Marton and Christian. What Happened?
Jan. 18th, 2005 10:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
palace_marton.
The car had long since drawn to a halt outside Palace but neither of them had moved. It had grown dark while they were at Balize General, but not so late that the stores lining the circle had closed, the boutiques and cafes surrounding Palace enjoyed a brisk trade from tourists and the residents of Franklin Heights and there were plenty of both still strolling around, some staring curiously at the car.
Christian sat with his chin on his hand, looking across at the pub, blazing with bright lights, people spilling out onto the pavement with bright chatter and merry laughter ringing in the air, a general festive air. “What do you think happened?” His father’s quiet voice cut across his reverie and he straightened, turning to see Marton’s eyes glinting at him in the car’s gloom.
“Not sure.” he offered. “Someone said it happened in there.” he tipped his head toward the bar. “In the men’s room. It looks like Harry’s assistant got into some kind of trouble and Harry went to help, but impossible to know for sure until one of them can shed some light.”
Marton nodded but didn’t offer anything of his own. He looked out the car window, a few of the strollers were becoming bolder, wandering closer and closer to the fancy car with the royal flag on the bonnet. They’d be peering in the windows shortly. “Vin.” he said softly and the big man got out of the car and stood beside it. The wanderers retreated and Marton sank back into thought.
“Orlando.” he said eventually after another period of silence and Christian let out a long breath.
“Moot point at the moment. He’s out of contact range for the next couple of days. We could send someone down there but I’m inclined to follow Harry’s wishes. Bringing him back serves no purpose.”
“Hmm. I think you’re right. We’ll leave it.” Marton ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing at his temples. “We should go in.” he added. “I still have a pile of paperwork to get through but I don’t think I’ll be doing it tonight.”
“Headache?”
“Mmm. Felt rotten all day and the drinks at lunchtime didn’t help any. I think I’ll take a couple of analgesics and go straight to bed. You?”
“Won’t be far behind you.” Christian stretched as best he could in the confined space, saying, “I’ll talk to Johnny and then get some rest as well. Catch up tomorrow.”
Marton sighed and cracked the car door open. “Hell of a day.” he commented softly as Vin stepped up to get the door. Christian agreed. “Yeah. Hell of a day.”
**
He was dreaming, tossing restlessly beneath the sheets as fractured visions and snatches of conversation whirled through his mind. Feeling ill, strange, trying valiantly to concentrate to make some sense of what was going on and failing. Common sense and personal resolve fighting a losing battle against an invisible foe.
Heavy-lidded, amber eyes staring down at him, their gaze avid and a dangerous spark in their depths. And a pink tongue swiping across full ruby lips, the feeling of clothing being shifted aside and the press of skin against skin.
“There ya go. That’s good, baby. Right there. Yeah.” The voice was rich, like dripping honey and Marton knew he recognized it, if only he could think, could stop for a minute and gather himself. But it was impossible, inexorable, and the flame of desire that curled through his nerve endings was sluggish and slow, unlike the usual quicksilver dance.
“C’mon baby, be nice to Angel. That’s good. So good.” The words were right but . . .
Marton tossed, his hand hitting the side of the bedpost and the sharp pain pulled him from the dream and awake. Damn weird dream. Did it really . . . Did I really? He stared at the canopy above the bed. ‘Course it did. You did. Bloody hell! Stupid, stupid, stupid! He cursed himself soundly.
The mattress moved and he jumped like a startled cat, so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't realized he wasn't alone. He turned and his body came to rest against the form beside him. No soft, yielding curves here, no confusion, no molasses in his veins, just hard-packed muscle and lean thighs. Familiar and simple and safe.
He threw his arm around the trim waist and let sleep claim him once more.
The car had long since drawn to a halt outside Palace but neither of them had moved. It had grown dark while they were at Balize General, but not so late that the stores lining the circle had closed, the boutiques and cafes surrounding Palace enjoyed a brisk trade from tourists and the residents of Franklin Heights and there were plenty of both still strolling around, some staring curiously at the car.
Christian sat with his chin on his hand, looking across at the pub, blazing with bright lights, people spilling out onto the pavement with bright chatter and merry laughter ringing in the air, a general festive air. “What do you think happened?” His father’s quiet voice cut across his reverie and he straightened, turning to see Marton’s eyes glinting at him in the car’s gloom.
“Not sure.” he offered. “Someone said it happened in there.” he tipped his head toward the bar. “In the men’s room. It looks like Harry’s assistant got into some kind of trouble and Harry went to help, but impossible to know for sure until one of them can shed some light.”
Marton nodded but didn’t offer anything of his own. He looked out the car window, a few of the strollers were becoming bolder, wandering closer and closer to the fancy car with the royal flag on the bonnet. They’d be peering in the windows shortly. “Vin.” he said softly and the big man got out of the car and stood beside it. The wanderers retreated and Marton sank back into thought.
“Orlando.” he said eventually after another period of silence and Christian let out a long breath.
“Moot point at the moment. He’s out of contact range for the next couple of days. We could send someone down there but I’m inclined to follow Harry’s wishes. Bringing him back serves no purpose.”
“Hmm. I think you’re right. We’ll leave it.” Marton ran his fingers through his hair, rubbing at his temples. “We should go in.” he added. “I still have a pile of paperwork to get through but I don’t think I’ll be doing it tonight.”
“Headache?”
“Mmm. Felt rotten all day and the drinks at lunchtime didn’t help any. I think I’ll take a couple of analgesics and go straight to bed. You?”
“Won’t be far behind you.” Christian stretched as best he could in the confined space, saying, “I’ll talk to Johnny and then get some rest as well. Catch up tomorrow.”
Marton sighed and cracked the car door open. “Hell of a day.” he commented softly as Vin stepped up to get the door. Christian agreed. “Yeah. Hell of a day.”
**
He was dreaming, tossing restlessly beneath the sheets as fractured visions and snatches of conversation whirled through his mind. Feeling ill, strange, trying valiantly to concentrate to make some sense of what was going on and failing. Common sense and personal resolve fighting a losing battle against an invisible foe.
Heavy-lidded, amber eyes staring down at him, their gaze avid and a dangerous spark in their depths. And a pink tongue swiping across full ruby lips, the feeling of clothing being shifted aside and the press of skin against skin.
“There ya go. That’s good, baby. Right there. Yeah.” The voice was rich, like dripping honey and Marton knew he recognized it, if only he could think, could stop for a minute and gather himself. But it was impossible, inexorable, and the flame of desire that curled through his nerve endings was sluggish and slow, unlike the usual quicksilver dance.
“C’mon baby, be nice to Angel. That’s good. So good.” The words were right but . . .
Marton tossed, his hand hitting the side of the bedpost and the sharp pain pulled him from the dream and awake. Damn weird dream. Did it really . . . Did I really? He stared at the canopy above the bed. ‘Course it did. You did. Bloody hell! Stupid, stupid, stupid! He cursed himself soundly.
The mattress moved and he jumped like a startled cat, so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't realized he wasn't alone. He turned and his body came to rest against the form beside him. No soft, yielding curves here, no confusion, no molasses in his veins, just hard-packed muscle and lean thighs. Familiar and simple and safe.
He threw his arm around the trim waist and let sleep claim him once more.
