boothill / when he wants your attention

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• He's never been subtle about it. If you've been reading too long or looking at something that isn't him, he'll cross the room with those heavy deliberate footsteps, spurs clicking against the floor, and plant himself right in your line of sight. Doesn't say anything at first. Just stands there with his arms crossed over that silver chest plate, hat tipped low, waiting. And when you finally look up he's already grinning, sharp teeth on full display. "Took ya long enough, darlin'."

• Sometimes it's the hat. He'll pull it off, rake his mechanical fingers through that long white hair, and drop it onto your head before you can protest. It's too big. You can't see anything with the brim swallowing your vision and he knows that. That's the point. "There we go," he says. You don't have to see his face to know he's grinning. "Now I got your full attention."

• The man will just pick you up. No warning. One second you're focused on whatever it was you were doing and the next his arms are hooked under your knees and behind your back, lifting you clean off the ground. His grip is solid, mechanical joints whirring soft against you, and he's looking down with that crooked smile like he's already won something. "C'mon now, you've been ignorin' me a whole five minutes. That's about five minutes too long."

• He'll start talking. Loudly. About nothing. Just rambling in that drawl of his about Bart 17 Years or some bounty he's chasing or how the IPC are a bunch of muddle-fudgin' shirtbags, and he keeps going until you finally give in and look at him. The second you do he stops. Grins. "There she is." Like that was the goal all along. It was.

• When he's feeling theatrical about it he'll drop into a crouch right in front of you. Elbows on his knees, chin propped in one hand. That black eye with the targeting reticle fixed on your face, waiting you out even though patience has never been his strong suit. "Y'know," he says, voice low, "I ain't exactly used to bein' ignored. Might hafta start takin' it personal." He won't move until you give him what he wants.

• Or he just shifts his weight from one boot to the other so his spurs clink against the floor. Once. Twice. Keeps doing it until you look over just to make him stop. He tips his hat when you do. Grins but says nothing. Doesn't need to.

• If you're standing somewhere he'll come up behind you and hook his chin over your shoulder, arms loose around your waist. His chest plate presses solid against your back. He doesn't say anything for a while. Just hums, low and content, until you turn your head. And then he's right there. Close. Black bangs falling messy over his right eye. "Well hey there, darlin'," he says. Casual. Like he didn't just spend the last five minutes figuring out how to make you look at him.

cantarella / falling asleep on her

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Sebastian stopped halfway across the terrace, tray in hand, and Cantarella watched his expression flicker before he smoothed it into something carefully blank. She tilted her head. Smiled. He set the tray down on a nearby table, bowed, and retreated without a word. Wise man.

You hadn't stirred through any of it. In fact, your head still rested heavy against her shoulder, your breathing slow and deep, and your body had gone completely slack sometime between the third and fourth paragraph of the old Fisalia record she'd been reading aloud. The proper methods for Violaca fermentation, a process she could probably recite in her sleep by now. You'd seemed interested at first. The book lay closed in her lap now, the worn leather cover warm under her palm.

"Look at you," she murmured. Soft strands of lavender hair fell across her shoulder as she shifted to see your face, brushing lightly against your forehead. "Hehe... so peacefully asleep. Right here, where anyone might see." One hand rose to brush a strand of hair from your cheek. Her fingers traced down along your jaw, light as anything, watching your parted lips, the slack ease of your features. "You must learn to relax, you know. You can't help others if you don't take care of yourself." Her touch lingered at the corner of your mouth. "Though I suppose you're managing that well enough at the moment."

She settled back against the chair, careful not to jostle you. The long, trailing panels of her dress had pooled over your lap where you'd curled into her side, white and blue and violet fabric soft against your sleeping form. Her hand came to rest gently in your hair, pale fingers carding through slowly before eventually stilling. She could wake you. Suggest somewhere more private, more befitting a Fisalia matriarch and her partner. But your hand had migrated and found hers at some point, fingers loosely tangled even in sleep, and when she tried to reach for the book again she found she couldn't without disturbing you. Well then.

The afternoon light shifted slow across the pale terrace floor. Somewhere deeper in the castle, she could hear the faint clatter and bustle of servants going about their work, voices echoing down the corridors. None of them had wandered this way yet. Let them talk, when they did.

Cantarella closed her eyes and let her head tip back against the chair. The breeze was cool against her skin. You were warm against her side. She could get used to this, she thought. To someone who wanted her for nothing at all. "To fall asleep beside the Bane so easily," she said softly, thumb tracing across your knuckles. "You really do trust too much." But she was smiling. Her grip on your hand tightened just a fraction. And she made no move to let go.