It’s a good thing he doesn’t particularly wonder about the name Pietro or ask what was the apostate sister called, because that’d be opening a larger distracting can of worms and we simply don’t have time to unpack all of that,
instead, Stephen shifts up and presses a chaste lingering kiss to that pinched furrow in her brow, as if he can smooth it out.
“You were young and terribly afraid,” he says, close to her ear, practically into her hair. (It’s not quite the same as Gwenaëlle sprawled over his spine and their not being able to see each other at all, but it does provide some small relief, a brief cover to not be looking directly at each other for this part.)
“Frightened dogs bite. It doesn’t excuse it. You behaved shittily. Sometimes people behave shittily. They make mistakes. They get older, and they survive, and they learn, and they do better next time. Sometimes people forgive them for it. Other times they don’t, and you still have to survive and learn and do better. Your end result is still worthwhile, even if you’re not the Comtesse.”
So much of his life has been built on loops, and earning wisdom by harsh degrees. Dying to Dormammu over and over. Dying to Thanos over and over. You try again until it works.
He hesitates, then adds, “Not to make this about me, but so that you see that you and I are both… In Arlathan, you only saw the end. At the wedding. But I had treated Christine abominably before. She tried to be kind and I lashed out after the accident, I said awful things, I chose the words that I thought would hurt her most, in order to drive her away and make her stop loving me. Sometimes we just— we’re cruel, and we fuck up. It happens. We learn.”
The idea of worthwhile, of worthiness, of — how can she ever presume to even aspire to make them proud — it's something that she has grappled with for years, now, to unsatisfying results. It is exhausting to carry and it is exhausting to think of setting it down, too, when sometimes it feels like the bleed is all she has left. They shared so little,
if she is not guilty, what is she?
“Had that one in the barrel,” she murmurs, an echo of him. Long time, she'd said, and: yes, that's easy to imagine, now, in the weight of this awful understanding between them. What a thing to twist their hands around, to recognise in each other—
she is grateful in a way she doesn't love, that he keeps his face near her hair. Because she doesn't have to look him in the eye— because she needs to hold onto him, to breathe in the smell of him, to remember that all of these terrible things are not in this room, and she is in no physical danger, and if she said I don't want to talk about this any more he would probably kiss her forehead again, which would be nice, and he might do that anyway.
“I'm so tired of learning lessons,” she says to his shoulder.
Stephen snorts; not all the way to a laugh, just a short huffed breath, but the half-smile’s there in his face buried in her neck.
“I try to be a lifelong student, but no, I agree.”
It’s so odd. This isn’t how he intended or wanted to start the day, and this conversation would have been unutterably harder with anyone else. With Christine, even, who’s likely too good of a person for it. It’s that recognition which makes it easier: here are my ugly edges, here are where we align. Here is where I, too, have been spiteful and awful and selfish and monstrous. I understand.
His arm’s slung over her ribcage, a reassuring weight. His voice is a little muffled, but with an attempt at a clean scalpel-cut lancing the emotional tension and grief sitting heavy in the air and thick in their throats and hearts: “You can put it down today, at least. All you need to remember is that my middle name’s Vincent.”
Oh, at that she is really laughing, “Clothilde Decima, but I think that one isn't really mine, Lady Decima was my lord's mistress, I don't count it so much—”
she is as serious as the grave, Stephen Strange.
“It's where,” helpfully, “my nom de guerre came from, when I published originally. Ilde.”
Gwenaëlle spends about thirty seconds trying to decide how mad she is about this suggestion before instantly turning it on him, insouciant, rolling him onto his back with a push so she can knee over his lap, terribly haughty from this new vantage point above him:
“Well, that's what you have to look forward to, then, so you'd best enjoy this while it lasts.”
Another laugh; lower in his throat, now, as his hands drift down and settle on her hips. Then they slide beneath the insubstantial edge of her chemise, warm palms against the bare skin of her ass.
“Hmm. I think I could do that, yeah.”
Haughty and rightfully so, as she plays him like a fiddle, effortlessly shifting the tone in the room. The tension’s been effectively punctured, all that awful flayed vulnerability now bleeding away as they pivot back towards the safety of cheeky humour, that perpetually-simmering heat, and Gwenaëlle giving an experimental taunting rock of her hips to stir him to life, Stephen arching a knowing eyebrow up at her.
This, this was more what they’d thought the itinerary for the night and morning was going to be.
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portalling) wrote2022-04-02 01:17 pm
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no subject
instead, Stephen shifts up and presses a chaste lingering kiss to that pinched furrow in her brow, as if he can smooth it out.
“You were young and terribly afraid,” he says, close to her ear, practically into her hair. (It’s not quite the same as Gwenaëlle sprawled over his spine and their not being able to see each other at all, but it does provide some small relief, a brief cover to not be looking directly at each other for this part.)
“Frightened dogs bite. It doesn’t excuse it. You behaved shittily. Sometimes people behave shittily. They make mistakes. They get older, and they survive, and they learn, and they do better next time. Sometimes people forgive them for it. Other times they don’t, and you still have to survive and learn and do better. Your end result is still worthwhile, even if you’re not the Comtesse.”
So much of his life has been built on loops, and earning wisdom by harsh degrees. Dying to Dormammu over and over. Dying to Thanos over and over. You try again until it works.
He hesitates, then adds, “Not to make this about me, but so that you see that you and I are both… In Arlathan, you only saw the end. At the wedding. But I had treated Christine abominably before. She tried to be kind and I lashed out after the accident, I said awful things, I chose the words that I thought would hurt her most, in order to drive her away and make her stop loving me. Sometimes we just— we’re cruel, and we fuck up. It happens. We learn.”
no subject
if she is not guilty, what is she?
“Had that one in the barrel,” she murmurs, an echo of him. Long time, she'd said, and: yes, that's easy to imagine, now, in the weight of this awful understanding between them. What a thing to twist their hands around, to recognise in each other—
she is grateful in a way she doesn't love, that he keeps his face near her hair. Because she doesn't have to look him in the eye— because she needs to hold onto him, to breathe in the smell of him, to remember that all of these terrible things are not in this room, and she is in no physical danger, and if she said I don't want to talk about this any more he would probably kiss her forehead again, which would be nice, and he might do that anyway.
“I'm so tired of learning lessons,” she says to his shoulder.
no subject
“I try to be a lifelong student, but no, I agree.”
It’s so odd. This isn’t how he intended or wanted to start the day, and this conversation would have been unutterably harder with anyone else. With Christine, even, who’s likely too good of a person for it. It’s that recognition which makes it easier: here are my ugly edges, here are where we align. Here is where I, too, have been spiteful and awful and selfish and monstrous. I understand.
His arm’s slung over her ribcage, a reassuring weight. His voice is a little muffled, but with an attempt at a clean scalpel-cut lancing the emotional tension and grief sitting heavy in the air and thick in their throats and hearts: “You can put it down today, at least. All you need to remember is that my middle name’s Vincent.”
no subject
“Mine is Clothilde.”
no subject
“What? No. You’re shitting me.”
no subject
she is as serious as the grave, Stephen Strange.
“It's where,” helpfully, “my nom de guerre came from, when I published originally. Ilde.”
no subject
“Maybe the woman was a horny older version of you from the future,” Stephen says, less helpfully. “A very majestic madame.”
no subject
“Well, that's what you have to look forward to, then, so you'd best enjoy this while it lasts.”
🎀
“Hmm. I think I could do that, yeah.”
Haughty and rightfully so, as she plays him like a fiddle, effortlessly shifting the tone in the room. The tension’s been effectively punctured, all that awful flayed vulnerability now bleeding away as they pivot back towards the safety of cheeky humour, that perpetually-simmering heat, and Gwenaëlle giving an experimental taunting rock of her hips to stir him to life, Stephen arching a knowing eyebrow up at her.
This, this was more what they’d thought the itinerary for the night and morning was going to be.