Summary:Sleeping Jackals should be left to lie, but for Ambrose, it's to his benefit that Kent keeps him from sleeping the day away. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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It's probably a little sobering to be in the Talbot Manor lately. Rather than puttering about at all hours like some insomniac — oh wait, he is — Ambrose has been rather drifting about it when not grousing about running an errand or needing to ride the subway for his semi-weekly Bane feeding.
Even more solemn yet is when he retreats into the diamond-studded leather collar and his jackal guise to sleep. The hours are lengthy, time spent as such, and with his soul-wound, his fur is white about his ears and his muzzle. He's currently curled into a ball at the sliding glass door of the downstairs master bedroom where the sun has steadily fallen onto the rug tucked to the door. Here it's warm and he can rest when his human body is too tired to continue.
Right now, he's dreaming by the twitch of body and twiddling of paws, though it's not a good one. Little whines escape him and his nose wrinkles at some foe.
There's the sound of his husband's tread. Familiar, as is his scent. That's much richer and more vivid in this form - civilized scents like soap and aftershave and shampoo, and the darker underlayers, myrrh and the musk of his skin. Kent doesn't, in any form, smell truly human. But most human noses, in turn, are too dull to detect it consciously.
No attempt to sneak up on the Jackal, far from it. He's come to tend his lover, and he kneels down at his side, with none of the stiffness a middle-aged man might be expected to show. "Love?"
Kent's voice slices into the nightmare like a blade through hot butter and immediately brings the pale jackal up to the true reality rather than the haze of dream. He jolts full-body and then blinks blearily towards his tail before looking over and then up at Kent.
Oh, «Azizam», yes, it is you. Ambrose sounds relieved in his kythed words. Oh, I was…I was dreaming, but I know not what. A stretch of his front paws is nearly delicate and then he works his way stiffly up to a sit, his tail still wrapped about his back feet. Kent gets another sleepy blink in his direction, fond and comfortable. I am glad to see you, for you are a dream yourself in a world where I must be awake more often than not. Stretching out his nose, he sniffs at Kent's hand and then licks it gently.
Kent honestly can't resist. He summarily picks up the little creature and bundles him into his arms. Cradling him, he gets up to take him to the bed. The Hound settles there with his husband in his lap, already stroking the big ears, the long muzzle. "Nothing good, by the way you were twitching, my dear," he says, and his voice is almost sad. Ambrose knows by now the subtle tells in that severe face. The way he's not as cold as those first impressions might've indicated.
Kent too is warm and it's with no fussing whatsoever that the little canid allows himself to be bundled and moved from the sunbeams over to the plush bed. After all, the Hound is familiar safety in scent and touch alike. Already, Ambrose's eyes are becoming soft and dozy again as deft fingers work along the span of his ears and the gentle rise of muzzle to skull.
Then if it was nothing good, I need not spend time attempting to remember, comes the reply, warm and yet tired. Yet what is haunting you, my heart? I can sense your discomfit. Was I sleeping too long again?
"Yes, you've been sleeping a great deal," Kent's voice is level….and he makes no attempt to hide that unease. There's really no lying between them, is there? Not without enormous effort….and why would he? There's a strange pleasure in being so completely transparent to someone else. "Is there nothing more I can do for you? I keep….wanting to treat you like you're ill. As if gallons of chicken soup might solve this problem," A chuckle from him, but really, it's humorless.
I do like chicken soup. Uttering a trill of delight at the thought of it, the jackal then attempts to roll within the tuck of the man's arm, the better to showcase his chest and belly for rubbing. And…I understand, my heart, I understand well. If it is consolation, I am fully capable within my current limits. Er, no, this wording is incorrect.
Ambrose thinks for a second; it makes the starry reflecting pool of the kythe ripple under unseen wind. As in, for what gumption I have, it is of full use though it be not my usual volume. Yes, that sounds more sensical even to myself. Bright eyes look up into Kent's face. It is no enjoyable state to be in, I shan't lie. I find solace in that a Valkyrie and the damned scariest wolf-god I have ever met are aiding in the task of returning me to myself — that, and the God of Lies himself. The tail flops once. I wonder at how we have managed the comrades we have sometimes.
He knows to the millimeter where and how to touch the Jackal, devoting himself with an artist's precision to hitting all the spots that feel best in this form. "I'll make you some tonight, if you like," he offers, amused. "That I can do. As rich as possible. I know you are…capable. But….it's so strange to see you discommoded. I'm used to seeing you like steel, like stone, beyond human in a way that even I am not." He blows out a breath. "Fate, I'd say. I know that may sound like a…..like an excuse. But that's the only way I can explain it."
Lazily, one back foot begins to peddle as fingernails find the Good Spot at the tuck of the jackal's ribs and stomach. Ooooooh, that is delightful, comes the mumble in the kythe, accompanied by warmth and twinkling appreciation. I would not say no to chicken soup. It is decided — and I do not think Fate is an excuse. I have lived with you long enough, my good Lord Talbot, to know better than to malign Fate. The thinly-plush tail swishes back and forth a few times.
Still…you are not wrong. I too am used to being…vexingly virile. Of course Ambrose and his grand peacocking pride would choose this descriptor. Now I am…less virile. His nose and whiskers both wrinkle. That, and I am tired of not recognizing myself in the mirror. If I must find a silver lining, it is that the curse appears smaller in mass and as such, easier to feed. I need not linger on the subways overlong.
A streeeeeetch of front feet works to both indulge the feeling and to cheekily try and paw at Kent's face because…Ambrose reasons. I am too young to feel so old! I refuse! Tired laughter echoes in the kythe as those huge ears flick back and forward.
Kent can't help it - he all but bends double with laughter. Usually, he'd do his best to defer to Ambrose's pride, but….then again, they can't take each other that seriously. "That's good," he says, when he can speak again. "Though New York being what it is, there's ample fodder, isn't there? But yes, both of us…..our…appetites are not what they were," he agrees.
Laughter subsiding, it's back to that gentle tenderness. "We are long past the age to feel so old. We have been….not merely lucky, but it's been a side effect, you know?"
Indeed, I believe Fate might be leveling out what kindness it bestowed upon us these long years and I, for one, will be grateful when she is done with this fucking nonsense. My appetite has not gone away in the least. What is it that the young says these days… The mind is willing, but the body is weak? Yes, this, the Jackal decides with what must be a literal waggle of his canine brow-points at Kent, just to see if he can get the man to crack again.
He then stretches again and makes to roll back over to slowly sit upright on the man's lap. His long nose lifts and stretches to meet Kent's own in turn: boop. The touch is still damp and cool, a proper canine nose.
The whiskers. The whiskers are what do it….eyebrow dots maximize how utterly ridiculous he looks. "We have gotten away with a very good deal," Kent concedes, still laughing softly. "A very great deal indeed."
He bows his head to accept the boop, gravely, and then chuckles. "But…..we at least know we are pawns of Fate. That's more than most can say, in this world or any other."
The wee pale jackal rotates his head slightly, his large ears perked, and gives Kent a soft-eyed look. I would like to think that she adores us more than most, yes, though I would like her attention to shift off us sometime soon. I have many more decades yet to set you to groaning at me.
His cheek hasn't deserted him in the least.
Somehow, his expression reflects his solemn moment. All will be well, «Azizam». I did not survive this long to leave you so soon. Here, smile for me, big and wide, as if you mean to convince me you are the brightest ray of sunshine in July.
Not solemn forever, apparently.
Kent bares his teeth. It isn't really a smile. Amborse knows the subtle gradations that distinguish the canine grimace from the human smile. It's ….usually a warning of a huge wet tongue incoming, just as gray clouds presage rain.
But for now, he contents himself with scoffing,and flipping the jackal onto his back. All the better to assault that fluffy belly. "I know," he says. "That I do know. I will not be parted from you." Both prophecy and oath and defiance.
Back go those ridiculous ears in an expression of surprise at the toothy grin and then flip! Onto his back with his own broad spread of mouth and soft lingering churrup. Kent's hand rubs at his belly and the Jackal attempts to wrap his front legs around the man's forearm, all the better to chew without breaking skin in mock ferocity.
I shan't allow it! Woe betide any who attempt to take you from me! You had best believe that if anyone does, myself and our offspring will come barreling in bearing wickedness and woe in our wake!
A pause and he pauses to grin in the kythe, a bright splash of light. I believe I am now a poet, observe the alliteration.
Something about what Ambrose says makes Kent pause. He stares blankly off into the middle distance for a beat or two, then looks back and says, "You know what I can't believe? That we're fathers….and our children are still alive. I…." He shakes his head, the humor replaced by bemusement. "That we have this chance. This strange little family."
Whereupon he lifts Ambrose up and cuddles him against his shoulder, as if the Jackal were a baby that needed burping.
With little shame to his name, the canine disposes himself in a splay of limp and soft fur along Kent's shoulder. He shifts to better tuck his cheek against the pulse of the man's neck and can be felt to let out a huge sigh.
I am thrilled beyond measure to be a father… It was a wildest, impossible dream of mine for so long, he shares, a sentiment not often exposed for how tender its nature. Though I still argue that you are the better of us in terms of fatherhood. Mira adores you so, my heart.
Ambrose has paid him many compliments. But never one….of that nature. From that angle. HE doesn't maneuver the Jackal around to look him in the face, but Ambrose can feel him almost tense.
"…..me?" he says. "Why would you say that? I mean, I adore her, but….." He's clearly hit the Hound somewhere he wasn't expecting.
Like a butterfly's wing in passing, the brush of an ear-tip's tilting along the Hound's cheek as Ambrose rotates it to better hear the subtle nuances of speech. He relaxes all the more against the man's shoulder.
Because it is the truth. She may be of my blood, but she told me after she had met you and gotten to know you that you are my other half — the moon to my sun and the peanut butter to my chocolate. She trusts you, my heart, with her life and with mine, and from one raised in the den of the Brothers Three, I know not what better sentiment she may share. Another sigh. I know not what Sterling thinks of me other than…as Ambrose-Sir.
"He cares. He admires you. Dragons are bloody awful at emotions and their expression, that's all," Now he's stroking down the line of the Jackal's spine, gently, gently. Digging in to the little valley of the shoulder blades. "And she's a delight. I mean, I'd expect no less from a child you sired, but….it's nice to see it happen. I wish I'd seen them both when they were small. I'd've liked….to have a hand in Sterling's raising. I can't imagine his mother was very warm."
Not warm at all, from what I knew of the Lady Mireau. He is more human than she will ever be, even as he is now, with his difficulties in understanding our world. Her own world is primal, elemental, with rules established not on emotions or bonds, but on the ways of the lightning — the thunder and the storm. He is more charming than she by leaps and bounds as well, which I think we owe to your bloodline, opines Ambrose with another lazy twitch of his ear, gentle in his teasing.
I too wish I had seen Mira in her youth. Perhaps one time… His thought meanders away into wonderment before he returns his attention. The young were allowed mirrors. You might ask if they would share their memories of seeing one another? And share them with me in turn?
"It is hard to be a child of two worlds. But then….aren't you and I? The sons of the past, caught up in this strange future. I mean…when we were born, Victoria was on the throne. And now Elizabeth has reigned for longer than even her," He's started to toy with one ear, folding it gently, pressing it against the warm curve of the Jackal's skull. Just to be obnoxious. Look, if your husband is going to spend time a plushie, these things are to be expected.
The ear remains malleable and soft, covered in downy light fur. Ambrose patiently allows the playing with his ear, knowing full well it's deserved in light of him perpetually attempting to make origami of the Hound's own prodigious floppy ears.
We have had another half-century in comparison to Kazimira and Sterling to become used to this state of crossing worlds. I have faith in them both. They survived for long without us.
At one point, in pure Jackal spite, he turns his head and sticks his tongue into Kent's ear like an anteater.
Thank the gods he has a mastiff's patience, a big mellow soul in a big mellow body. He runs his fingers over the Jackal's ears, trying the other after exhausting the first. "I know. I just…..I regret some- OW YOU BASTARD."
Not that it's really painful, but that's a cold tongue. He bumps the Jackal with his skull. "I should stuff you into a pillowcase and put you in the dryer."
Behold, the huffing squeaks, proof of Ambrose proud of the threat leveled at him in retort for his well-timed delving into ear canal. He leans away after the head-bump and dramatically goes limp over Kent's bicep, mouth hanging open and a long creaking yowl leaving him.
I am far too charming to go in the dryer. I must be hung up and line-dried in the sun, elsewise you will ruin my fine exterior. I might have gone silver in my human guise, but I have few wrinkles to my name! Another inhale and he continues uttering the looooonnnnnnng creaky sound, just to continue the farce. What do you regret, my heart?
Kent rolls his eyes heavenward, as if to beseech the gods for patience. "I suppose you are too nice and delicate to be washed. I'll have to use bluing on you, though. They do say that silver hair needs special shampoo…..are you running out of air? Why are you making that sound?"
He drops the Jackal into his lap again. "I just regret not knowing them when they were children."
No, I am being patently ridiculous, my lungs are functional. A sparkler of amusement at the whole affair and the jackal settles back on the man's lap full of composure once more, proper as a statue at the Met. Why not ask them to share their memories, «Azizam»? Ask them of when they first looked upon one another, or when they were at drills. Perhaps you may be able to see them as they were young? he suggests once more. Large ears perk forward and a wistful note of his own blues out the kythe. If you do, share these visions with me, my heart. You are not alone in your regret.