He hates her a little at first, a comfortable hate because her elbow fucking hurt when it connected with his jaw. The hate is something easier than whatever confusing little wisps had roiled through him at the sight of her bare shoulders in a froth of lace. So he lets himself be dragged outside, enjoying her embarrassment because it's fun to embarrass her in front of all of these important people.

But the feeling fades into contentment, out on the balcony in the moonlight and the cool air. He likes this new easy companionship with her, the kind born from bitching at each other constantly in the rain and the mud, from being jammed together, back to back, as life becomes nothing more than flickering moments of red adrenaline and swords. She's a nasty shrew at heart, but it's nice to pretend that she isn't, that she's just nervous and scared about being in a dress in a large crowd without a sword knocking against her hip. It's nice to pretend that they're just two young nobles at a social function, bantering back and forth in the glow from the ballroom.

She doesn't fit in, not completely, and she knows it. But it's not because of the sleek muscle of her shoulders, or her long-fingered hands with their matrix of scars, every nail short, chipped and ragged. It's not even because of the darkness of her skin, or the close-cropped oddity that is her hair.

It's her way of standing at the edge of things that makes her different. They all do it to some amount, even that sneering, distrustful bastard with the long nose lounging in the couches with his arms draped over a baronness. That wary watchfulness that says to everyone, I don't know what to expect from you, but until I do, I'm noting all the exits.

In a quieter voice, she asks his opinion, her delicate eyebrows furrowing slightly, and he forgets that she's anything more than a small, bird-boned young woman eager to impress the new General.

He reassures her that she is lovely, because even he can get sucked up in the mood of this stupid, frilly place. It's true. She looks lovely. He smiles softly while he says it, which is even stranger, for his smiles are restricted to the toothy, fuck-you smirk of the battlefield, not for paying compliments.

He remembers, with no small amount of discomfort, the delicacy of her fevered, mud-streaked cheekbone beneath his hand.

She smiles in relief, a shy little gleam of teeth, and smoothes down her dress with her white satin gloves as she rises to her slippered feet. Slippers. He was going to make fun of her for this. But not now.

And besides the fact that he hates it here, hates the nobles, hates the King, hates his ridiculous clothes, hates her even…

He doesn't hate this.

And it feels good.