A Gentle Rapping, Rapping At My Cottage Door

His expression flipped from snicker to grunt, eye narrowed on her in disapproval while a hand dropped to rub where she’d poked him. He bit back calling her out, instead letting his gaze hazily follow her until she claimed to like the sober him. Ruth’s eye rolled, doubtful of both the sincerity of her words and the idea of sobriety, terrifying, grunting, Don’t. You might be disappointed.

He stared at her, brow furrowing as she settled down on the floor alongside him. The reason soon fell from her lips. Nanny. Like Megara, handling him with kit gloves, just without the added grumbled dalish. He’d grunt, Uhuh. A lazy smirk crawled along his face, Not cos you like my company. Noooo. Not at all. Well, I’m turnin’ over. Ruth wasn’t sure how to feel about her closeness, unsettling him enough that he knew sleep wouldn't be possible so he rolled over onto his other side, facing away from her. The buzz of alcohol and euphoria of the dust slowly faded him into unconsciousness, dreams peppered by nightmares and painful memories that disturbed, but didn’t wake from.

~*~

Evening came and Ruth stirred slowly, ears listening while he cursed existence in the back of his mind. Muscle’s ached and even with the few hours sleep, fatigue clung to him like a weighted cloak grounding him on the stone floor for now. Nerves felt exposed, sensitive to stimuli, as quietly as she did move about, every sound and action grated, fraying his already aggravated mood further.

How the fuck did he get here?

A hand moved along the stone, searching for one of his shirts was the first true indication of his waking state and once found dragged towards him.

You are annoyingly chirpy, he’d mutter, slowly pulling himself up to sitting, threading the fabric through his palms before redressing.