Dornish Wine and Winter Rain (5) - Professor!Baelor x You
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
Chapter Synopsis: You and Baelor navigate your new territory - the thin line between professionalism, friendship, and something more - which blurs with every passing hour. Baelor sits through the Dornish Trade Conference Gala, and the night continues at the Marlin bar afterward. A confrontation brings the two of you out onto the deck, overlooking the ocean, and your relationship irreversibly changes.
Dornish Wine and Winter Rain (5)
Tags/Warnings: Professor!Baelor x Postgraduate!Reader, drinking/alcohol, Academia!AKotSK, angst, yearning, swearing, Baelor yearns, academic conference (definitely a warning - I hate conferences), Dorne, Dornish!Reader, slow burn, kissing, sexual themes, smoking, jealousy, Baelor stares, a rude Lannister.
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You stood at the edge of the conference room, catching your breath a little. The first presentation of the morning had already begun, and you tried not to draw too much attention to yourself as you entered the hall, about half an hour late.
You had overslept. Not because it had been a late night with Baelor. Quite the opposite. To you, it had ended far too early, but saying goodnight after your short post-dinner stroll on the Monday had been the safest option out of many. You had toyed with several other insensible ideas, including inviting Baelor out to one of your favourite wine bars by the sea wall, or inviting him to the cinema — anything to prolong your evening with him. But after your conversation about forgetting things, about boundaries, the safest thing for you to do was to return home, to remove yourself from Baelor’s presence, for the sake of your own sanity.
He had looked almost divine standing there, wind ruffling his hair just the slightest. In the darkness of evening the lines of his jaw stood out even more, his expression looking harder and more refined. It made him look more delicious than ever, and it took almost all your restraint to reel in your affection, to pretend to be unaffected by his presence. You’d felt every tiny movement of his, every little glance, and that was what had kept you up at night. Your mind replayed each moment — from Baelor’s sudden appearance at the conference, to the intimate restaurant, and finally to your quiet talk by the crashing ocean waves. The thought of him wouldn’t leave your mind. It was as if the weeks of not seeing him had finally caught up, and now your mind could not let go.
He had kissed your cheek, professionally and chastely in greeting. Nothing different than what Davos had done on occasion, yet entirely incomparable because it was Baelor. His beard brushing against your cheek had caused you to shiver, your heart to throb and your breath to catch, but being watched by Davos and the other academics, you simply had to pretend it was nothing. Pretend it didn’t instantly take you back to that night on the balcony of the Septon Inn at New Year’s, that night Baelor had kissed you against the balustrade, his hands gripping your waist tightly.
Of course, the thought of that moment played over and over again while you willed yourself to sleep, and you wondered what it would be like if Baelor had kissed you against the iron railing by the sea wall. Several times, your hand drifted up towards your lips unconsciously, as your mind recalled the feeling of his warm lips on yours. You told yourself to sleep, to forget it all. You simply couldn’t.
When you weren’t re-imagining that kiss, you were ruminating over what it meant that there were still three more days left of the conference, and the Baelor would be gone again. Selfishly, you wanted as much time with him as possible while he was here - in Dorne. Part of what kept you awake were the mental calculations of all the breaks in the conference schedule, the formal dinner on Wednesday night and the highly likely bar crawl after. You wanted every second of spare time to be spent with him, before it would be another month without him. Your mind whirred mercilessly through the night.
With slight grogginess, you made your way towards the coffee dispenser, and grabbed a few biscuits as a snack. Taking your first sip, your eyes drifted around the conference room, at the many round tables, most completely occupied. Your eyes were looking for one person only, and with some relief, you spotted him at a rather empty tank towards the far end of the room, closer to the back.
Quietly, you weaved through a few tables and chairs, ducking slightly to avoid blocking the screen, until you reached his round table. With a whisper, you bend down.
“Is this seat taken?” You ask, and it causes Baelor’s head to snap towards the sound of your voice. His eyes instantly fall to your lips, only for a second, and then they find yours. There’s a glimmer of relief in them, and he nods, pulling out the chair beside him for you to sit. Without meaning to, he’d pulled the chair closer to his, and slightly regretted it when he felt your knee bump against his under the table. He shifted a little to give you space, and the white fabric of the table cloth rustled silently with the movement.
He smiled softly, with fondness as he watched you dip a biscuit into your coffee, finding the small frown on your face rather sweet, as a piece of your biscuit crumbled away into the dark liquid.
“Fuck.” You mumbled with a sigh, and then ate the rest of the crumbling mess, before turning to Baelor. One of his eyebrows was raised in amusement, and you rolled your eyes playfully, before turning to look at the program on the table. You tried not to groan out loud as you read over the first three presentations of the morning, back- to-back of course, and about some obscure new legal amendments to inter-realm tax revenue. Glancing around the room, most people looked slumped in their chairs, though one or two sat alert, taking notes and nodding enthusiastically.
With a turn, you wondered what Baelor thought of the presentation. As usual, his posture was nearly perfect. Your chair was angled towards the presentation, and you were just a little in front of Baelor, but you were able to catch the sight of his arm, extended out on the table on your left. In his hand was the same pen you had reached for in his office back at King’s Institute. His fingers thrummed against it rhythmically, the only indication that Baelor was bored. As if on cue, Baelor straightened, and leaned closer to you.
“I was worried you’d decided to skip this without me.” You felt his breath whispering across your ear, and suppressed a shudder at the feeling of it. His lips were so close to your ear, to avoid his comment being heard by the two other academics on the other side of your round table. One of them turned towards the two of you for a moment, the movement catching their attention, and then turned back to the presenter, nonplussed.
Inclining your head just slightly to the left to respond and felt yourself reddening with the proximity of Baelor’s face to yours. Your eyes fell to his lips as you replied.
Baelor chuckles, and you feel the breath of it on your cheek.
“I overslept and would’ve kept on sleeping if I knew this was the first thing on the agenda. It'll make me drift off anyway.”
Baelor hums quietly in agreement, and leans back in his chair, and you find the space that he had occupied suddenly felt cold. You try to focus on the speaker, even getting out your own notebook and pen, writing only to keep yourself from getting distracted every few moments. It was agonising. Both the sheer dryness of the topic, and the fact that Baelor was within an arm’s reach of you, but untouchable. It was as if every cell in your body was aware of his presence, yet you tried to reel in control of your senses, honing your ears and eyes on the presentation. You felt hot, even though you were in an airy top and a short skirt, your body hyper-aware of the presence of Baelor slightly behind you to the side. You kept catching whiffs of his cologne from where you sat, and you wanted him to lean forward again, if it meant feeling the slightest sensation of his warmth, or the slightest brushing of his breath on your cheek. You liked that it made you feel like you were the only two in that busy conference room, but his presence was distracting. With a sigh, you sat up, and leaned forward, for your own sake trying to move away from him so that he’d no longer be in your peripherals.
Baelor was experiencing something similar. However, from his position, he was fortunate that your figure was in the same line of sight as the presentation further up. No one could possibly notice the way his eyes continually fell to you, with every small shift in your posture. You kept crossing and uncrossing your legs restlessly, slouching and then sitting up. Even the slightest tilt of your head would cause Baelor’s eyes to flick from the stage back to you, to trace longingly over your figure. In all honesty, he felt that even if it were the realm’s most engaging speaker, your little movements would still capture his attention. When he spotted you readjusting your position, and rolling your left shoulder back a little, it took every ounce of self control in him to choose not to reach forward and give you a massage on the evidently troublesome spot. And as you stretched, your arms raising above your head, your back arching, Baelor felt something stirring in him that caused him to tear his eyes away and stare fixedly at the presenter, and then down at his scattered notes with the tips of his ears reddening.
Baelor was past the point of denying what he felt for you, denying his desire. He had tried that at the end of the winter semester. He had worked so hard to convince himself that it was a passing infatuation while you had been absent. But being in your presence, once again, the full force of his regard for you had come back. He couldn’t deny what he knew to be true. Not with his head full of the scent of your perfume, not with his eyes constantly tracing the soft skin where your neck met your shoulder. He wanted to know what it would be like to place his lips there, if you’d let him leave a mark on your skin.
The thought made his mouth go dry, and he cleared his throat a little, reaching out for his cup of bitter coffee. He took a sip but felt that the acidity of it hadn’t helped much. He spotted you shifting again in your seat, your hips moving a little as you tried to get more comfortable on the hard chairs, and this time Baelor had to turn away and stare at the dark coffee grounds to stop himself from thinking about you getting comfortable on his lap, his hands on those hips. Feeling flushed, Baelor stood abruptly, and turned towards the back of the room, to find a glass of water and to create some distance between you and him. You're being ridiculous, Baelor. He thought to himself, but his hands were itching to touch you, and his restraint felt pulled thin. It was a little pathetic he thought, how difficult it was for him to be so close to you. He stood at the back of the room for the remainder of the talk.
Perplexed, you tried to focus your attention back on the speaker. There was not much more of his talk left, but there were one or two people following him that you were not remotely interested in hearing. Baelor had abruptly left his seat to stand at the back of the room, and you felt a similar urge to stand and stretch your legs, but didn’t want to follow him so obviously, no matter how magnetised you truly felt towards him. You were still among academics, most of whom certainly recognised Baelor, and you were not about to follow him around like a puppy. You forced yourself to continue writing down notes, but your mind was completely absent, mostly focused on the clock, willing the minute hand to reach the top, signalling the end of the talk.
The first few hours of the second conference day dragged. But finally lunch approached, and it gave you the opportunity to seek Baelor out again without seeming too desperate about it. He had remained at the back of the room, leaning against the coffee table for the two shorter talks that followed, and as you stood and stretched, following the large crowd of people heading towards the catered meals in the other room, you were forced to pass Baelor.
“Coming?” You inquired, hoping you sounded casual, jerking your head in the direction of the other room where the large array of lukewarm lunch options sat. Baelor seemed distracted, but your voice caused him to straighten, and his eyes instantly met yours. There was an intensity there that made your heart thud.
“Yes. Lunch.” He replied, stiffly and took a step towards you.
You nudged him with your arm, smirking a little. “I’ll let you cut in because I like you.” You joked, and hoped it would land as such. Baelor simply smiled, but it was tinged with an odd expression of sadness.
The two of you picked up sandwiches, not exchanging many words with each other. Baelor followed you wordlessly as you pushed past the large glass doors, out into a small garden, finding a quiet stone bench. There were only one or two other conference attendees there, with the majority opting to eat inside the large hall to network. You were relieved Baelor had no interest in doing that.
The paper wrapping of the sandwiches rustled as you and Baelor began unwrapping your meals. You spoke first after a few bites, enjoying the serenity of the quiet garden, the sound of the seagulls cawing high above in the distance.
“Would it be awful if I skipped the rest of today?” You asked, not meeting Baelor’s gaze, instead watching the small trio of academics at the other end of the garden, laughing together.
After a pause, you heard a chuckle, and turned to Baelor. “I was about to ask you the same thing.” Came his soft reply, and his eyes twinkled with warm mischief. You couldn’t help the grin that made its way onto your face.
“Do you want to escape with me?” You tease, feeling emboldened by Baelor’s gaze. To your relief, it remains on his face as he nods slowly, just once, and then averts his gaze, watching the same group of academics you’d been watching.
“The question is,” he begins, after chewing thoughtfully for a bit. “-where would you like to go?” Your smile doesn’t leave your face with his question, and Baelor feels lighter watching your expression, knowing he was the one causing you to feel such joy.
“Oh Baelor…” you begin, staring into his eyes, your voice dropping into a whisper, continuing your playful teasing. It causes his heart to thud, even though he knows you’re joking around. “We have the whole of Dorne to ourselves. We can do whatever we want.”
It comes out much more flirtatiously than you’d intended, and you don’t miss the way Baelor’s hand freezes on its way from bringing the remaining bite of his sandwich up to his mouth. You certainly don’t miss the way his expression grows more serious, the way his eyes darken.
If only. Baelor thinks, before getting a hold of vanishing restraint and finishing the last bite. It was still a blessing to be able to spend more time with you, and he would not take that for granted. He clears his throat and looks back at you hoping that his expression isn’t conveying his true desire, which is to spend the day kissing you on the beach, in some quite alley, or better yet, in his hotel room.
He would be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined it when he had returned to the empty, luxurious room after your short walk by the sea wall. His eyes had fallen immedatiately onto the large king bed as he entered, crisp white sheets fluffy and cool to the touch. He had sat there, on the bottom edge, for several minutes, and simply looked up at the pillows, imaging you laying there peacefully, your hair spilling out behind you. He imagined what you would look like on your back, with him hovering above you. He imagined what you would feel like, tucked into the sheets, half-asleep in the early morning, your back pressed into his chest. He would love nothing more than to hold you in the quiet hours, to know what it would be like to feel your warmth pressed against him, to fall asleep with his arm around you.
He shakes the thought out of his mind. In some way, the sweet domestic flash is even more dangerous than the occasional lust-drenched images that he had been trying so hard to suppress, that he hadn't allowed himself to even acknowledge. He finished chewing, glad for the extra time it bought him, so he didn't have to reply instantly to your suggestive words.
“Quite.” He replies, finally, quirking an eyebrow, and turning to look out at the other stone table. It's pathetic, but it stops him from responding in kind, stops him from encouraging your teasing.
“Well, if you’d like to see the museum of Dornish art- that’s a good place to hide for an afternoon. Or the botanics.” You offer, wiping your hands together to get the last of the crumbs off, willing your voice to sound as unaffected as possible, trying not to betray your full level of excitement. Once again, the thought of a stolen afternoon with Baelor thrilled you. It felt too good to be true, and you didn’t want him to change his mind and decide to stay stuck in the conference, among the safe, yet dull, company of his fellow academics.
Baelor’s eyes flicked back to yours, catching the eager tone in your voice, and he couldn’t help the soft smile that etched its way onto his face. “The museum sounds lovely. Perhaps we can do the gardens another day. I am here until Sunday morning, you know.”
You could have jumped for joy at his declaration. Part of you had been worried he was planning to leave on Friday, and you were desperate to squeeze in as much time with him as possible — as much that would not cross the boundary you’d both drawn in the sand. Beyond desiring him romantically, you also truly enjoyed his company, and you would take whatever scraps he was willing to give you. You were also through the moon that Baelor was even willing to spend time with you. You knew he likely had many other contacts in Dorne he could choose to spend his time with — distant family relations, professional connections — yet he seemed to want to be with you. It made you nervous too, not wanting to disappoint him, wanting him to have the best time possible in your company. Part of it was knowing that things would return to the way they were, back in King’s Landing, that you’d go back to being one of his many grad students, that your interactions would be limited to answering questions in class, or meeting his gaze across the room at infuriating grad mixers, or bumping into him in the library for a passing moment. Being in Dorne with him — it felt like the two of you were on an equal level, like you were simply two people enjoying one another’s company, with no pressure to play the game of academia — you didn’t want it to end.
A small movement from Baelor causes your attention to refocus back on him. He squints a little in the sun, and stretches, angling his head to the left and then the right. Then, as if it’s second nature to him, he reaches out and offers you his hand. And you take it without hesitation, light pink dusting your cheeks. He was always so chivalrous, and in spite of your dinner conversation about propriety, he would continue to offer you his hand when appropriate, or his arm. You delighted in every opportunity to be touched by him, even if it was mere politeness.
“Thanks, Baelor.” It comes out softly, and Baelor finds himself reddening too. And then he snaps out of it, letting go of your hand once you’re up and steady, and he takes several large strides towards the bin.
“We should sneak out now unless you want to be caught ditching another talk.” You joke, trying to keep the air light between you. It was electrifying, how even the gentlest touch between you two seemed to shift something in the atmosphere. Baelor laughs a little, then nods, stepping aside to open the door for you, and letting you pass. The scent of perfume hits him again, and it’s somehow more alluring than the smell of the roses in the little courtyard. He sighs, wondering if he’s letting his lack of control get the better of him again, if it would be more sensible to just sit through the day of dull talks with you, if only to prevent him from seeking you out over and over again, even in the smallest ways. He shakes his head, and follows you through the door, knowing that although he’s aware of what the right decision would be, deep down, he doesn’t want to do it.
“That must be my great uncle. Maternal side.” Baelor shrugs casually, standing beneath a grand portrait, nestled between two Doric columns.
“Oh come on. You’ve got to be kidding.” Your mouth is a little agape at his nonchalance, and you give him a sideways glance, taking in the way his arms are crossed, causing the veins in his forearms to make themselves visible. Sometimes you forget the weight of his lineage, that stretches through King’s Landing, through Dragonstone and Old Valyria, and even through Dorne.
“All I’ve got is some old smashed clay pot in one of the other rooms made by my great, great, great grandmother or something.” You tease, and Baelor laughs, nudging you.
“Well go on then! Lead the way.” He teases, intentionally bumping his shoulder into yours, walking slowly in the direction of the Dornish clay section. You give the large portrait one long look - having been to the museum so many times, having looked at this very portrait multiple times before. You tried to find Baelor in the features of his Dornish ancestor, but the painting could not compare. With a shrug, you follow after Baelor, speeding up your steps when you see he’s paused and is looking over his shoulder. And there it is again, his arm is extended out as if he hasn’t thought twice about it, his palm facing up. You take it, the action becoming almost a habit for you now. When you’re within arm’s reach, he removes his hand from yours, only to place it on his forearm as the two of you walk, now arm in arm.
Do friends walk arm in arm? You think to yourself, picturing the many times you’d walked with Duncan to class or to the pub, your arm on his. Or even Lyonel, when he’d had one too many to drink and you were nervous about letting him walk unaided. But this was not Duncan, and it was certainly not a drunk Lyonel. It was Baelor Targaryen. Your heart was pounding, and you hoped your palm didn’t feel sweaty on Baelor’s arm. You tried to focus your mind on the works of art surrounding you two, on the quiet echoing of your footsteps on tile, and of the scattered visitors nearby.
As you enter the familiar gallery, you pull on Baelor’s arm a little, guiding him towards the far corner of the room where, in a glass enclosure, stands a small clay bowl, cracked in several places, mended with gold.
You release your grip, and Baelor, for a moment, looks down at when your hand had been, then directs his gaze back to the bowl.
“From your description I thought it was just going to be a bunch of clay pieces. This is beautiful.” To his credit, Baelor bends over and peers through the glass to get a better look, and the admiration is clear on his face.
“Well, I mean we have tons at home. I don’t know why they wanted to display this one. We’ve offered some of the others.” Now it’s your turn to shrug, as if the artefact is just another one of your family dishes that your mother keeps on top of the kitchen cabinet. Baelor turns to you for a moment, then his gaze is back on the clay bowl. "I could show you one that's not shattered. Seven Hells, you could even have soup out of it!" You joke, stretching and looking around. You'd seen this specific artefact so many times that, as much as you admired the handiwork, it was no longer interesting to you. And, as you had explained to Baelor, this was not even the best example of your relative’s work. Instead you admired the way the early afternoon light created a golden glow in the gallery room, and the way it made Baelor's eyes glitter.
"You jest." Baelor replies, a little deadpan as he straightens.
"I do not jest, Baelor. We have tons of them. They're great cereal bowls too."
He looks almost scandalised at your declaration, and you laugh at his expression, then soften. This time it's you who reaches your hand out to tug at his arm, pulling him out to the museum gardens.
"The weather's lovely. Let's sit outside for a bit. They have a great sculpture garden."
Baelor casts another look towards the clay bowl, but is powerless as your warm hand lands on his arm. He takes in your appearance as you pull him towards the large archway leading to the gardens. You're dressed professionally, but it's less showy than what you had worn whilst presenting in front of everyone. You wore a skirt again, and an airy top that was just the smallest bit translucent when the light hit at the right angle, that Baelor had been trying not to look at all morning and throughout lunch. As you led him to the garden, he couldn't help the way his eyes fell over your figure, and down to the hem of your skirt, flitting around with your movements. He wished he could control his gaze more, and his hands - that seemed to reach out for you of their own accord - but with every passing hour in your company, Baelor felt his resolve slipping further and further away. He silenced the voice in his head, the one that had accompanied him all his life in King's Institute, and instead focused on your pretty smiles, on your soft gaze.
The afternoon passed far too quickly for your liking. You had sat with Baelor in the sculpture garden for nearly an hour, laughing with one another, smiling softly and touching. It was all innocent enough - a gentle shove on the shoulder at something witty or funny Baelor had said, a soft tap of your hand on Baelor's thigh once or twice when he had reminisced about his faint childhood memories of Dorne, of holidays with his mother, and on one occasion a quick hand to Baelor's hair to brush off a petal from the great magonlia tree above you two that had floated into his hair. All innocent enough, and certainly not one-sided.
Baelor had scooted closer to you as you shared some of the challenges of meeting Davos' high work expectations. In an act of comfort, he had lifted an arm, placing it around you, rubbing your shoulder gently as you began to impassionedly vent about one of the other research assistants who was not pulling their weight on a combined project. His hand drifted back and forth on your shoulder, for just a moment, before he dropped it, and returned his hand to his lap, fiddling with his rings while watching your expressive face. Then you had made him laugh, a deep unrestrained laugh he had not let out in years, not since his days as a grad student himself after one too many ales. Without thinking, he leaned forward and placed his hand on your thigh, supporting himself as he bowed, his body shaking with laughter. You too had been laughing, and wiping a tear from your eye, only noticed the feeling of his warm hand on your bare thigh when you finally calmed down. It lingered there, as Baelor's expression neutralised and he let out a sigh, and all while he was staring at a small bird pecking at a patch of grass, his thumb began to move absently. He seemed to finally sense you stiffening, and catching himself, pulled his hand away as if your leg had been fire, once again busying his fingers with one of the rings on his other hand.
Fire. You were both playing with it, toeing the line. If anything, your conversation the previous night about boundaries had made your fleeting touches seem more innocent, excusable even, becasue the two of you had laid your intentions out on the table. It was almost as if vowing aloud to keep things professional had given you both an excuse to act in the exact opposite way, under the pretense of an agreed boundary, of an agreed propriety.
You continued to play with it for the remainder of the day, through the sculpture garden, on your afternoon walk to a quiet cafe, and then to your parting in the early evening. As much as you wanted to spend another intimate dinner with Baelor, you'd promised your parents a dinner at home, and even for Baelor would not let them down. He had walked you to your doorstep, after emphatically insisting that he wouldn't get lost on the way back to his hotel, and you had blushed when he pressed a kiss to your cheek. It had lingered, and it took several seconds for him to release your hands from his. It was only when you heard your mother calling from inside the house, that you stepped back, creating more distance between yourself and your professor. You had invited him in, of course, and you knew your parents would be more than happy to accommodate him at the dinner table. But Baelor had inclined his head, and smiled, and then shook his head.
"I could not possibly intrude." He begins, watching the silhouette of your mother in the kitchen through the window. But you detect the wistful look in his eye as he watches. Too many nights spent in his faculty housing with delivered meals, or leftovers from his lunchtime cafeteria visits. It had been an era since he had a home cooked meal. The domestic image was almost too much for him to bear, and he had to turn away, to turn his back on the picture of your home and your family. He faced the street instead, slowly darkening in the early evening.
"Another time, then." You reply, quietly. "And I'll make sure you get the clay soup bowl." You want to take away the slight pain you detect in his expression. Having him join your family at dinner - it would be odd, to say the least, but it would also feel right. You wanted him to meet your parents, the people who had first ignited your curiosity about ethics, your passion for human rights, the two who had encouraged you to pack up and accept your invitation from King's, when so few others from Dorne left the region. You had to remind yourself that he was your professor - not a friend and certainly not a boyfriend or partner who needed to meet your parents - but the prospect of him sitting at your childhood dinner table made your heart swell. So you made the offer, hoping he'd one day really take it up, even if it was a desire in vain.
The feeling of your cheek on Baelor's lips lingers, and he watches you as you vanish into your house, the yellow light filtering out into the street, seagulls cawing above him. He can hear the sea, and the evening breeze is cool on his skin as he is left alone one more. He thinks he can hear your laughter through the door as it shuts slowly, and his heart aches again. Nonetheless, he turns, and makes his way along the waterfront, back towards his hotel, and spends the remainder of the long evening thinking about you while he has his dinner at the hotel bar, and then while he has a nightcap before bed. He stands on his balconette, and as the sun fully sets, all he can think about his your soft touches on his arm, and the way you had looked up at him with affection in your eyes.
The Wednesday conference is only a half day, allowing attendees to rest in the afternoon ahead of the conference gala. The day passes slowly, you and Baelor opting to actually attend the whole series of talks and poster presentations that day. However it is relatively pleasant. The talks are nowhere near as dense as they had been the first two days, mostly filled with the more engaging poster presentations. Of course, you choose to linger near Baelor as much as possible, only straying from him when you find a poster that particularly interests you on the other side of then hall. There are fewer touches, now that you're in the presence of many academics who recognise both you and Baelor, but you scoot your chair closer to his on occasion, and between talks the two of you vanish into the quiet courtyard, hardly speaking to anyone else. You feel a little guilty for dominating his time, but he doesn't make any effort to seek out anyone else.
"Do you know which table you're on?" Baelor asks, while the two of you make another coffee at the back of the room, listening absently to the final panel of the day. You shake your head, reading the text on the slides for just a moment before returning your attention to Baelor.
"They always mix them up. From what Davos was telling me, apparently they try and make sure that there's at least one senior professor at each table, a couple research assistants, a few undergrads, grad students... They're insistent on us mixing." You roll your eyes, thinking back to your a previous conference, where you'd spent the majority of the two hour gala trying not to grimace at how forced the conversation was. You hated the facade of it all, the way the undergrads would flatter the senior professors in the hope of getting a placement, the way some of the government officials would turn their noses up at anyone more junior than a professor. It was nearly sickening. The only thing that made it remotely bearable was the typically high quality food, and the free flow wine.
"If the Seven are kind, we'll be on the same table." Baelor replies, and you turn back to him, catching him staring into his coffee, swirling it. You joke in response.
"Surely you've had enough of me by now?" You nudge him with your shoulder, turning to stir in some milk into your coffee. He chuckles and takes a long sip.
"Never." Comes his reply, softly, and you decide not to meet his gaze, worried you'll spot something there that will make you fall for him even more.
"Hmm." You force yourself to reply, hoping it sounds unaffected, but the truth is that Baelor's presence has been impacting you substantially since the moment he appeared out of the blue in Dorne, when you had been expecting Lyonel. Recollecting yourself, and trying not to read into the soft earnestness of Baelor’s tone, you redirect your attention back to the front of the large hall.
Baelor watches you turn, frowning a little. He needed to get a better grip on himself, he thought, for perhaps the hundredth time in three days. Sweet compliments kept falling from his lips, and he didn’t quite know what was wrong with him. Well he did — but he didn’t want to acknowledge it. He simply couldn’t be the same Baelor he always was in King’s, known for keeping his compliments rare and only spoken when truly well-deserved, but there was something about your continual proximity, the warm weather, and perhaps the airy linen tops you kept wearing that made his tongue flatter you in nearly every conversation. It didn’t help that he was beginning to feel addicted to the way his gentle teasing and flattery would cause your face to light up into a smile, or if he was lucky, would cause you to touch him on the shoulder playfully. He wished his sole occupation was to pull that soft smile from you.
He catches you moving a little, a small shake of the head, and he laughs to himself, knowing you’re disagreeing with the highly ignorant comment one of the panellists - Sylas Lannister - is making. He leans down to whisper in your ear.
“Are you going to correct him publicly?” Your shoulders raise and fall silently as the laughter escapes you. Shaking your head, your eyes find the person holding a microphone, keeping a keen eye on the crowd for any questions. Baelor is still close by, still inclining his head down towards you.
“Should I? Do you think it would be awful?” You ask, turning up to whisper in his ear, a playful glimmer in your eye. Baelor loves the almost dark look he spies in your eyes. He gives you a nod, meeting your gaze evenly, and steps back.
Your hand lifts, and you feel a little nervous, but suddenly the microphone is in your hand. You face the man on the stage, and speak in a clear voice that doesn’t waver, despite some of your nervousness. Baelor watches, his body turned to face you entirely. Almost a hundred other sets of eyes are on you, and he feels free to allow his gaze to settle on your lips. Your confident argument against the man’s ignorant and insulting comment about the cost of living in Flea Bottom makes Baelor’s heart thud, and he finds it deeply arousing to see you commanding the attention of the entire room again. The man on the stage reddens, and begins stumbling over his words in response, but it clear to Baelor, and he knows to the rest of the room, that your point had been made, and taken. The man had no chance against you, and Baelor felt the pride swelling in his chest as you returned the microphone and returned to your more casual position leaning against the edge of the table. He can’t take his eyes off you. He catches your chest rising and falling, the redness of your cheeks, the only tell of nervousness that was visible. He wanted to push you against the table and whisper into your neck how alluring it was that you had intellectually bettered a senior professor, one that was known for rather problematic views on the poorest in the realm - a Lannister, no less. He wanted to praise you, over and over, with his lips and his hands. But all he could do was stare, and tear his eyes away reluctantly when he caught you finally turning to meet his gaze.
“Was I too harsh?” Came your whispered question.
“Not at all.” Came Baelor’s response, and it came out sounding like gravel.
The schedule for the day had ended after that panel, and you and Baelor parted ways at the front of the conference hall. There was hesitation in your movements, as you stood there for a moment, not moving. You simply looked up at him with a fond smile, not wanting to part from him, but you reassured yourself with the fact that you would be seeing him again later, even if you weren’t at the same table together. Of course, there was a part of you too that wondered if he’d come out afterwards for the bar crawl, as was often tradition after conference galas. It was a chance for the professors and senior attendees to continue discussing collaborative opportunities in more casual settings, a chance for the younger students and research assistants to talk about something other than work. Inevitably, it was often a chance for romances to simmer, seeds for affairs to be sown. You’d seen it before — a professor in a relationship getting a little too close to professor from another university — what happened at conferences outside of professional content stayed at conferences. That was a known fact.
You knew it was tempting fate, and you knew it would bring you nothing but miserable longing, but you couldn’t help the desire you had to see Baelor out in formalwear, at one of the busy rooftop bars of beach bars, liquor-loosened. You kept thinking back to the night of the King’s Winter Mixer, of Baelor’s fingers holding a cigarette to your lips, his hand on your cheek, the way he was looking at you. You wanted it again, even with the line drawn in the sand. You wanted to toe at it, nudge it, to see what was allowed to cross it.
Snapping back into the present moment, you met Baelor’s gaze a final time, nodded, and turned, throwing your hand up in the air as a farewell motion. You catch a faint “see you later”, but you’re so wrapped up in your fantasising of the evening to come that it’s all you can think of. Your feet carry you speedily home, and you dash up to your room to get ready.
The outfit you had decided on was perhaps a little revealing, at least when compared to your usual choices for formals at Kings. It was much more in the Dornish style, silk cut away at the waist revealing some skin, and to provide some relief from the heat. It was in that deep red colour that seemed to complement your skin tone well, and the highlights in your hair. As you got dressed in the mirror, you felt a surge of confidence that you hadn’t felt in years, especially not at the King’s socials. Dornish socials were an entirely different experience, even if they were still professional. There was always just a more relaxed, more authentic atmosphere compared to the stuffy galas at King’s, and you were excited for the chance to get to know some of the younger academics over a fancy meal and some drinks. And then of course there was that part of you, that you tried to squash down, that was eager to steal Baelor away, even for just one drink, or one conversation. You didn’t even have to be alone with him, you just wanted him in your vicinity, even if he made you feel a little shy. As you looked at your reflection, you felt nearly invincible, and you were prepared for whatever the evening would bring.
You reached the gala a few minutes late, not wanting to have to engage in much small talk, knowing there would be plenty of time for that at your table, especially with you not knowing who you’d be seated with. By the time you arrived, the banquet room was almost entirely full, and people were chatting, having their first few sips of wine. You were glad to see that food had not yet been brought out, and made your way to the attendant by the door with a list of names.
You give your name, and nod as the attendant points you towards your assigned table. While making your way there, you scan the room looking for Baelor. His eyes catch yours almost instantly, and with a jolt you realise he must’ve been looking out for you too. But then a small surge of disappointment fills you. He’s on the other side of the room from the direction your table is in. He raises his eyebrow, as if communicating the same disappointment, and you shrug with a small smile. His expression transforms to fondness, and you feel his eyes raking over you, just briefly, as if you had imagined it, and then he flicks his eyes away, allowing himself to be pulled away into a conversation with the woman beside him, who just happens to be the governor of Yi-Ti.
Baelor’s face flushes immediately when he sees you walk into the room. In truth, he’d been keeping an eye out for you the moment he’d arrived - about ten minutes early. He’d lingered by the door, peering down the hallway, waiting for any indication of your arrival. When the gala had begun, he hesitantly allowed the attendant to guide him to his table, and frowned as he read the small cards with the names of all the guests written on them. You were most certainly not on his table, and he briefly wondered how inappropriate it would be to go and find your place card and swap it for the person beside him.
And then you had entered, looking almost angelic in the soft light from the grand chandeliers. He felt the breath catch in his chest as your eyes finally landed on his, and he had to fight not to openly gawk at you, especially when your position allowed him a better view of your dress. Gods. He thought, his mouthing going dry at the sight, at that deep red that reminded him of the wine he wanted to taste on your lips, and the section at your waist that was cut out, revealling tanned skin.
He turned away abruptly, forced himself to, and engaged with the woman beside him, trying to listen to her droning voice, and her strong remarks on port tariffs. He had never seen you in anything like that before, and it made his mind spin with desire, stronger than he’d felt it before. He nodded mechanically at whatever the woman was saying, his eyes flicking up more often than he'd care to admit, searching for your figure over the shoulders of countless attendees. Yours eyes met once more, for a lingering beat, before you finally sat down, and gave him a soft smile. Fingers trembling, Baelor reached down for his wine glass, holding it steady and taking a long sip, letting the rich liquid sit on his tongue for a moment, before drinking it. The governor of Yi-Ti was still going on, and a few other of his table companiona had started joining in, responding to some of her rhetorical points. Baelor sat, uncharacteristically silently, not voicing his thoughts on the matter despite being one of the senior voices of authority at the table. All he could think about what the patch of skin visible at your waist, and how it was the perfect size for his hands.
Dinner service began, and you were grateful for the servers who kept asking if you wanted red or white in your crystal glass. You fought not to keep looking over at him, but he was positioned in such a way that it was almost natural to allow your eyes to flit towards his table, to land on his handsome face. You were several tables away, and sometimes the graduate student at the opposite end of your round table would lean forward in such a way that your view of Baelor would be blocked, but most of the time, if you simply looked up and over his shoulder, you'd find Baelor looking back at you with an unreadable expression on his face. And then he'd turn away, bending his head down to continue listening to the governor.
You tried to do the same, trying to be as charming as possible with a table of people you didn't know at all. With a forced smile, you asked another follow-up question to the woman beside you, who was in her final year of her undergrad and looked a little shy. After a few glasses of wine, she had opened up considerably, and was even joking with a senior professor two seats along. The graduate student at the other end of the table smiled at you, as you lifted your head again to catch a glance of Baelor. You gave him a smile, not wanting him to realise that you were staring repeatedly at the man a few tables behind him. So you started a conversation with him, leaning forward to be heard over the increasing volume of the gala.
"How is your meal?" You asked, settling on a painfully bland topic, cursing the fact that these events were always full of small talk.
"Good thanks! And your's?" He replies, gesturing down at your plate.
"It was lovely. What's your name?" You ask, smiling politely again, taking another sip from your wine.
You give him your name, and raise your glass to him in greeting, unable to stop your gaze from flicking just briefly away from him, to the table beyond. Baelor is staring again. You swallow, and turn your attention back to Orson, who has already started saying something.
"Pardon?" You call out, leaning forward again.
"-Why don't you swap seats with me?" Comes the almost irritated voice of the person beside Orson, who had been watching your exchange across the table with some amusement.
You hesitate, not wanting to move from your spot that had a perfect view of Baelor, but you don't want to appear rude. Clearing your throat, you stand, brushing down the front of your dress. It's not a surprise to you that the movement catches Baelor's attention again, and you meet his eyes for just a moment, pressing your lips together in a tight smile, before carefully weaving around the chairs to sit in the spot beside Orson. Your back was facing Baelor now, almost completely, but he was able to see your face whenever you turned to face your dinner companion.
"Sorry, you were saying?" You nodded at Orson, urging him to continue.
"I was saying I'm glad you challenged Sylas Lannister during the panel." That earns a laughter from you, and you turn to face Orson with a bit more enthusiasm, letting your guard down a little.
"Really? I just thought it sounded like nonsense to me - what he was saying. Heard it a thousand times before." You lean back and swirl your wine around, catching Orson's eye.
"He's in my department at Casterly." Orson continues, rolling his eyes a little.
"Casterly- very nice," You compliment, raising your wine glass to touch his.
"Yeah- fortunately he isn't my supervisor, but I've heard horror stories."
You hum in reply, raising your eyebrows, thinking of your own supervisor, the fact that he's several tables away. You wonder if he's looking and your head automatically turns to the side a little, but then you pause right before you look over your shoulder. You've been staring at the man all night. Give it a rest. You chide yourself, and swallow, turning your attention back on Orson.
But you couldn't shake the feeling of his eyes on you. You'd felt them the moment you entered. There was something different in them, something you'd not seen at King's Institute, and something that had perhaps simmered in the few days of the conference. It felt dangerous, and you fought with yourself to stop thinking about it, to just let it be and not add fuel to the embers.
You're grateful for Orson's company, and his light chatter. His work is genuinely interesting, and you'd always been curious about what student life at Casterly College was like. King's was an affluent enough institute, but Casterly was built on the foundation of Lannister wealth, the kind of wealth that even the Targaryens could not compete with. As you finished your desserts, a natural lull filled the gala room, and Orson stretched his arms above his head.
"So- headed to the Marlin?"
"The Marlin?" You almost roll your eyes at the choice. "Why the Marlin? Everyone always loves going there. I have no clue why."
"Well- not everyone is from Dorne. I'm sure it's probably a gimmick to you."
The Marlin is, you think, a rather mediocre bar that sits overlooking the water. Its large outdoor patio, that extends into the water, over the waves, is the main redeeming feature that attracts huge crowds on the weekends, mostly filled with tourists. At least it's not a Friday. You think to yourself, remembering many busy nights there with friends when you had all first started going out together. As you grew older, you'd all found places that you liked more, that were a little more classy. Truthfully, the thought of going to the Marlin made you feel a little nostalgic, and you smiled up at Orson.
"Fine. It's been almost eight years since I've been there anyway. It'll be a laugh. Plus, there's a pool table." You allow Orson to pull your chair out for you as you stand and stretch a little yourself. He chuckles and looks over your shoulder to wave over some of his friends who had been placed at other tables. The volume in the hall has increased again, with the excitement of moving on to the bar filling the room. Orson makes quick introductions, and you wave at his friends, smiling loosely, complimenting one of them on her dress colour. You make your way to the exit of the gala room as a small group, all chatting excitedly and making inside jokes about the conference, and it almost feels like you're an undergrad again, socialising unreservedly and getting ready for a night out. It's only when you reach the large doors, held open by the attendant, that you look back towards Baelor's table, your smile lingering only a little.
His gaze is piercing when you catch it, and it cuts through the sound of the laughter and chatter, almost as if everything is muffled. That glimmer is there again, and he leans back and inclines his head a little, his eyes never leaving yours. Slowly, you tilt your head in the direction of the door, raising your eyebrows a tiny bit. Baelor simply lifts his wine glass to his lips, and takes a slow sip, then his eyes flicker down your body in a quick movement you would have missed if you had blinked. And then he inclines his head in a similar direction, a promise in his eyes. With a soft smile, you turn and take a few steps to catch up with Orson who was lingering by the door. You glance over your shoulder once more before vanishing out of sight. Baelor is still looking at you.
The gala dinner had been agonising for Baelor. He had spent the entirety of the evening willing the governor of Yi-Ti to stop talking, but had no choice but to nod along politely, to contribute a few neutral thoughts now and then. He had no interest in entering a political debate, or playing diplomacy, but it unfortunately came with the last name of Targaryen.
It was torturous having you so nearby, in his line of sight almost for the entire evening. He wanted to push his way through the chairs, and simply insist on moving to your table. It was madness, but he was itching to be beside you, his patience growing thin at the vapid conversation on his table.
He’d lost track of the number of times the server had topped up his glass with the rich wine. It was so much better in Dorne - even if this wasn’t the best example of Dornish red. He ate his dinner quickly, trying to avoid starting another conversation full of small talk, and looked up at you far too often for his liking. But almost always, he’d see you looking back, and if anything, it made him yearn even more for you. He willed the dinner to end, for the opportunity to be beside you to present itself once again.
It was at some point during dessert that he looked up, and frowned, catching just the back of your head. He allowed his eyes to drift down to your bare shoulders, angled towards a tall man. You laughed - he spotted the movement of it in those very shoulders, and that familiar feeling of jealousy simmered in him. He forced himself to ignore it, listening absently to the conversation around him, chipping in when necessary. And finally once dessert had been cleaned up, he watched you stand and weave through the room to the front door. His heart stops when you finally look at him, and he has to remind himself that he’s mid-conversation with two people, that he cannot simply leave and join you. So he nods at you instead, his heart thudding with the anticipation of seeing you later in the evening.
He’s impatient, and starts shifting in his chair as the conversation ebbs. One of the professors close to his age suggests the Marlin, wanting to continue discussing a potential collaboration, and Baelor hopes it’s where everyone else has gone, hopes it’s where you are. His hand falls to his trouser pocket, and he’s tempted to send you a text to ask where you are. But he remembers he’s still never texted you before, and doesn’t want to overstep. Instead, he hopes to the gods that you are at the Marlin, even if you are with a group of young researchers and professionals unlikely to interact with him.
He smokes a cigarette on the walk there, still forcing himself to respond to dull conversation politely, to pretend to entertain the idea of working on a shared publication. The nicotine buzzes through him gently. It has been a while since his last smoke - most likely on New Year’s he recalled - and was eager for another one when he finished his first.
Music is thudding loudly at the Marlin, and looking around, Baelor recognises most people from the conference gala. The bartenders look flustered, understaffed for a surprisingly busy Wednesday night. Calmly, he orders a whisky at the bar, waiting patiently, grateful for the reprieve it gives him from the constant academic chatter, from the exhausting experience of networking. He has to wait for several minutes as the bartenders struggle to cope with the many overlapping orders, but he uses that time to scan the room, searching for a deep burgundy dress that had etched itself into his mind. For a moment he worries, unable to spot you in the thick crowd by the bar, but then the familiar sound of your laughter catches on his ears, just faintly, and he turns his head in the direction. He finally spots you, perched on the arm of a leather sofa pushed into the back corner of the room, you’re holding a pool cue in your hand, and on your left is the tall man who Baelor recognised from the gala.
He watches from a distance, taking in the way you’re pushing the cue from hand to hand as it pivots on the floor, your relaxed posture and easy smiles. He wonders if this is what you’re like with your friends back at King’s. The envy surprises him, as he watches your small group, fooling around by the pool table, missing shots and swaying a little to the music. The bartender serves him his drink, and he turns away, back to his high-top table of three professors, steeling himself for whatever pseudo-intellectual debate they planned on getting into next. He wondered if he could have a round on the pool table, but the thought vanished as quickly as it came, Baelor dismissing it as ridiculous. Instead, he threw another longing glance into the back corner of the large bar, hoping you were looking for him.
“Why am I actually so shit at this?” Orson groans, sitting back down beside you after missing entirely. Your partner, Lyrelle lines up her shot, laughing with one of their friends.
“I’m not the best either. I think that’s the point!” You nudge his leg a little, and continue fiddling with your pool stick, watching Lyrelle take her shot.
“See - Marlin’s not that bad! Even the professors are here.”
At that, you cast your attention towards the busier portion of the bar and are surprised to notice how packed it had gotten in the last fifteen minutes. Clearly everyone at the gala had the exact same idea, not that it surprised you. The Marlin was the closest to the venue of the gala, and it was always popular with visitors.
“Gods you’re right. Even Professor Lannister. Remind me to avoid that group there.” You grimace, catching sight of the Professor with ruddy cheeks. You could almost see the spit leaving his mouth from your distance, as he engaged a small group of other male professors in what looked like a rant.
“Don’t really want to know what he’s going off about.” Orson’s frown almost matches your own, but you both begin smiling, and then laughing as you consider the ridiculousness of the situation. “Oh- you’re up.” He nudges your leg in return, and you push yourself up off the arm of the sofa, focusing your attention on the pool table.
The night continues on, and it’s light hearted and pleasant. You’re definitely feeling the effect of the wines from dinner, and the second beer you’d just finished, as you laugh with Orson and the other researchers.
“Another?” Orson asks, holding up his empty glass, and you nod, but stand up to join him.
“I’ll come with.” He smiles softly, and begins weaving through the thick crowd of people, checking from time to time whether you’re still behind him. The two of you finally make it to the bar, and Orson orders two more Dornish ales, while you look down the bar. A cold voice causes you to freeze and you turn, recognising its owner.
“Well. Enjoying yourself after that display today?” Sylas Lannister leans forward, much too close to your face for your comfort. He’s holding a fresh ale in his hand, but it sloshes out of the top, nearly spilling onto your dress as he leans closer. His breath smells like stale beer, and you step back, bumping into Orson a little.
“Evening, Professor. I hope you are having a pleasant night so far.” You school your expression into one of neutrality rather than betraying the disgust you truly feel, and hope your tone is polite.
“I don’t supervise women for a reason. They forget their place and speak out of turn. Do you think I take lightly to being spoken to like a fool in front of all my colleagues? Being talked down to by a young girl?” Sylas sways closer to you again, and you feel Orson’s hand coming up on your upper arm to steady you as you back away again.
“Professor, please, I think she-“ Orson tries to stop Sylas, holding you a little tighter, and while you’re grateful for the thought, you want him to let go.
“Enough, Orson. I was not talking to you. Look at you acting all chivalrous, as if you are not just trying to get her into your hotel room for the night, a pretty young thing like her.” Sylas voice drips with venom, and the droplets of spit leaving his mouth makes you feel a little sick. Still, the ruddy-cheeked, drunk man continues relentlessly. “I don’t blame you though, no. If she hadn’t such a stubborn mouth on her, perhaps I’d like to-“
“Lannister.” The familiar commanding voice instantly sends a wave of relief through your body, and you pull away from Orson to step towards Baelor, almost on reflex.
“Targaryen. I have managed to avoid you all night yet here you finally are.” Baelor doesn’t move, he simply inclines his head and meets Sylas’ gaze evenly. There’s a fiery look in his eyes, one you’ve never really seen before, and as you run your eyes over his face, down his neck and to his lapel, you spot the silver dragon there pinned.
“I suggest you return to your colleagues - or better yet, return to your lodgings for the evening. I’m sure you have better things to do than harassing my student.” His voice is clipped, an edge to it that makes Orson step back, that makes him turn and retreat to the spot in the corner with his friends, drinks abandoned. A feeling of mild disappointment washes over you, before you focus back on Baelor, feeling his hand slowly resting on your lower back. His thumb brushes the patch of skin right above where the burgundy silk ends, and it causes you to shiver.
Baelor, it seems to you, unaware of his movement, continues to fix Sylas a dark look, straightening his posture a little.
“Oh- your student? So that is where she learned the awfully disgusting habit of challenging her superiors - a senior professor no less. I wonder, Baelor, what else you have taught her.”
You don’t miss the suggestive look Sylas throws your way, as he makes it a point to look between Baelor and you, and down at your waist.
“This conversation is finished, Lannister.” Baelor’s tone is flat, and you can tell he’s reached the limit of his patience with Sylas. The two professors stare at each other, as if challenging the other to back down, until finally, Sylas crumbles under the fiery intensity of Baelor’s mismatched eyes. Sylas looks away, huffs and turns.
“Tread carefully, Targaryen. Though dragons cannot be burned, they can still be cut down." That was his final threat, and as he walked away, you felt your shoulders sag in relief. You stood in silence, staring at the spot that the awful man had occupied.
“Hey.” Baelor had been saying your name a few times, and it was only the feeling of his hand moving from the small of your back to your shoulder, and turning you to face him that snapped your attention back to him.
“No- I’m asking if you’re okay. Don’t apologise.” Baelor’s voice was soft, a stark contrast from the tone he had used with Sylas. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, the lingering heat in his eyes making your breath catch a little.
“Yes, I- thank you. For stepping in.” You looked down, mulling over everything Sylas had said, his insinuation and blatantly bigoted remarks. You felt hot and wanted some air. You turned to the bar where the drinks Orson had ordered sat, abandoned. You reached for both of them wordlessly, then turned back to Baelor as you began walking in the direction of the doors leading to the outdoor deck above the water. “Coming?” You ask, and it takes Baelor a moment to catch up with you, puzzled by your odd behaviour.
The ocean breeze provides you relief as you step into the salty air, taking a deep breath. You find a table by the edge of the deck, and place your two drinks down, pushing one towards Baelor. You take several large gulps of your ale, wanting to forget the way Sylas had raked his eyes over you, the way his breath smelt in your face.
“You sure you’re alright?” Baelor asks again, softer than before. He doesn’t touch his drink, and instead moves to stand closer to you, reaching out his hand for a moment before lowering it.
“He’s an arsehole. I tend not to listen to arseholes.” You attempt with some humour, but it sounds flat. Truly, the interaction with him had shaken you, and your body was still feeling the tension from the threatening experience. “Thanks for stepping in. I don’t know what else he would have said if you hadn’t been there.”
Baelor frowns at the sad tone in your voice, thinking back to how freely you had been laughing before, how relaxed you had looked. You still looked beautiful, and it was almost even more breathtaking this close. He doesn’t move his gaze off you, and instead steps closer, placing a slightly trembling hand on your bare shoulder.
“That was absolutely not appropriate. We can report it - if you’d like?” Baelor keeps his voice gentle and low, tilting his head at you, willing you to meet his gaze. Your shoulder feels so soft and smooth under his hand, and he lets his thumb brush the skin there, just lightly. It’s enough to get your attention, and you meet his gaze with a sigh.
“No chance I’m filing a report against a Lannister. Those never go well.” You lift your hand, placing it on Baelor’s on your shoulder, smiling resignedly at him. He returns it with a sad smile of his own, not ignorant of the complications that came with filing a report against an extremely powerful senior professor.
“I’d support you, you know. Make sure you’re heard, listened to.” It comes out as a mumble, and he takes your hand, bringing it down, so he can rub his thumb over your knuckles. He does that, a few times, then without really thinking, brings it up to his lips. The kiss he presses is so faint you think it’s just his breath. He appears to catch himself, and lowers your hand again, but still doesn’t let go, and you find that you really don’t mind.
“Thank you. I’ll think about it.” You reply, and his face softens as he takes you in, letting his eyes drink in a bit more of your body out on the faintly lit deck, lit only by little string lights. His lips part as his eyes trace over your collarbones, and down to your chest, still heaving from the tense exchange. He averts his gaze and feels ashamed, staring at your body after saying he’d help you report a professor’s inappropriate remarks towards you. He clears his throat and lets go of your hand. You miss the solid warmth of it, the anchor it had provided.
“I feel like we haven’t seen each other in ages. Even though it’s been just a few hours.” You surprise yourself at the honesty, but the wine from dinner has made you confident, and the past few days with Baelor had already lowered your guard enough that you didn’t care to downplay your regard for him.
“I feel the same. Long evening for me.” Baelor replies, reaching into his pocket, and you already know what he’s reaching for. He hands you a cigarette without having to ask, and lights it, staring at your lips the entire time. He knows it’s dangerous being out here with you, after pining for you throughout the duration of the afternoon and evening, with you looking like a Dornish princess in the soft luminescent moonlight. He swallows, and with a hand that still trembles, brings his own cigarette up to his mouth.
“You looked like you were having a good night though, up until Lannister at least.” Baelor exhales smoke and stands beside you, looking out across the sea. He lets his arm press against yours, needing to feel you in some way, however small.
You take a drag and match his posture, but stare down into the crashing waves instead of out at the horizon.
“I really was, you know. At least from the end of the gala onwards. I was having a grand time.”
Baelor tries not to let his expression look envious, in case you looked over at him, but he does feel envious. He envied everyone who could enjoy your company freely - your friends back in King’s, Lyonel - it was a luxury he wasn’t entitled to. He was jealous that the Dornish man - Orson, he’d heard Sylas Lannister say - was able to drink with you publicly, to play a teasing game of pool with you, that no one would question it if you and Orson ended up disappearing somewhere together. Baelor wanted that. He wanted it all. Even for just one night, to forget that he was Professor Baelor Targaryen, the head of the Ethics department at the realm’s best political institute, to forget that he would take his father’s place as provost one day. He wanted to be simply a man, allowed to love you publicly.
Love. He paled as the word floated around in his mind. He has not quite realised that was the feeling. Desire, yes - he knew he felt that. But love? He stiffened and stood up straight, clearing his throat yet again. Now he reached for the glass of beer on the table that he had not yet touched, and took several long sips.
The sudden movement caused you to turn and face him, with a curious look on your face. Baelor met your gaze as he placed the glass down, trying to think of something to say, something that would stop his mind from dwelling too long on the nearly earth-shattering realisation he was beginning to come to. His mouth opened before he could properly think.
“I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight.” It’s quiet, barely audible above the sound of the waves below you, but it causes you to pause as you lift the cigarette back to your mouth.
Baelor shuts his eyes and shakes his head a little. But his mouth opens again.
“The whole dinner I was just… waiting. For it to pass. Hoping for any means of finding my way back to you. I was worried you’d be at a different bar, and that I would’ve lost you.”
His unbelievably sentimental words cause your heart to thud almost painfully in your chest, and you can almost hear the blood rushing in your ears as you try to process what he’s saying. You wonder, for a moment if he’s had too much to drink, too much strong Dornish wine at the gala, and a couple of whiskies at the Marlin. He looks vaguely embarrassed when he finished speaking, and you reply without really thinking.
“You’ll never lose me, Baelor.” It comes out softly, matching his quiet tone of confession, and you watch the muscle in his jaw tighten.
It’s a sweet declaration, but one that makes Baelor sad. She’s right there. How could I possibly lose her if she’s never really mine in the first place. The thought finally forces Baelor to take a step back.
“I should let you get back to your friend.” There is no jealousy in his tone, just sad resignation. He refuses to meet your eyes, instead opting to stare down at the cigarette in his hand, watching the way the ash builds at the end.
You remain silent, your expression morphing into one of perplexity as you try and catch Baelor’s eyes. You step forward, boldly, into the space he had created, and you take his free hand.
“Baelor.” The sound makes him look up at you, and you see it glimmering in his eyes, the longing, the desire to say more than what he can. With the tiniest inclination of his head, he urges you to say what you’re going to say. “I don’t want to.” He swallows, feeling weak with the way you’re looking up at him through your eyelashes with pupils blown wide. You speak once more to drive the point home. “I don’t want him.”
That is all Baelor needs to hear. Though his mind is foggy with the heaviness of Dornish wine, the implication is clear to him. He steps forward and presses his lips to yours and the feeling of your lips - the feeling he had tried to recreate and then erase dozens of time - it nearly makes his heart stop. They are softer than he remembers, and gods sweeter, tinged with the distinct rich taste of Dornish wine.
You respond eagerly, and he is only vaguely aware of the cigarette still in his hand, precariously close to your hair as he pulls you closer. He pulls back for a quick moment, just to extinguish it on the ash tray, and then his lips are on yours again, his hand moving to cradle the back of your head, to keep you as close to him as possible.
Gently, he guides you backward, until you’re pressed against the wood railing of the deck, and he relishes the small sound of surprise and pleasure that you make as the length of his body presses against yours with the movement. He knows he should stop. Knows that at any moment some academic who most certainly recognises him could spot you two at the far end of the deck, but he can’t bring himself to stop kissing you, to stop his hand from drifting down your body to your waist. He groans as he feels the patch of skin - the one at your waist - that he’d been thinking about all night.
His hands settle there for a while, and he finally pulls away, resting his forehead on yours while breathing heavily, his eyes shut. You feel yourself trembling, and take several deep breaths to calm yourself down, your hands smoothing the fabric of Baelor’s lapels. You allow them to wander over his chest, feeling his shuddering breaths beneath the fabric, and feeling the firmness of the muscle.
“Gods.” He finally sighs, pulling his head away from yours, his eyes finding the redness of your lips, kissed swollen by him. His hand moves back to your cheek, and he cradles your face gently.
“Baelor, I-“ you cut yourself off, not knowing the words. The line in the sand had vanished, and it had been Baelor who had erased it with a searing kiss. “This is…” wrong, you wanted to say. Dangerous. But the kiss has been so delicious, and his eyes, pupils blown wide with desire, they cause your line of thought to halt entirely. Instead of finishing your weak protest, you press forward, angling your head up and using his chest for support, you capture his lips with yours. He makes a small sound of surprise in the back of his throat, then grips you tighter around your waist, receiving your mouth with his eagerly.
You remained interlocked for a period of time. It’s hard to tell how long really, pressed against his chest, feeling his hands drift all over you, from the back of your neck to the small of your back, then down to your waist again. It’s hypnotic, and you think vaguely to yourself that you could kiss him forever.
Baelor shares your sentiments exactly. He can’t get enough of the feeling of your lips on his, and all the different sensations he’s experiencing. Your fingertips in the hair at the back of his neck is making him feel almost dizzy, and then every so often you push closer to him, and he has to grip your hips to steady himself at the sensation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been kissed like this, and he felt like a man starved. If he wasn’t already slightly drunk off the wine, he thought this would push him over the edge - your lips, your soft sighs, and that noise coming from the back of your throat. He wanted to see what other noises he could get out of you, to kiss every inch of skin, not just your lips.
With a groan, Baelor pulled away, acknowledging his need for air, but he didn’t let you gain much distance. Instead, he pulled you in, tucking you against his side, resting his chin atop your head while you both caught your breath, breathing heavily in unison. He wrapped his arms around you, a tight grip, interrupted only by him pressing his lips into your hair from time to time.
“I tried, in vain.” He mumbles, taking a deep breath through his nose, shutting his eyes in pleasure at the familiar scent of your shampoo. He had only been granted brief passing whiffs of it, and it was more than he could have dreamed of to be able to smell it like this, with you tucked into his chest.
“What do you mean?” Comes your weak reply, your mind still spinning from the past few minutes of your passionate embrace.
“I have tried to keep my distance. To do the right thing and stay away. Be just your professor- supervisor. I’m a weak man.” There is a faint brokenness in his rumbling voice that makes you press against his chest, pulling out of his tight grip so you can look him in the eye.
“You’re not a weak man, Baelor.” He doesn’t meet your gaze, and lets his arms drop to his sides. He misses the feeling of you already.
“Oh but I am.” He continues, looking up at the dark sky above. “I vowed to myself that I would be careful around you. That I would stay away, that I would not seek you out without reason, that I would watch my drinking around you.” His eyes finally meet yours, and there’s a sad desperation in them. “And here I am in Dorne, a little drunk and…” he trails off, looking down at your body, where his hands had been. He doesn’t need to verbalise what had happened between the two of you.
“Restraint.” He says your name after a pause, catching the way your gaze has fallen to the wooden floor of the deck. “It has always been a strength of mine.” You tilt your head a little, letting your eyes trace over his hard features, the strong line of his jaw, his dark eyebrows and the creasing in his forehead as he strains with his words. “Not with you. Not anymore.”
You look at him for a moment, then the question leaves your lips. “Why did you come to Dorne?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead he smiles at you, and though it’s gentle, you can see the sad resignation in it. You know why he came, but the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to believe-
“-Hey, just wanted to- oh, my apologies.” The sound of Orson’s voice causes you to turn with a little jump. While you’re no longer in Baelor’s arms, thankfully, you can tell that Orson is looking at the two of you with a bit of confusion, noting the small distance between you two. “I just wanted to let you know we’re heading to the next spot. Fisherman’s… fisherman’s… something?”
“Tackle.” You mumble, taking a subtle step away from Baelor. Orson sways a little as he nods, and you’re grateful for his apparent state of slight intoxication. Any less intoxicated, you’re certain he would instantly have recognised the situation he’d walked into.
“Right yes. That one. Coming?” He holds his arm out to you, still hanging on the door a little, glossy-eyed and blinking a couple times.
“You go on first. I’ll meet you all there.” You almost wave him away with your hand, and you’re grateful for the fact that he doesn’t put up much of a fight, instead turning and dodging the closing door. You continue watching after him, until a sigh causes you to turn back to Baelor.
“You should go with him.” It's quiet, and though he meets your eyes steadily, there is uncertainty glimmering in them. The exasperation you feel in turn causes you to sigh, and for a moment, Baelor looks taken aback.
"Don't, Baelor. Please. I don't want this to be a repeat of..." You trail off. He knows exactly what you're referencing - New Year's. In truth, neither does he want that, but he couldn't help the sudden flare of envy when Orson had made an appearance again, and reminded Baelor that he was far too old for your, and far too much your professor to be pressing you against the railing of an outdoor deck in a bar. You should be doing that with boys your age. He thought, dejectedly. That was why your exasperation had surprised him.
He opened his mouth to speak, a pained expression on his face, but you did not let him.
"I don't want to walk away from this now and try to forget it never happened, and then pretend I don't feel anything for you. That's why I came here in the first place. When you walked away on New Year's - I couldn't bear the thought of pretending around you. In class, during supervisions - pretending it was just a drunk mistake. I came here - I suppose it's cowardly - but I came to escape that."
Baelor stands still, his brows furrowed as he contemplates your words.
"You coming here sort of... messed up my plan. To get over you. I wanted to come back to King's with the realisation it was all just girlish infatuation. It isn't fair, Baelor. It isn't-"
His hand is suddenly on your cheek, and you look up at him, the feeling interrupting your spiralling rambling. You meet his eyes, trying your best not to let tears of frustration spill, and his thumb brushes against the corner of your lips faintly.
"Forgive me." He mumbles, his eyes falling to your lips, before meeting your gaze once again. "It was selfish of me. I have been selfish." Your eyes fall away from his, but he grasps you tighter, looking at you with determination. "I have been selfish, but I will not pretend I do not feel anything for you. I cannot. I cannot lie to myself, and I certainly will not lie to you any longer."
Your hand lifts to meet his, on your cheek, and you tilt your head further into his gentle grasp, your eyes fluttering shut.
"But this is complex. And we need to talk about it. I suggest we go back inside."
His suggestion causes you to open your eyes in confusion, and he can clearly see it on your face. He looks away, and with a little bit of embarrassment shrugs as he explains. "For my sake- I do not trust myself to have a conversation with you out here. I may get distracted."
A smile breaks out on your face, and Baelor's expression softens too. Gently, you pull his hand away from your face, only to press a gentle kiss to his palm. The action makes Baelor's breathing stutter, and he's moments away from saying fuck it and continuing kissing you against the railing of the deck, but you take a step back and release his hand.
"Sensible. I'm not sure I'd let you get much talking done, either."
His eyes darken at your declaration, and he reaches up to loosen his tie, raising his eyebrows in agreement.
"Come on. I'll buy you a whisky. Enough cheap beer." He says it, almost admonishingly, but you recognise the tease in it, and allow him to take your arm, leading you back inside, back into the safety of the Marlin's bar.
The two of you were staring fondly at each other, seated at the bar. The Marlin had emptied considerably, with most of the younger graduate researchers and students having moved on to a livelier spot for the night, and most of the senior professors turning in for the night. You were seated close to one another, knees bumping under the bar, bodies angled towards each other, giving each other full attention. It was several moments before either of you spoke, apart from Baelor ordering two rather expensive top shelf whiskies. You had merely raised an eyebrow, sipping the amber liquid.
You didn't feel the need to disguise your blatant affection for him, not after what had transpired on the deck outside, and not with the sparse crowd surrounding you. Of course, you had done a quick recon of the room, ensuring that no senior governors or professors who would recognise Baelor had lingered, and when you were almost certain that. the two of you were in the clear, you shuffled your chair closer to his, and rested your head on your palm, just watching him.
You watched the way he fiddled with his rings, almost nonstop, the way he smiled politely at the bartender and left a generous tip, the way he ran his hand through his short hair occasionally. You had never had the opportunity to drink in the image of him this much, and you were lapping it up greedily.
"Tell me something." You finally uttered, leaning back in your chair and sipping on your whisky, brushing your hair out of your face, over your shoulder. You don't miss the way Baelor's sharp eyes flicked down to the skin you had exposed there. "That whole thing on the last day of term," Baelor averts his gaze, and spins his whisky tumblr around on the bar, "what happened? I mean I know you and Lyonel don't see... eye to eye, but you said somethings that were a little- confusing." You struggled to find the words, truthfully finding it hard to recall what he had exactly said to you. All you remember was his uncharacteristic storminess, and how much it had hurt you. With the knowledge that Baelor clearly felt something for you, you couldn't help your curiosity.
He hesitates, for several moments, and takes a large sip from his own whisky, and then turns to face you, looking down at where your hands are wrapped around your glass.
"The evening of that Sunday- the one we'd planned to meet at the library cafe- I was out in town, trying to pick a spot for dinner." He watches your eyes narrow in concentration, and your head tilt, trying to recall that evening. You knew, of course, exactly which Sunday he was referring to, remembered being disappointed that he hadn't shown up after heavily implying he'd be there, after getting so excited for it. It took you a moment, however, to remember what you had done that evening, and then it hit you. You look up at Baelor and nod slowly, putting the pieces together in your mind even before he explains it all. "I saw you and Lyonel." Even though he knows the truth of the situation, he still can't help the tone he has when he says Lyonel's name. The image is still burned on his mind, your hands on Lyonel's, laughter flowing so freely. The image didn't hurt as much now, but it still stung. "I just- I assumed. I knew how much time the two of you spent together and seeing you with him at an expensive restaurant - I just immediately assumed you were on a date."
He goes on, and you sip your whisky, listening attentively.
"And I was angry at myself. For not showing up to the cafe that day and, admittedly, it made me jealous seeing you with him, the same day you were meant to be with me. I didn't blame you, truthfully. I blamed myself."
He pauses to gauge your reaction. You nod slowly, thinking to yourself. It made sense, and you could imagine it from his perspective. Gods, if you had seen him seated with a woman, or worse, another grad student, you would've assumed the worst, and most certainly would have felt unbelieably jealous.
"And that Friday, when I heard Lyonel playing music, and then your laughter- something came over me - I'm not proud to admit.”
He pauses, takes another long sip of his whisky, then lets his eyes drink in these sight of you in the orange light of the bar.
“And I accused you of something I had no right to. Even if it was true - I had no right.”
Your hand finds Baelor’s thigh automatically. The look of shame on his face caused it. You so want to erase it, to let him know that it’s okay, that it was a misunderstanding. He had painted a clear picture to you, and hearing it from him, you understood his behaviour, even when it had seemed cruel at the time. He lets his hand rest, albeit hesitantly, on yours, and he continues.
“The truth of the nature of your relationship only became apparent after the first few weeks of classes - when I went to Lyonel to ask him about your absence-“
“Fucking administration.” You interject, shaking your head, pulling a chuckle from Baelor.
“-Indeed. Anyway, it was then that I’d realised what an absolute blunder I had made, and how inappropriately I had spoken with you. And on New Years… I thought he had done something to hurt you.”
The quiet declaration made your heart thud and, as if sensing the weight of your feeling, Baelor turned your hand over on this thigh, and interlaced your fingers with yours, so tenderly it almost burned.
“You know I was upset that you didn’t come? To the library cafe. That day.” You felt embarrassed to admit it, but Baelor had been so open with you, that you felt the need to share your feelings about that fateful day.
His hand tightens around yours, as if to say he knows. He remains silent nonetheless, allowing you the space to continue sharing.
“It’s embarrassing really. And I know we never agreed to anything but I was really hoping you’d be there. It made me realise that I was thinking of you too much. Hoping for something impossible.”
Baelor huffs at that, and takes a long drink, knowing all too well what it’s like to hope for the impossible.
“I’m relieved the feeling is mutual.” He nearly whispers, thumb stroking over your knuckles.
“I’m shocked it is.” You chime in, trying to sound playful.
“It shouldn’t be,” Baelor says, soberingly. “If I were a better man.”
And there it is again, the self-deprecation he’d been feeling all night, that kept leaking into his words. The shame of desiring his student, a woman far his junior, with far too much life in her to be spending her night with an old professor.
Baelor stares into his whisky, only a small sip remaining. He doesn’t really want another - he feels inebriated enough already and doesn’t quite want to wake up with a full blown headache. Neither does he want to forget any detail of tonight’s events - the sensation of your lips and gods, this time, your moans, your are skin beneath his rough hands. So he does not take another sip, even as it dilutes with the large block of ice. He doesn’t want you to take his nearly empty whisky as a sign that the night is drawing to an end.
He feels your gaze on him, but he can’t quite meet your eye as he mull over the implications of everything that had happened, that the conference would be over in a day, that he’d be flying back to King’s Landing in basically three. Would you want to spend time with him after the conference had ended? Will you miss me when I’m gone? Will you see me when you’re back? The questions were flooding his mind all at once, and he rotated his whisky tumblr again, watching the way the ice spun around inside.
“You know, when we get back to King’s-“
“Don’t. Let’s- just for tonight. While we’re in Dorne together. Here. Just you and me. No King’s Landing Institute, no Philosophy, Politics and Ethics department, no thesis to write, no lessons to plan- just us here. Please- can we just pretend? For a day or two.” You try not to cringe at your desperation, and look away as you catch Baelor’s frown.
You were afraid of what he was going to say, and could almost predict it. In King’s, this couldn’t continue. In King’s you’d have to go back to being professor and student again. He had a reputation, a sparkling one, and you didn’t want to be the one to tarnish it with your desire for him. But you wanted to pretend it was real, to imagine going on dates at your favourite bars in town, to dream of walking hand-in-hand with him through the familiar streets, or to walk with your arm tucked into his elbow - as he’d walked with you in the art gallery. You wanted to delude yourself for just a night. It could all be a Dornish dream when you get back, but right now you just wanted to live it, to relish in the fact that Baelor wanted you, that Baelor had kissed you.
Baelor is silent for a moment, but slowly turns to you after a pause, nodding.
“Okay.” He rasps quietly. In truth he didn’t know what to do about the fact that you would both be back at King’s in under three weeks time, with your half-semester stint in Dorne coming to an end. He didn’t want to delude himself into thinking the two of you could be in a relationship, and he felt you deserved better than to hide a relationship in the shadows, as something to be ashamed of rather than celebrated. He was relieved you didn’t want to talk about that yet, and even though he felt that the two of you were delaying the inevitable, he nodded. He could live in the fantasy for a day or two — even enjoy it. He just hoped to the gods that the passionate kiss you shared on the deck would not be your last.
The bartender rang the bell signalling last call, to both your’s and Baelor’s dismay. Your eyes flicked down to his nearly empty glass, and following suit, you necked the remainder of your whisky. He finished the remnants of his and placed the heavy glass down gently, the thud suddenly audible as the bar turned off the music, a subtle signal that they were beginning to wind down for the night. You were shocked that it was nearly midnight, and cast a longing look at Baelor.
After navigating away from the conversation about how you’d handle being back at King’s, Baelor had shifted to a more pleasant topic, that of your family. He was curious to hear more about the people who had raised you, who had encouraged your writing and education, the clay pots and bowls your ancestors was famed for. You’d shifted closer, knees almost fully interlocked at the bar, touching each other at almost every opportunity available. After a quick joke, you’d rest your hand on his forearm, doubling over in laughter. Baelor seemed to be particularly fixated with your fingers, tracing his own over yours absentmindedly as he talked of his own family.
More than once, you had to drag your eyes away from his lips and actively re-engage with whatever he was saying. In your alcohol-fogged mind, it was easy for your mind to slip away into simply what you were seeing, rather than what you were hearing. And what you were seeing was Baelor looking unfairly handsome in the dim lighting of the bar, leaning close to you, his eyes meeting yours in that intense way of his. You marvelled at the man’s ability to hold eye contact, and it seemed that now you were both at least somewhat aware of the feelings you held for each other, Baelor was not shying away from staring deep into your eyes.
Many times, you had to stop yourself from leaning in closer and just pressing your lips to his mouth, and you had to stop yourself wandering hands too, noticing the way they kept falling to his knee, then his thigh, drifting up and up.
The bell signalling last call caused a wave of disappointment to flood over you, and you warily eyes Baelor, wondering what to suggest next. You didn’t want to be too forward, and suggest going somewhere else, to another bar - or better yet, his hotel. That was too forward, you thought, and instead remained silent, wanting him to take the lead.
He was in a similar state of decision paralysis, and hesitation. He knew he could not invite you to his hotel. He was afraid of coming in too strong, scaring you off or giving you the wrong impression, especially with what Sylas Lannister had said about Orson. He didn’t want you to think he was just another desperate man wanting to get you into his bed- although he did want those things. Painfully.
With restraint, he began to stand, and turned to you. He inhaled slowly, and measured his words carefully. “Can I walk you home?”
It was disappointing, you thought, but not unexpected. He must’ve caught your crestfallen expression, because he was quick to jump in. “Unless you want to go out with your friends. You ought to. I will most likely not join. I’ve had too much as it is and quite frankly I-“ he cuts himself off, wondering how honest he should be with you. He tells you the truth. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to go out somewhere else with you. My self-control-“ he stops there, feeling he has said all he needs to say to get his point across. He doesn’t trust his hands to stay to themselves, squashed in a small bar with you, another drink in him. He’s almost certain he’d overstep, and the last thing he wants is to rush things, even though there’s hardly any time left.
“That’s- sensible.” He’s relieved by your response, and helps you out of your chair, not missing the way he shivers a little when your hand grasp his arms gently for support as you step down from the high stools. “I think I want to go home. Not hugely in the mood to get hammered with a bunch of people I hardly know.”
Baelor raises his eyebrows in understanding. In truth, he wants nothing more than to invite you to his hotel room, thinking you'd look rather divine in his plush sheets. But he would be content to simply walk you home, and he would ensure his strides were smaller than usual, to prolong the time he had with you as much as possible. He waits patiently as you straighten your dress, trying not to make it obvious that he's staring, and when you're ready, he extends his arm out. It's a nearly familiar feeling of comfort now, for him, and he tries not to think about that fact that in a few days time, he will be completely devoid of your presence, and the feeling of your hand on his arm will be but a ghost of a memory.
When the two of you exit the bar, the air is much cooler than it had been during the day, and it helps to lower the flush rising on your cheeks. You accepted that it wouldn't go away entirely, not with your arm on Baelor's. And now that you knew he did feel something for you too, you weren't as embarrassed by the heat you could feel on your skin. Instead, it made you grasp his arm tighter. You relished the quiet chuckle he gave in return, and the way his hand fell onto yours.
You rounded the corner, out of eyesight from the bar and Baelor could not help himself. With fire in his chest, he tugged your arm, stepping backwards to lean against one of the great limestone walls that lined the cobbled streets, and pulled you against his body. The way he kissed you was, impossibly, more fiery than on the deck. He was nearly desperate, as if he had been counting the minutes while seated at the bar, waiting until he could kiss you again. And so he did, urging your body to fall into his, to press him against the wall. With deftness that surprised you, Baelor spun you around and began to press you against the wall. In doing so, he pulled his lips away from yours, and you were disappointed for a moment. But then you felt them, hot and demanding on your neck, and all you could do was sigh.
"Baelor..." You groaned, and he continued nipping, but pulled away, looking deep into your eyes.
"Yes, my love?" He asked, and started to lean down again, his hands pressing into your hips.
You stop him, pressing a hand to his chest, and he frowns.
"I should get home." You say it as gently as you can manage, not wanting for him to think of it as a rejection. You say it for your own sanity more than anything. You are not sure how much you can bear him kissing you like that when he'll be gone in less than three days. And you'll be alone again, with nothing but the memory of his lips and his firm grasp on your waist.
"I know. I know." He presses his forehead to your's, and his eyes flutter shut. Clearing his throat, he finally pulls away, but takes care to loop your arm through his. However he can, in whatever way possible, he wants to be near you. Even if it means just holding your hand on the way home.
The walk home is long. Not long enough for either of you. Soon you find yourself outside the door to the home you'd grown up in. You linger, not sure how to end the night, the unbelievable turn of events fresh on your mind and, though you were still reeling in the sheer deliciousness of it all, it also made you confused. Confused as to where you stood, what would become of it all. What would become of Baelor and you. You didn't want to think about it. Instead you turned to face Baelor, tilted your head up to look at him, and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth.
He remained frozen, but his eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, and his mouth fell open slightly. He uttered your name, almost as a prayer, and then his mouth closed, and a look of yearning fell upon his features once more.
"Tomorrow, then." He mumbles, taking two of your hands into his, pressing a kiss to each one.
"Tomorrow." You reply, taking a heavy step away.
He watches you until you vanish behind the door, and he carves the memory of your soft smile into his mind, thinking of it nonstop on his walk back to the hotel.
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A/n: It had to happen. HAD to happen. What happens at conferences stays at conferences!! Deadlines almost all done!!!
