The sudden silence, the loss of his patter, leaves an awkwardness she hadn't anticipated. It's her gaze that drops first, looking down, sweeping the dirt as she tries to think of something, anything to say - of all the scenarios she had expected (scenarios she'd tucked away to never be looked at again after Washington had told her that York had died), rendering him mute had...well, had happened after she'd kissed him.
She'd have been lying if she hadn't considered that, once, along with dragging him off and, well. None of those old thoughts, old dreams, seemed to matter now, now when they're older, and perhaps a little wiser.
She risks another glance at him, trying not to let her breath stall in her own throat, and her left hand closes over something in her pocket. The cool edges still her fingers, before she draws it out, weighing the rectangle of metal and scratched paint.
Then, forwards. Once again, it falls to her to make that first move. The urge to use a terrible pickup line dances through her head, but he's not in armor and something about this entire situation is unbearably unfunny. One, two, three steps, and she stops at the fifth, looking up at him on his perch before raising her hand, her attention trained on the rusty old lighter as she tries to keep her voice even.
no subject
The sudden silence, the loss of his patter, leaves an awkwardness she hadn't anticipated. It's her gaze that drops first, looking down, sweeping the dirt as she tries to think of something, anything to say - of all the scenarios she had expected (scenarios she'd tucked away to never be looked at again after Washington had told her that York had died), rendering him mute had...well, had happened after she'd kissed him.
She'd have been lying if she hadn't considered that, once, along with dragging him off and, well. None of those old thoughts, old dreams, seemed to matter now, now when they're older, and perhaps a little wiser.
She risks another glance at him, trying not to let her breath stall in her own throat, and her left hand closes over something in her pocket. The cool edges still her fingers, before she draws it out, weighing the rectangle of metal and scratched paint.
Then, forwards. Once again, it falls to her to make that first move. The urge to use a terrible pickup line dances through her head, but he's not in armor and something about this entire situation is unbearably unfunny. One, two, three steps, and she stops at the fifth, looking up at him on his perch before raising her hand, her attention trained on the rusty old lighter as she tries to keep her voice even.
It doesn't, quite, work. ]
I suppose..You'll be wanting this back?