tristifer botley

to: tris (8:34 A.M.) msg: We should talk soon. I’m going to need your help.

to: asha (9:23 A.M.) message: Glad you're ok & Theon too. Did hear about the Martell bloke, what a shock.

He doesn’t stop her, though, as she turns her back to him and stalks off. He’d allow her the satisfaction of leaving him there in the dust, struck down and humiliated. He doesn’t regret it, either—the brief, clumsy kiss they shared. Maybe it hadn’t done much to help his chances with her, but it had proven what he'd needed to know. And now, we can start from here. This isn’t over yet, Asha Greyjoy.

A short burst of laughter escapes from Tris’s lips. Her expression is so utterly outraged, it was almost ridiculous. “Oh, Asha,” he begins, “you’re the one that keeps leading me on! Like—like a fish and its bait, reeling me in.” He shakes his head, still smiling. A reaction was what he’d wanted, needed. Whether she were to lean in to the kiss or punch him in the nose and bolt the other direction—he just had to know what game she was playing, what she meant when she took his hand and kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear. Obviously nothing. Well, then. He can’t tell if he’s hurt or simply angry. “Go on, then. Storm off. Never talk to me again. Probably better that way. I don’t want to play your little game anymore.”

So think nothing of it. Step away from her and leave, damn you. That would be the smart thing to do. Tris, however, has always been fond of making the wrong decisions. And so he leans back gently, just enough so that their faces are inches apart, and crashes his lips to hers.

“Right. Yeah. Sure. I, ah, should probably get back to doing my job, as well. I bet I seem a right awful journalist.” He offers her a feeble smile, but it falters at his lips. To be honest, he has no desire to return inside and shove his recorder under a bunch of noses, but nor did he desire to lose his job. He clears his throat, thinking of what a complete mess this had all been—a jumble of meaningless small talk, awkward silences, things unsaid, and things he did say that he’ll probably cringe over for days. “I’ll be seeing you soon, though, yeah?”

Nonetheless, he was in for the ride, no matter how little time they had until they reached the cliff. He has to untangle his hand from hers to dig into a suit pocket, “yeah, got mine,” and he pulls out his battered old mobile, offering it to her. “It’s my little brother’s, really, but I use it when I visit.” He finds himself once again unsure of what to do with his hands, now that he had dropped hers, before finally clasping them awkwardly behind his back. “Just… feel free to text me whenever. Pretty much scot-free apart from some time with the folks. Although,” he chuckles airily, “mother might never let me leave if I spend too much time with her.” The smile fades from his lips. After Harren, Tris’s mum had seemed pretty keen on locking all her remaining sons in a shed and never letting them outside a ten meter radius again. And father will want me to stay and sort out company affairs, of course, he thinks uneasily. Tris had never been his father’s son—that was Harren’s job—and he was far from eager to spend unwanted time with him, or the company.

And yet he can’t keep his insides from feeling on fire, and his returned grin is a shaky one, afraid that she can hear his heart drumming like a wild stampede in his chest. He tries to disguise it by intertwining his fingers with hers. “Got four more days, actually,” he swallows. It was hard to believe that he was leaving her again—and so soon, too. “But yeah, we should. I’d love to spend some more time… you know… together, before I go.”

“Look, I know I’m not in the country for much longer, but… if there’s any way I could be of help, or…” he chooses his words gingerly, knowing all too well that she had suffered through enough empathetic garbling and pitiful shoulder-pats in the past several days to last a lifetime, but he means it sincerely. “Just… anything at all. I’m here. As a friend.”

He crosses his arms over his chest like she does—they were both shielding themselves, now, as if a bomb could go off at any moment. “How about yours?” He feels ridiculous asking it when the Greyjoy family had been all over the headlines so often lately. Careful now, don’t step on any more land mines. “Really, though; not just what the papers are saying.”

So then he’s nodding at her slowly, and moving towards her, and he’s extending out his hand for a shake—the same hand that she had struck the recording device from just minutes ago. “Hi, my name’s Tris.” And it’s stupid, so stupid, and he should retract his hand and get on a fucking plane as fast as he could. But he doesn’t. He takes his second chance. Nearly a decade may have passed, but she was still Asha. And I am still Tris. Isn’t that enough? Didn’t that use to be enough?

“Sorry. That probably means nothing to you, but I don’t care. I’m sorry I even came,” his voice is quiet; resigned. His rage had dwindled out of him—now he was deflated: a popped balloon. “And you know, maybe I was wrong. I didn’t miss you. I missed someone else. Someone different.” He doesn’t break eye contact from her—if she was going to fake anything now, he wanted to see it. The flicker in her eyes. “There was this girl I knew ages ago who… who I really liked,” he wouldn’t say loved—not now; not yet, “I guess I must have mistaken her for you.” He pauses and shrugs, defeated. “Anyway, I should go, I guess. I should have realized… nine years is a long time.”

“So,” she doesn’t skip a beat in her completely conspicuous transition, gesturing at his badge, “you said you had a job. Does this mean you’re back here from now on?”

He crosses his arms across his chest protectively, and massages his brow as he speaks. “No, actually, it’s New York based. In fact, I was meant to fly back last night.” He drops the hand and crosses his arms tighter across his chest. His boyish nerves were forgotten—he suddenly felt bitter. “And... and maybe I should have,” he adds, boldly. You’re not the only one who can be rude, Asha Greyjoy. “But I suppose,” he digs into an inside pocket of his jacket, “if what I’m really here for isn’t going to follow suit,” he pulls out his portable recorder and presses record. (He knows he's going to far; he should stop, he should stop now.) “Right then, Ms. Greyjoy, if you could please tell us your immediate reaction after your father’s unfortunate passing? I’m sure it was a horrific shock.”

“I tried to write you, you know,” he says to her quietly, carefully, “after I transferred. When you didn’t reply to the e-mails I started sending letters instead, but I guess those got lost, or… or your parents got rid of them, or…” In actuality, those were only the things he kept telling himself, but it was better than facing the fact that she might have never cared for him after all. Ignorance is bliss. “I thought about you a lot. I—I missed you.” He can feel her looking up at him but deliberately stares straight ahead instead.

At last, they make it outside, and Tris leads Asha off to the right of the entrance, away from the assembly of those babbling away at their small-talk by the doors. “That’s better—a lot quieter out here,” Tris comments. “Nice out, isn’t it? Nice breeze.” Here I go again. First stuttering like a fool and now I talk about the weather?