bakerstreet | might as well get comfortable

[ Zephirin's hand hovers in mid-air a moment longer, ilms from Aymeric, before it sinks back down, returning to Zephirin's side. The words surprise him, in truth — again, he could argue against any perceived worth in his nature over whatever strategic value he offers at this juncture, certain that good intentions alone would have meant little, but his bargain proposed is hardly a fail-safe solution for Aymeric's predicament.

Another, not quite agreed upon, might simply remove his presence altogether — if not cleanly — the burden of it ever greater than aught to redeem it.

He suggests nothing of that thought, not here and now, drawing back instead. The weariness in Aymeric's gaze silences much more to say on the matter. ]

Aymeric... [ Pointless regret lies heavily upon his tongue; he debates whether to voice it at all. At length, thinking better of it, he opts for a different strategy, still ineffectual: ] Shall I keep my distance?

[ Difficult, when they will inevitably continue to meet even only for reasons necessary and practical. ]

[ Aymeric looks up at him again sharply, plainly surprised. ]

I would be sorry if you did.

[ His tone implies a question, but he follows it with an overt one swiftly — Zephirin, he now knows very well, is prone to setting aside his own wants. ]

Would you prefer to?

[ He's careful to keep his voice as neutral as he can, though it may be no use, after his moment of candor. ]

[ It ought not matter, of course, that they would regret such distance placed between them, after their accord reached, after the many moments of perilous candor accumulated across the weeks. Zephirin contemplates a half-truth too close to a lie, hesitates. They have both confessed enough of their preferences that his efforts would undoubtedly be rendered transparent.

Honesty guides his response, after another heartbeat's consideration. He does not break eye contact. ]

Not as such. [ He would free himself of his selfish wants, and Aymeric of his self-doubt, if only he could. ] I would, however, prefer to spare you these new questions to plague you...

[ Trailing off, at a loss, Zephirin falls silent. ]

You would spare me a trial any worthy leader of men must certainly endure, at some time, as well as your friendship?

[ Aymeric lifts his eyebrows, giving Zephirin an almost conspiratorial smile. ]

What fortune. No — I would not be spared. Did we not reach an accord on this? Or nearly this, in any case.

[ As it was in the bath in Borel manor, he leaves off there. ]

[ Zephirin starts, at that, forced to discard his arguments anew as they crumble in the face of Aymeric's incredulous teasing, dismantled. He has no choice then but to nod, to yield — relief follows close behind, not without a shadow of shame. ]

I was prepared to exchange it for another, I admit.

[ He recalls that accord well; he has all but stated it plain himself, and perhaps he should have known better than to act counter to that agreement, by now.

Turning his gaze away from Aymeric, once more to the notes penned upon the page of parchment, Zephirin means to thank the man, their evening's meeting near its end. Instead, ill-timed, an oncoming yawn threatens to overtake him — with a sudden movement, he faces away fully, and presses his hand to his mouth. ]

[ The gesture is so natural — so unlike Zephirin's usual careful poise — that Aymeric has to laugh, just a huff, and his voice is amused: ]

I presume you'll have no trouble falling asleep, then.

[ He gets up, as if to see Zephirin off formally. ]

Should it elude you still, of course, my door is ever open to you.

[ The urge to yawn is successfully smothered, at the cost of Zephirin's dignity; he does not immediately emerge from behind his hand, and he cannot begrudge Aymeric his amusement, distinctly aware that the sight must be comically novel. Behind a Temple Knight's iron mask, weariness was no issue to conceal. When Zephirin lowers his hand at last, blinking his eyes open and turning his head to see Aymeric on his feet, he himself looks near a faint smile.

Plainly, they are both weary at the day's end — Zephirin feels its pull, or else the pull of the potions he would take at this hour, and he might trust in Aymeric's prediction and allow sleep to set in as it will, dreams and disruptions or no. Ser Handeloup's desk drawer could be emptied, the potions already within relinquished ere a man grows over-accustomed to the oblivion they promise. At the least, there is sense in testing a night's reprieve.

He would agree, and complete his intended thanks, and excuse himself to his borrowed quarters, declining Aymeric's open door — they need not speak of this again — but if Aymeric would spare himself no trial, Zephirin may be wrong to fall back on what amounts to distance preserved.

He examines and re-examines the options before him, thinking of his own part in his fate. ]

...'Twould suffice, I believe, if I might take my leave when you are abed.

[ An odd request to make, no doubt. ]

[ It's as odd as it is unexpected, and only Aymeric's instincts catch him before he allows a short but impolite hesitation. ]

I— of course. Certainly. Make yourself at home, if you can.

[ His quarters do nothing to help, as small and utilitarian as they are. Somewhat awkwardly, he steps out of the way — both of the chair and the bed, to present a choice — and begins to take off his armor, pauldrons first. ]

I suppose, if you are to take an acolyte's vows, the Church may request that you be housed with the acolytes.

[ Aymeric's movements are telling — he anticipated a different response. Unsurprising, when Zephirin chose to cling to a measure of distance since the night spent at Borel manor, as though fleeing from their confessions voiced in too-intimate moments, from losses they ought not regret.

Courteously invited to make himself at home regardless, he takes the vacated chair, as Aymeric did in Ser Handeloup's quarters whilst waiting for him before mass. From there, he watches absently as the lord commander makes ready for bed, but it crosses his mind that Aymeric himself would sit with his back turned, perhaps too mindful of that misguided measure of distance sought.

Aymeric's abrupt remark draws Zephirin away from sinking deeper into his thoughts. His gaze, no longer unfocused, fixes directly upon Aymeric. ]

The possibility occurred to me... It poses problems not unlike the Church's first offer, then.

[ One hand, laid upon the chair's frame beside Zephirin's head, curls around the wood beneath it. ]

What would you have me do?

Give your reservations plainly, I suppose.

[ He lays pieces of his armor on the desk, one by one, never so close that they encroach on what little space Zephirin has to himself. Another night, he might have left it all half on the desk and half on the chair. ]

They may be blind to them, but they may also see wisdom in not inviting the ire of the lowborn.

[ Zephirin is not blind to the care taken on Aymeric's part to leave him a section of the desk, free of anything set down upon it, and he knows not what to make of the gesture. He hums a low sound in assent to the lord commander's recommendation, but his eyes come to rest on the pieces of plate carefully placed behind an unseen barrier between him and the space which Aymeric allots for his own discarded belongings — it borders on courtesy that treats him as some volatile or fragile thing to handle with caution.

They are neither of them at home, like this, and he has only himself to blame. ]

You will hear of it, whatever the outcome may be.

[ Rising fluidly and without warning from the chair, Zephirin steps across the stretch of floor to reach Aymeric and holds out both hands, now in an effort to bolster Aymeric's bridge built instead of ceaselessly tearing it down. Though the lord commander has no need of a squire's assistance — even less without the circumstances that once necessitated accepting another's aid — Zephirin's intent is clear. ]

Might I...?

[ He does not touch Aymeric, merely waiting to arrange the remainder of the man's attire upon the desk, the chair, as if a second pair of hands would ensure its efficient removal. ]

[ For a moment Aymeric hesitates, surprised — but then he smiles, handing Zephirin his accoutrements piece by piece. ]

Thank you.

[ He sits down when sitting down would be easier, to deal with his legs, claiming only one side of the edge of the bed for himself. ]

You needn't stay only to leave, of course— [ He flicks a glance at Zephirin, gauging his expression, as he half-blindly works a buckle free from memory. ] —Though if you would prefer to leave, I shall say no more on it. I suppose your methods are not mine to understand.

[ As Aymeric surrenders each item to set aside, Zephirin transfers them to the desk, laying them out there systematically, leaving enough space for the pieces not yet removed. In the morning, the lord commander will have the choice of beginning with his sabatons and working upward, or reach for his pauldrons first then, too. The chair is reserved for his coat, should he keep it close by.

There is peace to be found in largely mechanical a task, as ever, in a reprieve from idleness, and it achieves what words could not: thinking of nothing else for some moments, Zephirin lowers his guard.

Then the flimsy illusion comes apart; reality catches him unawares. Zephirin's hands pause upon the edge of the desk, going still. He looks over his shoulder, forcing his expression into neutrality, and meets the glance cast his way.

Even armed with the reasoning for his resolutions, what he prefers is no simple thing to confront. Visibly, he searches for the means to articulate himself, to approach some satisfactory explanation. ]

I cannot truthfully tell you that I prefer my methods. [ Awaiting Aymeric's greaves to take, Zephirin turns about the rest of the way to facing the lord commander. ] But yours... I am led to wonder what you would do, in my place.

[ Without a doubt, Aymeric is equally unaccustomed to relying on his few friends to such an extent — and likely to the unpredictable complications that might arise from it, as well. ]

[ Aymeric averts his gaze, considering. If Zephirin would prefer to stay, then the answer should be clear — but his caution is sensible.

Still, Aymeric himself has rarely won anything through caution, and Zephirin may be too readily inclined to it: it can be traced back through all he's done, like a scar, faded, but tangible.

The lord commander looks up again, free from doubt, eyebrows raised. ]

I should stay, I think, and deny the healers and their potions a little longer.

[ To Zephirin's mind, Aymeric's answer comes astonishingly swiftly, seemingly requiring little thought, but it must be earnest — the man has no reason to lie. Zephirin, meanwhile, grapples with other questions that his conscience would have him ask, too many all at once like hands seizing him, restraining him, and he struggles to pull free, even now.

He is weary of it.

Leaning against the desk's edge slightly, he lets his gaze travel to its drawers, nodding at length to accept the evening's adjusted course, this negotiation of sorts to settle. Neither remedy offered to him is a permanent solution, but then, Aymeric was right to forestall the folly of contemplating the rest of his days at once. ]

I think it absurd... but if I am to stay, then I would ask you to bind my hands once more. [ Pausing, Zephirin straightens his posture. A final window for Aymeric to reconsider presents itself: ] And I fear that nothing cures a man of... [ a strange stumble— ] —an affinity indulged.

[ The words hang in the air. To Aymeric they seem to pay empty tribute to an authority neither of them truly recognizes any longer — but Ishgard does. He can nearly imagine, as perhaps Zephirin is, the gentle chiding of a priest: is it necessary, this thing? Does it serve the Fury?

In the pause, Aymeric rises. He sets his sollerets by the side of the desk, silent, and reaches over to pull out the highest drawer with a scrape of wood.

The ribbon sits coiled neatly there, waiting. Aymeric lays it on the desk. ]

For my part, I should be satisfied to know that you have been cured of sleeplessness.

[ Requesting Aymeric's ribbon solely as a precaution seems a perfunctory pretext, and there is no impending mission on hand to provide some semblance of an excuse. These restraints do not make for a sturdy shield, far from it. Already, that familiar coil of ribbon promises peace, inexplicable and damning; it draws Zephirin's gaze to its innocuous shape, spurs memories into stirring anew. The sharpest of them takes Zephirin back to the morning at Camp Dragonhead, to what might have put an end to all of this and more, but here they are, once again—

And to Zephirin's ears, Aymeric's retort firmly brushes aside all notions of risks and repercussions. It proves too much after all; stubborn habits are not so easily broken. ]

...I was certain that such consequences troubled you. [ Not incessantly, not significantly, but enough to be uncomfortable whenever they reared their head, impossible to ignore then. Zephirin moves his hand, fingertips near the ribbon. He needs but place his palms together, and wait. ] 'Tis no surprise, I suppose, that I was mistaken.

[ Aymeric says nothing to that, attention evidently focused on unlacing his tunic. They have danced around words, stepped carefully through language, both of them — but Zephirin has been far more cautious, and his imagined consequences may differ vastly from Aymeric's. ]

I am not without troubles, entirely, but neither would I count you among them.

[ A small, insignificant, polite falsehood. He pulls his tunic over his head, drapes it across the raised footboard. Had he planned on this, Zephirin's presence, he would have found a plain one to sleep in — but he didn't, and he doubts Zephirin will care. Silent again, he turns back for the ribbon — smooths it between his fingers needlessly, loops it once, waiting. ]

[ Aymeric's words now strike Zephirin as tellingly evasive, their aim to close the door on this particular conversation, sidestepping any further examination of his troubles. For the moment, he lets them go without comment, silent as Aymeric finishes his preparations for the night — the lord commander appears at ease, at any rate, convincingly more so than he did earlier, and Zephirin might content himself with that.

Still, he belatedly considers a mirror of Aymeric's courtesy a second time, only to discard the thought as out of place, in the midst of making to look away. It no longer fits beside his most recent memories, all of which lend support to Aymeric's assurances.

He should like to cast out his qualms in kind, dismiss them as foolish and excessive. ]

I trust you will make your troubles known to a friend, should they grow bothersome.

[ With that delayed remark, a reminder and an invitation that Aymeric has the freedom to disregard, Zephirin brings his hands closer to the waiting length of ribbon, wrists aligned. ]

[ That wins a rueful twitch of Aymeric's lips. ]

As luck would have it, I've a friend who might oblige me.

[ He falls silent, eyes downcast, giving Zephirin's hands the whole of his attention. His own move slowly, taking care to leave space: he loops the ribbon several times, slipping two fingers between Zephirin's wrists and the ribbon to check the tension before he ties a bow. The result is sturdy, but loose enough to keep the ribbon from chafing. ]

Comfortable?

[ He looks up again, fingertips lingering on the backs of Zephirin's hands. ]

[ Zephirin says nothing more while Aymeric's fingers busy themselves with the ribbon, watching their movements. His body knows what to expect, but it perceives every second of it keenly: the sensation of his silken substitute shackles sliding into place around his wrists, the inevitable brush of Aymeric's fingertips against his skin. It remains absurd, too, that any of it should be so pleasant.

He stands utterly still, breaths shallower. By the end, his eyelids are heavy; he blinks slowly, but moves to lift his head with a sudden slight jolt for the question ending the lull settled over the room. Flexing experimentally, his fingers interlace. ]

I've no complaints. I... [ His voice carries a note odd to his own ears, not quite passably wry; his gaze slips from Aymeric's face downward, coming to a stop upon reaching their hands. ] I must marvel at your patience.

At my patience?

[ His hands fall, finally; he turns away to busy himself with throwing back the covers. ]

For what?

[ No trouble at all, he could say, but Zephirin's vague implications can be difficult to pin down — and to say this is no trouble would be true, but not entirely accurate. ]

[ Zephirin's peculiar contentment recedes once he is released; roused from his momentary daze, he lowers his clasped hands, glancing past Aymeric's bare back at the bed's exposed mattress. Here, not so long ago, Aymeric saw fit to embrace him in parting, gave him hope, implied a wish for his safe return — then came the lord commander's latest brush with death, but still he called Zephirin a true friend. Still he invites Zephirin's company and his counsel.

At every turn, Zephirin could point to instances that tell of the patience he may never fathom, unless Aymeric feels under obligation not to repeat the past. ]

...Forgive me. Our meetings were to serve another purpose, and I vowed to ask for nothing.

[ Splaying his fingers, he gestures as if to grasp between them what might encompass his meaning. He is slow to approach the bed, footfalls quiet. ]

I could bear breaking that vow, if I knew with certainty that today, I was granted the means to see you repaid soon, but I shall not speak of it again.

Forgive yourself.

[ Aymeric's back remains turned, but his voice is all gentle wry humor. ]

You are troubled by your vows, broken or otherwise, and by your very few requests — not I.

[ He straightens, gesturing to the bed as he steps aside. This way, at least, if he he wakes too affected by the heat and closeness of another body, he can extract himself without much disturbance. ]

[ This is new, and Zephirin guesses at Aymeric's thinking, another precaution shaped by past experience. His eyes flick from the bed to Aymeric, back to the bed. Seating himself upon its edge, he reaches down for the buckles on his boots, undoing them with some difficulty, and pulls off one boot, then the other. They take up little space, out of the way beneath the bed. ]

You make it sound easy.

[ And it must be easy for Aymeric, if no part of it troubles him, but Zephirin's words, murmured after a lengthier pause, are nonetheless almost a concession. He draws his legs up onto the mattress, shifts across it toward the wall. ]

Have you forgiven yourself?

[ For a commander's choices, any of them. ]

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