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Mauve wonders when she first began to stare.
She catches herself one afternoon at the Rising Stones, her gaze flickering reflexively towards the movement in the corner of her eye and then doing a double-take when she recognizes Thancred. There’s no reason for her attention to linger; it’s been weeks since he made a full (physical) recovery from that mess at the Praetorium, some fewer since Mauve felt reason to worry about him, and while she’s certainly looked at him for less wholesome reasons before--observing the width of his shoulders, the sharp angle of his jawline, the deft movements of his hands--there’s none of that particular fire burning in her at present. She simply looks, and finds herself staring, following him as he approaches F'lhaminn with his usual over-the-top greeting and barrage of compliments over at the bar. It’s all comfortingly familiar, tugging a weary smile out of her.
It’s the first time Mauve notices that she’s staring, and it won’t be the last.
* * *
Thancred feels guilty.
It’s nothing new, by far. He has plenty of regrets, but none of them have ever involved his touch-and-go style when it comes to the fairer sex; well, none except those few--few! he would emphasize if asked--occasions when he was discovered to be more free-spirited than he tends to admit to his ladies fair.
But Mauve has never given him trouble in that regard. She knows what the two of them are and what they aren’t; her teasing and occasional quips make it clear that she doesn’t think highly of his lifestyle, but she has no delusions about it, either. It’s actually a relief, having someone he can be less fake around, who needs no empty promises and expects nothing beyond what he gives her at face value. They always part on good terms and only come together again when it’s convenient. An ideal working relationship, one might say.
So why does it bother him to look at her one morning, sleeping soundly as he quickly and silently gets dressed to take his leave as usual--why does he feel that familiar, uncomfortable pressure in his chest as though he’s done something wrong? And why is he actually tempted, for the briefest of moments, to remain and figure out what that is?
In the end, Thancred ignores the tug, just as he’ll ignore it a dozen times more.
* * *
Mauve feels lost when she looks at him.
Where he was once a familiar and inviting sight, her friend and confidant in their shared (if badly kept) secret of allies by day and intermittent lovers by night, Thancred is now different and distant, lukewarm and detached. She doesn’t blame him, as grief-stricken as he is over losing Minfilia, although a part of her knows she needn’t be so lenient; she knows what the two of them are, what they aren’t, and in neither case is she obligated to take him back, to indulge him when he turns to her for what’s so clearly a selfish desire to distract himself from it all.
But she does. She looks at him, and she doesn’t know what to say to help him, and she’s always been better with actions over words, anyway. She looks at him, and after a life of fearing to be too close to anyone, a cowardly part of her is simply glad to have him at all.
Fortunately, Thancred is less lenient with himself than she is. His apology is sincere, she knows, and after that he doesn’t feel quite so distant anymore.
* * *
Thancred notices other people looking at her, too.
It’s nothing new. As the Warrior of Light, and as an attractive and exotic woman on this side of the star, Mauve tends to draw looks from all types. He’s seen her react favorably to some of them, and less favorably to others. Short of an emergency, she’s never turned her back on him to be with someone else, or given him any reason to feel as though she thinks less of him than before. He knows what the two of them are and what they aren’t, and they certainly aren’t anything that warrants such a bitter taste in his mouth when he sees the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights react to her presence like a loyal and overeager hound, nor the unease that sits tight in his chest for the briefest of moments when he’s late to one of their rendezvouses and finds a passably handsome stranger chatting her up and eyeing her with clear intentions, before she notices Thancred and smiles and it assures him that she is his again, for now, for tonight.
There’s no reason for him to feel entitled to her time and attention—not when they’re both free and capable of seeking such things elsewhere. There’s no reason at all to feel these things, but he does.
* * *
Mauve’s smile is reflexive when she looks at him now. It has been for a while, and she finds she doesn’t mind. People smile around others who make them happy, and Thancred does so for her more often than not. It isn’t unusual.
She doesn’t realize that she also smiles at the mention of him, not until an evening over dinner with Lyse and Tataru in Kugane, as the Ala Mhigan woman waves off any would-be concerns about their allies back in Eorzea. “I suppose I’m a little worried that Y’shtola might push herself while she’s still on the mend, but she’s not half as reckless as the worst of us.” She doesn’t specify whom the worst is, but Mauve would wager there’s more than one contender for that title. “But you know Thancred is getting by just fine,” Lyse goes on, lacking so much as an ounce of doubt in her tone. “He’s probably glad to have fewer people checking in on him… What’s so funny?”
Mauve looks up from her half-full choko to find both ladies watching her curiously. “What?”
“You’re over there smiling to yourself as if you know something we don’t.”
Oh. So she is.
“I know a secret when I smell one,” Tataru prods with a playfully conspiratorial smile. “Did he land himself in some hot water again recently?”
“Probably,” Mauve snorts softly into her dish as she takes another sip. “But none that I’ve been privy to witnessing.”
Lyse likewise shoots her an amused look. “Well, that’s not surprising. He tends to be on better behavior when you’re around. Not much, mind, but even I’ve noticed.”
Mauve’s hum is noncommittal as she corrects, “He acts like he is, but I’m sure he’s the same.” Still doing as he pleases with whomever he pleases; he just tones it down around her, well aware that she’ll give him a little bit of hell over it in the right mood.
She feels her smile fade. Once, she would have rolled her eyes and joined in on poking fun at Thancred’s routine comeuppance for his selfish ways, but now she finds that she doesn’t want to linger on that topic, or even think about it at all.
* * *
Every time Thancred looks at her, she feels further out of reach.
Mauve is busier lately than she’s ever been, grown impossibly stronger, and he marvels at how different yet similar she still is to the lovely and lonely stranger he boldly approached so long ago. She still makes time for him when she can, and yet he can’t shake the feeling that there’s a space between them now that wasn’t there before. Neither can he shake the suspicion that it’s largely of his own making; he’s noticed how much longer their conversations tend to be, how much more she confides in him these days, how content she seems to spend time with him that doesn’t involve working up a sweat in a borrowed room together. It’s as if she enjoys his company for him, not what he can do for her. He isn’t certain how he feels about that, and Thancred tends to keep matters of uncertainty at arm’s length.
It’s probably just a reflection of the lives they lead lately, he reasons: he’s on the move often, with much of that time spent behind imperial lines, and Mauve is clearly relieved to see him every time he returns hale and whole. Likewise, he’s been grateful for any time of hers that he can steal for himself, and if that’s “only” a drink between friends here and there, who is he to complain?
He almost believes that excuse.
Every time he looks at her, he has no such easy excuses as to why it’s becoming harder and harder to look away.
* * *
Every time Mauve looks at him, he avoids her gaze.
She expected--hoped--to receive a warm welcome, even if it was no more than a smile and a stupid line…but her reception borders on cold where Thancred is concerned, hardly more than a nod of acknowledgement and a nonchalant remark about finally showing up. She wasn’t expecting him to fall to his knees--she wasn’t expecting much at all, not after five whole years on his end, but somehow he gives her even less than that. Hells, even the enigmatic Exarch was more enthusiastic.
She’s more hurt than angry. His account of taking the Oracle into his care and speaking briefly with Minfilia--his Minfilia--provides some context for his bitter attitude, but Mauve isn’t as lenient as before. She sympathizes, but not at the expense of herself. If he wants to stew in the depths of his issues, he can do so on his own time. She’ll be there to watch him, to fight beside him, and to listen if he ever actually chooses to talk, but no more than that. It’s clear that his head and heart both are still in the past--and the more time she spends with him, the more he starts to meet and hold her gaze after a while, the more convinced she becomes that she won’t settle for less than all of him. Not anymore.
* * *
Every glance Thancred steals at her tells him she’s hurting.
If there was a space between them before, it’s a gulf now, and he has no delusions about whose fault it is.
(Technically, really, it’s the Exarch’s fault.
…Except there’s nothing to say Thancred would have done anything differently, had he never been pulled to the First.)
He immediately regrets not doing better. He should have greeted her with even a fraction of the relief and warmth he felt at the time. Gods, he should have just admitted he missed her, and perhaps some more things besides. And yet, even as he regrets his inaction, he takes every excuse he can to avoid rectifying it. There’s always another battle, another errand, another emergency…and there are always those minutes in-between, chances he could take to pull her aside and talk, but he doesn’t.
It takes a brush with death to make him reconsider, although it’s arguably Minfilia--both of them--who set him straight, reminding him of the future he still has, to do with as he will, as they both have.
The next time he catches Mauve’s eye, he holds it and smiles--a pathetic sight, most likely, amidst the humility of his blood and bruises telling the story of his narrow victory--and he knows her well enough by now to recognize that shift in her expression, the subtle glimpse of surprise and realization in her bright eyes, and then the honesty and warmth in her own smile.
It’s hard to look away from her, and this time he doesn’t lie to himself as to why that is.
* * *
Every time Mauve looks his way, Thancred’s there with a smile, a nod, a word, whatever she needs right then. And in the chaos of the looming Final Days, she does need it more often than not. He’s there in Garlemald, and after. He’s there when she’s confronted once more with the grim reality that she can’t save everyone. He’s there when the world is burning down around them. He’s there when she can only sit in exhausted, stunned silence in the wake of Hydaelyn’s farewell. He’s there when the fate of existence hangs in the balance.
And then he isn’t there anymore, and she’s never been so close to breaking.
* * *
When Thancred looks at her, he can tell he’s hurt her.
Mauve smiles and kisses him and squeezes his hand, the most she can do when she’s still recovering from such terrible injuries, and he’s never seen her look more at ease and content. He also notices the depth of her gaze, the thoughtful distance in her stare as the corners of her mouth pinch, the way her hold on him tightens when she falls silent. He knows he hurt her terribly there at the edge of the universe, and he loathes himself for it even though he knows he would do it again in a heartbeat. She doesn’t hold it against him, and he’s not sure if that makes him feel better or worse.
She sleeps most of the time in those first few weeks of healing. She isn’t permitted visitors at night, her chirurgeons say, but neither she nor Thancred cares for that rule and he finds his way in. He’s strict about making certain she rests and she does, nestled warm and snug against his side, although he occasionally feels her jolt awake from some unpleasant dream.
He awakes from a doze early one morning to find her sitting up beside him, her breathing a little too quick and heavy. His gentle touch to her back makes her stiffen. “Don’t look at me,” she mutters with a thick chuckle, wiping at her eyes.
Thancred honors that request when he sits up, setting his forehead on her shoulder. “That’s asking a lot of me,” he jests. Mauve snorts softly and leans into him, and he just rubs her arm in silence for a few long moments.
“I’m alright,” she says finally, quietly. The squeeze of her hand says both little and a lot even before she shoots him a tired smile, where he takes the opportunity to note as much as he can see in the fading shadows. She looks much as she always has, although there’s a vulnerability in her expression that, once, was never there, that she’s allowed him to see more and more often lately. Or perhaps it’s better to say she hasn’t been able to hide it as well.
Thancred knows her. He’s looked at her too much, observed all her mannerisms and habits too often to think she’s as stoic as she behaves. She’s held it together, but this last journey tested her sorely. It didn’t break her, but it made her bend, painfully and dangerously. Looking at her now, he’s struck by the humbling thought of how many chances they’ve had to pull apart from each other permanently, whether intentionally or no, and how narrow the odds seem in hindsight that they would sit here tonight in calm, quiet darkness, battered and broken in more ways than they care to admit, or perhaps even know themselves…but alive. Together. No longer looking away.
“You look serious,” Mauve notes, and Thancred realizes he’s staring at the far wall in thought. He shakes the daze away and smiles at her.
“Not that uncommon, is it?”
“Just a little worrying, sometimes.”
She’s still recovering from a morbidly close brush with death and she’s worrying about him. The literal opposite of what he intended. Leaning up, he presses a mild kiss to her temple. “Apologies. I was merely waxing sentimental to myself.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. Thinking about how desperately in love I am with you and such things. I wasn’t certain it was the best time to regale you so.”
Her soft exhale is her only hint of embarrassment this time. Her eyes stay on his and he likes to think that they look clearer, a little less haunted now. “I happen to like when you’re sentimental.” They flicker to the side for a heartbeat, and then back again. “And it’s never a bad time to hear you say it.”
There’s an affectionate urge to tease her, but he brushes it aside and slips an arm around her, hugging her comfortably closer. “I’ll remember that,” he half-jests, half-promises.
Mauve hums and leans into him heavily, completely, trustingly. He hears the smile in her voice. “I know.”