities.
It had been fun to pretend to be someone else on the ship. It's fun even now, but there's a bitter undercurrent to it, the reminder that the only way she could ever be interested in him is if he were someone else. He rubs at his face.
"Right. Whatever you say, darling." A glance to the waiter— "Happy wife, happy life, no?"
Ha, ha. He spends a bit of time hemming and hawing over the menu and asking questions of the waiter before he lands on what he understands to be some sort of spicy meat curry; too hot for his liking, probably, but it's for Jasnah, not him. When they're left alone, he says, "'Gemheart' is rather a bit saccharine for you."
— Jasnah doesn't allow the waiter to leave before a milder, sweeter curry is also added to the order. Ostensible for herself but in reality for him. Or, at the very least, to maintain the fiction of their appropriate dishes so that they might swap them and proceed merrily along.
But when he questions her choice of endearment, she counters: "You wouldn't say so if you saw how they're harvested."
"Axehounds, chulls, gumfrems, chasmfiends — they all have gemhearts."
She taps her chest — one finger, three times between her collarbones.
"Gemstones that grow inside those animals. And others. Stones that are bigger and clearer than what can be mined. The bigger and clearer the stone? The better it is for fabrials. Chasmfiends have the largest. Emeralds, always."
Yeesh. Yeah, that's less saccharine than previously thought.
"Oh, so you're calling me a chasmfiend, then," he points out, playful. Obviously, Jasnah isn't actually calling him anything. Half the time, she still calls him 'Dessendre'. "Just what every man wants to hear."
A subtle near-roll of her eyes. Verso can best believe it would have been considerably less subtle in private. She's heard Dalinar call her mother gemheart when he thinks he's addressing her quietly enough in the corner of the council rooms that no one else can hear. Dalinar has almost always been wrong. But the first time she heard it—? Someone saying something so targeted towards Navani that was also so warm and sweet...? Well. She thought it rather lovely. So different from——
What would he prefer. That's a funny question. Considering that he gets all warm and fuzzy just at the sound of her using his first name—he'll blame it on some sort of psychological conditioning that she unintentionally performed on him—he isn't picky at all. But this isn't a real relationship, and it's not a real question, so:
Easy, joking exasperation. The unseriousness of the suggestion isn't lost on her — but she does pocket it, naturally, for the sides of the scene still ahead of them. Realistically, the task has been accomplished with what's been said thus far. Realistically, there's very little left to perform. They can simply be themselves and finish the meal in peace. A married couple can't be all that different from any other two people sitting across a table from one another.
"Well, if we're opening the floor simply to any old adjective..."
Verso quirks a brow, mouth a faint but unmistakable smile, then leans back in his chair with a flourish of his arm as if to say the floor is yours. Go on, Jasnah. Pick some adjectives for him. He's dying to be perceived.
"A restless spirit," he corrects. Something like that. If only Jasnah knew how many times he'd ditched Monoco and Noco to go take care of some sketchy dealing or another. "But I'm not sure it really has much appeal as a pet name. You can't say"—with a faux-sexy intonation—"hello, antsy."
Faux or not, that intonation he uses actually manages to evoke a frisson of — horror? Embarrassment? Her eyes dart furtively around their smaller corner of an already small restaurant. As if she's worried someone might have heard him.
More or less, it proves his point.
"Forget antsy. I acknowledge it was terrible."
Sweeping her hand across the table as thought she could sweep it all away. Maybe she's just not built for pet names.
Well, witnessing that horrified look on her face is far more horrifying than anything he could ever do. He'd thought she'd find it amusing— or if not amusing, then at least annoying in a sort of endearing way. He hadn't wanted her to be embarrassed by him.
He clears his throat. "And you can forget everything I ever said about flattery." Sarcastic: "The expression on your face is flattery enough to last me a lifetime."
Lesson learned. There is a patter — a kind of back-and-forth — for which she makes a poor match. She squares up in her chair, refusing to shrink back from the awkwardness, even though her thumbnail still picks at the table edge in a too clear tell of her own antsy nature.
The joke had gone a little too far a little too quick. But she doesn't have the words to explain it. So, feeling a tightness in her throat, she swallows and falls back on what she knows best.
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She's still thinking about it when, without comment, she tightens the hold around the arm he hooks with hers. The movement zips them closer, almost hip to hip, and she adds a hand — crossed over her body — for an additional anchor point.
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He inhales sharply, then exhales. It's just helping someone who's injured while she recovers.
With forced levity: "You look as if the gears are turning so quickly that steam is about to start coming out of your ears."
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"And I'm sure I've told you I like your playing. The piano and the guitar. Both. And the way your voice gets when you talk about your little sister..."
It's like he's stumbled across Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A, Start for a small windfall of sincere compliments. Soak it up now, 'cause it's gonna be patched pretty soon.
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"—I don't think you said that last one, no," he points out, because he would certainly remember if she'd ever said she liked anything about his voice. Every other compliment is about what he can do; that one is about something that he is.
He clears his throat, taking a step. "It wasn't a complaint." Not... exactly. Of course, he'd like to be the recipient of her praise, but he wouldn't dream of demanding it. "Merely an observation. You're"—he waffles, trying to find the right word—"quite judicious with your flattery."
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"I should think so," she answers — voice once again cool and distant. "My is never to flatter."
She says it like it's a six-letter word.
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"—Praise, then," he laughs. "Compliments. Approval. Your choice of appreciative synonym." With a glance her way: "Flattery isn't the worst thing." Some people happen to enjoy it!
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Jasnah knows she can be withholding. Distant. Hard. Half the reason why she's rejected so many potential wards hasn't been because the girls didn't meet muster, but because she knows she's not the teacher that most of them need.
"Noted." She answers. Simple and direct. Unwilling to gild a lily she's already flushed with compliments a minute earlier.
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And he drops the subject. He hadn't been intending to needle her into compliments, exactly, although he's certainly not mad at having received a few. It's just that it would be nice if she were to spare a little more approval, that's all, and his communication style is far too passive-aggressive to say that directly.
Moving on— "There are a few places to eat the street over." He remembers because of the smell; he'd been glad just to smell something that wasn't yeast and sugar. "Think you can make it?"
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But! Yes. Moving on.
There is a mild list to her her walk — canted ever so slightly towards him. It's enough to make it seem like they're tête-à-tête, conspiring. Reality is far, far more pragmatic.
"One street?" She considers. "I'd like to try. I'll — I'll tell you when I need a pause."
A brief, intentional squeeze on his forearm. As though it might replace signing on a dotted line.
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Eventually, they make their way all the way down to the next street over, where he leads them not by sight but by smell into the establishment that has the strongest aroma of spice. Not his first choice as a fantasy Frenchman, but it seems a good reward for Jasnah.
He pulls out her chair, helping her into her seat, saying, "Good job. Tomorrow, maybe you'll do two streets."
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...However, a slightly agitated waiter now hems and haws on the periphery of their table. Jasnah makes a split-second decision to fall back on their previous ruse. Maybe it'll be slightly more reassuring to have a man and woman dine at the same table if they're man and wife.
"—Gemheart," she snaps a glance at Verso. Trusting him to pick up on the tactic. "Let's stick to the pink wines today, hm?"
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It had been fun to pretend to be someone else on the ship. It's fun even now, but there's a bitter undercurrent to it, the reminder that the only way she could ever be interested in him is if he were someone else. He rubs at his face.
"Right. Whatever you say, darling." A glance to the waiter— "Happy wife, happy life, no?"
Ha, ha. He spends a bit of time hemming and hawing over the menu and asking questions of the waiter before he lands on what he understands to be some sort of spicy meat curry; too hot for his liking, probably, but it's for Jasnah, not him. When they're left alone, he says, "'Gemheart' is rather a bit saccharine for you."
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But when he questions her choice of endearment, she counters: "You wouldn't say so if you saw how they're harvested."
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She taps her chest — one finger, three times between her collarbones.
"Gemstones that grow inside those animals. And others. Stones that are bigger and clearer than what can be mined. The bigger and clearer the stone? The better it is for fabrials. Chasmfiends have the largest. Emeralds, always."
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"Oh, so you're calling me a chasmfiend, then," he points out, playful. Obviously, Jasnah isn't actually calling him anything. Half the time, she still calls him 'Dessendre'. "Just what every man wants to hear."
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"Scratch gemheart, then. What would you prefer?"
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"I've been known to answer to handsome."
Kidding, he's kidding.
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"Well, if we're opening the floor simply to any old adjective..."
She levels it like a warning.
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Verso quirks a brow, mouth a faint but unmistakable smile, then leans back in his chair with a flourish of his arm as if to say the floor is yours. Go on, Jasnah. Pick some adjectives for him. He's dying to be perceived.
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"Antsy."
Please just let me use this word even though there are no ants on Roshar.no subject
"A restless spirit," he corrects. Something like that. If only Jasnah knew how many times he'd ditched Monoco and Noco to go take care of some sketchy dealing or another. "But I'm not sure it really has much appeal as a pet name. You can't say"—with a faux-sexy intonation—"hello, antsy."
A shrug. "See? Doesn't work."
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More or less, it proves his point.
"Forget antsy. I acknowledge it was terrible."
Sweeping her hand across the table as thought she could sweep it all away. Maybe she's just not built for pet names.
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He clears his throat. "And you can forget everything I ever said about flattery." Sarcastic: "The expression on your face is flattery enough to last me a lifetime."
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The joke had gone a little too far a little too quick. But she doesn't have the words to explain it. So, feeling a tightness in her throat, she swallows and falls back on what she knows best.
"Whose lifetime?"
Arch, distant, shuttered.
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NITPICKS FOREVER
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