How long has it been really?
     The canopy has the unfortunate ability to hide the truth of it all. Draped burgundy and black keeps even the lowest incandescent light from the antique lamps from penetrating the bed's sacred space.
     Once, nights like these were fantastical dreams. An occasion when the two of you might come together, might drop the walls long enough to share a vulnerable night. Now days, there are joyous evenings, where you have learned to share something you have in common.
     Well, other than each other.
     But, even that is a pleasure unto itself. For no matter who might be in the room, no matter what might have been taken to heighten the night, things always turn to the central point...each other. The thing you most have in common.
     It seems so obvious, the thing you share. In the realization that each of you has a mate, you've become closest of all. Sharing a struggle in learning how to live with self and another. You walk the same road now, and every moment allows a look into a mirror.
     He still sits upon your lap, William, head tossed back with his eyes closed. Arms are anchored to the bed, and his back slopes from tense shoulders to the curved lumbar above his rear. For a moment, he's still, then Ian reanimates, hand wiping at the blood upon his chin.
     That only makes things worse, however. A faint smear remains upon his pale cheeks and lips. Ian inhales sharply, loathe to move upon the hardness that rests within him.
     Grey eyes look to the phone...and his head quirks.

     Time halted about half an hour ago. I actually heard the hands stop, the ticking end, felt the dying of the wind...
     ...Or maybe that was just your last sigh against my mouth...
     ...You sit upon him, the fulcrum about which he exists, you the pinpoint of Life. He is full within you, to the hilt. The beating of a heart, still alive after all of this Time -- no, newly resurrected after all of this time -- is the only measure of Moments, the only separation of seconds into quantifiable segments, that remains. Time is kept by the pulse of him within you.
     William opens his eyes. Slowly. You have stopped? Indigo eyes are a shock of violet and blue -- after so much opium, absinthe, tainted blood -- the colors have separated into separate flames, each roiling, color wavering to create the wave-lengths of Indigo. Then he realizes he is breathing, quickly, pounding. Racing to catch up to himself. He places a large Plantagenet paw upon your hip. Bracing. Maybe to encourage you to move again. Yes, that. He starts to move a little, just a little, lifting to kiss you.
     Such a sight, laird, the man beneath you. The muscles that contract to lift him in his crunch to kiss you. William suckles the blood from your mouth. "My ears are ringing," he murmur-slurs in drugged Provencal. Make it go away.
     So far you and he have traveled, merely to come back to where you where, where you should always have been. Together. Here. More than close. More than mated. More than wedded.

     Mine are too. Ian looks around the closed bed, mind slow to catch up to external stimuli. The hand on his hip made him move -- he is well-trained -- but then he pauses again. Some flutter in the mind.
     "Did...one of the boys come in?" Stephen or Robert, he means. No, they would know better. Something...something.
     Ah well. Ian licks his bottom lip, then looks at you again. His mouth slowly slants into a smile, his blonde hair mussed around his face. He understands it now - this is how you like him. And these nights, he's glad to provide you the delight of seeing it.
     Leaning forward, Ian presses each hand on one of your shoulders. There. He hovers above you, letting his hair fall. He closes his eyes again and rocks back and forth, this time in a gentler motion.
      But suddenly, he glances left, quirking.

     This is how he likes it. It is, in short, the best of both worlds. You, over him, in control, confident, knowing what pleases you and what pleases him. He loves to watch you. This way, he can play voyeur as well as participant. To watch you take him, to pleasure yourself, to watch your body, so beautiful, in motion. When you move, his hand planted on your hip, William lies back and twists, groaning your name with a grin, pressing into the body of the bed, arching and pressing into you, his hips lifting off the bed.
     Your words filter through to him, from echoes of perception to the focus of sound. "Hmm... boys?" he says after a long while. "I do not know...what is that sound...?" The foreign, modern contraption called telephone hasn't even occurred to him. Both hands move to your hips, not to pull or command you, but to feel your body in motion. "Ah...oui..." his thighs open widely outward, anchoring to the bed, butterfly. And it sends him upward fully. It keeps him deeply there. "Oui... deus," the older form of that. He moans it, even after you stop, quirking.
     "Meravilh me com posc durar," William groans a laugh. The tongue, from that mouth, borne by that face, belonging to that form, the languid sound of it is orgasmic, and his hands take your hips again. "Do not stop... non..."

     That's it!
     A marvel.
     "Tele...phone..." Ian manages to get out between rolls of his hips. Forward and back, forward and up. Ian sits up suddenly, hand around himself. He looks to the canopy again, his reminder to breathe and relax.
     Not the boys at all. It is that contraption beside the bed. Ian grins to think that he managed to pinpoint it...

     Dark brows knit together in an expression midway between perplexion and ecstacy. He holds on, his body trembling, stiffening from neck to toe. You feel him stiffen and swell within you, the groin you sit upon turning to fleshy stone. And he holds in this place, hands upon your hips, fingers curling into your flesh and musculature on edge. He, upon the very edge of taking you by the hips and lifing and lowering you for the explosion and calming of the spasms promised.
     William's eyes widen as you put a hand around yourself, and it stills him -- focuses his attention on your length, on your pleasure, and in tantric memories his orgasm is absorbed and wanes. The hard length of him, however, does not relent.
     Telephone? Telephone?? And now he hears it. Shrill. Like the crying of a baby, someone else's annoying baby. Twisting with a groan, one hand moving from your hip -- his other bracing you upon him, keeping you right-where-you-are -- he reaches past the curtains, pushing through them with a fumbling motion.
     Phone...must... die...

     You may be waiting on the fullfillment of a promise. Ian, on the other hand, has no plans to wait.
     Answer the phone, go ahead. It matters not. Ian's eyes are closed, and he rises and falls faster. In fact, he may lift, in an attempt to lower again, but in truth, he is not going very far. You are buried deep within him, and for the most part, he is pushing himself forward and backwards in time with the strokes of his hand.
     Go ahead. Answer it.
     "William..." he breathes, talking to no one but himself. He groans at the draping above, ignoring whatever it is you need to do. While you form something as delicate as a butterfly, Ian rhythmically moves like a rower, riding the waves.
     You haven't answered yet...

     The drapes were thrown back. The hand fumbled through them like a comedian missing his mark, unable to find the stage. But his eyes never left you. Dark blue-violet, swimming with cojoined color, locked upon you, where your hand grasped the root of your length. And as you move upon him, his hand falls short of the phone, grasping instead the side of the bed.
     Ah, leverage...
     Though he falls back into the sheets and the coverlets, the furs and the linens and silks, William is hardly a passive onlooker. You ride him, like a rower you move over him, onto him. He plunges into you. Like the sea, he rises to meet you. In waves.
      And in waves of sound...
     His voice, strained from a night of moaning and crying out thus, for two nights it has been thus, lifts. His left hand grasps your hip, pulling you in the physics of it. You create a machine between you, moving in perfect, well-oiled rhythm. The phone keeps ringing.
     Soon both hands are on your hips, lifing and lowering you upon him, pulling you in, joining you. Eyebrows sweep upward, his eyes fastened upon your moving hand, your length in your grasp. His mouth parts, instinctively parts. And waits. And hopes.
      And still the phone goes unanswered...

     The linens rustle with his motions. The grand headboard rattles against the stone wall.
     Ian watches you watch him, as if daring you to tear yourself away. His face glows hotly, the blood at the surface of his shoulders and cheeks. Along his body, familiar patches of crimson red flare -- the one at the join of his collarbones, another at the low of his stomach. Not seen, but known, is one the top of his right shoulder blade.
     Another forms where you grasp at his hips.
     Telltale signs, all.
     You cannot hold it, William. I know you can't. I see how you look at me, how you move beneath me. You want to, I know you do...
     At the side of the bed, soft tones ring again.
     "Ah..." Ian breathes, syllable lurching from his throat, "...laird...fuck me..."
     Dieu, that phone has to stop...

     He cannot. You own his eyes. You own his mouth. His body. His soul. And when you ask for it, how could he but give it to you. Give it to you. His fingers curl, his hands grip, his hips lift, his body twists. And you are bounced upward, roughly, loudly. And the machine you make, racing to the finish line, snaps, the rhythm breaking, the bed smacking against the stone.
     Yes...
     Yes...
     Fuck me, yes...
     In a multitude of languages, he calls your name, calls out his pleasure, punctuates his orgasm, you called it up like a snake charmer, and he ripples beneath you, lurches within you, swells, fills you. The scent of it rising, blending with sweat and blood and opium.
     "Fuck... yes..." he groans, he nearly sobs it. And then, scrambling, his hand fumbling past the drapes again, missing the phone, then grasping it at last, he answers, "Call... back... later," he pants. He disconnects. And then he throws it, falling back to the bed...

     Call back later?
     That means the phone was answered.
     Ian blinks, letting his chin fall to his chest in engaged awareness. It must not have been so important. Not nearly as important as this...
     Behind parted lips, something glints in the dimness. Ian blinks languidly, an automated response. His knees lift and fall as he pleasures you both, grunting and groaning with each roll he makes.
     There is nothing like late winter at home. The mind turns to hot meals, warming drinks, good books, comfortable sofas, and the darkness of this bed. There's little more to existence during the season. Rain and snow fall alternately, harsh in their delicacy. But over the months, layers of ice form around the keep, creating a warm encasing that only thaws when the real warmth of spring approaches.
     Ian floats and sinks upon the cascade that is you. Hands fly to either side of your ears, stretching him out as he rolls forward on his knees. No longer do his hips move alone. His hardness presses into the stomach beneath him, and his body glides from shoulders to rear. The motion starts high, but undulates low where you meet.
     The pillow beneath your head moves, William, texture against texture. His fingers knead into the down, causing the feathers to slither as he does.
     How did we get here, William? Maybe it does not matter. What matters is what will happen next....

     Fuck me? Fuck you, Plantagenet! No one hangs up on...
     Fucker...
     Call back later. Oh, and by the way, thanks for the auditory images of you and Dunross fucking, I did not need to hear that. A heaving sigh sounds and somewhere in London a cellular phone is tossed onto a sofa...

      ...With the magic you taught him, it takes effort now to remain fully extended. Any slacking that may have started ceases as you slide, seemingly from head to toe, taking him, holding him deep. You start again and I...
     Still need you. Canines have distended, I feel them against my tongue, and I seek your mouth, twisting, body shifting beneath you. His hands slide along your back, that back he adores. The back he has painted. His hands slide along your back and he presses strongly within you. Fitting firmly. He moves against you, body lifting, your length trapped between you, stroked by the motion. Languid, building.
     You feel the parting of his mouth at your skin, brushing, the trailing of his tongue, a trail of fire. He breathes your name there, his body undulating to meet you. You and he, you have become liquid, dissolving the one into the other...

     Who was that? Even now, Ian can feel the rush of surprise and emotion projected through the phone. He turns his face to the tossed telephone, leaving you to kiss his cheek and ear.
     It wasn't important. Ian's mouth brushes across and fixes onto yours as his attention returns to the bed proper. He kisses you once, twice, but the third time, he decides to kiss your throat instead.
      All I need is another taste. Just one. And the lucidity of the last hours will drizzle away into crystal nothingness.
     The man upon you arches and stills when your blood rushes into his mouth. It splashes at the back of his throat, sliding easily to fill his stomach. He stiffens when it does, moaning at your skin on his lips. Suddenly, his open groin presses down into you in rapid succession, pushing and pushing until he realizes he can go no further. Ian's shoulders and back move in serpentine curls, slowing only when he lowers himself onto your chest.

     The great Norman beneath you stills, becoming one with the bedding, dissolving into fine linen, the coverlets, the furs and silks, into your skin, into the liquid, heated, that spills against him. Memories of semen, sweat, blood. His blood. Indigo. Bluer than blue. Charlemagne rolls over your tongue. William of Normandy. Guillaume IX, the first of the troubadours. The greatest beauties of the world. The strongest men. They gallop, they copulate, they people the memory and his blood. Hearty ranks. Aquitaine at the end. Your Guillaume. Guillaume XI.
     William closes his eyes, mouth parting for the murmuring of your name. Again. Again. And I love you. Your duke's thick arms, the arms of a warrior Almost King, surround you, his large hands cupping the rounds of your rear. A last grasp, and then his hands slide, pressing, holding lightly.

     Above you, Ian settles back on your lap, in the familiar child's pose. His forehead rests lightly on your chest, creating a circle of gold and white. His arms are lax, with his hands reaching up near your ears.
     He could lie this way for hours.
     But you are not so lucky, Guillaume. Ian breathes warmly at your torso, and his head lifts so that his chin might settle instead. He looks pleased, by the blank expression on his face, the utterly calm demeanor that's fallen upon him. Unlike most, Ian's blissfulness demonstrates in quietude. One of his hands pats your shoulder, as if to say, Not bad.
     "Alright," he murmurs, as if having finished some project. Done and well-done. His grey eyes are swirling again from the latest infusion of chemicals, and Ian glances over to the nightstand, looking for a drink.

      There is from him only the twitch of motion, even of awareness. The slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. This, from the touch upon his shoulder. In it, a thousand soft and rough emotions voiced at once, of delight, of ardor, of pleasure, contentedness, satiation (however temporary), pride...
      ... You move, you turn your head, and William opens his eyes, just ajar enough to see. Slivers of indigo glistening past dark lashes. His flesh is pale now, so much you have taken over the successive nights. You have had his body. You have had his blood. You have had his heart, his soul. And eagerly he offered all of this up to you. So much pleasure given, so much received in return, and now his body is heavy, denser even than it looks, all the bronze drained from it and a good part of the olive as well. He will be sober once he drinks of fresh vintage. William settles with that same half-smile, archaic. Pleased, proud, satisfied. He only hums to the sound of your voice, a sentiment held upon his tongue, at his throat, reverberating in the chest, his hands lightly resting upon you. He takes a breath, he holds it, and the thousand sensations of you upon him. He even slackens, slipping from you slowly with a sound that is a mixture of disappointment and gratitude.
     And then the phone rings...
     Again...
     Beeping in its cellular clarion call from the foot of the bed: Answer me.
     Answer me, you great Norman git...
     A loud sigh is exhaled. "Christ. Llywelyn..." Ah, so that's who it was. "What do you want with me," he says out loud, the phone now on its second ring. By the third, William is slowly starting to move, legs twisting, stiff from two or three nights now -- which is it? -- of constant copulation, feet groping to grab the tiny phone.

     It's much like riding a wild horse. Ian frowns at the disturbance that causes him to lift, lurch, and fall over onto the bed proper. The phone's ringing again...
     "Llewelyn?" he wonders. How do you know that?
     Ian sighs and falls back onto an empty portion of the exposed sheets. As he opens his eyes, he realizes that he's at some concocted angle, his legs still wound around yours.

     "That was him yelling earlier... I could hear him as I disconnected him..." Ring number six. William rolls over, twisting with you, trading spots. Now, you have a Plantagenet sky. He rolls over you like a force of nature, but gently pressing against you. A twist, and he reaches back, fingers just clasping the tiny phone where feet had kicked it upward...
     A great exhale, and William settles upon you, against you, an arm slipping around you. "I love you," is whispered against your skin. Ring Number Seven, William kisses you, a brush of that mouth, essential, full, devastating. And then with a sigh, "William..." he says into the tiny phone.
     You can hear Llewelyn's voice: I save your little girlie... and what thanks do I get? A fuck off, that's what. Now where are you? And the answer better be Kensington Palace...

     Dark eyebrows knit together in perplexion absolute and William lifts his head to look at you. Why does he think we're in London? "I don't know what you're talking about," comes the French, ancient, moving in honeyed ease, slower still than usual -- thank the loss of blood and the taint of opiates for that. "No, I'm not in London... I was supposed to be?"

     Sandrine looks from her greenhouse, twisting to see into the living room. She sighs and turns around to face a set of pale orchids, holding her watering can firmly as she pours.

     London? Ian looks confused, not sure why anyone would have thought they were there. Oh well. He closes his eyes and takes the opportunity for a quick rest.

     Davydd meanwhile is pacing the full length of the greenhouse, crimson faced, with all the grace of a tiger hunting. You can hear what William is saying, he may as well be on speaker phone: No I'm not in London. Was I supposed to be?
     One look at Davydd and you may well think the great Cymri's head's about to pop clean off. Have you ever seen a man go purple before? He stops dead center and gapes, as if the other man were standing there. "Stop fucking around, this is serious. I called you two nights ago... you said you would be here... look, I can't do this anymore. I've got Tattinger so far up my ass I can taste the hair gel. You have got to come get her, or I am going to have to call Christian... and I make it a point never to call him..."
     Even as Sandrine can hear William, so too may Ian hear Davydd. If he cares to listen.

     Ian's attention is piqued. Eyes open and his chin drops as he tries to look at you and the phone up close and personal. What's wrong? He mouths, not quite sure why anyone has to call a justicar. Something drastic must have happened.
     Looks like we will be travelling soon.

     "Davydd," Sandrine says from the other room, voice serene. You're getting upset. She gives a smile and sets down her watering pail, then turns to enter the apartment proper. On her apron, Sandrine wipes her hands gently, ending her walk at your shoulder.

     There is a tinge of fire in the air. William's temper, gaining heat from the yet burning embers of recently exercised passion, suddenly sparks. The bed squeaks as he starts to lift. Your look stops him. He shrugs, but glares into the phone. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Llewelyn, but if you want me to give a shit about it, I suggest you use better English, boyo..."

     Well, he knew that was coming. Davydd's jaw clenches but... after a moment... he calms down enough to take the high rode. "Two words: Victoria Whitethorn. Ring a bell, your majesty?"

     The royal slurs will get you nowhere, Llewelyn. William's expression goes from pissed to keen in less than seconds. "What about her?"

     In London, Davydd closes his eyes, a hand reaching up to the bridge of his nose. Slowy -- very slowly -- his coloring starts to return to normal. Mars has learned to control his temper. Occasionally. Sometimes he's even successful. "She's had a nervous breakdown. She trashed her hotel room. She scrawled poetry in blood on one of Claridge's nicer walls. And for the past four nights, she's been in Sandrine's house and under my fucking watch. I rather thought she was a friend of yours, Gui, or I'd not have bothered." The red returns. "Now, I have to deal with Tattinger and a whacked out Toreador who makes the plants wilt, and you're not exactly being gracious. I called you two nights ago, for fuck's sake..."
     Yes, he is getting upset. But as you call his name, Davydd looks at you. He calms again, particularly as you come nearer. You're such a dear. You take good care of me.

     Ian's face is now twisted in some confused surprise. What? Ian sighs and pushes up from the pillows, resting on his elbows a moment.
     In another room, Robert and Stephen look up, and move towards the stairwell.
     Let me up, Ian mouths, pushing at your shoulder. Time to get up, certainly, and return to the real world, as it is. He'll see about getting things rapidly ready.

     Sandrine's hand lands at your shoulder. She exhales and takes a seat on the arm of the chair where you sit, arm extending over the chair's back and around your shoulders. Blue apron is bright against her short green skirt, a leftover from her evening over at Nightshade.

      It is not ringing a bell and now William is in motion, letting you up certainly, and moving himself to his side of the bed. "What happened?" the tone immediately changes. "I don't remember the call, Davy-bach," apology and concern, warmth radiating from his voice. He narrows his eyes. "We'll be there as soon as we can get there..."

     That's more fucking like it. Davydd folds his arms against his chest, one hand lifted to hold the small phone to his ear. Between the touch to his shoulder and the 'Davy-bach' on the other end of the phone, Davydd is suddenly mollified. "Her lover's died. The Wolf who howls no more," to paraphrase. "Not sure what the story there is. It can't be good, and she's a taint on her," the wilting flowers, "... makes for sad stories. Thierry is not happy she's locked up with a Ventrue, and even less happy that the Ventrue in question is me, I'd imagine. I've held him off as long as I can. Something must be done, Gwilym. Tonight."

     Oh, how horrible to leave the bed. Ian sighs loudly, swinging his feet around to break the placid hang of drapes. A cooler world breeze with the partially-open folds, and Ian shudders as he takes a breath before pushing himself off the bed.
     The outer door opens and closes. Two sets of feet stride across the sitting room's floor. They will have much to do in the next hour.
     "I'm going to take a quick shower," Ian states, pulling the drape closed so you may stay warm as you talk.

     William falls back upon the bed, another exhale, the bed sounds beneath him. His body is tired. It is also sore. And already he misses you. It throbs on the air, that emotion, seeking you. Threads of Presence and Domination wind through the air, wayward ribbons of energy. Not to pull you back to him, just to feel you.
     You so have him, Earl Dunross. You have William where many have wanted him. Wanting you back. None but you have ever known this. You are singular in the universe for it. And much envied.
     "We are getting ready now," William murmurs. "We should be there... in a few hours. I will call you again when we are en route..."

     In London, Davydd turns, glancing over his shoulder to the living room. The woman is asleep again. "I should be able to hold her well enough. I'm a bit of a charmer as you know. So far, she's been ... easy enough to handle. Though, you can imagine it's caused quite the stir here. I do not care to be at the center of this particular storm." Or any storm, for that matter.

     The inner door opens and Robert and Stephen pause momentarily. Their footsteps pick up again as the head towards the bath area...
     Before you finish your call, Ian will have arranged a plane and instructed the young men to pack bags for two nights in London and to call Kensington to expect them. Indeed, the men go in, and one, heavy-footed comes back out to pass again to the sitting room. That must be Robert.

     William sits up with a sigh, rakes his hand through short hair. "Aye, well... that's you, Llewelyn. All honey, all the time. Thank you, brother... for stepping in. I am sorry about earlier. I... don't remember the previous call, truly... but we'll get there, alright?"

     "What have you been smoking, Plantagenet? And...admittedly... I think you were thigh-deep into Dunross at the time, not that I want to think about it. I've already had to take five showers from the shite I heard earlier. The way you are with one another," he goes off on a tangent, as he can be known to do, "...you'd think you were newlyweds. Has it ever occurred to you after 800 years that you shouldn't be fucking like teenagers for the rest of your lives?"
     Finally, Davydd cracks a smile. "It's disgusting..."

     "I'll see you in a bit, nevermind what I do," William rolls, French elongating. Occitan flicking. "Take care of her, Llewelyn," he murmurs suddenly. "She is dear to Us." He sounds like a king, and like a king he has the final say. The call is done.

     Sandrine looks down, breaking a stare at some fixed point. "Davy," she whispers, not to sure about his improper commentary. And she didn't recall any showers. Her hand nudges as she runs her other hand over her skirt absently.

     In the bath, Ian dutifully sees about the shower. Stephen walks quietly around your bedroom, beginning the process of finding clothes, picking up, and gathering items for your suitcases.

     There is a rumble in London: "What," he half-asks, half-murmurs. And Davydd smiles at Sandrine's nudge. The phone is pocketed, her arms and waist are taken, and in the greenhouse, with no music, Davydd Llewelyn gives you a dancing spin, a dip, a kiss. He lifts with a wink. How he can go from pacing ruts in your floor to tripping the light fantastic within minutes of one another is something uniquely him. That is, unless you knew a lot of other high-maintenance Medieval Welsh men, undiluted Cymri.

     In Scotland, heavy footsteps join the commotion, albeit slowly. Naked, commanding, William enters the bath, heading for the shower and steam room. And you. He is massive, and barely moving maybe he seems made of stone. The languid grace has been replaced for the time by a denser energy.

     Behind the glass and in the carved stone shower is Ian. He stands there, letting the hot water run over his head. Great invention, showers.
     He can feel you as much as anything. One hand reaches out to prop him up against the stone while giving an arm a stretche. His head turns to face the glass as he watches you enter.
     "What's going on?" he asks in his own tongue, he looking much like a drowned golden retriever. The steam rises up from the open top of the shower, but the keep's stone, warmed by the heat, keep their glorious temperature. A plan that. "The boys are making the arrangements," he lets you know.

     "He said her lover was dead." Darius. The words are spoken flatly, a wash of Gaelic, as he moves into the shower with you. A press of his skin to your own, he steals a little of your water. Dark hair on his head drenched, dark hair from stomach downward likewise. William closes his eyes, surrounded by steam, hot water, and you. "I do not know..." his voice catches for a moment. "If that were me in London, I cannot conceive of how devastated I would be... and I can't imagine how devastated she must be if it is so."
     He is upset, not for Darius' sake. He knew, in fact, that the chances were good that it was going to come to this. But he knows how fragile Victoria is. How fragile she truly is. "It would..." he shakes his head, "...it would so ... tilt my universe, I do not think I would know how to stand. If I lost you. And I am strong, Ian..."
     He is worried...

     Ian is still for a moment when you explain what's happened. He shares your sentiment, staring at the wall ahead of him. Unimaginable. Unfathomable. Ian blinks, then looks to the side wall, as if to find answers there. He sighs. "Devastated isn't the word," he whispers, closing his eyes to stand in the torrent of heat once more and wash the sympathetic images of his own fear away.
     "The boys," he burbles under the water, hands running over the top of his head, "...will have us ready within the hour. I presume that we will arrive, get her, and depending on the time, turn around and head back here?" Hot water catches in his mouth, but Ian doesn't mind. The hotter, the better.
     "Kensington will expect us."

     I don't want to think about it...
     Fear burbles to the surface, and like you William seeks to drench himself in the hot water, to let the water wash over him. To wash the fear and the thoughts away. "Oui... if we can come back, we should come back." It is safer here. And we are about to sweep in and involve ourselves in Toreador Business. Won't we just be the height of popularity.
     Large hands shield his face for a moment, then sweep back over his hair. Hair kept short, you might notice now, without the aid of your amulet. He has not noticed, it has not occurred to him. Honeyed lather moves over him as the Plantagenet paw grabs shower glove and scrubs, waking the skin, the senses, blood begins moving again. And he leans against you. What would I do without you? I would shrivel into a husk and blow away on the wind. Dieu, I cannot think of it. I would cease to be. Being would cease to be.
     You feel his hands on you again, the lather of soap, the grasp of fingers, his mouth at your neck. That can never happen. So we say. And yet... it has happened to one that we know...

     The shower fills with the sound of water rushing roughly over stone. Ian's still too, feeling you behind him, holding him. His left hand holds his forehead, while his right lands on yours.

     It is nothing like the hold from earlier, from the past two or three nights, when hands have grasped hips with feverish possession. This hold, this embrace, it is a lover's comfort, and reassurance. I am still here. You are still here.
     The arms of your duke, thick, could not hold you more gently...
     After a moment and a moment more of silence, William breathes your name, kisses the side of your neck, your temple, and gives his shoulders and back to the water, rinsing. Wash the fear away. He keeps a hand on you still as he turns to wash the fear away. If only it would rinse as cleanly as the soap...

Posted by rowan at June 27, 2003 03:08 PM