Post by wordy on Jan 24, 2012 11:18:19 GMT 10
Title: Hard to end
Rating: PG
Prompt: #57 In His Image
Summary: Corus is home more than anywhere.
A/N: Title from the proverb: Love is like war: easy to begin, hard to end.
The sun is shining red over the trees when the First finally arrive. Raoul watches them come in the courtyard, stablehands and squires directing them towards the stables, a flood of blue and silver in the fading afternoon light. Leaving the fort for Corus is the last thing he wants to do, but his men have earned a few days relief, at the least.
The men are dismounting now, the gates closed. A feeble breeze stirs, he can feel it ruffle his hair and pluck at his tunic; below, he sees a young man echo his own motion, raising a hand to fend off the wind, brown hair familiar for a reason Raoul can’t quite fathom.
He takes a deep breath, then, and raises his eyes to the horizon. Perhaps it is time for him to return; Corus is home more than anywhere.
“I thought you got a squire,” says Raoul. He clears himself a seat, shifting papers to a pile of more papers. Despite the apparent chaos that is the Prime Minister’s office, there is surely some kind of system at work; he delights, silently, at the thought of wreaking havoc here.
“I did,” Gary answers from behind his desk. “He’s about.”
Raoul briefly entertains the idea that the poor boy has fled, possibly days—no, weeks—ago, and Gary is too consumed with his work to notice. It’s entirely possible. He considers telling Gary so, but says instead, “I saw your son a few days ago.”
That, at least, gets a reaction. Gary looks up from his paperwork, pen pausing, and narrows his eyes. “Geoffrey.”
Raoul shrugs, as though it doesn’t matter to him. As though it hadn’t mattered three days ago how his heart had lurched at the sight of a Naxen in the colours of the Own; as though it doesn’t matter to him now, the way that his breath seems caught in his chest, waiting, waiting, for what he isn’t certain.
Gary looks at him a moment longer before returning to his work. “It’s been almost two years since Geoffrey joined. I wonder that it’s taken you this long to notice.”
“You know I don’t fancy paperwork.”
All he gets for that is a rather unimpressed look. Raoul smiles. “Do you remember that time in the Royal Gallery, when you drew a beard on your great aunt?”
“I like to think we’ve matured somewhat since then,” says Gary dryly.
“You do remember,” says Raoul, feeling inexplicably pleased. It’s difficult, these days, trying to explain to people that he had never truly been as mischievous as a certain Naxen lad; in nearly all of their scrapes during their page years it had been Gary who was the instigator, yet no one is quite prepared to think that of their Prime Minister.
“In my defence,” says Gary, looking up again, “she already had a beard. I was merely...accentuating it.” He grins and shakes his head. “Volney Rain almost had a heart attack when he saw it.”
Raoul laughs. “I’d almost forgotten that. Poor bloke. Didn’t it take him almost three months to fix it up again?” There’s something else that he’d almost forgotten, hadn’t even realised he’d been leading up to it until now. He swallows, caught in the memory of what had happened that day, the insistent pulsing of his heart, rough lips at his mouth, a hand on his arm. Shaking his head, he tries to dislodge it, and looks up to find Gary watching him.
His expression gives him away, but he says nothing of it. Raoul isn’t sure if he’s glad of that or not. “How long until Jon wants your report?”
Raoul leans back in his chair, crosses his ankles. “Now, I suppose. I was on my way to see him when I stopped here.”
Gary shakes his head. Raoul can tell he’s barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes; it makes him grin.
“Time to go, then,” says Raoul, getting up. He pauses at the doorway, looking at Gary amongst the fortress or papers and reports that he’s built around himself. “I’ll keep an eye on Geoffrey.”
“Better late than never, I suppose.”
Rating: PG
Prompt: #57 In His Image
Summary: Corus is home more than anywhere.
A/N: Title from the proverb: Love is like war: easy to begin, hard to end.
The sun is shining red over the trees when the First finally arrive. Raoul watches them come in the courtyard, stablehands and squires directing them towards the stables, a flood of blue and silver in the fading afternoon light. Leaving the fort for Corus is the last thing he wants to do, but his men have earned a few days relief, at the least.
The men are dismounting now, the gates closed. A feeble breeze stirs, he can feel it ruffle his hair and pluck at his tunic; below, he sees a young man echo his own motion, raising a hand to fend off the wind, brown hair familiar for a reason Raoul can’t quite fathom.
He takes a deep breath, then, and raises his eyes to the horizon. Perhaps it is time for him to return; Corus is home more than anywhere.
“I thought you got a squire,” says Raoul. He clears himself a seat, shifting papers to a pile of more papers. Despite the apparent chaos that is the Prime Minister’s office, there is surely some kind of system at work; he delights, silently, at the thought of wreaking havoc here.
“I did,” Gary answers from behind his desk. “He’s about.”
Raoul briefly entertains the idea that the poor boy has fled, possibly days—no, weeks—ago, and Gary is too consumed with his work to notice. It’s entirely possible. He considers telling Gary so, but says instead, “I saw your son a few days ago.”
That, at least, gets a reaction. Gary looks up from his paperwork, pen pausing, and narrows his eyes. “Geoffrey.”
Raoul shrugs, as though it doesn’t matter to him. As though it hadn’t mattered three days ago how his heart had lurched at the sight of a Naxen in the colours of the Own; as though it doesn’t matter to him now, the way that his breath seems caught in his chest, waiting, waiting, for what he isn’t certain.
Gary looks at him a moment longer before returning to his work. “It’s been almost two years since Geoffrey joined. I wonder that it’s taken you this long to notice.”
“You know I don’t fancy paperwork.”
All he gets for that is a rather unimpressed look. Raoul smiles. “Do you remember that time in the Royal Gallery, when you drew a beard on your great aunt?”
“I like to think we’ve matured somewhat since then,” says Gary dryly.
“You do remember,” says Raoul, feeling inexplicably pleased. It’s difficult, these days, trying to explain to people that he had never truly been as mischievous as a certain Naxen lad; in nearly all of their scrapes during their page years it had been Gary who was the instigator, yet no one is quite prepared to think that of their Prime Minister.
“In my defence,” says Gary, looking up again, “she already had a beard. I was merely...accentuating it.” He grins and shakes his head. “Volney Rain almost had a heart attack when he saw it.”
Raoul laughs. “I’d almost forgotten that. Poor bloke. Didn’t it take him almost three months to fix it up again?” There’s something else that he’d almost forgotten, hadn’t even realised he’d been leading up to it until now. He swallows, caught in the memory of what had happened that day, the insistent pulsing of his heart, rough lips at his mouth, a hand on his arm. Shaking his head, he tries to dislodge it, and looks up to find Gary watching him.
His expression gives him away, but he says nothing of it. Raoul isn’t sure if he’s glad of that or not. “How long until Jon wants your report?”
Raoul leans back in his chair, crosses his ankles. “Now, I suppose. I was on my way to see him when I stopped here.”
Gary shakes his head. Raoul can tell he’s barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes; it makes him grin.
“Time to go, then,” says Raoul, getting up. He pauses at the doorway, looking at Gary amongst the fortress or papers and reports that he’s built around himself. “I’ll keep an eye on Geoffrey.”
“Better late than never, I suppose.”
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!