Investigator of the Supernatural, Brewer of Tea (sedulus) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-12-17 14:19:00 |
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Entry tags: | bertie eden, gabriel allen, zipporah bakst |
Who: Bertram Eden, Zipporah Bakst, Gabriel Allen
What: On the subject of demons
Where: Bertie's rooms
When: 16th & 17th December, 1888
Rating: PG-13
Gabriel was the first to come calling.
He’d fully intended to go to a holiday party at someone-or-another’s (he’d been to so many this season he could barely keep track, even with Lydia’s careful reminders), but Bertie’s present had arrived in the mail that morning, and it’d been thoughtful in a dozen different ways, thoughtful and understanding both, in that ineffably Bertie way, and he’d wanted for a touch more understanding of late, so he figured it was a better use of his time to show up with some mincemeat pies and deliver his thank-you in person.
That, and Zipporah’s recollection of Bertie’s healing had been unpleasant (to say the least) -- he figured it’d do him some good to confirm his friend’s being whole and happy face to face.
He was, by all appearances, and certainly pleased enough to see him, but after a rather enthusiastic thank-you was offered and received, he found himself slipping into a slightly pensive mood during the quiet pause before Bertie inevitably started speaking again.
He was always aware of what he took -- it was the responsible thing, after all -- and of his current lovers, Merrick and Bertie seemed the most in tune with the sheer necessity of it, the transactional nature, the fact that he wasn’t just promiscuous due to a lack of restraint, that he required it to survive, that he fed from them.
One of Bertie’s presents had been a poem (rather fittingly) about gifts -- gifts that were needed by others and taken contrasted with gifts offered knowingly and gladly, and the joy of giving when one’s heart was open, and he could see Bertie so clearly in every line; the gift of his abilities to commune with the spirits, the gift of his friendship and trust (something Gabriel was not about to take for granted these days), the gift of his very life force -- it all so easily pivoted between his natural generosity of spirit and being taken advantage of, and oh, the part about needing and taking -- that hit a little close to home.
“I don’t think I’ve ever asked you whether you found it odd, to be referred to so blatantly as food,” he said, breaking the silence, running his hand up Bertie’s arm.
Since the night Gabriel had broken down and told Bertie what had happened to him, what he'd seen, Bertie had felt oddly protective of him for someone who came up to Gabriel's shoulder and had been carried by him through an inn, once upon a time. He saw a fragility in Gabriel now that was easily overlooked when masked by Gabriel's muscular build and easy charm.
As such, he'd wrapped his arms around Gabriel and made himself a cushion to lean on, his fingers and lips wandering lightly over skin warmed by the coal heater before them, where they'd curled up together on the worn loveseat. Bertie wondered, if he became a member of the Black Park pack and a werewolf in truth, whether his instincts would still tell him Gabriel was his to watch out for and look over. Pack hierarchy was a relatively simple thing, once you knew everyone's place in it, but Bertie already had his own little pack of friends and lovers, and he didn't know how they fit in.
Bertie touched his lips to Gabriel's hairline while he thought about his answer. "I suppose I've been used to thinking of myself that way, after I found out about vampires. Everyone at the Night Watch, really, could eat me if they wanted to, apart from the witches." He thought of Mrs Linden tapping into his gift and amended, "Them too, honestly. I find your method of digestion a far more pleasant experience."
He dropped a few more kisses into Gabriel's hair, then added, "Anyway, you don't think of me quite like that, do you? Not like a...bœuf bourguignon. I know we tease one another, but I've never truly imagined you see me that way, as a...meal, only, and not a person. It doesn't bother me, if it's worrying you. I hope it isn't worrying you."
“I don’t, no,” Gabriel replied, looking up at him. “And I suppose your poem put me in a rather thoughtful mood, is all. In the best of ways,” he added, reaching up to brush the hair out of Bertie’s eyes, “as the best of poetry tends to do,” he continued, with an affectionate smile curling up at the edges of his mouth.
“It can be…” he tipped his chin. “....Well. It can be ridiculously complicated, to have one’s life so dependent on the gifts of others. To have it all wrapped up in trust and relationships and feeling, always, even when it’s incredibly temporary. To have it be a need.”
"Flatterer," Bertie accused, though the compliment made him smile. "I'm glad you liked it. Or that it made you think, anyway."
He couldn't honestly say he understood Gabriel's situation, as it was well out of his experience, and he could only do his best to empathize. He tried, regardless, imagining himself in a situation where he was so dependent upon what amounted to the charity of others, for such an intimate offering.
"I think we separate feeling and the physical act poorly oftentimes, when we do at all," Bertie admitted. "I'm always aware that it means more - or differently, rather - to you, than to me, and I don't ever want you to feel you're using me, or that I feel I've been...divorced from myself, in my use to you. This is coming out all wrong," he lamented, shaking his head and smiling ruefully. "I'm sorry. I only mean that I do try to understand, but if I can better express that to you, to make it easier...for you to ask, if it does become a need, or even to ask when it isn't..."
Bertie stopped, getting tangled up in words again that imperfectly captured his thoughts, and therefore might imply something he didn't mean. He took a moment to think over the heart of the problem, which he thought might be that Gabriel felt isolated by who he was, set apart by desires that weren't entirely like those of others around him. To a much lesser degree, Bertie could understand that.
"Would it make you feel any better," he asked tentatively, "to know that I think it might be a need for us, as well, though we might claim otherwise? To be touched, with care and intent...I think in our own way, we grow sick without it, many of us. Perhaps not as you do, but...it's not an unequal exchange. You might gain nourishment, but we who are lucky enough to be with you, we also gain something by the act. Not only pleasure, but a certain...happiness. A well-being."
He ducked his head and looked at Gabriel through his lashes. "I hope you don't feel I'm belittling you or the difficulty of your situation by saying such a thing. I just thought it might help, if you knew you weren't so alone as you might feel."
That earned him a kiss, a soft one. “I don’t suppose it’s a topic of frequent conversation, is it?” Gabriel replied, settling back against Bertie. “Perhaps we shall have to invent it as we go.” He reached up to brush Bertie’s cheek gently with his fingers. “And I don’t imagine I’d quite considered it that way before,” he allowed. “I ought to have. Whitman would agree with you, I think.”
“It’d be no end of ghastly if it were nothing but release, I’d imagine,” he added, quietly. “If feeling weren’t a part of it. Mechanical, and cold, and unpleasant. I wonder if it’d taste like much of anything at all? And what that implies, about requiring the feeling too?” He shook his head. “And I don’t think you’ve ever belittled me,” he said, tipping up to kiss Bertie once more, an echo of his earlier thank you.
“So does that make me more a gardener than a parasite?” He asked, laughing a little. “Ought I call you mon courgette now?” He looked back up at Bertie, a question he hadn’t quite asked answered nonetheless. “I would be sure to ask,” he added, quietly. “You give so much, Bertie, I don’t want you ever thinking I take it for granted.”
"You can call me whatever you like, I think," Bertie answered, a little shy in saying so, nuzzling Gabriel's cheek. "And I don't. You could ask more, you know. You offered once, to become something for me, or to give me something if I asked for it. I hope...well, if I've never said, I should say it. If there's something you'd like that I can provide, I'd want you to ask for it. I won't take it lightly, in granting or refusing. I know it's complicated, for you, but you...well, you give more of yourself than I do, and all for others."
Not merely because he was a very good man, Bertie thought, but out of necessity, of survival. Gabriel lived on a knife's-edge of need that he could only satisfy through the pleasure of others. For the first time, Bertie found the thought of that overwhelmingly exhausting.
"If I consented," Bertie reasoned slowly, "but it was an act you found more pleasure in than I, would you still obtain what you need from it? Or...might it be better, in some ways, if an act was divorced from my pleasure and your need? If it was solely for your pleasure's sake? I don't know that I could avoid thoroughly enjoying anything with you, but I could try," he considered, audibly dubious. "Perhaps something...exotic?"
He didn't really know what qualified as exotic, for a sensual and carnal being who thrived on the erotic. It was probably something he'd never even imagined, and which would have scandalized any respectable lady in England.
Apart from the ones who were succubi, of course.
He caught Gabriel's hand in his, playing loosely with his fingers. "You know I've never seen you as a substitute for...for Mal, or for the pack. But...I suppose to be fair, you have made a difference for me in making up the lack of touch. So yes, Whitman had it right, for me. That poem you gave me..." Bertie swallowed. "It spoke to me in a language I understood at once. I think it's a need, of a different kind than yours, but one that's essential nonetheless. You give me as much as I give you, just of a different kind of nourishment."
Laughing softly, Bertie tugged on one of Gabriel's fingers and asked, "So how does it feel, to be thought of as food?"
“You know I enjoy feeding you,” Gabriel replied with a bit of a tease in his voice. “This, just now, is quite lovely for me as well, you know,” he added, bringing Bertie’s fingers close to kiss at them. “Those few minutes after, when I can…” he looked up at Bertie, and a small smile flashed across his face. “I can touch you, and not be hungry,” he said, simply. “When we’ve both been satisfied, and can be for a little, it’s something I look forward to.”
It was his turn to laugh. “And I can see that beautiful brain working away,” he added, fondly, leaning up to kiss at his jaw. “I could hold off finishing next time, wait til after you’re fully satisfied. For science,” he added, with amusement.
"What if I...satisfied myself, before you arrived? Would that be more relaxing for you?" Bertie tried to ignore the hot flush on his cheeks and admitted, "I suppose that rather defeats the purpose, though. Or could you still...you could still..."
Feed on me sounded crass and inconsiderate of Gabriel's feelings, so he switched to, "...find satisfaction with me, so long as I consented?"
The thought of that, of Gabriel having him while he was soft and spent, the two of them at such different heights in their pleasures, was an odd one. Bertie decided not to dwell on it, as they could cross that bridge when they came to it.
Bertie laid his cheek on Gabriel's hair for a moment, and smiled as he teased, "I think you make a fine gardener, anyway. I've never had reason to complain about your attending to my courgette. You handle it very skillfully."
He chuckled by way of reply, fingers skating against Bertie’s knee.
“I’m not utterly bereft, you know,” he said, with a grin. “When I want it, there’s always my own sort, or vampires, and while I don’t indulge often, it can be a pleasant change.”
He brushed the fabric of Bertie’s trousers lightly with his fingertips. “If there is anything I want from you, I’ll tell you in a heartbeat, and knowing I might, that’s a gift in and of itself, but I must admit, I like what we are already plenty. And you, for that matter.” He looked up at Bertie. “You wrote me poetry,” he said, his voice soft and low.
Bertie leaned down to meet those words with a kiss, one that stretched out long and still until he broke it. He'd just been thinking of poetry, and should have known Gabriel might think along the same lines.
"You feed me sandwiches," Bertie replied quietly. "And I can feed you in other ways. But poetry feeds the soul. And both of us need that kind of nourishment as well."
He brushed Gabriel's cheek with his fingertips, and laid another kiss on the line of his cheekbone. "You're one of the few people I know who feels about poetry the way I do. Who understands it, and values it. I can't tell you what a gift that is, to be able to...be myself, with you." Bertie wrapped his arm more snugly around Gabriel's chest, and found himself nuzzling automatically, rubbing his cheek under the line of Gabriel's jaw to mingle their scents.
"You said you wanted to read it," Bertie said softly. "And I knew you would appreciate it. So I wanted to write it for you."
He smiled a little, and let his nose bump the hinge of Gabriel's jaw. "It's not all that altruistic, really, when you come over to reward me with flattery." The smile grew as he considered their current position, curled up together in front of the heater, warmed by cuddling and kisses. "And other things."