[The highly irritating thing about ordinarily being rather quick is the part where it's very telling when she falters. There's a beat of silence not unlike that glazed moment between being surprised by something sharp and then realizing you're bleeding. Eventually, a hand clamping over the cut—]
[As easily confessed as any mustache twirling villain coughing up their own designs at the end of the third act; there’s no resistance or resentment involved in confirming her accusation for what it is.
The truth.]
I just wanted to hear how you’d respond. And look at that.
[Some hot little point of irritation sparks at that, embarrassment and annoyance both in reflex to—what? That he'd try the lie in the first place? Or maybe that she was at all clipped by it. How stupid.]
What's that meant to mean? I haven't told you anything. —Not that there's anything to say on the subject. Obviously we're very much in love, otherwise why would we be married.
You paused. And not because you didn’t understand what I was saying.
You’re smarter than that, after all.
[Even Astarion has to admit that much.]
Anyway people marry for plenty of different reasons. I’d argue love is among the least of them. Barely a little flicker of importance, easily forgotten.
If you married him for his fortune or he married you because he can’t take a breath when you’re by his side it doesn’t matter all that much. But I was curious.
How you’d react. Whether it’d matter if it was true, or if you didn’t care enough to ask— you’d be surprised how many don’t.
So.
Assuming that you do care because you asked, and you are 'very much in love'— how do you stomach that feeling?
How do I stomach what feeling? The fact that we're in [—somewhere, Wysteria checks the door to make sure it's closed tightly shut; if Val overhears any part of this, she will die on the spot—] love? Or whatever silly thing you imagine I felt just now just because you suggested he might not be?
Really, Mister Astarion. You're being extremely obtuse this evening.
I don't understand the question! [Is snapped back, louder than she means to and so the following comes in the form of an even hissier hiss:]
Are you asking me how it makes me feel? How I knew it? It just happens. You can't not stomach it, you just— It's just in you. You can't help it. I don't know!
Then why is it so bloody awful! [He snaps back in return, the words hissed out through the edges of his fangs. Sharp, and hardly aimed at her in spite of the way he snarls— though that doesn’t do anything to make it better.]
How can anyone—
How does anyone live with it gnawing away at them day in and day out—
[Whatever barking tangent that’s taken hold of him stops there, pinned harshly by the tip of his own tongue.]
No. Forget it. As ever, you’ve been uniquely unhelpful. Thank you for your endless wealth of analytical insight. Goodnight.
[A slightly more forgiving, empathetic creature might at this point recognize the direction of his frustrations. She might take this moment to steer this conversation in some direction other than the one he's insisting on.
But Wysteria Poppell de Foncé isn't forgiving or empathetic, and also she is hiding in a linen closet having allowed him to insult her a half dozen times. So clearly he deserves it when she says:]
Maybe someone else will have a better answer for you, sir. I would recommend you consult them with a measure more politeness. Goodnight.
[Someone needs to invent a crystal iteration that makes a satisfying clicking noise when it's been hung up.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[wow cool robot meme.jpg, innuendo flying smoothly over her head.]
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Because I happened to see him with someone else, recently. Namely nestled in their arms.
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That's not true.
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No, it isn’t.
[As easily confessed as any mustache twirling villain coughing up their own designs at the end of the third act; there’s no resistance or resentment involved in confirming her accusation for what it is.
The truth.]
I just wanted to hear how you’d respond. And look at that.
You performed admirably.
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What's that meant to mean? I haven't told you anything. —Not that there's anything to say on the subject. Obviously we're very much in love, otherwise why would we be married.
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You’re smarter than that, after all.
[Even Astarion has to admit that much.]
Anyway people marry for plenty of different reasons. I’d argue love is among the least of them. Barely a little flicker of importance, easily forgotten.
If you married him for his fortune or he married you because he can’t take a breath when you’re by his side it doesn’t matter all that much. But I was curious.
How you’d react. Whether it’d matter if it was true, or if you didn’t care enough to ask— you’d be surprised how many don’t.
So.
Assuming that you do care because you asked, and you are 'very much in love'— how do you stomach that feeling?
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Really, Mister Astarion. You're being extremely obtuse this evening.
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How do you stomach love.
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You still haven't told me why you're asking any of this yet.
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Because I feel like it—
Now answer the damned question properly, or I’ll seduce Val de Foncé myself and ask him what he thinks instead.
Can’t be all that hard if you managed it.
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Are you asking me how it makes me feel? How I knew it? It just happens. You can't not stomach it, you just— It's just in you. You can't help it. I don't know!
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How can anyone—
How does anyone live with it gnawing away at them day in and day out—
[Whatever barking tangent that’s taken hold of him stops there, pinned harshly by the tip of his own tongue.]
No. Forget it. As ever, you’ve been uniquely unhelpful. Thank you for your endless wealth of analytical insight. Goodnight.
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But Wysteria Poppell de Foncé isn't forgiving or empathetic, and also she is hiding in a linen closet having allowed him to insult her a half dozen times. So clearly he deserves it when she says:]
Maybe someone else will have a better answer for you, sir. I would recommend you consult them with a measure more politeness. Goodnight.
[Someone needs to invent a crystal iteration that makes a satisfying clicking noise when it's been hung up.]
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[Right, that's that, then.
Someone really needs to invent a crystal iteration that makes a satisfying clicking noise when it's been hung up.]