This might have still been Lotte's house (and so it would remain - it was unlikely they would ever come back here, and even if they did, it would be as hers as it ever had, not a place Alastor ever lived), but Alastor felt himself spreading throughout the place, the thrum of the magic he left behind in the garden entwining with hers, the long-limbed reach of his shadow settling its way back into the comfortable spaces in the grain of the wood again to hold the shape of the place in its grasp, his own feet solid on the floor, and the recline of his body back against the bed. He propped himself casually on one elbow, looking as comfortable as all the world would allow, like he belonged here.
He didn't. His long thumbnail flicked the cigarette between his fingers, a little cascade of ash falling onto the bedspread and then vanishing as he willed it away almost unconsciously. Lotte moved throughout the room like a dancer caught in some interpretive choreography; Alastor's leg folded over the other, his foot tapped some unheard tune in the air, the music of her movements.
He shrugged at the mention of the blood, as if it was nothing, but it leapt crystal clear into his mind. He could still see it shining there by his fireplace. "This and that," he answered ambiguously. "Nothing you'd notice. Nothing that would hurt."
Pushing himself back up, he leaned towards her, elbow on his bent knee. "I suspect," he said, because it really didn't matter that this was pure speculation, she could doubt him all she wanted to, and he really didn't think she would bother at this point, "rest will be the ticket. How do you suppose we'll travel, hm? What do you envision when you think about it? I know you have."
no subject
This might have still been Lotte's house (and so it would remain - it was unlikely they would ever come back here, and even if they did, it would be as hers as it ever had, not a place Alastor ever lived), but Alastor felt himself spreading throughout the place, the thrum of the magic he left behind in the garden entwining with hers, the long-limbed reach of his shadow settling its way back into the comfortable spaces in the grain of the wood again to hold the shape of the place in its grasp, his own feet solid on the floor, and the recline of his body back against the bed. He propped himself casually on one elbow, looking as comfortable as all the world would allow, like he belonged here.
He didn't. His long thumbnail flicked the cigarette between his fingers, a little cascade of ash falling onto the bedspread and then vanishing as he willed it away almost unconsciously. Lotte moved throughout the room like a dancer caught in some interpretive choreography; Alastor's leg folded over the other, his foot tapped some unheard tune in the air, the music of her movements.
He shrugged at the mention of the blood, as if it was nothing, but it leapt crystal clear into his mind. He could still see it shining there by his fireplace. "This and that," he answered ambiguously. "Nothing you'd notice. Nothing that would hurt."
Pushing himself back up, he leaned towards her, elbow on his bent knee. "I suspect," he said, because it really didn't matter that this was pure speculation, she could doubt him all she wanted to, and he really didn't think she would bother at this point, "rest will be the ticket. How do you suppose we'll travel, hm? What do you envision when you think about it? I know you have."