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Title: Familiar Stranger
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Phoebe, the second Ian
Prompt: 060, “Drink”
Word Count: 1050
Rating: PG for slightly warped family dynamics
Notes: . . . long history short: Phoebe and the first Ian never had anything happen between them—he was married to someone else when they met for the first time. Both would have quite liked for something to have happened between them. First Ian’s been missing, presumed dead for something like sixteen hundred years, when this is set.
She’d filled the kettle before going to answer the door—despite the lack of warning, she would have offered tea to her not-blooded son and whomever he’d brought to her this time. She wished now that she hadn’t—filling the kettle from the tap would have added a few more moments before having to deal with her guest.
A gesture toward the stove flicked blue flames on beneath the copper-coloured kettle as she entered the kitchen, trailed by a man who didn’t sound the way he looked. He looked young—no longer a boy but something very near to it, superficially familiar in the way all Sabaeys were to her.
All Ian’s descendents seemed to share a little bit of the smile that invited one to share the joke. This one’s smile was much, much stronger in that feeling. And his name was Ian. Whoever’d named him had done disturbingly well.
She shook her head slightly, returning Ulysse’s rim-chipped crackle-gray mug to the cupboard and pulling down one of the guest mugs, safe-glazed on the inside but gorgeous flame gold and red-purple raku on the outside.
Opening the tea cupboard, she bypassed the greens she shared with Ulysse in favour of a dark, heavy brew, redolent of aniseed and cardamom. Winter tea, thinking tea, meant to be splashed with milk and honey and sipped slowly over the course of a gray afternoon. She spooned enough for a full pot and a half into the tempered glass infuser, then set it aside to concentrate on warming the teapot.
It could be cheated, pot warmed to just below uncomfortable with a twist of fingers, kettle brought over with another gesture, tea brewed and brought to the table with no hands needed.
Right now, she needed the ritual of hands more.
The kettle gave a just-before-boiling chirp, and she turned, crossing to lift it, to pour a little water in to swirl in the pot. Set the kettle back on the burner to finish boiling, crossed to the not-really ceramic sink and poured out the warming water, set the infuser in place. Returned to bring the kettle to the pot this time, poured steaming water over the leaves, watching them swell and curl around one another, set the kettle aside on a trivet when it was empty.
As the tea brewed, she half-knelt, flicking her skirts out of the way with one hand, to search through one of the lower, lesser-used cabinets.
Finding the molasses stuck behind an elderly container of rye flour, she added it to the growing array on the counter island dividing the kitchen from the dining area. Knotweed honey was pulled from another shelf, then she rose, resettling her skirts around her legs. She’d worn antique gold over deep brown and charcoal, embroidered in layers to create waterfalls. She almost wished she’d worn russet and true gold, something more akin to what she’d worn as Queen. A tea-sized container of milk from the cold-box, then she turned back to the teapot.
As she pulled the infuser out, wincing then wishing her fingers less vulnerable to the heat, she snuck a glance at her guest. He was peering interestedly up at the mottled-glass skylights above the dining area, head tilted to one side like he was examining the slightly off-kilter settings.
Ulysse had teased, her, once, about lazy carpenters and how they could never manage a truly straight line. She’d smiled over the tea he’d brought her and replied that the builders had done exactly as she’d requested. He’d never had the gumption to ask why her skylights warped, or about the not-quite repeating patterns in the tiles and wood panels of her floors.
“You have music in all the walls, don’t you,” her newest guest said delightedly, his tone making the words not quite the question they should have been. “The whole of your house is a pattern--it’s wonderful!” He crossed to the island, slid onto one of the low stools, reached over for the raku mug she passed to him silently, and dropped a generous spoonful of molasses into the tea, stirred it a few times, and sipped. Steam tried to make dewdrops on pale eyelashes.
Then he smiled up at her, over the colourful edge. “Merci beaucoup. Tu m'as fait du thé comme je l'aime.” *
She froze, stared at the teapot, then flicked her eyes to the young man who could not be who he had just as much stated he was.
Slowly, very slowly, “ . . . Ian?”
He set the cup down, fingers laced around it, face turned down to look into the opaque liquid. Looked up at her, the open smile gone one-sided and terribly wry. “I made a promise, a very long time ago, that I’d be faithful to my wife, for so long as we both did live. She’s long, long gone . . and I’m not who I was.”
Phoebe Sabaey, former Queen, former leRoux, widely considered scary at the least and downright terrifying on a regular basis, dropped her tea mug from nerveless fingers.
Her companion whipped one hand free from his own mug, fingers twisting, and the mug stopped in midair, tea sloshing up to the brim but not quite over. He curled his pinky finger slightly more underneath his hand, and the mug rose, slipping up and onto the island in a nearly parabolic curve. It set down with a disturbingly audible click.
“I did not mean to stun you, m’selle leRoux,” he said, very softly, voice much too old, much too familiar for the mouth it came from. He laid both his hands down, palms up and fingers loosely curled.
She shivered violently, then looked from his hands to his face. “Sabaey, now, old friend.”
“ . . . May I ask a kinsman’s greeting, then?” Ian asked, still looking up at her, much more behind the question.
Long, tense moment as their eyes locked, then she flicked her own hand, sending the mugs sliding away out of reach on the counter. Stepped, very deliberately, into the apparently solid space of the counter, walked the two steps to just in front of him, leaned down.
Whispered “I missed you, Tattersall,” into his ear, then slid her face sideways and kissed the corner of his mouth.
* : “Thank you very much. You made tea like I like it.” (translation made by M. Many thanks)
’Verse/characters: Wild Roses; Phoebe, the second Ian
Prompt: 060, “Drink”
Word Count: 1050
Rating: PG for slightly warped family dynamics
Notes: . . . long history short: Phoebe and the first Ian never had anything happen between them—he was married to someone else when they met for the first time. Both would have quite liked for something to have happened between them. First Ian’s been missing, presumed dead for something like sixteen hundred years, when this is set.
She’d filled the kettle before going to answer the door—despite the lack of warning, she would have offered tea to her not-blooded son and whomever he’d brought to her this time. She wished now that she hadn’t—filling the kettle from the tap would have added a few more moments before having to deal with her guest.
A gesture toward the stove flicked blue flames on beneath the copper-coloured kettle as she entered the kitchen, trailed by a man who didn’t sound the way he looked. He looked young—no longer a boy but something very near to it, superficially familiar in the way all Sabaeys were to her.
All Ian’s descendents seemed to share a little bit of the smile that invited one to share the joke. This one’s smile was much, much stronger in that feeling. And his name was Ian. Whoever’d named him had done disturbingly well.
She shook her head slightly, returning Ulysse’s rim-chipped crackle-gray mug to the cupboard and pulling down one of the guest mugs, safe-glazed on the inside but gorgeous flame gold and red-purple raku on the outside.
Opening the tea cupboard, she bypassed the greens she shared with Ulysse in favour of a dark, heavy brew, redolent of aniseed and cardamom. Winter tea, thinking tea, meant to be splashed with milk and honey and sipped slowly over the course of a gray afternoon. She spooned enough for a full pot and a half into the tempered glass infuser, then set it aside to concentrate on warming the teapot.
It could be cheated, pot warmed to just below uncomfortable with a twist of fingers, kettle brought over with another gesture, tea brewed and brought to the table with no hands needed.
Right now, she needed the ritual of hands more.
The kettle gave a just-before-boiling chirp, and she turned, crossing to lift it, to pour a little water in to swirl in the pot. Set the kettle back on the burner to finish boiling, crossed to the not-really ceramic sink and poured out the warming water, set the infuser in place. Returned to bring the kettle to the pot this time, poured steaming water over the leaves, watching them swell and curl around one another, set the kettle aside on a trivet when it was empty.
As the tea brewed, she half-knelt, flicking her skirts out of the way with one hand, to search through one of the lower, lesser-used cabinets.
Finding the molasses stuck behind an elderly container of rye flour, she added it to the growing array on the counter island dividing the kitchen from the dining area. Knotweed honey was pulled from another shelf, then she rose, resettling her skirts around her legs. She’d worn antique gold over deep brown and charcoal, embroidered in layers to create waterfalls. She almost wished she’d worn russet and true gold, something more akin to what she’d worn as Queen. A tea-sized container of milk from the cold-box, then she turned back to the teapot.
As she pulled the infuser out, wincing then wishing her fingers less vulnerable to the heat, she snuck a glance at her guest. He was peering interestedly up at the mottled-glass skylights above the dining area, head tilted to one side like he was examining the slightly off-kilter settings.
Ulysse had teased, her, once, about lazy carpenters and how they could never manage a truly straight line. She’d smiled over the tea he’d brought her and replied that the builders had done exactly as she’d requested. He’d never had the gumption to ask why her skylights warped, or about the not-quite repeating patterns in the tiles and wood panels of her floors.
“You have music in all the walls, don’t you,” her newest guest said delightedly, his tone making the words not quite the question they should have been. “The whole of your house is a pattern--it’s wonderful!” He crossed to the island, slid onto one of the low stools, reached over for the raku mug she passed to him silently, and dropped a generous spoonful of molasses into the tea, stirred it a few times, and sipped. Steam tried to make dewdrops on pale eyelashes.
Then he smiled up at her, over the colourful edge. “Merci beaucoup. Tu m'as fait du thé comme je l'aime.” *
She froze, stared at the teapot, then flicked her eyes to the young man who could not be who he had just as much stated he was.
Slowly, very slowly, “ . . . Ian?”
He set the cup down, fingers laced around it, face turned down to look into the opaque liquid. Looked up at her, the open smile gone one-sided and terribly wry. “I made a promise, a very long time ago, that I’d be faithful to my wife, for so long as we both did live. She’s long, long gone . . and I’m not who I was.”
Phoebe Sabaey, former Queen, former leRoux, widely considered scary at the least and downright terrifying on a regular basis, dropped her tea mug from nerveless fingers.
Her companion whipped one hand free from his own mug, fingers twisting, and the mug stopped in midair, tea sloshing up to the brim but not quite over. He curled his pinky finger slightly more underneath his hand, and the mug rose, slipping up and onto the island in a nearly parabolic curve. It set down with a disturbingly audible click.
“I did not mean to stun you, m’selle leRoux,” he said, very softly, voice much too old, much too familiar for the mouth it came from. He laid both his hands down, palms up and fingers loosely curled.
She shivered violently, then looked from his hands to his face. “Sabaey, now, old friend.”
“ . . . May I ask a kinsman’s greeting, then?” Ian asked, still looking up at her, much more behind the question.
Long, tense moment as their eyes locked, then she flicked her own hand, sending the mugs sliding away out of reach on the counter. Stepped, very deliberately, into the apparently solid space of the counter, walked the two steps to just in front of him, leaned down.
Whispered “I missed you, Tattersall,” into his ear, then slid her face sideways and kissed the corner of his mouth.
* : “Thank you very much. You made tea like I like it.” (translation made by M. Many thanks)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-06-04 08:10 pm (UTC)From:*blink*
Whoa.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-04 08:16 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-06-04 08:20 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 01:57 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 10:55 am (UTC)From:It's not a well-thought out plan, but it's still a plan.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-04 08:34 pm (UTC)From:Very nice.
I like the whole 'twist of fingers' bits. Casual magic.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-04 08:57 pm (UTC)From:Yes, it is--I'm trying to figure out how to phrase that aspect well, because it is very casual/unremarkable to them. Thank you for mentioning.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-04 08:37 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-06-04 08:57 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-06-04 08:57 pm (UTC)From:oh, I love the textures and colors, the patterns built into the words. yum.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-04 09:13 pm (UTC)From:Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-04 11:28 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 01:56 am (UTC)From:Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 01:40 am (UTC)From:interesting
pretty visuals too.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 01:52 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2007-01-18 02:45 am (UTC)From:it still gets a reaction.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-16 09:54 pm (UTC)From: