4. Farces

Author: SurelyForth
Title: Life & How to Live It
Game: Dragon Age 2
Character pairing: F!Hawke/Anders
Disclaimer: Rated M for language, violence and sexual content.

"So the plan is for me to have tits and act like you, for you to dress like a Chantry sister-"

"Not an actual Chantry sister," Isabela corrects her. Her usual abundance of gold and flesh has been replace with modesty and delicately mussed tresses that swing freely around her shoulders. "We'd never get out of the room were that the case."

"True," Wil fights back a rush of blood. "Maker's breath, Bela. Can't we just break into this guy's room and wait for him to come back up, drunk and vulnerable?"

"Hawke," it's merry admonishment. "Now where's the fun in that?"

"Where's the danger, you mean," her own nervous fingers run along the tight bodice that forces her breasts into distracting prominence. Wil has the completely valid suspicion that this entire ruse is nothing more than a way for Isabela to amuse herself.

"Oh, so fretful. You look like your sister right now." Dark eyes assess the room they're about to leave behind. It looks as if noblewoman's boudoir has exploded, scraps of delicate fabric artlessly flung around the roughhewn funiture. The mess is deliberate- besides the daggers Wil's certain Isabela has concealed beneath her voluminous skirt, they are going into this unarmed. What can't be seen beneath the mess of smallclothes is a small arsenal of blades.

And a few bombs. Wil's uncertain how that's supposed to work in such close quarters, and Isabela's nonchalance on the matter has done nothing to allay her doubts.

"So are you going to at least tell me what this relic is before I risk my life, or at least my self-respect, for its acquisition?"

"No," forthcoming as always on the topic, Isabela chucks Wil beneath the chin with her knuckle. "And stop pretending that you have any dignity, Hawke. I'm surprised you haven't offered to just stroll up to him naked and ask if he wants to join you in your room for a quick thing."

"The thought had crossed my mind, but-"

"But what? I've not seen your ass once since you came back from the Deep Roads, and it's starting to make me think less of you," she frowns. "Did getting rejected by that mage destroy your sense of fun? Because what I wouldn't give to go back in time and break that bit of news to him, preferably when he's balls deep in someone's ass and up to his shoulders in my-"

"Stop," Wil's eyes water with the suddenness of her jealousy, sharper than she knew herself capable. It's almost upsetting in the wake of the dulled resignation she normally feels when her thoughts turn to Anders. It's easier for her to think of him as unobtainable in every sense, an illusion that is shattered by the existence of former lovers and those who have seen him being very much obtained.

Pity and annoyance mingle on Isabela's face. "All I'm trying to say is that he can hardly think less of you. If that's what you're worried about."

"It's not," Wil responds flatly, knowing that it's guilt that dampens her when she's at her most sober. Guilt is one thing she'd gained after the Deep Roads- for her sister's fate, for her mother's anguish and now for her own desires that are just desires and not rooted in anything deeper or selfless.

"If you'd really prefer to ambush him, we can," dark brows knit together at the thought of compromise. "But my plan is far more fun."

She's right.

"And dangerous," Wil's tone is grudging agreement and it comes with the beginnings of a forced smile. At the very least, there will be booze at the tavern. That should loosen her nerves enough to actually make this whole thing, and maybe more, seem like a good idea. "What's this place called again?"

Isabela smirks. "The Pickled Feet."

"Ironic, I hope," Wil sighs and bounces on her heels, working herself up to seduction as if it's a duel and not...with Isabela, everything is a duel. "How bad can it be, really?"

Note to self, do not doubt the implications of a tavern named The Pickled Feet.

Wil closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe through her mouth, which is utterly distasteful but slightly less so than the alternative. This place makes the sewers of Kirkwall seem like the Viscount's gardens.

"I hate you," she hisses to Isabela.

"That's too bad," Isabela purrs in response, her good arm tightening around Wil's neck and her mouth coming close to nuzzle. "Because I think you're fantastic."

Oh, Maker. It takes a long, shuddering breath to work through this- a sudden heaving of desire in a formerly empty place that throws her vision completely out of focus and she needs to be focused. Their mark is just across the bar, chasing bowls of lukewarm stew with mouthfuls of barely alcoholic swill that would be rejected by the regulars at the Hanged Man for being one step above grey water.

It's just a man. A man that Isabela swears will be completely taken by their current ruse because getting into a fight here, in a seedy bar up the Wounded Coast and outside of the jurisdiction of social control, would probably not end up going too well for them. The pirate community is, according to Isabela, shockingly insular and she's not in with any of the crews that currently comprise the majority of the crowd around them.

Fifty strangers with daggers and hands and alcohol compromising morals that Wil can't imagine are the sturdiest to begin with, and here she is in a leather corset and with cleavage for the first time ever while Isabela clings to her like a scared kitten even while her fingers restlessly grope the length of Wil's velvet clad thighs.

"What in Andraste's name are you looking for?" This pass is precariously close to a place where Wil's not quite ready for anyone to yet be.

"Checking for a blade." She's the picture of innocence even as she lingers, forcing Wil to inch her hips back against the rough wood wall behind them.

"What the- Who would keep a blade right there?" Wil takes Isabela's wrist and pulls it up, bringing the bare hand to her lips and allowing them to caress along the back of her knuckle. From the way the eyes that fasten on her own grow darker with approval, and from the increased amount of attention they've garnered from the neighboring tables, Wil's successfully masked her protest. "Please tell me he's looking."

Isabela's gaze shifts for a second before returning triumphant; her lips twitch into a lightning quick smile.

"The red haired man is the only one we need," she leans forward and presses her mouth against Wil's jaw, her arm draped possessively over Wil's chest. "Make eye contact...and for fuck's sake try to be alluring."

"Your faith in me is touching," Wil's knees slam together in defiance of the hand that attempts to find its way back between them and she looks up, searching across a dim room to find the unfortunate soul who has anything that Isabela desires to possess.

He's plain, his jaw is too wide and his nose has been broken too many times. His hair is a frosty shade of orange, lighter than Aveline's and unnatural in the lamplight that spills across his crown. He has eyes, narrow slits in a sun burnished face and Wil can't tell if he's looking at her or not, but this is her chance and she can't not be alluring or whatever it is she's supposed to be doing.

This entire thing is a farce, she bites her lip and allows herself to feel the weight of Isabela against her arm, to forget who the woman is and why they're here and pretending to be lovers. Not that pretending is difficult when it comes to the physical response to such ample motivation. It's been awhile and if she's being honest, under different circumstances...

...her knees drift apart at Isabela's insistence and her cheeks grow warm from the deliberate drawing of deft fingers in small, teasing circles that refuse to offer anything deeper than arousal. Then there are the teeth that pull at her earlobe and the palm that skims across her back and shoulders and an abundance of warmth, of welcoming flesh separated from her own by nothing more than a few thin layers of fabric.

That does it, as something like fire ignites beneath Wil's skin and no doubt makes her a beacon for every man in the room, but especially the ginger-haired gentleman with the information.

Isabela has abandoned nibbling to whisper their next move, her hand falling still and lust no longer radiating from her skin. Like a summer storm, she can cease to exist so suddenly and Wil is thankful for the reprieve. Her thoughts can turn back to safety and not dwell upon what's happening to her in places that are far from important to survival.

"We need to get upstairs to our room," the words ruffle the hair next to Wil's ear. "He follows, we invite him in, then..."

"Jump him," Wil turns, her nose nudging at Isabela's.

"Tie him up," Isabela does not flinch at the contact.

"Take what we want," it comes out with a dangerous smile, crooked and sharp with meaning.

"Hmmm," the hand is back in motion and Wil's smile is lost to a gasp, only to be salvaged on Isabela's dusky lips. "Take what we need then come back for what we want later."

"Only we won't want him," Wil's hands, which have been heroically still for most of the evening, find themselves full of Isabela, of firm backside and soft breast and her mouth closes the miniscule gap to push her lips against Isabela's in a kiss as fervent as it is false.

And the spectators betray their attention with whistles, which is to be expected. In that moment, Wil realizes how little she likes being on open display, especially when Isabela's arm tightens around her neck so tongues can get involved and she's more aware of the eyes on her than she is anything pleasurable.

This is a farce. Wil forces herself to get caught up and seemingly lost in a moment that pushes the boundaries of their cozy spot in the corner of the tavern and spills into a table of sailors next to them, Isabela panting apologies between kisses and tugging at her skirt which has somehow managed to inch perilously high up her leg. Before they can be lost in a sea of searching hands, Wil guides them along a narrow path through the dining room, her hand secure on Isabela's ass.

"One more look back," Isabela gives the final instructions accompanied by a stealth grope of Wil's chest. Wil does as she's told, casting an inviting glance over several interested sailors until she finds the red-haired man staring after them and all it takes is a summoning tilt of her head and a ghost of a seductive grin before he's rising from his chair to seek them out in the inn that's adjacent to the bar. "Good girl."

Ignoring the patronizing tone, Wil pulls her out of sight, carefully maintaining the ruse even as they stumble out of one doorway and into another and then up a flight of stairs which leads down a narrow hallway. Feet tangle in their ostensible rush to their room, and once there Hawke fumbles with the key. Isabela is wrapped around her, chin digging into a dip in her shoulder and palms pressed with genuine urgency low on Wil's abdomen and creeping downward and it's difficult to figure out whether the knobby part of the key should go up or down or-

"Why hello there," the voice is unnaturally low, and Wil can feel the pressure of his hand on her forearm. "Waiting for me?"

Isabela refuses to let Wil respond, instead resting her cheek between Wil's shoulder blades in a show of possessiveness.

"You'll have to take both of us," she purrs and there's no mistaking the way the red-haired man's breath catches at the luck of it all.

Sucks that his luck is about to change. With the door opened, Wil pulls Isabela in after her before summoning the man with a crooked finger and wicked grin.

He pauses, just outside of their room.

"I have...friends who will come looking for me," his hands run up a small potbelly. "I should let them know I'm-"

Dammit. Friends would complicate their already precarious situation, especially considering he wasn't even in their room...he could become distracted or, worse yet, not alone at any moment and Wil and Isabela are vulnerable without weapons.

In front of her, Isabela's silk-clad shoulders shift back as one hand reaches to pluck at the man's shirt front and she transforms herself into a writhing, beckoning beacon of carnal desires- all hips and forward-thrusting bosom and fingers that stroke down freckled cheeks and push through salt-water stiffened hair.

Wil remains still, listening for the sound of feet in the hallway, holding her breath until the door to their room slams shut seconds after the man is safely inside and intent on the chestnut-eyed temptress who works at his neck in teasing nips even as he urges Wil to join them with an outstretched hand.

"She was yours first," he gasps, Isabela sinking into him and her hands restless around his waist.

"Easy, sweet thing," it's two steps forward before Wil is close enough to breathe into Isabela's ear. "If you move too fast, you might..."

"Might what?" The pirate leans back against Wil, hands remaining on the man.

"Upset the delicate balance of things."

"Ah," her head tilts. "How about this?"

The man yelps in surprise as Isabela pulls away from him, the glint of silverite between them an alert that she's no longer in the mood for games.

"So we're just doing this. For the love of...," Wil grabs a wad of silken smalls from the nearest table, her fingers wrapping around the sword hilt hidden beneath. Isabela has ducked behind the man, whose mouth is wide and readied to shout for help. Help would be bad. With Isabela so close to their target, and knowing that she wants him alive, Wil hesitates to use the blade. Instead she weighs her free hand, curling it into a steady fist before she makes a calculated swing into his nose, the sound of cartridge crunching against her knuckles as sickening as it's been every time she's punched someone in the face. Plus, it hurts. She shakes her hand out with a frown, "I hate doing that."

"Bitch!" Blood flecks out with the invective. "Both of you!"

"Ouch." Isabela helps herself to a handful of his hair and yanks his head back, exposing his neck and she's got that look in her eye that's part unbridled bloodlust and part concern for the safety of her ass. "Here's the thing...that word has never bothered me."

"Whore," he twists frantically to shake her off.

His struggle is met with charming laughter.

"I have a friend who calls me that as a term of endearment," she shifts her stolen dagger so that the tip nudges his jugular and Wil takes the opportunity to reposition herself with her back pressed to the door.

"She calls you that because she thinks you're a whore," her exasperation is for the wrong thing.

"Now she does...she'll learn to love me eventually," the picture of relieved flippancy, Isabela smirks around their captive's bloody visage and the entire scene is almost laughably macabre.

"Can we just ask him about the relic and go?" Wil's eyes linger on the stream of crimson coating his upper lip and chin. "Weirdly enough, I am not a fan of bleeding."

"Yes." Knife pricks, Isabela pulls and the man grimaces with too many pains to put into words. "There was a shipwreck about a year ago...word is that you and some of your friends have been working on recovering it."

"Aye, bitch," his feet shuffle against the rough floorboards and Wil hears an echo of footsteps in the hallway. "We have the right to anything we find."

"Of course you do," she states with a shrug. "That's practically my personal motto. But there's also this- I have the right to take back what's mine."

"Yours in a manner of speaking," Wil's voice is deliberately even. The footsteps are getting louder and they sound large. "But let's just cut to the crux of the matter...if you don't tell her where the relic is, she'll kill you."

"You know it," Isabela flashes a wide smile, meant for Wil. "And since the relic, or any coin you make from selling it or finding it, is worthless to a dead man..."

"Like you won't kill me even if I give you the location." His dark hazel eyes dart to the door; reflexes tighten Wil's grip on the sword.

"Maker's breath, man. We're not murderers," her lower lip pushes out ever so slightly. "Well, except when we are. Right now, we just- she just wants the bloody thing that she's been told you have."

"Listen," he pulls away from Isabela's dagger, perhaps seeing something more rational in Wil. "I was told where to look and to take everything I could. I stuck it all in a cave."

"Of course you did," Wil rolls her eyes.

"And does anyone else know about this cave?" Isabela is far less amused.

"Just my...associates. The ones who helped recover and move everything. Listen," defeat practically wafts up from his skin and he begins to fidget around his waist. "They don't get paid until I get paid and as they had to set aside a lot of fancy stuff, they're a little itchy on that end. Since I-"

"There's a map," Wil re-checks the lock on the door before striding towards the man, her sword kept threateningly aloft as her hand plunges into a leather pouch on his hip. The scroll she pulls out is met with anger and relief on the two faces in front of her. He, in particular, is turning a fantastic shade of scarlet. "You should have held still."

The dagger is still close to her captive's throat, but Isabela manages to work her way around him so that the contents of the scroll are revealed to her as Wil sees them.

It's a drawing of the Wounded Coast, along with a few neatly scrawled notes and an especially helpful tip about only being able to access the cavern at low tide.

"It was meant for my contact. I was waiting for a messenger in the bar, and I," guilt shifts over his features before anger overtakes it.

"Poor boy, and you threw it all away for a chance to get laid," there is a hardness beneath the suddenly cheery surface of Isabela's words. Her gaze turns to Wil. "We need a few minutes to get ready . Can you knock him out without killing him?"

Wil and the man both balk, but she shrugs it off. "Probably. But before I do, I want to know...spiders?"

"Sod off," he kicks at her. "I'm not telling you anything, you doglord bitch."

"That means spiders." Blighted spiders. A sigh shudders out of her before she dutifully smacks him with the pommel of her sword, making solid contact just behind his jaw and stepping quickly away before he can collapse on her boots. "Remember how I said I hated getting covered with spider guts?"

Isabela is already out of her dress and pulling on something more familiar.

"There won't be spiders," she tugs her boots up with purpose and steps carefully over their unconscious guest to retrieve her own daggers. "And if there are spiders, just remember how very much I appreciate your assistance."

"So there were spiders," Wil points to her sodden and gut covered gambeson where it's spread on a dry outcropping in the cavern and bathed in morning sunlight that has broken through the stone above them. "And you don't seem particularly appreciative."

The only thing Isabela appears to particularly be is very, very angry.

Enraged, even, and it's strange to see on Isabela...such a depth of emotion as she confronts crate after crate of, in her words, worthless horseshit intended to distract potential smuggles (other smugglers) from the true treasure.

And the relic? Nowhere to be found. Apparently.

"So you don't know what the relic is, but you're certain that you know what the relic isn't?" Wil's not sure that makes any sense. "Or are you just that familiar with the Siren's cargo?"

"I'm not in the mood, Hawke," a pair of wool stockings whiff past Wil's head.

I wasn't trying to be funny. Or a smart ass.

"I was just curious," she mutters, shifting uncomfortably. Between having to swim out to the cavern's entrance and then stumble through a half mile of infested tunnels, she's not the most comfortable. With Isabela on a tear, and acting more inclined towards manslaughter than heading back to Kirkwall for a nice cup of warm cider, she doubts she'll get the opportunity for comfort any time soon.

"Balls," Isabela tugs open another crate and, in the time it takes for Wil to lift a bemused eyebrow, frustration becomes a full on tantrum. Objects are insulted and crates are thrown, most clattering harmlessly against dark walls well away from where Wil stands. One, though, lands at her feet and even as Isabela continues her tirade, Wil hazards a glance inside.

More stockings.

"Shit. FUCK. Balls."

A boot. She lifts it carefully to her nose, having decided someplace in her lizard brain that it's a good idea. One sniff proves otherwise.

"...No. Stabbing is too quick. I'll give you trace amounts of that root that causes priapism and then make you watch while I seduce your mother and give her a night of pleasure the likes of which she has never known-"

At the bottom is a small parcel full of letters.

Not letters. Poems.

"This should be good," Wil holds the aged parchment closer to the sunlight, taking a moment to admire the admittedly well-drawn filigree that brand the corners of the page.

To you I would never lie
Of all the dreams I've of your eye
The perfect orb of blue and white
And darkness centered but without spite

"Score."

"Dammit," this is not angry.

Wil glances up to see Isabela seated in the center of a cavern, her shoulders down and her wet tunic foul with cavern sludge and mud. She is the picture of defeat and that is the most wrong.

Approaching in as close to silence as Wil can, she takes a careful seat next to her friend and leans back on one hand, the other still holding the poems.

"Hey," she begins, but it's an attempt that dies in her throat as Isabela's chin drops and her face turns away. Just slightly, but Wil notices. I should leave her alone...Maker knows I wouldn't want anyone to see me like this.

But she doesn't leave.

"Your soul is like water," Wil keeps her gaze on the paper. "Filling the vessel before me, beside me, beneath me, beloved by me. It flows into crevices touched, runs along peaks mounted. Your breasts swell as waves do when I dip my fingers below the surface. Ripples, satisfaction, wetness and need."

"It sounds like you're trying to seduce me, Hawke," Isabela exhales, her posture straightening.

Wil continues to examine the page, taken aback by a sudden realization that she's not the one needing cheered for once. After a prolonged silence, she finds her voice to respond, "I thought I'd get to you before that guy at the Hanged Man does. Varric mentioned an attempted serenade a few weeks ago."

"Don't remind me," her palm presses to her forehead, traces of a smile moving her lips. "Oh my dove, my buttercup. Graceful, tall and brown!"

"Ha!" Wil lowers the poems and tries to envision Isabela's face when he laid that on her. "Did he really say that?"

"He did."

"Was the next line 'Oh my heart, wearing white, leather and gold'?"

"Nope," her head falls back. "The next line was 'I suppose I would rather keep my tongue'," wrinkles appear on her brow. "In retrospect, I was probably a little too harsh."

"Apparently not, since he was still there the other day, pining from a far."

"I doubt he was pining," she gets to her feet and offers Wil assistance up. Besides filth, there's nothing in her demeanor to suggest disappointment or frustration. Instead she's looking Wil over with shrewd intent. "I owe you, Hawke. I also think we should head back to the Hanged Man and finish what we started last night."

It's an unambiguous invitation. A serious invitation and Wil's not going to pretend that the prospect isn't intriguing in the worst way, especially now that she's remembering what they'd gotten up to the evening before and how many lines Isabela had walked her fingers over, ignoring boundaries as was her wont as she pursued uncharted areas of the map.

Heat licks along Wil's stomach, caused both by the memory of this woman's touch and the anticipation of more. It was practically guaranteed to be amazing, and the idea of having her thoughts consumed by something else for a change is so...

"Why don't you come over to the house instead? Mother was going to make these fantastic cookies with nuts and you propositioned me and I am offering you baked goods," the words spill from her lips unminded by any sort of actual thought process. "I have just been overtaken by the spirit of Merrill."

Far from being offended, Isabela laughs it off.

"Sometimes baked goods are what a woman needs, whether she knows it or not," she waits as Wil gathers her coat, wincing at its stench before pulling it on. "Although I don't know how your mother will react to..." she gestures to her general filthiness.

"She's known me my entire life and she raised another one even more inclined towards disgustingness than I am...don't worry about it," Wil gingerly flicks off what might actually be part of a spider leg and offers Isabela a smile that's meant to be comforting.

And genuinely comforting, the sort that can only be offered by someone who is, no matter how temporarily, in a decent ish place themselves.

Leandra isn't quite certain what to make of Isabela when Isabela is clad only in a silk robe tailored for Wil's lanky frame and, thus, struggling to perform its function when tasked with containing Isabela's more outgoing features.

The fact that she's able to move at all without a breast popping out is an actual achievement.

"So...where exactly did you stay, Wilhelmina?" Leandra's eyes can't stop darting over to where Isabela is seated, a cookie in one hand and a small blade in the other as she etches into the wooden tabletop. Wil's seen her handiwork at the Hanged Man...no doubt she'll have to sand it out herself to save a litany of mortifying questions from Sandal.

"Um, stay?" Wil pulls her gaze from Isabela and frowns. "Well, we didn't stay anywhere, really. There's this place up the coast called Free Kirkwall-"

"Free Kirkwall?" Leandra repeats, dimly.

"Yeah. And, in the grand naming tradition of the Free Marches, it's exactly what it sounds like," eyes rolling, Wil glances back towards Isabela, who shrugs. Her attention is consumed with her art. "It's basically a lawless, whore-ridden port where pirates do most of their business."

For a moment, Leandra's face freezes in mortification. Then, as if remembering which child she's speaking too, relief takes its place in the softening of her features

"Maker's breath, darling. You had me worried for a second," she takes a sip of her tonic, smiling demurely over the edge of her tumbler. "Ivetta is trying to talk me into a trip to Starkhaven when she goes next month with her son. It's too bad, actually. He's a handsome boy, but it seems he's having some difficulty finding a suitable wife here in Kirkwall."

"Subtle," Isabela murmurs.

"Subtle," Wil echoes with a smirk. "Should I put you off by spending the next few days trying to guess the horrible flaw that you and Ivetta aren't seeing, or can I proclaim myself not interested right now and save us all the trouble?"

Leandra's face settles into delicate disapproval. "The Amell estate will cease to exist without another generation of Amells. And your cousins in Ferelden hardly seem inclined to nobility."

"The differences between them and myself are staggering," Wil forces a cookie into her mouth before she can elaborate further. As far as Leandra knows, Wil is mostly content with their new life.

"Perhaps Hawke's just a Lowtown girl at heart," Isabela supplies helpfully. "I know I like it down there. The stench, the humidity. The who-"

"Mistress," Bodahn interrupts Isabela before she can mortify Leandra anew, and Wil discretely kicks her friend beneath the table while maintaining her most accomodating smile. "You have a visitor."

"Oh," she glances down at her robe as she stands. "I hope it's someone who doesn't care to see me like this."

"It's your friend, the, uh...?" Bodahn's uncertainty casts little doubt that he's speaking of Fenris.

"Is there a sign outside of my door that says 'Open for Business'?" Wil wonders aloud as she enters the foyer to find the elf sitting on one of the benches, hunched over so his elbows rest on his knees and his gauntleted fingers scraping together with noisy skritches. "Because I'm sort of getting that impression."

"I am in need of assistance," he turns stiffly, hair falling away to reveal a face tense with concern. "There is a small chance that I've accepted a job that requires killing."

It's a nudge and she's envisioning all the killing she's witnessed being done by him, unbidden murders and his hands full of heart and viscera.

"And you want me to help you...kill?" Is this a test of some sort? "Did Aveline put you up to this?"

He stands in one graceful move and takes three steps towards her, stopping short of close. She notices how carefully his eyes hold her own and it's clear he's making an effort to keep them there. "I...believe that it's a trap."

"Most assassinations depend on traps."

"For me, Hawke," his ebony brows press towards one another to form deep ridges above his nose. "I have no reason to suspect, yet I do."

"And better wrong than dead?" She sighs. "Can I at least get some sleep before I risk my life to help you?"

His reaction to this is somewhere between a wince and a smile.

"The sign outside your door did indicate that these are your off hours," lips shift towards an amused smirk. "As you're not needed until midnight, I will allow it."

And then he's gone, slipped out the door before she can even remark on the show of humor or how easily she gives into her friends.

"Your other...the pirate just left through the back" Leandra is in the archway, her fingers twisting at her stomach. "You know, I'd hoped that once we were...is this what you want to do with your life, Wilhelmina?"

"I don't know," her response is quick, honest, and she's thinking over the past few days, of jealousy and lust and how much she hates blood and spider guts but helping the people she likes isn't terrible at all. "But it's something I can do until I stumble over what it is that I want."

Leandra shows no signs of agreement or condemnation. Perhaps she recognizes the hand she's had in Wil's conundrum, of raising her on the run and with the burden of her family's safety heavy on her shoulders.

Or perhaps she knows to force me into a role she was unwilling to fill would be, at this point, the most hypocritical thing.

"Just be careful, darling," from her expression, it's not danger that she sees as a danger. "And know that I will be here to help you should your priorities change."

Or not.