multiversallogs | one of those bells that now and then rings [closed]

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one of those bells that now and then rings [closed]

Who: Ivan and Ilde
What: romantic evening in
Where: Ivan's flat
When: Givdi evening
Notes: No one but them thinks this is remotely a good idea.
Warnings: TBA as necessary

It wasn't surprising, that Ilde was tense. Mothers-to-be, especially for the first time, often were with much less reason. But, while their eventually future was still something that was a bit murky (and that caused Daniil to sigh in despair whenever it was alluded to), Ivan felt he could help with the stress eating at her here and now.

He hadn't said much except to arrange her clearing her evening and letting her know what time to come to his flat. He'd bought the dinner; he could cook, but was out of the habit. He'd also bought some fae wine for her, and gone to the trouble of a tasteful flower arrangement and candles. It was, he thought, a bit of a cliche but he hoped she would like it all the same. He was, of course, impeccable, but that might or might not have been for the occasion - any earlier feeding showed only in his flush of health, not in any rogue spots on his collar. He'd set it all out on the floor, with cushions for them, and it had a bit of a bohemian air to keep it from being taken too extremely seriously.

Overall, he thought as he surveyed his work, it would do. And she needed an evening off.

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The first thing she does after kissing him hello is step out of her shoes and then rise up on her toes to see over the sofa what he's set out on the floor between them; despite herself, she almost laughs, pressing her knuckles to her mouth. There are times she suspects him of domesticity expressly because she finds it so entertaining when he does.

There's a lot lately to justify the constant seriousness of her expression, but it suits her to exhale once in a while, and to- not think too hard about his colour. She'd expected, months ago when she'd talked to Dr Xavier about not being fed on during her pregnancy, that he'd compensate for that somehow. Maybe it's just more than she'd guessed because of the difference in quality of blood, and she has so many things to worry about, lately, that she leaves that one alone.

(She shouldn't, but she does.)

“You old romantic,” she says, investigating.

"I thought you'd like it." Which is to say yes, a bit guilty as charged. Daisy had never much cared for it - she'd liked him making a show of her in public, but when they were alone she hadn't wanted much in the way of wining and dining. And Ilde's suspicions aren't wrong - he enjoys making her laugh at him, because he enjoys getting her to laugh and his ego isn't so fragile as all that.

"I made sure to get something you can drink, presuming the doctor says you're allowed; I sometimes loose track of what's supposed to be good and bad for one's health these days." Partly because it changes, partly because it doesn't concern him. He comes over to hand her down before he sits himself.

She sits cross-legged, taking the wine bottle first to investigate - she hasn't ever actually had fae wine, and curiosity as much as the knowledge she's allowed a glass of this if it's available makes her hand it back to him and hold out the empty glass. “A little bit,” she says, “but not other wines, they're- too much.”

...as he's seen, previously, which is a good argument for most forms of alcohol probably not actually being something she should indulge whether she's knocked up at the time or not, but adopting moderation as watchword is a pretty recent development and one she's still navigating with care.

“I told Deacon, best not find out what FAS looks like in fairies.” And then he'd made her a Shirley Temple in a vampire bar, because that's just the life she's living any more.

"A little bit," he agrees, and fills her glass. "I wonder what would happen to me it I tried it without being a fairy." They could find out, he supposed, but maybe another evening.

"There's a man who's keeping himself busy," he adds, of Deacon, as he fills his own glass from another bottle.

“Probably nothing,” she observes, of the wine- as alcohol goes, he'd barely notice, if he did. “Which is why it's such a pain to get a hold of, I think.” It's a fairly specialized thing, even in a city like Baedal, and it doesn't have as much widespread demand. That she doesn't take the opportunity to complain about that in particular is indicative of mood, or at least distraction, but that is what it is.

After a moment, “What's he up to lately?”

"Still running his place, and being sheriff. In earnest, as far as I can tell." Some men would play at it, but he's more and more getting the sense that Deacon likes power for its own sake. Something to watch, maybe, but it's far down the list of Ivan's concerns. "I only ever see him in passing these days."

“'Anti-social' seems to go hand in hand with 'sober',” Ilde laments, absently; she's tended towards increasingly reclusive, the past month or two, and she goes back and forth on exactly how she actually feels about that. She keeps meaning to call someone, or text, or- none of her conversations seem to go very well, lately.

On the other hand, she thinks, she's never been very good at people, and some of them still seem to want her company anyway. That probably means something other than just poor judgement on their part.

Although she'd take poor judgement, in some cases.

"In many circles. But here - you're being social tonight, hm? And temperate, if not entirely sober." He lifts his glass to touch it to hers.

She allows him the point uncontested with a tilt of her glass. “Well,” she says, reasonably, “I like you better than lots of people.”

Why that is, a mystery.

He lifts his glass in acknowledgment before he pulls it all the way back to take a drink. "And for that, I am boundlessly grateful." Softer, "I really am glad you came. You've been running about."

“I know, I know-” she grimaces, a little, leaning forward slightly over her own glass - half toward him, half just curling in on herself. “I've been busy. I have a million things- we're trying to see if we can get this renovation done? Under the house? And it's a nightmare, and then I inherited this house, from Remy and Wanda? So I've got to find a property manager or something to rent it through, and the nursery has to be ready, and I have all of these appointments with my-”

And he knows most of that, so she trails off, feeling pointless.

“I missed you.”

He smiles. "I've missed you as well. And I know you've been busy, but you've also been fretting." Ivan hasn't said anything before, but he has noticed. "You look tired, most of the time."

“I am tired.” It'd be less than she was in her first trimester if she wasn't so constantly busy - working, doctor's visits, chasing up the million things that she has to have ready before she goes into labor and generally trying to stay ahead of the fear that she's going to be the terrible mistake in her own child's life.

It speaks to something that she not only doesn't disagree, she doesn't immediately, sharply withdraw from the idea that he could notice in the first place.

After a moment, she says, “I shouldn't complain too much. I decided.” To do all this.

"That doesn't mean, I assume, that you signed a waiver to never complain. Besides, as much as you're trying to prepare, you'd be worn out even if you weren't expecting, I should think." He leaned over to make a plate for her. "I won't tell anyone, though, if you like." That she complained.

“You just fancy the idea of keeping all my secrets,” she says, lazily accusatory in a way that lacks any bite; presumably he wouldn't know what to do with himself if she stopped picking at him like that. The absence of her brattiness has never heralded anything good before now. “That's all right,” a moment later. “If I get yours.”

Fair's fair, after all.

"A trade?" He hands her the plate. "I suppose that's fair. What's on my mind these days is mostly you. A bit politics, but that's ongoing since the laced blood." And he hasn't done anything about it recently. Just kept his ear to the ground. Being immortal tends to make one adept at "biding one's time."

Ivan is capable of a patience that Ilde can't pretend to share - something that she wants to have, that she emulates when she can understand its necessity, but not something that comes naturally to her. Impulse drives her, and sometimes the simple fear of slowing down long enough to be left alone with herself to find out just who it is that the past half decade has molded her into. She likes to be occupied, hands and mind, and seeing him less lately has been a side-effect of just how hard she's pushed that.

That he'd drawn her back first means something, when she'd been frustrated and frightened by feeling like she was shouting over a canyon at someone who'd already left her. It wasn't intentional, but she's gratified by the result all the same; it feels like something quantifiable that she can put her hands on and say this means I'm important. This means he needs her, which is good, because her father always said that anyone who doesn't need you will remember as much, sooner or later.

“Did you see the broadcast? The Militia one.” Speaking of politics. She's not sure where his interest falls, exactly; what concerns him is, she's pretty sure, expressly that which he can see directly inconveniencing him, but chaos appeals to him in a way she understands better than she probably should. The Militia broadcast speaks to that kind of chaos, under the surface, and whether or not it worries Ivan- it worries her.

"I did. It would be much more amusing if the sidelines were rather wider." He'd have been delighted to watch the push-pull between Baedal's iron-fisted rule and the chaos that bubbled beneath the surface if he'd been able to do so from his normal, detached viewpoint. As things stand, the cruorvores are too easy a scapegoat when things turn nasty. He doesn't expect the reprieve they've won to last indefinitely.

"I'm certain neither of us know any vigilantes," he adds, wry, "so we've presumably nothing at all to worry about." Har har.

Ilde makes a face, sipping her wine instead of picking at what her first thought to that remark is - she says, after a few moments, “I don't like not knowing what's going on. I think I've- I don't know.”

They've thoroughly been over how busy she is; how preoccupied. She feels like she's slowly turning into one of those people who is just used to all of this, who puts up with it because she's got bills to pay and fuck only knows what else. It's an uncomfortable, alien feeling that she doesn't like, and she isn't sure what to do with. She can't pick fights with Militiamen when she's pregnant; she couldn't if she wasn't.

Still.

"It's a mess," he says, "but it's what we have, the both of us." Neither of them can go home, after all. "What are you thinking?"

“That I miss nicotine more than I miss Daddy sometimes,” very dryly, rubbing her temple with the hand not holding a glass. The world around her makes very little sense, sometimes, and it'd be so much easier if she didn't have to navigate it stone cold sober, without cigarettes, and aching in strange places. In her considered opinion.

"I could smoke one if you want the secondhand," he offers. Mostly a joke.

“Don't tempt me,” with something that's almost one of her watery laughs, too quiet. “I guess it is. You know; our mess.”

At least she knew enough here - at least she'd made connections - that she didn't feel completely helpless. She was relatively certain that she could find out something worth knowing, and that...that would be something, at least. A start.

It was just overwhelming, sometimes.

"And so we do as best we can, hm?" He eats a bit, lightly, more to taste the food than anything. "Did you bring it up with any particular point in mind before we wandered off in another direction?"

“No, I just- I don't know, I was thinking about it. I feel like I've been in a cocoon or something for weeks.” And now she's emerging like an irritable butterfly who isn't sure where to aim her ire first, or- something like that. She's not sure what she wants to do, just that she wants to do something, and the limitations she knows she has to impose on herself are frustrating.

That's life - there's always a trade-off somewhere.

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