"Did you decide if you're going to want a car?" Edward grunts, sitting up once more on the practice pad. He falls back down, hands behind his head, body straining. His skin is bright red from the eight hundred situps he's done so far, and when he comes up again, face taut, lips pursed from breathing, he looks across his bent knees to you, to see your response.
     "I'm happy to send the Sauber to Fleurlil," four garages is as much as he can squeeze into the plot of land you have in Knightsbridge, "...which will give you a place for whatever you want." Brown eyes close and after a sharp inhale, Edward disappears below the horizon of his grey-flanneled knees, only to come up quickly again.

     "I have been thinking of the Tuscano," and who wouldn't, it's fucking marvelous. Iridescent paint, from blue to green. "It isn't practical," he continues, eyes once-hazel looking at you from every possible angle. This, his favorite room. "But then, ami, why should I start now?" Laughter. And his hair would be wet if he could sweat. He's on his second hour with the blade. Perhaps you realize now that he could have been Olympic. But now, he stretches. Legs wide in a split and he doubled over in the center, head lifted to look at you as he speaks. As he laughs. "I want something sporty, top down. But... I do not know yet. Maybe I should just drive one of yours."
     The way he drives?
     "Now... that would be practical..."

     Since your return home, and since Davydd's return to Wales, there's been very little traffic coming to this portion of Knightsbridge. Passing cars only, on their way to visit someone else. And perhaps that car in the distance is no different...

     Edward smiles through the grunt of another situp. Out of practice, indeed. No one requires such work in Spain. This time, however, he releases his form, arms falling to the side and back to prop him up. The following exhale is strong, "If you want it, that's fine ami," he swallows, "...if you want to drive..." uh oh, "...the Spider, that's fine too," he offers. The older vehicle. He's not offering the Cobra, the knowledge of such in the following grin. "But get what you wish," he murmurs.
     "Well, in fact," ah, here's the other shoe, "...I'm thinking of...um...getting something new myself..."
     Ah, now that explains the generous shuffling...

     And his head tilts with it. Ah yes, the generosity that comes from those who are about to spend money on themselves. But, it is not as if I should begrudge you anything in the world, ami. Even if you give with one hand and take with another. Tsk. Such a man. Men, we are wretches. We only think to be generous in the wake of conquests. "The Spider is nice. I will think about it. So," a leading tone issues outward as he sits up and leans back upon his hands, legs yet outspread. "What shall you be getting? Maybe, we should just get two. Yours black, mine red or green..." Valan smiles. The insinuation of it, a teasing curve. His eyes sparkle.
     We are both wretches...
     "We could match," how delightful! And his laughter reflects off the surrounding glass.

     Did you hear the car roll to a stop?
     Pull along the drive?
     Did you hear the engine cut off?
     The solid closing of a door?
     What about the alarm being activated and the steps heading toward your door...

     There. An alarm. I was too busy watching your eyes, sweet Valan, or those long legs of yours.
     "Someone's here," Edward alerts you, grinning as he shakes his head. "Matching indeed." He sighs and pushes up almost like the old man he is. "I wasn't paying attention enough to notice what engine it was..." he warns, extending a hand to you to help you rise as well.

     Such is The Life...
      Most ordinary people don't have to worry about what sort of cars pull into their drives, or who, better still, might be driving them. Most regular folk don't have to draw weapons when friends make a surprise visit, just on the off-chance that it's a foe. The joy of being ordinary. What bliss. It is not something we can know...
     But Valan does not shrink as he once did, nor does he wonder, at all, on why you do what you do and react as you react. "Ah, maybe it will be Davydd. Like old times," he actually sounds excited, your ami, by that prospect. He misses the grumbling old dragon, that roaring laughter, those raucous jokes, the emotional firebrand that is Llywelyn.
     He takes your hand, he stands with a tug, and with a kiss. "Think about it, Eduard, matching autos. We will be the most precious couple in London," Valan winks and damn near giggles. The thought of you...he... precious. How wonderfully nauseating.

     There's the ringing of your doorbell. Singularly. It rings, the note hangs there pendulous, and then drops, fading. Well, it's not Davydd. He only knocks, and never just once.
     It is not William... you would feel him by now. Besides, you just saw him. He wouldn't bother you unannounced so soon. He'd wait for the trail to get cold. For you to slip into lulling comfort...

     "It can't be Davy," Edward grumbles sardonically, licking his lips after the kiss. He turns away, saying, "We're not in the middle of fucking each other's brains out." A sure-fire way to get a visit from Llewelyn.
     "Not Will either,' he notes, padding across the room and across the adjoining hall to the other townhouse. He soon is upon the foyer floor, the sound of tile so different from that of carpet or wood. The secretary there is opened, and the sound of a weapon clears the space. A click, and the monitor for the outside camera is clicked on, a visual required before any response.

     No, comes a voice somewhere between unformed space and your blood as you enter the foyer, not William. Guess again, Edward of Blois. And put your gun down. Is that any way to greet a friend?
     Okay, so you have weird friends. Some summon you for their amusement -- and you really should kick his ass the next time he does it -- others have a copulation radar that goes off. There is another who keeps mannequins around a villa with an atrium of glass and has orgies on pillows while conducting other business in his head. But it's not Girault. You just left him in Venice.
     Okay, so... who else has the ability to hear through doors and speak directly to your Self and Brain?

     Valan goes to the living room. He doesn't have a gun yet, and well... he's going to have to remedy that. If only Ian knew he needed one, yes? Oh, but it's not Ian either. One, he'd never visit you and, two, he'd have the decency to call first. Valan chuckles, "I wonder if he knows how precise his timing is, ami," and he goes to pour himself a glass of something.

     The face that the monitor shows is... well, utterly unfamiliar. He could pass for English or French, but then again might also be Spanish. It's so hard to tell. But he's dressed rather smartly, overdressed for London in the spring. Hmm, someone who ...maybe hasn't been above ground for some time now. He looks to the door. He doesn't appear to be armed. In fact, as you watch him, he lifts his hands from their folded position to show you how empty they are. And then he smiles.
     I should not torment you, brother. Open the door for Franceso de la Rosa...

     "Holy shit!" Edward blurts, coming to his full height. Well, you know what I mean -- to the one in his head. "Um," Edward murmurs, twisting to see you. "Um. You don't know this person." And for good reason. Oops, sorry Francesco.
     Gun in hand, the monitor is flicked off with the other. Buttons are pressed, and the the door unlocks. Amazing what one can hear now.
     His eyes are narrowed. There is a faint smile, but it is lost behind the obvious curiosity, surprise, and downright ... well...mind-boggling curiosity. Did I think that already?
     "Francesco...?" Edward carefully asks, face scrunched. "Wow...what are you doing here..." he wonders, moving aside and motioning within with the Glock.

     Valan's eyebrows quirk up and now he is intrigued. He even stops pouring his wine. Francesco. This is a name that, while I have not heard it, I have read of it. "The pirate?" he actually verbalizes it. Like a child who overhears his father or mother saying something about someone and unknowingly repeating it.

     "I am growing stiff with the cold, my brother," he says and he smiles through a mask. No, not showing his true face. Very few on this earth have ever seen it. You have once. You retched, didn't you? Or was that Plantagenet. Whomever it was, I had my heartiest laugh that night. He comes in, he is not very tall. The southern Italian aren't known for it. And he's dressed in a very fine wool suit that looks like it was purchased or made in 1920, but in almost new condition. Just antiquated. His face is not unhandsome -- good mask. But there is something unsettlingly powerful about the eyes.
     For Valan, it causes him to go suddenly still and swallow...
     "I wanted to say something while lurking around Il Gatto's palazzo, but," he smiles, a twisting smile, an otherworldly smile, "I was already embarrassed to be in Venice. I did not want to be caught dead there." So dead pan. Francesco turns to you, Edward, a look, that smile. "It must be such serious news," he guesses at your own curiosity, "to have brought the man down from the mountain." But he only smiles, that twinkle in his eyes. Eyes so rarely seen -- and these are his own, deep and fathomless eyes, not the mask's -- that they are, presumably for some, difficult to read. He waits to be introduced, but he narrows his eyes at the progeny.

     For his part, the progeny is about ready to piss his pants, but thankful, suddenly, that he doesn't have the ability. Valan clears his throat and looks to Edward. You know startlement. You have rarely seen such startlement. It is almost as if the young man can see the form and figure behind the mask. Maybe he is seeing it. Hard to know with Francesco. He always did have a wicked sense of humor.

     "Well," Edward waves the gun, filling the quiet with noise. The door clicks behind him, and he reaches bare-armed around the visitor to touch buttons again on the secretary panel. After that, he flips it up and closed. "Come in, of course," he murmurs, setting Glock on the top of the antique. Yes, we should have dressed. But how would we have known it would be you?
     "Francesco de la Rosa," he motions at the young man, "...that is Valan Montague of Touraine." There ya go. Nothing formal there. It's not like Alfonso or anything. But age before beauty, for sure.
     Ack. Don't think that!
     "Oh, what the hell," he waves off, "...why am I even trying," exasperation there. Edward grins and says to Valan, "Whatever you're thinking...it won't matter much. He can read minds." There. Said. Secret out. Whatever. At least Valan can adjust. Edward smirks and offers to take the jacket.

     He laughs, it is so sweetly savage. And he brings his hands together, steepled before his mouth. Age before beauty. Yes. Well. "Why should you worry of dressing, Girault never does. The man has no shame. But... we should not expect the Counselor to ... set a moral tone by which we all may live," his voice is mortal but his tone is bone dry. He did say Counselor didn't he. "We all must do our best, to put our best face forward. As they say. And so, I have come." He waves off the offer to take the coat. "It is part of the package, amigo. Better to leave the wrapping as it is. I have come from Sicilly because Italy is no longer interesting. Nothing is happening there. It is all in England and ...France," he continues. Francesco turns toward you and lifts an eyebrow.
     Huh, so maybe the fact that cities are changing hands all so seemingly from the hands of One has an interest to those outside the Loire. William, of course, should have called. But, he is as he is. He does as he does. That is why we love him so.
     "Valan Montague of Touraine," Francesco suddenly says, turning toward Valan and, apparently, softening whatever it was he was initially showing -- Valan's a little less green now at any rate -- "I am, indeed, the pirate of whom you read. The spy who led the infidels to the great mosque of Alhambra. The poet you seek is closer than you think. Do you have any Port?" he asks suddenly of you, Edward, brows opening in expectation and his expression hopeful. "Or Medeira... "
     Please, say I have come to a civilized country...

     Valan blinks as thoughts are plucked, spoken and made real. He swallows and then smiles a little, sure it's still the nervous sort. "Pleasure to meet you and... ah.. well, I had been wondering who wrote that. Not Plantagenet...?"

     "Good God no," Francesco rumbles.

     You thought Plantagenet? Edward laughs, bypassing the guest to head towards the bar. Of course there is Madeira. What do you think of me? He leaves Valan to fend for himself, which he figures he can do in good stead. The jacket being part of the picture was no real surprise, and Edward contents himself with bending to find something tucked deep within the curve of the bar.
     "Plantagenet can't write," Edward calls, hidden now. Just as well. The sweatpants hid little. "Davydd sings. That means the list is getting smaller. Donal doesn't even know the language," he chuckles. "Georg has no hands," oh as if.
     "And there you are," his voice clear as he rises again. "I...can't see. Thus, this leaves you with," and he points at the visitor.

     Plantagenet is many things. He is no poet. Good god, if poetry were left in his hands we should all fear for our literacy. But he raises his hands, grinning, "No, nor I. I could not fashion it. Oh, shall it remain a mystery?" He knows. And he knows Valan wants to know. It will not be pleasant for Valan. Francesco is a fan of torture.
     You do not disappoint, Meurelle. You never do. When one needs one on whom to count, I count on you...
     "Nor was it the Cardinal. He does not even know of the book's existence. This is not surprising. The man has no head for art. Only crucifiction." Francesco sits upon the sofa, hands touching its softness. I am so used to stone. To volcanic rock. This is strangely uncomfortable. He rises the next moment and sits upon the solid floor, exhaling. "That leaves Niall, Henry Percy and King Alfonzo." Go ahead, young sir, guess!

     Valan crosses over to the chair, planting himself across from the strange visitor, a look of perplexion on his face. "Was it not written, then, by any of you? Did you have a scribe or some scholar or...perhaps a priest along with you in your conquest?" No, the voice says in my head, none of those. The answer has already been given. Think again. Valan narrows his eyes again and settles back.

     "While he gives himself an aneurysm thinking of my last hint," Francesco says, leaning his back against the uncomfortably and unsettlingly soft couch, "I will speak of my actual business. I'll let him play catch-up," he says of your childe, no kid gloves here. "So, does it trouble you, what is happening in France? One old knight, the grandson of a Knight of Malta, giving a Templar a huge city? And I know Tours is next. Do you know whom he has chosen?" I do...

     "Niall isn't human," Edward informs, just so the list will get smaller. "Henry has no face," Edward looks up, thinking about it, "...thus it'd make it terribly complex. That leaves two, for the record."
     The port is poured, two in fact. Edward moves around the bar and towards the seating, extending snifters left and right. None for him. "I know what he's done, and there's nothing I can do about it." No mention of caring or understanding, simply his place in the matter.

     "He will not listen to me. Why should I take lessons from Spain," he not only can do William's accent, he can do his voice, "...He is choosing another Templar for Tours," Francesco returns to his own voice, a rumble that more fits what he truly looks like than the rather Valentino-like mask he is wearing. "As if Europe is his board again. I want The Twelve to meet." His purpose is clear. He does not insinuate like the others. "I want Plantagenet to understand the full scope of what he is proposing. What it means for France. What it means for the rest of us. It has been years... centuries... since France was this...heavy." Read: powerful. It has stirred nests in Italy and Spain. It will spread to England. Perhaps even to the Germanies. Did he think he could do this and no one would take notice?
     "You must make this happen, Edward of Blois. He listens to you. You request a meeting, one will be called. The rest of us do not always have this luxury. I have spoken with Girault. I have met with Lorenzo."

     Edward. This is sounding like a coup, Edward. Valan looks between you both, forgetting his own thoughts and how they can be read. He leans forward, taking the port. His expression weighted by sudden concern.

     Deep brown eyes look to the young vampire and the smile returns. "I am not that organized," he makes an assurance to him. No such assurances are made to you. "And the poet lives in a mountainous region..." Another hint. "Someone unexpected."

     Edward's gone still now, looking at Francesco. A sigh follows, collapsing his barrelled chest. "It's not that bad," he states, fingers pulling at his bottom lip. "This isn't 1480," he whispers, not liking this at all. "Europe is not his board, Francesco. He's just doing what he should have already done. They will have their own councils, that is how the Camarilla agreed. He is moving out of the way of the Justicars. Tours and Poitiers will be...as every place else." Simple.
     Edward moves around to the bar, not needing to sit. He stands, leaning against it.

     They patiently wait while Plantagenet decides their fate. This is freedom? The Medeira is sipped, eyes closed -- you know he is judging the quality. And then he smiles. Such a good store you have, Edward. How is it you acquire better Medeira than I? And then he rises, the snifter cupped in his grasp, held to his chest. "He would be wise not to act... as if it is his board," Francesco makes a motion with the glass as he turns in his wandering of your living room. "There are rumblings already. Why not let the councils of each city hold total sway? Self-determination. Well, we know this is not his way," and so it is said so dismissively. We both know it didn't even occur to him. "His time in America has blunted him, Meurelle. You know it, I know it. We all know it. But none of us seem willing to say it to him. I think we should assemble ourselves and our courage and tell him to step back. To let them decide their own future, and where he now fits into it. The times of kings and queens are over. Knights, there are no more knights. You and I, we are realists, we know this," he turns at your bar, coming to face you, his eyes so intense. "We know this. We have always known this. He, he lives in a world of his own choosing. I think it is only you, in the end, brother, who can rescue him from it."

     Valan is slack-jawed. Perhaps it is at the honesty, so brutal, so unexpected. To hear William spoken of in such a manner. Well, it is beginning to make him angry. Too bad he is so young. So obvious. "You speak of him as if you did not or do not believe in him." He gets his knowledge from books, what does he know of things really? But he speaks from what he thinks he knows. Valan's face is tightening with the effort to understand, and the effort not to burst out.

     "You are right, this is not 1480. And you, Montague," Francesco turns slightly, to bring him into the conversation. "You are brave to speak. I admire this. You have fight, I admire that too." He does not chastise your childe in your own house, he doesn't have a deathwish, nor does he humor him. He speaks directly to him. "Once I followed, it is true. But only when I thought it wise. This," dark eyes look to Edward, "... I will not follow him in. Dictating the future of two cities, two of France's largest cities now. He is making a lot of enemies very quickly, and for our past relationship, for his past leadership and guidance, I have come from my mountain to tell his most-trusted. I cannot deliver the message. He and I will only argue. And the dragon." There is a pursing smile, suddenly mischievous. "He has his own problems, presently."

     Edward's hand comes to cover his eyes. Always he is, when trouble ensues. "He has done that," he explains, defending what he understands. "Both cities will have their own councils of their own choice. They will have their princes, it will be as all expects." Christ, why are you making a case of this?
     "He is stepping back, that is the whole point." Eyes look at Valan, then to the visitor again. "Alire has seen to Poitiers and it is his," Edward shrugs. "He has done the work, he deserves the credit. Why does everyone have to have their say, save the cities and the one who has protected them? I hear no such from the Council or the Justicar," he affirms. "Why would there be enemies? What...those who would have the two cities somehow remain under his...false and arrogant control?" Not that they truly had been for some time. "Really, they have been self-sufficient for a while and now it will be formalized. I do not understand this, Francesco," Edward says, rather distressed now. "I don't understand why you...are talking of convening or poor guidance? This is not Spain," land we won and lost together. "This is about a long dead Prince of Touraine and a dying political system..."

     "Someone should tell the Long Dead Poitou, I do not think he understands. Nor," Francesco interjects, lifting his glass of Medeira and gesticulating with it. A sip taken like a punctuation mark made, "...would he hear me. This I know. And we will perhaps bicker for years on the gesture made hundreds of years after it should have been made. Those who make right too late, make a mess -- this will take years to correct."
     He makes a motion with his hand, as he is wont to do when thinking. All the little mannerisms forgotten in his absence -- for he, as some others, are legendary for never 'seeming' to be anywhere -- are coming back in a flood. He moves from where you stand at the bar back toward your sofa. "For all his talk of... stepping aside, the world waits for him to prove it. He is in Tours," another motion of the glass, "...every other night." Ah, so William is being watched. "The Italies are in an uproar, Edward, and he... who did not consult those who could have made this transition smoother," such emphasis upon his precise English, there must be something to that, "... has made it worse on himself and on the process." Eyebrows lift. "Enemies? Let us start with the Gascons. They have never loved the Angevin. Such old vassals... they would love to nip at his heels. They are saying he is subverting procedure, justicars went uncalled. A move that surprised those that... should not be surprised and aren't exactly partial to it. And," he raises a finger, "...the Gascons also want one of their own in Tours." Francesco looks to you, his lips curling. "I doubt d'Angevin will permit such in what he considers... his own backyard. He seems little interested in those of Italy who have been named."

     I have nothing I may offer to this. The look upon Valan's face is an odd look of youthful passion -- perhaps anger -- coupled with an understanding that he... understands so little. He exhales. He folds his arms against his chest. He rises at length and wanders into the kitchen...
     The sound of cabinets opening and closing. He is getting something to eat, mais oui...

     Francesco's eyes follow him briefly, the curl of his lips unrelenting...

     There is a sigh from Edward, sable eyes following his lover to the kitchen. "When something is to be made Right, Francesco, it's right. And it should be done."
     Have we forgotten this?
     "And we called the Justicar before going to Alhambra. Or Navarre. Or the Ardennes. We're notorious for making phone calls..." he reminds.
     "I am not going to be William, Francesco. He has and will always...move...how he moves. If he has made things worse on himself...what is that to you? To me? I am not harmed. Are you? Are any of Us? Who knows who he called? Who knows who was aware," Edward continues to lean upon his bar, but suddenly pushes off, moving around it. "He has been in the Loire and Touraine the last summers since his return," Edward shrugs, "...and this is new? And why surprising? Did he just not do something that may require his presence to assist them in some way?"
     Edward disappears a moment, then returns with something more affirming than port. Scotch. God, how he hates the stuff -- but it works when he's pissed off.
     "If someone wants to affect change, they will do as they please...Angevin or Gascon. They will find a Prince. The Council," he looks at you, Francesco, "...and the Justicar..." another look, "...will do as they choose. They will make the decision. Not anyone else. Not even Plantagenet." Fingers twirl the cork from the bottle. "You give him..." Edward frowns, then stops, putting bottle down. "You all make him sound like the bogeyman," he snorts, displeasure there. "I do not get this, Francesco."

     Eyebrows lift and brown eyes widen at this. Hand waves and the last of the Madeira is finished. The glass, with one last flourish, set aside upon the coffee table. "Give him too much credit? Is that what you were about to say?" Francesco laughs. How beautiful the smile is -- and how, suddenly, transparently fake. You know how ghastly it truly is. "My brother, my friend," and we are still friends, even if we don't agree, "... in his region, count those upon your hands that are stronger. If I were his neighbor? I cannot say I would not feel every bit as strongly as the Gascons. Those of Tours. They involve him because they are afraid of offending him by not involving him. Or, he is inserting himself into their process. I have not made up my mind which it is. I have heard both."
     But with an exhale, he rises. "Edward Meurelle, I trust you as I trust few others. Moreover, I know you have Plantagenet's ear. I hope that you use it. Tell him to ... let Tours decide for itself..."

     Edward sighs again, but inaudibly. "No need to leave, Francesco," he says, pouring that drink now. The scotch seems to pour harder, the bottle sounds louder somehow. Edward doesn't say anything about talking with William. "Or, if you have plans, I can meet you in the city in a few hours?"

     "I must pay my respects," Francesco says and he bows to you, his voice softened by several degrees, and there is a trailing look...
     Unlike some, I prefer to do that in advance. Not when I'm caught in the midst of trespassing...
     Turning toward the kitchen, from which your young charge has not returned, Francesco lifts his head, then cranes it to try to see the young man. "My dear sir Montague, it was a pleasure to meet you. Someday perhaps we will speak of your time in Spain, and of the nature of political debate. I, for one," a glance to you Edward, and a genuine smile there, "...am looking forward to it." Turning to you, Edward, Francesco inclines his head, a look and a motion of deference. And then he pauses, peering at you. "Perhaps, we might speak of things... more civilized? Now that... I have made my peace. Montague!" his voice fills your house, "...put on some coffee!"

     Valan doesn't want to put on coffee. In fact, he doesn't want to do much of anything, and certainly not at the behest of this fellow, de la Rosa. His face, while still handsome, is rather strained by his internal, and welling, tension.
     A look to you, and then to the guest, and Valan disappears into the kitchen again. "Usually," uh oh, "...when one is debating, there is an air of respect and... listening to what the other side has to say." Wow. "You put forth your argument as a papal bull..."
     Your Valan. A set of iron gonads he has...

      Glass almost up to lips, Edward freezes his hand, cough eminating even before scotch touches his lips. Oops.
      Blinking to clear the clouds, Edward swallows loudly...and pauses. The glass tilts. Oh well. He's at it now. And instead of jumping in, he just takes a sip of his scotch.

     That stops Francesco, all seven generations of him, and he veers around, giving Valan a cocked back look. As if suddenly coming face-to-face with ... I don't know... a unicorn, maybe. Something fantastical and quite unexpected. There is a pendulous moment, Edward, when you know it could go either way: laughter or your boy being held to the carpet.
     Eduard, your boy. I like him. He has guts, Meurelle. Keep him, si?
     The pendulous moment breaks into a sliding grin, oily in temperment -- as it would be in reality were he not so nicely masked. And then the hands come out and he slowly, and loudly, claps.
     "My my, a little crow to go with my coffee. Where did you find him, Edward?" he turns to you, cocking up an eyebrow. Giving you the look of amused suspicion. "Does he kiss you with that mouth?" And that, of course, tickles Francesco to no end...

     "Tours," Edward says dryly, turning his glass up again.

     A snort sounds and he turns with a smirk. "That figures."

     There is sound of espresso being made -- Valan's not fucking around -- but he's also not pushing his luck. After that outburst of gutsyness, he seems to calm a little. "It will be a moment more, please... have a seat. I will even bring it in." As if he's doing the world a favor.
     In all the time you've spent with Valan, Edward, have you ever seen him so... pissy?

     Francesco is delighting in it, in truth. He sits upon the sofa, an arm stretched out across the back of it, and he settles in. "When Il Gatto spoke of your childe, I had no idea he would be as ballsy and brash as this. There is hope for the world. How is the life of a sire," as if Valan weren't here. And maybe he can't hear all of this over the coffee making...

     Edward looks up again, brown eyes flat. Golden amber beneath his nose. Soft spot -- that Sire bit. He makes a low noise between his teeth, not responding as he languidly moves around the bar to move towards the sofa. Not dignifying that with an answer apparently.
     You're baiting me. I'm not budging, save to ignore you.
     "Girault...likes the idea that I will have trouble," Edward observes, taking a seat too. In his hand, the glass looks like little more than a bauble, glinty and liquid. "But, Montague is his own man, you can see," he shrugs massive shoulders, looking disinterested as best he can. Unaffected. "I am...no Sire." So sayeth Christophe Phillipe. "I am...but his lover." When did I get poetic?

     This is where you are wrong, Christophe Phillipe," he plucks, gently, seemingly from nowhere, though you know that is a lie. "Girault has the utmost confidence in you. He admires you. He is the Great Father of us all. But there are a few of which he is particularly proud. You are in that number."
     Yes, I am baiting you. I'm awful aren't I. But this is what makes us strong. The dance of it.
     "Love." He pauses. "I know nothing of this." A glance toward the kitchen and then back to Edward. "So what's it like? We used to have such fun at Plantagenet's expense. Ah, the days of youth and glory."

      Valan walks in with three small cups of espresso. "You seem to have a lot of humor at his expense. I think he should be canonized. Were he celibate, he might glow with the halo earned by putting up with a lifetime of bullshit."
     Good lord. He's on a roll

     Edward's lips parted to reply to Francisco, but once more he's halted in his tracks. Brows just arch widely, and he sits back, bringing scotch to his chest. A picture, this -- glass settled upon his pectorals. He looks at his guest, pursing his lips before making another low noise. Well.

     I have outlived my welcome, I see...
     Fingers curl and tap upon the arm of the sofa and he puckers his lips. "I will not apologize for my opinions, but, as a man who respects the tenets of Guest and Host, I will apologize for... offending you in your home, Montague." Francesco peers at him again.
     Dark brown eyes flick over to you, Edward, and Francesco lifts a brow. A Brujah from Tours. What have you done, Edward...
     As the coffee is set before him, Francesco says, "Merci," and murmurs a quiet praise to God. A prayer before everything...

     Valan looks to you as he hands you your cup of espresso. He turns his head, eyes trailing to Francesco, and there is a softening. "Merci," he replies. The third cup is for him and he takes it with him to a nearby chair, folding into it. "You are here on business only or do you live in London?"

     Francesco chuckles, eyes sparkling suddenly. "No, I do not live in this cursed city... and you don't have to pretend to like me, Montague. I'm not the least bit concerned about emotion."

     Edward opens and closes his mouth a few times in a silent smacking.
     Well.
     It's about all he can come up with. Eloquent, I am.
     The accusing glance is met with raised innocent brows. Who me? I didn't do it. Edward sets his espresso aside for now, choosing to stick with disgusting scotch. It suits my mood. More vinegar on the night. Yet there is no complaint for Valan's point...it is his home and those who enter are subject to his rules. Hip, hip, young man.
     Edward grows comfortable, slipping further down into the sofa.

     This marks the first occasion that Valan has had to ... defend his turf. Are you wiping away a tear of pride? There is a kind of... relief as Francesco frees him from the obligation of polite society, and Valan sips at the espresso. "I should leave you two to ...catch up, perhaps then..."

     "No... no... it is ... time for me to go, I believe." The espresso is finished. Three sips and it's done. And Francesco is rising. "My thanks for the hospitality. Edward, think about it." What I have said. Why I have said it. "I will be in the city another two or three nights. If you wish to join me for a drink, I will be at Mad Misses Miggin's Salon or the Tunnel," an underground club, frequented by Nossies, Brujah and Gangrel. Bit of a rough joint, your kind of joint once upon a time.

     Oh, departing? Edward has to keep from finding too much humor in it all. Yet, some part of him realizes that he and Valan will have to have some sort of conversation. Later.
     He blinks, coming upright and catching his drink. "Ah, yeah," he mumbles, the silent spouse, "...I'll come for you," he notes, honest in that. "Maybe later tonight or more than likely tomorrow nocte," he offers. Once on his feet, the scotch is set upon the table. "I do thank you for visiting, Francesco. I see you so rarely. And I will think on what you have said." Honesty in that as well.

     "Si... well," he smiles honestly back, "usually that's a good thing. I hear. I've grown a bit moldy since you last saw me," he murmurs. "A few new corpusles as well. Barnacles. Lord Jesu, I have more barnacles than a grey whale. But... I have the best house on the block. Who's complaining..."
     He never complains. Not of his condition. His situation. His history. His future. That is not the de la Rosa way.
     He does not wait on either of you, but proceeds to the doorway. "I will see you then. Tonight. Tomorrow night. Whenever."
     Don't hate me, brother. I just... want the best for The Camarilla. I, too, want to ...do right...

     Edward follows dutifully, reaching over to touch the secretary panel again to open the door. He nods at the timeframe, assured he will meet his appointment. "Be safe, hmm? The streets are odd in London these nights," he warns. "But then, I am sure you are aware of this," a smile following.
     Despite the season, the night is cool. Perhaps a breeze from the ocean. Edward looks out to the street, then moves away to let his guest depart.

     You worry too much. And not at all.
     There is a moment of laughter -- it is felt rather than heard -- and he shoulders his way out. "I am, but, my brother... are they?" And then the laughter sounds at last, and darkness nearly folds around him and swallows him. The car?
     A hum-vee, as they're called. Damn near a tank. Kind of huge, rumbling and not all that attractive. Sort of like the man himself...
     Soon it... and he... are gone...

     "I hope I did not cause you trouble," Valan says at last. "But I do not like him at all and I am glad he is gone..."

     Edward exhales as you speak, closing the door only when he can no longer see the vehicle. Edward turns and replaces the secretary door, grinning at you. "No trouble, ami," he chuckles, arm reaching out to grab you to himself. "No trouble at all. He is...as he is. And he has learned to suffer slings and arrows. Even the littlest ones," Edward teases.

     "Hmmm... he seems impervious, this is true," Valan murmurs against you, voice muffled against the crook of your arm and chest. "I wanted to snap his neck. But... I get the distinct feeling... I would not have been successful." A pause. "Or it would not have mattered. So, he hates your cousin? I am disillusioned now," Valan chuckles. "In the book of Alhambra, he was a hero. He commanded the shadows." He smirks, "...I guess it was...poetic license."
     Valan leans out of your hold just long enough to set his coffee down. "And when the evening began, I was going to jump upon your lap. Repeatedly." He sighs. "So much for my evening. I am now pissed off."

     He laughs, turning you both around to head back into the living area. "Well, let's see. We can close up the house, retire upstairs, and see whether or not we can...remove the piss from you." No, that's not quite right, but amusing nonetheless. "Then maybe you can jump on my lap a while. Better yet," Edward stops, looking skyward, "...with your mood, maybe I'll let you play knight while I serve as horse, hmm?"

     His arms encircle your shoulders and his mouth brushes against your neck. Your ear. A whisper there, and he moves with you again. You, too solid for him to lift and carry. He can only...suggest you toward the stairs.
     "I am no good at choosing," Valan murmurs into a plucking smile -- plucking at your ear. "I will do both..."

Posted by rowan at June 21, 2003 09:43 PM