Judging by his blank look, it definitely means nothing to him at all. But it sounds reasonably important and it makes some sense, on account of her saying she'd been in her world's military, so he nods.
"Oh so you're way older than you look too, like me." He chuckles. "And trust me, it's better not to be a local celebrity around here. Enjoy your anonymity."
Explaining the Captain America mythos, the whole long story, would take far too much time and is definitely not something to try and explain while they're walking back to their lodgings for the night, so she doesn't bother. Maybe she'll elaborate another time; she's rather enjoying being just another woman walking around, even if she is dressed strangely and suspiciously good-looking.
"Just over a hundred," she confirms, regarding her age. "You?"
"About the same." He says. "You look much better for your age than I do." He laughs, getting the door for her when the reach the inn and trailing after her through the dining room, which has started to thin out in a way that makes Eskel feel at ease. Fewer staring eyes.
"Well, I spent over half of that encased in ice, so that probably helped slow things down a bit," she admits, leading the way through the inn dining room back to the room they'd been in earlier, avoiding the stares of the few patrons still around by simply pretending she hasn't noticed if anyone's looking her direction.
When they're alone again, Eskel pointedly settles in the rough-hewn chair by the fire with his back turned to her so she can change. Just because he's seen her naked once doesn't mean he wants to cross that line again, especially given the previous circumstances.
"The innkeep might insist we eat in here, but you might as well get comfortable and settled into the new clothes." He says.
She notes the pointed way he turns his back on her but doesn't comment — if he's trying to convince her he's anything other than a terribly nice, conscientious man governed by deeply-held principles and a desire to do the right thing he's doing an absolutely terrible job of it — just lays out her things on the bed and sets to wrestling her armored suit off.
"If given the choice, I admit I wouldn't choose this shit over real clothes," she says as she finally gets the top unzipped and hauls it off over her head. She leaves her bra on before pulling her shirt on, just because she's gotten so used to wearing them that it would be strange not to, then quickly hauls on the trousers too. After adjusting the way things lie against her for a moment, she clears her throat and sets her hands on her hips.
"You look good in those." He says, when he's shuffled the chair around. "Much better." She'll still stand out a little-- especially since such blond hair is a rarity this far north, though not unheard of-- but not as jarringly now. Now she's just a very pretty young woman: notable but not likely to draw undue attention. Well, if she wasn't traveling with a witcher, anyway, but it couldn't be helped. "More comfortable?"
"Very," she agrees, plucking at the blouse a little and guiltily enjoying how soft it feels between her fingers. The neckline needs a little adjusting, she can't quite tell how it lies without a mirror, but she feels miles more comfortable in loose, soft fabrics than she did in her armored suit.
"Don't mention it." He says, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. "Makes my life easier too, you being less conspicuous and more comfortable." He really doesn't want her to feel like she owes him, he's never been that kind of guy and he doesn't intend to start now.
"You know what would make your life easier?" she asks, lifting her eyebrows at him. "Leaving me behind."
But he won't, she knows that now, and she also knows he'll resist any and all attempts to repay him, because he's a noble idiot. She's known plenty of noble idiots in her life, herself included, and they're all the same. She has to come up with a way to repay him that he can't refuse, or one so sneaky he doesn't realize she's doing it.
"Maybe. But that would have been wrong and I was raised better than that." He says and then barely conceals a wince. Vesemir's gonna kill him for bringing an outsider to the keep, and one with such an outlandish need. But what else can he do? Leave Steph to bumble around the wilderness until something ate her or a pack of men found her and did far worse? Fuck no. He'd let people get hurt by his inaction before, he wouldn't do so again.
She smiles at him, her expression soft. "I'm beginning to see that."
After a moment, she claps her hands lightly on her thighs. They can talk about her gratitude and his refusal to accept it all night, if they want, or they can try to sort out what they're going to do going forward. "You said something about food? Or are we going to fight over who gets to sleep in the bed?"
"Food first." He says. "And then we can fight about the bed." He says, in a tone that suggests he's very committed to his sleeping on the floor. "Come on, let's see what's on offer this late in the evening." He says, once again going to get the door for her.
She just hums as he stands up and walks past her, equally committed to refusing to let him give up the bed so easily. He's done enough for her already, up to and including not sleeping yesterday so that she could. Following in his wake, she pushes her hair out of her face and tries to look like she belongs here.
The innkeep-- who in a place this small doubles as the barman-- doesn't insist Eskel eat in his room so the witcher figures things aren't too dire even with how the peasants carried on, or the muttering he can hear here and there in the dining room. He chooses a place where he can sit with his back to the wall.
Dinner is a heavy mutton and mushroom soup made with dark ale, with a crusty oat bread to dip in it and an early tart cider to wash down the earthiness of it. Eskel eats with his customary enthusiasm and efficiency watching to see if she enjoys her meal or at least finds satisfaction in it. It might be the last really good meal they have for a while, especially since Eskel doubts anyone at home will feel especially charitable cooking for the extra mouth he's made by bringing a stranger home unannounced.
It's the kind of food she's grown unused to having — even so-called simple American food has become weirdly gourmet compared to what she was used to growing up, and this definitely doesn't remind her of any of the fusion places she's grown to love around her apartment — but it's hearty and warm, and she's hungry enough to tuck in eagerly when it's set in front of her.
Even dried rations and game is better than some of the MREs she's choked down in her life. She'll explain those to him another night, over a different dinner; right now, she's using the bread to sop up the last of her sauce and all but licking her fingers clean.
"Beer doesn't really do anything for me," she admits. She's happy to drink it for the taste, though, some little part of her brain reminding her of a half-remembered fact about the safety of medieval drinking water and the prevalence of beer as an alternative.
"Still tastes good." He says. "Even if it doesn't get you drunk. Not that I'm tryin' to get you drunk." He says, somewhat warily. "Just enjoy this brief civilization." He pushes his bowl aside and stretches.
She glances up at him, watching him silently for a moment before rolling her eyes and elbowing him in the side.
"Relax," she says, almost laughing. "I know you're not trying to get me drunk to take advantage of me. You're the one who stopped us in the middle of fucking because you realized we weren't fully in control of ourselves. You kept watch over me while I slept. I know I can trust you."
And if he ever does anything she doesn't like, she trusts herself enough to know she can at least give him one hell of a fight in return. She's not worried.
His rough face assumes a funny expression. He's glad to be trusted, because he knows he tries to be decent but it'd odd to hear someone say it out loud.
He waves for another beer, watching the room with those bright eyes of his. Demonstrating that he's bad at small-talk, lost in the observations trained into him both as a practicality of the job and a lifetime of violence.
Stephanie is just as happy to sit in silence and watch the room as Eskel is, though her observation has less to do with vigilance and more to do with curiosity. She's only ever seen places like this in movies or in television shows. The pubs and inns she's set foot in have all been bigger, brighter, cleaner than this, and it's fascinating.
Her fingers itch for a pencil and some paper, and she silently laments the fact that she has no way to capture this scene, so she makes do with simply committing it all to memory as best as she can. Maybe she can copy it down onto paper another time.
"S'alright," she protests, though she is a little bit bored, and part of her is wistfully thinking of that mattress that she's still fully intending on making Eskel sleep on. One night of sleep on a leather bedroll after multiple sleepless ones hasn't completely erased her sleep debt, and while she can function perfectly well right now, she'd love a nap.
Still, she stands, straightening her pretty embroidered blouse, and cracks her neck. "How long is the trek to get to...where we're going?"
"Almost a week." He says. "And rough going for the second half of it. Sorry." He says, tossing some coins on the table to settle the bill and retreating to the little room by the kitchen. He starts to unpack his bedroll, nudging what little other furniture the room possesses aside to make room.
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"Oh so you're way older than you look too, like me." He chuckles. "And trust me, it's better not to be a local celebrity around here. Enjoy your anonymity."
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"Just over a hundred," she confirms, regarding her age. "You?"
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"The innkeep might insist we eat in here, but you might as well get comfortable and settled into the new clothes." He says.
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"If given the choice, I admit I wouldn't choose this shit over real clothes," she says as she finally gets the top unzipped and hauls it off over her head. She leaves her bra on before pulling her shirt on, just because she's gotten so used to wearing them that it would be strange not to, then quickly hauls on the trousers too. After adjusting the way things lie against her for a moment, she clears her throat and sets her hands on her hips.
"Well. How do I look?"
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"Thank you, Eskel. Really."
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But he won't, she knows that now, and she also knows he'll resist any and all attempts to repay him, because he's a noble idiot. She's known plenty of noble idiots in her life, herself included, and they're all the same. She has to come up with a way to repay him that he can't refuse, or one so sneaky he doesn't realize she's doing it.
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After a moment, she claps her hands lightly on her thighs. They can talk about her gratitude and his refusal to accept it all night, if they want, or they can try to sort out what they're going to do going forward. "You said something about food? Or are we going to fight over who gets to sleep in the bed?"
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Dinner is a heavy mutton and mushroom soup made with dark ale, with a crusty oat bread to dip in it and an early tart cider to wash down the earthiness of it. Eskel eats with his customary enthusiasm and efficiency watching to see if she enjoys her meal or at least finds satisfaction in it. It might be the last really good meal they have for a while, especially since Eskel doubts anyone at home will feel especially charitable cooking for the extra mouth he's made by bringing a stranger home unannounced.
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"Eat up, cause it's gonna be dried rations and game for a while." He jokes. "And definitely avail yourself of the beer."
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"Beer doesn't really do anything for me," she admits. She's happy to drink it for the taste, though, some little part of her brain reminding her of a half-remembered fact about the safety of medieval drinking water and the prevalence of beer as an alternative.
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"Relax," she says, almost laughing. "I know you're not trying to get me drunk to take advantage of me. You're the one who stopped us in the middle of fucking because you realized we weren't fully in control of ourselves. You kept watch over me while I slept. I know I can trust you."
And if he ever does anything she doesn't like, she trusts herself enough to know she can at least give him one hell of a fight in return. She's not worried.
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He waves for another beer, watching the room with those bright eyes of his. Demonstrating that he's bad at small-talk, lost in the observations trained into him both as a practicality of the job and a lifetime of violence.
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Her fingers itch for a pencil and some paper, and she silently laments the fact that she has no way to capture this scene, so she makes do with simply committing it all to memory as best as she can. Maybe she can copy it down onto paper another time.
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"Fuck, sorry, you must be bored half to death." He says. "Get lost in my own head sometimes. C'mon, let's go to bed."
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Still, she stands, straightening her pretty embroidered blouse, and cracks her neck. "How long is the trek to get to...where we're going?"
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