[ Some part of her is conscious that, perhaps, Gwen might need more space rather than what could be seen as further scrutiny. But another part of her believes Gwen would assert this if so, and perhaps wouldn't mind the company. ]
I have a present for you, besides, from my travels.
( that does merit a small smile; really worry when gwen can't be momentarily diverted by the prospect of gifts. )
Well, I'll be right over.
( maybe a bit of space is what she first thinks of. maybe space would just mean stewing in her own uncertainties, chasing herself to all the worst possible conclusions. maybe the best possible place for her is not, as a rule, alone with her own thoughts -
it doesn't take her long to get to daenerys' home, registration making swifter the travel between cities, familiarity making quick work of the best route there; she brings a bottle of wine out of mostly habit, though it's tucked in her purse rather than out in her hand, and knocks. )
[ Daenerys answers the door, and Gwen has been by enough times now that the dim lighting of low lamps and candles is Dany's preferred way of fending off the evening darkness. The artificial lights are still too overbright to her eyes. ]
Come in, [ she invites.
On the table are some things to nibble on, deli meats and cheese and a bowl of grapes. It might seem fussy until it's not, which is when Daenerys takes a seat on the ground, cushioned by a throw pillow that's probably not meant to be squashed so. She is barefoot, dressed in an easy, slippery robe, hair loose. If she can get away with not wearing something with an inseam for the next few days, she will. ]
Here you are. If you dislike them, they can be exchanged, I'm told. There was a lot to choose from.
[ She gift-gives by picking it up two handed and offering. The first is quite apparent -- a designer stationary journal of good paper and binding, and the other is a small, skinny box that, likely, Gwen can guess conceals a fountain pen of thoughtful design. Both gifts are a little out of place of one another, between the kind of journal you'd give your little sister who aspires to be a novelist someday and a pen you'd gift your favourite professor at the end of her tenure--
( For all that, they are both the sort of gifts that Gwen would give and the sort that she appreciates; had she grown up in a different family, she probably would've received variations on the theme all her life and had time to get tired of an ever-growing collection of notebooks and beautiful pens going inevitably unused, but growing up in hers it isn't in their particular culture of gift-giving and thus still has the charm of novel thoughtfulness. )
No, ( not too quickly to be sincere, more appreciative, popping open the slim pen box and taking it out to turn over in her hands, settling in the cushions, pumps readily toed off, ) these are lovely, Daenerys - thank you.
(She has one (1) friend that she isn't actually a cunt to, and it's the dragon queen. Well, if it was going to be anyone. )
I used one of these to write on my ex, ( tossing and catching the pen, ) and he had it tattooed the next day. Men are weird.
( Also, she still looks human. But. Give her a minute. )
A love poem, then, [ she both guesses and teases, because it probably was not a love poem.
Satisfied, though, that her gifts have been well received, she sets about pouring wine. There's the sound of leather buffeting the air, and a dragon the size of a small cat suddenly comes winging around the corner, landing upon the arm of her sofa (which, indeed, has little claw marks etched into the leather). Drogon tips a look at Gwen, and then tips a look at the food, mouth parting to taste the air.
Picking up a curl of pancetta, Dany tosses it for him to catch. ]
( Surprise. Gwen writes love poems on her boyfriends. Or she did, until Wes tattooed it onto his skin and she didn't - she didn't feel a way about it that she would describe in so many words, she just for one reason or another never did that again. So.
She wiggles her fingers in lazy greeting to Drogon, does not reflect on the things she's got used to about this place because he's-- more like the things she was getting used to at home, really, a reminder of the short time she spent in the court, the strange things she saw that became if not normal then not unpleasant, either, to be around. )
It's the only one his brother doesn't have as well. They're pricks like that, identical, covered in identical tattoos as well. What the fuck, right?
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no subject
[ Some part of her is conscious that, perhaps, Gwen might need more space rather than what could be seen as further scrutiny. But another part of her believes Gwen would assert this if so, and perhaps wouldn't mind the company. ]
I have a present for you, besides, from my travels.
video → action.
Well, I'll be right over.
( maybe a bit of space is what she first thinks of. maybe space would just mean stewing in her own uncertainties, chasing herself to all the worst possible conclusions. maybe the best possible place for her is not, as a rule, alone with her own thoughts -
it doesn't take her long to get to daenerys' home, registration making swifter the travel between cities, familiarity making quick work of the best route there; she brings a bottle of wine out of mostly habit, though it's tucked in her purse rather than out in her hand, and knocks. )
no subject
Come in, [ she invites.
On the table are some things to nibble on, deli meats and cheese and a bowl of grapes. It might seem fussy until it's not, which is when Daenerys takes a seat on the ground, cushioned by a throw pillow that's probably not meant to be squashed so. She is barefoot, dressed in an easy, slippery robe, hair loose. If she can get away with not wearing something with an inseam for the next few days, she will. ]
Here you are. If you dislike them, they can be exchanged, I'm told. There was a lot to choose from.
[ She gift-gives by picking it up two handed and offering. The first is quite apparent -- a designer stationary journal of good paper and binding, and the other is a small, skinny box that, likely, Gwen can guess conceals a fountain pen of thoughtful design. Both gifts are a little out of place of one another, between the kind of journal you'd give your little sister who aspires to be a novelist someday and a pen you'd gift your favourite professor at the end of her tenure--
But Dany does her best. ]
no subject
No, ( not too quickly to be sincere, more appreciative, popping open the slim pen box and taking it out to turn over in her hands, settling in the cushions, pumps readily toed off, ) these are lovely, Daenerys - thank you.
(She has one (1) friend that she isn't actually a cunt to, and it's the dragon queen. Well, if it was going to be anyone. )
I used one of these to write on my ex, ( tossing and catching the pen, ) and he had it tattooed the next day. Men are weird.
( Also, she still looks human. But. Give her a minute. )
no subject
Satisfied, though, that her gifts have been well received, she sets about pouring wine. There's the sound of leather buffeting the air, and a dragon the size of a small cat suddenly comes winging around the corner, landing upon the arm of her sofa (which, indeed, has little claw marks etched into the leather). Drogon tips a look at Gwen, and then tips a look at the food, mouth parting to taste the air.
Picking up a curl of pancetta, Dany tosses it for him to catch. ]
no subject
( Surprise. Gwen writes love poems on her boyfriends. Or she did, until Wes tattooed it onto his skin and she didn't - she didn't feel a way about it that she would describe in so many words, she just for one reason or another never did that again. So.
She wiggles her fingers in lazy greeting to Drogon, does not reflect on the things she's got used to about this place because he's-- more like the things she was getting used to at home, really, a reminder of the short time she spent in the court, the strange things she saw that became if not normal then not unpleasant, either, to be around. )
It's the only one his brother doesn't have as well. They're pricks like that, identical, covered in identical tattoos as well. What the fuck, right?