Wheeling Gull Isle if only time flew like a dove

She just kept watching him, although Driftwood was sure there must be way more interesting things about for her to be doing. There was something a little off about her expression now, though; less intense than before, more...reserved? He wasn't sure. Maybe she was reevaluating her consideration of this particular wolf for accolades and promotions...which meant maybe the rotten salmon had done its job somehow after all, huh. And he hadn't even had to die a dramatic writhing choking death there on the sand for it. Great?

He'd thought the terribad offer she'd so doubtlessly been about to make was going to be the death of him... but to his surprise, she took yet another unexpected turn. Driftwood just didn't know what to make of this bitch: she was almost fascinatingly mercurial but how pray tell was one supposed to know how to react to any of it?! Like the ever-changing seas she could be calm and welcoming one moment only to be stirred to stormy wrath and deadly danger the next, he felt. And now, and now she was... telling him he was handsome? Driftwood's jaw clicked shut with a snap, and for a long moment his eyes simply kept on staring at her, as the awkward silence stretched almost unbearably long. The gears in Driftwood's brain seemed ready to freeze up, screeching along and fighting the flakes of rust that tried to stop their every clunking movement. Had he really heard her say what he'd thought she just said? It seemed impossible, but, but... but he did notice now that she seemed to be becoming almost as acutely uncomfortable as he himself.

This did seem more than a little ironic, that possibly at this point both of them were so horrendously embarrassed that perhaps all parties involved now wished this whole scene had never taken place to begin with. (Including, most probably, Driftwood abruptly and incongruously, the fish. Undoubtedly.) You... you're... Say something, Driftwood—ye gods! Not something stupid or awkward or terrible or putting your foot back in your mouth though, not THAT— Well, that seemed to narrow down the array of options rather severely to something perilously close to if not right at zero. You, uh...think I'm handsome? he said in bewilderment, upon which his expression instantly changed to one of pure mortification. I, I mean... I didn't think you looked at me like that, ever! I thought you hated me if anything, or, or...I don't know! Ah, there went his runaway tongue again. Great. He did at least stop himself before he blabbered out that he'd thought it quite possible Moorhen hated everyone in fact—except for Seelie, naturally, because who could ever hate the wonderful and gentle and kind Seelie?—or that yeah, Driftwood had always been more than a little discomfited by her and her scary, judging, strange eyes that so liked to skewer one's soul.

This was a new side to the girl, however. A completely new side. And while Driftwood didn't know just what to do with that, and was pretty acutely uncomfortable about it, he also found that he was... intrigued? There was something about her newfound vulnerability here that was distinctly appealing. Or maybe...maybe it was the unusually alluring note to her scent that he had only just now become vaguely cognizant of, as he drifted haphazardly closer to her and a sudden skirl of the breeze carried her essence directly toward him. Driftwood couldn't help but reach out his nose a little further for a bit of a deeper and more appreciative sniff. Then he remembered she'd been trying to say some things to him—important things he had trouble believing entirely, but which in the wake of her scent suddenly seemed infinitely more plausible than just a moment before. You're pretty stunning yourself, he blurted unthinkingly. Which he almost immediately wanted to take back, and yet—it was only the truth, wasn't it? The...possibly not entirely complimentary truth, if he was to be entirely truthful with himself: the choice of word had been no accident, with Driftwood frequently rendered meek and speechless by her domineering, steely-eyed presence. That...might not be how Moorhen herself took it, though. Driftwood caught his breath as he trapped his tongue between his teeth; he wanted to take his words back and yet he also didn't. His heart beat itself against his ribcage like a trapped bird desperate for escape as he wondered which way the wind would shift next. This was new territory he was exploring, which seemed wildly unsafe and terrifying for him in the normal course of events, but somewhere deep down he suddenly kind of...liked it?

Oh gods of little fishes and crabs, what was this crazy bitch doing to him?! Driftwood was feeling less and less himself here, but somehow as he realized that he also found himself wondering if that was entirely a bad thing. If maybe this new and different self in these new and different circumstances was one he favored, or ought to. If this crazy bitch with the scary eyes didn't come roaring back and go ripping out his throat for daring to be different, that was; something in him was still afraid of that, too, as his wide, slightly wild eyes desperately sought out hers.