(no subject)
The sound of a match striking, flickering and flaring to life is the same in any universe, even when a match is not strictly needed to produce flame. The stench of phosphorous, here and then gone, smells as it always does. This match, however, is held high and not near enough to the solitary candle to light it before an efficient flash of green fire does the job.
"Show off," someone mumbles outside the new ring of green light.
The person still holding the match above his head lets out a cheerful laugh and allows it to burn down to his fingertips before yelping and shaking it out. One singed index finger is sucked in his mouth.
"Idiot," a far more feminine voice decrees, not without affection.
"Thus I call to order this meeting of the Terrible Three," the man says, finger still in his mouth. It comes out sounding like Graah a haaa su ooooer his meefhing oooh ha errible ree, but the other two understand perfectly. The words are always the same. Grace had begun it, years before, but Jamie persists in meeting like this; out of a sense of tradition or to needle her, Grace isn’t sure.
Around them, the crypts are quiet and still, full of dead royalty and the occasional rodent; sometimes, Grace imagines, rodent and royal are one and the same. The peculiar chill in the air and the far off noises that somehow reach this place, making even brave Sir Thom feel around for his sword hilt, don’t bother her in the slightest. Behind Jamie, Lightning slants up from the hard, black stain on the ground and casts a long shadow that would be longer if not for the encroaching darkness. "That Gate could still be active, you know," she points out, drily, as she always does.
She knows it’s not. After Roger, after Thom, after everything -- this spot had been magically cleansed to the point of almost dampening her own magic when she visits.
"Nah," Jamie shakes his head, releasing his finger with a pop, "not anymore. The palace mages and King Jon himself saw t’that."
In the darkness, a palpable tension seems to fade by degrees from the large form in a knight's tunic. Thom leans into the light, glancing at Jamie. Jamie does the same. Together, they swing their gazes to where Grace sits, expressions similarly expectant and yet not: one serious, the other amused.
Grace rolls her eyes on principle; it’s not as if she hadn’t suspected this would happen. They are not terribly subtle in regards to certain matters, and thinking they had the opportunity and ample reason to lord something over her would be a prime example of type. "Yes?" she asks at last, tone bored, deliberately keeping her face in shadows.
The two men look at each other again. Do they have a script? Grace wonders to herself. A guide lest I lead them merrily astray? Her lips twitch into a smirk.
"Desiderius," Thom says at last, after Jamie makes a go on, then gesture.
"You’ve met." She isn’t going to make this easy on them. Surely they didn’t expect otherwise?
"Yes?"
"Was that a question, brother dearest? Really, if you don't know, how can I?"
"We," Jamie chirps, "will be asking the questions."
"I’m not allowed to ask my own? Why is that, exactly?" Grace leans in to match their postures, eyebrow cocked.
Silence.
"Because you treated our brother ill, sister," Jamie’s attempt to look stern fails miserably, but Grace focuses on the harder glint in his eyes, visible if one knows how to look for it.
"And what of you, James Brian? Did I give you leave to share anything with Maximus, of all people?" It’s a guess, but a carefully considered one.
Jamie clears his throat, scrunches up his nose and rakes his fingers through his hair. This, in all its studied air of guilt, is all the answer Grace needs. "You know I’ve a big mouth," he grins. "Tis your fault for telling me." He pauses. "Showing me, I should say. That was quite a kiss."
Her eyes warm. "Mmmmm. That it was."
"Grace," Thom sighs.
She turns to Thom. "I am sorry, Thom. Truly. I shouldn’t have used you that way, whatever my intentions." He blinks at her, then gives a jerky nod.
"Are you sorry because it was wrong or because it didn’t go as you’d hoped?" asks Jamie, far too astutely. He blinks as well, but manages to make it look like he doesn't have much of a brain in his head. Incongruous and annoying, that.
"Both," Grace tells him. Her smile turns supercilious.
As Jamie and Grace stare each other down, Thom holds his breath, waiting for his moment, and finally says, "Did you at least follow the dress code for the date you didn't go on?" His eyes light up with ill-disguised hope.
"...you." Grace is surprised, but she masks it and her sudden smirk well. Mithros, if she isn’t a little proud of the man.
"Me," answers Thom, still smiling a bit. It's rare for him to get the better of his sister.
"What? What dress code?" Jamie tilts his head like an inquisitive bird. "Costumes? Was there playacting involved? You didn't say."
This time, Thom and Grace both stare at Jamie like he's lost what few wits he might still possess.
"Yes, Jamie. I dressed up as a shepherdess," Grace deadpans. "Very seductive."
"Ah. And did you show him how to herd your sheep?" her idiot brother inquires, smirking.
Grace rolls her eyes again, just before pasting on a beatific smile. "No," she drawls, "but I have shown him my knife."
Jamie waits a moment, then falls backward in a deep belly laugh, much as he always did as a child. This time it's Thom who asks, deeply puzzled, "What?"
"Her knife," Jamie wheezes, waving a hand at Grace's leg, currently tucked beneath a wealth of green satin. It's not as sordid as it sounds, really, and for that he laughs harder. He simply knows Grace doesn't let just anyone know where it is.
Thom is still unsure, but takes enough away from Jamie's humor and Grace's teetering-on-annoyed smile, and years of knowing both, to form the almost appropriate - or highly inappropriate, he would think - conclusion. "Oh."
"Oh. Grace," and this time, it's very nearly a whine.
"Yes?" Sweetly.
"I like Des."
"How convenient. So do I," she says seriously, and waits. But they both seem at a loss for words and she has no intention of spending all day down here in the dark and dusty crypt, so Grace adds, "I'd appreciate it if no one says a word of it to our mother."
"You mean it," Jamie breathes. "Why not tell her?"
Grace turns a penetrating look on him. "I have my reasons," she insists quietly. All teasing is gone, most of her walls are down. "And I do really like Des. Mom will adore him, in time, but you can't pretend she won't take issue with his position in life." She smiles, a little; there's more to it than that, of course. "If and when we decide to keep each other, she can know then."
It is perhaps the most honest thing she's said to them in years. The truth of it is written on their faces, as well as a certain level of shrewd acknowledgment from Jamie; she wouldn't be surprised if he knew exactly how much her own words affected her, made her stomach flip, made her want to race back to the bar right now to find Des or Sam or to get far away: it doesn't really matter which. Here, in this dark place they have prowled all their lives, Jamie can see her clearly and Thom is starting to do the same.
Brothers are nice, on occasion, but sometimes she wishes they'd just let her be.
Calmly, Thom pushes the candle away from the center and wraps an arm around Grace's waist, hauling her closer with apparent ease. He then yanks hard on Jamie's arm until the three of them are sitting hip to hip, facing the spot where Duke Roger of Conte died. Again. "I too have news."
Jamie squirms, but Thom's hold is firm.
"Sir Raoul my Knight Commander has transferred me to Third Company," he tells them.
Grace sucks in a breath. The sound is involuntary, inelegant and unwelcome, but she's too startled (worried, anxious, sad) to care. For once. "When?"
"A fortnight. We ride for the Southern coast."
Jamie has only one thing to say, but he says it with feeling. "Bugger."
A small laugh escapes Grace, and she rests her head on Thom's large shoulder. "Aye. That. Congratulations, Thom. I know it's what you wanted. And you’ll be careful."
That is not a question.
"I am not trained and disciplined to act a reckless fool," he says, not unkindly.
"That never stopped Mom."
"Can I tell her you said that?" asks Jamie, leaning around Thom with a hopeful look.
"No," Grace and Thom insist at once.
Jamie sighs again, beleaguered. "Bugger."