Counting backwards the space of eight hours, Time itself is traveled. From the snowy heights of Rosshire, Scotland - where frost grows upon the ground like the heather shall in the coming Spring - to the rainforest that is Oregon. What is early evening for you - some eight o'clock American - is nearly dawn for him. He has only two hours until sunrise. Though, sunrise is hard to prove these days in the highlands. It is evidenced only in the lighter shades of grey in the sky. But it is at that hour when a call comes... not via your cellular phone. But a visual-conferencing call. Who else could it be...?

     It brings a bit of a surprise, but not so much. Alexandra is the initial expectation, but as Ian crosses the room in his pajamas and robe, a second comes to mind. The little-experienced user of the Midlothian relay. He smiles as finger touches a few keys on the keyboard and in his laptop's liquid plasma display, image comes up perfectly. For you, the first scene is white and a midriff, descending quickly into the seat ahead of the display, then...face and bright eyes....

     There are pieces of technology that have come more slowly for him - merely because he had not the need you and Alexandra had for such. What need has an artist of such? Voice is enough for most. But... with you? It is not enough to merely hear you, and so... he seeks to see you...
     And the image you see? The expectant indigo, waiting for some sign of life on the other end. Clothed in darkness that offsets his beauty like the cloth of a box sets off a gem, yes? William is sitting in one of the comfortable chairs... not in the bedroom's sitting room or the main hall, but in the gaming room. You can tell by the chair, and by some of the requisite scenery behind him. And in that usual lordly sprawl. Although the texture of the sweater is lost in the technology, what is not lost is how it wears on him. As William sees the image of you - from midriff to your bright eyes - the smile begins. Spreading slowly, and then erupting. As much in his eyes as upon his mouth. "Good morning..." comes the Gaelic. Fluid. With just a hint of French. "I did not break it..." he adds, referring to your computer. "Are you not proud? And I am..." a pause. And his expression turns wicked. "...almost sober..."

     "Almost?" comes Ian's voice, returning to Gaelic tones. He smirks as the consonants roll from his lips. He has missed you and those low syllables. His sigh is visible and he makes himself comfortable as he pulls the display closer. "Good evening," he retorts, loving smile. A bit of an ache rises, but pursing his lips, he manages to keep it subdued.
     "You...look...wonderful," hand coming to cup his cheek as he leans against the arm of his seat, "...I love you, Will." Fingers tap at his skin as he simply watches you for a long moment in silence.

     "Well..." comes the soft admittance. "...it is four in the morning..." As if being sober were a crime. Of course, for the French ...isn't it? William lowers his jest for the moment, and there is warmth there in the place of wickedness. "I love you... " he says with solemnity and full of emotion. The screen should crackle with it, but the picture holds true. You can see in those dark eyes that he has missed you. And only into the first week of this. Mon Dieu - says his expression - how may I endure another week? "Does the boredom show?" A grin begins at that. Not allowing ache and melancholy to settle. "You look... " A sound holds in his throat. "... very handsome and very comfortable. How is Oregon?" A raven brow lifts, and in unison to that he raises a glass. Scotch. No ice for a change. And it is now his turn to stare. Yours to answer.

     "Oh..." Ian shrugs with feigned nonchalance, "...it is the same. There is to finally be a council meeting, apparently, in another week's time or so. I think then the pressure will be lifted from me. Right now, I think people are asking questions and looking to me, and frankly," he smiles, "I don't have answers...nor do I wish to have any. I simply refer individuals to look to the meeting or ask their Primogen." Not his problem, in other words. His problem...is to officially point Victoria, and then his work is done. "It is...rainy. A little chilly - and that is the weather," Ian winks, humor still there. There's a pregnant pause to see if you wish anymore on New Port. He'd just as soon speak about you two. "You...alright...? I hope everything is going swimmingly there with settling? Ah - " he lifts a finger, "...I do have news...the dogs are to be sent by plane later today. They were prepared." The good groom. "So," he smiles, "...that is good."

     "Good," and in his gaze is an exclamation. True Joy. Excitement to have the other dogs returned. The flicker of blue-violet - perhaps the screen misses most of it - but the color settles as excitement settles. The smile turns wry. "I could use the dogs about now. Macsen is tired of being my wife..." He laughs at that, knowing where minds might leap - and thus he meant it to be taken so. Jest that it is. His laughter is smooth and full. "The servants do not know me well enough to keep me ...occupied. They are still... tentative...?" Is that the word. A raven brow lifts, then lowers. He settles on that. There is a nod for New Port, but not much is asked on the politics. "It is good to see you... we have gotten more snow," he adds. "I'm alright," William says a moment after, smiling. Warmth and softness to it. Do not worry. "Bored... But... I have been painting. Playing pool. Trying to coax servants to dark corners..." He grins. Just kidding. "My chief joys of this week? Drinking you out of a glass... " William chuckles, the smile pulling sensuous - as it cannot help but do. "You make an excellent bloody Mary...." he murmurs.
     William settles in the chair, his smile now ever-present. Warmth and Need held in his gaze - expressed there. "The horses have arrived in Chinon, I am told. So... soon all will be appointed there...it is getting settled."

     "Oh, well," Ian murmurs, waving his fingers in a cadence. "Me in a glass, what more do you need?" He snickers, wiggling his nose at you. "And good on the horses...I think we're having a second flight set for the birds...and goods from both residences," he confirms, manicured hands brushing at his cheek still, "...I have a few gifts to still hand out, but once the meeting is done," he shrugs, "I think the bulk of issues will be sorted then." And then I can come home. A smile is given to you for the unspoken conclusion. "So there's more snow?" he frowns a little, faintly surprised. The brow opens and he says softly, "I guess it is still February, hmm?" and grey eyes decide to focus on you further. Most of the news has passed. Ian chuckles abruptly, "And I'm sorry about you...and Macsen. New step in your relationship?"

     A sigh for that. "I fear so," comes the smooth baritone, seeming fully serious in it. Though he smiles all the while. "He runs now when he sees me coming..." And then does the grin claim him. Then does it erupt, wicked. Saints to blush at it. Ah well, you know how Macsen feels yes? Dark brows waggle. But the humor falls, light as laughter, to the floor. Beneath it, a layer of seriousness. Of missing you. The ache is there.
     William rests his head against the back cushion of the chair. "What more do I need?" comes the languid murmur, commanded by the lilt of the Gaelic he speaks. "The list is too long, Ian..." And he means this. Though the smile remains, held at the corners of his mouth. A slight upturning. "I'm interviewing for a Confessioner, however. No better time to go before God then when one is celibate..." Indigo eyes flicker in a slight roll. "I should start with a clean slate in the spring," comes the mull of his deep voice.
     You know how it holds in his chest. William finishes his scotch and sets it aside, hands interlacing against his stomach. What cashmere hides is the tightened coil of muscle there. "No one should head into the season of lust with stale sins at the heels." He chuckles at that and looks to you. Moments and moments of staring. "And yes... it is February... all over. Funny... when you were here December was not half so cold."

     "Have someone check for open flues," Ian teases dryly. But the sentiment you express is shared. "Yeah, I know," he admits, lips twisting for the sympathy. Oh well. He swallows and picks up, "What's this about a Confessioner, though, for Spring?" Is it just for the season, implied query. "What's wrong?" he wonders somewhat seriously. "You need someone..." as if it was a pointed desire on your part.

     You do not let the melancholy settle in. Good on you for the teasing. In William's gaze there is gratitude. Parting is difficult for this one. So much energy -- he has always had so much energy. His mind... alive with thoughts and feelings and artistry constantly. Of wants. William inhales. A breath that is held for a moment. "Nothing is wrong... it is... just good to have a Man of God held in retainer." He pauses, sensuous mouth -- made seemingly moreso by the ever-coming-in beard that surrounds it -- curling in a smile. Wry. "I'm old, you know. I should start working on ensuring I make it to heaven." Indigo flickers in a wink. But more seriously, he inclines his head. His hands outspreading and unclasping for a moment.
     "I need someone to confess my sins to, oui. Someone who was not... so rudely affected by them..." Meaning you. In truth, why should you be burdened more by it all? William makes a wave of his hand. "It is no new matter. I merely did not have the time to attend to it in New Port. Now, back in Europe... back home, I may return to former business." Like being a proper prince, not a prince of the Camarilla. A breath is exhaled. "I will have Mr. Stevens check the flues..." he murmurs after, a smile pulling again. "But I do not think it is an increase in drafts... but a decrease in your presence here... that has caused this... chill. Maybe," indigo eyes lift in color and brows lift in wondering, "... if I can talk the boys into having a good game of football... it will warm matters..."

     Talk of Heaven. That always brings lightness and a smile. It is a topic Ian never speaks of about himself, but he knows that it does have import for you. He shall not mock your Princely or spiritual needs...it is your way, Knight. There's a nod for being at home and things returning as before. But football? He looks up at that one, then smiles, "What you should do," he shifts in his seat, as if about to speak conspiracy, "...is have Meredith or Thomas," he grins, "...join you in a game in the warm bath." Speak of suggestive.
     He lifts a finger, halting your blushing response, "I am teasing, really, but...in some way...I am serious, love." He smiles and runs hand through his hair, ring glinting in the light of the ranch's master bedroom. "Pass on the football." As sport. Fingers pull at his bottom lip in a Cheshire grin.

     A blush perhaps began, but halted certainly at the lifting of your finger. How well you command him, the knight. You, the lord. He... your vassal. Prince of England and France though he may forever be. As the blush is halted, held in suspension to glimmer in those dark eyes, both brows lift high in surprise. The placid expression one of Stun. As much as it is stunning. Slowly, does the realization wash against his features.
     "I... do not think Meredith or Thomas would... know what to do with me," comes the murmur. No more is it a matter of what he would do with them -- any man, in fact. That tentativeness is not there. The hesitance has a vow's tug to it. The idea you spoke came with images -- can you see them sparkle across the dark eyes, like stars held cupped by the dark sky? Of a bath -- and you. "You are teasing," comes the mull of baritone and a curl of a smile, "...aye... no doubt on that. But in what way are you serious, amours?" A brow lifts to that. "I think football would be safer..." he chuckles quietly, and his gaze lowers a moment to his hands. Perhaps to the ring there, before lifting to you again.
     "Make certain to pack my hockey gear and bring it back with you...yes? I could engage Macsen in some turbo fetching..." Spoken as an afterthought -- as if just remembered.

     Certainly. Ian nods at the need for the hockey gear, but returns to the issue at hand. He shrugs and explains, "I was kidding in how I spoke it, but..." he smiles, "I do not want you to be lonely. I know...it is not the same as me, but..." he smiles at you. "Something just to stave the chill for a while? Just...a bit of something warmer, is all I mean. I am certain," he nods, "...that Meryl or Meredith could...be suitable." Thomas, well, yes, he would need more work. But that one in Stevens' service? Or the one who works on the gardener's staff? They need no such tender mercies.

     Hockey gear is forgotten, and for a time William is quiet. He lets this sink in. Settle upon him. Within him. Would he be able to live with it after such comfort was sought? Would permission-granted turn to jealous barbs? Would you have questions in your eyes when you looked at Meredith and Meryl after? Is such worth just a night of ...comfort and warmth? The questions hover within his gaze in the moments where he is silent. Then William smiles a little. To see you smile. "I think... Macsen would get jealous... non? Perhaps... " It is safer to be lonely. You see that resolve. Can you feel it as far as you are from him? A world away.
     William smiles, a slant of his mouth. "I will be lonely until you return. How could I be otherwise, amours? I miss you..." His eyes resonate with that. The screen resonates with it. Does it seem to pulse with that energy? William is quiet for a time -- wanting you. Warm blood to fill his mouth. Arms to wrap around something other than a dog. "How would you feel..." And he leaves it there. Wondering.

     In his quiet, Ian watches. He can feel you a half-world away, and with seeing you...it only heightens the connection. "I am bringing it up," he softly replies, swallowing. "But Will," he narrows his eyes, "...it has to be right...for you. With you. You...must choose, not me, Will." He knows your guilt, has heard you speak it. "And this..." he smiles brighter to think of it, "...is now. It...is impossible," Ian says with conviction, watch you, "...for us to go back. We simply cannot. We...are not the same, even if we stumble now. It would not...be as it was." Test this new way of speaking and living. It is a challenge. "Logic...dictates that if we are not the same," and he appeals to the first and obvious level of discussing this, "...then if anything happens, our responses would be...not the same either." Not anymore.
     He looks down, "I don't want you to be lonely, Will. That..." he frowns, "...is not who I am now." Needing to see you share his celibacy to prove devotion. "And when I was...that way...I should have understood better then too. But...I did not. And since I thought it...being mostly alone...was how to show you..." he looks up, an apologetic grin upon his lips, "...how I felt, I kept waiting for you to show me too. I..." he swallows, "...was wrong," eyes lowering with embarrassment. They remain down as he adds, "That was not...how to get you...to see me. And now," he shrugs, "...it is not necessary...from you...to show me," he looks up, "...that you love me too."

     The reason a sinner speaks with a priest... is not so much for absolution, nor for understanding. But for reassurance. In this, Bishop of Ventrue, you are his Confessioner. You can see it in his eyes.
     He would rather suffer than to cause you pain. Whether that be this minor sufferance of Persistent Need and Celibacy of Devotion, or of loneliness. He would bear it, rather than to see that look in your eyes of disappointment, or sorrow. All Crusaders are, at worst, martyrs -- are they not? And as if you were his God, this Crusader would rather burn at the stake than displease you.
     As you speak, he inhales. Listening. Swallowing this all in. You can see Reassurance settling upon him. Open and bared to you as you lift your eyes again. If you were seeking devotion, his expression and his love bears it with far more conviction than Celibacy in all its chill could ever show. His loyalty and his love visible. And his concern -- do not be embarrassed, he should like to say. But it softens in warmth. Swallowing, William nods. "I know," he murmurs. To all of that. A moment later and he looks down at his hand again. "I will ... think about it..." And you know, though permission was granted, he will have to settle this with himself a while. A sigh issues, but it is not in sorrow. Merely an exhale of energy. "I... know we are not the same. Thank you..." Indigo lifts to you and settles there. Warmth coming through across the miles and hours. For the reassurance -- thank you. "I...will consider it. It will.... not be the same...and ... if I ... decide that this is... something that sits well with me... I... will tell you. And... if it bothers you... you will tell me?" He entreats this.

     "Yes," Ian says immediately, looking up. His smile is slight, but warm, gaining footing again. "I will...speak," he chuckles, teasing himself in the process. A glance down to something invisible. Hands in his lap now. "Sometimes, I wonder," he glances towards the door, "...if I ever...learned to understand what I am." He sighs and puts hands to his face, as if to wash it all away. "These things..." blood, love, sex, simple nourishment, passion, desire...anger, fear, aggression -- things of the vampire, "...are all so twisted...together." He swallows, a hint of cursing Liam behind the covering. That much is felt. He inhales loudly and drops his hands to his lap, the sound of the slap sharp. Frustration. "I love you," Ian states as much to you as himself. "I want us...to be together. You..." he nods, "...are my life, my heart, my partner, my lover...my future..." he smiles as eyes return to you finally, "...and I fear nothing...now...with you, Will. I look forward to everything," he grins, cheer returning as he speaks the litany, the new mantra, "...even the weird..." Ian snorts, "...strange...hard...pleasurable," that gets a waggle of brows, "...whatever comes. All of it. That is different in me," he says proudly, knowing it is fundamental truth, "...and with that..." he grins giddily, "...what else is there?"
     He leans his head and quirks, "Are you going to make fun of me now?" Ian grinning boyishly at his...lengthy confession.

     "You need not tell me," William says softly, chuckling after. "I ...understand it. All." And does he not, having lost many a debate between Blood and Sex, Blood and Love, Anger and the whole pack of growling dogs which are the Vampire's soul. Yes, he has known this. "I understand, my love..." Preaching to the choir on this point.
     As you cover your face and then your hands slap against your thighs, he wishes he could reach out and touch you. His hands move to do so, but he catches himself. A small smile and he folds them against his chest. "I love you," William continues, and he nods to the words, seconding them. Emphasizing them. A smile is there, but moreso there is warmth and affection. "No... I am not going to make fun of you," he says. "Though your choice of Confessioners may perplex God..." He grins at that. Confessing to the devil Plantagenet. He winks in that. He likes to fancy himself Godless, but you know it is not so.
     He speaks his love again in Gaelic. And he closes his eyes with it. Holding that thought -- and you -- for a moment. When William opens his eyes, their dark color is brilliantly lit. His own light, that. "I will... think about it. It is... sweet of you to think of me thus... knowing my sensitivity to cold. My love, he looks out for me." And he means this, even though there is humor in it. "And... you know... I do not want you suffering the rain much. If you... need company, find company..." His voice is deep, clinging to his throat. His gaze is palpable. Serious. "I know you love me... "

     "Aye, think on it," Ian smiles. He spends much time confessing lack of knowledge with some of the oldest subjects. Thought not spent on them, as he simply decided to force his answers into existence. That did not relieve the weight of the questions left by Liam. "And yes," he grins, "I know how you are about the cold...just as I am about the wet." A glint to show you that maybe he'll think on doing the same too. "But yes," he smiles warmly, "I know you love me too." Was it so long ago you both believed such was questionable or confusing? "I know," he inhales, nodding to himself. "So," he exhales, grinning at you, "...I'll be home as soon as I can. I miss you...the ranch misses you, the lighthouse too."

     Though permission is given, and reassurance has been taken, you know your William. Once a knight, always a knight. Once a troubadour, always a troubadour. He will look and he will suffer. The more to need you upon your return. Ah, St. William you should call him for all of this. "I will be here waiting," William lilts, a chuckle at the end of his words. "I miss you... and Scotland misses you. Write me... oh..." His eyes alight. "I forgot.... be certain to check your e-mail before you head off for the remainder of your evening." Your beautiful sinner grins then. And that damnable grin... endearing, wicked, sensuous, deadly. You know he has been up to something, yes? "And call me when you can, yes?"
     William exhales. And though the smile remains, it is edged now by that ache. You will be going soon. He stares at you... burning that sight of you in him. Against his blood. That is what shall hold him tonight as he sleeps...

     The stare is returned. Watched watching the watcher. Ian chuckles about the email, nodding as he lifts his hand. "Okay, I will check," he smirks, then, "...oh...I have had a thought too," he offers, "...have you thought...about moving the lighthouse? Buying it from the State...and...well.." he grins, "I have some unused coastline at home...."

     Eyes go wide at that. "Can... it be done?" He had not thought of that. And William grins. "What am I saying... of course, if Ian Dunross wishes it, it can be done," he murmurs. Meaning it as it is said -- a compliment. You move mountains, do you not. And fate. "I should like that," William adds softly. "It was our home... more so than any other place there. It was... where we learned so much. I should like to have that here." A beacon. Of remembrance if nothing else. He falls into staring again. You know the sun must be close to rising. You can see him going...resolute. I will not fade -- says his form -- until I command it be done. Not the sun. Not God. And in this, he is the very picture of a Plantagenet king.

     A nod is followed by a widely growing smile. "I am glad you think it's good too." He knows the expression upon your face. It makes you regal...as well as vulnerable. The vampire sleep calls soon. He sighs a little, but with a happy heart. "I should let you go, hmm? It is almost getting time..." for both of us. Sleep for you. Dinner for him. "I'll check into the possibilities," he reassures, tone beginning to dance towards conclusion.

     Stubbornness -- a flash of fire in that indigo. He is cursing the command of Mother Night. "I should go..." he echoes. "The house will be stirring soon...They are learning quickly... " How to make noise for him. How he needs that symphony of life when you are not near. "I will... " Resolution as he sits up. Fighting it back again, the sudden heaviness. "... have a surprise awaiting you when you come home." William smiles. Lazy, languid. "You will like it, I think..." A pause. "Check your email tonight... send me a reply... I will check it... first thing when I wake..." You see him turn and look over his shoulder. Wistfulness in his face as he looks back to you. "The sun rises early in the north, my love..." A lament. "Hurry home."

     "Okay, okay, I will," Ian smirks, toying with the name. And then, more somber, though with a grin, "I will hurry." He waves fingers and whispers, "I love you. Sleep well." Upon the fingers is placed a kiss, and more waving.

     "Okay..." is softly repeated. A last smile given. "I love you." And with that the call is ended. It is not a far walk, thankfully, from the gaming room to the bedroom. And fully ensconced within the tower, you know he will pass only in darkness. And so late was he up would there be a servant to attend him? Non, but you know how he shall sleep. In those clothes, spread out on your bed, face down in a pillow. Resting without a motion. Without a sound. You know the image well enough to conjure it...

     As for the email? If you cue it up, you will hear music much like that heard in the Satyricon the other night -- when you and your two young men wrangled in the back of the club. And then... another familiar sight? Well, sort of. Although, have you ever seen ...one of those... dance... quite like that before? Leave it to William to find something like this...

Posted by rowan at January 29, 2000 11:24 PM