Characters: Hermes (xpolytropos) and Morgan (nobreza) Date/Time: 16 May, morning Location: Their home Rating: Low Warnings: Nothing serious. Summary: Waking up and a baby. That much fun.
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Hermes woke up to the scratching of a plume. That was unusual, unlike the warm body beside him. Bed partners were normal, but plumes? He hadn't heard that sound, that awfully familiar sound, since Zurvan. The gritty scrawl had been the rhythm of his life as a messenger. But then, suddenly, there was the flood of new memories. He was the messenger still, was he not? A Roman messenger, unlike the Mictlain and Greek roles he'd filled in the past. Did that make him Mercury now...?
The abrupt confusion had him jolting up in bed, his arm bumping the woman beside him. He was about to mumble a sleepy apology when he realized who it was exactly that was writing in a journal beside him.
"Morgan?"
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The manner of awakening hadn’t been all that bad. Morgan had been warm, comfortable, reaching carelessly for the body by her with the assurance of someone who was right where she wanted to be. Then realization had chosen to make itself known with the very unfamiliar cry of an infant. And her eyes opened. The sight that met her eyes could have been taken directly from any movie she had seen as a teenager. Long stone columns, beautiful engravings in the walls, a bed which was almost larger than life. And the man. Morgan closed her eyes for a moment, wiling the image to leave. Nope. It was still a naked Hermes.
Oh my God would never be enough to relate her feelings in the moment.
Inching away – very very slowly – she walked to the source of the incessant cries, a crib to the side, a squirming little baby on it. And while Morgan had never been a mother – or if she had, the memories were far too hidden to be summoned at will – she still knew the basic. Gently, she grabbed the boy – because it was a little boy – and rocked it (him?) in her arms. Words said by her mother made her place the small head against her skin, directly above her heart. The sound was soothing, her mother had said.
The baby stopped crying before giving her a sleepy, blue eyed stare.
She didn’t quite jump away as soon as he was in the crib and tackled the journal – something all too familiar from her days in Zurvan – but it was a very close call. Of course, her dive to safety (so to speak) seemed to rise the man by her side. Seriously, she mentally complained, was it too much to ask one moment to get her bearings back?
“Before you ask anything, we didn’t get drunk.”
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"I'd know if we had," he responded, his chipper tone at odds with his dry humor. Almost reflexively, he pressed his lips to her bare shoulder. "And I really, really wish I'd remembered last night."
Hermes realized his teasing her was probably unfair, but she was a beautiful woman naked under the sheets with him. He wasn't exactly going to deny himself what Khaos had so kindly offered him. And he'd known it was Khaos - quickly and easily did Hermes adapt to new places, new situations. Already, he was coming to terms with his (and Morgan's) intricate room, taking in all the relevant details.
Which included the crib. With uncanny speed, Hermes shot out of bed and headed towards the seemingly innocent piece of furniture. He didn't care for his nudity - he was attractive and Morgan was free to look her share - as he peered at the peaceful little boy within the crib.
Hermes wasn't exactly a paragon of parenthood. With a father like Zeus, how could he be? But he did love and accept his children, from Pan to Hermaphroditus. He could not help the flare of emotion that came to life in him, though already he began to realize that this child was probably not real and would be parted from him soon enough.
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“Behave,” she said simply, pinching the arm which was closest to him. Luckily it was Hermes with her and not some unknown person. If it had been someone other than her friend, the whole situation might have been even more messed up than it already was. Drawing a sheet around her in a makeshift toga – which seemed funnily adequate to the situation considering their surroundings – the woman followed her companion. Not trying overly hard to avoid his form. If there was one thing Morgan had definitely left in her past was the attempt to become a nun – courtesy of Uther.
The boy was still sleeping, barely reacting to the way she kept staring at him like it was suddenly disappear into thin air.
“I’m taking that’s yours. Mine.” Ours? An idea that was so foreign that it almost became familiar again. “I woke up with him crying. Guessed he had a nightmare or something.” Without thinking, Morgan extended a thin finger and caressed the pudgy cheek. “I was never pregnant. I never gave birth. And I’m very sure I went to sleep last night alone and in my apartment. I’d wager Khaos again?”
It didn’t sound like a question.
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"And I'm pretty sure I never got the pleasure of impregnating you." He sighed dramatically, putting a hand over his heart as if she'd shot him there. "Khaos was always a right bitch."
Though, as Hermes observed the thin, curling tendrils of brown hair on the boy's head, sometimes she captured details beautifully. He left the 'ours' unspoken, simply tracing the other cheek with his finger. The symmetry of the moment took him off guard - he who always had his guard up and his heart unreachable.
"He's beautiful." It wasn't a breathy sigh of admiration. No, Hermes's tone was frank and forthright, just a few steps softer than a deadpan. But the truth wasn't meant to be said in the tones of fanatically devoted nuns. It was simple; it was fact. And fact was, Hermes and Morgan had a beautiful son.
How he felt about that, he had no idea. What he did know he felt was a sudden admiration for the curve of the equally beautiful mother's neck and the glimpses of form he could decipher from under her makeshift toga. He let his eyes speak all the desire for him - surely, if they'd had a child, indulging in a few benefits wouldn't be so abhorrent to her.
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She had, apparently, married a drama queen. Morgan could almost hear her mother – both of them, actually – horrified over the matter. The thought was funny enough to discard a little of the worry which had settled ever so quickly (her sister, her brother, her mother, her nephews, where and what and when) replacing her slightly disquiet expression by a small smile; much more natural. Besides, it could have been worse.
“We did tell Arthur,” she commented lightly, leaning until her elbows rested on the crib. “We would have very beautiful children who would take over a small country if we gave them the chance. That or con it out of the ruler’s hands. This one would be a heartbreaker, wouldn’t you, baby?”
And Morgan spoke lightly, without trying to give it importance because she had lived through Khaos’ games more than once. This would be an illusion and taken away as fast as it would come. Better to play it cool and never get attached. Besides, she wouldn’t be a good mother, the fay reasoned. Too flighty to be a constant presence for a child. And God, was she seriously thinking about that?
Her head raised with another easy joke, another small smile which widened to something very close to devilish once her eyes settled on Hermes. She knew that expression. She knew because she had seen it often and used it on occasion. Simple things. “Behave,” she whispered again, rising herself on her tiptoes to press her lips against his cheek. “First, we need to understand what’s going on and where we are.”
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"Cold blanket," he teased. Yet even as he poked fun at her for her practicality, he was going for the wardrobe. Roman, indeed. The interior architecture, the art, the clothes...
"What's going on is that Khaos is yet again fucking with us," he thought aloud, pondering the wardrobe. If the quality of the fabrics and the woodwork said anything of their social status, there would be a servant coming in to help them with the complicated folds of their clothes and to bring their breakfast. There would also be a wet nurse coming in for their child, and an assistant to remind him of the day's appointments.
"And where we are is Rome," he continued, shutting the wardrobe. "Since we're looking more patrician than plebeian at the moment, we can command one of our servants to tell us of our lives and our recent commitments."
Hermes wasn't usually one to share his rather swift and complex thoughts, but this was a routine he and Morgan had gone through many times prior. The diplomat and the right hand, always cleaning up and doing the pretty where the king and his general could not. Tag teaming with her was like settling comfortably into an old pair of pants. Not that Hermes was ever one for 'settling' or for 'old', but only the most experienced travelers could honestly speak of the value of the familiar.
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“I would prefer an age when I wouldn’t be treated as a porcelain doll. Maybe the future next time.” Practical and realistic. If this was the lot she would have to deal with, being forced to stay in the house and give up any semblance of independence, she would put up with it. For now and only for now. Again, it could have been worse. Hermes knew her. He wouldn’t treat her like a piece of furniture who had no idea what he was speaking of.
Letting out a slow breath, Morgan made her way back to the bed, sitting right at the end. “It would be best not to draw attention to ourselves, so I guess pretending is on the order of the day. But I’m telling you. I can’t sow. I don’t know how to take care of children and I’m usually in charge of a house with electricity. You should send me back to my father for that alone.” Whoever he was in this odd place, so uncomfortable for someone who, when alive, had been right against this very same people. Celts and Romans had never walked well hand-in-hand.
She patted the place by her side, indicating wordlessly that calling anyone before the usual time to wake up – usually well timed and in the care of servants – could be left undone.
“Let’s wait until someone replies to me. I need to know where Morgause is, where Arthur and mother are. Then I can try facing,” she waved a hand carelessly in the direction of the door. “Whatever they have in store for me. Which will be obviously so comfortable.”
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"All things considered, you likely have people do all those things for you. And I don't even know your dad," Hermes said, making his way to the place beside her. Perhaps he ought to show the same concern for his own family. But then again, if he waited to make contact with them, he'd have no time for anything. Besides, this was the way Greeks were. Family would contact you if needed - otherwise, it was assumed that you were fighting your own battles successfully.
He, this man who laughed at most everything, couldn't help laughing at her predicament. "You're complaining about people doing your bidding." He clucked his tongue. "That must be so uncomfortable."
He had a vague idea of what was in store for himself. The idea that he was a messenger was so firmly and confidently fixed in his mind. He wouldn't divulge that to Morgan yet, though. He had to wait until such time he had sufficient evidence, which would definitely be unfolding throughout the day. For now, his speculations could be kept mum. There was no need to cause uproar.
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“Dearest, don’t be an ass.” Morgan gave him her best sweet, ever so kind smile. “Because if there isn’t the concept of sleeping in a couch in this era, I am nothing if not innovative. I can certainly place it in execution.” A woman could still have some sort of liberties even if only inside the room. Still, it was good to watch him laugh. It was the sort of laughter that reminded her of Zurvan, how they eventually shifted things until they seemed more acceptable and less confusing. She found herself relaxing, limbs losing the remains of stress.
Which meant, her original personality was right at the surface. It was still early, the baby was back asleep – her son, good God in heaven – and she hadn’t done one thing that made her deserve to lose her beauty sleep. Servants could come later. Shifting, Morgan climbed back onto the bed, moving right till she was back in her original place; sliding under the covers was strangely comfortable.
“I woke up with the baby. If he wakes up again, you’re dealing with it,” she half-offered, half-stated. “Unless you want to do the smart thing and ignore the world outside exists for a while.” And all the while, her journal was right beside her, open and ready to give her news.
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And there was her painful imagination and humor.
Yet even with the thinly veiled threat, it didn't take much prompting for Hermes to slide under the covers, reaching for her. "World non-existent," he murmured in agreement, sliding his arm around her waist.