The music is an acoustic grind, midway between blues and American rock. The 'rough' draft take of an English band of last century. The ones that put Liverpool on the map. Well... any sort of map that wasn't nautical or one of those Least Likely Places To Visit and Enjoy sort of maps. It is a slow grind, something never released on radio. It gives the gaming room a... pub feel just at the moment. A man's pub, full of smoke and scotch and billiards...
     You may be a lover but you ain't no dancer
     Helter Skelter
     Amber crystalline. Scotch sits pooled in two short, wide glasses -- one at either end of the antique billiards table. And as the mix of music switches -- there are currently seven discs in rotation -- to something of Cole Porter, William leans in. Fingers stilling. Indigo taking aim. Such concentration, Plantagenet. Ah, but in the battles of Fraser and Ross, he shall never be called a laggard, yes? Though, he's already a few shots down. And a few articles of clothing litter the floor. Shoes and socks gone. The platinum watch -- a fairly recent decoration, one of his birthday gifts thank you -- also lies aside. The first casualty to your dead aim, sir. And lastly, the buttons of the black silk shirt undone. The penalty for a "scratch".
     Dark hair drapes forward in his bending. And then all the world is still. For a breath. Until it is shaken awake by the snap of the cue ball against the "striped 7". It rubs your solid 6 and lands into the far corner pocket. And William exhales a sigh of relief as he straightens. He's down to his unfastened silk shirt and the leathers. And you know there is nothing beneath those. "Rather I should make you remove an article of clothing for every shot I land," comes the drawl of his baritone voice, mulling Gaelic. A smile crosses his lips, curving in a slight smirk as he lifts his gaze to you. The cue is held like a lance as it is lowered, butt end to the floor with a soft thud. Languid the stride that carries him to his side of "the field". Where his scotch rests, waiting. And his cigarette burns in its tray. But not for long.

     "I shall guess that your ability would suddenly increase," Ian mulls, still standing like a sentinel at table's side. Mostly dressed, his shirt is untucked and unbuttoned. He was never one to be barefoot - always a last grace. Cold feet on cold floors. "Just," Ian picks up, moving from his statuesque form, "...as fortune will soon turn, and my socks shall be on the table's edge," he predicts. "Your ability is proportional to whomever you want to see naked first -- me or yourself," Ian smirks, grey eyes dropping to the table. He should do something here. Maybe. As you hold your cue like a lance, his is held more like a rapier...all weight at his wrist, cue extended at an angle away from himself and the table. Ian blinks a few times and then moves to his drink, deciding to take a pause. "You never said," he begins, swallowing, and replacing the glass, "...how your visit with Wallach was," he murmurs, now looking more seriously at table's lie. Ah right. Solids. He exhales and decides to peer at the 5, studying its relation to the cue ball. That might work alright.

     Cole Porter blends into some dj'd mix with spoken voice in poetry... Male... and accompanied in long spaces by a flute soloist, odd in dance music mix, yes? It has a hypnotic groove...
     But if you go away from me
     Our house will fall...
     Truth. You speak it, and his smile does not deny it. "Shameless," comes the Gaelic, edged with smoke behind the curving smooth grin. The first pull upon the cigarette in a while is followed by another as William surveys the shots. It is still his go. Left hand, as dexterous in use as his right over the centuries, sets the cigarette aside. A swallow of scotch is taken, and William is on the move again. Toward you, with that selfsame grin. "I wonder why I even bother to clothe myself at all. Ah... grace be for the autumn chill, or the eyes of the staff would stick on Avert." Another shot is studied. Chosen fairly quickly this time. William leans in, fingers setting and cue moving as he picks his angle.
     But as you mention Wallach, William turns his head, a look to you past a shoulder. Brows lift. "It was lovely. Quiet. He seemed a little... " He searches for a word. "Pensive." No. That's not it. "Preoccupied... but he was glad to see me. Sends his regards to you of course. I've suggested a foray into London... a bit of a lad's gathering at some point. That should get everyone stirred up..." Sensuous mouth makes a slant of a grin at that. Well you know how your husband loves to... stir the waters so to speak.

     Ah, he was distracted too. Ian cocks his head to see you lining for another shot, then rolls his eyes at himself. What were you thinking? A shake and he backs up a little to lean against a seat. "A gathering in London...that will be enjoyable," Ian nods at you. You should get out more. "It was nice of him to come and to send his regards," Ian murmurs softly, eyes upon the lie. "I smelled scones at some point," he grins, still bemused by his own sense of smell.

     "Oh aye... being neighborly. Everyone's wanting to know whether...we're staying around..." The drawl is crammed with thought and concentration. This is a tricky shot. It's the stripe-10, which will have to be banked softly, miss your solid-12 and somehow land in the left center pocket. He should have studied more physics. "Dionnach made him a batch. You should have seen the gleam in her eyes as he finished them off... I just... did not have a stomach for bread." Again the shot is paused as he looks to you, the smile lingering. "I was still in pain from my three-course meal the night before..." You, Tavish and Lundy. Alright, Plantagenet -- you hear him mutter that to himself as he lines up the shot, he even squints. "Left center, for god and country..."
     The stripe-10 is met, and it does indeed bank, even as the cue ball with its "english" backs away from the shot. But the solid-12 was not as cooperative and sent the shot an inch or two off course. The stripe-10 only disrupts the clumped gathering of balls, probably making a better shot for you. "Fuck me..." That in English. William lowers the cue with a smirk and leans it against the table. "Well... as there's nothing beneath the leathers but a great deal of me, and there are quite a few more shots... we'll have to count the lacing..." He'd rather die than forfeit. If he loses, it'll be honorably and horribly. Like a man. The next casualty? The black silk shirt. "You'll come won't you..." To London that is. The silk shirt sighs against skin as it is removed. Lingers on the air slightly, floating, as it is tossed toward you. Cinnamon and patchouli come with it. Something of scotch. Something of sweet smoke. Something of William.

     He was looking at your shirt, paused still for a long moment. Thinking of something else. Whoa. A black shirt lands on his head. He pulls it off, sending blonde hair scurrying. "Hmm?" Ian looks up, blinking. "London?" Ah, your friends. "Well, do you not want to spend a good weekend with your mates, laird?" Darling. Ian's eyes scan the table to see a different situation than his last check. Ah. Better. Change is good. A new mantra. Ian smiles and moves around to your side of the table, picking up his drink along the way. "Nice shirt," he remarks, dropping shirt in exchange for amber. But as he was saying, "I mean, I will go to London, if you want me to," he agrees, coming to a stop at your arm. "You're blocking my shot," he whispers, turning around to face the table. For you, his back and barely-tied hair.

     "Merci," is whispered back. Thank you. And have mercy. Both are equally applicable at the moment. But something else is meant by the grin. Smooth and slowly spreading -- you could watch it from the first spark, smoldering in indigo to the warm pull itself. "Am I..." William murmurs, and for a moment he does not move. You turn to face the table, and you feel him at your back by the sudden rise in temperature. "I make a better door than I do a window, do I..." A kiss is left upon your neck, and heat retreats as he moves along to the far end of the table and back to his scotch. You'll probably be shooting for a while. You can see that in the curl of the grin, a knowing smirk more like. Taking a seat in a nearby chair -- dragged especially for this purpose -- William props his bare feet upon the table's edge. The cue yet held like a lance. He looks the very lord, indeed. "I do want to spend a nice weekend with them, aye... but... I'd like to be able to ... share a bit of that with you. Is not Legrasse there? Or does he stay in the north these days? We could make a week out of it. I could spend time with the boys. You with your friends and associates. And meet in the middle, hopefully in our large bed in Kensington..." How he thinks of everything. An entire flock of canaries was just murdered by his smile. Eyes are more upon you than your shot, though indigo flickers in a glance to it here and there.

     He nods slowly, thinking about multiple things simultaneously. "I think Robert is in the City...so I hear he is right now," Ian offers. "I do not know who else." Not that there is a ready-made list of 'friends'. There are acquaintances, business associates, and simply those he has been aware of for a long time. It has always been so. He has not had room in his heart or life for them. Alexandra was right in this. There was you. And a scattering of a bare few. A shrug, and Ian looks away to dismiss it. I have never needed friends -- I have needed Compliance. Want? I wanted you. Just you. Was that a Mistake? To want no other...in any way. Eyes look to the table then, lips pursing. Let it go. "Well, I can perhaps shop," Ian offers, deciding to simply start with the 5. Think not so far ahead. How have Times changed.

     No man is an island entirely, my love...nor are you... Though... as you know. William only has a handful of any he would call friends. Made over centuries, slowly. You allowed him that luxury. Perhaps it is something you should allow yourself. But William does not dwell on this, nor show anything but a smile. For what is there else to show? But this and his love. Clearly evident upon him. Radiant, in his way, with it. You can see the colors of it if you wish. Brilliant blue and deep red. Best fitting colors for him, heraldic. "We can shop," he adds, "I'd like that. Go out to the clubs... see the beautiful young men..." Mulling, his voice pauses upon that. And he smiles for it. A swallow of scotch to chase it, to swear an oath to that. "I would like you to come with me..." he softly adds. "I do not know if I have the endurance to handle an entire weekend of Edward's London..." Laugher quips at that. "He nearly killed me last time..." How times have changed, indeed. Realizing you're about to take your shot, William shushes himself and tends to his scotch. You feel it, tangible. The touch of his gaze upon you, fastening. And unfastening by the look he is wearing...

     Not alone. That is what the Bond shimmers with. Ian smiles and bends to take his shot. "Why is it Edward's London?" he wonders, tapping at the well-placed 5. Easily enough, it drops. That was not the challenge. A sigh and Ian rises. "How did he almost kill you?" Have you told him this story? Did it involved the Yard? He twists to glance at you, then moves around the table to find his scotch and the solid 6.

     A grinning sigh and William's feet drop. The chair sounds with his weight readjusting as he stands. The pool cue is propped against the chair. He likely won't need it now. Amber liquid splashes against the glass and the last sip of scotch is swallowed. Indigo eyes tend downward and his fingers... give the first tug at the leather. Indigo lifting to you. Sparkling. Dark. "I didn't tell you about that? I took Edward out for a drink. Ended up being icicle meth, I believe..." He pauses. Amazing how little of that weekend remains in the brain. Apart from one event. "Nine sheets to the wind, I believe is the phrase? For two nights straight... I don't know how he does it. I thought I had the fortitude of an elephant..." William stops suddenly and grins in a flash. Enough of that. Why not discuss the view? William looks up from the lacing of leathers to you. And your next shot. "And it isn't Edward's London really... he just likes to think of it that way. Everyone knows its mine by birth and Right..." Indigo flickers in a wink.

     "Oh, yes, that's it precisely, William," Ian mumbles, grinning as he leans to see about the 6. Squarely by the striped 9. A touch of the bank, but it should fall readily enough. "Ah," Ian blinks, rising quickly and stepping out of his shoes. "Forgot that from your other shot," he chuckles, bending again to this 6 business. "I will guess Edward's fortitude is perhaps even greater than your own," say it isn't so! He smirks and taps at the cue, the 6 touched and tapped off the inside striped 9. It bops back to the pocket angle, falling in. And the 9 left by a pocket for you. Ah well. Ian sighs and looks over, picking up his scotch blind. "Are you going to do each lace one eyelet at a time?" Just curious as to how detailed this strip is. "Maybe I should have just unlaced one shoe?" Lifting, Ian brings scotch to his lips, looking at you over it. "Methylene is hard stuff, Will," he says softly, not chiding, just informing. The pharmaceutical side of him cannot help it.

     Sacrilege! The eyes fly wide at the notion, but then calms the next moment. Love Edward as he does, you see the peacock's pride flair up -- Greater than my own? Bah! But the look dispels as the next shot sinks. "Non... one row at a time. Four shots... and then... you win and I stroll about the house naked..." That was the original bet, yes? And you know he'll stay naked for the whole of the night, whether you really want him to, yes? Lips curl in a smirk, "Give me the whole shoe, amours. Show me a little mercy..." Pausing at the edge of the table, William lifts his cigarette for the last drag then extinguishes it. And once again fingers lowers to the laces and pull another row free. Cords dangle and the leather begins to slacken and fold outward. Skin more evident, flattening from the waves of musculature at his stomach. "I know," William murmurs finally, serious for a moment. But just a moment. The next one finds him smiling at you, arms folding against his chest. He actually does love it when you chide. You chide from love. And the Bond between you surges with it. "I prefer hallucinogens if I am going to dabble... I like the colors..." Plantagenet on meth? Good heavens, that is frightening isn't it. As intense as he is without it. Indigo takes a survey of the table and he half turns to study it. He murmurs I love you in his Provencal and casts a wink in your direction. "Do your worst, Dunross..." comes the teasing growl of Henry's last lion...

     "Oui, oui," Ian waves, "...four shots," he bobs his head, moving around the table. A solidly blue 7. And with you having cleared more of the table, the shot seems not so awful. A slice. It is the last shots that will be more difficult, opposite where your last shot is placed. Scotch is carried and Ian smirks as he peers at the leather while walking. 'I love you' is mouthed, and he shakes his head at the notion of dabbling and meth. "Maybe I will shop and have tea and avoid going where you and your mates venture," Ian postulates, smiling as he assesses shooting the 7 cross table to the angled midpocket. Bending, but looking up at you, he grins, "I am too old for...those sorts of chemicals."

     "I'm only planning to dabble in Guinness. This will be a different sort of weekend...I want to remember it..." And then he stops and smirks. You weren't too old the other night. Or is opium somehow different? Thoughts that are not spoken, uttered only in the curve of his smile -- expressed in dark eyes. "Though..." William continues, voice trailing after him as he turns toward the chair again. "... I was thinking doing a bit of purchasing. I need some new clothes. Maybe a new car..." The cue is taken and handled like a spear in the knight's hands. Staff-work, the first training tool. You'd think he'd be better at billiards than he is. Or... perhaps he likes to be bested by you. Thighs spread in the lordly half-sprawl and his left hand toys with the cue as he waits on victory. "When was the last time we went on a mad purchasing run together? Seattle?" He honestly can't recall. Settling back, William sighs. Smiling smoothly. "Oui oui... two of four shots to go, mon amours..."

     "Seattle," Ian agrees, tapping the 7 stiffly to work the angle. A bit of back english to slow it at the last. There. A drop. Now the real work begins. Ian quickly stands, peering at you. Through you. "We have not spent exorbitant amounts on personal items," he notes. Houses, traveling lighthouses, restorations, cars, exotic animals, and monstrous corporations do not count. "I could use a new suit," oh, really? "And something...more..." he looks at himself, still wearing the clothes that marked his former self. More staid. Only a few pieces of leather and fashionable urban wear in his closet, in truth. "I do not know, something more..." what is the word he is looking for?

     "Expressive..." William says simply, smiling. Of You. Where you are now. What you want to be. Something to mark your transition. "I like textures..." As if giving you some direction on how he wants you to dress for him, but the wink follows. Teasing, that. But you know his tastes. And at the sinking of the 7, another tug of leather ties. Now, there is no imagination needed. Only one set of ties to do but after the third, he is quite unpacked. The fourth set is a mere formality. In fact, he shall forgo it. You sink the next shot and the leathers will be gone, Lord Dunross. "Maybe I should invest in a nice new suit. I will let you dress me. I prefer it that way. You have a better head for fashion. For me... so long as silk is a part of it I am happy..." And leather is easy.

     "Expressive," Ian sighs with the word, letting the unexplained tension go. He nods at you approvingly, the smile growing at his lips with a faint rise of color. The he that now is. "And what do you mean, let you dress me?" He teases. Suddenly facing you and ignoring his next shot, Ian's hand ruffles in a flourish. "Thank you, Prince William, for letting me serve as your valet," he says obediently and gratefully, keeping the full bend until you release him.

     Lifting from the leather and himself, his right hand makes a slight wave. How Noblesse Oblige. "All part of the service, Lord Dunross... think nothing of it..." Bland was the timbre of his voice, but it is warmed suddenly. By quiet laughter. Horse's ass, yes? But at least it is a nice ass, as far as that goes. As much as the rest of the household shall see no doubt. For at the lowering of his hand, the leathers are down around his knees after. Soon to be at ankles, and from there launched from him. "Go ahead, sir... go for the jugular... I am... as they say... down and out..." The game is won -- the spoils go to the victor is it? Naked as the day he was born but appreciably larger, William rises from the chair, stepping out of the leather pooling at his feet. "More scotch?"

     "But I have not taken my last shot..." Ian reminds, remaining in his bend, but lifting his head. Waist-high. "No, no, please, do not cede, Lord William, for indeed," his syntax antiquated, "...it is not done, the field," Ian's hand motioning behind to the table. "And, yes," Ian sighs, lips twisting as he rises quickly. Seriousness for drink. Well, that is at least over. He easily tosses his cue upon the remaining balls, moving around to meet you near the scotch.

     "Being naked is no true cessation on my part, Lord Dunross. Honor is intact, even if clothes are not..." Damnable, that smile. He should not look so, nor any man have such a smile coupled with the rest of him. It is not a fair playing field for the rest of humanity. Eyes leave you for the pouring of the scotch, and dark hair drapes forward as head is tilted downward slightly. To watch the golden liquid fill silvery glasses. "Care to put another wager on it. Double or nothing?" How could he be in less than he is now? Or would it be, were he to lose again, that the number of days for disrobing would be doubled. Of course he could have been, as they say, hustling you. Feigning inaccuracy and inexperience to ...lure you in. Beware playing sport with an Angevin. William inclines his head, eyes remaining upon your own... the features of your face... as he holds a glass of scotch out to you. "You game?"

     The smirk that draws across Ian's face is one of Awareness. "No," Ian says sharply, low voiced, "...no, I know when I have won. I shall take no more," he looks down your form, "...and no less than what I have rightly earned or what is being given to me." Cue gone, scotch fills his hands. Ian grins at you, leaning against the pool table. "I like winning," he notes to no one in particular, cupping his drink with careful cradle. Upon following breath, double old-fashioned turning up to his lips, "I like viewing what I win...and I like taking ownership of what I have won. There is something," he lifts for a moment to finish the thought, "...satisfying...in taking the money and running, as it were." Now. Time for that taste of scotch.

     Dark brows lift slightly. Taking ownership. And you can see the thought, and the pleasure in it, move through him. You know his blood so well. And each muscle. And the thousand reactions that anyone else would miss. Only you know him so well. And even before any ...obvious reactions move him... you can see the dark delight of it. Even before lips begin to curve upward in a smile. Shameless, as he said before. As he lifts his own glass, the smile spreads at the rim of the glass and upward to his eyes. "Then... it would seem that, as you are victorious, I am at your leisure and your mercy. To do with... as you will..." Soft, his voice is inflected with both Gaelic and French. Midway between Poitiers and Beauly once more.

     Blonde hair is smoothed by the run of fingers. Ian glances at your watch, picking it up. "It is only one," he notes softly. Winter approaches and the nights are quickly becoming longer. "I hear it is to flurry tonight." He swallows the warm scotch again, nose wriggling at the surging strength it gives. Grey eyes look you over, as if seeing you for the first time. "I think you are going to be chilly this night, Lord William." Dressed like that, anyway.

     Though the smile that forms is slight -- but the birth of a grin -- it is heated. "On a bed covered in furs? How can that be?" A pause and William moves from the table. "In fact... that is sounding... more and more appealing... even though it is only One..." he adds softly. Again, his black hair drapes forward... this time in a sweep of a bow. "My lord Dunross..." Straightening, William remains in place for a time. As if out off courtesy to your eyes, and their study of him. "It is rapidly becoming... our favorite time of year," William whispers. Winter. Long nights. Scotland and snow and Yule and furs.

     He nods with that, Ian does, twisting to pick up the bottle. "Maybe we should begin the season now," he mulls, still nodding to himself. Pushing off the table, Ian passes you, heading towards the bedroom. "I guess we should let them know that...it is time to change the rooms already." Not that a few more blankets have shown. But to move to cords of wood being brought in for each room, just in case, or for bottles for a season to be placed within...that is a bit more work. "Shall we?" Ian smiles, grinning at you with a following boyish shrug.

     "More furs.... more blankets... nightly fires... brandy..." The medieval lord's winter litany. William moves behind you, arms surrounding your waist. There will be clothes littered about in here for the morning's staff. Will no space seem sacred to them after? Not even the gaming room is safe. "We shall if I have anything to say about it..." drawls the baritone in a languid form of Gaelic. His mouth at your ear, his voice a warm whisper.

Posted by rowan at May 25, 2000 01:01 AM