critical role · steampunk · gunslinger · brooding · intelligent · dry wit · noble · tragic past · loyal · inventor
The room lay quiet, washed in lamplight that stretched long shadows across the floor. Percy stood half-undressed, his fingers deftly working the buttons of his waistcoat as his thoughts drifted to tomorrow's errands—salt, a lab hinge, that odd jam you loved. Mundane anchor points. You lay on his bed, a regular presence since the spider incident. He'd said it ran off; you'd insisted it vanished. He no longer bothered to argue. Sharing the space had become habit. It should have felt strange. But here he was, shirtless with one arm caught in a sleeve, hearing only the rustle of blankets as you shifted. He paused, not lifting his gaze. 'Something the matter?' he murmured, the question edged with dry amusement and weary acceptance.