Something of Scotland... something warm and golden... know where I might find such a drink?
The question eased its way against your skin, inside-out, like the brush of his hand. That palpable. That physical. There was actual warmth that followed that -- the crest of his approach as the thought left his mind and traveled the rivers of your blood to your own mind, somewhere near your ear.
Something of Scotland wanted. And he's not talking about the Glenlivet.
He is passing into the sitting room outside the bedroom, upstairs. Finally he starts coming out of his suit. The tie is loosened as he comes in, fingers tugging at red silk (Hermes). William exhales. It was a long night. A good night, but long nonetheless. There's no melancholy, there seems to be little throb of emotion other than his wanting to see you, feel you, be alone with you a while before you have to shut your eyes.
With him, comes the evidence of how he has passed the evening. A tinge of whiskey. A throb of opium. Cinnamon and clove. Beneath that a little essential oil, that too of cinnamon. There was also brandied sugar and crystallized honey -- Juliet's Nipples. You will know that if you go anywhere near his blood or his mouth.
"Hello," Ian murmurs, sitting warmly in the middle of the bed. Books and files were removed, and the remote to the entertainment console has been tossed nearby on your pillow. In his hand, another electronic device, flat and black in his palm.
The monthly ledgers.
In green flannels, Ian is lit by the large hearth on the other wall. There's a smile to you, but then grey eyes drop again to the glowing display in his hand.
"Nice evening, it seems," Ian observes. It's the same for him, curled with the television for the occasional sensory overload and the ledgers for a cheering heart.
The tie is off and the jacket is not long for this world. But before that, he comes over to your side of the bed, sitting down and giving the bed his weight for a minute. Let it bear it for a bit. "It was nice. That Montague is a good boy." Boy, the man is thirty. But even a thirty year old man is a boy to such beings as you and William.
William smiles warmly, not removing the electronic device from your hands. He just takes a moment, steals a moment of your time, leaning in and leaving a kiss behind. Sugar. Brandy. Opium. Mostly sugar and brandy. "Hmm, better though now. You have had a good night it looks like." Pajamas, television, money. William grins, straightening and making ready to stand and get out of the suit and get comfortable. "Good news?" a nod to the device.
The Hermes tie -- you picked that out didn't you? -- is wrapped in large hands as he rises and sets it aside. The jacket is next, already rolling off great shoulders.
"Alright news," Ian nods, smirking for the close interruption. "I am much like Midas," Ian observes, "...though saddled with the electrons of this age." He sets the PDA down near his leg. "How is young Montague?" Ian goes ahead and asks. For now, you have his attention. "You had a good time?"
He laughs at the correlation between you and King Midas. "Montague is good. We walked around a bit, it's a nice night, then I took him to Juliet's." Nice restaurant that. "He and Edward send their greetings. They are off to Switzerland in the next few weeks for a few months it sounds like. So," William exhales, looking down to unbutton his shirt. It's not a strip-tease by any stretch of the imagination but the Duke is getting undressed, "...oc," Occitan 'yes', "... it was good. I don't mind answering the questions of a young man trying to find his way. He's smart. I hope he finds this life to his liking. Or can make it to his liking," like you and I are still trying to do.
He is crossing to his closet, tails of the unfastened shirt moving in the breeze of his motion, olive skin peeking out. Miracles of miracles, he hangs up his own shirt and the jacket. He stands in the closet a moment, though you can see him from there. The pants are next to go, and the shoes.
"We don't talk about her much," William says quietly -- you can hear him quite clearly. "I am to blame for that, I know. My anger has been very acute for the last several years. In recounting some things for Valan tonight, it made me think on that... to consider my position." Soon, your Guillaume is visible again, wearing only the boxers, red, silk. No need for the robe, he's coming to bed. "My feelings are my own and so... I must divorce them from whatever business you may have with her, whether her company is ever returned or not. And the only ... justice that is required is that which you wish to pursue." He pauses at the bedpost, looking at you spread across the territory of the bed. "I do not need an answer. I realized tonight that I already have my resolution, amours. I have you. We are here. Happy. Together. I am content ... to let the rest go."
There's a frown from Ian, mostly confusion. "What are we talking about?" Ian asks, head angling. Whatever it is, it inspires some emotion and sudden words. "Valan has a she..."
That's a surprise.
Ian runs a hand over his head, then waits for further explanation.
"Ah....oh, non," William chuckles. He lets the laughter fall from him with a smirk and a sigh. "Opium. I should quit smoking it. Non...not Valan. Alexandra." A pause. "She was ... on my mind tonight." It happens occasionally. As William has to ...chew on things for a while, something mentioned last year becomes like cud to his brain. And he chews, and he chews until it is digestible.
"It doesn't matter," William says with a smile, suddenly. He pushes off the post and gives his weight to the bed again. "None of it does really," weight given fully to the bed as he begins to recline, inching into your territory with Plantagenet arms and legs -- William the Conqueror of Sheets.
Dark hair shines against his pillow as he turns his head to you. "Come here," his mouth upturns slightly. Hands reach for you under the sheet.
Alexandra? Ugh. Ian makes a grimacing face and lets it go rather quickly. Dispensed with in the blink of an eye. He has far more interesting things to do with his time.
"I'm reading," Ian protests at the hands reaching for him. "I was to listen to a recital, and finish reviewing the quarterlies," his hand picking up the PDA between you.
"And you are going to crush the remote," Ian reminds, having dropped it on the pillow.
His words are out there in the universe, there for you or he to pick up in a year or five or five-hundred. The last of the stories are told tonight and with that last utterance the matter is dropped.
The hands, however, continue undeterred. "You can still read," William notes. "That won't bother me," he chuckles. "And you can listen to the recital, read your figures all you want..." William pauses, lifting his head and looking at the remote. He takes it, rolls over and sets it on his nightstand.
But he is not dissuaded. "You can do all of that," he murmurs, "...while I hold you, hmm? That way, we both get what we want, yes?" Eyebrows lift to see if you are in agreement.
And truly...how could you not be?
"Alright," Ian smiles, lifting his arms as he sits upright better. The PDAs picked up, and Ian motions to the remote, "Will you turn it on?" Ian asks. "It's queued up," he notes for the record, tapping the PDA so that it illuminates once more.
"Mais oui," William murmurs, twisting again to take the remote. He peers at it, points it at the television and hits the appropriate button. He doesn't put it back on the stand -- he's not going to want to roll over every time you want it -- so he tucks it just to his side so that he's not lying on it as he lies flush against you.
"See, how much better this is," your duke's arm comes around you, thickly, holding securely. But there's no move to fondle you, pull at you, tempt you, or distract you any more than this. To simply hold you. He is content with that for the moment.
For the moment.
But you know him...
"Ready to go home?" Ian asks softly, even as the beginnings of Chopin's Interlude rise, but with a younger hand. A professional, but an early concerto. Someone's son or daughter, in school or conservatory. The recording sparkles, but does take place in a lesser hall.
"Mmm... very much so. We can go tomorrow. I will be ready. We can have the tailor come to us," William notes. "I don't want to stay past tomorrow unless you have business that needs you here." He pauses. "Chopin... but... who is playing? Anyone we know?" When you said recital, he was thinking of law, not a music recital. He smiles, opening an indigo eye to look at you. "One of the MacInverays?" he suddenly wonders.
Chopin. Those were lovely nights. He cannot help the kiss. With you sitting up, his arm wrapped around your waist and lap, his mouth lands somewhere on your side. He can't help the sigh at your skin. I crossed several of the seven seas with you, he thinks, there is nothing I would not do.
The music plays into the emotion of the night. You had to feel it ebb and flow all over London town. And it does so again, with his gratefulness, his appreciation and his absolute adoration.
"Sidhe's oldest girl," Ian murmurs, smiling down past a slightly moved PDA. "Reghan," he notes. "I think is her name. Came with the quarterlies. I am thinking of sending her a new piano," Ian explains.
Whatever emotion crested over the night, he has missed it. He's the even keel this evening, kept firm against waves through bytes and glowing numbers, formulae and earnings reports. A small smile comes in the face of the Chopin, and Ian moves the PDA back to its former position, content to let the night pass by and on.
It's not a bad thing emotion. It comes and it goes. With thoughts that ease in and out. Not unlike musical measures really. There has been no melancholy. Merely recognition. Merely feeling.
William smiles. "Santa Dunross," a Plantagenet lion's paw pats against your side. You're a good man, Ian Dunross. And I love you. "She's not bad," William notes. "I will have to tell Sidhe the next time I see her."
William shifts suddenly, moving until he is resting with his head on your lap, his body stretching down and over the end of the bed. "When we get home, we will have our music room again. You should play more this year. I miss it..."
"I am sure the dogs and the staff do not miss it," Ian grins absently, figuring you can see him better than he can see you beneath the PDA. "And she's not bad, I think. Certainly her mother can provide her with an excellent instrument, but...I am sure there are rules commensurate with accomplishment. Me? I am not bound by such," Ian ruffles, "...by such parental and mortal nonsense."
And said dryly too.
"Even clenidh leave gifts better than quid."
It is an altogether excellent view, and a most worthy pillow for this lord's head. It pleases him very much. He does chuckle from where he lies, indigo looking up at you from your lap. That face with his dark eyes. Yes, if dark-eyed Aelinor had been a man, she may have looked like this. "Hmm... your dogs do not have an ear for music," he murmurs. "You play quite well, you know. Better than Sidhe's daughter at any rate," he chuckles. "Though... she really isn't bad. How old is she?" He can't keep them all straight.
"Mmmm... going to give St. Nick a run for his money this year? What will the St. Dunross be bringing the Duke of Normandy?" he chuckles. As if he needs anything.
"Maybe voice lessons," Ian smirks, not looking directly at his paramour at his lap. There's a flush to his cheeks. "No, no, the Duke of Normandy will receive something appropriate to his station..."
"Thanks, though, for the compliment." On his playing. "I have been practicing for a long time."
He chuckles, laughter edged by a grin at the thought of voice lessons. "I could use some of those, mais oui. I dare not serenade you for fear of driving you deaf or to laughter." He sees the flush, he holds it in his mind a moment, and then William closes his eyes, content to lie where he is. He listens for the motion of your blood, to the sounds of the flush, to the feel of it against the air. His mouth forms a slant, curving upward in a tilt.
"Normandy is easy to please. Maybe we should do theme gifts this year. Give everyone a piano." He chuckles suddenly. "It can be like my towels two years ago..."
"Not a bad idea, but only if the list is very short. How about we give...9 lb. boxes of handmade, fresh chocolates and 9 dozen roses. One for every century we have spent together, yes?"
Where does he get these things?
"And each dozen roses are a mixed set of colors with the traditional meanings for colors. Red for our passion, white for purity, yellow for innocence...and for unusual colors, like violet, we have enclosed a hand-created card that explains all the colors, the kinds of chocolates prepared for them and the histories of the ingredients for the confections...the significance of nine, well, that remains with us..."
Indigo eyes open at the end of your suggestion and William smiles. "I think that would be a good gift. We will do that. Yours... well... you have several already. One is an early birthday present. It is waiting for you when we get home." He grins.
How does he do those things?
"It will be a good season, laird," William murmurs, closing his eyes again. "A good season to close out what has been a wonderful year." His hand comes up, reaching to pat your side.
We have journeyed far to this. From Jaffa to Scotland. From Past to Modern. From mistakes to forgiveness for this. How easy it is to let the rest just fall away...
Posted by rowan at November 29, 2003 11:59 AM
