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(from here)

So... up the stairs they go, mostly side by side. Mark lags by a step or two.

There is a persistent silence.



"I... didn't think you'd react the way you did," he says finally. "I mean, I thought you might—that there might be something there, but not that you'd actually."
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"And here I was starting to think you knew everything."

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"I would've known if it was Miles," he says. "Miles would... not. I mean - maybe - I don't know. But not now, not with me. He'd splutter a lot and it would be very awkward and he wouldn't even seriously consider the option, let alone invite me up to his room to talk about it. And that's leaving aside the part where he's married and would expect his wife to disapprove."

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"Yes, well," says Stalas, "I'm not Miles or married."

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"No," Mark agrees.

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"So—I admit I'm still unnerved by the part where you just know things—how much do you know?"

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"...Fair question," he says. "I'm... not sure. It's hard to put into words. But I could definitely tell that that was a thinking-about-it sort of 'oh', and not a rejecting-the-very-idea kind. And now I think... you're willing to let the rest of them know you're thinking about it, especially since Miles already guessed and as much as told you it's your business and he wouldn't dream of trying to stop you, but you're understandably shy about getting into details in front of them. And," he goes on, voicing new insights as they occur to him, "you were worried you might be sort of leading me on, but now you've figured out that I'm hardly going to pick up on all this but fail to notice you haven't decided yet."

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"Uh... yeah," says Stalas. "Right on all counts. That's - convenient, yet unnerving?"

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"Eh, I'll take it."

He smiles, then goes briefly quiet.

"...I suppose I should probably mention, I don't actually know if I can... touch... people. It's a problem I have. I freeze up. Except when it's violence, I can handle violence. But not anything else."
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...Stalas halts on the landing and looks back at him.

"Seriously? You'd be fine if I held a dagger to your throat, but not if I tried to clasp your hand?"
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Much to his own surprise, Mark discovers that he is blushing.

"Uh. That might depend on why you had a dagger to my throat. But yes, probably."
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"...Presumably threatening to kill you with it, probably after extensive provocation, why else...?"

He begins to get an inkling of why else.

"Really? That's something people do?"
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"I mean, it's not common. And there's obviously safety concerns. But yes. I - hm, no, I won't apologize, you're starting to get it, aren't you?"

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"Convenient yet unnerving. A little," he admits. "I'm not sure it's my thing exactly, but... I do like to fight."

And he is generating some interesting mental images, which he is trying not to dwell on in case Mark notices them somehow.
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Judging by Mark's slow grin, he has noticed them.

"Oh, I'm so tempted to say I'd fight you. But you're probably better at the not-trying-to-kill-each-other approach than I am."
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"Yes, let's... leave that one alone for now," says Stalas. "...Immediately disregarding my own advice: I'm not sure exactly where I'm getting the impression that you'd like to lose, but I'm definitely getting it. Is it a correct impression?"

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"Uh. Very," says Mark. "I mean, maybe not exclusively, but I'm pretty sure you were on the right track when you were looking at me just now and thinking whatever you were thinking that seemed to involve winning fights with me."

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"Wow," snorts Stalas. "So you can't actually pick my thoughts right out of my head, good to know. I'm happy to keep those to myself for a little while longer."

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"You could also," Mark suggests slyly, "tell me about them."

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Now Stalas is blushing.

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"Hush, you."

And there's his room. He opens the door, and in they go. Miraculously, it doesn't smell at all of darkspawn.



It's a bit lacking in places to sit that aren't the bed.
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...Mark grins.

"You know what," he says recklessly, "I might as well find out—" and he strides forward and takes Stalas's hand.

His face transforms instantly, all the laughter dropping away to leave awe and terror in its place.
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"Mark...? Are you all right? I don't know what - " He tentatively tries to draw his hand back.

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Mark is unwilling to let go.

"I don't know how you people do it," he says breathlessly. "You make it look so simple. Doesn't it hurt?"
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"Besides how you're crushing my hand, I mean? Not usually," he says. "...But sometimes. Look, I don't—just tell me how to make it better. Please. If you even know."

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