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Jun. 11th, 2018 04:31 pmShe hadn't asked him during those awful few days when Saoirse was away, though she'd come close. But some stubborn, prideful part of her had held back. It would have sounded desperate, like she was clutching at anything within reach -- as she would have been. And his answer, whatever it was, would have been too much informed by her own miserable vulnerability, coming down to whether he was too proper to take advantage or too sorry for her to refuse. (Or too miserable and fretful in his own right to make a sane decision, regardless.)
It's as well that she's waited. She's certain of that much.
What she's less certain of is how to ask him. It's not that she's worried about doing it wrong by his standards, because by his standards, no right way likely exists. She doubts the book of manners he was raised on has any chapters about the proper way for a woman to invite a man to live with her outside of wedlock; such a scenario is at least two kinds of improper to begin with.
It's more that she fears this will be a sticking point. There are plenty of things that are acceptable by Darrow's standards that she hasn't personally bought into -- like trousers, for example. This, too, might be a bridge too far.
And then again, it might not. They both know better than to take their time here for granted. And if the only thing standing in their way is the ghost of another world's societal censure... well. That doesn't seem like much of an obstacle to her.
The timing of it all is also rather up in the air; she only knows that she doesn't want to spring it on him when he can't make a quick escape, or risk ruining a whole evening over it. But one evening -- one of those as-often-as-not evenings where he comes over for dinner and lingers for as long as either one of them can come up with an excuse -- after they've put Saoirse to bed and returned to the living room, she finds herself watching him out of the corner of her eye. Noting how comfortable he looks, how completely at home. Wondering why this shouldn't be his home as much as it is hers.
"You know," she says, looking at him sidelong, not pausing in her knitting, "you could stay, if you liked."
It's as well that she's waited. She's certain of that much.
What she's less certain of is how to ask him. It's not that she's worried about doing it wrong by his standards, because by his standards, no right way likely exists. She doubts the book of manners he was raised on has any chapters about the proper way for a woman to invite a man to live with her outside of wedlock; such a scenario is at least two kinds of improper to begin with.
It's more that she fears this will be a sticking point. There are plenty of things that are acceptable by Darrow's standards that she hasn't personally bought into -- like trousers, for example. This, too, might be a bridge too far.
And then again, it might not. They both know better than to take their time here for granted. And if the only thing standing in their way is the ghost of another world's societal censure... well. That doesn't seem like much of an obstacle to her.
The timing of it all is also rather up in the air; she only knows that she doesn't want to spring it on him when he can't make a quick escape, or risk ruining a whole evening over it. But one evening -- one of those as-often-as-not evenings where he comes over for dinner and lingers for as long as either one of them can come up with an excuse -- after they've put Saoirse to bed and returned to the living room, she finds herself watching him out of the corner of her eye. Noting how comfortable he looks, how completely at home. Wondering why this shouldn't be his home as much as it is hers.
"You know," she says, looking at him sidelong, not pausing in her knitting, "you could stay, if you liked."
