and i fell heavy into your arms [Roslin & Willas, August 7th, evening]
“Another thing I need is a second drink.” she grins sheepishly and scoots forward on the sofa to lift herself up. And then she thinks to play a little more dangerously for a moment. It takes her just a fraction of a second to lean close and she ghosts her lips across Willas’s cheek, and when she sits back her smile is less sheepish and more certain. “Thank you.” She can’t feel her heart beating at all anymore—as though it’s racing so fast the motion is fluid and painless. Only the sound of her breath hitching even more so than before reminds her to stay alive. She stands and walks over to the liquor cabinet; each step more shaky than the last. The lump in her throat will not subside, and she’s frightened she won’t even be able to drink anything at all and look more the fool for making the effort to leave his side.
Without looking back at where she’d been sat, she lifts the whiskey from the shelf. “Do you want another?” she asks, but somewhere deep down inside she knows the question isn’t about whiskey.
In a moment, with a word, she manages to diffuse the situation. He hadn't realized how high stakes it had gotten until she pulled the plug. He can hear the blood rushing in his body, up his neck, through his face. It's when she says, I know you’re good at making everything seem okay, that he knows she's got him figured out. He desperately wants to see it as a compliment, a declaration of feeling, an admission that she needs him emotionally. But he's not fool enough to completely miss the point: he can make everything seem okay because he can manipulate it seem that way. He can push emotions away; he can alter documents, he can offer bribes, he can pretend like no one else. He can make things better for a moment, but not permanently. He can make it seem, but not make it be.
He wonders if this is what will characterize their relationship: telling each other what the other wants to hear, but leaving in a clue that it's only a facade. While he knows he should want to be genuine with her, and want her to speak the truth to him, he's content with whatever little game they're playing. It's not often that he finds someone who fits so perfectly with who he already is, without chipping pieces away, without shaving down the edges.
The kiss on his cheek is welcome, and warm, and nice. It doesn't leave a burn mark like Sansa's did, and for that he's grateful. He's starting to understand where he stands with Roslin; the way he can be around her. While just a moment ago he thought she'd be his princess in the tower, he's now starting to see that she can act as his foil - his partner in crime. He's not certain he's ever met anybody like her before.
Giving a small laugh and a smile, he watches her stand up to go to the liquor cabinet. Part of him wants to struggle to stand up, to limp over, to wrap his arms around her waist and ghost his lips over her neck, letting her feel the warm air of his breath. Though he knows her game now (if it's even a game - perhaps he's too much of a chess player to simply see this as a relationship), he can't stop the twisting in his stomach, or the heavy beating of his heart. He can feel the blood trying to fit its way through the scar tissue in his leg, and pangs shoot through his thigh.
When she asks him if he wants another, he knows he could use a drink. If he wants whatever this is to work with her - if he wants to truly be a help to her (for why else would she come to him except for the help she said she wanted?) he needs to let his guard down, just a little bit. He has to make sure not to get too carried away, though, like he threatened to before.
And that question: Do you want another? has promises with it. Another drink means another tense conversation, which could lead to another kiss on the cheek; he has an inkling of an idea what would happen after that.
"Yes, that would be lovely, thank you," he tells her, watching the way her arms move as she pours. He looks down her back, seeing the brown hair fall on her shoulders, watching the way her legs curve down to her ankles. If she turns back now she'll see him staring like a hawk, and that thought is embarrassing enough to make him look at something else.
