Comfyvember 7
Story: bartender story (original) Prompts: Eye of the storm — Sleeping on shoulder — First hug
Bob looked up from the potatoes he was peeling. As usual, the others had scattered to collect firewood, scavenge for what they could find in the woods, maybe even see if they could catch a rabbit or pheasant or something. Fresh meat would be nice.
Also as usual, Maolie sat aloof from everyone else's bustling. Once she'd cast her fire spell in the ring of rocks, she considered her share of labor taken care of. While this irritated Leon to no end, Bob had grown used to it. No sense milking a cow when there's milk in the pot about to curdle, as he always said.
But there was something different about her tonight. Instead of sitting prim and proper with her nose in the air, as if looking down upon the whole world and finding it lacking, now Maolie sat on her bedroll with her knees tucked under her chin, staring morosely into her fire.
Ah. The eye of the storm. After the torrent of fury (and thunderbolts and fireballs) she'd poured out over the man who turned out not to be her father, it seemed she had completely spent herself. But he had a shrewd sense there was more of this storm to come.
“A copper for your cogitations,” Bob said, breaking the silence.
Maolie glanced over at him, then sighed and looked up into the sky turning rosy with the sunset. “I'm sure you can imagine.”
Bob shifted to a more comfortable position on his tree stump. “Oh, I learned long ago not to assume anything about what passes through a young maiden's mind,” he said mildly.
With a groan, Maolie ran a hand over her head, ending on the patch of newly shaven skin at the base of her skull. A few hairs were just beginning to cover the mark on her skin that had made her whole life a lie. “You must think me a complete fool now.”
He gave her a warm chuckle and a wink. “Just now?”
Her face fell, her chin trembled...and then all of her poise and restraint crumbled like a cracker in a bowl of soup. She buried her face in her knees again and let out a heartbroken sob.
Bob hesitated. Young women in general, and Maolie in particular, could be as temperamental as a poached egg. He didn't want to say or do the wrong thing, didn't want to hurt her further...but he was pretty sure that continuing to sit here in silence would only make things worse.
Setting down his knife and half-peeled potato, Bob wiped his hands on his apron and crossed over to her, settling himself down on the blanket beside her with a groan of effort. She looked up in surprise, her eyes red and her nose running—very far removed from the demeanor of the elegant princess she'd always thought she was.
With a kindly smile, Bob ducked his head so he could catch her eye. “I'm afraid I can't fix your problems for you, lass, but what I can do is give you a hug. Would you like that?”
Wiping her nose on her sleeve in a very unladylike fashion, Maolie stammered, “Oh, but I don't...I mean, I've never...yes. Yes...I would like that.”
Did she mean she'd never hugged anyone before? Sorrow pricked Bob's heart as he looked into her eyes—the eyes of a child, really. A lonely little girl, raised by servants and tutors in a great big mansion far away from whoever her family truly was, with no friends or father or mother to hold her close on days when she felt as wretched as this. No one but those who held her at arm's length, teaching her to act like a proper young lady...but not like a young girl who was loved.
“Here,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close against his side. For a moment, she stiffened, years of training and propriety warring against the very human need for comfort. But finally she slumped against him, resting her head on his shoulder and letting the tears flow again.
“I've...I've treated you terribly,” Maolie sniffled. “I-I thought...maybe you would say...this is what I d-deserve.”
He patted her gently on the back. “Come now, lass. You know me better than that. At least, I certainly hope you would after all this time.”
Maolie drew a great, shuddering breath. “Then...d-do you hate me?”
“Not even a bit.” Bob patted her head, gently smoothing down flyaway bits of her long, dark hair that had come out of her careful braids in their mad dash from her supposed father's castle.
It occurred to him that Maolie was of an age that it wouldn't be so strange to think that she was his daughter. Well, if there was any sort of resemblance between them, and if Bob had ever had a child before Bella had caught fever and died.
Maolie was cantankerous and a handful to take care of on her best days—two handfuls on her worst—but as she settled deeper into his embrace, he only felt fondness for her. She almost looked like she might fall asleep right here on his shoulder, and even though a voice in the back of his mind nagged at him that those potatoes wouldn't peel themselves, Bob couldn't drag himself away.
Maolie needed this...and maybe he did too.
