TLV: IC Contact

[sixfeetofdirt]

Careful; I bite.

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[sixfeetofdirt]

Astarion smiles slyly at her reflection.

"Are you saying you're tired of my regular wardrobe, my sweet?"

[handleyourshit]

"I would never," she assures him.

"But you wouldn't deprive all of us - yourself included - of a bit of novelty, would you?"

[sixfeetofdirt]

"No, of course not. Though nothing ridiculous," he says. "I don't care to see myself looking foolish, mm?"

[handleyourshit]

"I'd never allow it. Not my boys," she promises.

"We'll need to drag Jacob on a shopping trip next port that allows for it, though. Do some taste sampling."

[sixfeetofdirt]

"We can manage that, I think."

But he can see in his reflection how his smile has turned brittle, and he knows she'll see it, too.

"I, ah...I know it's absurd, but - don't call me 'boy', please."

[handleyourshit]

She does, and she's deciding how to get at it without doing more damage when he says that. The playfulness vanishes from her smile and she nods.

"It's not absurd," she says simply. As simply: "I won't. I'm sorry."

[sixfeetofdirt]

Astarion nods. It feels at once good and horribly, squirmingly uncomfortable to assert a boundary. Rosita's response is as good as he might have hoped for.

"Thank you, darling. No harm done."

The way his posture and expression relax is subtle but noticeable.

[handleyourshit]

She notices the way he relaxes, too, as she had the way he tensed up. She kisses his shoulder - it's okay, she is sorry, and she is proud of him all in one - and steps back a bit.

"Godric got me a small miracle," she offers instead, reaching to pull the small gold, heartshaped locket up from the collar of her shirt. The way she smoothly pops it open with one hand speaks to how often she's done exactly this, holding it out to show him the picture inside of it: a woman only a little older than she is now, with her steady eyes and thick black hair and stubborn jawline.

[sixfeetofdirt]

Astarion looks closely at the photograph, then at Rosita.

"Your mother," he says, quietly.

[handleyourshit]

She nods; she's looking at it too.

"Yeah. I lost everything when I left Dallas back home, and I only had a few pictures of her even before that." As did pretty much everyone who managed to survive, but.

"Her name was Reyna. In Spanish, it means queen."

[sixfeetofdirt]

He nods solemnly.

"You look very much like her. It's a beautiful gift."

[handleyourshit]

"Thank you."

She still misses her so much. She spends a few moments longer looking at it, then gently closes it and drops it back out of sight, safe.

"She also tried to teach me to sew when I was younger," she continues, clearing her throat. "I didn't listen then, so you have your work cut out for you now."

[sixfeetofdirt]

Astarion exhales a laugh and kisses her cheek.

"Fortunately, I don't believe for a moment that the woman standing in front of me now will allow herself to be anything but proficient at any skill she sets her mind to."

[handleyourshit]

"And don't you forget it," she agrees, smiling again too. She bumps his shoulder again and then goes for her pack.

"I brought pants. If the tear is pretty straightforward I can mostly manage, but this one's not been going well."

[sixfeetofdirt]

"Alright. Why don't you set the patient down over there?" he says, gesturing at the worktable where his sewing machine sits. His image in the mirror flickers and fades away.

[handleyourshit]

She glances back at the mirror at the movement, thoughtful, but she keeps moving to do as he says and find a seat.

"Clothes have been less pressing than food. It doesn't go bad, at least, but we'll run out of things to scavenge eventually."

[sixfeetofdirt]

"Naturally. And making cotton from scratch is a rather more involved process than growing food, as I understand it."

He sits down on the stool at the worktable, looking at the damage. It's a messy tear, not the kind of split seam that would be an easy fix.

"Mm. Patching this may be our best option."

[handleyourshit]

"I thought you might say that."

She dives back into her pack again, produces another oair of pants of similar fabric, but shredded much worse.

"I brought scraps. And also, someday I still want to learn at least the basics of textile weaving. If we can just get a blueprint..."

[sixfeetofdirt]

"The library here would be able to explain how to build a loom, I'm sure," Astarion suggests. "It's not a skill I'm at all familiar with."

He picks up a sheet of thin paper and folds it into a size that would cover the tear with room to spare.

[handleyourshit]

"It's okay. I'm sure I can find something."

She sets the sacrificial pants beside him, and settles down to watch, paying rapt attention.

"It's part of what pisses me off about this place so much. The things people take for granted, without even thinking about it."

[sixfeetofdirt]

"We have very little but time," Astarion agrees. "I've learned a great deal in my time here. Admittedly, much of that was so I could follow even a basic conversation about Earth's culture, but - still."

He's working as he talks, slowly and deliberately, so that Rosita can watch and take note.

[handleyourshit]

And she does, watching as carefully as though he might be wiring explosives.

"Are you glad you have Gale here at least?"

[sixfeetofdirt]

"...Yes. Though it's a little odd to know he's not quite the Gale I travelled with. Close enough to get along with, though, certainly."

[handleyourshit]

"Still, someone familiar, someone you don't have to explain all the details of your world to," she suggests.

"Jesus is from a few years ahead of me. I get what you mean about the weirdness."

[sixfeetofdirt]

"Yes. I'm from ahead of Gale, as well, though it seems our paths have diverged somewhat regardless. He...kept slightly different company to myself."