sixthiterationlogs | closed; just one look at you, my heart grows tipsy in me

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closed; just one look at you, my heart grows tipsy in me

WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn, Benedict and Kate's room
WHEN: December 8th-ish
OPEN TO: Kate Kelly
WARNINGS: Excessive schmoop 'n' stuff 💞
STATUS: Ongoing

When he had first realized that he'd somehow wound up on the Surface, Benedict had nearly had a panic attack. He'd been taught all his life that the Surface was synonymous with unspeakable danger, usually in the form of the horrendous creatures that lived there. And, sure, while there had been some alarming attacks — including the tragedy that had taken Karen from them — he's found that, for the most part, those dire warnings had been for naught.

The worst he's ever had to deal with is bad weather.

Weather is still something he's getting used to. Living in habbles his whole life, Benedict has never experienced even a mild rain, let alone seasons with things like snow. It had been exciting at first, interesting, strange, but now it's just cumbersome and irritating. It does, however, provide an excellent excuse to stay in bed to conserve heat instead of getting up in the morning, or going back to bed in the middle of the day to huddle beneath the covers because there isn't anything else to do. (The fact that huddling up in bed most often leads to kissing is neither here nor there. Really.)

This evening finds him lying flat on his back, Kate cuddled up to his side, her head pillowed on his shoulder and his arm wrapped around her so that she can entertain herself fiddling with his fingers as they lie in their cocoon of blankets, the darkness of their room broken by the dying embers in the little fireplace lending a dim, womb-like feel to the room that seems to discourage speaking in anything louder than a whisper.

Tipping his head a little more towards her, he noses into the hair at the crown of her head, his fingers curling briefly in hers.

"And that's how I wound up being sent to bed without supper for an entire fortnight," he finishes, swallowing a chuckle. "My aunt could never prove Gwen was the instigator, and I would never grass her up, so..."

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Kate's never, in her life, been in a more comfortable bed. It's more than the physical make, the actual mattress, although those are hardly the worst she's seen. It's not the amount of blankets. She's had that before. No, it's sharing a bed with Benedict.

She feels safe.

Safe, and warm, and cared for. She isn't willing herself to sleep so she can sleep through the chill, she isn't finding herself waking up at the faintest sound because it's her responsibility, she has to make sure everyone is all right. Here, once she's gone up and shut the door and crawled into bed for the night, she can relax by his side, in his arm, and feel more at ease than she has for years.

Currently, her fingers tighten around his briefly as she giggles.

"A small price to pay for not turnin' on your mate," Kate says, entertained but serious at the same time as teasing. She puts a great stock by loyalty.

"She sounds almost like a sister, your Gwen."

"It's wasn't so bad," Benedict protests, smiling at the memory. "She convinced her maid to sneak me food after our parents had gone to bed, so I didn't starve."

For most people, that would be amusing hyperbole; for Benedict, he might very well have starved if he'd been denied meals like that, especially at the age he'd been at the time. Only later, when he grew older, did he realize that his aunt and his mother both knew full well that Gwen's maid had been bringing him food, and that they wouldn't have intentionally made him suffer unduly.

"Yes, I suppose she is." He rubs his thumb against the side of her hand, looking off into the darkness and remembering his cousin. Hopefully she would approve of the direction his life has taken. "My own sisters are much younger than me, so the fact that Gwen and I are only separated by a handful of years made us quite close."

For Kate, it remains hyperbole. He hasn't, really, explained much. Not the rumbling-purring like he's a lion, not his prickliness about being normal that runs through his calm. She will ask, at some point. But she's happy, and wants this, and she doesn't feel up to poking around.

"I can understand that. There's a gap between me and my next youngest sister, Grace, and the babies. So we've wound up being closer to our cousins of that age, while we look out for the little ones."

The next oldest from her is Dan.

Was.

Was Dan.

Although he got pulled away from his sisters early, always wanting to be one of the big boys, wanting to prove himself a man who could keep up with Ned and their cousin, Tom. Kate wonders if, maybe, the judge hadn't throw Jim away in prison for so long - for so wretchedly long, when he was but fourteen - Dan might be have different. More settled, instead of trying to grow up to fill in the spot Jim left between himself and Ned and Maggie.

The fact that Kate has simply accepted the things about him that he knows she must find strange without prying into the hows and whys of it all means more to him than he knows how to properly articulate. She makes it easy for him to feel normal. To be normal.

He presses a kiss to her tousled hair.

"The twins are...almost twelve now, I think." He feels bad that he can't be sure of their ages, like it makes him a bad brother. But he doesn't even know what day it is, let alone what month. "I don't rightly know how long I've been down here, how much of their lives I've missed. But they should be getting ready to enter into society soon."

They'll be having brand-new dresses made, and starting proper etiquette classes so they don't embarrass the family in public. His chest aches for a moment at the thought of missing such a pivotal moment in their lives, but then he forces himself to turn away from those thoughts. He doesn't want to wallow tonight, not when he's got Kate curled up in his arms like this, her body soft and trusting and warm against his.

"So with ten years between us, they never really wanted much to do with me. I was always embarrassing them, see."

"Embarrassing them?" She tilts her head up, as if to look at him, and then settles back down when she remembers that with her current position, she'd really only get a view of the underside of his face. Really, she's too comfortable to move much.

"I worshipped my oldest brother. He was nine years my senior."

Was. Past tense. Worshipped, should be present.

Kate huffs a sigh instead. She wants to tread lightly, on Benedict's past and her own. Keep things light, gliding over like a little boat over water instead of sinking down to the wrecks far below.

"What...happens when you enter society? Is it all balls and afternoon teas and visits with your ma?"

Edited 2016-12-14 19:22 (UTC)

The past tense doesn't escape his notice, but Benedict resists the urge to pry. Like Kate, he wants to keep things pleasant today, to enjoy the chance to lounge around together in bed without spoiling it by bringing up the poison of a painful past.

"Oh yes." He grins, not that she can see it, and shrugs, which she'll be able to feel. "Of course, I did it on purpose just because they hated it so much..."

Part of their embarrassment was that he was warriorborn, he knows that. And he doesn't even hold it against them. They were too young to know better, when it mattered, and now they're too stubborn to change. They love him, and he loves them, but they don't have much to do with each other.

"Well, at this age, they get to go to a fancy party, which they'll love," he starts, remembering Gwen's tour in Society. "Really it marks the stage when they have to sit through endless etiquette lessons, history lessons, they'll learn the languages of the other Spires, how to run a proper household, how to keep the books for the Vattery..." Twelve is far too young to enter society proper, which would mean that they were of eligible age to be married, but there were still responsibilities they now had to learn to handle that would come in handy as they grew older. "When they turn sixteen, they are allowed to attend proper high society functions to observe the other attendees, and at eighteen, they are finally formally introduced to le bon ton at a cotillion that indicates they are eligible to be married."

She laughs, softly. "I can picture that," she says, and she can. Benedict as the teasing older brother, prompting wails of Benny drawn out over multiple syllables.

Kate listens as he talks, more seriously that she'd been expecting. It is all.. It sounds more like work that she was thinking. Fancy work, some of it. Flittery social butterflying around, but keeping books, running a household instead of handing it over to a housekeeper.

She's not sure if she's been unfair to the young ladies of her world, or if there are marked differences in this area.

"Sounds all formal, that," Kate says at last, thoughtfully. "We're not nearly that so, least in my class in the country area."

"Of course, it is our cousin, Gwen, that will wind up being in charge of the Vatteries, as she is the direct heir, but there are still plenty of positions the girls could conceivably hold in the family business, should they want to."

They could also join their husbands' house, and take over a position there, but that's not a guarantee.

He shifts slightly beneath her, adjusting the arm he has behind her head so it doesn't fall asleep quite so quickly, and squeezes her hand gently. "It is very formal, and incredibly boring." He laughs quietly, a dim rumble in his chest, and shakes his head. "They're very excited for it now, but I'm certain they won't be once my aunt gets her hands on them. The lessons I was forced to endure were bad enough, and nobody expected anything more from me than joining the Temple or perhaps serving as Gwen's bodyguard one day."

Her frown is a thoughtful one, trying to make sense of all the differences between their societies under the superficial similarities in their manners.

"Where I am from, it is a rare trade where the girls are trained to work in an actual business while the boys are told religion or protector," she puzzles out. "Is that normal, in your spires?"

Maybe another woman would rush to say he is worth more, but not Kate. Not with her keth and kin limited by class and parental occupation.

Benedict's eyes snap open wide as he realizes what he's done. He hadn't been paying attention, allowed himself to get complacent, and now he's said something that triggered questions he'd been hoping he'd never have to answer.

Swallowing, he considers not answering, or answering in such a way that discourages further questions, but despite how scared he is to find out what Kate will think of him when she knows the truth, Benedict is not a coward. So, ignoring the horrible swooping feeling in his stomach, he clears his throat and starts to answer.

"No," he says, trying to think of a way to explain without just blurting it out. "If Gwen had a brother, even a younger brother, he would probably be groomed to take over the business. As for me..." He closes his eyes and tries to center himself, grateful for Kate's dull human senses so that she won't know how fast his heart is thundering in his chest. That is, unless she moves her head slightly so that she can hear it through his ribs. "The warriorborn tend to have limited career options. I would not be expected to take over a Vattery as large as ours, just as I would not be expected to take over any business, even a small one."

Expected, allowed... Same thing.

"It's just not done."

She is but pure human, even if her senses are sharpened by the bush. Sight to catch flashes of metal on horse gear, cans, knives, guns. Smell for the surrounds. Hearing for anything odd. Like his great heart, suddenly beating faster. Like his silence between words.

Just not done.

She knows those words. Has heard them all her life for this and that. For wearing trousers, for riding astride. For being the unmarried, adolescent head of a house of children. For performing.

But those, she understands. This?

"Warriorborn?"

He'd braced himself, closing his eyes, for any reaction she might have in the face of his news, but Benedict certainly hadn't expected pure confusion.

Shock. Horror, perhaps. Disgust, even. Pity, if he was being hopeful. But confusion?

He opens his eyes slowly, having squeezed them shut after his pronouncement, and cranes his neck to look down at her. "...Yes. It's... I'm warriorborn." Doesn't she know what that means? "My sisters are not, and neither is Gwen, so they are not barred from entering whatever aspects of trade that they wish." But he is, obviously.

"I don't..."

Kate's voice trails off before she moves. She rolls over so she's more on his chest than not, able to brace herself enough to peer inti his dear face.

"I don't know what that means," she says, carefully. He is wary, upset and holding himself as if for a blow, but she doesn't even know if she should be moving for a slap or a reassuring kiss.

"Is. Is it related to the purring? And how, um. How you didn't like it?"

His senses have been muted in his time on the Surface, but even so, he's more than able to see her face in the darkness of their bedroom, and despite his worst fears, the only expression on Kate's face is something between confusion and sympathy.

He doesn't know what to do with that.

"Yes, I—" He breaks off to look away from her, lifting a hand to rub it over his face and through his hair.

God in Heaven, how is he supposed to explain this to someone who doesn't even know what he is? The warriorborn have been part of society since the time of the Builders, and he's never had to articulate any of this before, not to anyone. Certainly not to someone who's slowly grown to mean more to him than he knows how to properly say.

"It's...a genetic mutation," he begins, closing his eyes so he can keep going without letting his cowardice shut him up. "Relatively rare. It pops up randomly in families, there's no way to predict when it might manifest or in whom. I'm...faster, and stronger than normal, my senses are sharper, and...sometimes I purr, apparently." He doesn't mention his eyes or his teeth, because he can't figure out a way to say it without making himself sound like a monster. "It's been different since I've been here, but... That's probably something to do with the Surface, I don't know."

Cautiously, he looks back at her, his eyes searching her face to try and read her thoughts. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he adds, barely louder than a whisper.

Kate has never heard of a genetic mutation before, but she doesn't want to say so. She doesn't want to appear that uneducated and she doesn't want to distract him from something like this.

She can guess, though. A condition. Hereditary. He isn't telling her everything, for why would just that mean he and people like him were treated poorly?

And yet...

It isn't as if she is, or truly intends, on being openly honest either.

Kate lowers her eyes, chewing the inside of her lip for a moment.

"But you are still a man? Still one of God's creatures?"

All Benedict can do in the face of her question is nod slowly.

There's a murky grey area about whether or not the mutation that makes him who he is being created, some claim, by scientists seeking to create more efficient soldiers, but the monks at the Temple had always said that he was created by God in Heaven the same as anyone else, and he had clung to that assurance desperately, even then.

"You truly don't know about...us?"

"Truly. If there are any such as yourself about, no one is open about it."

To her, that is not the main point. The main point is Benedict, looking at her like that. As if he is still waiting for that blow, that rejection. That fatal pity.

"All right," Kate says, almost to herself. Then she pushes herself to to lean in and kiss him lightly. "But you're still a man, and you are still Benedict. That's all I need "

If there were any such as he, being open about it wouldn't be a problem, as it would be incredibly obvious what they were. Which means the warriorborn don't exist where Kate is from, which means he's been worrying himself sick over nothing.

When Kate pushes up to lean in and kiss him, Benedict has to close his eyes and hold his breath so he doesn't do something horribly pathetic like whimper or start to cry.

He's been lucky, in his life, to be mostly surrounded by people who don't treat him any differently for who he is. For what he is. But it's one thing when the difference is obvious, and something completely different when he's been able to pass for normal, for human, for the past four months and hasn't told anyone any differently. He would have understood if Kate had been angry with him, or if she no longer wanted him to warm her bed after lying to her like that, but instead she just accepts him the same way she always has.

"I—" have to get out of here before he has an embarrassing breakdown in front of her. "—think I'm going to get some tea, I'm parched. Do you want something?"

Extricating himself from her grasp is difficult, in that he doesn't want to leave the warmth and comfort of their bed and her embrace, but he does it nimbly and very quickly, and is standing at the edge of the bed in no time at all.

He's gone. He's going. Before she can say anything, share a confidence to repay his, be honest in the face of his honesty, there's somethin' I've been hiding too, he's up, he's untangling himself, he's standing there in her (their) dark room, at the foot their (her) bed so quickly she's left open-mouthed and lost.

"I-"

Come back. Don't run, why are you running away?

"Tea. Thank you. Tea would be fine. My, my usual?" The tea Miss Helen told her to take, to help her sleep.

Kate sits up, hugging her knees to her chest, eyes dark in the lack of light as she watches him.

"Don't be long though, yeah?"

"Yes, of course," he mutters before quickly darting out of the room and stopping somewhere on the landing, only realizing once he's out of the room that he's in bare feet and only wearing the long underwear bottoms.

The Inn is very cold.

However, he said he would make tea, and so down to the kitchen he goes, hissing and cursing under his breath at the cold, cold wood beneath his toes, calling himself a fool for not just gritting his teeth and staying in bed, no matter what embarrassing thing he might have done. Luckily, there are candles leftover from the feast that he can light to help him as he goes about filling the kettle. He's just about to grab it off the stand by the stove when he notices a rather large box sitting on the table; curiosity has him moving closer despite the frigid paving stones beneath his feet to discover what's written on the tag. He's heard people talking about these boxes; Miss Hoppity apparently came in such a box, but he's never seen one himself. Maybe someone in the Inn has been given a gift, through whatever magic it is that keeps them here.

Benedict, the tag reads.

His blood runs cold for a moment. What could possibly be in this box? Who would think to leave him something?

Forgetting entirely about the tea, he takes the box and the candle he lit and moves back towards the stairs, pushing his way through the door and closing it behind him with a press of his shoulder.

"I found a box," he says, looking at her still huddled in their bed. "It's for me."

He left in a state, and he returns in a state. Agitated, his normally calm demeanour dissolved into too-quick movements, and too-hasty a voice. She'd hoped that making tea would calm him down.

It's all right, after all. It's all right. He doesn't need to run from her.

"A box," Kate repeats, sitting up properly. Nothing living in it, he'd have mentioned sounds. Would have, she's sure, opened it downstairs before bringing it up here.

"Do you know what's in it?"

He holds it close to his middle for a moment, clutching at the box, almost, before he abruptly thrusts it out towards her.

"I don't know," he says, folding his lips between his teeth nervously. "You open it."

The box may be addressed to him, but he's not sure he wants to know what's in it. Kate, on the other hand, is far too practical to be rattled by such things, so she should logically be the one to open the box.

Kate takes the box, but beyond the mostly subconscious assessment of how to hold it so it doesn't drop, how to put it on the bed and shift around so she can easily open it, her attention is on Benedict. On all of this twisting uncertainty roiling under his skin, across his calm and destroying it. She wants... She wants, suddenly, to protect him. Protect him from whatever has him so upset.

"All right," she says, and opens it. No ceremony to draw out his nerves, turn it into more of a production than it already is.

What greats her is fabric.

Yellow, a bright, rich yellow that is almost harsh to her eyes after so long without seeing this colour outside of flowers. And flowing lengths of it, enough that it is easier to tip the box over and dump its content over her bed rather than just pull it out. Fabric, and a pair of large sandals.

He'd somehow managed to convince himself that him being here was some sort of strange fluke; that there wasn't someone who put him here, there wasn't someone watching him. After all, nobody had sent him any unexplained gifts, so logically that meant that nobody was observing him. He was just coincidentally here, and there was no ulterior motive for this strange captivity.

Cavendish would be far more likely to just kill him outright, wouldn't she? Probably leave his body somewhere for his family and friends to find? She would want to make a spectacle of his death, to send a message to those who care for him. She wouldn't trap him here, with nobody knowing where he might be.

Right?

He almost stops breathing when Kate opens the box, afraid of what she'll uncover. All kinds of morbid scenarios run through his head — it's a dead cat, a severed gauntlet arm, a silkweaver, someone's heart — but all that greets him when the box is opened is saffron cotton.

Long swathes of it.

"Oh," he breathes quietly, recognition lancing through him the moment she tips the box over and dumps everything out on the bed, a pair of sandals clattering out after all the fabric to land haphazardly on the pile. Abruptly, his hands ache, his palms singing with the kind of bubbling pain he'd almost forgotten since he crawled out of that fountain. He clutches them to his chest, biting his lip against a whimper, and nearly expects to see those thick, deep burns on his hands when he glances down to look at them; they're perfectly pristine, same as they have been for months, not a scratch on them.

The box and its contents are not forgotten, but she shoves them aside. They mean something, and he's mentioned things. Burns. A temple. He's mentioned those and he's reacting as if the contents of this box are inflicting the same damage. Maybe they are, in his mind.

She's grown familiar with wounds in the mind that are as deep as anything physical, that come back as raw as ever.

Kate crawls across the bed to her lover, folds her small, strong hands around his.

"Ben," she says, softly. "Hey."

"Oh," he breathes again, his voice trembling, and doesn't resist when she reaches for his hands to tug them away from his chest, holding his much larger palms between hers.

It's not just his voice that's trembling now, but he doesn't seem to realize, staring blankly down at the fabric on the bed with a glazed expression on his face that should make it clear he's not really seeing what's there.

"Kate, that's..." his voice trails off as he glances up at her, eyes wide and dark a face that's suddenly lost all its color. "It's my robes."

Kate doesn't hide her expression. Not the way her brows suddenly pull together in a frown, not the way her mouth flattens. It's dark, yes, except he has good eyesight so who knows what he sees. She doesn't hide it because the only way she has of hiding her emotions is to go blank, and that's what he doesn't need right now.

"Well," she says, hard and angry, "I'm sure God will forgive us for puttin' them all on the floor."

She lets go of Benedict and shoves everything back in the box, lets the box fall onto the wooden ground. She's angry because how dare they. They've killed, yes, been cruel with gifts, but they're messing with Benedict now.

Fucking with him, she corrects in a voice that sounds similar to Miss Jo.

She really hates their captors.

She's angry. He's had girls angry at him before, usually his cousin, but it feels different this time, and if Benedict were less shaken by the dubious gift he's been given, he might do something like shrink away from her. The last thing he wants is Kate to be angry with him.

She pulls away from him and moves to shove everything on to the floor, and Benedict has to fight against the urge to reach out and stop her, deeply-ingrained habits not wanting to let him get his robes dirty like that. He'd been taught to treat his things with respect in the Temple, because he'd been expected to have a hand in the cultivating of the cotton and the weaving of the fabric and the dyeing of it in the end. To just push it all to the ground makes him want to duck and gather it all up in his arms quickly, to shake off whatever dirt might have accumulated and to lay them out neatly somewhere where they won't get trodden on.

But Kate pushed the box off the other side of the bed, and rescuing it would mean traveling around the bottom to the other side, and he doesn't want to do that. So he stands still, flexing his hands carefully like they still pain him, his head ducked down low enough that his hair shadows his face.

Is this a sign? Is the habble going to be burned down the same way the Temple was?

His heart thunders jackrabbit-fast in his throat, choking him, and it's all he can do to continue to breathe steadily.

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closed; just one look at you, my heart grows tipsy in me

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