With the abundance of thoroughly unwanted (at least as far as Bellatrix was concerned) house guests who had taken up residence at Lestrange Manor, Bellatrix had taken to spending much of her time in the solitude of what had become, for all intents and purposes, her wing of the house. She did not have the patience to deal with the insufferable old men who Rodolphus, for unfathomable reasons, counted as his friends and despite the massive size of the house, their very presence left her feeling crowded. Claustrophobic.
But this was still her home, even if she still had to remind herself of that fact from time to time and tonight some inexplicable whim or another had led her to one of the front parlours where she sat with a book spread across her lap. For the woman whose first magical act as a child had been to set fire to a book, it was strange to see how much she had been reading of late but she was determined to regain the knowledge that had been lost to her and so tonight it was some obscure text of dark curses that had what limited attention she was capable of giving it. It was startlingly routine, what her life had become. Dinner, evenings spent either training or studying (which had not been a choice this evening as Rodolphus had been strangely absent for some hours) and then retiring to her bed, alone. The previous night's fight at the rehabilitation centre had at least been a refreshing change of pace despite her failure to kill either of her opponents but now tonight it was back to routine. She hated routine.
She was distracted from her reading (not a difficult task in the slightest) by noise from the entry hall and the book was tossed carelessly aside as she went to investigate. Although she did not actually mind the distraction, she still stalked through the halls with every intention of berating whoever it was that was seemingly incapable of making a quiet entrance. When all else failed, harassing the house guests seemed to be a suitable enough diversion.
The noise in the hall was a rather sloppily moving Rodolphus. Dropping Marlene off and apparating three times to arrive home had drained him of more than blood, and it was only the aggressive sort of adrenaline that followed a fight and followed murder than kept him on his feet. He staggered inward, trailing blood from wounds that were inexpertly closed on the carpet, with only one thought in mind: Bellatrix. He wanted to find her and to do things to her that weren't clear in his bloodied, fuzzy mind.
And who should he find greeting him in the hallway but the surly looking mistress of the house herself. He growled and staggered forward, pulling his hand off his ribs to reach out for her; he'd forgotten that she was no longer his wife, in the strictest mental terms -- all he knew was that his body was over-compensating for the pain in his thigh and side with testosterone and endorphins. He felt good in a way that was entirely wrong, and was too distracted to realise how stupid and barbaric he was acting.
A bloody hand was at her shoulder now, dripping across the smooth, white expanse of her collarbone. He said nothing, but encroached on her personal space until she was forced to take a step or three backwards.
Bellatrix's immediate reaction to the sight of her bloody and clumsily moving mentor coming towards her - husband even - was just to tilt her head slightly and arch an eyebrow in some mix of disapproval and surprise. This was hardly the sight she had expected to encounter in the hall and she could not remember ever having seen Rodolphus in such a state. But what surprise she felt at simply seeing him like this was only heightened as he reached for her. If his intentions were not clear in his own mind they seemed to be quite plain to Bellatrix and she hesitated for the briefest moment to shake off her confusion before concern settled in it's place and she wrapped an arm around his back in a rather laughable attempt to support him.
And that concern was strange to her in its own right as it had not been so long since her reaction to his bloodied hand upon her shoulder would have been to leave him to be found by someone who cared. But two months of training together, of living together if in separate quarters, had apparently sparked some renewed degree of affection for the man that made her care for his state. And rendered her more intrigued than irritated by his advances although this was hardly the time as he looked as if he might very well collapse on the floor if she did not tend to him sooner rather than later.
"Study," she instructed, deciding that ordering him about would be far easier than trying to drag him down the hall. "I do hope at least most of this is not your own blood."
Rather than comply, Rodolphus's reaction was to push her backwards, until he had her up against a wall and could glower down at her. He wasn't going to fall over any time soon -- at least not on purpose. He hadn't lost enough blood to lose consciousness or the ability to stay on his feet, and wobbling did not faze him as he cornered his wife. Pressing one bloodied hand into the wall (his concern for the handpainted walls apparently minuscule), he leaned in until their lips were barely a breath away, and looked her darkly in the eyes.
"And what gave you the impression you could issue me orders?" he growled, breath spilling across her face, hot and tinged with copper.
Bellatrix's breath caught in her throat as she was pushed roughly against the wall, but it was not out of fear. No it was... something else entirely. The smell of blood on his clothes and on his breath - that was curious - was very nearly overwhelming and while any other woman would find it nauseating, for Bellatrix it was appealing. In the most twisted sense of the word. She did not know precisely what was happening here, but there was something about Rodolphus's state of disarray and his aggression that seemed to spark something inside of her. Lifting her chin defiantly, she met his gaze with her own intense stare, unflinching.
"Would you rather I leave you to bleed to death upon the floor?" she sneered in return. Never mind that she was clearly not going anywhere with the way he had her pinned. She did not have it in her to play the cowering submissive.
"And what amusement would that bring you?" He rasped, leaning past her lips to graze teeth and mouth over her jaw and back to her ear, to her neck. Her smell was barely detectable over the cloying aroma of earthy metal, but it intrigued him nonetheless. He was stupid with pain and blood-loss and internal chemicals trying to regain balance after the murder of another being. He did not have the banal delights of a sadist, rejoicing in causing another person harm, but more complicated deliria, driven by catharsis and emotional trauma. For every incident that furthered Rodolphus's damage, it seemed there was always physical compensation. He was incapable of recognising his ethical failure, his sickness, for what it was, and so he repressed those despicable acts beneath other, more carnal, pursuits.
His hands were at her waist, groping for the ribbon that bound her corset; Rodolphus didn't wish to remember that she knew nothing of their physical relationship, and so he did not. It was as simple as that.
She was very nearly distracted the feel of his hot breath across her throat and she took in a sharp breath. This was, for her damaged mind, largely unfamiliar territory and yet it still took a startling force of will to bring herself to actually stopping him rather than let impulse and instinct take over. But as she drew in her breath, a fresh wave of the metallic blood hovering in the air all around them hit her senses and she was reminded of her original purpose.
"Very little," she replied honestly as she wrapped her fingers firmly around his wrist and attempted to drag his hand away from her corset. "We are going to the study," she repeated firmly as her other hand slipped her wand from her pocket. "Whether you wish to or not. Unless you would rather I curse you and drag you there?" It was not an idle threat.
His eyes narrowed as she dragged out the wand, but he gave himself a few seconds to amuse himself about her neck before pulling away in response. He had no illusions about whether she could curse him to paralysis without much effort, and while normally he might have dared her to try, or snatched the wand out of her hand, or drawn his own in combative stubbornness, today he didn't much care where they were situated. If she was that insistent upon moving, then they'd damned well move.
Reaching back out towards her corset, Rodolphus grabbed her by the dress and by the thigh with each bloody hand, and in a single movement that left him gasping for breath, he hoisted her over his shoulder. If she wanted to hex him now, she was more than welcome, but he didn't see the logic in falling headfirst into the ground with a 19 stone man coming down atop her. Off they went to the study, then.
Apparently this was to be an evening full of surprises, Bellatrix realised as she was quite unceremoniously thrown over Rodolphus's shoulder. At least he was moving although this was most certainly not what she had in mind. "Put me down," she demanded sharply. She was very tempted to curse him, or at least hit him but yes, some vague sense of self-preservation and her doubts about his ability to get himself to the study, much less carrying her without the added violence was at least enough to still her hand. That did not mean she wasn't going to protest. "Rodolphus!"
He bounced her against his shoulder in response, which amused him through the agonising pain of holding her above his wound. He was having difficulty breathing, and used his opposing hand to help him down the hallway, through which he walked with uneven steps.
When finally reaching the study, he paused a minute to groan, and then squeezed the backside of Bella's thigh before careening forward, through the study door, which he closed mostly. Searching for an appropriate surface, he decided to dump her atop the study desk, which he swept free of most of its accouterments. He'd have to deal with the mess later (never mind that he'd been bleeding on his furnishings since he'd entered the house), but for right now he didn't care very much about deeds and ink and bills. Unaware that Bellatrix was more interested in healing him than humouring his bizarre behaviour, he returned his hands to her waist, pondering the curves there. It occurred to him that she could do with a bit more weight, but it wasn't the time or place to dwell on such insignificant details.
Now that they had at least reached the study, Bellatrix's determination to fix her bleeding husband before he collapsed was back in full force and she was not going to be refused. (She had noticed the way he had struggled down the hall, with some mild concern that her head would be smacked into the wall.) "Rodolphus," she repeated, still insistent. But it was somewhat difficult to seem commanding when sprawled quite indecorously across the desk and she pushed herself up, levelling her wand at him. "Sit down," she demanded. "I do not intend to allow you to bleed to death in the study either."
Rodolphus's level of concern for his own well being was drastically lacking, and he ignored her demands in favour of locating the whalebone seams of her corset, and the ribbon that bound them. He eyed her thoughtfully before tearing the garment open with a grunt, an effort that was suddenly and cripplingly exhausting. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth as he struggled to catch his breath... and tear the corset free of her. "I will worry about dying later," he replied with a grumble, tugging her closer to the edge of the desk.
Bellatrix was startled as he ripped her corset from her body and dragged her across the desk and her mind was still struggling to process all of this as she was not, had not... well yes. This was all quite new to her as far as she could remember, but then she looked up and saw the blood on his lips. That brought a scowl to Bellatrix's face as she wondered just what was possessing him to be so impossibly stubborn. Never mind that she frequently displayed the very same behaviour herself. That wasn't important.
It seemed that they were at something of an impasse. He was determined to have her naked and she was determined to heal him. Fine. If that was how this was going to have to be, she decided she was not above allowing him to be distracted by her as she tended to his injuries and she flicked her wand to divest him of his bloodied shirt so that she could inspect and deal with the wound in his side.
And as demanding as he was being, now Rodolphus submitted to her ministrations, as if all he'd desired, really, was her acquiescence. He was reasonably distracted by her, to be fair, but settled against the desk almost quietly but for the rattling struggle of his breath. She could hurry up and fix him and he would -- well. Those things were better left nondescript.
"Hurry up," he said, impatience tinging every syllable.
At the very least he wasn't resisting anymore, although Bellatrix shot him a glare for his impatient demands before she turned her attention to knitting together his flesh, her brow furrowed in concentration as healing was not nearly her strength so much as destruction. And she was determined to do this properly, regardless of what he wanted at the moment.
"Where else?" she demanded once his side was mended to her satisfaction and she pulled her journal out to scribble a quick note to Corbina, seemingly oblivious to Rodolphus's desires. Oh, she knew that he was not particularly interested in holding still and playing the dutiful patient, she just did not care.
Side healed, Rodolphus wasn't interested in waiting until she'd kissed every boo-boo. It was enough to keep him breathing (and breath was coming far more easily to him now that his ribs were not creaking with every movement). His thigh was but a distant pain, and the pain only made the interest he was feeling in his wife more poignant. At some point he'd probably remember that he'd rejected her for her lapse in memory... but that point was not now, alas.
"It's enough," he growled, shoving her wand arm aside and grabbing for her hips. It was easier to bear her weight without the pain in his side, and he dragged her up to his waist by the dress until her thighs were split around him. A convenient bookcase was acquired, against which he pushed her. And an explanation before he resumed his investigation of her jaw and earlobe. "McKinnon is dead."
"Rodolphus," she said sharply, yet again, as he pushed her wand away. "I will determine..." she began but then she was wrapped around his waist with no choice but to hold on and shoved up against the bookcase and it was clear that what little time he had allowed for healing was over. Which left her... uncertain. And that was an entirely unsettling feeling as she wondered if he had somehow managed to forget that she did not remember, or if he had just decided that he no longer cared. But the truth of the matter was that she did not particularly want to remind him at the moment - whatever that meant, it was something to be contemplated later - and so as she did with all things, she threw herself into this, wholeheartedly. Even if she did not actually know what she was doing.
"And you did not take me with you," she chastised as he brought another sharp breath from her with his mouth against her ear and her hand slipped up to his head, fingers curling around and tugging at sticky, blood covered hair.
For the moment he was content to just hold her, and smear crimson across her pale arms, her exposed calves, while he mouthed along her blood-stained neck and shoulder. "I do not recall sharing kills being part of our wedding vows," he replied dryly across her skin before sinking his teeth in (albeit considerably more gently than he'd done earlier in the evening to a rather different woman) and dragging them down the silken flesh.
It felt like ages since he'd touched her, and he missed it. Missed the one person who didn't judge his cleanliness when he arrived, aggressive and high from a violent encounter -- who didn't balk at the blood that dragged across their mutual bodies, sticky and cold now and metallic. He loved her, he decided carelessly, and he tugged at her thighs, enjoying the swell of warmth beneath his fingertips.
An interruption, then, came at the door, if the pair were aware enough of the outside world to notice. Aeneas Nott, concerned by the affair with the blood trailing down the corridor, followed the red globules (not even merely tiny drips!) from the entrance of the manor to the study. While he believed Bellatrix to be with his dear friend, her behaviour over the past two months - excusable to only a certain point which she had far surpassed - caused reasonable doubt as her her abilities (in his mind) to do anything correctly. He would simply oversee.
The door was slightly ajar, he found, and without breaking his stride Aeneas strolled into the room, coming to a sudden and complete stop in the doorway. While he knew well enough that what he was seeing was not Bellatrix tending to his fellow Inner Circle member's wounds, it took him more than a second to realise exactly what it was he was observing.
A moment passed, and then two, as Aeneas stood very still, eyes fixated on the pair. His head tilted slightly to the left until suddenly sense (as well as propriety and decency) came back to him, and, without a word spoken, he turned around and strolled back out of the room, making sure to close the door carefully behind him, a small locking ward cast only as a second thought as he was already more than halfway down the corridor, away to his personal wing of the house. He hoped that Claudette was not busy with the children.