George leaned against the doorframe, one hand stroking his ever-so-slightly-too-big nose retrospectively. There weren't many years separating him and old Salmalin, he knew. If we had both grown up in his cities of Tyra, I would've probably picked on that long-legged boy until I'd gotten my tail end singed by a stray bit of magic, he chuckled. Despite the situation, the thought brought a wry dimpled grin to the edge of his clean-shaven face. To poke fun at a black-robe, now there was a job for the Trickster himself.

The nature of things took away his moment of frivolity, and the Baron wrapped his burly arms about each other in concern. His longtime friend drifted somewhere near slumber, long-fingered hands buried within a tumble of black curls that could do for a little serum and combing. Though his deep eyes were slitted open, he wasn't focusing on anything, not even the feminine form buried in bedclothes across from him. The hopeful trays of lukewarm food had long been carried off and replaced with pitchers of water; another vein attempt to keep the Master from withering away altogether. The little dragon had been lured away for the afternoon by Thom and Alianne, warming her scales in the spring sunbeams and stretching her growing muscles. It won't do for them to all fade into the Black God's realm, George thought, lifting his weight off of the doorframe.

Just as the Baron turned to go, a myriad of other things awaiting him at his desk, Numair raised his clouded eyes and shakily shifted positions on his perch.

"George," he started.

Caught by surprise, the Baron's mouth opened a bit, his words taking wings and flying somewhere other than out of his voicebox. The mage hadn't said a word to anyone since the whole incident in the hallway a fortnight ago. After sending the maid into a fit of gabbing and shaking, and easily ignoring the Healer's pleas for reason, Numair had whisked his sleeping lady upstairs to the very chamber where she continued to lie. The majority of his house thought the mage mad: wide-open windows made for chill, and who was he to diagnose the girl? George had let him be, however. Matters of the heart he did not always understand, but he would never underestimate their importance.

"Draper," the Baron forced words and a crooked smile. He didn't bother to correct his use of Numair's boyhood name. It was of little matter. "Feeling up for a walk?"

"No," came the solemn reply. He hadn't stopped looking at Daine's cherubic face on the pillow. "But you can.. " The mage's mind had had a pension for wandering before all this mess; now it was even worse.

"Stay? I'd be delighted, old friend." George stiffly walked inside, leaned against the stone wall, and slid to the floor. His good graces in other company were only just a ploy to keep the old Lioness from ripping him to shreds at dinner parties. At heart, George was all Player.

He hesitated. "Any-- changes?"

"None."

A long silence.

George's broad shoulders slumped just a bit. His words came in a tumble. He couldn't tell which of them he had said, which Alanna had said, and which he had heard from random sources on the street. "It isn't your fault. You can't blame yourself for it. No one knows how these things work, Numair— No one's ever been a mutt like that; even you can't know all the in's and out's of her manner of ladychild. She isn't ill in the sense of Healer-talk, y'know; she's just needing to accustom to being back in the Realm is all. You told us what she told you; who's to say it's truth or tale? God-born, why it makes a bit of sense, doesn't it, Draper? I mean, only gods could put such a curse of attraction as she's put on ye.."

The younger man's lips drew into a thin line. George had crossed some unseen boundary, but by the Goddess he was being damn near unreasonable about this whole thing! For all they knew, their Wildmage would be up in a flash: She's not wounded, he thought, she's not coughin', she's just.. out. And all these stories that were runnin' around of her! Ones even the Blackrobe confirmed! After all,---

"Do you think it's wrong?"

George blanched. A number of things were amiss here, but Numair could only mean--

"It's fourteen years. My parents were nine years apart."

Oh, so it's that Wrong he wants to right, the Baron pondered, scuffing a boot along the marble floor and leaving a deliciously muddy streak that Melle would certainly have a time cleaning up later. "I'm not the one to decide, Numair."

The pause was eternal. Numair's hand fell across the quilt, just inches shy of Daine's softly calloused one. He moved it to the left, then the right-- never taking hers, never moving away. George wasn't as used to romance as the mage was; he'd been in love once and managed to stay there happily. The very notion of what took place before his spying eyes was hard enough for an old Rogue like him to understand. Sure, people would always talk: can't stop that, no matter the legitimacy of a thing-- was it right by the girl, though?

Something in the way that that great man looks like a lost pup tells me this isn't just a midlife fancy. Draper isn't the type to reduce himself to anything; but here he is, good as a baby chick in a schoolgirl's hand. It's strange, but..

"Draper, you have my nod."

George rose from his floorside chair and placed a worn hand on the mage's shoulder. If Numair noticed, he said nothing; his fingers slipped cautiously into those of the Wildmage. The Baron knew his place; he slipped out the door, whispering to himself a prayer for Whatever Time Might Tell.