It wasn't until later, an hour or so later, when the fire had burned down to a glowing bed of coals, that he was in danger of revealing his secret.
"The stars shine so bright here." Jaina was lying on her back, admiring the sky, "It's a shame, really. The sky is never clear enough over Theramore for my people to appreciate them."
He hummed in agreement. He might have said something different if his subconscious, in his inebriated state of mind, had not just now relayed to him that she wasn't wearing her usual attire. If he remembered correctly, and his memory was usually razor sharp, she was dressed exactly as she was the day they first met. She had long since removed her cloak, lying upon it so as not to soil her white clothes with so much red dust.
Gone were her cloth spaulders, exposing the pale, but subtly strong shoulders beneath. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing, free, he supposed, of its usual trappings- not that he minded the way her purple corsetry… supported the swell of her breasts. He quite enjoyed that, actually, though he'd never admit it aloud.
His eyes traveled lower, following the taut lines of her abdomen, cast into relief by the moonlight. So different from an orcish woman's, but no less enticing, her soft skin calling to be touched. The curve of her waist gave way to the flare of her hips, such lovely hips- hips that he wished wouldn't keep him up at night.
He lamented that she was lying on her back, for her backside was something that required deep contemplation. If he were completely honest with himself, a rarity when it came to thoughts about her, it was probably one of the first things he noticed about her- the way her cheeks shifted so sensually when she walked. He wasn't the only orc left a little bit at loss for words.
And, naturally, such a fine posterior was seated atop legs that stretched on forever. It was a shame that she felt the need to cover herself with so many skirts, for her body was something to be admired. But an even greater shame still was that such a beautiful mind should be plagued by so many doubts.
She blamed herself for Strathholme, that she couldn't save Arthas from himself. Hell, her father died in her arms. These things he knew. But what was it that weighed on her mind to drive her from wine to whiskey?
Whiskey. It's a drink for old men and those who hate themselves. Blackmoore had hated himself- the bastard could not comprehend such emotions as love and kindness- and chose instead to drown himself in it, the burn filling the chasm where souls generally inhabit.
He paused. A drunken man raving about a drunk, now? Classy. He justified himself. Whiskey was also shared between comrades, veterans of war.
And that's what they were, he reminded himself, comrades sharing a drink and reminiscing.
He resumed. It was a relatively recent development, their whiskey affairs. At first their meetings were few and far between, diplomatic and professional, much like the meetings he had with his own staff. They would address each other by proper title, formally debating what need and need not be done in the world. Eventually they both managed to convince their guard that they need not come along and could simply converse as the friends they had become to be.
Even without her guard, though, she was still reserved. She stayed that way until the armies of Azeroth had descended onto Northrend. Something that she had bottled up inside for years was suddenly back, sending wave after wave of undead at their divided forces.
She had cracked. Her frosty exterior broken into a thousand little pieces and the only person she trusted enough to put her back together was him. And of course he helped her. How would he have felt if Taretha were undead and creating monstrosities of the quiet dead, not once but twice? It would be heartbreaking.
He never considered himself good with comforting another, how could he- being a slave raised in solitude, but he nevertheless helped her to stitch the old wound back shut, to help her walk forward with the confidence he remembered her carrying.
After some time, she blossomed. She grew much warmer in their conversations, crossing the barrier from friends to close friends, and he was happy that he had finally found the friend he had been looking for, to fill the hole that Taretha, Grom and Orgrim had once held. Though, deep down, he had begun to recognize that there was a place in his heart for her that friendship was not enough for, but that the same friendship was far too treasured to be risked.
Time moved forward and the war pushed on. They met more frequently, attempting to ease the conflict between the two factions, trying to rebuild the cooperation that was shared at Mount Hyjal. And then the Wrathgate happened.
The battle for Undercity was grueling and it was only through their efforts on both sides that it did not escalate into open war between Horde and Alliance. It was that evening that she appeared on the butte with her whiskey. And they've been having these meetings bi-weekly ever since.
He was pulled back into the present. He must have been staring off in thought for some time now, the fire was but a glowing mess of coals, and by the look of her Jaina was doing the same. He appeased the hunger of the fire, adding some wood and in his movement Jaina was brought out of her reverie. He wondered, as the flames began to grow, what it was that was on her mind.
She sighed in defeat, as if resigning to an argument within herself, and then said flatly" On the bright side, Thrall, at least you've been getting some."
When the Warchief gave her an incredulous look (That's what she's been thinking about all this time?) she explained," You understand, a woman in my position can't just have casual relations, it would reflect badly on my leadership. And while I miss the sex, that is for certain, I just can't bring myself to want that out of any given man. I have to know them, y'know? I have to know the man on the inside, his thoughts, his dreams, ambitions- all of that soppy shit." She snorts in laughter, coming to realize how drunk she must sound and continues," And I can't honestly say that men feel that way about me."
"I can't see why a man wouldn't be interested in you." Thrall said a bit before his mind can filter his words. Ah well, she had said essentially the same.
She laughed, almost in a startled way, and he couldn't tell if her cheeks are red from alcohol or flattery.
"I can't help but envy how orcish social politics work. If a man and a woman desire each other, they just go for it. Parents aren't involved, class, rank, money or power- it doesn't matter. Women are allowed to be independent, strong. No one makes decisions for them. It's not like that for humans. Men want a quiet, obedient woman, one that's both beautiful and fragile."
Thrall seemed to be almost looking past her, still paying attention to her words, but seeing some far off place.
"I mean, they're not all that bad. It really depends on how they were brought up, but for the most part, when a man looks at me I am not an accomplished mage or influential diplomat. I'm a political chess piece, a way to advance in society. They sugar their words, 'Lady' and 'Miss' always with syrupy emphasis, and are constantly trying to flatter me. They've got all of the women in my staff in a fuss about it, I tell you!"
He snapped out of his reverie.
"Don't tell me Wrynn is in on this too."
"Oh and he's terrible at it!"
Thrall made a low sound of disapproval.
"Granted, he's a lot better about it than some of the nobles, but he just doesn't get it. I'm very much not interested and he's very much not used to hearing no."
Thrall laughed a bit to himself, as if he had just thought of something hilarious. "Well if you happen to need someone to defend your honor," he laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, the mischievous grin on his face revealing that he was, in fact, quite drunk," Don't hesitate to call. It might start the fourth war, but it would be worth it to see the look on his face!"
Jaina laughed, her head tilting back, exposing the fine lines of her neck. She turned to him, eyes still shining, and this time Thrall was completely certain of those feelings that he tried so hard to ignore.
"Oh, so now you're in on ittoo? Light! It seems I can't go anywhere without charming some poor bastard!"
The words fell from his lips before he could reel them in.
"Hmph. At least I have the tact to realize that you're not interested."
He tensed, (Fuck!) the words finally registering in his brain. She was never supposed to even entertain that idea and he cursed himself for being so liberal with his words. If she was smart, and he knew she was- sharply so- she surely would have noticed his slip up. Oh he was fucked, so desperately fucked.
But she simply laughed as though he were rolling with the joke and then, in facetious annoyance," Oh now you're just pulling my strings!" She punctuated the sentence by jabbing an accusatory finger at him, as drunken people are wont to do.
To Thrall, relief had never felt so sweet.
The night continued on and eventually they made their leave of each other, the sobering thought of work compelling them to go home. Thrall took special care in flying his zeppelin; he would hate to have to explain wrecking into the flight tower or worse, why he smelled like human whiskey.
And then there he was, pacing his quarters. It's something he usually did to help him think, but he did it now because there was no other action to take. It was completely out of his hands now. She remembers everything and she'll mull those words over in her mind and their friendship will be lost.
Alas, he was tired and probably overreacting. He sighed, defeated, and went to bed. The morning would prove to be a new day.