Several nights after his return from London, your sweep into Edinburgh with Victoria in-tow, now behind you, and it is Yule proper. The 21st of December. A Thursday. And it is full of snow.
     pLast night, a package arrived. A couple of glossy magazines with Yours Truly on both the cover and the center spread. And those words in type. You could hear them whispered at your ear as you read them, flecked with Occitan. And like all things it didn't exactly go as he hoped. But you know... William knew he broke a cardinal rule. A commandment: thou shalt not speak of it.
     And now, the next night. There is a soft knock on your secret study door. Outside, the hand touches a panel it knows will open, a door as non-descript as a wall. In fact, it is a wall. A knock, but then the panel is accessed, and Plantagenet slips in, "Amours," upon his lips.
     For though you did not kick him out of his bed, he has remarked that he has been... in the dog's house as they say. Figuratively, not literally.
     Indigo eyes look immediately to the desk to find you there, to find you reading. There is the look of expectation on his face. Expectation, backed with the warmth of hope. He has left you to the guest or to your work. He, he has kept to his studio when not discussing Yule with Tori or making sure she is having a nice and relaxing time. That is, when she hasn't been with you...

     "Mmph," Ian grunts, currently reading a series of trifolded papers in his lap. Documents of some sort. His blonde head does not lift when you enter, a sign sure enough that he is focusing his attention on other things. That's the way it is now. Not anger or tears, but a removal of his attention for a while. Something else to do.
     The papers shuffle as he moves the top page to the bottom. Dressed warmly, Ian enjoys the secreted comfort of the office you've made for him, a hidey hole as it were.
     "Something wrong?" he asks, words tempered as if to indicate he's occupied at the moment. Only then does his soft grey eyes glance over to you, almost as if he had glasses upon his nose. Strange. "Are you alright?" he asks lastly, more interested now. You sound almost suppliant.

     Suppliant. Perhaps that's a word for it. Even if he could not regret his words -- for he cannot regret the Truth of his love, nor does, nor shall -- he could regret what he knew their effect would be. Your displeasure. He knew it when he saw it. No one feels the breaking of a commandment more than he who broke it, afterall.
     You do not lift your head at first and that is when he turned, closing the panel door, and he breathed a soft exhalation. I am sorry. But without words. Contrite, he is. And as you as look up lastly, having received no thrust of words, no cleverness, no witty reparte, you see that he has taken seat across from you in one of your desk chairs.
     "I know I am interrupting," William begins, his voice warm, his words measured, "...but I thought I would come in and ...hopefully... be the first one to wish you merry Yule. Though," raven eyebrows open outward, "...you have an attentive staff." There is the hint of a smile. Indigo at last settles on you, and he can't help the smile that begins. He reaches into his coat -- he's dressed quite... fetchingly again tonight, another suit, very fine -- and he pulls out a packet envelope. "And... when you get a moment, there is something here for your signature..."
     The envelope is heavy linen stock. Close inspection will reveal that it is not pre-printed, but its elaborate design was hand-drawn. By him.

     Ian gives a smile to match yours...he cannot stay upset too long these days. "What's this?" he asks softly, turning in his chair to face you. Hand accepts the envelope and begins to seek what may be inside. "A card?" he wonders. Can't be a bill or a receipt. "Your work," he says softly, taking a second to admire it. "Who's it for?" Ian murmurs, sighing as he ends one train of thought to shift to another. He sits back in his chair, indeed looking the schoolmaster this evening, dressed in grey.

     He had started to rise, to leave it at that, but when you smile, it stops him. Breathless. He takes a moment, and in that moment you are taking the envelope. And so, William does not stand up, does not take his leave, does not skulk away. He settles back in the chair, indigo eyes shifting from you to his hand. "It's for you," William murmurs. "I know it is not every day you should sign for your own present but..." William inclines his head, and the smile... oh, you have seen that before, yes? That curve that knows something.
     "I... could not decide whether to cover you in gems," he begins, "...or if I should at last give you a house in the country, as you have talked about. In the end... I decided to compromise and give you a ... little of both..." He nods to you, then looks to his hands again.
     And I am sorry that my words upset you...
     But I cannot apologize about them. Because they are the Truth. I will not apologize for loving you. And for the fact that I cannot be quiet about it.
     Maybe you will be able to forgive me even if I can't apologize, amours...

     You were forgiven when the topic came up. The rest...is his own habits, dying hard. Even he recognizes that. A smile comes again, even as he feels you stir. Come, laird, there really is no issue here...
     Brows arch at the realization that the envelope is not a card, but a series of papers. Arch, then frown. A quick read. Ian quiets as he sits up, thoroughly interested now. He is silent for the better part of a moment, then, "You bought...property?" Yes, that is apparent. Deeds, in fides, other standard pieces. But what property? Ian continues to flip.
     "In France," he figures out after another moment. He can tell the lat-long, the mention of certain department. A river, as well.
     "On the Indre..."

     He resists the urge to tell you. To even think of it. To remember the rivers. Ah, too much information, nearly. No, the best way to surprise you is to let you discover it. Uncover it. You leaf through papers, and William tilts his head, falling into the delight of watching you. Watching you unwrap your gift.
     And the smile begins to spread, warmth lingering. How he loves you. It reverberates. It moves against and off the walls of your secreted study, the earl's den.
     "Hmm," William echoes and confirms. "In France..." Although I know it is not what we discussed. The south of Scotland, but... when this came up, well... I could not resist it. You will forgive me for that too, I hope.
     "A drink?" he wonders softly and finally he stands. No, if he is to resist saying more, he will need a distraction. "Scotch?"

     "Chenonceaux?!" Ian blurts out, finally finding the hidden detail. Wait. That one eludes him. He should know it. A blink, and Ian cocks his head. "Chenonceaux, Chenon..." fingers tapping the arm of his chair.
     Then, it comes.
     Oh, that!
     "Wait...you bought...is that the lovely one with the arches? In the river?" Ah, the vagueries of age. Ian blinks, checks, makes sure. All deposited files lead to the same picture of the same castle.
     "Will..." Ian shakes his head, "...you are kidding, yes?" Come now. A smile grows and his head tilts to the side. Surprise. Delight with you. Where do you get these things? "A castle? What will we do," Ian laughs softly, indeed taken with the way you both give gifts, "...with another castle?" Isn't Chinon the cake?

     And finally the smile breaks and the coolness of the surprise for the heat that watching you naturally creates in him, the warmth that delight inspired. "Well," he begins and the word in your Gaelic stretches out, "... it was there, mais oui? Sitting there, out in the open with no one to love it," he begins, chuckling, as if speaking of an abandoned puppy. He pauses, pouring two glasses of scotch, neat. Smooth. Here, we will salute it properly. Standing before you, on your side of the desk, he hands you your scotch. "To a house in the country, chateau though it be. And yes," William whispers, "...it is that one on the river, with the arches and the gallery over the water, lovely riding grounds. And it is a small castle," William laughs. "And it, unlike Chinon when I acquired her, has roofs."
     He salutes you with his glass, takes a swallow, and then bends, a kiss left upon your brow. "Merry Yule, most beloved," he whispers. And then William rises, to move back to a chair.
     You will notice if you flip through those that there is a new holding company. The name is a combination of Blois and Anjou. A coming together, at last, of the two great counties into something more pleasant than their usual conflagrations and war. Some gift to be shared?

     The bit on the holding company is left for now. Ian grins and tosses the paperwork aside, standing to greet you. The scotch is accepted, but only when his chest touches yours. "Still, what will we do with another house?" Ian smiles, not hearing his question answered. The scotch is lifted in a cheering motion, eyes upon you as he takes a drink. "And," lips pressing and releasing, "...how shall I ever be able to thank you for such a..." what's the word, Ian's cheeks rosying due to the scotch and the closeness, "...sumptuous and totally creamy-topping dessert?" He grins, waiting to see if you like the description and can provide a response.

     "We will live in it," William says, a chuckle to his voice as you blush, and he leaves off thoughts of leaving, even so far as the chair across from you desk. "We will visit it, we will ride on its grounds, meander in Diane's gardens," he whispers, Diane being, of course, That Woman of Poitiers. "Work on Chinon is complete, now down to maintenance only. Perhaps it's time to give Strathfayr a bit of a refresh. It's been more than a century since some of it has been updated, and... while that's being done, we can... ride in the country of Chenonceaux, retire to Chinon when we please."
     He sets his scotch upon your table and his hands go to your back, arms around your waist. "That's if you want the gift to be practical. Otherwise," he grins at your mouth, "I am happy to think it extravagant. A ... creamy-topping dessert," he repeats with a grin, "... one that I can finally watch you savor, mais oui. Like you like to watch me eat chocolat." Indigo scatters colors in a wink, and his hands move to your hips.
     How shall you thank me?
     William takes a seat in your chair and with a hand offers to bring you to him, suggests that, even as he tips his head back. Dark eyes slant to you, and he grins, "The ...thanks are in watching it move over you. You moving over me," he chuckles, oh... I kill me...

     A wish is a veritable command. You sit and Ian sits upon you, facing. The scotch is set aside, and he makes himself comfortable. "Who's Diane?" he asks, his hands out at his sides. "And..." head cocks, "...what's wrong with here?" Refresh? Where did that come from? He looks up, as if he'd find cracks in his own office walls.

     "Diane of Poitiers, one of the kept women of Henri II," William says and then he laughs as you check for cracks. "Good lord, laird, there's nothing the matter with Strathfayr, particularly this portion of it. It's probably just time to schedule maintenance is all... not that it was the reason I bought Chenonceaux. I bought it... because I wanted to give it to you. To see you... walk through the gallery at night, in the reflection of moonlight on the Cher. To ride with you on Andalusian stallions in the early evening. To ride you in silk sheets by the evening's ending. I need no more reason to give it than that I love you," William finishes with a smile, "... the rest was just pulled out of my ass."
     William leans in, hands on your waist, mouth at your chin, your neck, and then your ear. "I want to cover my love in jewels, be they of diamonds or the stones that comprise the best chateaux in all the world. Now, can I be blamed for this..."

     He was looking, you know. But Ian seems nervous when you try to reassure him. Then all is explained. "Ah," he grins, letting you explore, "...I guess I can't blame you for that," he offers, not so good with such compliments. "Oddly enough," he confesses, "I also think I am not so good with such gifts. I...don't know what I've done to deserve them or what to do with them? Or how to say thank you." An honest response. "Everything sounds so...blase. Ah, thank you for the castle!" he chimes, tossing a hand in the air.
     But then, he sighs, hands resting on your shoulders. "We'll enjoy it," Ian says softly, trying to sound genuine. A hand touches your ear, grinning at the lack of hair. "Happy Yule," he adds, "...sweet William..." A breath and kiss of Shakespeare.

Posted by Criseyde at June 16, 2003 02:23 PM