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“Good!” Qifrey looks up from where he's peeling the fruits at the sound of your excited clap accompanied by Coco and Tetia's accomplished gasps. “Now, try again without my help.”
The girls are huddled around you, all three of you kneeling on the grass as they practice a slightly thicker spell. It's one of your own—they'd seen you use it a few times and seized their chance to pick at your brain after you'd arrived to see their master today. It's a personal spell, one that you'd learnt from your parents before becoming an apprentice all those years ago. Qifrey knows this, and a warm feeling tugs in his chest as he watches you gently and happily guide two of his girls through learning it.
He can't seem to remove his attention from you, caught in a daze as he stares.
There's a smile on your lips as you chat and point at the papers, getting them to retry with tiny pushes to help them learn. He supposes you'd gotten some of that from how he conducts his own lessons but he dismisses his own thoughts quickly. Maybe you'd picked some habits up from him, but it's more likely that it's just how you are.
You've got a gentle disposition for helpful guidance, that much is obvious with how his entire household feels comfortable with coming to you with questions or just to sit in your quiet company. He goes to you more than anyone else, albeit a little cautiously.
His mind drifts. He knows the girls trust him implicitly, they come to him in moments of terror or difficulty and he's overheard them say that they know he'll make it okay again—make it better. He's forever grateful to be such a safe space for them, and he wouldn't trade it for the world, even if it could make him better. However, he can't stop the way his lips press tighter when his stomach slowly tilts to make way for the sick feeling that pools in his gut. He wishes that they could come to him in more moments of calm. Being able to sit down comfortably with them isn't something he can do much, it's far too good for him.
He's seen you huddled up with them in the evenings when they've stolen your time away from him, and he knows as long as he has this curse inside him, he'll never be able to experience that tender love between himself and his apprentices. It makes him bitter. Not towards you, no, never towards you. It goes inwards.
He's nothing like you. He keeps himself at a distance and can't connect with people through fear of his own death. You wear your heart on your sleeve, giving love freely, taking their hands and bringing them into an embrace that doesn't need to be rushed out of.
A sharp pain in his finger shocks him out of his rapidly decaying thought process and a hiss leaves his lips.
Blood beads along his skin, running down his finger from where the knife had slipped and sliced into the flesh. How careless, now that piece of fruit is ruined.
“This is unlike you.” His eye flicks up to see you approaching. Was his reaction that loud?
“Ah, well, I was a little distracted,” he replies softly, setting the knife down.
Your form lowers next to him, and he watches with an almost despondent air about him as you pull out a cloth from the basket and bring his injured hand into your lap. He allows you this, almost atoning in his mind for the negativity that was previously building inside his head. Your touch is warm, gentle, grounding and he flinches when you press the cloth against the slice, mumbling an apology to him with a guilty look on your expression.
“Distracted by what?” You ask, looking over the bowls of fruit made for the girls.
“You,” he breathes.
“Me?” Incredulously, you chuckle, looking up at his face to see a smitten expression settled on his face.
Qifrey hums, leaning forward slightly. “You're very alluring, my love, you can't blame me for getting lost in you.”
His charms never fail to work on you, flustering you away from any line of questioning that would make him have to confront the darker side of himself that reaches its ugly hands out when he's left alone.
“You're impossible,” you tut, fighting the shyness creeping up the back of your neck. “Silly man, trying to distract me from your clumsiness.”
A deep and airy laugh leaves his lips and they crack open into a smile, “perhaps… or I could be telling the truth.” Tilting your chin with his free hand, he presses a brief kiss to your lips. The contact is sweet and warm, his lips fitting against yours like a second home.
“Flirting with me isn't going to clean your finger.” Parting, you huff, “go inside and wash it.”
“Yes, dear.”
“And bring me the first aid box, I'll take care of it for you.”
“Of course, beloved.”