and some men’s hearts seem to circle forever: you catch sight of them on clear nights,

[apostasia]

WHO: Adelaide Leblanc + Martel
WHAT: The morning after the night before.
WHEN: The morning following Josephine and Vivienne's soiree.
WHERE: Martel's quarters.
NOTES: Contains nudity.

Adelaide is awake, he knows. He'd felt it when her breathing shifted from the slow, evenness of sleep; he had been less surprised than he might have been when she didn't move, upon her side away from him. The curve of her hip beneath the blanket and fur is not without its appeal, so there's that. His hand lingers a moment above her shoulder; her hair; falls to his side again as he rolls onto his back. Well, he can understand. His ceiling has never held such fascination to him - it might hold the great secrets of existence for the way he studies it. It would be easier, he supposes, if it had just been bad--

His laugh is abrupt in the early morning silence, the cool air and the light that knifes through the window, interrupting the careful, experimental way she shifts. Still rough with sleep, a low drawl, not unkind--

"All right, darling, just let me down gently."

He thinks they will survive this. She found it in her to live with his past; they can probably live with where he put his tongue when it was still dark. Even if she is, currently, quite possibly trying to work out if she can get out his window without his noticing.

Comments

[fleurdesel]

There is an idle thought, drifting and distant and ignored immediately, that perhaps if they can be this and have last night as well, have it more often, it might do them both some manner of good. People need contact, need grounding, she is a great deal less stressed than she was the night before or even the week before-

It only takes peering back over her shoulder at him when he says as much that proves she likes him better with his clothes on. Or rather she likes him better, at least, when she is dressed. "...We are both terrible at this."

Whatever this is.

That's something of a comfort at least, one that wrings out a faint snort of laughter.

[apostasia]

Most people like dealing with Martel better when they're wearing clothes.

Funny, that.

He's still smiling, faintly, when she looks at him, one knee bent and an elbow resting there, easy, relaxed. If this is as bad as it gets--

"I think we are quite good," he says, kindly, "at the disentanglement of two people who know better."

And there are worse things in the world.

[fleurdesel]

"I suppose if it had to be someone..." To remind her that she can, that she might, that it could be safe to want and have such things when she is not buried in work or politics or being anything and everything under the sun other than herself. "I am glad that it was you."

She says with her usual exasperated affection reaching out to pat his hand before slipping from the bed properly and seeking out her smalls. They must be here somewhere.

[apostasia]

"And I am damned with faint praise," but he doesn't mean it, the smile that softens the words audible even as she turns away to find her garments. (Scattered, as he recollects it.)

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, breathing in some of that easiness and exhaling again to clear his head.

After a moment, he says, "You know, a woman once thought my body worth immortalising on canvas," very mildly.

(This is both a joke at his own expense and true.)

[fleurdesel]

"Really." Her voice is rich with fond indulgence- this is her, being indulgent as she dresses. Smalls, chemise- she skips the corset for the moment and frowns at the white froth of her gown.

Perhaps she could borrow something of his to wear to her room. It'd be less mortifying. One of his shirts is a dress on her as it was.

"And you in your infinite vanity allowed such a thing with great enjoyment I am sure."

[apostasia]

He laughs - not at Adelaide, but at the memory she prompts to the surface. A shake of his head, brushing his hair out of his eyes loose with one hand -

"I was a boy much concerned with my dignity. She nearly forgot she was going to give me grief for my 'withering expression' when she showed me the first one, when I told her it was a damned good thing I'd already spoken with her father about our marriage. She was not impressed with a proposal she'd never, she said, be able to discuss in polite company."

She always went a little pink when asked about the engagement; he'd rather considered that a feature, not a flaw.

"It took her a great deal of work to persuade me to do it in the first place. In the end, I agreed on the condition the artist wear as much as her subject."

[fleurdesel]

"...if ever there was a question of you being a terrible person." She snorts, opting for one of his shirts. He won't mind. Or he will, but she does not much care at the moment. They've exchanged skin and orgasms, what is a shirt between friends? Precious little.

"Of course you did." Because, again, Martel is just that sort. Part of it is charming when held at the distance of not being quite so deeply entangled. She wonders, then, if this Lady grieves for him. Wonders if she blamed herself for whatever happened to twist Martel so- though she sets that aside. Any woman involved with Martel had to be practical enough to know the man dug his own grave figuratively often enough. That he'd done so literally should come as no surprise.

[apostasia]

He doesn't. Mind the shirt or the entirely reasonable assessment of his character - he is still smiling, lingering a little, and very decisively does not dwell on thoughts of how his relationship with Petrana ended. What he did to her, in his negligence; what she did after. After all this time and with the home in which she'd promised to be his wife ashes--

"Believe me," he says, arch, "she left me under no illusions I was to be married for my charm. Granted, it was an open secret Petra's mother would have had me go whistle for a wife if my knighthood didn't come attached to a margravial title and personal wealth in sinful excess, but I have it from the lady herself that even in buying myself a wife, she'd no rivals prepared to martyr themselves to my intolerable ego, dictatorial ways and mistaken apprehension that I'm amusing."

Upon consideration; "I think the two of you would like each other very much."

[fleurdesel]

"That would depend upon the price, one would think. With sufficient coin even you might perhaps find some woman desperate enough." A beat where she considers this before shaking her head. "Actually- no. Not even then."

Martel is a great many things, but an ideal husband for any price? Hardly. A fair lover, well. More than fair. But a problem, a headache, and a distinct burden upon the patience of anyone that would linger in his company.

"We might swap stories of how exasperating we find you and commiserate over glasses of wine." Though this lady likely had more grievances than Adelaide can dare to imagine.

[apostasia]

"She adored me," he informs her, and there's a shadow of regret in it - but at this distance and after all these years, it's a shadow, only, when there are so many he hurt and so few he's inclined to remember fondly at all. He'd rather remember her fondly, when she'd been his friend first and foremost; he owes her an apology that he never gave, that she was to tease out had been intended by doing her the courtesy of their last meeting.

Allowing her that moment to say what she would to him, the life she'd planned to lead unraveling under his hands. (He remembers the fistful of hair she pulled out of his head more than anything she said, but he'd been near to dead on his feet, in fairness.)

"And," he says, lips twisting in a wry smile, "rather disproved the theory love is blind." A little shrug of his hands - "She married well, in the end, but you needn't worry I've any notions of doing the same."