Welcome! Another prompt from the 100 today; number 81, 'Pen and Paper'. The request was actually just for Tim, but well, there was some hatred going on towards JayTim shippers so I wrote this. (Fun fact, when people genuinely tell me I shouldn't ship something, usually I write more things for it just out of spite.) Enjoy!

No warnings!

...and the line of succession passed from Adrianna to her daughter, Elaine, second of her name, upon occasion of her death. The new queen, being only fourteen years of age—

The candle sputters, and he glares at it as if he can somehow compel it to stay lit solely with the power of his mind. It flickers again, as if taunting him, and though the words on his scroll call to him, urging him to finish just one more word, one more paragraph, past experience tells him he'll regret letting the candle actually go out. Trying to navigate his work space in the dark is a recipe for disaster.

Glaring at the candle as if it's personally offended him — which it has — he leans over to take the jar holding his spare and pull it closer. He lights it off of the old one, carefully pushes a few older scrolls aside to make a space for it, and then blows the old one out.

"You need a new wick soon," he comments, staring at the old candle. "Wax is still usable though. Could have at least let me finish the chapter; you're being petty."

"I'm pretty sure it doesn't have a mind of its own," someone says from behind him, and he comes about a quarter of an inch away from knocking his ink bottle over onto his half-finished copy of the scroll as he whips around.

There's a man standing just inside his partially open door, in the steel armor of a knight and with a tray of food balanced in gloved hands. He's tall, with short black hair, blue-green eyes, and a mouth currently curved into a small smirk. There's a fascinating streak of white in his hair, falling over his forehead from his left temple, almost far enough to be in his eye. He instantly itches to touch it, to study it, to see if there's a scar it stems from or whether it's something more obscure. Magic, maybe? His parents would scoff at the idea but he's sure it exists. He's seen enough texts of it to believe.

"What are you doing here?" he remembers to ask, belatedly.

There's no crest on the front of the armor, so… hedge knight, maybe. No larger house, or the crest would be obvious, and if he was just a guard he'd have poorer armor and the Drake crest on it instead. He doesn't recognize the man, but he isn't particularly well acquainted with the knights his family has working for them. He's never found it necessary to remember their faces or looks; he knows almost all the noble families by heart anyway, and usually knows their ancestry better than they do.

The man raises an eyebrow; lifts the tray a bit. "Being conscripted into service. Apparently you forget to eat a fair amount? And apparently the actual servants are terrible at getting you to stop working long enough to have a decent meal."

He frowns, peering at the tray and then at the knight. "I take care of myself perfectly fine without meddlers. Why are you in armor? Are you going to hold a sword to my throat while I eat? Why do you think that I can't multitask and eat while I work? It's not like one task is incompatible with the other."

For a second, the knight just stares at him with something like befuddled amusement. Then the knight snorts, shakes his head, and answers, "Because I literally got this shoved in my hands by my commander two minutes after getting back from patrol; that seems like a great way to get myself beheaded so no; and I don't have any information about how well you multitask so I don't have an opinion on it either. Where do you want the tray?"

"Anywhere is fine," he answers idly, distracted again by that streak. At least the knight answered his questions decently enough; so many people stutter or freeze when he asks them 'complicated' questions or talks to them too quickly. "Can I touch your hair?"

Another strange look. "No." The knight glances around, then adds, "The only open space is the floor. What are you defining as 'anywhere'?"

"Anywhere is fairly self explanatory. It's not a strange request; your streak is interesting." He turns his chair around with a painfully loud scrape of wood on stone, so he can look without having to twist. "What caused it? Is the texture different than the rest? How long have you had it? If it was an injury, what sort?"

The knight steps forward, picking empty spots of the floor to step on with a cautiousness that most other visitors to his room do not. He still watches carefully, ready to snap at the man if one of those heavy boots starts to come down on any of his books or scrolls. The knight reaches him, and then promptly sets the tray of food down right in his lap. He stares.

"You're right," the knight says, with a twisting smirk, " 'anywhere' is pretty self explanatory. Eat the food, Lord Drake."

The knight's faster as he turns and heads back across the room, taking the crooked path of empty spots with more familiarity. It takes him longer than it should — thinking about the way that mouth curved, the glimmer of mischief in blue-green eyes — to shock his mind back into action and actually manage to find words.

"Wait!" The knight tenses a little bit, but does turn around with one arched eyebrow. "Your hair," he repeats. "Let me touch it."

"No," is the flat answer, and he frowns, then narrows his eyes and gives a sharp smile.

"You let me, or I don't eat this."

The knight looks distinctly unimpressed at his ultimatum, and both arms rise, crossing in front of the steel armor. "How about I go get this armor off, and if that food is actually gone when I come back I'll let you poke at my hair."

He glances down at the food. Nothing particularly fancy, but it does smell good, and he is hungry, now that he thinks about it. "Deal," he agrees, abruptly.

"Great. Eat." With that demand, the knight turns around and heads out his door, closing it again with a quiet thunk.

He stares at the door for another couple seconds, wondering if the knight is actually planning on coming back or if this is just some play to make him actually eat the meal without accidentally letting it sit for a couple hours beforehand. It's not as if he doesn't eat; he could hardly function at the levels he does for long if he didn't eat at all. He just… gets lost in the words sometimes. It's hardly as drastic as they make it sound.

He could hide the food. Make it seem like he's eaten, to see if the knight will actually honor their deal. But then he's hardly honoring the deal either. He probably shouldn't do that, even if it does appeal.

No, he'll eat, but if the knight doesn't come back he'll track him down instead. It can't be that hard to track down someone with a white streak of hair.

He sighs at the ornate wooden door that's all that separates him from one crazy, tiny, lord. You'd never know it seeing him at a distance, in public. He's seen the little Lord Drake at gatherings before, and festivals. Carefully dressed, smiling, and wow, apparently that's all an act.

That, or he was just never close enough before to actually hear what comes out of his mouth. It's kind of bizarrely fascinating. A little amusing, in a strange way. The aggression contained within the small body, the ink-stained fingers and face, the narrowed eyes… It would be threatening if Lord Drake wasn't half his size, and he couldn't — probably literally — snap him in half if he wanted to. As it is, it's kind of… cute? Oh, that's probably a bad way to let himself think.

He braces himself, then pushes the door open and slips inside. It's still dim inside, lit by a single candle on the desk that dominates the room, and he wrinkles his nose at the smell of smoke that clings to the air. God, how does the kid manage to spend so much time in here? The clutter, the smoke, and the terrible lighting would drive him nuts all by themselves, never mind how small the space is even if there weren't stacks and stacks of books and scrolls.

The lord's bent over the desk again, quill scratching against the paper he has spread out and pinned down by smooth stones. He watches for a second, before carefully stepping closer, tapping one of his boots louder against the stone floor to try and get his attention.

Nothing, so he — quietly, remembering the last time that he startled the lord — calls, "Lord Drake."

A tiny flinch, but not the enormous jerk-and-spin that he caused last time. Drake very carefully puts the quill down, then straightens up and twists to look back at him. Those blue eyes light up, and then those lips curl into a pleased, kind of beautiful smile. He kind of awkwardly tries to smile back, but he's pretty sure he doesn't get his mouth to curve so much as quirk at one corner. It's weird when people are genuinely pleased to see him, these days. Most people see him as either a threat to his older brother's eventual throne, or just another random knight trying to be more noble than he is.

"You're back!"

He nods, then remembers to ask, "Did you eat?" Drake flicks a hand in answer, and he follows the path down to the tray he brought in — on the floor now, why is he even surprised? — earlier, its dishes empty apart from the remnants of the meal. "Alright, great. So…"

"Come here," Drake demands, making grabby hands at him.

He stares for a second, marveling at the weird mix of immature and viciously intelligent that the lord seems to be, before cautiously obeying. It's much easier to make his way across the room without his armor weighing him down, and it only takes him maybe a dozen seconds to get through all of the seemingly random piles to stand before Drake. At the tug to his arm, he slowly kneels down, bowing his head a little to offer the top of it. Why his hair, of all things? His streak makes him different, but it's not like it's fascinating enough to warrant this, is it? At least, it isn't to him, but then again it is his, so…

"Sit down," comes the order. "Don't just perch there; it's not like I'm going to rip it out or something."

He does his best to restrain his wince, and carefully shifts so he's sitting in front of the lord instead of kneeling, legs crooked off to one side, but still keeping himself contained within the limited free space available. The lord's fingers touch his hair, gently combing the rest of his bangs away from his face, and then sliding back through the rest of his hair. It's… strange, to just sit here and let someone play with his hair, but it's not exactly a bad kind of strange.

"What's your name?" the lord asks, actually avoiding his streak for the moment.

"Jason," he answers, after a moment's debate of whether to include a last name, and then another of which name he'd choose to use if he did. "What's so fascinating about the streak, Lord Drake?"

"Tim," is the immediate correction. "It's different. Different interests me. Information interests me. Something happened to cause this and I want to understand what it was."

He stays very still, but raises his gaze to look up at Lord Drake. Tim. "Most people just say I'm cursed."

Tim's gaze flicks down to meet his, and he gets a slightly sharp smile. "Most people are quick to believe that unexplained things are magical, haven't you noticed? The more you know, the less things seem like magic." The fingers in his hair finally slide down, combing through the streak itself. "Magic may yet be real, but curses don't concern me, and I highly doubt that's what this is. There are other records of people with streaks, usually caused by trauma to the skull. Or cases of those with hair gone grey early that came in as streaks. It's not unheard of."

The fingers slide across his scalp, and he keeps his gaze turned up, waiting for the reaction to what he knows Tim won't find. Sure enough, there's a slight widening of eyes, and then a slower, more thorough pass.

"There's no scar." He hums agreement, letting his fingers tap against his thighs to keep them occupied. "Was there an impact that didn't leave one?"

"I'm sure I've gotten hit in the head quite a bit," he answers wryly, "but no. No injuries match up. Sorry, Lo— Tim; physicians for my family already did all this theorizing. Best answer they could come up with was that I'd been touched by death, so…"

The moment after he says that he wants to sew his mouth shut, and he winces and looks away as Tim's hands still. No one who's ever heard that tidbit of information has managed to look at him the same afterwards; why is he tempting fate by telling it to a lord that he was sort of hoping to serve underneath for a while? He'll be lucky if he's not thrown out on his ass; he's learned the hard way that most people think him being among their troops 'risks' the others. It's why he's had such a hard time finding somewhere to belong since he left home.

Everywhere he's tried has either recognized him for the second-in-line that he is, and thought to use him against his brother, or chased him out for being cursed. Apparently he really just needs to keep his mouth shut from now on.

"Something had to have happened," Tim says, voice not as fearful or rejecting as he expected it to be. "Would you tell me what it was?"

He hesitates for a second, then sighs and dips his head in acquiescence. "I was in a village that got attacked by… by a madman. I was the only survivor, but no one found me for a couple days afterwards, and I was pinned under a building that had come down. After they got me out, this started growing in white. Plenty of other injuries, but nothing to the head; sorry to burst your theory."

"Theories only exist to be proved or disproved," Tim says, voice a little distant. "It just started growing white? Slowly, yes? Not all at once?"

He snorts at the thought. "Yeah, no. If it had just suddenly turned white I'm pretty sure they would have burned me or something. It grows normally; no faster or slower than any of the rest of my hair."

The fingers pull away from his scalp, combing lightly through the actual streak again. "It's a bit thinner than the rest of your hair. Finer." He looks up as Tim pulls away, and the brilliant blue eyes are slightly narrowed, still fixed on his hair. "Touched by death, hm? Fascinating." A breath, and then Tim is meeting his eyes, smiling as he says, "Thank you. You can go now, Jason."

He pauses for a moment, and then blurts, "Really? That's it?"

Tim shifts back in his chair, hands lacing together as the smile turns to a slight smirk. "What, were you expecting me to cut it all off? It's just hair; nothing I can learn from it." Those hands part again, gesturing vaguely past him at the door. "Go on; I have work to get back to."

He raises an eyebrow, but takes the permission for what it is. It's easy enough to get his legs back underneath him, and get back to his feet, as Tim turns his chair back around to face the desk. He leans down to collect the tray off the floor — he's not just going to leave it for whenever a servant happens to come through next — and winces at the rest of the haphazard stacks, and the dust. God, there is so much dust in here, piled in corners and clinging to the books like a second film. How long have they been in here? When was the last time anyone cleaned this place?

"How much time do you spend in here?" he asks, looking around as he balances the tray.

"As much as I'm allowed," is the answer. "There are still hundreds of books that should be copied, to preserve them in case anything happens to the originals. The information within is quite interesting too. Like this one; it's a chronicle of a far West land where titles are passed down through the female side of the family as opposed to the male, like we do in this land. There are compelling reasons in here, actually. Not that anyone will listen, but it's an interesting thought to try and concoct an argument for."

"Most of the women in my family are scarier than the men," he agrees, a bit distracted. "Does anyone ever come in and clean this place? Servants? Anyone?"

The look Tim gives him, over one shoulder, is almost horrified. "No! These are delicate, priceless works. No one should touch them with anything but extreme caution."

He gives a look back. "You've got them stacked on the floor. They're covered in dust and the air is smoky. This can't be good for them." He peers down at the stacks, and then asks, "Do you even need all of these in here? You can't possibly need them all."

Tim follows his look, and then slowly admits, "No. Not… all of them. I haven't found time to take some of them back to the library. Or archives." Another pause. "Or… the people I borrowed them from."

"... How long ago did you borrow them?" he asks, not entirely sure he wants to know the answer.

Tim peers at the stacks, and then offers, "A… while? I'm not sure." The disbelief must be obvious on his face, because Tim's tone is a little defensive when he says, "No one's ever asked for them back. I'd give them back if anyone asked. I know where things are."

"Of course they haven't asked," he counters, choosing to entirely ignore the claim that Tim actually knows where everything in this mess is, "you're a lord. You're an heir to a kingdom. You don't ask for things back from someone like that. Plus, most people don't tend to put all that high a value on books so I doubt they're really gnawing at the bit to get them back. Some of them probably forgot they even loaned anything."

"Great; solves the whole thing."

He shakes his head, almost says something about that not really being the problem, and then carefully swallows the words back down. "Alright, well, you might want to get on that at some point. If only to give yourself a little bit of room to actually walk around in here." Before Tim can say anything to counter that, he takes a careful step backwards and continues, "Have a good day, Lord Drake."

"You too," Tim echoes, with another vague gesture that might be a wave, if he squints.

He feels a smile tug at the corner of his mouth again, but chooses to ignore it as he heads for the door. One crazy, sort of cute lord isn't going to charm him that easily.

Shit.

"Come in," he calls absently, when there's a knock on the door of his study. A servant with… a meal of some kind, undoubtedly. Breakfast? Yes, it should still be breakfast. He doubts enough time has passed for it to be lunch.

The door opens, and he doesn't even glance back, just says, "Set it anywhere."

A familiar sounding snort, which gets him to raise his head and look over his shoulder. "Yeah, I'm not setting it on the floor," says an equally familiar voice, with a sort of dry sarcasm.

"Jason?" He sets his quill down and turns the chair a little, twisting to face the knight a little more. "What are you doing here?"

Jason is picking his way across the room with that same care to not disturbing anything, and doesn't look up as he answers, "Well, they told me no one else has had success getting you to eat promptly in a very long time, so your parents kind of… assigned me to you? I'm bringing you your meals now, apparently."

He frowns for a second — he does not need a caretaker — but then it eases away. Jason is kind, tolerant of his curiosities if not fully understanding of them, and careful around his books. There are much worse people that could have been assigned to him, even if he doesn't really appreciate being assigned one at all. That is an issue to take up with his parents, not the knight following their orders.

"Your presence is not entirely unwelcome," he admits, and then turns the chair and reaches up for the tray as Jason draws closer. "Tell me about your family."

One eyebrow rises. "Why?"

"To give me something interesting to listen to while I eat." Jason seems unconvinced, so he smiles, and semi-sarcastically adds, "Please?"

The knight rolls his eyes, but shrugs and agrees. "Alright, fine. But if this is going to be a thing, you're going to need a second chair in here. This is the last time I'm sitting on the floor."

The second smile is real. "Deal."