fic: the odd couple
Title: the odd couple
Series: FE 9/10
Character/Pairing: Titania/Soren
Rating: K+ ish
Word Count: 507
Author’s note: Started as crack and a dare that I couldn't make it work. I actually like it!
Three nights a week they would meet in each others’ tents to sip tea and discuss affairs. She liked his refreshingly realistic outlook on life and his blinding wit; he liked her intelligence, independence, and, though he’d never admit it, her mature and unrefined beauty. They were an odd couple, and perhaps for that reason alone, no one had caught on to the utmost secrecy of their relationship.
They were imperfectly matched; she was twice his size, and possibly his age (though, around her, he was a perfect gentleman, reserving his scathing tongue for company meets, and he wouldn’t dream of asking her age). The rare embraces were awkward (yet comforting in a thrown-together sort of way); the very infrequent kisses even more so. They were both glad that no one knew, actually; she knew that her commander would tease her ruthlessly, and he knew would drown himself in the nearest river if he were to find out.
Their physical relationship rarely ventured beyond a smile, a passing thought, an outstretched hand, a suppressed remark on her beauty and resemblance to Ashera herself; to go further than this would embarrass both of them, and both of them were perfectly happy, anyway. Unspoken between them was the grudging realization that the woman generally sat on the man’s lap, but both were quietly all right with reversing the order for his convenience and her comfort.
During the long nights of the war, the commander was weary, and after evenings spent lifting him out of a funk, the two would retreat to the other’s tent and talk literature; despite her façade, her background, she was quite well-read, it was one of the things that had initially attracted him to her. It was how they kept their morale up during those dark times. He was unaffected by things pertinent to life, death, emotion, but the constant slaughter, bloodbath, on the Daein lines wore her down; it was only then that her age ever crossed his mind, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened by shadows, candlelight, and she would reach for his hand.
Winter dulled her senses, made her bones ache, and the darkness sunk her heart; she’d felt it since she was a young girl gamboling in the fields of Gallia. He would be there, unchanging, reading up with a candle till sunlight nearly crested the hills, and he would talk to her, and their relationship was forged there, in the frosty pre-dawn, her telling her stories and fears to the most unlikely of companions, until one day she realized that she felt something for this strange boy…
They would have three cups of tea each, until the small clay pot was empty, and they would talk until tiredness nipped at her eyes, though he was seemingly unaffected by exhaustion. Then she would tell him she loved him, and he told her the same to her, though it still made his cheeks flush to admit something so personal, and she would rise and kiss his Brand and take her leave.
Series: FE 9/10
Character/Pairing: Titania/Soren
Rating: K+ ish
Word Count: 507
Author’s note: Started as crack and a dare that I couldn't make it work. I actually like it!
Three nights a week they would meet in each others’ tents to sip tea and discuss affairs. She liked his refreshingly realistic outlook on life and his blinding wit; he liked her intelligence, independence, and, though he’d never admit it, her mature and unrefined beauty. They were an odd couple, and perhaps for that reason alone, no one had caught on to the utmost secrecy of their relationship.
They were imperfectly matched; she was twice his size, and possibly his age (though, around her, he was a perfect gentleman, reserving his scathing tongue for company meets, and he wouldn’t dream of asking her age). The rare embraces were awkward (yet comforting in a thrown-together sort of way); the very infrequent kisses even more so. They were both glad that no one knew, actually; she knew that her commander would tease her ruthlessly, and he knew would drown himself in the nearest river if he were to find out.
Their physical relationship rarely ventured beyond a smile, a passing thought, an outstretched hand, a suppressed remark on her beauty and resemblance to Ashera herself; to go further than this would embarrass both of them, and both of them were perfectly happy, anyway. Unspoken between them was the grudging realization that the woman generally sat on the man’s lap, but both were quietly all right with reversing the order for his convenience and her comfort.
During the long nights of the war, the commander was weary, and after evenings spent lifting him out of a funk, the two would retreat to the other’s tent and talk literature; despite her façade, her background, she was quite well-read, it was one of the things that had initially attracted him to her. It was how they kept their morale up during those dark times. He was unaffected by things pertinent to life, death, emotion, but the constant slaughter, bloodbath, on the Daein lines wore her down; it was only then that her age ever crossed his mind, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepened by shadows, candlelight, and she would reach for his hand.
Winter dulled her senses, made her bones ache, and the darkness sunk her heart; she’d felt it since she was a young girl gamboling in the fields of Gallia. He would be there, unchanging, reading up with a candle till sunlight nearly crested the hills, and he would talk to her, and their relationship was forged there, in the frosty pre-dawn, her telling her stories and fears to the most unlikely of companions, until one day she realized that she felt something for this strange boy…
They would have three cups of tea each, until the small clay pot was empty, and they would talk until tiredness nipped at her eyes, though he was seemingly unaffected by exhaustion. Then she would tell him she loved him, and he told her the same to her, though it still made his cheeks flush to admit something so personal, and she would rise and kiss his Brand and take her leave.