"Inquisitor, is this entirely necessary?"
She didn't answer him, merely hummed as she continued about her work. Her hands skirted deftly across every inch of him. It was the same thing every day, but even then Samson could not sit patiently waiting for her to finish. He rather disliked the attention, but after the first few arguments over it, he'd mostly resigned himself to it. This elf was just frustratingly stubborn and his vocal grousing didn't change her mind in the slightest. Despite his best efforts. Samson sighed then, shaking his head and rubbing at his temples.
"Stop that." Her voice was demanding as she pushed his hands away from his head.
"Stop this, don't do that," he mocked. Tipping his head back he looked up at her as she squinted at him, lips pursed into a thin line. He leered up at her, moderately pleased with himself for drawing out such annoyance on her delicate features.
"It would go faster if you didn't fidget," she answered, finally. She slid her hand up through his thinning hair, pressing his head down again.
He grunted, but complied with her unspoken request. "If you say so," he grumbled. My own fault anyhow, he reminded himself.
More poking, prodding, and otherwise unnecessary and excessive touching later, and it seemed she was finally satisfied. Or rather more placated for the time being than anything. Samson still couldn't figure why she cared. He knew what he was, what he'd done. He also saw how everyone else in Skyhold looked at him. She also knew what he'd done and who he was and yet. Yet here she was, every evening the same routine.
"I'm curious, Inquisitor," he began, leaning forward. Nathra shifted around his chair to sit across from him, brows lifted expectantly. "What purpose does this serve?" He paused, puffing out a sigh. "You shouldn't care."
Her gaze narrowed at him again and Samson ducked his head aside, avoiding it. The last time he'd asked this very same question he'd been met with silence. The two times before that, an argument had started. Samson was tired of fighting. Not when the point of it was long since gone. And yet, here he was, unable to keep his damned mouth shut.
Several long moments passed in silence. Samson chanced a look at the elf, but her expression was unreadable. More time ticked by and he shook his head. "Fine," he groused. "Keep your secrets, Elf." He offered a snort before standing up and heading for the door.
"Wait."
He stopped on command. He closed his eyes, tipping his head back and muttering a few curses under his breath. One word and he bowed to the whims of whatever crossed the mind of this woman. Like a dog floated through his head a couple times and he pinched the bridge of his nose.
Nothing happened. He grunted and turned around, only to see Nathra standing a few yards away shifting awkwardly in place. A complete turnaround from the confident woman who'd been fussing at him moment ago. Samson tipped his head in curiosity, for the life of him he could not figure the Inquisitor out. Chief among them being how she commanded legions of the faithful… and what on Thedas convinced her he was worth two shits.
"I told you why I care," she finally replied.
He chuckled, shaking his head. The sound felt awkward on his lips, strained. Her words were not funny and yet he couldn't restrain the knee-jerk reaction. The want to dismiss the pity he despised so strongly.
"I care about your well being," she protested. "Is that so bad?"
"I don't need your pity, Inquisitor," he growled.
"I offer none," she snapped back. Her confidence returned as she tilted her head back indignantly at him.
"Then what is this?" he countered. Samson advanced, stopping only when he was within arms reach of the small elf. She kept her eyes trained on him, unflinching with head still held high as she looked down her nose at him.
The more they stared at each other, the more Samson began to notice something different. Odd and strange. Maker's balls I must be seeing things. With her tanned skin it was a challenge to tell for certain, but Samson could swear the color on her cheeks was changing. A dark red, if anything were indeed there. Before he could decide, he turned away sharply and walked to the balcony.
"You're not what I expected," he commented, hearing her soft footsteps behind him. Samson leaned forward on the balcony, looking down at the empty expanse of white snow below.
"Why can I not tell if that's good or bad?" she asked. There was an airy giggle to her tone as she came up beside him, curling her fingers around the stone of the top rail.
"When I figure it out, perhaps I'll let you know." Samson shrugged, puffing out a steady breath into the crisp air.
"Come inside, let me call up some water so we can wash your hair." She changed gears abruptly, peering at him expectantly.
Samson sputtered, looking at her with wide eyes. "Is that an order?" he asked with mild suspicion.
"Does it have to be?"