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Brynjolf in #22 for anonymous! 

Forcing the memory back, he nods at her question. “Aye. I’m going to remain until everyone else has left,” he told her. “You don’t have to stay behind,” he forced himself to remind her. She knew she would though with her stubborn nature in such matters.

It pained him to see her upset; her face didn’t give way to much emotion, but he could hear it and see it in her mahogany eyes. He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and promise everything would be all right, that this was only temporary, and they could return sometime later. But they didn’t have time. And he could never lie to her.

"Go pack up," he said softly. "I have my own belongings to gather, and I'd like to see everyone off. You can join me when you've finished, or I can come find you when it's time to leave."

Get it together.

Brynjolf’s comment caught her off-guard. Lashes fluttering, she looked up at him, briefly, and fumbled on a murmurous Thank you, blush spilling down her neck. 

Her hand was resting on his shoulder, and through his tunic she could feel the firm outline of muscle, and the warmth of his skin. Lightly skipping the pad of her thumb over the crook of his neck, she risked looking up at him again. Really, she felt like hiding. She wanted to melt to a puddle and disappear through the cracks in the floorboards.Not because the dance was going badly, however, oh no. But because it was going a little bit too well.

At the same time, however, there was nothing she wanted more than to rest in this moment for a while longer. Firelight caught in Brynjolf’s auburn hair, and sparkled in his green eyes. Shuddering in the air around them, it cast the room in a soft orange glow, and alighted halo-like over the man’s head. Never had she seen someone look so radiant.

“I– You were saying something? The, um, stall? I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

“It’s okay, lass,” he replied. He swallowed, a bit harder than expected, and continued. “I said we should check the Gray-mane’s stall in the marketplace. I’ve heard they keep their jewelry locked in there every night.”

Suddenly, it seemed like the bard’s playing grew louder, and it was too dangerous to speak of their plans any louder. The inn was filling up as well, so their departure would easily go unnoticed; even if someone saw, they’d likely figure they were merely a couple spending the night together. The thought made his ears turn pink, but thankfully they were hidden by his hair.

Brynjolf shook the idea from his mind and returned his focus to Madlen.

She listened to the rest of Brynjolf’s plan, from time to time nodding in agreement. But then, the conversation drew to an abrupt halt as the waitress came over. Madlen flashed her a smile, leaning back a tad in her chair.

It wasn’t long before the conversation took an unexpected turn, however.

“Dancing?” Madlen said, lips parting in a laugh. Freckled cheeks reddening, she hid her face behind her hand, unable to keep the smile from her lips. “I’m not much of a dancer,” she began, but at one look at Brynjolf - at the grin spread over his lips, at the sparkle in his eyes - she buckled. 

She gazed at him for a few moments more, heart bumping around clumsily in her chest, before taking his hand with a sigh. Smiling, blush deepening, she breathed a chuckle, eyelashes fluttering over her cheeks as she gazed down at their joined hands.

“All right, then,” she said, looking back up, and giving his hand a squeeze. She looked around at the other patrons and hummed. “Well, at least my dancing partner is by far the handsomest here. I guess this can’t be too bad.” So saying, she flashed the waitress another grin and got to her feet.

What she had said was true. She wasn’t much of a dancer. But, from the looks of things, neither were most of the people here. This imbued her with some kind of confidence, at least.

His eyes held hers expectantly, and his smile grew when she took his hand; stomach fluttering a bit in response, but he thought nothing of it. Fingers wrapped around hers, thumb resting on her knuckles. Her soft skin contrasted greatly with his rough and calloused hands, but it only intensified feeling of his enveloping hers. 

The mention of ‘lovely gazes’ caught Brynjolf’s attention, but with close they sat together and with their hushed conversation, the mistake of something more intimate could’ve easily been made. He couldn’t push it from his mind entirely as she watched her scanned the rest of the patrons and mentioned him as being the most attractive. 

A smirked crossed his lips at the comment before he replied, “And mine the most beautiful.”

He followed her lead and stood from his chair, taking the few steps to the center of the small inn with his hand still holding hers. Standing in front of her, he offered a playful smile and placed his left hand on her waist and his right held hers up in the air on her left side. They began stepping along with the bard’s rhythm, gradually making a circle.

“So,” he began, taking advantage of the noise to avoid being overheard. “Once we hit the houses, we’ll move to the shops and stalls. The Gray-mane woman keeps her jewelry in her stall, so we’ll have to search that before we leave,” he continued.

“You’re doing fine, by the way, lass,” Brynjolf added, knowing Madlen was nervous, or at the very least, a bit embarrassed.

And so, when they’re all called to gather in the Cistern, it’s hardly a surprise. What’s more, she thinks they all already know what is about to be said.

Brynjolf’s words fall into an empty, sombre hush. His gaze meets hers, and, for a moment, there is only the deep, harrowing fear in his bright eyes, and the sound of her blood rushing past her ears. 

“She’s given up the names of every member,” Brynjolf says, and, at that moment, along with everyone else in the room, Madlen’s blood turns to ice. Murmurs sound around her, echoing in the gloom, but she can barely understand what anybody is saying. Terror is stopping her ears. 

Revyn shouts a call to arms. There are a few murmured agreements, but Madlen gives her head a half-shake, closing her eyes. You need to be a special kind of fool to face off the Black-Briars. In the end, they have only one option. Brynjolf voices as much, and a pang hits her in the stomach. Just when she’d gotten used to standing still - Gods. Just when she’d found something worth standing still for, out comes the rug from under her feet. Game over. The jig is up. Time to stop playing at being content; the world is waiting.

Brynjolf’s closing words blur into a low kind of buzzing, and it’s only when he comes over to her that she finds herself once more. Looking up at him, she blinks, a trembling sob trapped somewhere in the back of her throat, eyelashes fluttering. He’s scared. She can see it. And she can feel it, the fear coming from him in waves. And that’s never, ever a good sign.

Soon, he’s stood before her, his hand cupping her cheek. Instinctively, her own hand moves to cup his, and she nuzzled into the touch, eyes wide, lashes brushing frenetically over her cheeks. 

“What?!” she intones, unable to believe the words coming out of his mouth. Of course, he’s probably right - he is, by far, the most sensible out of the two of them. But she can’t bring herself to listen to him this time. Can’t go along with what he’s proposing. 

“I can’t put you in danger like that, lass.” Her heart clenches at those words; guilt stabs her sharply between the ribs. His voice is so quiet, so heartbreakingly desperate. But she can’t give him what he wants. Not this time. It’s selfish, she knows, but to be separated from him would be unbearable.

“No,” she says, as firmly as her shaking voice and tear-filled throat will allow. “No. Maven’s taking everything else from me; I’m not letting her take you, too. I can’t, Brynjolf. And, besides - just who is gonna have your back if I’m not there?”

She swallows. Pulls on her fiercest frown. “I can’t believe you’d even suggest that.” Reaching up, her hands come to frame his features now, delicate fingertips skimming over features she’s grown to love so well over the months. Features she’s come to know as well as her own. 

“I can’t...” he choked out. He couldn’t let her stay with him. He knew there was no escaping Maven; she’d send the best after him, and they’d destroy anyone in their way. 

I love you. He loved when she said it, even if it pained him to hear it. Just a reminder of how he didn’t deserve her; her patience, her understanding. He felt as though he was stringing her along, giving her hope that he might one day return the declaration. The words pulled his mind from its own torment, and he returned his eyes to hers. They were filled with a determination he couldn’t help but be proud of, even if he wished it gone in this moment. 

He blinked hard a few times, trying to be rid of the sting behind his eyelids. If he really wanted her to leave the guild without him, if he really thought she was safer without him, he’d perform the ultimate con... He’d break her heart. Tell her he couldn’t keep up the charade of caring about her anymore. Tell her that it wasn’t worth having her around, that she would only slow him down and get him killed. Tell her that her love was misplaced, that he would never love her back. If he was set on saving her life, he’d do it. He’d lie. But a thief is selfish by nature; even those a thief cares about can’t escape it.

Rather than push her away, he closed the distance between them and claimed her lips with his own. It was a needy kiss, rough and desperate, as though it’d be their last. For all Brynjolf knew, it very well could’ve been. His right hand moved to the nape of her neck, tilting her head back just slightly, while the other wrapped around her waist, holding her flush against his body.

He pulled away and moved both his hands to either side of her waist. His forehead rested down against hers, and with his eyes closed, he let out a shaky sigh.

“If I lose you...” he trailed off, unable to finish his thought. She might’ve been in danger herself; if something were to happen to her, and he wasn’t there to protect her, he’d never forgive himself. If anything were to happen because of him, though, he’d have the same issue. It seemed there was no decent compromise to the issue. He couldn’t imagine being without her either. “If you come with me,” he finally managed, “I don’t... I don’t know what’ll happen, Maddy.”

His expression lightened with a small smile as he lifted his head, accepting that no amount of rationalization would solve the issue nor dissuade her from remaining with him. 

David Levithan, The Lover’s Dictionary

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“I agree with you,” she said, quietly, “on all points.” She tried to recall the information Brynjolf had shared with her on their journey, and the details of the map he’s presented her with.

“And if I remember correctly, the two most prestigious households in Whiterun are in quite close proximity. Then there’s the temple. I suppose if you feel like sticking a finger up at the Gods, you could raid the donation box. I doubt there’ll be much else in there of worth.”

Hands dropping to the coin purse at her waist, she counted out enough coin for the stew and left it on the table in a few neat towers of gold. Toying absently with them, stacking them over and over in different configurations, she let out a whoosh of breath. This would all go smoothly, she was sure. But whilst she wasn’t exactly nervous, she wanted to prove herself to Mercer. She didn’t necessarily care for the man, but if anyone wanted to stick around in the Guild, his approval was key. Brynjolf’s support only could carry her so much.

Running her fingers through her hair, lossing the braids once more, she turned her gaze onto Brynjolf.

“There’s no reason to bother with the temple,” he replied. “People are greedy with their coin and rarely donate.” It was an ironic mention, but he was well aware. He wasn’t opposed to stealing from a temple in general, he wasn’t much for religion to begin with, but Whiterun’s temple was also a place of great healing, and it relied heavily on donations to pay for supplies. He wasn’t keen on making their job more difficult in that regard.

“Going from the Gray-mane’s, we can move on to the Battle-born’s, and then to the food merchant’s house, and that mercenary’s,” he continued. “Merchants who keep homes in the city keep their profits stashed in their houses, and mercenaries make some good coin, not to mention the trinkets they come across in their travels.”

He halted any further words when the waitress returned, taking Madlen’s coin from the table.

“Anythin’ else I can help ya with?” she asked.

“Actually,” Brynjolf said, giving Madlen a warm grin for show. “We’d like a room for the night as well.”

The waitress smiled and nodded, “Sure thing, hun. It’s 10 gold for a night. I’ll let Hulda know for ya.”

“Thank you,” he replied, pulling the gold from his coin purse.

“Y’know,” the waitress began, “the bard’s pretty good. Why don’t you two get up there an’ dance with the rest of ‘em?”

Brynjolf held up a hand and shook his head, the grin remaining in place. “It’s tempting, but we’re fine here.”

“Ah, come on,” she insisted. “You two are keepin’ them lovely gazes to yerselves. Aught’a share ‘em so everyone else can see.”