[ Holding hands is a little like second nature to Hermione now.
When she was scared she would grab at Ron or Harry, wrap herself around them in quick bursts of affection, fingers linked with fingers and arm around arm. She's held hands with so many of her friends here, drawing them close and seeking out the smallest of physical contact to ease the pain, to draw away that loneliness and suffering that can leave you aching and sad when it's time to go to bed. It's not just something to be done in fear or sadness, though, it's something that can be done in comfort and tenderness too and that's what this is.
Her other hand comes, covers his, her fingers settling along across his knuckle as her head lifts to look at him. Hermione's not sure what to make of his expression or the way he looks at her, not knowing what he really thinks about her - some kind of woman that would poison him or stab him in the dark, a stupid mage, all the things he's said compared to all the things she thinks must be lies when he was trying to marry her. She's not foolish enough to believe that all of this is true, but she's starting to get a sense of who Gilgamesh is.
He's honest, for the most part, but there is something like a veil, like he hides what he really thinks with tidbits of truth. It frustrates her because she does, as much as she can, try to be honest, to be careful and sure, to not offer things that might hurt or be untrue, but he doesn't have that kind of concern. She can appreciate the honesty even if she's hurt by it because it's a part of who he is, how she sees him, and she knows that there's not much she can do to change him - because he is his own person, even if he sees himself as a Servant that isn't capable of the same feelings and wants that she is.
Her hands squeeze his and her face sets in determination. ]
And I'm always going to love him. It's not a contest, Gilgamesh. I'm sure the love is different. He's my best friend, not...
[ Her lover. She'd seen the kisses, the secret little things they'd shared, the shift of her own discomfort, and she had been confused. It's none of her business, though, of course; she wasn't engaged to Gilgamesh, despite wearing his ring as a token around her neck, a reminder, like personal baggage and a safety net, and she had no right to comment - especially since she'd kissed Dorian a handful of times. It's not jealousy, exactly, but it's something, that familiar ache and longing for something the same, her own kind, someone to love her that she knows she can love back completely.
A pause, a breath, and she hesitates. ]
And I'll care about you, too, even when you're gone. You still have your compass, after all, and I don't think I'll be rid of you quite yet.
[ He does have a bad habit of popping up at the best and worst times. Gilgamesh has seen her at her best - the proud Marchioness, rising up at a party, in training, in armour - and at her worst - the lioness turned rabid, blood around her mouth and flesh in her stomach; the young girl twisted with new jealousy that she wants to stop down and ignore. She wonders what he thinks of her, really, and then decides that she doesn't want to know. It would be easier that way.
She's still holding his hand. She hasn't let go, and she doesn't intend to, not until he does, her fingers warm, familiar tingles that hark back to lessons that have long since been abandoned. ]
I don't think I can really escape you, can I?
[ It's said as a tease, a gentle poke, but a part of her wonders just how true that is. ]
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When she was scared she would grab at Ron or Harry, wrap herself around them in quick bursts of affection, fingers linked with fingers and arm around arm. She's held hands with so many of her friends here, drawing them close and seeking out the smallest of physical contact to ease the pain, to draw away that loneliness and suffering that can leave you aching and sad when it's time to go to bed. It's not just something to be done in fear or sadness, though, it's something that can be done in comfort and tenderness too and that's what this is.
Her other hand comes, covers his, her fingers settling along across his knuckle as her head lifts to look at him. Hermione's not sure what to make of his expression or the way he looks at her, not knowing what he really thinks about her - some kind of woman that would poison him or stab him in the dark, a stupid mage, all the things he's said compared to all the things she thinks must be lies when he was trying to marry her. She's not foolish enough to believe that all of this is true, but she's starting to get a sense of who Gilgamesh is.
He's honest, for the most part, but there is something like a veil, like he hides what he really thinks with tidbits of truth. It frustrates her because she does, as much as she can, try to be honest, to be careful and sure, to not offer things that might hurt or be untrue, but he doesn't have that kind of concern. She can appreciate the honesty even if she's hurt by it because it's a part of who he is, how she sees him, and she knows that there's not much she can do to change him - because he is his own person, even if he sees himself as a Servant that isn't capable of the same feelings and wants that she is.
Her hands squeeze his and her face sets in determination. ]
And I'm always going to love him. It's not a contest, Gilgamesh. I'm sure the love is different. He's my best friend, not...
[ Her lover. She'd seen the kisses, the secret little things they'd shared, the shift of her own discomfort, and she had been confused. It's none of her business, though, of course; she wasn't engaged to Gilgamesh, despite wearing his ring as a token around her neck, a reminder, like personal baggage and a safety net, and she had no right to comment - especially since she'd kissed Dorian a handful of times. It's not jealousy, exactly, but it's something, that familiar ache and longing for something the same, her own kind, someone to love her that she knows she can love back completely.
A pause, a breath, and she hesitates. ]
And I'll care about you, too, even when you're gone. You still have your compass, after all, and I don't think I'll be rid of you quite yet.
[ He does have a bad habit of popping up at the best and worst times. Gilgamesh has seen her at her best - the proud Marchioness, rising up at a party, in training, in armour - and at her worst - the lioness turned rabid, blood around her mouth and flesh in her stomach; the young girl twisted with new jealousy that she wants to stop down and ignore. She wonders what he thinks of her, really, and then decides that she doesn't want to know. It would be easier that way.
She's still holding his hand. She hasn't let go, and she doesn't intend to, not until he does, her fingers warm, familiar tingles that hark back to lessons that have long since been abandoned. ]
I don't think I can really escape you, can I?
[ It's said as a tease, a gentle poke, but a part of her wonders just how true that is. ]