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Jan. 29th, 2012 12:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thatrcooperTeh editing stage has arrived. Meanwhile, I wrote this sequel-y snippet to My Man Godric for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
coffeebuddha last night before boys and cake make her happeeee. Warning: it's set after MMG. Also, FLUFF! LOVE! CAKE! BOYS! *aw*
"I had not thought you find you in the kitchens, my lord."
Bertie jumped at the first few warmly spoken words and hit his head on the edge of one wooden shelf. Not hard, but enough to make him wince and then sigh and think to himself that even now he could never stop making a fool of himself around Godric.
Mathilda, the Keep's head cook, only directed an unsurprised glance at him before looking beyond him to where Godric was no doubt standing and watching Bertie rub his head.
Bertie could have lifted his chin and demanded to know what was so funny that she could not meet his eye, but to do that would be to act like the sort of noble that Godric despised and in any case, Mathilda was impervious to any attempt at intimidation unless it came from Aethir himself, who would never dare.
No one would. No one made honeycake for the Harvest celebrations the way she did and only a fool would anger her and Aethir was not a fool.
Bertie was of course, but not for angering her. He turned and straightened and lifted his chin anyway, in case Godric should be laughing at him.
Godric was standing in one doorway, leaning to one side and looking perfectly at ease, which was a lie, because he was not at ease, as his color hinted. But he was smiling, a soft curve of his lips that made Bertie drop his chin and offer another sigh as he hopped forward.
"Why wouldn't I be in the kitchens?" He stopped short of Godric with a move that was nearly a curtsey and which left his skirts and borrowed apron swishing around his ankles. Godric's smile seemed to grow, though perhaps it was Bertie's imagination.
He did not mind, whichever was true. He loved to dream on Godric smile and he loved Godric's real smile and he could not seem to get enough of it. He would cover himself in flour and sticky honey and fermented grain mash and all manner of spices and wear an apron and hit his head everyday if it made Godric smile sweetly at him.
Perhaps not hit his head, Bertie adjusted his own thought, not everyday. In any event, Godric only inclined his head to greet him and Mathilda as well.
"Because there is much to do in these kitchens with your brother and his retinue at the Keep, and you would not wish to get in the lady's way."
Calling Mathilda a lady was blatant flattery. Bertie had not thought Godric capable of it and gasped at him for a moment before sweeping forward again. He remembered the honey coating his clothing and stopped just in time to spare Godric's own clothes.
He put his hands on his hips but he knew he did not look very fierce.
"I am learning Mathilda's secret for making her honeycake, oh treasure of my heart."
After all these months, almost a year, of having Godric to himself, Godric still paused in momentary embarrassment at Bertie's openness in adoring him. He twitched, as if he wanted to look to gauge Mathilda's reaction but her chuckle must have been enough of an indication because Godric kept his eyes where they belonged--leveled right at Bertie.
"And why is that, my lord?" he asked seriously in a graveled voice to make Bertie swoon.
Bertie suddenly and maddeningly lost his ability to speak. He leaned forward, swallowing once or twice as Mathilda cackled knowingly at him the way she probably did to every scullery maid and cooking assistant that came in looking for secrets to please their men.
Godric, in that way he had of anticipating nearly everything there was to anticipate, leaned forward at the same moment, meaning that if Bertie ducked his head he could whisper into his beloved's ear. It was not a chance he wanted to waste. He wet his lips.
"Tomorrow there will be balefires and music and wine and honeycake," he murmured and felt a surge of frustrated heat when Godric nodded but clearly did not understand his meaning.
Why should he understand? Bertie whined silently to the gods. It had been Bertie who had dreamed of sharing the Harvest revels with Godric for years, not the other way around. It had not been Godric using the images of what might someday be to comfort himself during the long months of winter and Godric's absence and the knowledge that everyday they were apart, Godric was in danger and he could do nothing for it. And it had not been the careful vision for the future that Godric had allowed himself after Godric had returned to him injured and unwell and spent months walking on a crutch to spare his broken ribs and healing flesh.
Just the same, he could not be sure that Godric had not guessed and was simply teasing him with what the people of the South called humor.
"I need all to go well this year, Godric. Perfect wine and sweetest cake and the best music, for there will be dancing," he went on, taking his time to savor the words and the glancing touch of his lips against the shell of Godric's ear.
"Dancing?" Judging from the way Godric echoed him and flinched, he had not guessed at Bertie's real meaning at all. He looked alarmed and went a shade paler. He did not mean to clutch at his side, as he obviously thought about pain; it was a gesture he couldn't help. Bertie had seen it many times since Godric and Aethir had triumphantly reentered Camlann after months of battle but each time he witnessed it, it was a struggle not to grab Godric close and squeeze him tight.
If it would not have hurt Godric more, he was not sure he would have been able to stop himself.
But Godric was standing before him now, after having walked from the stables where he had been looking over horses with Aethir he was standing there, not out of breath and not too pale and with no crutch in sight.
Bertie grinned.
"Dancing," he repeated slowly. Mathilda cackled again, but only nervous and shy Southerners would pay her any attention at a moment like this. "With the dark wines and rich cakes and lively music, should we not dance?"
He did not know if Godric's stillness now was from embarrassment at the idea of taking part in the Keep's wild festivities or worry over his ability to dance, but either way, Bertie had to respond to his distress.
He stepped in, sparing a second's thought for the gooey mess of cake ingredients all over his apron that were now also all over Godric, but then he bent his head to lay it at Godric's shoulder, gently, gently, so as not to cause pain.
Not that Godric seemed to care about pain when they were alone and this close, but Bertie thought it right that he should care.
"Dancing." He could not keep the pleasure from his voice. He did not feel much like moving though his first batch of cakes should be ready soon and he was not at all sure of how they might taste or if they would be as hard as rocks.
"In any way that will not hurt you, Godric." He inhaled, and instead of horse and stables detected cloves and nutmeg coming from the oven. It made the air sweeter but it was not the oven warming Bertie's blood; that was the heat of Godric's cheeks as he listened to Bertie's crazy words.
"Perhaps we will dance like this. A new style, pressed close together. Just like this." It was not so different than what would go on in the fields after the dancing tomorrow. Not so different at all.
Godric must have had a similar thought, for he coughed.
"Aye," he admitted softly, for Bertie's ears alone, embarrassed but brave enough to try.
Bertie pulled back, but only to catch a glimpse of the redness in Godric's cheeks at what they were discussing. He grinned again.
"Of course, the dancing will never be as important as what follows after," he offered, making his voice like honey and wine and balefires combined. The music he left to Godric and the quickening of his breath as their eyes met.
Somewhere behind them, dealing with the cakes that Bertie had quite forgotten about, Mathilda laughed.
coffeebuddha last night before boys and cake make her happeeee. Warning: it's set after MMG. Also, FLUFF! LOVE! CAKE! BOYS! *aw*"I had not thought you find you in the kitchens, my lord."
Bertie jumped at the first few warmly spoken words and hit his head on the edge of one wooden shelf. Not hard, but enough to make him wince and then sigh and think to himself that even now he could never stop making a fool of himself around Godric.
Mathilda, the Keep's head cook, only directed an unsurprised glance at him before looking beyond him to where Godric was no doubt standing and watching Bertie rub his head.
Bertie could have lifted his chin and demanded to know what was so funny that she could not meet his eye, but to do that would be to act like the sort of noble that Godric despised and in any case, Mathilda was impervious to any attempt at intimidation unless it came from Aethir himself, who would never dare.
No one would. No one made honeycake for the Harvest celebrations the way she did and only a fool would anger her and Aethir was not a fool.
Bertie was of course, but not for angering her. He turned and straightened and lifted his chin anyway, in case Godric should be laughing at him.
Godric was standing in one doorway, leaning to one side and looking perfectly at ease, which was a lie, because he was not at ease, as his color hinted. But he was smiling, a soft curve of his lips that made Bertie drop his chin and offer another sigh as he hopped forward.
"Why wouldn't I be in the kitchens?" He stopped short of Godric with a move that was nearly a curtsey and which left his skirts and borrowed apron swishing around his ankles. Godric's smile seemed to grow, though perhaps it was Bertie's imagination.
He did not mind, whichever was true. He loved to dream on Godric smile and he loved Godric's real smile and he could not seem to get enough of it. He would cover himself in flour and sticky honey and fermented grain mash and all manner of spices and wear an apron and hit his head everyday if it made Godric smile sweetly at him.
Perhaps not hit his head, Bertie adjusted his own thought, not everyday. In any event, Godric only inclined his head to greet him and Mathilda as well.
"Because there is much to do in these kitchens with your brother and his retinue at the Keep, and you would not wish to get in the lady's way."
Calling Mathilda a lady was blatant flattery. Bertie had not thought Godric capable of it and gasped at him for a moment before sweeping forward again. He remembered the honey coating his clothing and stopped just in time to spare Godric's own clothes.
He put his hands on his hips but he knew he did not look very fierce.
"I am learning Mathilda's secret for making her honeycake, oh treasure of my heart."
After all these months, almost a year, of having Godric to himself, Godric still paused in momentary embarrassment at Bertie's openness in adoring him. He twitched, as if he wanted to look to gauge Mathilda's reaction but her chuckle must have been enough of an indication because Godric kept his eyes where they belonged--leveled right at Bertie.
"And why is that, my lord?" he asked seriously in a graveled voice to make Bertie swoon.
Bertie suddenly and maddeningly lost his ability to speak. He leaned forward, swallowing once or twice as Mathilda cackled knowingly at him the way she probably did to every scullery maid and cooking assistant that came in looking for secrets to please their men.
Godric, in that way he had of anticipating nearly everything there was to anticipate, leaned forward at the same moment, meaning that if Bertie ducked his head he could whisper into his beloved's ear. It was not a chance he wanted to waste. He wet his lips.
"Tomorrow there will be balefires and music and wine and honeycake," he murmured and felt a surge of frustrated heat when Godric nodded but clearly did not understand his meaning.
Why should he understand? Bertie whined silently to the gods. It had been Bertie who had dreamed of sharing the Harvest revels with Godric for years, not the other way around. It had not been Godric using the images of what might someday be to comfort himself during the long months of winter and Godric's absence and the knowledge that everyday they were apart, Godric was in danger and he could do nothing for it. And it had not been the careful vision for the future that Godric had allowed himself after Godric had returned to him injured and unwell and spent months walking on a crutch to spare his broken ribs and healing flesh.
Just the same, he could not be sure that Godric had not guessed and was simply teasing him with what the people of the South called humor.
"I need all to go well this year, Godric. Perfect wine and sweetest cake and the best music, for there will be dancing," he went on, taking his time to savor the words and the glancing touch of his lips against the shell of Godric's ear.
"Dancing?" Judging from the way Godric echoed him and flinched, he had not guessed at Bertie's real meaning at all. He looked alarmed and went a shade paler. He did not mean to clutch at his side, as he obviously thought about pain; it was a gesture he couldn't help. Bertie had seen it many times since Godric and Aethir had triumphantly reentered Camlann after months of battle but each time he witnessed it, it was a struggle not to grab Godric close and squeeze him tight.
If it would not have hurt Godric more, he was not sure he would have been able to stop himself.
But Godric was standing before him now, after having walked from the stables where he had been looking over horses with Aethir he was standing there, not out of breath and not too pale and with no crutch in sight.
Bertie grinned.
"Dancing," he repeated slowly. Mathilda cackled again, but only nervous and shy Southerners would pay her any attention at a moment like this. "With the dark wines and rich cakes and lively music, should we not dance?"
He did not know if Godric's stillness now was from embarrassment at the idea of taking part in the Keep's wild festivities or worry over his ability to dance, but either way, Bertie had to respond to his distress.
He stepped in, sparing a second's thought for the gooey mess of cake ingredients all over his apron that were now also all over Godric, but then he bent his head to lay it at Godric's shoulder, gently, gently, so as not to cause pain.
Not that Godric seemed to care about pain when they were alone and this close, but Bertie thought it right that he should care.
"Dancing." He could not keep the pleasure from his voice. He did not feel much like moving though his first batch of cakes should be ready soon and he was not at all sure of how they might taste or if they would be as hard as rocks.
"In any way that will not hurt you, Godric." He inhaled, and instead of horse and stables detected cloves and nutmeg coming from the oven. It made the air sweeter but it was not the oven warming Bertie's blood; that was the heat of Godric's cheeks as he listened to Bertie's crazy words.
"Perhaps we will dance like this. A new style, pressed close together. Just like this." It was not so different than what would go on in the fields after the dancing tomorrow. Not so different at all.
Godric must have had a similar thought, for he coughed.
"Aye," he admitted softly, for Bertie's ears alone, embarrassed but brave enough to try.
Bertie pulled back, but only to catch a glimpse of the redness in Godric's cheeks at what they were discussing. He grinned again.
"Of course, the dancing will never be as important as what follows after," he offered, making his voice like honey and wine and balefires combined. The music he left to Godric and the quickening of his breath as their eyes met.
Somewhere behind them, dealing with the cakes that Bertie had quite forgotten about, Mathilda laughed.
