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Something about this act of desperate scrounging felt uncomfortably familiar as Inara shoved back the lid on yet another crate in the abandoned cart. Her pack was already weighted down with a handful of wizened potatoes, and several dusty bottles of what was presumably wine, but there were many mouths to feed at camp. More than she would have thought possible.
That was something that was definitely unfamiliar. People. While her mind was still mostly empty—a desolate field occasionally swept by a howling, bloody wind—she kept getting painful twinges of familiarity. The way the pungent smell of mugwort made some of the ever present tension in her shoulders unravel. How her hands seemed to know the precise movements to separate a limb from a body as she helped Gale prepare the game they'd scrounged. A practiced, thoughtless motion. Gale had noticed. Whoever she had been before, she must have been a skillful hunter, he'd said.
Or perhaps a butcher, she'd thought, barely resisting the urge to lick the still warm rabbit's blood from her thumb.
Being around the others was entirely, frighteningly new. The first time Wyll had made her laugh, the sound scrapped so painfully out of her throat—a rusted blade being wrenched from a scabbard— it sent her into a coughing fit. They'd both been startled by it, pausing and staring at each other with wide bewildered eyes, but then he'd smiled at her. The sudden rush of warmth in her chest and head had made her feel dizzy and faintly sick.
Now, the grim disappointment of an empty crate settled over her shoulders like a well loved cloak. Perhaps it didn't matter if they couldn't find enough supplies. Perhaps they'd all be mindless ilithids by this time tomorrow anyway. Though it had been well over a tenday since the nautaloid crashed on the ravaged beach, and the woman in her dreams said she was protecting her. The dream woman, with her warm brown eyes and easy smile, seemed familiar too. If Inara thought too long about why her head would begin to pound and the whispers would stir up again. She slammed the lid back down on the crate and wrenched off the lid of another. This was empty too, except for a single orange that rolled towards her as she dragged the crate closer.
It was surprisingly cool in her hands as she pulled it out, its color vibrant in the golden shafts of late afternoon sun as she held it up, looking for signs of mold.
"That's quite a find,"
She nearly dropped it, whirling around to see Wyll behind her, smiling and just as vibrant, framed in the same golden light. He was almost painful to look at.
"This," said Inara doubtfully, glad for an excuse to look away from him, back to the fruit in her hands, "there's just the one."
"Just one can get you pretty far," he said, and Inara raised a dubious eyebrow, sneaking a doubtful glance at him from the corner of her eye.
"I suppose I'll have to take your word for it. I…" she rolled it between her palms, "I don't know if I've ever had one."
Somehow, his smile brightened even further, "Well then this will be a real treat, may I?"
He held out his hand. Inara hesitated, taking a moment to silence the sudden surge of whispers urging her to bite and snap at his proffered hand before carefully and deliberately pressing the orange into his palm.
"Can I borrow your knife?"
She hesitated again. The dagger she wore was nothing special, simple steel with leather wrapped handle, but she'd spent hours sharpening it when she couldn't sleep. The edge was so fine now she barely felt it when she sliced open her own palm to test it. Yet she mostly relied on what little magic she could still call up. An inheritance from draconic ancestors, according to Gale. Perhaps along with that stunted font of magic, she'd also inherited the ever simmering need for desolation and destruction. A call to burn the world to ashes. Somehow, that rang false to her, despite the crest of golden scales across her forehead and armoring her shoulders. Not when the dagger fit so well in her palm, or the way her own blood seemed to sing when it flashed in her hand.
She unbuckled it, and held it out, still in its bulky leather sheath "Careful," she said, dropping it quickly into his awaiting hand before yanking her own back as though burned, "it's sharp."
Wyll's smile slide in to something closer to a smirk, "I'd expect nothing less," he said, voice low, and Inara clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms, "but I'll only need it for a moment."
The second he he carefully nicked the skin her eyes widened as a sharp, bright scent suddenly filled the air. It nearly stung her nostrils as she leaned forward in spite of herself and wyll laughed softly, handing back her knife as he began to work his thumb into the opening he'd created. The peel slowly spiraled away from Wyll's careful, clever hands and the smell only grew stronger as the pale fruit slowly emerged. Her knife, sticky and forgotten, hung limply at her side as she watched Wyll gently pry the orange into two neat halves. His movements were as easy and practiced as hers had been with the rabbit, but…different. A sort of gentle dismemberment, she thought, watching as each segment came apart cleanly in his hands, at only his barest suggestion. Inara had a feeling that if she attempted it, the orange would be a useless mass of matted pulp in her fist, nectar running between her fingers and down her arm.
The piece he offered her was jewel bright, its translucent skin glowing like stained glass as she held it up to the sun.
"It's beautiful," she said. Her voice was so soft, so full of genuine surprise that hearing it made her cheeks heat and she glanced back at Wyll, but he was only smiling. Smiling and watching her. Her stomach twisted sharply, violently, a low and angry hiss thrumming at the back of her skull but it was easy to ignore this time.
Wyll held up his own segment next to hers, a small crescent sun glowing at his fingertips,
"It is," he agreed, twisting it this way and that, "I don't think I've ever really noticed before."
She almost didn't want to eat it. She wanted to keep looking at it, string it on a chain around her neck to look at whenever she wanted, but she already felt foolish, so she popped it into her mouth, chewing hastily and looking anywhere but at the man beside her.
Sweet, but almost just a suggestion of sweetness, a linger taste that was so light that she wished she'd chewed slower but Wyll was already holding up another piece for her.
"What do you think?" He asked, sliding his own piece into his mouth. Inara watched him do it.
"I," she blinked, shaking her head a little as she cautiously took the fruit from him, "I like it. It's good. It's like," she was sure she was blushing and that was both mortifying and infuriating, so she had to turn away, "it's good."
"I'm rather partial to them as well," he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice as she adjusted her belt, which already lay flat at her waist, "we'll have to keep an eye out for them."
She only hummed noncommittally and Wyll laughed again. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt his warm hand on her wrist. Her other jumped to her knife but she refused to unclench her fist, her knuckles bashing into the cold metal and grinding it into her own hip. If Wyll noticed, he didn't say anything as he placed the remaining half into her free hand.
"You can have the rest," he said, drawing his hand back.
"But," she looked from the fruit, up to him, then back again, eyebrows drawing low, "you just said,"
"I think watching you enjoy it is better than enjoying it myself," he said, smiling softly.
Inara's fingers twitched, but she kept still, watching as Wyll turned away, walking over to the where the others were loitering about, watching Astarion grapple with a rusted lock on a dusty traveler's chest.
She felt unsteady, unmoored. Unfamiliar. She drew in a deep breath, full of the sharp smell of the orange in her hand. It's skin was slightly warmer now, from where it had been resting against Wyll's. A stab of pain flared at the base of her skull and her hand twitched again, squeezing the orange tight enough that juice dripped between her fingers.