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“I think you’ve given me beard burn,” Tony says, looking in the bathroom mirror and rubbing his chin disgruntledly.
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Maybe it was just simple force of habit from all the times he’d done the same for Phoebe, but whatever the reason, Roy leaned over and fucking kissed Jamie’s knee better.
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He succumbed only once to dark thoughts, in the weeks that followed.
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Alexander makes it through the Carnivale only a little worse for wear.
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On the beach, Diarmuid gives Raymond de Merville what he wants instead.
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He makes many wishes, that first sunrise, but they all boil down to the same one.
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“Your hands,” Alexander whispered, and then let out a soft moan as Thomas sucked a bruise into his bared collarbone. Thomas was about to remark that his hands were very happily employed, thank you very much, having gotten up under Alexander’s voluminous shirt to roam steadily along his warm ribs, but Alexander’s moan turned into a hiss. “They’re freezing, Thomas.”
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Le Vesconte and Des Voeux hook up during the Carnivale.
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Thomas woke to the smell of the sickroom. His leg—whatever remained of it, at least—was afire with sheer, bloody agony, which he supposed was what had awoken him. He made himself look down the length of his body, but saw only the blanket covering him...and an awful dip where there shouldn’t be one.
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“Why are you sitting with him, anyway?” Arya asks abruptly, eyeing Sansa and then the Hound pointedly. “What were you talking about?”
He makes a grumbling noise and snatches the wine jug back from Arya and tops up his goblet. Sansa holds out her cup to him patiently, and after a resigned scowl, he fills it too. She smiles at him, and then says to Arya, “Podrick stole his woman and I was consoling him.”
Arya’s eyebrows raise, and she looks at the Hound with an evil grin. “I don’t blame her. Pod’s a hell of a lot better looking.”
The Hound snorts and drinks his wine. He doesn’t seem to disagree with her.
Sansa hesitates for just a moment before saying, very measuredly, “Actually, I don’t think he is.”
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“Sandor.” The air is filled with smoke and dust and the sound of explosions, and the painted map beneath her feet is half obscured by crumbling stone.
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“He won’t be very friendly right now, little bird,” the Hound rasped, looking at the huge, injured wolf with about the same expression as he had the dragon carcass.
Ghost suddenly stopped whining and started to growl, no longer trying to lick his leg. He was staring at them, red-eyed and intent. “You’d better let me go,” Sansa said. She met the Hound’s eyes and added, “He won’t hurt me.”
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There’s nothing Francis can think of to say to ease his mind, because he knows exactly what James is feeling. Today will be etched onto their souls for the rest of their lives--however long or short a span that may entail.
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“You called me Rafael. In front of Liv.”
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“You fainted, Will,” Hannibal’s voice said from somewhere nearby, and it sounded amused, fond. “How very damsel in distress of you.”
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Sansa Stark decides to never become a political pawn ever again, so she takes herself off the table.
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The lawnmower isn't helping. Or maybe it helps a lot.
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The bar fight doesn't end well for any of them.
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Stiles gapes. “Holy shitballs. Wait, really? Does that mean…are you…are you trapped in Beacon Hills?”
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Derek’s eyebrows were raised with curiosity as Stiles leaned further over and reached down into the tub. He was holding something cupped between both hands when he stood up and turned around.