Summary:Delivered back to the safety of the rented abode in Patna, Ambrose and Kent discuss events in relative safety despite a short spat. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
Related LogsTheme SongNone |
  |
Admittedly, there had been a point where Ambrose had gotten so flush with the Bane's insistence that he feed the starving curse that it had required a sharp rap of an Einherjar spear-shaft to the skull and Fenris's Extradimensional Time Out Pocket in order to stop. Thankfully, while in the proverbial penalty box, the Jackal had been unconscious. Otherwise, the sensory deprivation would have been absolutely horrifying.
Fenris, Astryd, and Sif — Asgardians all — had summarily dealt with the also-unconscious local Goddess of Death, Kali, and returned their cohort to the living abode he was currently sharing with Kent. No doubt explanations were given and now it's just past dusk. Ambrose, tucked as comfortably as could be managed into the bed, is sporting no wounds (thank you, Bane) and if there's any blood left in his hair, it's accidental. Consciousness returns with the soft popping of his presence misting up into the kythe and he makes a quiet groan as he shifts.
"Kent…?" Blinking blearily, he then feels at his head for a wound no longer present and only the bare remnants of a headache left.
The Hound is lying beside him in his human form. Oh, he's in loose pants and a t-shirt, this isn't some weird prelude to eroticism. (Well, not *immediately*) He'd tucked himself up against the headboard so he could cradle Ambrose's head….and the kythe is all full of warmth and welcome, that smokiness gone sweet and rich like incense. "I'm here, my dear," he says, gently. He doesn't usually fuss or dote on Ambrose, but this is clearly an exception.
Just a few flecks of blood left to find, proof that he'd received a wipe-down after being delivered as a limp bundle back to the Hound. Realizing that he's got a living, breathing pillow, he turns his face to look at Kent. The fond dimples appear like the rising sun and he lets out a short sigh just shy of emphasis enough to be a laugh.
"Oh, thank bloody god. I…" His voice fades out as his eyes slide to one side, brows knitting. They return to meet those fog-grey irises and then comes the quick cascade of information along the kythe: the fight, avoiding attackers, then the feverish blurring of his stomach tucked to his spine and lashing out at anything living or moving. Heat floods his cheeks as his gaze slides to one side. It's plain he's embarrassed as all hell about what happened.
"I did not think she had such power over me still," the master-thief mumbles, turning to curl against Kent's side, given his shoulder is pillow. Nosing into the man's pulseline and hiding there seems to the best option; cold goosebumps of could-have-beens prickle him.
He smells like his usual soap and incense and that bittersweetness that's uniquely him. "Thank the gods, indeed," he says, with unwonted gentleness, as he strokes the Jackal's temple. "She's a god, I'm not surprised," he says, softly. "You are yourself again. Rest easy."
The long fingers comb through his hair, gently. "You're safe now."
"I know I am. It is…" His throat can be felt to work in a swallow. Right now, so close to the Hound, the Bane is lulled to a low drone in his bones. Easily ignored as white noise to his mind as well as their immediate surroundings. Ambrose tries not to fret and mostly succeeds, this a psychological reaction to what he vaguely remembered to have occurred
"…the others, they must be hale if I am not awakening to one of them scowling at me," the brunet finishes sotto-voce. "I should have been more prepared. I had forgotten of her prowess — or rather, of the sympathy between her magics and the Bane. I am foolhardy. Still…" A wriggle of shoulders better fits him to the warmth of his husband. "You are alive and the locket remains safe here. She did not retrieve it and we have plucked a critical piece from Gurim's chess board."
His lover's voice and presence are calm, the water of the starry pool reflecting its alien constellations brightly. "Yes," he says, in that low voice. "They are safe. Let it…..let it be a lesson to you, and no more." One of Kent's virtues is that there is never an 'I told you so' from him. "And always remember what it would do to me if you were lost." Oh, now he's fighting very dirty indeed.
"Ohhhhhhhhhh, puh."
Dismissal and agreement both in that mumble buried into Kent's neck, the first full of self-confidence and the latter brimming with not exactly guilt, but a facet of remorse for scaring his other half.
"I will be more cautious now, for your sake even more so than the children." Even if his words are quiet, there is a solemnity to them wherein Ambrose does try to mean his promise to the depths of his soul. "Once the Goddess is returned to herself, there will be far less to worry about. We might actually take tea on the veranda without my needing to keep my head on a swivel." It's difficult to fret at lingering loose ends when the starry reflecting pool is smooth and devoid of fuss. The Jackal can be felt to relax more into the bedding and against Kent on his next long sigh.
"This reminds me of Shanghai, when I was first taming you," he says, and there's that alpine amusement in his voice. "Rest with me as you did then. I know you still don't need sleep, but you do need rest. And….I hope so." He draws his hand down the line of his beloved's spine, long, easy strokes. "And good. I am not strong enough to bear the loss." God, he never lets up, does he?
"Taming me," mutters the master-thief, the words muffled enough to be bare recognizable. Another 'puh', half a laugh this time by the subtle jumpt of his shoulders, can be heard beneath Kent's thoughts on matters. He goes silent for a short time and the surface of the kythe can be seen to ripple here and there as if breezes danced along its waters. Beneath it, a faintest rosy-dawn glow of sheepishness yet.
"I am not going to subject you to that travesty." Lifting up his head, he looks into Kent's face solemnly. How those cerulean-blue eyes open to the Hound, windows to the shadowy soul of the Jackal. "What I withstood in your absence, when I thought you dead… I would not wish this on you, not even in my darkest, cruelest moments."
"And some of your moments have been very dark and very cruel, indeed," Kent breathes. "I did tame you," he adds, matter of fact. "I'm still proud of myself for managing it, even all these years later."
Then he bends to bestow a kiss on the Jackal's lips. "Good. I'd have to pursue you into your next life and spend the first five years of it kicking you."
Kissed now, Ambrose noses alongside the mirroring part of the man's face until he can't help it. Free slips the run of chuckles and he pulls back, dimpling and grinning both, his charm pulled out like a bouquet of roses from his sleeve on-stage.
"Look upon this face. You would kick someone sporting this face? Kent, «Azizam», your streak of unkindness shows! Imagine, my poor unknowing self, suddenly collapsing because you, a random gentleman, showed up and set my kneecap out of place!" Clicking his tongue off the inside of his teeth, the Jackal tilts his head, still wearing that lazy, comfortable grin. "I am tame enough to wish to avoid such a thing, mother-hen."
Kent can't help but roll his eyes….but there's that answering dawn-flush in the space between them. He's never been able to resist those dimples, that glittering arrogance, not since the first moment he laid eyes on Ambrose. As if entirely out of patience, he smears a palm on the older man's face, pushes gently. "It'd be no more than you deserve," he grouses.
"Ungh!"
Such dramatics follow. As if he'd been contacted by far more force than the smooshing of palm to face, Ambrose collapses backwards and half-hangs off the bed, head and one arm both.
"What ever did I do to deserve this abuse?" he muses cheekily, peering in the direction of the nearest wall and its inverted decoration, given his view of the world is upside down. Knuckles brush the bare floor. "Here I am, returned to myself in spirit, body, and mind, and my «Azizam» seeks to allow me no further recovery. It is true as they say: no rest for the weary. Or is it evil?"
Talbot huffs a breath at that. "Always with the theatrics." But the sparks of amusement are flying between them, dancing like psychic fireflies. Then he leans over to draw Ambrose up, reaching under his shoulder to pull him vertical. "For both the weary and the wicked. Are you hungry? Would you like some tea?"
As if it cost him SO VERY MUCH to lever himself upright and properly onto the bed again with Kent's aid, the Jackal lets out a groan. Still, he's grinning like a fiend at his other half.
"I think tea, yes. I am thirsty, not so much hungry." In a moment more grounded and again with some rue, he briefly glances down at his lap, sitting as he is now, and then back to Kent with a slight tuck of chin. "The…the curse is sated for a short while. The life-force of Asgardians tastes of…" Such an awkward, esoteric thing to muse about, but he forges on. "Champagne and iced vodka mixed with…starlight…? And licking a battery."
"I never thought of it as having a taste," he says, musingly. Kent's finally peeling himself out of bed. "I imagine so, though. Creatures close to immortal in a way we can't imagine…." He sounds rueful, but then, he's seen so very much of human mortality, hasn't he?
Emerging from beneath the covers, it seems Ambrose was at least put to bed with loose pants on. Nearby, his brick-red kurta, of plain yet comfortable cotton, is plucked from its slung-over place on the back of a chair. As he pulls it over his head, he replies,
"If it is not such an uncomfortable thought, every species has its flavor." While he tugs at the garment to straighten its long, fitted drape on his body, he glances over his shoulder at Kent. His smile is a quiet one, shy in the face of the topic at hand. "Humanity's life is rich, yes, but pales in comparison to those of other worlds, like the Asgardian people. Still, if I had a favorite…it would be yours." The simper is absolutely terrible; he even flutters his lashes as if to ask apology for the whole affair.
He has one of his own, that he puts on. "It makes sense," he agrees, voice mild, as he stretches, lazily. "I've always thought you liked the way I taste," Kent replies, in his most insinuating voice. Then he's ambling off to put the kettle over the fire.
Score for the Hound. Ambrose tucks his chin quickly as Victorian prudery spikes, never lost even after a century or more in this world. Before his mate, he'll allow himself these moments; they share a childhood raised in such a society as it stands, alien to those of this day and age. His eyebrow leads his glance up through his lashes.
"You are devoutly saucy, sirrah," he murmurs, the mild retort still full of fondness as he meanders over to join Kent by the fire. He idly threads an arm about the slimmer man's ribs, his gaze diverted to the nearby back door and its window. An attentiveness comes and goes as he allows the Bane to scan for foreign presences. None are found but the local wildlife. "In light of my attempt to not startle you, I should inform you that I have agreed to a duel of mastery of daggers with Lord Loki of Asgard."
A kiss pressed to the back of Kent's neck in passing is definitely apology.
Kent is the picture of domesticity, as he swings the iron kettle over to the flames, the better to have it start heating. "Of course," he says, about his sauciness, even as he leans his head fondly against the older man's head.
Then there's that little bombshell, and he whips his head around fast enough to hit Ambrose's jaw with his face. "You WHAT?"
Upon the smack of cheek to jaw and partially nose, Ambrose snorts and takes half a step back. He blinks against watery eyes before sniffling a few times, his expression both amused and crinkled against the temporary sting.
"Ungh." Fingertips delicately touch at his face even as he gives Kent a cajoling curl of a smile. His arm remains about the man's ribs even if the Hound turns within the arm's reach. "Ohhh, come now, my heart. He all but challenged me himself. What was I supposed to do, deny him the opportunity to continue in his existence thinking the people of Earth do not have those of great skill in weaponry such as knives? He would not kill me. We are comrades if not friends."
The Hound growls, and it is not under his breath. It's a fullthroated sound of pure exasperation. And then, as if pushed beyond endurance, he steps in, taking back that distance….and bites Ambrose right where shoulder and throat join. Not hard enough to draw blood, but definitely enough to bruise. You are INFURIATING.
"YAIIEEEP!!!"
Such a pitch to come out of the Jackal's deep ribcage, but he dances away lightly with hand clapped to the blend of his neck to shoulder. His mouth hangs open in outright shock, his expression scandalized. Well you — you — YOU ARE A MOLLYCODDLING RAT-BASTARD! This is what I get for telling you as you wish! A low snarl leaves Ambrose as he turns his back on the other man, still rubbing at the tooth-marked spot where bright red proof grows darker.
"I will be outside," he says curtly as he dismisses himself in that very direction, for all appearances with tail tucked. With arms tightly folded and shoulders lifted nearly about his ears, he plunks down into a chair after slamming the back door shut and scowls at the distant light of the house next-door.
The door cracks open after a moment. And a moment after that, a big black nose comes through, followed by the big black rest of the Hound. Who comes padding over to where Ambrose sits and lays his long jaw on the Jackal's thigh. He looks up at him, mutely, and heaves an enormous sigh.
Even those quirking little brow-dots don't appear to move the Jackal, not at first. He simply looks down his nose in the most judicious and imperious manner he can muster at the great black dog, lips thinned. Nearby, a night bug makes an awkward chirruping sound very creakily, as if uncertain to interrupt the moment despite its non-importance in the insect's life.
"What?" he says finally, curt and crisp enough to slice paper.
Silence, for a little, as he looks up. Then he leans over a bit to lick the Jackal's hand, looks up again. I get scared for you, he says, simply. Loki's a god. That could go so wrong in so many ways. I don't have any reason to think he'lll want to kill you or even seriously hurt you, but…..
The rasp of tongue over the peek of his hand makes Ambrose tuck the limb further up and tighter. It appears he means to brood up a storm over this unless derailed. His eyes, slitted, still linger on the black dog's blocky head and damp twitching nose.
I have full awareness of what I agreed to. I am not a *child*. I will be one-hundred and forty in less than a week. You need not discipline me as some *pup*.
Then, grudgingly, he adds, And you know I cannot be mad at you for long in that guise, you ruddy jacknave.
One silver eye winks at him, impishly. Another lick for his hand. What about me disciplining you the way I used to in Shanghai, when you'd been *very naughty*? he offers, mental voice wicked. And yes, that's the idea. It was either that or come out here naked and hope that'd distract you from being angry. That's worked too, in the past.
Color pinks at his cheeks barely seen beneath his perpetual tan before he scoffs at the reminder of times past. His hand goes further up and away, until his folded arms are getting ridiculous in their height. Still, Ambrose squints at the dog, fighting against what surely would be a smirk if allowed showing on his lips.
I am wise to your ways! And I have trounced no Marines. I am innocent of all need for discipline.
"Hmph," he adds aloud, startling the nearby cricketing insect into silence. Of note, nothing left of the teeth marks on his skin now. The Bane's insistence on keeping its host whole continues as always. "Come now though: it will be worth it in spades and more to see that god shocked when I pink him, yes? I think it so."
Regardless, he reneges. Hands fall to the broad pate of the Hound's skull and get to mulling fingers behind the flops of ears. "You worry overmuch. Nothing will separate us, not even a Trickster God. I ask your faith in my will to return to you, «Azizam». After all, my life and death are yours. I know you will not permit it of anyone else. Neither will I," he says quietly, thumbs passing over the dog's brow-dots.