"I could try to be, if you like," he volunteers, possibly having reconsidered his impulse decision to call her and more relevantly the implication that he intends to say whatever he doesn't want to talk about in email.
"No, I think we've talked about how you'd fuck me enough for a little while," she says, decisively, reclining in the bath - there's the faint slosh of water, helpfully, as she rest her foot flat against the tub's edge. Her phone is on speaker.
It's one thing for her to be so blunt in e-mail--it's another for her to say it out loud like this, as casually as she does.
He considers this in silence for a while - he's in his living room, on the floor in front of the sofa with his legs stretched in front of him and an ashtray on the edge of the glory box he's still using as a coffee table. It's dim in there, but pleasantly warm and Drustan is braving the danger of cigarette smoke and ash to bump into his side until paid attention.
"I can't prove anything," he reiterates, carefully, after a while. "And my uncle would bollock me if I tried."
"I am in absolutely no position to question the authenticity of anyone else's family history, believe me," she exhales, tipping her head back with a muffled, kitteny noise- the hot water is good for her, but like all heat, she absorbs its warmth so fast.
"My parents are two of the happiest people I know," he says, exhaling and watching the ceiling through the resultant smoke. "I was their first child- my birthday is May first, '77, after they married earlier in the year. Mama's first husband was murdered pretty brutally around Christmas of '76; it's a cold case. The scar my father has on his throat is the result of a halfway successful murder in 1974, when he and Lady Carla Mondegreen, pregnant at the time, were drugged in their bed and had their throats cut - that's a matter of record. Uncle Martel brought him up to London to recover when he was able to travel."
Martel Lefevre, who he mentioned earlier tonight referencing so casually how he cleaned up his cousin's messes. This is what their happy endings are; passionate and honest, bloody and half-shrouded by time and secrecy.
It's both terrible and not, to her ears- because she knows how traumatic all of that must have been in so many ways (intimately), but also because it's familiar. She's too forgiving, half-wild, sweet without naivete and bloodily vulnerable in her unrelenting sexuality, which is what tempts the mad men and the bad men to her, because she loves sex mingled with violence in just such a way where she doesn't mind receiving it but rarely perpetuates it, and thus such encounters are satisfying on both ends, and all of this reminds her of Hyde.
Hyde sort of epitomized the mad, bad, man, before she killed him.
"Did they ever catch who did it?"
She half-wonders if that's some of what prompted Bellamy toward the police force.
"Luke Verheyen-" she should recognize that name, being as he participated in their conversation over dinner not so long ago, "-was acquitted at trial. Mr Ereven, my father's butler, killed himself the same day my uncle finished closing up Dad's house to sell." It's fascinating how Bellamy never actually accuses Martel of anything; he merely outlines the facts as he knows them, as if they're of perhaps mild interest.
"He - my uncle, that is - was the one who introduced me to sorcery, along with my Aunt Maria. He was incredibly forthright with me about the dangers- 'hubris', most of all. He said the fact my aunt never left him when they were young was a testament to her insanity rather than any personal charm or virtue of his."
Bellamy, tapping ash off, observes candidly and not without some affection, "He's the kind of person who sort of enjoys watching people get uncomfortable when they realize he's not kidding."
The butler actually did it, she thinks, with some muted horror and sympathy- no wonder he describes his father as so stern and reserved, though it doesn't appear Bellamy has actually suffered much for Ernest Morray's temperament. Hasibe breathes out, slow and thoughtful.
"And you were born in May, and your mother was widowed around Christmas."
"That is completely not what's being discussed, but I take your point." She slides out of the bath, water rushing off her body, and reaches for a towel.
"You're frightened. That's the long and short of it."
The first thing Hasi hears when she answers the phone is the striking of a match, and then, "Get out of it, Drustan, you'll catch your bum on fire."
Reply
This means she's laughing already, quietly.
"Hi, you. Since you're not a visual person I expect you won't be distracted by the fact that I'm still in the bath while we have this conversation."
Reply
"I could try to be, if you like," he volunteers, possibly having reconsidered his impulse decision to call her and more relevantly the implication that he intends to say whatever he doesn't want to talk about in email.
Reply
"No, I think we've talked about how you'd fuck me enough for a little while," she says, decisively, reclining in the bath - there's the faint slosh of water, helpfully, as she rest her foot flat against the tub's edge. Her phone is on speaker.
It's one thing for her to be so blunt in e-mail--it's another for her to say it out loud like this, as casually as she does.
"You have my attention, Bellamy."
Reply
He considers this in silence for a while - he's in his living room, on the floor in front of the sofa with his legs stretched in front of him and an ashtray on the edge of the glory box he's still using as a coffee table. It's dim in there, but pleasantly warm and Drustan is braving the danger of cigarette smoke and ash to bump into his side until paid attention.
"I can't prove anything," he reiterates, carefully, after a while. "And my uncle would bollock me if I tried."
Reply
"I am in absolutely no position to question the authenticity of anyone else's family history, believe me," she exhales, tipping her head back with a muffled, kitteny noise- the hot water is good for her, but like all heat, she absorbs its warmth so fast.
Reply
"My parents are two of the happiest people I know," he says, exhaling and watching the ceiling through the resultant smoke. "I was their first child- my birthday is May first, '77, after they married earlier in the year. Mama's first husband was murdered pretty brutally around Christmas of '76; it's a cold case. The scar my father has on his throat is the result of a halfway successful murder in 1974, when he and Lady Carla Mondegreen, pregnant at the time, were drugged in their bed and had their throats cut - that's a matter of record. Uncle Martel brought him up to London to recover when he was able to travel."
Martel Lefevre, who he mentioned earlier tonight referencing so casually how he cleaned up his cousin's messes. This is what their happy endings are; passionate and honest, bloody and half-shrouded by time and secrecy.
Reply
It's both terrible and not, to her ears- because she knows how traumatic all of that must have been in so many ways (intimately), but also because it's familiar. She's too forgiving, half-wild, sweet without naivete and bloodily vulnerable in her unrelenting sexuality, which is what tempts the mad men and the bad men to her, because she loves sex mingled with violence in just such a way where she doesn't mind receiving it but rarely perpetuates it, and thus such encounters are satisfying on both ends, and all of this reminds her of Hyde.
Hyde sort of epitomized the mad, bad, man, before she killed him.
"Did they ever catch who did it?"
She half-wonders if that's some of what prompted Bellamy toward the police force.
Reply
"Luke Verheyen-" she should recognize that name, being as he participated in their conversation over dinner not so long ago, "-was acquitted at trial. Mr Ereven, my father's butler, killed himself the same day my uncle finished closing up Dad's house to sell." It's fascinating how Bellamy never actually accuses Martel of anything; he merely outlines the facts as he knows them, as if they're of perhaps mild interest.
"He - my uncle, that is - was the one who introduced me to sorcery, along with my Aunt Maria. He was incredibly forthright with me about the dangers- 'hubris', most of all. He said the fact my aunt never left him when they were young was a testament to her insanity rather than any personal charm or virtue of his."
Bellamy, tapping ash off, observes candidly and not without some affection, "He's the kind of person who sort of enjoys watching people get uncomfortable when they realize he's not kidding."
Reply
The butler actually did it, she thinks, with some muted horror and sympathy- no wonder he describes his father as so stern and reserved, though it doesn't appear Bellamy has actually suffered much for Ernest Morray's temperament. Hasibe breathes out, slow and thoughtful.
"And you were born in May, and your mother was widowed around Christmas."
Reply
"Just so. Not the kind of thing you raise with your parents," he reflects, "or at least not the kind of thing you raise with my parents."
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"No, I imagine not." She's quiet for another brief interval. "So this is why you try to keep your entanglements- cool, instead of on fire?"
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"Every time I say we can't all be forest fires, one of my cousins proves me wrong," he says, dryly.
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She laughs, sympathetic.
"But you don't want to be one?"
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"I do fine on my own without being reliant on anyone else."
Reply
"That is completely not what's being discussed, but I take your point." She slides out of the bath, water rushing off her body, and reaches for a towel.
"You're frightened. That's the long and short of it."
Reply
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