some of it's just really dumb

"Lady Mòrag," Brighid says tastefully, and Mòrag waits expectantly for the next half of the sentence, because it is, of course, rare for Brighid to call her such a thing when there are not other people around solely for the purpose of catching her attention and imparting the meaning she can stress into two words, four syllables, eight centuries, sixteen Drivers (a number only convenient for the moment of exponentiation, and Brighid has never been an exponent of her Driver, it's rare, it's rare, it's rare, and she's the rarest of all, a diamond uncut, et cetera, et cetera, so forth, so on).

No further information comes. Mòrag turns a cent further to more fully incline her gaze upon the (frankly, ridiculously appealing) visage of her perennially close-eyed Blade.

Brighid's eyes are still closed. There is a minute downward set to her eyebrows and adjacent bones (this including cheek), as there must be in order for her to convey expression without use of the usual human range of eye contact.

(Mòrag shames herself for this, in private, that she has even once considered requesting that Brighid attempt to test her lady's acclimation to the shape of her lids and attunement to the slightest sideward move; and, that she is so unconfident in herself as to need pay it consideration, to begin with.)

More importantly, Brighid is frowning - not her disapproval frown, which is in fact marked by the motive eye features, but her consternation frown, which tangles the corners of her lips in a way that would be devastating to her if she had the spare concentration power to devote to her usual effortlessly high-maintenance thoughts of skincare and what will best complement her routine, as a habit.

Brighid continues frowning and, ostensibly, feigning lack of awareness of Mòrag's focus upon her until the Special Inquisitor clears her throat.

"Brighid?"

(She almost calls her Lady Brighid, for...fun.)

Brighid does not start. She turns her eyes, owlish even in close, upon Mòrag, querulously. Mòrag looks back with a question in her own brows, though the hatbrim does make it hard to see. A point of comparison, then?

"You don't have bootlaces."

Mòrag cannot help a minor guffaw.

"Oh, Brighid. I thought you were going to tell me you love me."

Brighid scoffs, likely only because she is currently smarting from being, if good-naturedly and affectionately, laughed at. "As if I need to do that."