One-shot for Charles Macaulay - sober musings (more or less)
If he stared long enough, he was sure - certain sure - he’d see an edge of Camilla reflected there. Were they not twins?
Cold turkey was no party. Milly had offered him some potions to get through the rough patches - DTs, sweats, hallucinations - and in an initial moment of weakness, of maybe-reconciliation, he had agreed. But she’d brought him nothing, and he’d not followed up on it, preferring, after all, to let his body detox without help. Stay in control. Overall and alcoholic appearances to the contrary, Charles preferred being in control.
Besides, she hadn’t said who her source of these potions was - what if it was Henry himself? Charles wasn’t that big a fool.
Henry was, though. They all were, thinking Bunny was some sort of threat. What exactly did he have? No proof, certainly, of the farmer’s death. It was years later and they’d never fallen under any real suspicion. What sort of evidence could there possibly be now, other than Bunny’s word? What would the authorities do, take the word of some dead guy?
And Bunny’s own murder would be fractionally more convincing if Bunny was actually dead. The poor sap had negated his own greatest weapon, just by showing up. Charles snorted. No, really, he didn’t see the threat. Bunny was a pain in the ass, certainly, but he couldn’t really do anything to them. There’s no way he was particularly adept at magic, either. Bunny was, in a nutshell, a fool, in the best tradition of court jesters. No real mental capacity, not for anything complex like classics or magic.
No, Charles wasn’t particularly afraid of Bunny. Irritated, yes. Annoyed, sure.
But if Henry was fool enough to find Bunny an actual threat, Charles wouldn’t disabuse him of the notion. Seeing Henry worried was rather entertaining, actually. It was too bad Camilla was caught up in it all, though. Charles didn’t like to think of her frightened by anything.
He winced. Last time he’d seen her frightened, it was of him. That had been a mistake. He’d never meant - hadn’t she seen he was just as upset as she was? If she’d just let him in, instead of maintaining that frozen cool - to him, to HIM - he wouldn’t have had to break the ice. He hadn’t wanted to, not like that, but she wouldn’t let him touch her any other way, and God knew he had to touch her, even if it was to hurt her.
Charles laughed to himself. He’d managed, in the numb intervening years, to convince himself that his craving for Camilla was gone, that he’d found his true love, left rehab with her. He couldn’t even remember the woman’s face now. Years, gone in the wake of his sister’s golden smile. And she was with Henry.
Charles’ blood boiled. Henry had to go.
Cold turkey was no party. Milly had offered him some potions to get through the rough patches - DTs, sweats, hallucinations - and in an initial moment of weakness, of maybe-reconciliation, he had agreed. But she’d brought him nothing, and he’d not followed up on it, preferring, after all, to let his body detox without help. Stay in control. Overall and alcoholic appearances to the contrary, Charles preferred being in control.
Besides, she hadn’t said who her source of these potions was - what if it was Henry himself? Charles wasn’t that big a fool.
Henry was, though. They all were, thinking Bunny was some sort of threat. What exactly did he have? No proof, certainly, of the farmer’s death. It was years later and they’d never fallen under any real suspicion. What sort of evidence could there possibly be now, other than Bunny’s word? What would the authorities do, take the word of some dead guy?
And Bunny’s own murder would be fractionally more convincing if Bunny was actually dead. The poor sap had negated his own greatest weapon, just by showing up. Charles snorted. No, really, he didn’t see the threat. Bunny was a pain in the ass, certainly, but he couldn’t really do anything to them. There’s no way he was particularly adept at magic, either. Bunny was, in a nutshell, a fool, in the best tradition of court jesters. No real mental capacity, not for anything complex like classics or magic.
No, Charles wasn’t particularly afraid of Bunny. Irritated, yes. Annoyed, sure.
But if Henry was fool enough to find Bunny an actual threat, Charles wouldn’t disabuse him of the notion. Seeing Henry worried was rather entertaining, actually. It was too bad Camilla was caught up in it all, though. Charles didn’t like to think of her frightened by anything.
He winced. Last time he’d seen her frightened, it was of him. That had been a mistake. He’d never meant - hadn’t she seen he was just as upset as she was? If she’d just let him in, instead of maintaining that frozen cool - to him, to HIM - he wouldn’t have had to break the ice. He hadn’t wanted to, not like that, but she wouldn’t let him touch her any other way, and God knew he had to touch her, even if it was to hurt her.
Charles laughed to himself. He’d managed, in the numb intervening years, to convince himself that his craving for Camilla was gone, that he’d found his true love, left rehab with her. He couldn’t even remember the woman’s face now. Years, gone in the wake of his sister’s golden smile. And she was with Henry.
Charles’ blood boiled. Henry had to go.