milliways_bar | (no subject)

Roland turns his head, then, still smiling, hat still hanging on the armrest, book still on his chest -- and sees her.

His expression does not change.

Death is heartstoppingly beautiful. Roland has ever loved beauty, as Meg Giry could tell you.

And so he smiles -- soaks her in, if it does you -- and makes no move.

She approaches him, carefully.

"Hile, gunslinger."

There's a smile, on black lips.

He regards her, still smiling faintly.

Soft: "You'd use the High Speech, lady-sai?"

A smile.

"It goes with the outfit, doesn't it?"

And she thinks that she has a right to it.

"It does."

She has a right to it. Death is the patron saint of gunslingers, in a way, and the mother of us all.

He's propped up on an elbow, now, still stretched out on the sofa. "It does me well to look upon you, lady-sai. Does me fine."

Perhaps he goes too far. Perhaps not. But he'd regret it forever if he didn't say it.

The memories fire, the rhythms fall slow
Black beauty I love you so

"I'm glad to hear it."

Another smile.

"How've you been, Roland?"

"Well, I say thankya." Quiet enough, head still propped on his elbow. Still regarding her. Can't take his eyes off of her.
If only you'd come back to me
If you laid at my side
Wouldn't need no mojo pin
To keep me satisfied
"Is today a fair-day, lady?"

"There was a cocktail party."

She sighs a bit, frustrated. The damn turtle had to go and punch the god... There's a glance over her shoulder.

The welts of your scorn, my love, give me more
Send whips of opinion down my back, give me more

He watches her, and for a moment his eyes, too, flicker at a point over her shoulder. Flicker. They return to -- settle on -- her again. Like coming home.

"Is aught amiss, lady-sai?"

"Ahh. Nothing that won't be solved in time."

He regards her for a moment. He's only seen her at a loss once. It...is not something he cares to remember.

Don't want to weep for you, I don't want to know
I'm blind and tortured, the white horses flow

And softly, he says, "Say sorry, lady."

A small, sad smile.
it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah
"Not much you can do about it. Don't worry. This stuff always gets fixed."

"Always? For I've never seen anything that might always be fixed."

But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you

As he swings his legs to the floor and straightens, he is very conscious of the fact that he has not shaved today.

And the gunslinger looks at her.

She's welcome to sit. To palaver.

"I really hope this can always be fixed..."

She waves it away. She knows he cares for her. To mention this, now? No.

She flops down beside him and kicks off her high-heeled shoes, wiggling her toes.

"That? Is so much better."

And a low chuckle from the gunslinger. "I've never understood how women stand it."
Well it's you I've waited my life to see
It's you I've searched so hard for
"The women of the court at Gilead looked beautiful, yar -- " A small hesitation; to say but not as you look now would go too far. "but I wondered that such shoes did not curdle their sweet tempers."

"They're murder. I don't usually wear anything higher than, say, an inch and a half. Stuff I can kick around in, you know? This stiletto thing... I don't get it at all."

She reaches down to rub at the arch of one foot. She's smiling, though.

Still feel your hair, black ribbons of coal
Touch my skin to keep me whole
It is all he can do to keep from reaching down and touching her wrist gently; to say let me.

His next thought: o I am far gone.

"Shor'boots," says Roland, and sticks out his own. Dusty, worn.

"They do not suit you, I wot."

She cuts her eyes to him.

"You'd be surprised, actually."

A very small smile.

Precious, precious silver and gold
And pearls in oyster's flesh

"If you'd like to couple my boots with your dress, lady...I await your word."

She laughs.

"Hand 'em over, Roland."

He bends over, unlaces them, slides his feet out. Very white feet. He's missing the big toe on his right foot.

This body will never be safe from harm

And Roland sets them down in front of her -- ancient clodhoppers. They've seen dust and rain and miles and worlds. Traveling shoes.

She likes them. These are the best types of shoes.

She slips them onto her delicate feet, and stands.

"You see, these? So much more comfortable."

And yes, it does look rather absurd, those shoes sticking out from underneath that dress.

"You say true, lady." Smiling, and laughter there in his voice. "Though they're far more suitable for gunslingers than courtiers."

Roland never liked courtiers.

But she's...more.
Love, let me sleep tonight on your couch
And remember the smell of the fabric
Of your simple city dress
He sits forward, his elbows rest on his knees, with his hands dangling in between. Smiling up at her. Aching, and heedless of it.

"Honestly, Roland, do I strike you as a courtier? I haven't been this dressed up in about a million years."

She clomps around a little, enjoying the noise of the boots on the hardwood floor.

"These are good boots. I approve."

She grins back at him, all ancient and irrepressible joy.

And Roland is irresistably reminded of him and Cuthbert, in their youth, sneaking up to their fathers' rooms to try on shirts and pants and boots, such raiment as such hard men wore, stomping and posturing and eagerly awaiting the day when they, too, would be gunslingers. Would enter the service of the one who stands before him in his boots now.
And I never stepped on the cracks because I thought I'd hurt my mother
And I couldn't awake from the nightmare that sucked me in and pulled me under
He bows his head, ostensibly to receive her compliment.