37th of Vortas, 2718
HOME | Late AFTERNOON
The hint of more than just idle curiosity was felt more than simply heard in Charity's tone of voice, Rhys so familiar with the delicate pianist and already so entangled in her field that all he could do was smirk, stretching so that one of his hands drifted upward to toy with her now much darker, richer hair, "We're all Perceptive conversationalists, lover, and Miss Ecks gave a go at the Seventen. We've run into each other here and there. In Brunnhold, I—we—well—but us? No, clocking hell, no. Drezda has no interest in my kind—male."
He chuckled, almost wanting to tease her for the jealousy he could feel, but their conversation waned serious again and he sighed, "I'm not afraid of the lot of them, Charity. It's my duty—it's what I wear this uniform for. Wick or galdor, I still believe in protecting people, protecting good people from those who wish to do harm, regardless of their race, too. Galdori can do wrong. We both know that to be true. I don't know who I can trust either—Captain Haines. Gale. I don't even know if I can trust my own partner! Potiphar is so ... straight and narrow."
The blond Sergeant huffed his disappointment, aware that his number of close friends was sorely lacking, so devoted to his career had he been until accidentally reuniting with Charity all those nights ago,
"Even if this clocking trial goes to hell, even if Damen walks out of the courtroom with all of his clocking snaps and a slap on the wrist, godsdamnit, at least people will know. At least someone will report it in the paper. At least others in the Seventen can take a moment and really look at themselves—this letting the High Judge get involved when it's Commander Morde's job is just clocking ridiculous. Nothing good will come of the Oculus, and while this trial may get me suspended or disciplined, I don't care. Someone needs to be honest and hear the real story."
He simmered with that for a few moments, so focused on accomplishing even the smallest success with the trial so long as the judge upheld the restraining order and recognized that Charity's life was indeed in danger. As much as he wanted the Captain she called father humiliated and expelled from the ranks of the organization he'd served for so long, there was little he could do but stand up for the truth and weather the results of the storm,
"And if everything really goes to shit, we can just leave Anaxas. I'll take you anywhere—Hesse or Gior, Bastia so long as you don't have clocking family there. We can start over and forget this mess."
He meant it, breathless and earnest and afraid, closing his eyes for a few long moments before he waxed poetic about spell casting and his tarnished, sullied, half-bred heritage.
The now-brunette laughed at the not-galdor and his worries, her words unexpected and strange enough to draw a reluctant smile to his face. It was an unlikely revelation that the mona they'd been told all their lives obeyed galdori better had listened to him without objection for nearly two decades now. He was a mystery. An anathema. A terrifying new thing all his own should he dwell on the reality of his situation, a wick that could wield magic like a golly,
"The mona appears to be nonplussed about my heritage and they have known since my birth. Everyone else? Well, they won't understand. I'm a monster according to galdori society, some strange contradiction in the Seventen uniform I wear. I don't know what it means, but I feel compelled to find out. Eventually." Not that he wanted to become someone else's experimental lab rat, but the Inspector assumed that someone, somewhere would be interested in knowing how he accomplished the impossible.
Seriousness still weighed him down, thoughts of what he really was bringing fear and panic sweeping into the cavity of his chest like so much cold ocean water. Charity sought to calm him, seeking to hold his gaze and tilt her head to kiss him and he lingered, arms stretching behind him to embrace the woman he leaned against.
It was his turn to snigger at her suggestion, though his noise of amusement and disbelief wasn't a dismissal, "Marry?" Rhys hummed the word, mulling it over with a pleasure that almost seemed out of place in their current stream of conversation, shifting where he sat as if he wanted to move his sore, tired body, "I've always wanted to claim you just to see your father's face, to legally make you mine. I know a few clerks in the Courthouse, you know, the nice ones who sign my paperwork faster when I ask with manners—"
The young Valentin all but purred, piqued by the suggestion. He'd have married the delicate pianist at eighteen. At twenty. At any year in between graduation and now. Now? She loved him, but the way in which she said it drew his brow together in worry and he sat up, turning to face her on his knees, curling fingers into the fabric of his robe and the sofa on either side of her hips,
"Charity, nothing is going to happen to you. To us. I'm going to do everything I can to protect you, though I know that right now ... I can't do enough. I was without you for nearly a decade, and did I feel peace? No. It was all pretend—I—" Rhys had held her violet hues for a few moments, kneeling between her thighs, heart hammering in his chest in some kind of stubborn rebellion against the calm she'd attempted to quell it with, but then he looked away, down between them, at his hands, over the faded pattern on his lounge, "—I'm pretty sure I joined the Seventen in hopes of bringing peace to myself. It hasn't worked. I've been missing you. Now, by the Lady, I'm not going to let anything happen if I can help it."
He'd looked for peace in all the wrong places, restless and needy when their friendship had been stolen, when he'd been forced to be so alone. He hadn't made all of the right decisions, it was true, though becoming an officer of the law had brought focus to his intelligence and given direction to his restlessness.
The tall blond didn't move from his new position even with her talk of tea and cooking, shrugging his shoulders as he slid his hands to rest on her knees and glanced over his shoulder at the tea, "It's really clocking hard to make a shitty cup of tea. You did fine. If you can learn Monite, you can learn to follow a recipe."
He couldn't deny the stirring of her field their proximity brought to his senses, aware of the position he'd put himself in without thinking that was, in any other situation, a bit compromising. The warmth of awareness tingled down his spine and smoldered at the base of his skull, the ache of his shoulders dulling with the fluttering distraction of his own thoughts. His fingers wandered, touch light up the length of her thighs, slipping beneath his robe she wore so well to tease over pale skin, unashamed about changing the direction of their conversation just so.
His blue eyes searched her lovely face, blinking heavily even as he felt his pulse pick up in his ears with the way his palms moved so comfortably over the familiar body in front of him, "Sometimes, the recipe is just the idea for the thing. Like a good spell, sometimes, you just have to wing it and trust the rest will work out so long as you have clear intentions. That's easy to say about cooking, and a lot harder to say about our lives right now."
Rhys sighed and his shoulders sagged, pressing his lips gently to her forehead, to her cheek, and finally to her soft mouth, lingering for what felt like longer than he probably should have, his kiss expressive of things he didn't know how to say and feelings he couldn't put into words. Hands meandered while his pulse picked up in tempo, fingertips reaching higher, seeking the finer fabric of her slip and teasing his way beneath it. Vaguely aware that he'd been getting his hands dirty all day and more than just vaguely aware that he'd been sweating, the young Valentin pressed his luck, distracting himself from all the seriousness with the deviousness of his touch,
"Tocks, I'm so afraid. Just like you. We both are, and that's okay. I want to make the right choices, but so many of them feel wrong. I wish more made sense. I wish it wasn't just us that made sense, you and I."
There was some strange measure of comfort in their togetherness, no matter how difficult the path ahead appeared to be, treacherous and strange. Their fields mingled and when alone, just the two of them, just like when they were young, Rhys enjoyed how the rest of the world didn't matter.
There was more to discuss, sure, but how many more times could he possibly say the same things over again?
"Charity—" The blond not-galdor whispered now that they were so close, leaning to offer just a few more of his thoughts against her cheek, next to her ear, slowly allowing his body to speak the rest of his heart, capitulating to far more simple forms of expression as if her Calm spell had been something else entirely, breath suddenly shallow and full of desire for another, less word-filled kind of peace. He kissed the pale skin of her neck, feeling her pulse pick up with the brush of his lips, "—now I don't even know who I am or what I'm supposed to be anymore, but for the moment, thank Alioe I have you."