How is he able to convince you of these things?
     That making love first thing in the evening, before the first scotch, before the shower, is a good thing. Perhaps it takes little convincing. Is it so horrible a thing to hear his voice whisper your name, to feel his body, warming with magic, moving between the crisp and comfortable linen sheets of the nook's bedroom as it covers you?
     Here, in this place, where no one knows to look for either of you, where phones are shut off, where there is no Italian spoken, no deals arranged by or for either of you, here... intimacy returns. An intimacy much needed.
     It would appear, Dunross, that any thoughts you may have of getting out of bed any time soon, any hopes that you might put at least a toe to the warm rugs that cover and soften the floors, are dashed by the enveloping hold of your knight's, your duke's, your husband's insistent arms. Though lovemaking passed to slumber as naturally as the summer storm passed from the ocean to the shore and now is storming inland somewhere, still William holds onto you.
     And the slumber, like the storm's passing, is really a mirage. He is not sleeping, your husband. So you know, by the lifting of his head, but the brush of his mouth against your shoulder and neck. William holds you warmly, your back to his chest, his mouth to your neck and your ear.
     And the rain starts again...

     Ian is not moving far, but sleeping is out of the question. His eyes may be closed, but who knows what thoughts move through his mind.
     Well, one individual might.
     An eye opens to listen to the rain, closing almost immediately after. "I thought you were sleep," he says.

     "The sleep of a soldier," William says, a kiss placed upon your shoulder again. He breathes there, the magic on his breath warming it, making it a living thing. "As close to meditation as I get," he lies his head upon the pillow, but his forehead rests against the nape of your neck.
     He has not said it aloud, but this closeness...he has needed this closeness, this quiet intimacy. You and he and no one else. His soul required the decompression. Desperately. And you. Desperately. To feel loved. To feel as though he knows something.
     You...
     "It is raining again," his arms tighten slightly in an embrace. "And we are here... in our lighthouse." Such a drowsy tone that has, your husband's elongated English, not yet clipping with the odd lilt that Scotland gives it. "I am glad we moved it here."

     "I am too," Ian smiles to himself, unseen by anyone. "It was one of the better ideas regarding that place." He never speaks of America directly or the time there these days. The businesses remaining are just that, and under the umbrellas that Sidhe has decided. They are hers to rule, as she is Ian's.
     The only thing taken from that half-century? A lighthouse.
     Well, and a girl in Switzerland.
     "It is dank here, though. We should have more heating put in, perhaps. I think of nice glowing panels..."

     "Hmm...it could do with an update. It will give us something to do over the rest of the summer and winter." Where we remain here, in our country. And it is ours, despite what others think. William lifts his head, his body pressing to yours as his torso lifts after, giving him a view of your face in profile.
     "We could rethink the entire interior... make it more... Scottish." Less of That Place and more of This One. "Your glowing panels. A stone fireplace," William bends, his mouth tracing your neck again, a large thigh finding its way between your own. A hand lifts from where it lay entwined with his other against your stomach (that beloved stomach of yours) to brush against your hair, then trail along your shoulder and bicep.
     "What else do you wish?" he murmurs in gaelic.

     He hadn't thought of it that way. Ian's brows arch as he considers a larger project. "The fireplaces will be difficult," read expensive, "...perhaps a hearth-like kitchen for a cook?" There's never been much need to bring anyone, nor a need to eat....anything. "I cannot think of too much more," Ian drifts off. He looks to the wall, eyes dilating as he tries to find other items that might be useful.

     "It will not be too much," read, we have plenty of money, "... and why should we not remake it as we like to fit our current life, space and priorities?" Why should it hold any real tie to 'that place' at all now. We are here. And so is it.
     William takes a deep inhale, pulling in the taste of your skin. The ideas on the lighthouse may come and go for several months, even years. Perhaps there will be another house added onto the structure, for servants and dogs, better bathing quarters. No guest rooms, however. Upon that point, he shall not budge.
     So may those unfiltered thoughts tell you as they move from idea to planning. He is able to conceptualize blueprints, design, so quickly. He is able to see a thing, and to know it, to understand its composition, to create -- or in some instances recreate - it.
     And yet he did not see Davydd coming...
     "The summers will be nice here, warm," William murmurs. He wraps his arms around you closer, his eyes closing in the embrace. "The gulf stream makes the waters warmer. We do not need Cadiz." We have our own beachfront property.
     Behind your ear, he nuzzles yet again, his exhalation warming against your skin. "There's not much more," William murmurs, his fingers making a point against your skin, "...but this..."

     Ian's eyes squint open. He'd look behind him, if his eyes moved such ways.
     "What's wrong?" he wonders softly. There is something else. Ian sighs a little, as if something has occurred to him. His lips tighten and relax through a gentle breath.
     "You are still frustrated," he suggests. "And disappearing into our home will not fix it, laird."

     Closing your eyes will not fix it either, Plantagenet. Indigo eyes open as he hears your breath release, your words carried quietly upon it. He releases one in answer. "I am," he replies. "I am frustrated that I cannot find a solution... within myself, or for anyone else."
     Rolling over, his one arm releases you as he turns to lie upon his back. A leg comes up, his foot on the bed, the sheets pulled, tenting as he slowly moves that thigh back and forth. "Usually, by now... I have a plan, mais oui. Something to hold onto other than my anger, or disappointment, or..." His free hand waves, whatever else it may be.
     But he knows, you can see it as indigo eyes turn to you, his face half-turned too, that there is nothing he can do. It is beyond his fixing. Davydd must fix it. And he does not even know how he would want to be approached.
     "I'm sorry," he shakes his head, his mouth making a half-frown. To keep bringing this up. As if talking about it will fix it.

     "Do not..." Ian grunts, lifting himself up to a sitting position, "...be upset, laird. It is alright." Ian stretches his arms above his head, ignoring the sheet falling to his hips. Hands clasp behind his head, and Ian turns left, then right. He exhales loudly and then looks left to see you, smiling brightly. After a pat of your thigh, Ian repositions himself again, this time facing you, cheek in the hand of his propped up elbow.
     "There is no plan, because you do not need one. This is not your situation to handle, Gui. It is someone else's, if he chooses to do anything about it. And," Ian nods, "...you must be prepared that he cannot fix it either. There may be nothing to do. It has happened and you all must go on, making new relationships and new ways, if at all."

     He knows you are right. It is echoed there in his eyes, flickering there behind the indigo that turns hot, such a strange indigo, that it is heated when blues and violets are such cool colors. Face turned toward you upon his pillow, his other arm, which still lies beneath you, shifts and in so doing pulls him back to lie upon his side.
     Black eyebrows lift slightly in an opened expression, one that usually accompanies argumentativeness or emphatic humor but that now seems to accompany uncertainty. What do I do, they seem to wonder. "I do not know even how to prepare myself if he does manage to fix it. Then what? What should my reaction be? I do not know that either, Ian, or ... how would I move forward, what should that become?"
     William frowns again, his hand lifting, landing upon you gently. He gives quiet gratitude for what you say. "I do not know what I want from him now," William murmurs as his frown fades. He smiles at you, for he must smile at you some time tonight. You are close. He likes it like this. "And I know you cannot tell me. It will only be revealed in Time and how things unfold."
     He exhales. He never did like waiting for the Future to reveal itself. There is the future that I want, his soul and mind seem to say, and then his body makes it. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it does not. But at least it's action.

     Ian nods in agreement - the closing of his grey eyes, the nod of his head. "Maybe you should not worry about it so much -- I know that," Ian smiles and waves his hand, "...just saying that doesn't make you feel better, laird. But it is true that the future is hazy for you and your friends," the relationship together, that is. "And," he nods, "..you do not know how you feel," Ian smiles, "...for you have been wronged by one you love so dearly..." his grey eyes seeking indigo.
     "It is a conflict, yes?" Ian chuckles, hearing the irony. "Of the heart and mind. The heart that loves and wants to love, be loved, and to forgive, but the mind that knows what damage has been done and the ramifications the situation has caused now and perhaps eternally."
     "And then," Ian smiles, remembering, "...all we know how to do, are the things we know how to do. How to think, how to react. How to act. How to control or minimize the hurt." His attention returns to the present. "But it doesn't turn out how you wish, no matter how you try."
     "In this case," Ian says softly, "...perhaps a few more months is needed. Years. And then, maybe a way shall open to all of you, without trying to force it this night. Or tomorrow night."

     He has his own obsessive tendencies. Most often, these are apparent in his work, his attention to detail, how a project can sometimes consume him. He cannot let this consume his mind and time as well. The mind so sharp in working with patterns that he can know things, seemingly, before others may know them, to understand things even before they take shape, it does not know the pattern of this problem. Or how, or if ever, a solution will present itself.
     And that mind, so sharp, is annoyed by it.
     But everything you say is true. To the point where your Plantagenet sighs a groan (I know, I know) and plants his face in the bedding and against your chest. "My inclination...is to let it all go, in my mind, that is what I wish I could do," his words are clear enough, muffled though his voice may be in the bedding and against our shin.
     You are right...
     "Thank god one of us has a mind for this," William says, face turned up to you once more. And though he frowns, not liking that the truth is what it is, and that he cannot fix it (at least not to his satisfaction), he knows it is ... as it is. Your words reach into his heart, and that muscle twitches with the truth you speak.
     "And thank god," he whispers, "...that you love me." Lifting, William kisses you, a hand upon your face to brace him there. "I will try ...not to try." It will not be easy for him to sit back and just let it be. Indigo looks to you. "...I will try to do Nothing for now."
     He gives such things sound against the air so that he himself may hear it, and perhaps keep such advice along with yours. And so that you, too, may have the validation that it will not consume him. "Besides, you and I have our lives...it will not keep me from living and enjoying mine. Or yours."
     William's body begins the slow curl around your own again. If he has his way, he will stay here all night. Perhaps with the rain outside, it should.

     "All I know..." Ian says with some melancholy, "...are my own wishes of eight centuries. Mistakes...I desperately wished to fix." And could not. He smiles and closes his eyes again, letting himself lie on his side. His arm extends towards his headboard, and suddenly Ian wishes he was asleep again, content in the falling rain.

     "How miserable I must have made you," he murmurs to himself. Then he sighs at the irony. That he should be here, speaking to you, feeling the same way. Though, he would say not nearly as strongly.
     "Je suis desole," William whispers that against your skin, not saying for what he is apologizing, maybe for everything, maybe for those times, maybe for this night.
     Or that you ever had to go through this with him... that you ever had to feel so... unable to know what to do, unable to fix it, unable to sometimes even understand it, hopeless to change it, that you bled yourself nearly to death.
     "That I know it now, so well, may it keep me from doing the same," William says. And he says no more of that. Lying flush against you, one arm lying heavily, protectively around your waist, his other lifts, his fingers steepling with your own, then clasping your hand as he lies as you do in the bed.
     "Thank you," William says after another moment. I love you, is what he means.

     His eyes glisten, but Ian smiles anyway. "I did not mean it for sympathy, but more for understanding and familiarity."
     "But I'll take it," he blushes.
     And now, he seems tired of it. Too easy it still is for feelings to come back. They are like a weight, truly, that he folds beneath. There is admission of his powerlessness of previous years. But Ian's hand clasps tightly around yours as well, and he smiles as he lets himself, and those feelings, drift away.

     William chuckles softly. "I do not deserve you, but I am glad I have you all the same." His hand clasps back and his own eyes, dark as they are, shine with both surface water and emotional intensity. Shine until they spill over.
     They are a weight for you both, and though you fold, he is there, his body and his own love, the shelter of his arms -- fold there. If you did not love me, you would surely hate me. William's mouth twists a smile at his own thoughts.
     "I am so dense," his voice is that deep and smooth baritone, even beneath such emotions. "That I must feel it in order to understand it. I am sorry, Ian. I am so... very sorry. And you...deserve sympathy, empathy, compassion, respect and love. So... " His hand lifts, wiping away the moisture. William looks at it gathered on his fingertips, clear by way of magic.
     "I understand your point," he continues, his arm lowering once more to lie against your waist. "I will ... remember it. When I feel powerless," like now, "I will remind myself of what I can and cannot do... and what I should and should not do." I will learn from you, once again.
     His arm curves around your back as he draws you to him, his mouth finding the crook of your shoulder and neck. William breathes there as he takes comfort in the shadow that falls between your bodies. There is no bloodletting, no amorous embrace, just the body of your man there, and his own closing eyes to let those feelings, those thoughts, those regrets of his past with you move over him, to drift away even as yours do. Maybe those shades will hash it out together and leave the two of you alone.

     The smile spreads across his face again. If there are tears, the pillows shall keep them. In the quiet, Ian whispers:
     "Just...do not give up."
     Not on yourself, not on your friends, not on the situation. He does not say them specifically, hoping his meaning is understood.
     "Never give up, laird...."

Posted by rowan at September 08, 2005 12:19 PM