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It had been like this for a while. Everyone would be standing around the war table, brows furrowed and sweat beginning to form at their hairlines, the sun beating down on the tent and turning it into an oven. Hilda would be prattling off about a suggestion her brother proposed and Shez would stand next to her, nodding along as he turned over the proposal in his head. Claude’s eyes would flicker up at the same time as a certain pair of pale green and time would click to a halt for that brief moment.
“Yoo-hoo.” A snap of fingers pulls Claude back down to reality with a start. He just barely glimpses the way Byleth looks back down at her notes and he swears her cheeks are pink. He tilts his head up to see where Hilda is blocking the lantern, her hand poised to flick him in the forehead before she realizes he is, indeed, paying attention.
“Finally,” she huffs, folding her arms over her chest. “So sorry to interrupt your daydreaming, but we could use some input from our commander, wouldn’t you say?” Claude stands, apologetically grinning and bending slightly, arm over his chest.
“Apologies, Hilda; I just must be tired,” he lies smoothly. “However, I think Mister Jeralt’s idea is perfectly suitable. He and his kid are most familiar with the area, yes?”
From where he stands, leaning against a table behind his daughter, Jeralt nods, his expression betraying a sort of pride in the fact that, despite his obvious distraction, Claude did, in fact, pick up on the most important information.
“That’s it?” Hilda sounds incredulous, looking between the two of them. Her gaze settles on Jeralt, her mouth opening and closing around a protest she knows won’t result in anything. It isn’t hard to guess what she’s thinking; that Claude is a fool, a coward, maybe, or just plain stupid and insane for delegating such a consequential plan to someone else, someone new.
But in the end, Hilda says nothing, and with a sigh she claps her hands and calls an abrupt end to the meeting. Claude can feel her gaze burning holes in his back as he makes his way out of the tent, only free from her wrath when he makes a beeline straight for the stand of trees that serve as the back ‘wall’ of their camp.
“Feeling a bit distracted?” Byleth is already there, sat cross-legged on the grass. Her notebook sits open in her lap, but she isn’t paying any attention to it, instead leveling Claude with an almost mischievous smirk.
“Not at all, teach,” Claude says, lowering himself down beside her. Mere weeks ago, she would have hesitated, maybe even moved over, but now, in a gesture that warms his chest, she leans her head against his shoulder, and even from the corner of his eye he can see her relax.
“I told you not to call me that,” she hums, with no real anger or annoyance to her tone.
“Oh, but I insist,” Claude says around a chuckle, raising a hand to push a few fly-aways from her face, admiring the rare expression of serenity she dons. “You just have that air about you… I feel like you should have been a teacher at Garreg Mach all along.”
It isn’t the first - and it won’t be the last - time he’s said as much. But he won’t make the mistake of saying it in front of Jeralt ever again; a lesson learned when the man sternly corrected any lingering positivity the army had for the monastery the first time Claude ever complimented Byleth’s natural teaching talent.
Byleth shifts, moving to instead lay her head against Claude’s thigh. Her hair splays out around her head in his lap like a halo and she blinks up at him, her cheeks smattered with pink. “Very well, Duke, call me whatever you like.”