five times lennie scowled + one time they didn't: pt. four

or, david wonders if alastair is good in bed

After a bit of an absence (life, amirite?!)... I present part the fourth, as well as seemingly chaotic punctuation.

Slight spoilers for Unfair Winds, because this particular vignette takes place after it’s done. There are references to Alastair, David, Paul's lapsed precognitive powers, David wanting to kill Ralph, and so on... but think of them more as a taster x

—

“Do you think he’s a good lover?” The question was idle, almost wistful.

Lennie swallowed their sip of brandy and looked at David, hoping their expression was sly or worldly. It was probably just somewhat pissed and unfocused, thanks to the influence of fine spirits of the alcoholic, and not preternatural, variety.

Curious, they said, “Who?” 

It was a fine spring day, or had been, and they peered over the tops of some open daffodils they’d cut from the back garden. The brightness suited David, as did the brandy. He took a breath from where he sat in a plush, brown leather chair he’d taken home from his office. Lennie couldn’t sit in it no matter where it was located, for it had a soporific effect.

“Alastair.” David seemed as mildly drunk as Lennie was, unless they missed their guess. It was well after nine in the evening and they’d both been sipping and lazing for over an hour. With David’s heavy pours, one could count on pleasant, quick intoxication.

Alastair. Lennie considered it. The storied former co-landlord of The Shuck, a free trader—or at least a man-for-hire of dubious repute before he’d met Mr. Paul Apollyon in Cromer. Now he was a ghost haunting the pub he’d previously lived in. Lennie had caught sight of him enough to know he was beautiful in a formidable fashion. Dark eyes, wild dark hair, ink that trailed along most of his skin and matched the depth of his features.

Yes, absolutely, they wanted to say. 

“I don’t think he’d be interested in you. Though, I’m sure he considers you a friend,” they said.

Given Alastair and David’s completely different upbringings and what they’d experienced together, there was an element of absurdity to their association.

As ghost and witch. Well, in truth, David was a necromancer. Everyone he knew who knew just seemed to prefer the deceptively simpler label of witch.

Alastair had encouraged David in his plans to murder for justice. Murder their stepfather for justice. 

David, meanwhile, had helped bring Alastair and Paul back together after years of being apart, separated by death and Paul’s own considerable will. By all accounts, or just Benson’s quips, the two reunited lovers now enjoyed each other immensely in Paul’s dreams. 

Nobody enquired too much about it, not that Paul would have volunteered much by way of a reply. His improved color and less taciturn demeanor were confirmation enough.

It was painfully obvious who Alastair was interested in, and Paul had demonstrated the level of his own attachment by severing his precognitive abilities for over a decade. He’d felt his seer’s powers had failed him—they hadn’t shown him Alastair dying before it happened. And Alastair hadn’t been old enough for it to make sense from a logical perspective.

Lennie still wanted to ask what the numbness and normalcy was like. They hadn’t. It seemed invasive, despite Paul being forthright and gentle with them. 

They might manage to disregard some visions, or could barricade themself from someone else’s thoughts, but it was almost unfathomable to do such a thorough job. They’d managed to ignore David’s emotions and perceptions, after all, yet some still bled through when he was particularly overwrought. Though outwardly collected, he was not a sedate fellow.

“Not what I asked.”

“Well,” said Lennie, “I reckon so. Reckon he had lovers before Paul, probably lots of practice. Lots of experience avoiding…” they stopped themself. While David was not as prim as he seemed, some topics still felt wrong around him. They imagined, though, his old Cambridge set must have discussed diseases sometimes.

They do tend to exchange them. 

Though Lennie hadn’t been with anybody of David’s social standing before him, they knew people who made their livings pleasuring such men. By reputation, many toffs weren’t respectable or trustworthy, and rarely wished to talk about things so base as disease or pregnancy.

David wasn’t like his peers in most ways, and certainly not in this one. Lennie didn’t know why they were being circumspect about the subject. They’d addressed it ages ago, just before losing the ability to talk much sense at all. 

It’d been the first time Lennie and David slept together, and among other things, the discussion had ranged from Lennie’s forms of address to—only a few moments after that due to the anticipation—any precautions needed.

Ultimately, David finished the thought himself. 

“Illnesses,” he said sagaciously. “Babies. Yes.” 

Alastair had only his adoptive son, though it was also hard to say if he and his wife had ever slept together. Lennie wagered not; the marriage seemed to have been one of convenience for each of them.

“If you want the truth—”

“Always.”

“He’s probably wonderful in bed. I think.”

Envy, sluggish but undeniable, flittered into David’s countenance. He blinked at Lennie, his blue eyes heated. “Do you think?”

“Yes, I think, and you asked.” Lennie scowled. Only a little, for they weren’t terribly annoyed at all. But it meant nothing against David if they admitted another man was probably wonderful in bed.

“Suppose so.”

“You’ve let him possess you, so really, you’ve been far more intimate with Alastair than me.”

This assertion seemed to stem David’s envy; he frowned. Likely thinking through all the implications of allowing a spirit to enter his body. “That’s certainly correct. I have.”

“It wouldn’t matter if I thought he was attractive, anyway,” said Lennie. “He only wants Paul.” They added, their scowl becoming a smirk, “His loss. I’m gorgeous.”