I don't know how to format shit on this site, but I've felt suddenly inspired to write again after a decently-longish dry spell, and it's like being kissed directly on the forehead by an angel, so even though it's gonna flop, idc, here's a wip snippet of the next chapter of my Thom x Kali fic/series. Takes place shortly after he leaves after their night together in the barn (and will be the start of chapter 2 of "Could," following Chapter 1: I Told You So (Unspoken) - which is the follow-up multichap fic to "Shouldn't").
Anyway...
***
“Something Leliana needs to see,” was all her agent had said before dashing out of the barn and disappearing into the afternoon’s grey downpour, leaving Kali to either quickly follow or else patiently—patiently, ha!—wait for her eventual return.
The path winding up to the main hall was a yawning-wide river of mud, dancing with the same fat, angry raindrops that assaulted the barn’s weathered roof and walls. Within the building was warm and dry; the storm’s plinking patter chiming a rhythmic symphony that could almost—almost—drown out her thoughts, so Kali stayed—too impatient for patience, but in no mood to trip her soggy way up the many uneven steps to the Rookery. Stale straw crinkled beneath her boots as she approached the sturdy workbench: sawdust and strawdust and three other types of dust besides thickly coating the well-cared-for tools and half-finished projects there, now three days abandoned.
Her thoughts were three days away, too. With only the day’s anemic light leaking in from the windows at her back (the barn had always been bright before, when he’d been there to keep the fire lit and the space inviting), she picked up each item laid out on the table, held it for a moment, then set it back down to rest amid the slow stirring of dust. Every handle was comfortably worn, pressing the same subtle slopes and curves against Kali’s palm, and she wondered whether it was all he’d left her to hold onto: this negative space where he’d once been; the reflection of his touch—firm enough to give new shape to that which had spent so long in his hands.
Had he held her longer than the whittling knife? When people looked into her face, could they note the marks of his absence on her as clearly as she saw the gentle palm-worn slopes of the blade’s handle?