idk idk thinkin about billy’s hands
the way his palms are rough and dry and his fingers have calluses that catch on your skin. his hands are always so warm, so gentle with you wherever they land on your body. he touches you like you’re the finest piece of pottery he’s ever been given, as if one wrong move could put a crack in your pretty glaze.
those same hands that slide soothingly down your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake despite the warm sun outside. he’s pressed against your back, his chest broad and firm behind you and you can feel billy’s breath behind your ear when he praises you. “good job, honey. keep your arms just like that, hm? and when you’re ready, you squeeze that trigger. don’t just pull on it,” he tells you. his voice drops even lower as his touch skims down your back slowly, then his long fingers are curling around either side of your waist. “squeeze it,” billy whispers, his grip bearing down on your body. squeezing you.
you take a deep breath and aim as best you can at the glass bottle perched on the fence post, carefully squeezing the trigger on his revolver. the shot rings out and kicks you back just a little, but billy’s right there behind you to keep you steady. the green glass shatters and you hear his delighted chuckle, feel his lips peppering kisses along your cheek and jaw.
“look at that, baby! you’re a natural,” billy praises. “my girl’s gonna take my title, huh? fastest gun in the west?” it makes you giggle, such happiness and pride radiating from the man you adore so much. his words make your cheeks flush with heat every time he calls you his girl.
billy uses those hands you never stop thinking about to gently pull his revolver from your grip, setting it aside to spin you around so you can face him. his hat blocks the sun from both of your faces where he stands, and his eyes match the shade of the sky. he brings his hands up to cup your jaw, brushing his thumbs along your cheeks reverently.
“what’s that pretty blush for, baby?” he asks, voice airy and sweet. the corner of his mouth ticks up in a grin. he dips his head down just enough to kiss your cheek, then smiles and presses a matching one to the other side. “is it ‘cus i called you my girl?” he teases, delight running through him as you make a little sound in the back of your throat. he loves to rile you up, make you putty in his hold. “think i ain’t noticed how you get all shy on me when i say it? its just about the cutest thing i could ever imagine.”
one hand continues to hold your jaw and you don’t even realize you’ve tipped your head into his touch, leaning your cheek into his palm like a cat being given affection. his other hand goes to brush away a strand of hair that came loose in the breeze. billy’s hands are so strong, have caused so much damage in his young life. they’ve worked hard and played even harder. his hands are steady, quick. your gunslinger.
“you are my girl, ain’t you? c’mon, honey, say it. please?” billy asks with a pretty grin.
“yeah, billy. i’m your girl.”
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i'm surprised i haven't seen any text posts yet about the Unsubtle Differences between astarion’s tiefling party/high approval forest scene and the one you get after the goblin party.
there’s something so terribly interesting about how the conversation afterward plays out depending on which variation you pursue.
like, most people have seen the tiefling party version by now. astarion basking in the sunlight the morning after, playing off most of what tav says with relative ease, even when they ask about his scars and he tells them about cazador. his cadence is smooth and composed, his smile almost friendly, even though you know, as the viewer, he’s playing a game of manipulation at this point. the only real crack in his demeanor is if tav notices that cazador’s “poem” was written in infernal, which, understandably, startles him.
but recently i watched the goblin party version of this same scene, and everything reads so differently. unlike at the tiefling party, it’s still the middle of the night when astarion tries to leave, thinking tav is asleep—almost immediately after the act, in fact. when tav does speak to him, he’s visibly nervous, halting and stammering in the middle of lines delivered unflinchingly in the other version of the scene. he gestures broadly and fidgets more while talking, his smile comes and goes. there’s even some of his distinctive high pitched, fake laughter sprinkled throughout the exchange, almost identical to later scenes where he's very, very obviously uncomfortable (like if raphael mocks him and magics off astarion's shirt to show the party his scars in act 2, or when confronting the gur children in their cell in act 3, etc etc).
siding with the goblins represents something deeply familiar to astarion, a level of cruelty he's more than familiar with and embraces likely because cruelty and duplicity, to him, go hand-in-hand with the power and freedom he craves so badly—but he won't stay the night with this tav, even if he approves of their actions. no, in this case, he'll keep to what's familiar and attempt to leave them in the forest under the cover of the very same darkness he resents having been cast into by cazador. when he gets caught, it sets him on edge, and everything he says becomes such a blatant lie to save face that tav would have to be completely oblivious not to see through him, or maybe just not care enough to.
but if tav saves the refugees? challenges his worldview and comes out victorious? oh, he'll complain of the poor rewards for his trouble at the party and whine about it being boring, but he decides to stay with tav through the night while they're asleep and on past dawn. he takes a moment to enjoy the morning sunlight, returned to his life after two centuries without. the same is true if you have high enough approval that he asks before the party, in which case, you've almost certainly hit his biggest approval gains: trusting him and supporting his safety. maybe he doesn't trip over his words when he speaks because, well, maybe this is someone he doesn't have to worry about. someone who's already more than proven themselves a foolish, heroic sort with a bleeding heart or otherwise demonstrated that they're already in his corner. in other words, not a threat—at least not to him.
does any of this make sense. i wanna study this guy under a microscope.
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Jimmy notices Scott sitting near the edge of the Ace Race launch. They’re both on the practice server; it’s a good place to hang out. Gets away from the kinds of lives they live elsewhere, even if Jimmy figures the one he’s got right now is good enough. Scott’s here a lot, Jimmy’s found; it’s probably some combination of whatever the weird messenger thing he has going on with Noxite is and the number of other lives he’s lived. Jimmy bets it’s just quieter here than, like, he doesn’t know, he’s heard something about pirates?
Anyway, he’s always down to say hi to Scott. Also, Scott looks—strange. Diminished feels rude. Not preening like a peacock? No weird ethereal glow? It can’t be that the romance has worn off, it never really did, not all the way, Jimmy’s always seen him as sort of made of lace and marble and beautiful things from the beginning and even now that they’re like, friends friends, it’s just—
Jimmy plants himself in the grass. He can’t find a poppy, but he can find a dandelion. Close enough?
“Flower for your thoughts?” he says cheerfully.
Scott looks up. He laughs. “You can’t be doing that, Jimmy. We’ll get double-married. I already have too many husbands, you can’t be on there twice.”
“I think I can marry my flower husband as many times as I want,” Jimmy says.
“We barely even do a romance anymore.”
“Well, excuse you for not being a romantic.”
“Me? I’m not the romantic? Me?” Scott says incredulously.
“Well I don’t know how it would be me,” Jimmy says imperiously. He pauses, huffs, and sits down next to Scott. “I mean, we can do romance if you want. Hadn’t done that the last few lives because, you know, work better as friends right now, but I can totally wow you. I can, uh. Uh. Make… chocolate? No, I can’t do that, actually, don’t hold me to that—”
Jimmy pauses.
“Scott,” he says.
“No, keep going,” Scott says weakly.
“Have I done something wrong?” Jimmy asks.
“No, no, it’s just—sort of being a messenger god, I get a feel for things, and—it’s gonna happen again soon, Jimmy.”
“Oh, okay,” Jimmy says. They both know what they’re talking about. “I’m absolutely gonna win this time, just so you know.” He says it with all the false bravado of a person who’s mostly just hoping he doesn’t die first again. This time, this time, this time. He’ll do it by his own merits, though; he’s not sure what he would have done if Joel had actually gone through with the halting plan to die for him that he’d told Jimmy about last time. Probably crowed on happily about it, honestly, but with needles in his stomach the whole time.
Scott hasn’t responded yet.
“You don’t have to worry. You’re way too good at this. Constant finalist, now that you don’t have me weighing you down,” Jimmy tries.
“I shouldn’t talk about this with you,” Scott says.
“Rude,” Jimmy says. “We’re husbands at least twice over.”
“Yeah, but do you ever regret it? Don’t you—don’t you regret it?” Scott bursts out. “Don’t you ever wake up and—and you weren’t good enough to protect them and you’re not good enough to be loyal to and frankly you aren’t good enough to follow the rules either and, and so you’re just constantly winning. And you aren’t trying and you just think, if you’d just—if you’d just fucking slowed down, figured out how to protect—this is stupid. I’m proud of Martyn. Got him to win, at least. I can’t regret him winning. I wouldn’t have wanted anything else. I never have. Forget I said anything.”
Jimmy stares.
“I don’t regret it,” he says, and he’s surprised to realize he’s telling the truth.
“Not even for all the mocking?” Scott says.
“I mean. Wouldn’t have teamed with Grian and Joel if…”
“Oh,” Scott says. He stares out over the practice server. Jimmy cannot guess what’s going on in his head. No matter how many lives they’re friends, husbands, lovers both star-crossed and casual, enemies, and friends again in, Jimmy has to admit, Scott’s kind of a closed book. It’s one of the character flaws he has to make up for being perfect at everything else.
It’s part of what makes him Scott.
“I don’t regret it,” Jimmy says, almost more urgently.
“Oh,” Scott says again. “I do.”
Jimmy’s not sure what to say to that.
He’s never been good enough at winning much of anything to understand that kind of regret, is the thing. Blessing, curse, whatever else, he just…
“Sorry. I’ll be better tomorrow. Not normally the kind of person for this stuff,” Scott says. “It’s not that I’m not confident, it’s just…”
That, though. That, Jimmy can understand.
He scoots closer to Scott.
“Let’s race. I’ll totally beat you so badly. I was watching CPK do skips. And, I don’t know about you, but…”
“Yeah, you’ll hit those in your dreams,” Scott says. Neither of them move to stand up, though. They remain sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, watching other participants jump off the launch. It’s nice here. Quiet. A place apart from all the lives they live. Jimmy wonders if that’s why Scott’s here so much. Jimmy might have to show up too; that’s what increasingly old friends are for, he figures.
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