illithidnapped

The whisper he offers is given so near to Benedict’s cheek that spent breath likely pools against it, the faintest scent of leather oil and lilac clinging to the air:

“If I was your enemy, dear heart, you’d be dead by now. You do realize that, don’t you?”

At that grip on his arm, the laugh he offers is as secretive as anything else in this moment, flashing the full edges of his fangs as his nose crinkles. The fingertips at Benedict’s jaw flick, gingerly knocking away all that focused attention with an almost playfully chaste affection.

“And everything in this office would be mine to rifle through as I liked.”

There’s a wink as he withdraws, letting his arm drag against Benedict’s grip.

“...drawings included.”

A quick exhale, and Benedict is sufficiently Shaken; he looks like he doesn't quite know what's happened when Astarion withdraws, but the one thing that's clear is what he may have just put at stake if the man is to be taken at his word. Even joking about the possibility of having sold out his entire division his him like a splash of cold water, clearing his head momentarily, at least enough to know better.

"...but you're not," he breathes, a nervous little smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, "are you."

His own smile, tamer now, flexes in a proud little flicker.

No, Benedict. He isn't.

"I imagine you'll do better next time."

He's taken up space at the edge of that desk again, idly drawing deft fingers along its faintly dusted corner before one rises to meet his lips, the universal signal for a hushed mouth.

"Our little secret."

But nothing happened, Benedict wants to say-- nothing fell into the wrong hands, no secrets were told-- but still he feels shame rising in him at the sight of that hushing finger, and all at once it's as though something did happen, if only because for a stupid instant he thought he'd get lucky.

Maybe Mother was right about him after all.

"...I think you should go," he says, the lusty intrigue draining from him as surely as wind leaving the sails of a lost skiff.

"Well. And here I thought we were having ourselves a lovely little conversation— getting acquainted, becoming fast friends."

He looks sullen, Benedict. You've wounded him: one hand pressed across his frigid heart, chin settling low into the ruffed collar around his own neck.

"But I know when I'm unwanted. I'll do as you ask."

Benedict looks sullen right back at him. It hurts me more than it hurts you, really.

"I'll... see you around," he murmurs, wistfully. Next time. Maybe when there are fewer compromising documents around.

“I’m sure.”

There’s no bow, no flourish— only that hand still left clasped across his chest as he backs out the door.

INBOX

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