d13, m4, t4, 7th.
H'kon's Weyr
One would almost think there's been a woman touching this weyr. The Spartan feeling has been toned down throughout with splashes of colour: a tapestry depicting a brown dragon courageously flaming thread hangs opposite the low-sitting bed wide enough for two. On this bed, a heavy blanket dyed a rusty red accents the more exciting parts of the tapestry. A thick orange and brown rug is set in front of the bed, offering a warmer surface for bare feet on High Reaches' cold mornings. At the foot of the bed is a clothes chest upon which, more often than not, half-finished projects of knitting or woodwork will rest. Two braziers grace the weyr, a larger one near the dragon couch, and a smaller at the far wall of the weyr. To one side of the smaller brazier is a basin for washing; to the other side, a wooden rack is set up for the drying and storage of clothes and dragonriding equipment. In the middle of the weyr, a table small enough not to crowd the area sits, complete with two low-backed chairs. Beneath the table is a sturdy box holding the supplies of an amateur craftsman.
The past few weeks have been flavoured largely by Arekoth's aggravation of his injured leg. The brown, of course, has put on that brave and charming face he manages to express so well, even without putting words to it, but by now even he is beginning to show signs of frustration. H'kon's own attempts at patience have taken a downward turn alongside his dragon's, and the man has proven quite preoccupied. The current political feeling in the Weyr surely hasn't helped the situation, and the brownrider has stayed quieter, even around Vanya, more withdrawn, and far less talkative, apart from the occasional and brief scattering of lighter moods.
Tonight, so far, hasn't seemed much different; H'kon, having recently taken it upon himself to spread a numbing salve over his dragon's leg, leans against a wall near Arekoth's couch. The brazier has been lit, and the dragon has slipped into a careful doze with the initial relief, whatever conversation he'd been having with his rider apparently ended, or at least on hiatus. The man's jaw is jutted forward, his brow holding what is now an even-more-familiar furrow, his eyes unfocused, though his head is tilted in the general direction of his lifemate's limb. There's stillness from this side of the weyr, brooding - until, as if in a shiver, H'kon shifts away from the wall, turns his head to look into the weyr proper, and gives a rather strong call of, "Vanya." More a summon than a request.
Vanya, for her part, is equally concerned for Arekoth's injury, and has spent her time reading what she can find which might be even remotely helpful to the dragon. She has written letters to the dragonhealers, asking what can be done to alleviate the pain, if not heal the injured leg, and is now busy mixing herbs and oils in a large, stone pestle, making what she hopes will be a soothing ointment which one healer said might help. It's not quite a noxious salve, but it's by no means pleasant smelling as some she has. What she's doing now is trying to see if she can somehow add some wintergreen to the concoction in order to make it a little more acceptable for man and beast. She works steadily, adding a pinch of this, a drop of that, using the mortar to crush leaves and stems into a pulpy mass. Wintergreen oil will be added to the mix, then she will make a poultice. There are wide swaths of clean, white cloth folded neatly beside her; those will be wrapped around the leg when the mixture is ready. She doesn't, at first, glance up when her name is called. Her mind is occupied with her work. After a moment, though, H'kon's voice penetrates, and she stops long enough to turn around. "Yes? -- ah, he's sleeping, is he? Well, this won't be ready for a while yet, so I won't disturb him."
H'kon's mouth dips toward a frown when there's not an immediate answer. This expression has settled itself by the time it seems apparent that the healer has no intention of coming to him. "No-" is started, and as quickly finished with a shake of his head. When one's patience is spent on one issue, other, smaller ones seem heavier. The man sways, as if to take a step toward her, but is quick to shift his weight back, an unwillingness to leave his dragon's side better expressed in the physical here than otherwise. Of course. Pale eyes settle again on that brown, then close a moment; a mental check. The dragon stirs, tail twitching, wings settling, but doesn't seem to wake. H'kon, in time, does manage one step away from Arekoth. His chin is nodded toward that concoction as he queries, "Can it wait?"
"As soon as I mix in the oil and setting agent, it'll have to sit for a while," Vanya explains, beginning the rather tedious task of drizzling oil into the pulpy-mass in just the right amount while continuing to stir. "Only be a couple of minutes more, I promise," she assures him. She is not immune to the worry, but Arekoth is not her lifemate. Her tone of voice and demeanor is patience personified, refusing to be riled by the irritation -- however slight -- in H'kon's timbre. True to her word, it is only a few more minutes before she is covering the mixture with a cloth, picking it up and taking it to the ledge where the air is slightly cooler. It is not quite the same with this salve as it is making numbweed, though that is one of the ingredients. (Likely the one that makes it smell bad.) Once that's done, she wipes her hands on a towel, then makes her way toward where the rider stands. "I'm sorry. I really just wanted to get that done." The apology is followed by a gentle of one hand to H'kon's shoulder, and a gentle squeeze. "Are you doing all right? Would you like some klah?" She has taken to bringing a pitcher of klah back with her of an evening, mainly because she knows H'kon isn't as fond of tea as herself. There is a kettle on the smaller brazier, the scent of warming klah much nicer than the salve.
H'kon rests his weight back on his heels, then, and waits for the healer to finish. Sign of further impatience, perhaps, or simply again a physical demonstration of his concern, that one step he'd managed is taken back, and he shifts to lean his shoulders and upper back against the stone wall, ignoring the cold that cannot help but be there in the spring. When Vanya does come to him, the hand certainly isn't avoided. It does receive a quick look from the corner of his eye - and then he's looking to her directly, shaking his head. "No klah," is said, a bit softer than his last words had come, but still bearing something of an edge. Eyes flick toward the dragon, but don't quite make it to him before H'kon has focused his attention back on the woman. And finally, as if the result of some momentous decision, he reaches a hand across his chest to take hers at his shoulder, dropping it from that shoulder, yes, but continuing to hold it as well. Hesitation, then, uncertainty expressed more by the alternating squeezing fingers against her hand than anything else, and finally he settles on, "I apologise. If I've not been... properly affectionate. Recently."
Vanya doesn't move away, though her eyes do glance down at Arekoth a moment. Curse of being a healer; the patient always comes before personal matters. The words do catch her a little off guard; it's not like she expected H'kon to put her before the dragon. No, she understands full well who will be his first concern, and that's all right with her. "H'kon ..." Her own voice is several notches softer than before. There's hesitation in her, as well. "No need to apologize," she says, tone gentle, understanding. "He comes first, and that's how it should be. I know you've been worried, and I'm not upset. I'm just glad I can help a little, maybe offer a little ... distraction, now and then." She smiles, turning her hand so that it is pressing against his, palm to palm. "It was sweet of you, though." And then she's leaning forward to bridge the gap and press her lips to his cheek.
The one thing a healer must learn is patience; it is a hard lesson for some, and Vanya was one of those when she was younger. Wounds and injuries do not always heal quickly, and thus patience becomes a watch-word. Still, there were moments when Vanya bit her tongue bloody and held back her own irritation in the recent pass. She is no paragon of virtue in that respect. "There were times, yes, but I do understand why you've been upset, H'kon," she admits, allowing her smile to waver slightly. "You're taciturn at the best of times, but when you're worried, it gets ... a little worse." A little? Why so modest? A worried, concerned H'kon is not a pleasant thing to live with or even be around for long periods of time. Still, when that worry involves a lifemate ...? It can be accepted, if not appreciated. And, he did show the same concern for her more than once. "I hope I'm at least a pleasant distraction?" It's said almost coyly, perhaps even teasing. "I think since Arekoth's resting, we should at least relax a little? I can rub your shoulders, if you'd like?"
"Not upset with you," H'kon feels it necessary to clarify. His fingers continue to twitch at Vanya's. The man's mood hasn't lifted to such an extent as to have him receptive to any gentle teasing, and there's a stern shake of his head. "You are not a distraction," comes almost as repetition of the original sentiment, though it's said with seriousness enough to stand on its own. The offer of a shoulder rub receives a dull nod, and, with a parting flick of digits, he releases her hand, heading for a chair, already setting at the removal of his tunic. H'kon knows the drill by now.
"No, lie down on the bed, on your stomach," Vanya suggests, moving toward there with a brief pause to pick up one of her baskets from the floor; the one with her salves and lotions. "It's easier for me to reach your lower back that way," she explains, turning to look at him. "Your muscles are so tense I can feel them from here," she tells him, her voice a little more serious now. "You're going to end up with a migraine if you're not careful, and that will do Arekoth no good. He'll be worried about you, and that won't help him heal. A positive mindset can be as important as other treatment." Once a healer, always a healer. She smiles, though, to soften what might be close to a lecture, and smooths the bed cover where she wants him to lie. "I can also get better leverage from this angle." There's a brief pause, then, "Take off your shirt and pants -- if you're not afraid I'll take advantage of you." Yes, there's still something she can laugh about.
H'kon has already accomplished the removal of the shirt, and, with only the slightest twitch of pleasure displayed on his face at having been corrected, then reprimanded (or so it seems), he lumbers over to the bed. A hand goes to brush at the cover in silent mimicry of Vanya's. For the way he looks at her when she suggests further clothing removal, however, one might think they hadn't been sharing a bed for well over a turn. He courageously fights back a scowl, blinks back toward Arekoth, and then, indeed, does as he's told, stripping down before settling himself on the bed, stomach-side down. No words throughout all this, and it's a trend that will continue, surely, through the initial stages of the massage - with, perhaps, the exception of grunted answers, if Vanya has any questions for him regarding the treatment.
As for that displeasure, Vanya pays it no mind. Indeed, there have been times of late that's the only thing she has seen displayed on his face, so how is this news? She takes a deep breath, forcing a calm patience over herself. When H'kon does turn his back, she closes her eyes, expression unguarded for a moment. It is as if she is a parent dealing with a recalcitrant child now. But, by the time he looks back at her, and climbs naked on the bed, she is under control once more. "That's better," she says, removing two bottles from her basket, and pouring a few drops of both into the palm of one hand. Then she rubs her hands together; the scent of mint and lavender fills the air as she begins to work. Her fingers are strong, sure on those tight muscles, refusing to give them even the barest chance to resist her will. It is like working on barely pliable rock, but she has not met the back yet to withstand her full assault. H'kon /will/ relax, if she has anything to say about it. He body has no choice; it will be relaxed in spite of itself.
Lavender or not, it can never be said that massage is an entirely gentle and soothing experience when one confronts muscles such as H'kon's, that have undergone the tension and worry he's been putting them through. The brwnrider's breath will occasionally be taken in a fashion a bit sharper than the norm when one of Vanya's fingers encounters one of those magical spots of knots. There is no complaint, though, and as she continues, the atmosphere of his silence surely changes. With his lifemate having settled, for the time, into a bit of a deeper slumber, and his lover tending to him, H'kon does indeed shift into a different attitude. And if, for some reason, perhaps distraction or a lack of obvious clues, Vanya doesn't notice this at first, well, when H'kon turns his head to the side - eyes closed, mouth certain not to be obscured - to give the well-considered, if perhaps non sequitur, declaration of, "I love you," then that should prove evidence enough. Of course, muscles tense thereafter, as if readying him to flee, as he awaits (or maybe dreads) a response.
There is but a momentary change in the steady rhythm of the massage after those three words are uttered. Not hesitation, exactly, but a certain difference in the kneading of fingers and hands on those abused muscles. She does not speak for a long moment, perhaps taken aback by the declaration, perhaps afraid it was her own imagination. She knows there must be a response, but what? Should Vanya tell him she knows already, rather has suspected it since the night he visited with his father? Or should she simply repeat his own words back to him. It is truth, after all. She does love him, though it was long coming and hard fought. It took seeing E'sere once more for her to realize it, and it took being very sick to understand he returned her feelings. But to hear it? To have him actually /tell/ her?! She must respond correctly. Finally, there is no other choice. "I love you, too, H'kon." Simple words, but there is no doubt of her sincerity, and no doubt she has felt the change in his body, no matter how subtle. "It ... scares me, but not so much I'd want it any other way."
No doubt that having it said back is comforting to him, but the slight relaxation of muscles brought on by it lasts only until H'kon can twist so as to almost be on his side, supporting his weight on one elbow, while the opposite arm is sent out to reach onc emore for Vanya's hand. H'kon is still very much reeling, possibly more from his own declaration than her reply to it. He manages to look at the woman for a split second, but then has his eyes closed again, face turned down just a little. A nod is managed. Jaw tenses and relaxes as he swallows. And all the while, his fingers have set to kneading at her hand. Finally, he murmurs her name, an indulgence for himself or for the woman, speaking it just for the sake of hearing it.
There isn't a woman alive who won't melt when her name is said in that special tone reserved for just her. Vanya is no exception. When H'kon turns to his side and reaches for her hand, she stands stock still, bent slightly over in the same position she was in to massage his back. Her eyes search his face, but she remains as silent as he is, finding words choke in her throat, die on her lips before they're spoken. She swallows, her hand scented with the lotion, skin soft and pliant from it. It cannot be a comfortable position to hold for long, but she does ... until she finally sinks to the edge of the bed, letting her head move forward until it rests on his shoulder. Her hand tightens on his own, and there's a soft sigh of contentment that slips from her.
H'kon still can only manage the occasional glance to the woman's face when he's left feeling as open as this. But, at the same time, the feel of the moment is enough to warrant those looks, and when he does turn his face directly to hers, it will be found perhaps surprisingly expressive. That brow, that mouth, apparently, can show things other than the more surly emotions. When she leans her head to his shoulder, H'kon blinks hard, then lets his eyes drift closed, even as he slowly eases them both to be lying fully on the bed. Once that other arm is no longer charged with supporting his weight, those fingertips are free to trace over her chin, mouth, cheeks, a way of seeing her without having to bare himself further. Slow, easy steps.
Vanya's eyes are also closed, and there is complete relaxation of her body against his. She is content to lie, thus, sharing no more than simple touches with the man she's come to love. That she shares him with a dragon, and will share him with other riders ... well, that's a given, and she can accept it as part of being with a dragonrider. She will worry over him, and over his brown, when they rise to fight Thread. That is also a given, and not likely to change as time passes. But these moments ... yes, those will ease that need to worry, and when he is in her arms, she will love him. When he's sick, she will care for him. She'll hear his troubles, and offer what she can as solace. It will not be an easy relationship, because he doesn't talk, and she needs to hear things from him. But it will be all the stronger for the efforts both will make toward a common goal. And if he occasionally tells her he loves her, well, that will be enough.
One would almost think there's been a woman touching this weyr. The Spartan feeling has been toned down throughout with splashes of colour: a tapestry depicting a brown dragon courageously flaming thread hangs opposite the low-sitting bed wide enough for two. On this bed, a heavy blanket dyed a rusty red accents the more exciting parts of the tapestry. A thick orange and brown rug is set in front of the bed, offering a warmer surface for bare feet on High Reaches' cold mornings. At the foot of the bed is a clothes chest upon which, more often than not, half-finished projects of knitting or woodwork will rest. Two braziers grace the weyr, a larger one near the dragon couch, and a smaller at the far wall of the weyr. To one side of the smaller brazier is a basin for washing; to the other side, a wooden rack is set up for the drying and storage of clothes and dragonriding equipment. In the middle of the weyr, a table small enough not to crowd the area sits, complete with two low-backed chairs. Beneath the table is a sturdy box holding the supplies of an amateur craftsman.
The past few weeks have been flavoured largely by Arekoth's aggravation of his injured leg. The brown, of course, has put on that brave and charming face he manages to express so well, even without putting words to it, but by now even he is beginning to show signs of frustration. H'kon's own attempts at patience have taken a downward turn alongside his dragon's, and the man has proven quite preoccupied. The current political feeling in the Weyr surely hasn't helped the situation, and the brownrider has stayed quieter, even around Vanya, more withdrawn, and far less talkative, apart from the occasional and brief scattering of lighter moods.
Tonight, so far, hasn't seemed much different; H'kon, having recently taken it upon himself to spread a numbing salve over his dragon's leg, leans against a wall near Arekoth's couch. The brazier has been lit, and the dragon has slipped into a careful doze with the initial relief, whatever conversation he'd been having with his rider apparently ended, or at least on hiatus. The man's jaw is jutted forward, his brow holding what is now an even-more-familiar furrow, his eyes unfocused, though his head is tilted in the general direction of his lifemate's limb. There's stillness from this side of the weyr, brooding - until, as if in a shiver, H'kon shifts away from the wall, turns his head to look into the weyr proper, and gives a rather strong call of, "Vanya." More a summon than a request.
Vanya, for her part, is equally concerned for Arekoth's injury, and has spent her time reading what she can find which might be even remotely helpful to the dragon. She has written letters to the dragonhealers, asking what can be done to alleviate the pain, if not heal the injured leg, and is now busy mixing herbs and oils in a large, stone pestle, making what she hopes will be a soothing ointment which one healer said might help. It's not quite a noxious salve, but it's by no means pleasant smelling as some she has. What she's doing now is trying to see if she can somehow add some wintergreen to the concoction in order to make it a little more acceptable for man and beast. She works steadily, adding a pinch of this, a drop of that, using the mortar to crush leaves and stems into a pulpy mass. Wintergreen oil will be added to the mix, then she will make a poultice. There are wide swaths of clean, white cloth folded neatly beside her; those will be wrapped around the leg when the mixture is ready. She doesn't, at first, glance up when her name is called. Her mind is occupied with her work. After a moment, though, H'kon's voice penetrates, and she stops long enough to turn around. "Yes? -- ah, he's sleeping, is he? Well, this won't be ready for a while yet, so I won't disturb him."
H'kon's mouth dips toward a frown when there's not an immediate answer. This expression has settled itself by the time it seems apparent that the healer has no intention of coming to him. "No-" is started, and as quickly finished with a shake of his head. When one's patience is spent on one issue, other, smaller ones seem heavier. The man sways, as if to take a step toward her, but is quick to shift his weight back, an unwillingness to leave his dragon's side better expressed in the physical here than otherwise. Of course. Pale eyes settle again on that brown, then close a moment; a mental check. The dragon stirs, tail twitching, wings settling, but doesn't seem to wake. H'kon, in time, does manage one step away from Arekoth. His chin is nodded toward that concoction as he queries, "Can it wait?"
"As soon as I mix in the oil and setting agent, it'll have to sit for a while," Vanya explains, beginning the rather tedious task of drizzling oil into the pulpy-mass in just the right amount while continuing to stir. "Only be a couple of minutes more, I promise," she assures him. She is not immune to the worry, but Arekoth is not her lifemate. Her tone of voice and demeanor is patience personified, refusing to be riled by the irritation -- however slight -- in H'kon's timbre. True to her word, it is only a few more minutes before she is covering the mixture with a cloth, picking it up and taking it to the ledge where the air is slightly cooler. It is not quite the same with this salve as it is making numbweed, though that is one of the ingredients. (Likely the one that makes it smell bad.) Once that's done, she wipes her hands on a towel, then makes her way toward where the rider stands. "I'm sorry. I really just wanted to get that done." The apology is followed by a gentle of one hand to H'kon's shoulder, and a gentle squeeze. "Are you doing all right? Would you like some klah?" She has taken to bringing a pitcher of klah back with her of an evening, mainly because she knows H'kon isn't as fond of tea as herself. There is a kettle on the smaller brazier, the scent of warming klah much nicer than the salve.
H'kon rests his weight back on his heels, then, and waits for the healer to finish. Sign of further impatience, perhaps, or simply again a physical demonstration of his concern, that one step he'd managed is taken back, and he shifts to lean his shoulders and upper back against the stone wall, ignoring the cold that cannot help but be there in the spring. When Vanya does come to him, the hand certainly isn't avoided. It does receive a quick look from the corner of his eye - and then he's looking to her directly, shaking his head. "No klah," is said, a bit softer than his last words had come, but still bearing something of an edge. Eyes flick toward the dragon, but don't quite make it to him before H'kon has focused his attention back on the woman. And finally, as if the result of some momentous decision, he reaches a hand across his chest to take hers at his shoulder, dropping it from that shoulder, yes, but continuing to hold it as well. Hesitation, then, uncertainty expressed more by the alternating squeezing fingers against her hand than anything else, and finally he settles on, "I apologise. If I've not been... properly affectionate. Recently."
Vanya doesn't move away, though her eyes do glance down at Arekoth a moment. Curse of being a healer; the patient always comes before personal matters. The words do catch her a little off guard; it's not like she expected H'kon to put her before the dragon. No, she understands full well who will be his first concern, and that's all right with her. "H'kon ..." Her own voice is several notches softer than before. There's hesitation in her, as well. "No need to apologize," she says, tone gentle, understanding. "He comes first, and that's how it should be. I know you've been worried, and I'm not upset. I'm just glad I can help a little, maybe offer a little ... distraction, now and then." She smiles, turning her hand so that it is pressing against his, palm to palm. "It was sweet of you, though." And then she's leaning forward to bridge the gap and press her lips to his cheek.
The one thing a healer must learn is patience; it is a hard lesson for some, and Vanya was one of those when she was younger. Wounds and injuries do not always heal quickly, and thus patience becomes a watch-word. Still, there were moments when Vanya bit her tongue bloody and held back her own irritation in the recent pass. She is no paragon of virtue in that respect. "There were times, yes, but I do understand why you've been upset, H'kon," she admits, allowing her smile to waver slightly. "You're taciturn at the best of times, but when you're worried, it gets ... a little worse." A little? Why so modest? A worried, concerned H'kon is not a pleasant thing to live with or even be around for long periods of time. Still, when that worry involves a lifemate ...? It can be accepted, if not appreciated. And, he did show the same concern for her more than once. "I hope I'm at least a pleasant distraction?" It's said almost coyly, perhaps even teasing. "I think since Arekoth's resting, we should at least relax a little? I can rub your shoulders, if you'd like?"
"Not upset with you," H'kon feels it necessary to clarify. His fingers continue to twitch at Vanya's. The man's mood hasn't lifted to such an extent as to have him receptive to any gentle teasing, and there's a stern shake of his head. "You are not a distraction," comes almost as repetition of the original sentiment, though it's said with seriousness enough to stand on its own. The offer of a shoulder rub receives a dull nod, and, with a parting flick of digits, he releases her hand, heading for a chair, already setting at the removal of his tunic. H'kon knows the drill by now.
"No, lie down on the bed, on your stomach," Vanya suggests, moving toward there with a brief pause to pick up one of her baskets from the floor; the one with her salves and lotions. "It's easier for me to reach your lower back that way," she explains, turning to look at him. "Your muscles are so tense I can feel them from here," she tells him, her voice a little more serious now. "You're going to end up with a migraine if you're not careful, and that will do Arekoth no good. He'll be worried about you, and that won't help him heal. A positive mindset can be as important as other treatment." Once a healer, always a healer. She smiles, though, to soften what might be close to a lecture, and smooths the bed cover where she wants him to lie. "I can also get better leverage from this angle." There's a brief pause, then, "Take off your shirt and pants -- if you're not afraid I'll take advantage of you." Yes, there's still something she can laugh about.
H'kon has already accomplished the removal of the shirt, and, with only the slightest twitch of pleasure displayed on his face at having been corrected, then reprimanded (or so it seems), he lumbers over to the bed. A hand goes to brush at the cover in silent mimicry of Vanya's. For the way he looks at her when she suggests further clothing removal, however, one might think they hadn't been sharing a bed for well over a turn. He courageously fights back a scowl, blinks back toward Arekoth, and then, indeed, does as he's told, stripping down before settling himself on the bed, stomach-side down. No words throughout all this, and it's a trend that will continue, surely, through the initial stages of the massage - with, perhaps, the exception of grunted answers, if Vanya has any questions for him regarding the treatment.
As for that displeasure, Vanya pays it no mind. Indeed, there have been times of late that's the only thing she has seen displayed on his face, so how is this news? She takes a deep breath, forcing a calm patience over herself. When H'kon does turn his back, she closes her eyes, expression unguarded for a moment. It is as if she is a parent dealing with a recalcitrant child now. But, by the time he looks back at her, and climbs naked on the bed, she is under control once more. "That's better," she says, removing two bottles from her basket, and pouring a few drops of both into the palm of one hand. Then she rubs her hands together; the scent of mint and lavender fills the air as she begins to work. Her fingers are strong, sure on those tight muscles, refusing to give them even the barest chance to resist her will. It is like working on barely pliable rock, but she has not met the back yet to withstand her full assault. H'kon /will/ relax, if she has anything to say about it. He body has no choice; it will be relaxed in spite of itself.
Lavender or not, it can never be said that massage is an entirely gentle and soothing experience when one confronts muscles such as H'kon's, that have undergone the tension and worry he's been putting them through. The brwnrider's breath will occasionally be taken in a fashion a bit sharper than the norm when one of Vanya's fingers encounters one of those magical spots of knots. There is no complaint, though, and as she continues, the atmosphere of his silence surely changes. With his lifemate having settled, for the time, into a bit of a deeper slumber, and his lover tending to him, H'kon does indeed shift into a different attitude. And if, for some reason, perhaps distraction or a lack of obvious clues, Vanya doesn't notice this at first, well, when H'kon turns his head to the side - eyes closed, mouth certain not to be obscured - to give the well-considered, if perhaps non sequitur, declaration of, "I love you," then that should prove evidence enough. Of course, muscles tense thereafter, as if readying him to flee, as he awaits (or maybe dreads) a response.
There is but a momentary change in the steady rhythm of the massage after those three words are uttered. Not hesitation, exactly, but a certain difference in the kneading of fingers and hands on those abused muscles. She does not speak for a long moment, perhaps taken aback by the declaration, perhaps afraid it was her own imagination. She knows there must be a response, but what? Should Vanya tell him she knows already, rather has suspected it since the night he visited with his father? Or should she simply repeat his own words back to him. It is truth, after all. She does love him, though it was long coming and hard fought. It took seeing E'sere once more for her to realize it, and it took being very sick to understand he returned her feelings. But to hear it? To have him actually /tell/ her?! She must respond correctly. Finally, there is no other choice. "I love you, too, H'kon." Simple words, but there is no doubt of her sincerity, and no doubt she has felt the change in his body, no matter how subtle. "It ... scares me, but not so much I'd want it any other way."
No doubt that having it said back is comforting to him, but the slight relaxation of muscles brought on by it lasts only until H'kon can twist so as to almost be on his side, supporting his weight on one elbow, while the opposite arm is sent out to reach onc emore for Vanya's hand. H'kon is still very much reeling, possibly more from his own declaration than her reply to it. He manages to look at the woman for a split second, but then has his eyes closed again, face turned down just a little. A nod is managed. Jaw tenses and relaxes as he swallows. And all the while, his fingers have set to kneading at her hand. Finally, he murmurs her name, an indulgence for himself or for the woman, speaking it just for the sake of hearing it.
There isn't a woman alive who won't melt when her name is said in that special tone reserved for just her. Vanya is no exception. When H'kon turns to his side and reaches for her hand, she stands stock still, bent slightly over in the same position she was in to massage his back. Her eyes search his face, but she remains as silent as he is, finding words choke in her throat, die on her lips before they're spoken. She swallows, her hand scented with the lotion, skin soft and pliant from it. It cannot be a comfortable position to hold for long, but she does ... until she finally sinks to the edge of the bed, letting her head move forward until it rests on his shoulder. Her hand tightens on his own, and there's a soft sigh of contentment that slips from her.
H'kon still can only manage the occasional glance to the woman's face when he's left feeling as open as this. But, at the same time, the feel of the moment is enough to warrant those looks, and when he does turn his face directly to hers, it will be found perhaps surprisingly expressive. That brow, that mouth, apparently, can show things other than the more surly emotions. When she leans her head to his shoulder, H'kon blinks hard, then lets his eyes drift closed, even as he slowly eases them both to be lying fully on the bed. Once that other arm is no longer charged with supporting his weight, those fingertips are free to trace over her chin, mouth, cheeks, a way of seeing her without having to bare himself further. Slow, easy steps.
Vanya's eyes are also closed, and there is complete relaxation of her body against his. She is content to lie, thus, sharing no more than simple touches with the man she's come to love. That she shares him with a dragon, and will share him with other riders ... well, that's a given, and she can accept it as part of being with a dragonrider. She will worry over him, and over his brown, when they rise to fight Thread. That is also a given, and not likely to change as time passes. But these moments ... yes, those will ease that need to worry, and when he is in her arms, she will love him. When he's sick, she will care for him. She'll hear his troubles, and offer what she can as solace. It will not be an easy relationship, because he doesn't talk, and she needs to hear things from him. But it will be all the stronger for the efforts both will make toward a common goal. And if he occasionally tells her he loves her, well, that will be enough.