Snow me
Most of my corner of Virginia is in a a tizzy over the storm headed our way, with the weather geeks predicting 12-18", possibly 2 feet, of snow to hit the area tonight and tomorrow. There's even a possibility for thundersnow
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Ivan strode briskly through the foyer of his mother's building and into the lift tube, his fingers flying over the control pad as he keyed in the code that would give him access to her penthouse apartment. He replayed the scene in his mind of Countess Vorinnis ordering - ordering! as if he were some dewy-eyed ensign fresh out of the Academy - him to deliver and important message to his mother because she wasn't answering her commconsole and this oh-so-important message demanded her immediate attention.
Who did Countess Vorinnis think he was, some spotty-faced messenger boy? Someone at Ops HQ clearly had it in for Ivan for assigning him to his mother's staff as she planned Gregor's wedding, and by God, Ivan swore, he'd find out who and make sure they regretted it for the rest of their life.
Exiting the lift tube, Ivan stomped towards the door to his mother's apartment, only to have his progress arrested when the door failed to open for him. He frowned. What the deuce was going on? He quickly tapped in an override code - cadged from Miles, during their brief posting together on Earth - and barely gave the door time to open far enough to let him pass through.
The entrance hall and lounge area were strangely dark, though Ivan saw tea half-empty tea cups on the low table before the settee. Then he heard a voice coming from the far end of the hallway. At least, he thought it was a voice; it sounded like a moan of pain.
"Maman?" Ivan called out, suddenly afraid. Not waiting for an answer, he hurried towards the sound. He stopped at the closed door to his mother's bedroom and knocked tentatively. "Maman?"
The reply came in the form of a gasp.
Taking his stunner from its holster, Ivan forced the door open with his shoulder.
The tableau that lay before him was etched in his memory with acid. What the hell was Simon Illyan doing in his mother's bedroom, for God's sake, leaning against the end of her bed with unbecoming familiarity? And why was she kneeling -
Oh, dear God.
"Mother!" he yelped.
Were he in a better frame of mind - were he someone else entirely, such as Aunt Cordelia - he might have appreciated how his mother didn't let his interruption prevent her from finishing what she'd started. Judging from the brief time he stood there, open-mouthed - he snapped his jaw shut - until she'd zipped up Illyan's trousers, wiped the corner of her mouth, and stood to face him, she was already past the point of no return anyway. Or Illyan was, rather. Feeling nauseous, Ivan rested his hand against the wall for support.
"Ivan," his mother said coldly, her face betraying not the slightest self-consciousness. Then she sighed and shook her head. "You idiot."
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Oh God, that's...that's... *tries to breathe*
Poor Ivan. I mean, it would be one thing if they were, y'know, just in bed together. But this...
Poor Ivan. :D
Nicely done, Mags! Nicely done!
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