Story - Embrace ch. 17
Jul. 5th, 2008 01:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrOnly a couple left, I think. We shall see, hmm.
Despite Gille's declaration, Stregoni was not certain he was supposed to be here. Every other time he had come to this room, there had been some silent, tacitly understood invitation between them.
He hovered in the doorway, uncertain.
Gille played like a man possessed, head bent over the keys as his hands moved effortlessly, drawing out a melody that expressed more clearly than words how Gille was feeling.
How long had he wanted the cold, hard Gille to fracture?
Now that it had, Stregoni hated it. Gille had obviously had his reasons – and Stregoni hated to see him so torn apart.
Still not certain his presence was desired, he nevertheless ventured into the music room. If Gille did not want him here, he would make it plain.
Slowly he approached the piano, standing for a moment just behind Gille, watching him play, letting the music strike him, drowned out the pounding of his own heart.
Finally he sat down on one corner of the wide bench, facing away from Gille, his back just barely brushing against Gille's back and shoulder.
If Gille noticed, he gave no indication.
How long they sat that way, Stregoni did not know. Eventually, he closed his eyes and simply listened, felt, content to be simply a presence while Gille played and played.
He did not notice when the music stopped, not until an arm slid around his waist, and Gille nuzzled against his throat, breaths warm and still carrying a hint of laudanum and brandy. "Carrot…"
Stregoni swallowed, struck hard at the way Gille said that now. None of the coldness or mockery remained. He reached up and back, determined to touch in his own right – but Gille's hand caught his forearm.
"Your hand, idiot," Gille said quietly, but Stregoni could just barely hear the faintest thread of amusement.
He realized he had just tried to use his burned hand to touch Gille, and that would have hurt like hell. Smiling, he turned his head instead, meeting the green eyes. Tilting his head just so in invitation, he let his eyes fall shut as Gille kissed him, wishing fervently the remaining problems still hovering about would stay back for just a little while longer.
Gille abruptly pulled away, then Stregoni yelped as he was turned, lifted – and all but tossed down upon the dark red settee that called up so many hot, sweet, painful memories.
Stregoni blinked, then looked up, immediately recognizing the look in Gille's eyes. His blood began to heat, even as the doctor in him frowned with disapproval. "Gille, aren't you just a little too tired and strained for this nonsense? Aren't I?"
"Nonsense, Carrot?" Gille said, straddling him, then moving to rest his weight on hands and knees, long hair spilling over his shoulders to hide them both. "Is that what you call it? Clearly I have been doing something wrong all these years."
"I see you're recovering just fine," Stregoni muttered, yanking irritably at a strand of Gille's hair – then fisted his hand in it tightly as Gille nipped sharply at the skin just beneath his ear, making him gasp. "Bastard."
Gille did it again, and Stregoni would have hated him very much for going straight for the kill, but it felt too damned good.
"We should not be doing this," he said again. "You need rest, you mule-headed bloody bastard—stop doing that!" He let go of Gille's hair to thump his shoulder with his fist. "Gille, as much as I hate to turn down the offer, you—"
He thumped Gille again, but could not quite make himself break the kiss, the newness of Gille's kisses still to wonderful and devastating for him to muster the strength to refuse them. "Damn it, Gille," he said, the words turning into a long moan as a hand slipped beneath his shirt. "Why don't you ever bloody listen to me?"
"Defying you is more fun, Doctor," Gille replied.
Stregoni could see he was just avoiding the demons which had driven him to play only minutes before – but if it helped, then so be it. Maybe afterward the stubborn idiot would finally rest. If it were anyone else, Stregoni would just slip something in his tea or brandy.
With Gille, however…
Never.
Instead he simply decided to get revenge, good hand moving to the laces of Gille's shirt, then reaching up to take one nipple in his mouth—
A rough throat clearing made them both startle.
"What?" Gille snarled, levering himself up and turning around to glare at the servant stupid enough to intrude.
"Beg pardon, my lord," said the quaking maid. "Lord Aubrey isn't here, so I thought you'd be the next best one."
Stregoni slowly sat up, using Gille as leverage. "What's wrong?" he asked gently.
"His lordship's got a visitor, only we can hear them shouting something fierce, and glass breakin' and all, but he's locked the door and no one can get in."
Gille swore loudly and put himself to rights as they both stumbled from the settee.
"Thank you," Stregoni said, raking his hair from his face, sharing a look with Gille. "We'll take care of it."
"I've a spare key to his study," Gille said. "Upstairs." He did not waste any more time, but bolted from the room, taking the stairs two at a time and barreling down the hallway.
Stregoni didn't bother to go after him, but went to the library where he'd left his medical bag, then raced to the study just in time to meet Gille there.
Gille unlocked the door and threw open the door – then froze.
Moving around him, Stregoni immediately saw why he could not move.
Lord Sangre's study was a wreck – there was always some measure of clutter, for Sangre was a voracious reader and writer, but this…this was chaos. Paper everywhere, covering at least half the floor. Books strewn about, broken ink bottles, broken glasses and decanters. The entire room reeked of ink and brandy – and blood.
In the farthest corner of the room, two men were locked in struggle, as Sangre fought off the vicious attacks of his raging twin brother.
It was eerie, to see two Lord Sangre – one so well kept, elegant and refined, the other a mad mess, hurtling vile epithets as he attempted to assault his brother.
How long had this been going on? Had he been in the music room with Gille for so long? What in the hell had happened?
Dropping his medical bag, he moved across the room, grabbing up a heavy book on his way, using all the strength he could muster with one hand to slam it down on George's head.
It did not drop him, but it startled him enough to give Sangre the upperhand, and with a cry he threw his brother off. He slumped briefly against the bookshelves which lined two of his walls, meeting at the corner where the fighting had carried them.
"You are pathetic," he said scathingly to George, looking up just long enough to motion Stregoni back.
Obediently, he moved closer to the doorway, casting a wary look at Gille, who still had not moved, eyes on his father.
George heaved himself up – but Sangre was having none of it, and moved so quickly Stregoni barely followed the movement, face smashing into his brother's nose, and the smell of blood was stronger than ever.
Sangre kicked out, knocking his brother back to his knees, then grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shook him hard. "You're pathetic," he repeated. "The only smart and brave thing you ever did was to marry Ianthe, and it took my lovers to convince you to do it. You did not deserve it, but she loved you anyway, and died giving you a son – and this is what you do to thank her memory?"
Hurtling epithets and protests, George attempted to renew his attack – and Stregoni realized whatever sanity he'd had, it was now gone. Caused by the coca powder? Or simply the events of earlier?
Whatever the cause, Sangre granted him no pity, simply kicked his brother so that he was left gasping in pain.
And Stregoni could so easily see now in Sangre the man he must have been when he was younger – bold and brave enough to openly love two women, one of them a Pet, and to fight for the freedom a race that had so long been subjugated.
"You were pathetic as a child, and you are even more pathetic as a man," Sangre said in disgust, shoving his brother to the ground. "I cannot believe you would storm in here and cause so much discord—damn it."
He finally looked away from his brother, raking back his disordered hair, suddenly looking every bit his age. "Gille, you should not be here. Stregoni, take him away. I told the servants no one was to interfere."
Stregoni shook his head. "They were afraid for you, and came to find us."
Sangre grimaced. "I have been dealing with my brother all my life. I know each and every one of his nasty little tricks. There was no need for anyone else to get dragged into it. I will deal with him; take Gille away."
Nodding, Stregoni turned to do just that – but Gille chose that moment to step forward, walking slowly toward his father.
"Father—"
George looked up, hate and madness in his face. "You took her away," he said. "She wanted you so badly, and you killed her, and now you have taken away everyone else as well."
Gille flinched back, as though physically struck.
Stregoni yanked Gille back, stepping forward to stand between them. "Go to hell," he snarled. "Why couldn't you just stay in your own bloody house? It's not Gille's fault you're a fucking bastard. He didn't kill anyone, and he's not responsible for everyone abandoning you either. Aren't you overlooking that you're the one who got your wife pregnant in the first place? That you're the one who traded your son for a powder?"
George snarled, and lobbed a fallen brass book end at him.
He held his arm up to block it, even as he tried to move out of the way, but it wound up striking him hard on the shoulder, making Stregoni falter.
Gille's hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him back – but it was too late. George began to move at a feverish pace, picking up whatever he could get his hands on, throwing it all, chasing the projectiles with cruel and nasty words.
Stregoni was reminded suddenly of his own loss of temper, in Gille's room only a couple of days ago, and felt immediately ashamed and contrite. It must have upset Gille more than he would ever admit, and not knowing was no excuse – he would not let it be.
"I've had enough," Sangre said, and Stregoni saw his mouth move more than he actually heard the words, nearly everything drowned out by the screams and shouts coming from George, who approached them relentlessly.
They should run, Stregoni thought, but feared what would happen if George began to run amuck through the whole house.
From the corner of his eye he saw Sangre at the desk, saw him bend to pull something from a drawer – and at the last moment, saw what it was he held.
Turning, he shoved Gille down and covered his face, not wanting him to see—
The sound of the pistol shot was deafening in the small room, the sharp odor of gunpowder mixing unpleasantly with the tang of blood.
He looked up, horrified, first at Sangre, then at George, who lay unmoving by the fire. Blood spread out beneath him in a growing pool, lurid red against the tile of the fireplace and the deep jewel tons of the costly rugs, staining loose sheaves of paper and ruined books.
Swallowing, he looked back at Sangre. "You—Lord Sangre—"
"I should have done it a long time ago," Sangre said tiredly, sitting down heavily in his chair, covering his eyes with his hand. "Time and again, I fail to protect those who mean the most to me."
Stregoni did not release the hold he was barely maintaining on Gille. "Your children love you, and they're still alive."
Sangre laughed bitterly. "Indeed. Bloody hell, what a mess this has all become."
"Let me go!" Gille snarled, and finally succeeded in breaking free, shoving Stregoni away to regain his feet.
He stared pale faced at his dead father.
"I am sorry, Gille," Sangre said gently. "I had to choose – his life or yours. There was no contest."
Gille did not look away from the body as he spoke. "He was your brother."
"Not by our choosing," Sangre said wearily. "Anyway, you may as well be my son. My children are more important to me than anything. Still, I had hoped you would not see this – that is why my damned servants were told not to interfere." He slammed his hand down on his desk as he spoke, and then bellowed for the butler.
When the butler appeared, Sangre proceeded to tear him apart.
Stregoni barely heard the words, far more interested in Gille. Twining their hands together, he reached up with his burned one and gently turned Gille's head away from the grisly sight by the fireplace. "Gille."
Gille shuddered, turning his face into Stregoni's hand – then realized which hand it was, and immediately pulled away. "Carrot – I think I'm ready to rest now." He looked at the body again, as though unable to help it. "He really did hate me, didn't he?" he asked softly.
"No," Stregoni said. "He hated himself, but was not willing to admit it."
Gille nodded, though it was clear he did not believe the words.
Stregoni suspected it would be many years before Gille would believe them – but at least he was listening, and allowed Stregoni to lead him from the study and up to his bedroom.
Pushing Gille back on the bed, he started to kneel to remove his boots – but Gille grabbed him and dragged him onto the bed, then removed his own boots and Stregoni's. "You can't do that with your hand, idiot. When are you going to remember it's injured?"
Rolling his eyes, too bemused by the fact he was in Gille's bed and Gille had put him there, Stregoni settled for lying back against the pillows and pulling Gille down to lie alongside him. "Go to sleep, idiot."
For once, Gille did as he was told.
Persimmon
(chapter seventeen)
Despite Gille's declaration, Stregoni was not certain he was supposed to be here. Every other time he had come to this room, there had been some silent, tacitly understood invitation between them.
He hovered in the doorway, uncertain.
Gille played like a man possessed, head bent over the keys as his hands moved effortlessly, drawing out a melody that expressed more clearly than words how Gille was feeling.
How long had he wanted the cold, hard Gille to fracture?
Now that it had, Stregoni hated it. Gille had obviously had his reasons – and Stregoni hated to see him so torn apart.
Still not certain his presence was desired, he nevertheless ventured into the music room. If Gille did not want him here, he would make it plain.
Slowly he approached the piano, standing for a moment just behind Gille, watching him play, letting the music strike him, drowned out the pounding of his own heart.
Finally he sat down on one corner of the wide bench, facing away from Gille, his back just barely brushing against Gille's back and shoulder.
If Gille noticed, he gave no indication.
How long they sat that way, Stregoni did not know. Eventually, he closed his eyes and simply listened, felt, content to be simply a presence while Gille played and played.
He did not notice when the music stopped, not until an arm slid around his waist, and Gille nuzzled against his throat, breaths warm and still carrying a hint of laudanum and brandy. "Carrot…"
Stregoni swallowed, struck hard at the way Gille said that now. None of the coldness or mockery remained. He reached up and back, determined to touch in his own right – but Gille's hand caught his forearm.
"Your hand, idiot," Gille said quietly, but Stregoni could just barely hear the faintest thread of amusement.
He realized he had just tried to use his burned hand to touch Gille, and that would have hurt like hell. Smiling, he turned his head instead, meeting the green eyes. Tilting his head just so in invitation, he let his eyes fall shut as Gille kissed him, wishing fervently the remaining problems still hovering about would stay back for just a little while longer.
Gille abruptly pulled away, then Stregoni yelped as he was turned, lifted – and all but tossed down upon the dark red settee that called up so many hot, sweet, painful memories.
Stregoni blinked, then looked up, immediately recognizing the look in Gille's eyes. His blood began to heat, even as the doctor in him frowned with disapproval. "Gille, aren't you just a little too tired and strained for this nonsense? Aren't I?"
"Nonsense, Carrot?" Gille said, straddling him, then moving to rest his weight on hands and knees, long hair spilling over his shoulders to hide them both. "Is that what you call it? Clearly I have been doing something wrong all these years."
"I see you're recovering just fine," Stregoni muttered, yanking irritably at a strand of Gille's hair – then fisted his hand in it tightly as Gille nipped sharply at the skin just beneath his ear, making him gasp. "Bastard."
Gille did it again, and Stregoni would have hated him very much for going straight for the kill, but it felt too damned good.
"We should not be doing this," he said again. "You need rest, you mule-headed bloody bastard—stop doing that!" He let go of Gille's hair to thump his shoulder with his fist. "Gille, as much as I hate to turn down the offer, you—"
He thumped Gille again, but could not quite make himself break the kiss, the newness of Gille's kisses still to wonderful and devastating for him to muster the strength to refuse them. "Damn it, Gille," he said, the words turning into a long moan as a hand slipped beneath his shirt. "Why don't you ever bloody listen to me?"
"Defying you is more fun, Doctor," Gille replied.
Stregoni could see he was just avoiding the demons which had driven him to play only minutes before – but if it helped, then so be it. Maybe afterward the stubborn idiot would finally rest. If it were anyone else, Stregoni would just slip something in his tea or brandy.
With Gille, however…
Never.
Instead he simply decided to get revenge, good hand moving to the laces of Gille's shirt, then reaching up to take one nipple in his mouth—
A rough throat clearing made them both startle.
"What?" Gille snarled, levering himself up and turning around to glare at the servant stupid enough to intrude.
"Beg pardon, my lord," said the quaking maid. "Lord Aubrey isn't here, so I thought you'd be the next best one."
Stregoni slowly sat up, using Gille as leverage. "What's wrong?" he asked gently.
"His lordship's got a visitor, only we can hear them shouting something fierce, and glass breakin' and all, but he's locked the door and no one can get in."
Gille swore loudly and put himself to rights as they both stumbled from the settee.
"Thank you," Stregoni said, raking his hair from his face, sharing a look with Gille. "We'll take care of it."
"I've a spare key to his study," Gille said. "Upstairs." He did not waste any more time, but bolted from the room, taking the stairs two at a time and barreling down the hallway.
Stregoni didn't bother to go after him, but went to the library where he'd left his medical bag, then raced to the study just in time to meet Gille there.
Gille unlocked the door and threw open the door – then froze.
Moving around him, Stregoni immediately saw why he could not move.
Lord Sangre's study was a wreck – there was always some measure of clutter, for Sangre was a voracious reader and writer, but this…this was chaos. Paper everywhere, covering at least half the floor. Books strewn about, broken ink bottles, broken glasses and decanters. The entire room reeked of ink and brandy – and blood.
In the farthest corner of the room, two men were locked in struggle, as Sangre fought off the vicious attacks of his raging twin brother.
It was eerie, to see two Lord Sangre – one so well kept, elegant and refined, the other a mad mess, hurtling vile epithets as he attempted to assault his brother.
How long had this been going on? Had he been in the music room with Gille for so long? What in the hell had happened?
Dropping his medical bag, he moved across the room, grabbing up a heavy book on his way, using all the strength he could muster with one hand to slam it down on George's head.
It did not drop him, but it startled him enough to give Sangre the upperhand, and with a cry he threw his brother off. He slumped briefly against the bookshelves which lined two of his walls, meeting at the corner where the fighting had carried them.
"You are pathetic," he said scathingly to George, looking up just long enough to motion Stregoni back.
Obediently, he moved closer to the doorway, casting a wary look at Gille, who still had not moved, eyes on his father.
George heaved himself up – but Sangre was having none of it, and moved so quickly Stregoni barely followed the movement, face smashing into his brother's nose, and the smell of blood was stronger than ever.
Sangre kicked out, knocking his brother back to his knees, then grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shook him hard. "You're pathetic," he repeated. "The only smart and brave thing you ever did was to marry Ianthe, and it took my lovers to convince you to do it. You did not deserve it, but she loved you anyway, and died giving you a son – and this is what you do to thank her memory?"
Hurtling epithets and protests, George attempted to renew his attack – and Stregoni realized whatever sanity he'd had, it was now gone. Caused by the coca powder? Or simply the events of earlier?
Whatever the cause, Sangre granted him no pity, simply kicked his brother so that he was left gasping in pain.
And Stregoni could so easily see now in Sangre the man he must have been when he was younger – bold and brave enough to openly love two women, one of them a Pet, and to fight for the freedom a race that had so long been subjugated.
"You were pathetic as a child, and you are even more pathetic as a man," Sangre said in disgust, shoving his brother to the ground. "I cannot believe you would storm in here and cause so much discord—damn it."
He finally looked away from his brother, raking back his disordered hair, suddenly looking every bit his age. "Gille, you should not be here. Stregoni, take him away. I told the servants no one was to interfere."
Stregoni shook his head. "They were afraid for you, and came to find us."
Sangre grimaced. "I have been dealing with my brother all my life. I know each and every one of his nasty little tricks. There was no need for anyone else to get dragged into it. I will deal with him; take Gille away."
Nodding, Stregoni turned to do just that – but Gille chose that moment to step forward, walking slowly toward his father.
"Father—"
George looked up, hate and madness in his face. "You took her away," he said. "She wanted you so badly, and you killed her, and now you have taken away everyone else as well."
Gille flinched back, as though physically struck.
Stregoni yanked Gille back, stepping forward to stand between them. "Go to hell," he snarled. "Why couldn't you just stay in your own bloody house? It's not Gille's fault you're a fucking bastard. He didn't kill anyone, and he's not responsible for everyone abandoning you either. Aren't you overlooking that you're the one who got your wife pregnant in the first place? That you're the one who traded your son for a powder?"
George snarled, and lobbed a fallen brass book end at him.
He held his arm up to block it, even as he tried to move out of the way, but it wound up striking him hard on the shoulder, making Stregoni falter.
Gille's hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him back – but it was too late. George began to move at a feverish pace, picking up whatever he could get his hands on, throwing it all, chasing the projectiles with cruel and nasty words.
Stregoni was reminded suddenly of his own loss of temper, in Gille's room only a couple of days ago, and felt immediately ashamed and contrite. It must have upset Gille more than he would ever admit, and not knowing was no excuse – he would not let it be.
"I've had enough," Sangre said, and Stregoni saw his mouth move more than he actually heard the words, nearly everything drowned out by the screams and shouts coming from George, who approached them relentlessly.
They should run, Stregoni thought, but feared what would happen if George began to run amuck through the whole house.
From the corner of his eye he saw Sangre at the desk, saw him bend to pull something from a drawer – and at the last moment, saw what it was he held.
Turning, he shoved Gille down and covered his face, not wanting him to see—
The sound of the pistol shot was deafening in the small room, the sharp odor of gunpowder mixing unpleasantly with the tang of blood.
He looked up, horrified, first at Sangre, then at George, who lay unmoving by the fire. Blood spread out beneath him in a growing pool, lurid red against the tile of the fireplace and the deep jewel tons of the costly rugs, staining loose sheaves of paper and ruined books.
Swallowing, he looked back at Sangre. "You—Lord Sangre—"
"I should have done it a long time ago," Sangre said tiredly, sitting down heavily in his chair, covering his eyes with his hand. "Time and again, I fail to protect those who mean the most to me."
Stregoni did not release the hold he was barely maintaining on Gille. "Your children love you, and they're still alive."
Sangre laughed bitterly. "Indeed. Bloody hell, what a mess this has all become."
"Let me go!" Gille snarled, and finally succeeded in breaking free, shoving Stregoni away to regain his feet.
He stared pale faced at his dead father.
"I am sorry, Gille," Sangre said gently. "I had to choose – his life or yours. There was no contest."
Gille did not look away from the body as he spoke. "He was your brother."
"Not by our choosing," Sangre said wearily. "Anyway, you may as well be my son. My children are more important to me than anything. Still, I had hoped you would not see this – that is why my damned servants were told not to interfere." He slammed his hand down on his desk as he spoke, and then bellowed for the butler.
When the butler appeared, Sangre proceeded to tear him apart.
Stregoni barely heard the words, far more interested in Gille. Twining their hands together, he reached up with his burned one and gently turned Gille's head away from the grisly sight by the fireplace. "Gille."
Gille shuddered, turning his face into Stregoni's hand – then realized which hand it was, and immediately pulled away. "Carrot – I think I'm ready to rest now." He looked at the body again, as though unable to help it. "He really did hate me, didn't he?" he asked softly.
"No," Stregoni said. "He hated himself, but was not willing to admit it."
Gille nodded, though it was clear he did not believe the words.
Stregoni suspected it would be many years before Gille would believe them – but at least he was listening, and allowed Stregoni to lead him from the study and up to his bedroom.
Pushing Gille back on the bed, he started to kneel to remove his boots – but Gille grabbed him and dragged him onto the bed, then removed his own boots and Stregoni's. "You can't do that with your hand, idiot. When are you going to remember it's injured?"
Rolling his eyes, too bemused by the fact he was in Gille's bed and Gille had put him there, Stregoni settled for lying back against the pillows and pulling Gille down to lie alongside him. "Go to sleep, idiot."
For once, Gille did as he was told.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 05:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 06:10 pm (UTC)I want to hug Gille. He so doesn't deserve what his father did to him, and yet he loved him still. I'm glad he's letting Stregoni comfort him, at least.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 06:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 07:15 pm (UTC)I absolutely love your stories. I just didn't want to come across as the creepy stalker girl.
If it makes you feel better:
-My name is Amanda.
-I have a black cat named Salem (after Sabrina the Teenage Witch not the witch-burning-town).
-I don't really have a favorite color, but like each one in their own right.
-I'm not so good at finishing my stories once I've started them, but have written an enormous amount of poetry that I would not inflict on anyone.
-I LOVE books. And, spend way too much time reading when I should be studying or cleaning or working.
So, I think that is me in a nutshell.
no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 08:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 08:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 08:53 pm (UTC)All the back story with the blood types was interesting too and it actually made sense. :D I love it when that happens.
Gille and Stregoni are so damn cute now that their together. It's all very squee worthy. ^.^
no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 08:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 09:02 pm (UTC)Yay, someone gets it ^___^
*laugh*
Yeah, he and Elisabeth are pretty close. She's pretty mellow, and easy going, which is good for him these days.
*thanks ^^; though, I can't help but think of Greg now when I think of vampires. He's made of win HINT HINT HINT
no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 09:13 pm (UTC)"Defying you is more fun, Doctor," Gille replied.
XD Nice to know that there's still a bit of his old bite left in there too, but tamed a bit. <333 They really are adorable together.
2) Ouch. Gille watching Sangre kill his father. It needed doing, but I can understand why Sangre was so pissed at the butler for letting Gille and Stregoni pass. As much as a screwed up jerk as George was, you have to feel bad for Gille to witness it, cause no matter how much he sucked, he was still Gille's father.
Of course, he's also much better off without him and I'd like to think that George has been put out of his obvious misery now.
3) I absolutely love the way that Stregoni soothes him. <33333 The last part there is just perfect. ^_____^
no subject
Date: 2008-07-05 09:20 pm (UTC)I hope Stregoni's hand heals fast before he re-injures it trying to use it so much. Also, I love how 'idiot' is joining 'carrot' as a term of endearment. <333