You and he, you would be the only two Roman officials with a fully stocked bar in your chariot. Likewise, your limousine contains better scotch than most so-called high-toned bars in this entire City. On this entire Island. He has poured two glasses as the car begins to move. His with ice. Yours without.
     It is not a far journey from Kensington to the Directorate, but shudder to think that he'd actually walk in London. No, you and he ride in the style befitting such emperors as you and William Plantagenet. The limousine is the custom-built 1935 Jaguar limousine, it's rich red leather interior updated within the last several years to include outlets for postmodern electronics and postmodern comforts.
     The ringed hand holds your scotch out for you, and it comes with a kiss upon your temple. And an exhale. There is much on his mind. So much, so crammed, he is getting a headache. This the bond tells you, this his drawn black brows tell you. "Is there anything I should know before we head into the dreaded lion's den? I have not been keeping up with Ventrue news. Have we pissed off anyone lately?"
     William's full mouth makes a triumph of any smile, even one such as this that only curves at the very corners. It is a diversion, you know it when you hear it. He takes a swallow of scotch, the ice rattling in the glass.

     "No, we haven't," Ian grins, taking the glass with a tip towards you. "Not recently. But what we have done effectively happened only last week to a set of long-lived vampires, so..." he waves his glass in completion. Take that as you will. "No one confronts here," Ian goes on. "That is not their way. That is Ventrue business, and it happens in the Ventrue hall offended," Ian shrugs. "It remains continental," he surmises, looking out of the window as he takes a drink. "London has said nothing," which is true, "...and will continue to say nothing."
     "Why do you ask?" Ian wonders, turning back lazily to see you. Already he's putting on his best Talk to me at your own risk face, which is the same as his I am utterly unimpressed by you face. "You seem nervous," Ian frowns, not liking that stance at all. He peers now at you. "You are not serious?"

     He remembers that face. He remembers when he thought that face was meant for him. William gives his body to the red leather, turning his head briefly to look out the window before looking back at you and That Face. "I am not nervous," William shakes his head.
     No, that is not it...
     "It does not bother me the way that Paris bothers me. I belong to this Island. It belongs to me. We understand one another." Broad shoulders roll, his fine suit moving with him. "I feel like I am at some kind of crossroads, amours. Maybe... maybe it is only this thing with Davydd that has me questioning everything I do. But I wonder if perhaps I should not try to diversify my portfolio. Perhaps it is time to ... do something else other than art. I have been doing that for so long now. I don't know. I think when I am at a crossroads with one thing, like with Davydd, I suddenly feel that I am at a crossroads with everything..."
     William looks into his glass, eyes remarking on the color of the scotch against the melting ice. He lifts his glass for a swallow. "I think I want to learn something new. It has been a while since I have really challenged myself. And I don't want to be... old before my time." Indigo flashes to you and that smile smoothens across his mouth.

     Ian's look turns into a warming smile. So nothing is wrong. He could not bear it if you were actually afraid of those he places below either of you. That, Ian could not stand. "Well, nothing wrong with diversification," Ian agrees on the general concept, "...but even the diversification must still coincide with some personal interest, even slight. Only so you have a reason to care," Ian winks.
     "But do not do something because," Ian frowns again, "...you think you should or because you are concerned on how others see you. It is too late for either of us to care now," he smirks.

     "It is too late for that, isn't it." William chuckles a little, grins in that ...wonderful way of his and takes a swallow of scotch. When living in Scotland, as they say...do as the Scottish. "It's not because of that. Why start pleasing them now?" his languid baritone rolls.
     No, it's not that...
     "I think... while I am re-examining my friendships," well, just the one, really, "... why not re-examine other things. What I do. What I want to do. I am not just an artist. I'm good at it, this is true. But why limit myself, amours?" Intense indigo is on you. "Why should I be limited by this? It was good for half my life, but who says that is the way the next half should go?"
     I feel like everything has changed. But that is not true. We have not changed who we are, to one another. No, you are Constant. How I need that now, I find.
     William reaches for your hand. "But," he bends, kissing it, "...nothing that would take me from you. That... I could not bear." He lifts his head, your hand lowered, and his mouth finds your temple. "I want to thank you, for calming me. It is hard for me to keep my mind straight...when there is so much emotion. Anger. Confusion."

     "I know," Ian smiles and whispers softly. He pauses for a moment before speaking again, "That is why we are together, hmm? To make sure where one is lost, the other is certain. At least, I think so now." He sighs then, indeed comforted.
     "I know also," Ian looks away as he talks, "...how you have felt these weeks, laird. I do know, even if I do not speak on it. You will ask me when you need," Ian grins, returning to your face. Always, and he cannot help it, to see you brings a grin. "But I feel it," Ian reminds, "...I share it. But I may only offer my support and my hand. It is normal to feel the things you do right now, with what has happened. And your feelings are part of the reflection. You should have time to do that."

     "It is not easy, the job you have," William slides a smile your way, his deep voice taking on that throat-held sound of humor. "But...even though I will no doubt make you crazy from time to time, know that I appreciate your words, your advice, and most of all... your love. I know that when I need a hand, all I have to do is reach for yours. And you... you know that as well."
     How far we have come, indeed. It is now that it is so easy to see, being so clear...
     William takes a breath as he glances to the window. The Directorate is close. He looks to you as he exhales. "Not that I'm going to let Them know that. To Them, I am as I have ever been. Je suis moi, ne c'est pas? So, how shall we be with one another when we get there. I expect that you have some waiting to speak with you specifically. Shall I be your husband? It's been... when was the last time we were in the Directorate together? 1700-something?"

     Ian laughs and looks ahead again, "I think we were together there more recently." He drinks a little more of his whiskey as he glances to see the progress. "And you are more than my husband, laird. You are The Plantagenet," Ian grins, returning to the space between you, "...that has nothing to do with me." Brows wiggle and Ian finishes off his drink.

     "Mais oui," William chuckles. "I see you distancing yourself from that. No no," he grins with mock-protest and putting on his best Gaelic accent. "I canna take the credit for that." Tilting up his glass, he finishes the scotch. The limousine's intimate confines (which you have intimately shared on more than one occasion) are filled with the sound of William crunching ice with his fangs. It's meditative. It gives his distended fangs something to decimate. It's cathartic.
     And it is, in part, a nervous habit, picked up as an American prince, much as his bouncing legs (which are now bouncing now that the Directorate is in sight) are a habit picked up from his father.
     The game face is being put on, even with the bundled energies and nervous habits. When he steps out of the car, he will be smooth as glass, brilliant as the crown jewels, glistening with olive oil straight from his family's olive tree orchards. You can see it in his eyes. The way they glisten. He knows who he is. He knows what he is. And by god, they should as well.
     As the car begins to slow, William turns to you, his glass of scotch-flavored ice set aside. He places an arm around you, and he pulls you in for a kiss. "Because I will be looking at you, staring at you, and wanting to do this... I do this now," he whispers. Warm lips made cool by the ice cover your own...

     "Mmm," Ian purrs, kissing while he tries not to laugh. He pulls away and licks his lips, touching them with his fingers. Ian's nose wrinkles up for a moment, then he sighs, letting it all fall away. "Be you. And you are not me. I am not you," Ian smiles. "I'll probably visit Robert for a while, if he is there. Mayhap speak to Sebastian. Other than that, I have no plans." So you know his schedule. "It is their opportunity to," Ian waves his hand, "...approach." He laughs. He's here only to hold court.

     You pull away. He doesn't want to let you. His lips hang on, trying to pull you back, but they relent as you move too far back. He rests against the body of the limousine looking perfectly sinful, beautiful, attainable and unattainable all at once -- for you may attain him, but it is you and you alone. The face, the body, that suit. That look. His mouth shows the evidence of the sultry kiss that thawed them from the ice.
     "I am going to be me...bien sur, what else is there? If you see me start to pretend to be that miscreant rogue, be sure to tell me...hmm? Some habits are hard to break. I get defensive with my own clan. I am trying to... repair this. To not be that way. For, I have no need to be defensive. So, promise me that."
     The car stops. In a moment, the driver will open the door.
     William leans in again, his mouth claiming your mouth as his, your heart is his. "I love you," he whispers. The door opens as the kiss parts, his words left there as imprints in the echo of his mouth's grasp. "Do I look majestic?" he wonders with a bland, and humorous, expression.

     Ian snorts, patting your shoulders. "You look like a Plantagenet," Ian observes, glancing to see his door open. "And I'll poke you if you get out of hand," he smiles, setting his glass on the bar shelf.

     "Mind my delicate skin," William drawls, preparing to step out after you. "I bruise easily." Who knew that he could be so funny? Most miss it, his humor, just as they miss yours. But you know him best of all, loving him most.
     He is a Plantagenet. For all of that, it's not so bad a thing. It doesn't have to be, at any rate. If it is a burden for others, that is too bad for them. If it is a burden for him, it is only because he is not thinking rightly. He thinks of this as he straightens, turning to see the door closed behind him. There is an indigo glance for the door before his gaze returns to you.
     William extends his arm, his fingers brushing the small of your back. A last moment of intimacy, a touch to tell you to go ahead. He will be behind you. As he has been for hundreds of years.

Posted by rowan at June 28, 2005 02:53 PM