[ Another laugh, one not without humor but dryer than most. ] I'll probably prove lacking.
[ They're in the exotics room of the barracks, by now, and he leads her most of the way towards his bunk before he pauses, turning back towards her and lifting her hand in his own slightly with a dip of his head, maybe a slight bow -- a vague imitation of what he thinks might be a courtly gesture. Probably comes across as clumsy, albeit well-intended, but Wash is well used to letting himself look a fool. He lets go of her hand, moving closer to his bedside, pausing for a moment just to think on how to navigate his robes and managing it surprisingly gracefully as he eases down to one knee.
The rapier is hidden away, tucked to one side under his bunk, wrapped carefully in some spare sheet he'd managed to find -- he has no scabbard to keep it in. It's practical, and a way to hide it in case the Cetagandans decide they'd rather keep everyone strictly unarmed, but there's something else, too, maybe obvious in the way he treats it so gently, resting it on his knee, the way he unwraps it so carefully but also looks like he's done it quite a few times before.
Like this is precious to him. Like he's spent a few restless nights just turning the weapon over between his hands.
When he has it unwrapped, he's rising carefully to his feet, maybe somewhat unsure about how exactly one should present a sword to a queen. He ends up holding it out in front of him, one hand on the hilt, one hand under the blade. ]
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[ They're in the exotics room of the barracks, by now, and he leads her most of the way towards his bunk before he pauses, turning back towards her and lifting her hand in his own slightly with a dip of his head, maybe a slight bow -- a vague imitation of what he thinks might be a courtly gesture. Probably comes across as clumsy, albeit well-intended, but Wash is well used to letting himself look a fool. He lets go of her hand, moving closer to his bedside, pausing for a moment just to think on how to navigate his robes and managing it surprisingly gracefully as he eases down to one knee.
The rapier is hidden away, tucked to one side under his bunk, wrapped carefully in some spare sheet he'd managed to find -- he has no scabbard to keep it in. It's practical, and a way to hide it in case the Cetagandans decide they'd rather keep everyone strictly unarmed, but there's something else, too, maybe obvious in the way he treats it so gently, resting it on his knee, the way he unwraps it so carefully but also looks like he's done it quite a few times before.
Like this is precious to him. Like he's spent a few restless nights just turning the weapon over between his hands.
When he has it unwrapped, he's rising carefully to his feet, maybe somewhat unsure about how exactly one should present a sword to a queen. He ends up holding it out in front of him, one hand on the hilt, one hand under the blade. ]
-- Here. [ Somewhat lamely. ]