He'd almost hoped that no one would answer, or that he'd misread the schedule and would discover it wasn't actually Vandelin's shift after all. Then, "Come in," says that familiar voice. Kit feels his heart lurch unpleasantly, presses his lips into a thin line, then presses the latch and opens the door.
No pleasantries--he can't handle the small talk, not now. "I've got," he starts, pauses to swallow, "some intelligence here from Benedict Artemaeus on his family, their colleagues... Should be some promising leads on the Venatori in here." He forces himself to look up from the paperwork in his hands to meet Vandelin's eyes; his own are, despite his best efforts, no good at masking his hurt.
There is every valid reason for Kit to be bringing this project to him--Vandelin should, by rights, be flattered to be trusted with it. He can't help but resent Kit for it nonetheless. Vandelin has never been able to keep himself from blaming others for reminding him of his own mistakes.
His eyes scan Kit's face impassively, wide and luminous and recording every detail of bruise and stitch. He imagines, in spite of himself, reaching out to touch and cradle and soothe--
--imagines, too, being rebuffed in that way Kit always had, and takes the papers without another glance.
"Thank you," he says. "I'm sure we can make good use of it."
It’s as neat and clean an exchange as Kit could have hoped for. It also gently breaks his heart anew in a way he’d not been expecting.
“Right,” he replies, voice faint, then clears his throat again, repeats himself more confidently, “right.” He takes the hurt and tucks it away, struggles to ignore the deep fingers of it still gripping tight on his heart. I loved you, he could have said, and it would have been true, but it would do no good now. Why drag this out? Why linger here hoping for something that’s gone?
Absently, he rests his hand atop Vandelin’s desk, then straightens up. “All right, well just—let me know if anything good comes of it. Or give it to Scoutmaster Ashara.” A pause; he can’t look at him again. Then, quietly, “see you around, salroka.” He turns to leave.
I loved you too, he could say, if it would do the slightest bit of good. I loved you to fucking distraction whenever you were off saving every poor wretch in Thedas at your own expense, and I couldn't think of a damn thing but your safety for as long as you were gone.
I loved you when you acted like there was no greater imposition than my asking you to be careful and keep me posted. I loved you even when I knew that not a single word I said to you would ever, ever stick in your head or make a shred of difference. I don't need to lose any more sleep over the kind of love that feels like living on the edge of a precipice.
"Safe travels," he says, and returns to his work. Saying it won't make them so. But he'll say it anyway, and mean it as much as he always has.
If Vandelin said the words out loud, they would cut deeply, but Kit would not find fault with them. Loving a man who belongs to death already is a bit like that, isn't it?
His throat is tight, his eyes wet--must be the cold, dry air--when he steps quietly out of Vandelin's office and eases the door closed behind him.
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No pleasantries--he can't handle the small talk, not now. "I've got," he starts, pauses to swallow, "some intelligence here from Benedict Artemaeus on his family, their colleagues... Should be some promising leads on the Venatori in here." He forces himself to look up from the paperwork in his hands to meet Vandelin's eyes; his own are, despite his best efforts, no good at masking his hurt.
He clears his throat and offers the papers out.
no subject
His eyes scan Kit's face impassively, wide and luminous and recording every detail of bruise and stitch. He imagines, in spite of himself, reaching out to touch and cradle and soothe--
--imagines, too, being rebuffed in that way Kit always had, and takes the papers without another glance.
"Thank you," he says. "I'm sure we can make good use of it."
no subject
“Right,” he replies, voice faint, then clears his throat again, repeats himself more confidently, “right.” He takes the hurt and tucks it away, struggles to ignore the deep fingers of it still gripping tight on his heart. I loved you, he could have said, and it would have been true, but it would do no good now. Why drag this out? Why linger here hoping for something that’s gone?
Absently, he rests his hand atop Vandelin’s desk, then straightens up. “All right, well just—let me know if anything good comes of it. Or give it to Scoutmaster Ashara.” A pause; he can’t look at him again. Then, quietly, “see you around, salroka.” He turns to leave.
no subject
I loved you when you acted like there was no greater imposition than my asking you to be careful and keep me posted. I loved you even when I knew that not a single word I said to you would ever, ever stick in your head or make a shred of difference. I don't need to lose any more sleep over the kind of love that feels like living on the edge of a precipice.
"Safe travels," he says, and returns to his work. Saying it won't make them so. But he'll say it anyway, and mean it as much as he always has.
no subject
His throat is tight, his eyes wet--must be the cold, dry air--when he steps quietly out of Vandelin's office and eases the door closed behind him.