A/N: A short little interlude. Chapters should get longer soon – and with more actual action to them. You know me, just love a mental deep dive quiet moment xoxo

An unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome, aspect of travelling with Sybil was seeing the little habits strewn across her daily life. The ones that most would have no way of knowing, unless they'd lived with her. How she saved her favourite portions of their meals for last (a habit that would no doubt fade when their rations were reduced to hardtack), the way she would not join a conversation happening nearby unless almost explicitly invited to do so, and even the way in which she would bite at her lips when deep in thought. The latter, he surmised, she shunned as a bad habit – for often she would catch herself and stop, instead opting to chew on the inside of her cheek instead. But only ever the right side.

Perhaps Boromir should not have taken such note of these things…but it stopped his mind from straying to what was strung about the neck of Frodo Baggins, more or less, and so this was by far the lesser of the evils.

And it wasn't as if she was unlikely to have noticed some of his own habits, for between the two of them, he was not the only one paying attention. Over the last couple of days, since their discussion, he'd noted her eyes on him a number of times. And…he had not shied from the attention. Not least because he felt it was a mark in his favour.

In Rivendell, in the aftermath of his ill-thought words, she had scarcely looked at him at all. To an extent that was almost impressive. No, he'd seen firsthand how Sybil behaved around the source of her ire, and he could say with some confidence that whatever thoughts she was mired in now – where those thoughts were of him, at least – were not riddled with disdain. All the same, he gave her space.

Faramir liked to tease him over his impulsiveness, but he was not a lad of twenty years. He would not harangue her into sharing her thoughts, if she was not ready to share them – not least because he knew her well enough by now to know it would not help his case. He had done what he could for the time being, and now he had to wait. The fact that waiting did not come naturally to him was…inconsequential. But he would indulge himself in stealing glances at her, and didn't even chastise himself for that fact too much.

Firstly, because she often did not notice it. And secondly, because the times when she did notice were thanks to the fact that he glanced over when her eyes were already on him.

For now, they were not. She was asleep, and he was keeping watch – of the camp, not of her. But that watch did allow him to note yet another one of her habits. Always, she slept curled up on her side, one arm wedged beneath her cloak, which she bundled below her head like a pillow. That was not what drew his attention, though. The chill was bitter in these parts, especially when they were caught by wind blowing from the west, the mountains offering no shelter, and so she would begin each night bundled in her bedroll, before stirring in her sleep and shifting to wedge the blankets between her knees, offering a layer of padding so that the bones did not press together as she rested.

But the bedrolls they'd been furnished with were made for portability, and were not big enough to fulfil such a purpose as well as warmth, and every time she did so, she left herself at the mercy of the cold. On and on the cycle would repeat, half walking to move and then stirring again at the bite of the wind. Boromir watched the process a few times before he had his idea – and then a few times thereafter, for he knew not whether it was a good idea.

He shifted where he sat, casting his gaze down across his own garb. Bigger than she was, he was not so cold. He could spare his cloak. But would it make her uncomfortable?

The matter was one he silently debated on for a moment – but perhaps not as long as would be strictly wise. His skill lay in coming up with an idea and acting on it, not scrawling down a list of the possible benefits and drawbacks. And that had served him well, across his life. Not least because every time she stirred, he was pushed further and further into action. When she turned once again, one leg hitched over the bundle of her bedroll and an arm quickly coming up to wrap around herself for some meagre amount of warmth, he decided he would take the opportunity while it was still presented to him.

Sighing quietly, he unclasped the cloak from about his neck, and then stood. Moving silently on the balls of his feet, he skirted around a few other slumbering members of their party, and then paused when he stood over her. If he lingered too long, she would wake. And then his current position would be very difficult to explain.

Oh, but he was being ridiculous. If she awoke, he would simply say she was on the verge of shivering in her sleep, and that would be that. What was he, a lovesick youth? The worst she could say was that she did not wish for his help, and that would be that.

Those furious arguments to himself paled in comparison to the relief he felt when the cloak was draped over her, she did not wake, and swiftly stopped stirring even by the time he returned to where he'd been perched.

It felt like a victory.

His watch ended eventually, and Aragorn's was next. It was a testament, he thought, to the Ranger's internal clock that he stirred without needing to be roused, mere moments before Boromir himself would have taken it upon himself to wake him.

Aragorn sat up, and then rose as he silently took stock of the camp. Boromir despised the strange childish guilt that threatened to flicker across his face when he watched the man take note of the cloak draped across Sybil's sleeping form. While he did not comment on it – not verbally – his eyebrows twitched upwards and he cast a doubtful glance in Boromir's direction. He faltered, but he did not shy from his gaze. He refused to do that.

What business was it of his? Boromir could do with his own garb whatever he saw fit. If he wished to shred it to ribbons with his sword and decorate the surrounding trees with it, it would still not concern Aragorn. But his mouth did not wish to comply in voicing any of that. Instead, it muttered without his consent.

"It is a cold night. She has already taken her watch, and I will remove it come the morn, before she wakes."

And now here he was, justifying himself – to him, of all people. Worse still, he was relieved when his words actually made a difference. For what had once been tight-lipped, silent disapproval morphed then. Not into happiness, or anything resembling it, but something different. Surprise, perhaps? Aragorn regarded him as if with new eyes, like they were only just meeting for the first time here and now. What had he thought his intention was? Some ham-handed attempt at winning his way back into her good graces?

No, he might not have known Sybil for as long as Aragorn had, but he had some wits about him. He knew such overtures would only cause discomfort. And that was the very last thing he wanted.

As it was, she was among those of the Fellowship who were the last to wake each morn. Unused to journeys such as this, the adjustment was taking its toll, and would do so for a while yet. Unhelped, he thought, by the fact that she was not sleeping comfortably. If he was not confident that he could wake and retrieve his cloak long before she woke herself, he wouldn't have done what he did. Long before any of the Fellowship knew, too, for the life he'd lived left him with a good ability to be one of the first to rise.

That, too, he liked – not necessarily because of secrecy, but because he also suspected she would not thank him if all witnessed it, and she had no knowledge of it at all.

Boromir intended to leave it at that, but the next words sprang from his mouth before he could convince himself not to voice them.

"I mean her no harm," he said.

He meant her the very opposite of harm. And he said to, not so much for Aragorn's benefit, but for his own. There had been eyes on them as of late, he would be a fool if he had not noticed, and while some – namely Masters Merry and Pippin – seemed to take amusement in whatever was happening here (although they took amusement in everything), he did not dare fool himself into thinking that all the attention was founded in mere, detached interest and little more. He had saved her life. He had gotten her to Rivendell. Did the thoughtless words that follow cancel that all out, and dictate that he could not be trusted around her?

By that logic, Gandalf and Pippin should never be allowed to sit alone again. Nor Legolas and Gimli, for that matter.

No, he did not say it because he had anything to prove to Aragorn. Instead, he merely needed the peace of mind afforded by the fact that he had said it. For a brigand would simply play the fool and pretend not to notice the scrutiny, hoping it would pass so they could carry on with their own malintent. And he harboured none.

Aragorn watched him for a few long moments, and Boromir returned the gaze unflinchingly. Finally, the other man inclined his head, making to fill the pipe he'd brought along on his watch with him.

"I believe you," Aragorn said finally.

For some reason, that only rankled Boromir further. But he held his tongue, and retired.

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