#those two are drift compatible in a profound way

[roadsterguysblog]

Drabble Advent Calendar: full fic wrap-up

As promised, the last post in the calendar is a full vignette.  Prompt from @norwegianpornfaerie: Jeeves reveals his feelings to Bertie in a Christmas card.

I have faced many trials in my life, from riotous and inebriated collegians to well-armed Americans to that incident in Madagascar with the lemurs, of which I will write another time.  Yet none have given me such pause, such depths of dread, as this blank sheet of parchment in front of me.

The image that graced the front of said festive card was a scene that exists only in the mind, I am sure, yet gives great joy to my heart to contemplate – a snowscape, the virgin drifts untouched by the foot of man, embracing the bare branches of trees like a kind lover.  A red cardinal looked over the scene with interest.  Even such an innocent scene brought uncouth thoughts to my head, however, considering my mission.  An uncouth mission indeed – and had I any right to it?

The situation I have with Mister Wooster is a fine one, from many angles one might choose to consider it.  He is a man of independent wealth that is unlikely to run out during the course of his natural life; he is most affable as an employer, and has a greater degree of respect for me than is common than a gentleman for his personal gentleman.  And yes, that is precisely at the heart of the issue, is it not?

I was highly experienced as a valet before coming into Mister Wooster’s employ, and had served many gentlemen before him with sufficient success to have a broad array of solid professional references.  Yet, I have had feelings for none of them beyond the entirely proper and tepid feelings of one for a close acquaintance, at best.  It is so utterly in character for Mister Wooster to upset this delicate balance – to interfere with what should have been a life devoid of both trouble and brilliance from the first to the last.  And now I stand as a man at a road that branches in two directions; one way broad and familiar, leading to a city of no particular great art or beauty, but complete safety.  The other way is narrow, treacherous, full of evil thorns and deadly pitfalls, and the promise of untold beauty at its end is as uncertain as it is fraught.  And yet, I am torn.

The slightly off-white parchment stares at me.  With what words shall I pollute it?  The banal, safe road of Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and a Joyous New Year, signed Reginald Jeeves?

There are traditions kept sacred by the Pagans that are relevant to this time of year.  They speak of the King of the Yule, a man who is sacrificed to pacify the forces of nature on the darkest day; as his blood is spilled, new life comes from the ground, and the earth and sun are reborn for another year.

Perhaps it is appropriate to sacrifice the life I have, the man I am, with the hope of the rebirth. The Pagan man killed never saw the sun reborn; all he had was the hope that it might do so, the desire to end what he was with no promise of what he was to become.  A blind leap from a great height.

And so I put a different set of words to paper.

Mister Wooster

This is traditionally the place to put down a banal wish for a happy holiday season to you and yours, and it would be so simple to do so for yet another year.  Yet I cannot let those words stand, their very insufficiency to convey my feelings for you making them as close to an outright lie as to distress my conscience.

My affection for you has grown in strength and changed in nature until I no longer can call it the simple platonic affection of a valet for his gentleman.  No, it has become something more profound, more of the Eros nature revered by the ancient Greeks.  My desire for you is no longer compatible with the public face I have hitherto kept, as your devoted manservant; I have selfish desires and needs that may perhaps run counter to your traditional urges for a proper wife and the proper life of a man of your station.

I offer no solutions, no clever schemes to come through this and emerge unscathed on the other side.  I only offer you this bare truth, this slice of my soul.  It is entirely appropriate for you to dismiss me, given this knowledge, and I would leave with no ill feelings or rancor on my side.

With much adoration, always your

Reginald Jeeves

I folded the card, placed it into its neat envelope, and dropped a blood-red mark of sealing-wax on the flap.

It sat next to the small chocolate cake I had baked earlier in the day, as innocuous and deadly as those mines of the Great War.

[fancytrinkets]

An Epilogue Is a New Beginning (Dorian/Trevelyan)

The post-Trespasser scene in my most recent Dorian/Trevelyan fic. This part is just soft and sweet. With a proposal, more or less.

Late afternoon sunlight gilds the meeting chamber, making it even more decadent and golden than it was to begin with. Trevelyan stands, one foot on the elegant runner carpet, the other on the fine marble floor, and he thanks everyone for their service. Then he promises to send them all home. And that's the end of it. The writ is fulfilled, the Council is placated, and the Inquisition is officially disbanded. It's all very dramatic, but not particularly exciting for those who could guess what was coming.

Three hours later, on a stone bench in the palace garden, Dorian sits with his arm around the former Inquisitor, who leans against him. Trevelyan is wrapped in a warm outer cloak that keeps his left arm hidden. Whenever possible, he's been trying not to think about the loss of his hand. That won't work for long, of course — he'll have to deal with it soon — but Dorian's not going to bother him about it tonight. He understands the reluctance. Some losses are heavy and slow to heal. You have to carry them for a while, ignoring them when you can, and working through them only when you have to — piece by piece and day by day.

Halward Pavus comes to mind — a brilliant man and often a terrible father. He understood his son so little. And by the time he wanted to try doing better, it was already too late. He ran out of time and chances. But Dorian pushes that thought aside, an unhappy topic for another day. Instead, he gazes up as a barrage of fireworks explodes, silver and gold against the evening sky.

"Are they as splendid as you imagined?" he asks.

Trevelyan shifts closer, resting his head against Dorian's shoulder.

"No," he says. "But I've recently blown up a building full of gaatlok, so my standards for spectacular explosions might need some adjustment."

"Yes, glad we survived all that," Dorian says.

Trevelyan is warm and heavy against him. It's a pleasure to have him here and a relief he's alive and well. He's smiling as he watches the evening sky, his face lit by the fireworks, then falling dark again — over and over as the celebration continues. Elsewhere in the garden, people are laughing and drinking. Music plays, someone's singing, and shouts of joy rise up as the finale approaches and the explosions come louder and faster.

"Sort of like sex, isn't it?" Trevelyan says, glancing at Dorian. "Starts out slow. Fun to watch. Big climax."

There's something sly and suggestive in the way he smiles.

"Oh, is that what you're after?" Dorian asks.

Yesterday, Trevelyan was too tired for anything other than an early bedtime — understandable after everything they'd been through. But his eighteen hours of sleep seem to have restored his usual appetites.

"I'm still so tired," Trevelyan admits. "But if you were to do all the work, I'd lie back and take it."

Dorian chuckles. "I'll take you up on that later tonight."

"Good," Trevelyan says, "because this is lovely, but I want you closer still."

Dorian shuts his eyes for a moment and enjoys the thought of himself and Trevelyan naked in bed, the two of them kissing each other as they fuck. He never gets tired of it, loving the same man night after night.

"You can have me however you want me," Dorian says.

It's odd when he thinks about it. There are so many handsome men in the world. A good number of them are probably good-natured and funny — and compatibly inclined in terms of their sexual interests. And yet this particular man has become so incredibly important, so wholly irreplaceable. It's probably got less to do with who Trevelyan is and more to do with the hard-won tenderness that's taken root between them. Small at first, just a spark of affinity — friends at first sight — their rapport has matured into a profound and life-altering bond. At times, it's felt inevitable. But no — that's not the right word. It's intentional. It's what they've both kept choosing.

Trevelyan's thoughts seem to drift in a similar direction.

"We're exquisite together, you and I," he says. "No matter what happens, I don't want to lose this."

"Yes, about that," Dorian says. His thoughts shift away from pleasant daydreams as he settles into a more evaluative, strategic mindset. "I do have a plan for us, if you'd like to hear it."

He's been thinking about it all morning. Without the Inquisition to keep him busy, Trevelyan will need a new job. And he absolutely can't come to live in Tevinter. He's not as vulnerable without the anchor, it's true, but plenty of nefarious types would still find him far too intriguing.

"Oh?" Trevelyan says, lifting his head and sitting up straighter. "Tell me this plan."

"Well," Dorian says, "I'd like to acquire a linked pair of eluvians, sever them from the network, and use them so we can see each other secretly and often."

Trevelyan raises an eyebrow. "Is that even possible?"

"I don't see why not," Dorian says.

Leliana's been interested in acquiring more eluvians as well. She's already sent a few of her spies back to the Darvaarad to extract the Viddasala's notes and artifacts. So she's well on her way to pinpointing keys and locations for at least part of the network.

"So, we'd be stealing them from Solas?"

"Yes, but what's he going to do about it? Destroy the world? He wants to do that anyway," Dorian says. "So let's take a few of his toys and get some enjoyment out of them before he manages to follow through."

Trevelyan grins.

"I'm going to change his mind about the whole destruction-of-the-world thing. You'll see."

He sounds as determined as ever.

"Well, in the meantime," Dorian says, "and unless you have other plans, I thought you and I could work together with Leliana on tracking down those eluvians. I'd be in Tevinter, of course, but you'd be free to travel with the best of the Inquisition's former spies and soldiers."

It will take time, of course, to find and to move those mirrors — time that Dorian can use to focus on his own future, getting acclimated to the rhythm of Imperial politics and building up the Lucerni in partnership with Mae. Trevelyan's work might even take a year or two, but after that, with an eluvian each, they can spend their evenings, nights, and breakfasts together — and then go about their day-to-day lives at a distance.

"No other plans," Trevelyan says. "Sera did offer me a job as a Jenny. And Bull said I could join the Chargers, but I'd have to call him boss. And then Cassandra wants me to serve as a live training dummy for her Seeker recruits."

"So many offers."

It's no surprise. Trevelyan's closest friends all know him and love him. They want to help, offering him ways to move forward in the absence of the Inquisition.

"I'd rather be working for you," Trevelyan says.

"For us." Dorian corrects him.

"For us then," Trevelyan agrees. "You can count me in."

Overhead, the fireworks have stopped. All that remains is a cloud of drifting smoke, pushed by the wind and dissipating as it moves away. Trevelyan follows it with his eyes for a moment, and then he looks down, pulls back his cloak, and rubs at the place where his left arm ends.

"I'm glad the anchor's gone," he says. "But I miss my hand."

There are functional prosthetics, of course, both magic and mundane. But that's not the point right now and Dorian knows it. So he doesn't bring it up.

"I'm always here to talk about it with you. Now or later," Dorian says, touching the amulet that holds the sending crystal.

Trevelyan nods. "Maybe later."

The garden is quieter now. The revelers have wandered back indoors where they'll carry on drinking, laughing, and singing until the wee hours of the morning. Under lamplight and starlight, Dorian glances at Trevelyan's lips, signaling his interest. They lean together in a gentle kiss that goes on without escalating much.

"My heart is yours," Trevelyan says when at last he moves away. His voice falls softer still, and he whispers the part that comes next. "Now and for the rest of my days. If you'll have me?"

Dorian blinks and looks at him with more careful scrutiny.

"What's this? Are you proposing to me?"

"Pledging, I think," Trevelyan says. "Like a proposal, but without all the ceremonies and paperwork."

"Pledging to, what, be my husband?" Dorian asks.

"Essentially, yes."

Dorian pauses for a moment, considering.

"Have you bought me a ring?"

"No," Trevelyan says. "But I haven't really thought this through. I'm just saying words as they come to me."

Dorian shakes his head. He shouldn't be surprised by this. The sudden spark of inspiration, the obvious joy Trevelyan takes in improvising his way through an important decision — it's all very typical of him.

"Yes, alright," Dorian says, agreeing to all of it. "No ceremonies, no paperwork, nothing formal and institutional and onerous. But I do want a ring. For both of us."

Trevelyan chuckles. "I think you just want to go shopping for jewelry."

"Oh, well done," Dorian says, teasing him back. "You figured it out more quickly than I thought you would."

It's easier to joke about it. The truth is, he feels overwhelmed by emotions he's not sure how to name. But as Trevelyan pulls him close and kisses him again, Dorian stops trying to identify every feeling. It's enough to say that it's good to have this, and that he doesn't want it to end.

For the rest of my days, if you'll have me — Trevelyan's words stand out like a signpost, marking the pivotal moment.

Somehow, it's both a change and a continuity all in one. And that makes a strange sort of sense. Some divides are nothing more than the space between two people. And it's not much of a divide at all when they're people who've chosen each other, and who will keep on choosing each other, in love and friendship, no matter the distance.