Strongjaw & The Dish

13

It had been a very strange night and the day was not showing signs of it getting better. Trisha pulled the cloak tighter, biting down hard to stop her teeth from chattering. She'd not slept well, and exhaustion was dragging her lids down even as she rode, the sway of the animal oddly soothing now that the cold had stolen all the aches from her body and left behind only numbness.

She had not expected to find Grog in the basement destroying a wooden training dummy, but she'd stayed to watch because, well, truth be told he was damn impressive. She hadn't had any thoughts of a carnal nature since the rape. Naturally, the idea should sicken her, right? Yet, even though it scared her to see him like that, she had to admit he was a damn fine specimen of masculinity. She enjoyed him more than any lover she'd ever taken. He made her feel... well, feel, and that made her far more nervous than seeing him raging in anger.

He saw her and she glimpsed, for a moment, the old Grog, but then he was withdrawn and distant again and she felt the reminder that, in his eyes, she was sullied and ruined. She made a mistake. She let herself sink into self-pity and he, quite literally, yanked her out of it. She wasn't thrilled by the bruises or the pain, but the catharsis and the reminder that she was a fighter, not a victim, had been worth a little discomfort. It was honestly not even as bad as she'd suffered when training to join the Pale Guard.

It wasn't the fight that had hurt most. It was the realization he was right. That in letting herself feel diminished in anyone's eyes, even her own, she was surrendering something vital to Vedmyer. Giving him a part of herself that was more valuable than skin or bone. He had used her body, but he could not have her soul. It was a painful epiphany that broke something inside her and when Grog Strongjaw broke something, he didn't half-ass it.

His words had shattered the box in which she'd shoved down too many pains, too many bad memories. Her guilt, her shame, there was no way to keep anything in and when everything surged out, he had been strong as a deeply-rooted tree when the floodwaters rushed through. Stalwart and surprisingly gentle he'd let her cry it out, and hadn't once mentioned it afterward.

The dinner had been equally strange. She'd seen him eat before and while he wasn't ever the most demure of dining companions last night he had eaten like he wanted to be out of there as fast as he could. After he'd bolted she'd been left alone with her thoughts. Was the gnome right? Anyone who looked at her right now would not only say the answer was 'Hell no'. Love did not leave bruises, right?

That was, to be honest, a rather racist sort of way of looking at things. Grog was not human. He was a goliath. They were not made of daffodils and bunny fur. They lived hard, rough lives and she doubted there was much in the way of softness in any part of their lives in a herd. Of course, Grog wasn't in a goliath herd. Hadn't been for years. His herd was Vox Machina and she was fairly certain they'd begun to rub off on him.

Goliaths likely didn't cuddle. They didn't wake you by petting your hair or want to be read to with their head in your lap. Those were romantic things and she didn't want some sweet romance. She wanted freedom and fire and ferocity. She wanted to be kissed until she couldn't breathe, made to feel every possible sensation. To demand her pleasure and to give it without shame or restraint. She wanted, in short, to fuck, not make love. That's why she liked him.

He understood she wasn't made for being a wife, tied down by diluted ownership as an indentured servant freeable only by her Master's death. Even if scotch was her favorite drink in all the world, a diet of only that would lead her death. She needed to be free to taste, to feel, to do what she pleased. He was the same. She was sure of it. Soon as this was over, they'd go back to how it was. Months of separation without jealousy or feelings of possessiveness and no more mention of love.