BEXLEY BRIAR
Moira’s laugh sparks something like warmth in Bexley’s chest, and it even glimmers in that usually-icy blue gaze as she gazes at the Denoctian, a slow, burning kindness that very few are lucky enough to see. As they walk and the jasmine scent of Moira’s homeland floats through the air around them, Bexley pushes her questions to the back of her tongue - do you know Reichenbach? How is he doing? Has any of the Night Court noticed Acton’s leaving? - but they are not friends, Moira said so herself, and besides all that, the title of Regent lays heavy across her shoulders, holds her back from asking too many questions about the Night Court.
It might look suspicious, now, if she were to dig too deep. Nevermind her and Reich’s meeting on the plains in Ruris, the first person she ever came across in Novus - nevermind her heartbeat and how it quickens in her chest when she thinks of Acton trailing her out of Denocte.
Never mind all of it.
Eik, she repeats. A specter of a smile crosses her ivory lips, and she glances at Moira sideways, coy through those dark-stained lashes. He’s a kind man. Hopefully your painting will do him justice - and with that she tilts her head, smile curling into more of a smirk, cool humor painting her voice, and can only hope that Moira recognizes the joke inside of it, the element of teasing. Bexley has little doubts that the girl is probably a talented artist, but it’s in her nature to approach comments like that with some measure of skepticism.
By the time they come to a stop outside the well, Bexley’s trepidation has been replaced with a faint admiration of this girl - heart on her sleeve, both wild and charming, and unfettered by the chaos around them, never mind the embarrassment that brought the two of them together. It takes courage, she thinks, not to plan your every move. Not to think too hard about how you come off. Not to put so much emphasis on each and every curl, not to measure steps, not to wait, to wonder, to calculate. For all her confidence, that easy carelessness is something she’s never quite been able to grasp.
Like it never happened, Bex muses in agreement. She glances down at the lack of space between them, feels the heat of Moira’s skin almost pressing against her own, and, except for a dark, casually brow-raised glance at the silver-haired girl, doesn’t remark upon it. You are good.
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