The rain lands on the windshield, liquid colors of red and white and green...
     Streetlights and traffic signals. Roundabouts and intersections. The car slides to Dylan. The songs are so down to earth they make the ride ethereal. Or maybe that's just the Jaguar hydroplaning again...
     Gloved hands give the wheel a spin and mouth grasps the body of a burning cigarette. And he leaves the posh of Kensington, rounds park and shops and slips toward the birth and death of trends in Knightsbridge...
     And he grins like a cat...
     Yeah, the reflection in the rearview mirror... just like that...
     It hasn't left him for days now...
     The ride seems slower than it is -- it is faster than it should be. And you hear the roar of the cat's engine down Dannerly. Slowing to a rumble as it approaches 156.
     Well, aren't I the kitty...

     A shower lingers...
     The form within the steam lazing there. Turning behind glass. Giving a shoulder, and then his chest, to heated water. It will remain on the skin for hours. He is slowly learning the ways...
     A chain of garnets rests on a black towel, and on the bed clothes are laid out. Something warm for the dampness of London in the Fall...

     "I called Ritzy over at Palmer's," the voice comes, the man with you emerging from a corner of the shower. He steps from the haze behind you, leaning his head into the water. His turn. "They've already gotten an estimate, and I said I'd wire them some funds to help with fixing the place up," Edward murmurs, closing his eyes as he turns around. He stands mostly beside you now, hands lifting to run across his dampening head.
     "You alright with me going out tonight? I know we just got back," water falling upon his lips, "...but someone torched it, and now..." well, they get to face him. He is not hopping angry, spouting expletives as he does when he gets dramatic. Tonight, Edward's calm. Quiet. He has been since he got the phone call from a friend, and then picked up the papers left by the front door. The tale was repeated among one of the rolls from last week.
     "At the same time," he sighs, hands running down his chest softly, slowly, "...I don't want to leave you here by yourself, ami."
     That's when his brown eyes open, lashes heavy with droplets. Edward blinks them away, hands falling away when they reach the lower parts of his stomach.
     That can be taken care of later. He almost likes the energy. It will propel him through the night.
     Edward stares at you, managing a flicker of his brow and a small smile. Amber drips around his throat as he waits for you to give him your preferences.

     He is surging energy, your Brujah brother, your lover, your childe...
     He can't project it yet, maybe one night... Oui, one night the world will feel him as much as he feels the world.
     You know it. You feel it when his wet hands slide against your skin. "Non, je ne m'occupe pas. Certainement pas. Je serai bon ici," Words are at your ear as he moves to allow you more of the water, brushes mouth against shoulder as he passes. You feel it there...
     When you return, ami...
     "Je laisserai les lezards errer autour de la maison," Valan laughs as he pauses at glass doors. He lingers there a moment. Close, but not touching. Looking. Enjoying. But not giving. A hand rests on the latch. "The lizards and I will have a party... you can crash it when you get back, ami..."
     Of course he doesn't mind. You have a role... you have had it for many years... who is he to change it...
     "But you will be alright, yes? Je ne suis pas inquiete de moi," he says, his voice drops to a hush. Green-gold eyes fix on you past the steam. He worries not for himself. He worries now... now that he knows what you do...
     More or less...
     But there's a quick smile, wide and warm. "You want something for dinner when you get back? I can make something... I can ... find us something to do when you get back..."

     The rounded black Jag, 1965. It sails into your drive and stops suddenly. There. A squeal of tires. A gunning of motor. And then it switches off.
     I should have called...
     A hand's on the cellphone now, but it's too late. Course... he could call you from your door...
     It's early evening yet. God only knows what you're doing. And The Almighty can keep that information to Himself. I'd rather, were it up to me...

     "You and the lizards, hmm?" Edward quirks, exhaling as you part from him. He should rather you stay close under the water.
     But something else causes him to turn his head further. In the direction of the driveway.
     Distracted from his earlier thoughts, Edward's brow furrows, then arches. "Someone's outside...Davydd." God. He rolls his eyes. "That man's timing is the shite," he grins, moving his hands to more visible places. Ah, but what as I saying?
     "Oh," Edward says, immersing himself under the stream while looking at you, "...I will be fine. Just following up on a few rumors. No worries. But, oui, I'm sure when I get back, dinner would be fabulous. Lucky you," Edward leans over, wet lips touching yours, "...you won't need to turn the cooker on..."

     He has learned so quickly...
     He rolls his own eyes a minute after you. "He has... what they say... ESP. He knows, yes? He calls, we are in the spa. He arrives, we are in bed or bath. Ce ne peut pas etre coincidence!"
     His laughter lands against your mouth. It finds its death there, that sound. Against. In. "How long do you think he will stand there..." he says against your mouth, body moving in steam. Doused then by water as he joins you. "Do you think he will wake the neighbors. Do you think... he will wait until I am ..." Full mouth makes a curl, "...satisfied with my goodbye..."
     What is it with the men from the Loire Valley...

     You know the likelihood better than anyone...
     Will Llewelyn wait for ten minutes, fifteen, thirty before ringing the doorbell or shouting up to your window...
     Or calling you on your cellphone...
     You heard the knock...
     Normal enough, the hand's not too heavy...
     Maybe he'll wait ten minutes...
     Maybe fifteen...

     "No," Edward's head tilts, as if listening. "No, I don't think he's drunk," he guesses, "...but who can tell?" he grins. Soaking wet arms wrap around you, the hairs upon them sleek to skin. "And no, I also don't think he'll wait until you've said your proper goodbyes..."
     Already, Edward's hands pull you flush to him, slipping downward to ensure your closeness. "He might wait long enough, he thinks, for us to dress or something," Edward chuckles, water trailing down his face, "...but not much longer." Ah well. In a few hours, your viscomte will eagerly seek you, promising the world for you to lie with him.
     Another sigh. Brows arch in surrender. "Quicker we let him in," he teases the poor man, "...the quicker the night goes..." and I return here.

     "Perhaps we should invest in an extra set of keys!"
     As if. Can you imagine giving either him or William a key to your house? They can come in whenever they damn well please, eat your food and drink your beer and wine until you come downstairs? Course, it would save you from feeling interrupted. I mean, they have keys, fuck the pair of them...
     As if.
     Valan knows it as he says it. His laughter reflects off of steam and glass. Wet hands slap to skin as strong but fine hands land and grasp. "Oui... Je le laisserai dedans. Vous terminez ici..."
     Click of door and swirl of steam. And he is gone. You can see him, a bevelled vision on the other side of the shower glass. A pause for garnets and for drying...

     There was no comment for the keys, just the scowling look of a Frenchman. Edward groans in disgust at the idea, turning back to face the water for a moment as you leave. He closes his eyes and lets the water wash away thoughts and plans.
     Let's stick to the moment, Eduard.
     Soon enough, the sound of rushing water disappears. The glass door opens again, and Edward steps out, immediately reaching for his towel. "Dieu, I don't feel like going out," he murmurs, not finding the energy for 'work' tonight. But he's back in town, and well, apparently mice will play while the cat's away...
     The towel sweeps across his head and brushes vigorously at his shoulders, waist, and legs. Cursory, really, all the action. Edward flings the towel around his waist, boxer's build obvious with the cotton's placement.
     "Alright, alright," he whispers to himself, hands coming to rub his face. The game is afoot. Shaking himself, he grins, leans over and gives you a quick kiss.
     He found his game face.
     "I'll be downstairs," he calls, deciding to quickly attend his friend. Take your time. Hand grabs sweatpants off a dressing bench, and Edward moves out of the bath, to the bedroom, and beyond.

     I have half a mind to turn my hair suddenly grey and walk with a limp. You've turned me into an old man, Meurelle. What were you waiting on, the second coming?
     Course, you could be out, what with shite on fire. Davydd backs away from the doorway, eyes lifting and giving the windows a scan. No... no you're here...
     Well, looks like I'm just waiting for you to get your kit on...
     Gloved hands make motion, and fire is the end result. Smoke billows from the mouth and nose of The Dragon as he contents himself by leaning against the wall next to the door.
     If you take a peek through yon peephole to see what condition you'll find him in, you'll see marks of Sandrine everywhere. Hair's cut short, nice and trim. The beard's cut close and narrowed to a goatee. Quiet. Green eyes lifted to thoughts, as if thoughts were stars. In the moments before either you or he speak -- that's when you see Davydd at his essence. As Himself.
     And he's still giving off light like a ruddy lightbulb...

     "What?" comes the voice as Edward pulls the door open. Latches undone, hinges squealing. He's already grinning...he'd gotten an eyeful at the peephole, to be sure. "Look at you," he grins, moving aside, dressed in robe and sweatpants. Hair wet. "Come in, Davy," Edward motions, hand open to greet you within.
     "Dinna expect to see ya," he says, already putting cigarette between his lips.

     He was already in a half pivot toward the entrance when the door opened, and the grin moves over him in a comet streak. "Everything!" he booms as he steps in. The grin widens, your hand's grabbed and his other meets your shoulder, his cigarette perched between his lips. "Bon jour, mate," well, that was supposed to be French. It sounded more like: Bone Yours. Funny, it's appropriate either way...
     "I thought I'd come and regale you with the story of my last couple of nights. Oh, and sorry to hear about the joint." Palmer's. "You need me to go with you... I'd be happy to..." Davydd's off with the long grey wool coat. Beneath that is a burdundy turtleneck. Damn. Is that silk knit? A grey woolen trousers as well. He looks off a bloody mag cover. "Where's Montague," smoke billows as he steps past the table and flicks ash in the ashtray -- well timed, that. Davydd plops down and spreads out, grin ear-to-ear as eyebrows waggle. "Recovering?"

     "I'm usually the one who needs to fuckin' recover," Edward grumps, closing the door behind you and following you to the sofa. Start with last statement and work your way back. He pulls the robe closed and takes up the large seat perpendicular to you, plopping into it and spreading out himself. Cooling off from the bath.
     "And yeah, thanks," Edward waves off the Palmer bit. "I'm about to head over there. You can come if you want, but I doubt there'll be much for you to do, save call hospital after I stomp someone into the crosswalk." And there's that. The cigarette smoke blows around him, and finally Edward exhales.
     "So, what was that about everything? Look at you...you're all dressed up? Going to some show? With her?" Edward grins, knowing you'll light up further soon enough.

     Riot!
     Davydd laughs smoke, "That's what you get for robbin' the cradle, Meurelle..." And that tickles him. But when you talk about her ... well.. yeah, fuck you for knowing how it's going to make me react. The green eyes narrow, but the mouth cocks a grin. "Maybe... you know, we haven't been going out... on the town, being seen. Causes everyone fucking heart attacks. But," he exhales smoke and fire and stamps out the cig. "...maybe I should take her somewhere." The grin falls. "It's been a wild week. We do need to talk about it."
     And it's just as well that Montague is staying upstairs, or wherever he is. Business is afoot. Davydd sits forward. No smoke. No drink. Gloves now off and tossed on his coat. Sleeves cover the dragons that live on his arms in shades of cobalt. "Her shop's been vandalized. Palmer's burned. All the kettles set on the stoves of this city are boiling and whistling... I did this," he nods to you. "And I didn't have to do much. I just had to ... seem serious. And I am. But... I want you to know, when I speak to deRancey next, I'm not tossing my hat in the ring."
     And his gaze is dead-on.

     A blink. A rise of brows. Then they fall. Ah. Well.
     "You think," Edward's brow furrows, "...this is all related?" Ah, yes. DeRancey. Palmer's. "And her shop's been burned?" Well, everything else was burned. He didn't hear about that one. "Someone burned her shop??" Okay, that's fucked up. What did she do?
     Edward sighs and sits back again, staring out across the room. Thinking. "Someone should know how burning feels, methinks." He hates fire. Especially when used deliberately. Edward's lips twitch left, then right, before he looks back at you. "Maybe we should think about this a minute."

     "No no no," he waves, "not burned... vandalized. Paint..." Davydd smirks. "Green, white and red." A gesture toward himself, the colors of Yours Truly. "And you'll never guess who was behind that one. Go on," he waves, "take a stab at it. Who would bust in on a flower shop..." Davydd leans in, green eyes widening a touch, "... great tulips there by the by if your young man fancies a bloom or two, and don't look at me that way, I like flowers and there's nothin' wrong wi' it..." Though the protest seemed a fierce quip, it's trailed by a wink.
     "We've a couple of lessons to give. But before we get off on that, I need to ... fill you in on the particulars... particularly the Mortimer and Tattinger bits. And it wasn't lost on me, boyo, that the two events happened on the same damn day..."
     Alright, I need a cigarette...
     "So go on and guess," he gets back to that. "Who'd bust in a flower shop, throw things at my woman and then litter her shop with paint." Eyes lift to you at that. Paint. His hands take out a pack and fire seems to flicker from his fingertips. Just an optical illusion. Bending time and space does that you know...

     He stares. "Fuck you, I am not into guessing," Edward charges, then grins. No, really, I'm not. "Who was it?" he sits up, leaning forward. "Fuckin arsehole that goes in and throws things at a lady..."

     "The same sort of cunt who fucks a woman on a man's prized leather chair," delivered with dead-pan clarity and a droll roll of Welsh lilt upon English words. "And then shows up at a concert, begging to be pummelled." With the cigarette, he points to you. "That sort." That fuck.
     And the anger he did not show to Sandrine -- well, not so startlingly -- bubbles up to the surface. "Vincent deFranco and some dago tart he's with busted into Sandrine's shop, an archon of his own Clan, shook her up, Tattinger's not stepping up to the plate. He's too pissy she's with me."
     Davydd flicks ash into the ashtray. "Now, they're wanting me to react and lose my feed," Davydd rumbles, voice low, held in chest and throat, "and they're hoping I just sit and do nothing to protect my ... political ambitions. But what they don't know is that my political ambitions consist of packing up and moving back to Wales. DeRancey and Beaufort can slug it out themselves if they want it. So," the smile streaks across his face, lighting him up. "that leaves me free to give the answer for this shite that I should give whenever I feel like giving it." Red eyebrows raise. "And enjoy it immensely as part of the bargain."
     Davydd breathes fire and sits forward again. "Here's the story, boyo," he murmurs. "I had a talk with deRancey. He and Beaufort are the main rivals. He wants the job, deRancey, and I'm planning on letting him have it. He sees me as his only rival, probably right there, and wants Ventrue to get on the same docket with one gent. And while he's telling me all this," Davydd sits back, exhaling smoke and a smile starts creeping over his expression, "I found that I ... just didn't care, mate. All I could think of is... how long do I think it'll take me to pack up for Powys and wonder if Sandrine will go for it... I ... didn't care, Edward. But," now the smile is a grin, "... they all know that if I did care..."
     And he leaves the rest off. If he wanted it, he'd have it. And they know it. They're in a panic.

     Edward stares and listens at you, soaking it all in. There is little questioning to your statements and inferences, save moving brows at mention of DeRancey wanting the job and Ventrue plans. He exhales again, looking away from you stare at the wall nearest the kitchen.
     Wonderful. Rather wonderful.
     Edward's free hand comes to his face, elbow on the arm of the chair. A sigh this time, not a breath. "Well," he grumbles behind the hand, thinking. "Well." All a ruse, really...and even your interest in the seat was more political than a need to run things. But that he minds not. He tosses it in with the rest of the information.
     "So," Edward finally just spits out, deciding to not ask any questions, "...what in the hell do you want to do?" His own interests and personality issues aside.

     He knew that the fires had been started...
     He knew that the Conclave would show the result of it...
     And he made a sudden manuever that shocked the city...
     And the city is showing the signs of it...
     "I was going to do it," he breathes, smoke issuing between vowels and consonants. "Particularly if she wanted to stay in London. I mean, if I'm going to stay, I'm going to be useful again... but," the smile begins to creep...
     Wider...
     Warmer...
     "She wants to go to Wales and she wants to stay...she's tired of the city. And... you know... it'd lighten the load."
     Davydd looks to you, eyebrows arching, "Mortimer's right pissed. I smoked him out, looks like. That's why he was here the next night or so after I moved up the palace. He had to see it for himself and he had to figure out if it meant what he thought it might mean. And so, knowing how we are," friends and allies, "... and knowing that he's in a tizzy because of it, no... I'm not shocked something of yours was burned. I'm just glad it wasn't your house." Cigarette is stamped out again. "Course, you lined up behind me first, Edward-bach. If you want to call me..." a hand motions, "... a smoke-and-mirrors Ventrue bastard who doesn't do what he says, go on then. You know I'll love y' anyway. And... truth, mate," a hand reaches over the space that separates you and a hand to your leg, "... I wasn't fucking with you."

     "Fucking Ventrue bullshite," Edward accuses, smiling and shaking his leg where your hand rests. Alright. That's done. Smoke and mirrors all. He sighs on the notion of his house, knowing full well no idiot would do that. That means dying. And no vampire, no matter how dead, really wants to Die.
     "She wants to go to Wales," he half-queries. Edward grins. "Wow. Alright." Weird woman, that. "And well, you'll go, if she wants. Sounds...like you two have a plan, Davy." So fast, so quick. But he is not one to complain. Edward just smiles on that. You're going away together.
     "So. I dunno who started the fire at Palmer's. I dunno who threw things at your lady, but you do. And we have a name. How about this," Edward mumbles, fingers thoughtfully, roguishly, pulling at his lips. "You're leaving. It's my city," where I live, "...and how about I see to a few things that need attending to. I have an idea about that Vincent," he grins, "...he'll never throw paint again. Ever."
     "As for Palmer's," he swallows, that more serious, "...if Mortimer's in on it, then that's my problem too, oui?" Edward looks at you, seeing if you agree. Either way, you shouldn't be too attached to the situations.

     There's a nodded shrug and a reach for the cigarette. It's the slanting grin that gives it away. "I have a mind on Vincent... you know... what he does for a living. You know who... he tries to immulate. Do you think we should put breeze up Plantagenet and see if he'd like any of Vincent's shite?"
     And a halo appears as Davydd sits back. Blithely wicked. Green eyes glittering, smile permanent and fiery brows waggling. The halo is resolutely tarnished. "Don't tell me what you're going to do. I want to read it in the papers. I live for surprises, Edward-bach..."
      And his laughter rolls from him, a foot stamps on the floor. Riot! "And, aye, Mortimer's all yours..." he smirks, then sneers. "As if anyone with a memory's going to let anyone of that name have any true real estate. Does he think we were all born yesterday and don't know he's genetically predisposed to being a rampant git?"

     He grins, "Go to Wales, Davy, with your lady." Edward smiles, now rubbing his chin. "Things will be fine in London, I promise. Time for you to leave gracefully, hmm? And make DeRancey give y' something for the trouble." Not because DeRancey's unlikable...mostly just to drive a fair bargain. "I'm sure he's a reasonable man."
     A cough, and Edward sits up, elbows on his knees. "When will ya leave? What do you need to do?" No, he's not telling you the rest of his plans, but at the mention of Plantagnet, Edward did grin.

     Satisfaction...
     Yes, I can go now with a clear mind...
     When he 'slept' -- not the torpor catatonia, but true rest in doing Nothing -- he was covered in the dust of the last Great War. What he had done for London then -- well, let's say the city owes him one.
     Now, it owes him a big one...
     When he 'woke' let it be remembered he returned to Wales...
     They'll be talking about this for the next decade at least.
     Davydd grins, a great smile that spreads from mouth to eyes to demeanor and carriage, and arms fold across burgundied chest, a hand lifting, fingers scritching at his beard. "I'll be speaking with deRancey this week. I need to..." a throat clears and he widens his eyes a touch, "speak with Isabella and Robert... mostly Isabella. One last meeting with deRancey and then we're off."
     Davydd's eyes lowers to some space in between you, gaze both distant and present. He both here and elsewhere. When he looks up, he knows he's zoned for a minute or two, and there's a bit of reddening there. Well, more than a bit. His complexion soars high for a moment. And then his arms unfold. "I won't start packing until I've told Isabella. For now, nothing will seem to have changed in Londinium. Let them sweat it out. I figure Sandrine and I'll leave in a week, start getting settled in the manor for the Winter. Oh," Davydd laughs suddenly, "...I've got to turn in my keys to Dunross. Hmmm... I'll be a bit closer to Plantagenet. This could be fun..."
     But you know... Wales is only a few hours from London as well. "We'll be through the city frequently," Davydd adds. "I couldn't not bust in on you and your saucy bit of France at inopportune moments. You'd get too comfortable, Meurelle..."
     Eyes widen and Davydd grins, "Then where would we all be?"

     "We're moving," Edward says, "...and not telling you where." Just so you know. He smirks to the next part, "Nothing wrong with comfortable, Davy," he grunts, settling back. "I'm sorta likin' it myself." Edward's brown eyes flicker upstairs.
     "So, now," he sits up, standing in the motion, "...get out. I got things to do. Call me in....a few nights, hmm?" Give him time and distance. "Or, I can call you in a few. Tell your lady...no one will come back to her shop." For damage-doing. She should be able to work in peace.

     By the time he's standing, he's shrugging on his long coat. A smirk claiming his mouth and gloves tugged on. A nudge is given to your shoulder as he moves by. "When you talk to William, don't tell him what's what... I want to burst in on him unannounced. Now there's a man who could use a bit of stirring up. He's gone from comfortable to sedate..."
     At the end of living room and the start of foyer, Llewelyn turns. The jibing look is gone. "Comfort is a good thing, boyo. It's a rare thing. I'm off to enjoy it." There's a nod to mention of the shop, a warmth to the gaze. He knew you'd handle it.
     And then green flashes in a wink. "You give Montague my regards, aye? You and he will have to come up..." It will be a standing invitation...perpetually open...

     "Brilliant," Edward grins, walking behind you to the door. As if by magic, something unlatches, and the door begins to open of its own accord. "Be safe, Davy." Have a nice time. Have a good life. He knows not when he'll see you next. Certes, it won't be too long, but with immortality, who truly knows. Things happen for good or ill, and the 'next time' could be ages away.
     "Take care of that lady, too," Edward chimes, "...it'd be a first," he teases, hands coming to settle on the open door.

     He laughs at that, "Aye, it would," the gruff holds in his chest. It wouldn't be funny if it weren't so true. "She seems to have a high endurance," Davydd quips at the door. "Tis good, she'll be needing that!" A hand is lifted in a wave as he steps out the door.
     Then you hear the chime of keys...
     Then the beeping of security disarmed...
     He's not called the ThirtyMinuter for nothing...
     She'll find out why eventually...

     And as the black Jaguar withdraws, beams lighting the way in reds and whites, there's a voice behind you: "I'll wait up, certainement..."
     It is Valan, leaning against the foyer wall. Dressed, not in what he laid out but in his crimson robe and crimson shorts. In silk. With garnets at his throat. "I think I'm going to read..." And the smile is winsome, and the grin is warm. "How long do you think you'll be?"

     He was watching his friend leave, your vicomte was, leaning against the frame of his door. Almost melancholy that, save for the smile that brightens his face when he hears your voice.
     "As long as it takes me to cross the floor to you," Edward grins, closing the door behind himself. The doors lock, as witnessed by the flashing red light at the baseboards.
     "I think I'll stay in," he says softly, already in front of you. "One phone call, and..." he sighs, "...quality time for you and me." Whatever he thought he was to do, it's been put on hold.
     Suddenly, Edward disappears from view, and his hands and arms are suddenly behind your legs and back. How the room appears from your carried vantage point!
     "Have I told you lately...that you take my breath away. If I had breath?"

     Silk is crushed, pressed to skin in the sudden hold. Crimson moves against flesh. There, it becomes like blood. And his lean frame is easily managed by you. As much now as it was when you first moved him up the winding stairs of Fleurlil.
     "J'aime la voie que ma soiree tourne," Valan murmurs, his mouth forming the quirk of a starting grin. "Shall you move me by some wine on the way upstairs or to wherever it is you are wanting to go..."
     The fencing chamber is always nice...
     It is a personal favorite of mine...
     To see you reflected there tenfold...
     He puts away the teasing look, puts away the laissez-faire tongue. Just for a moment. Gilt-green eyes show the affection, the love, everything intensely on the surface. He says nothing to that -- why speak it when his eyes say it better? But then Valan slants a smile. "I am in the mood to be breathless... how about you..."

     "You read me too well," Edward confesses, moving towards the bar. Bottle is picked up by a hooked finger beneath you. You shall not have to want for anything. "There," he murmurs, angling you both again as he begins a firm stride down the hallway.
     He pauses only slightly at the staircase, eyes spying the open chamber door at the end of the hallway.
     With you in his arms, Edward smirks and wiggles his brow as feet carry on the corridor to the darkened room ahead. Reading minds, indeed, is not purely a Ventrue trait...

Posted by rowan at May 06, 2003 12:43 AM