Aulfr watched her out of the corner of his eye as she stared after him, a mixture of emotions flashing across her face. Then, abruptly, she spun about and dove for the bathroom, shutting the door behind her as if hiding from what he had said. He himself felt a flicker of indecision, of conflict within. On the one hand, he vaguely wanted to go after her and set things right. Opposing that is his usual apathy slash patience- he enjoyed dropping something on someone, and then watching how they reacted to it.
 
He went with his usual route- watching the reactions. So he openly stared at the door to the washroom, half-expecting her to throw it open and charge back in, but nothing happened. After several seconds, he dismissed the notion; she was going to stay in there for some time, it seemed.
 
So he pulled out his very well sharpened sword, laid it on the table, and reached for his wardrobe for a small bottle of oil and a rag. Moments later, he was busying himself with oiling down the sword, scrubbing off any little specks of rust that had begun accumulating. He even took up a light humming, unintentionally happier, softer.
 
Then he snapped out of the humming, realizing what he was doing, and shut himself down again. It was work; he was not feeling pleasant, of course not. He just needed her to be on his side, and her falling for him is making him happy because that’s exactly what he needs- a lovesick loyal puppy. Yeah, that’s the entirety of it. Nothing more, nothing less- she’s a tool, who he’ll keep an eye on and get her to do what he wants. That’s all there is to it.
 
He had trouble keeping his thoughts straight, so he didn’t think at all, and focused on his sword.
 
He eventually finished it, maybe fifteen minutes later, and he switched to several of his other weapons. By the time Aleksandra re-emerged from her hidey hole, he had a dozen swords, over two dozen daggers, and three different bows laid out on his large table- it was now much more obvious why he had such a table in his room, especially so close to his wardrobe. All three bows were unstrung; he took care in placing them and wrapping their drawstrings up and stowing them away in a small leather pouch. Likewise, each scabbard was laid out next to its respective sword.
 
He turned at the sound of the door opening. As he always did, he took in details- and despite her determined step, she didn’t look too terribly confident, nor hostile. He set down the sword he was holding, halfway out of a scabbard, and wiped his hands with the rag, tossing it down on top of the sword.
 
He opened his mouth to say something to the woman, but was cut off as she very sloppily pressed her lips against his. He was both, for a brief moment, stunned and pleased. And then she drew away. He took a moment to recollect his thoughts, and opened his mouth again, so he could say, “Well that was interesting.” Instead, she wiped off his lip and then kissed him again- proper-like, this time.
 
When she drew away, much slower and intimate this time, he stared down at her, unreadable for a moment. Then the edge of his mouth flicked up in a momentary half-smirk, and he questioned, “Done this time? Got quite the fever for Volsung, do ya?”
 
He gave a little snort, and continued.

“I knew what you wanted me to do. Don’t mean I’m gonna do it, of course, more likely that I’m just goin’ta walk right around you.”