#nsiprompts

okay I’m sorry this took so long I’ve been filling these slowly BUT YES thank you for sending my these qp nerds

Rheda yawns and rubs her forehead. "That headache won't go away," says says, shifting uncomfortable on her stool. "I can't concentrate."

"Perhaps you should lie down?" Varr puts his pen down and studies her carefully. She looks stretched out thin and hollow, and he feels a little stab of worry.

Rheda shakes her head. "I can't sleep like this."

"In that case I may have a solution?" Varr looks around; there's no-one there to see them, so it should be safe.

"What is it?"

"I could run your temples and see if it soothed it." He winces even as he says it; it sounds so forward.

Rheda sighs. "It sounds as good as anything."

"You...might have to put your head in my lap."

Astonishingly, this does not release an instant chorus of objections, not even in her body language. She just shrugs. "All right, then. You'd better sit on my bed."

Varr hesitates for a moment - supposing someone walked in and got the wrong impression? - but she's right; it'd be too complicated to do it with her draped over a stool and him wobbling on another.

They settle themselves, Varr with a pillow on his legs to make it more comfortable for her, and then Rheda lays her head on his lap. Varr nearly holds his breath, and it takes him a moment to adjust to this. She is this thane, and she trusts him enough to put her life, quite literally, in his hands. He knows how to break her neck from here without her even knowing. He would die first.

Once she is comfortable, he rubs her temples, massaging up towards her forehead and then toward the crown of her head. After a while, the corners of her eyes and mouth relax, and soon she is breathing the even steady breaths of sleep.

"Rheda?" he whispers.

Rheda snores, very, very gently.

Varr has to hide a smile before he remembers that there isn't even anyone to see him do it. Slowly, slowly, he eases her head onto the bed below it, sliding out from beneath the pillow, until she is settled.

"I think we actually managed something romantic," says Sacharissa, laughing as she scoops up a spoonful of fried ice cream.

"Impossible," says Otto, his eyes twinkling.

"I suppose telling them it was our anniversary was a good idea after all, then." William's spoon bumps Sacharissa's, and she playfully pokes at his. It turns into a spoon-duel, which Otto promptly joins in. William feels about twelve years old, but he's giddy with the sugar and the excitement and the fact that their shoot had been so well recieved last time.

"See?" says Otto. "And you said it vould only cause trouble. I know romance."

Sacharissa giggles at this. "Stopping people on the street and asking them if they're models?"

"No, zat is professionalism. Romance is this." Otto pushes the dish towards the two of them. "Ze last two bites for you two."

Sacharissa puts a hand over her heart. "I think we should keep him, William."

“You’re a horrible patient,” says Moist, dabbing at Adora Belle’s brow with a cold cloth. That’s what you’re supposed to do when someone’s sick. He thinks.

She swats him away. “That’s for a fever,” she says. “I’m not hot.”

“Sorry. What am I supposed to do for a cold?”

“Haven’t you ever had a cold?”

“Yes, well, they tend to come about when I’m halfway to the next town and I rarely have time to take care of them then.”

“The exciting life of a fugitive,” croaks Adora Belle, sliding further under her blanket.

“I’ll get you some soup?” Moist offers.

“I could bring myself to ingest some soup. Thanks.”

“This is silly,” says Vimes, ducking under the blankets. “Young Sam’s gone to bed, we should take it down.”

“Oh, come on. Didn’t you ever build blanket forts as a child?”

“Didn’t have enough furniture,” says Vimes, drawing his knees up to his chest and wincing at the popping sound.

Sybil weaves an arm through his, leans against him. “Well, then. It’s time for you to experience that particular joy of childhood for the first time.”

“We are we even supposed to be doing?” Vimes complains, although he leans into her touch.

“Well, a popular choice is to read, together or seperately. Or play a game. Or tell ghost stories,” Sybil says, smiling wickedly on the last item.

“Ghost stories, eh?”

“That’s the sound of a man with inspiration.”

“I know a few things that could scare the socks off you,” Vimes says. “The stories old watchmen tell…”

“I accept your challenge, but I warn you I have high standards.” Sybil raises an eyebrow, or rather where an eyebrow would be if it weren’t burnt. “I hope you can take it as well as you can dish it out.”

For someone so generally ungainly, Norrell has delicate fingers. It’s probably all that close work for magic, but somehow it always surprises Childermass.

It’s surprising him now as Norrell’s fingers play in his hair, smoothing it out and twirling strands through his fingers, without pulling or snagging in a tangle. Childermass is lying beside him in bed, head on his shoulder.

“You go completely boneless when I play with your hair,” Norrell murmurs, sounding almost amused.

“Do not,” says Childermass, but it comes out stretched and slow, no real effort behind it. “Just do it to humour you. Don’t know what it is about my hair…”

“You’re going to sleep,” says Norrell with satisfaction. “See there? Boneless.”

Sandra surveys Rosie, who is reclining on their bed and wearing her, Sandra’s, nightgown. Again.

“Let me guess. No clean laundry?”

Rosie looks vaguely guilty. “These things take time. I’m a busy woman. Things to do.”

“You were wearing a fresh dress today, though.”

There’s a long pause. “It’s just comfortable,” says Rosie finally, folding her arms. “Much more comfortable than any of mine. I don’t know how you do it.”

“I could make you your own,” Sandra says.

“But then it wouldn’t smell like you,” says Rosie.

Sandra curls up beside her and pulls her close. “I’ll make myself another, then,” she says, “So I’ll have a spare when you steal mine.”

under the cut for length bc of two!

"My personal bet is a cookery-book. Ow." Vinculus shifts as Childermass pokes at something on his elbow.

"Aye? Last week you said it was a love story," says Childermass, absentmindedly scribbling down another symbol.

"Ah, but look at the illustration under my left arm."

Childermass, sighing, looks obligingly. "Looks like a blob," he says.

"Looks like a ham, that's what. Recipes, I tell you."

"Reciples can't feature into a love story?"

"You said you were certain it wasn't that. The Raven King would never, you said."

"I just think he'd at least pretend to have a bit more dignity."

"Cookery is dignified. It is the highest and most noble of arts."

Childermass considers this. "I don't disagree as such, but the average king probably would."

"A cookery-book," says Vinculus, and settles back down to let Childermass trace something along the curve of his ribcage. "You'll see."