Disclaimer: I haven't written from Lorcan's pov before, so please forgive me if this interpretation of his character is way off.
Ever since Lorcan Lochan had lost Hellas as his guide, he counted his lucky stars, instead.
His wife, Elide, who could talk her way out of—or into—anything to which she put her mind, was the light who steered him through his darkest days; his son, who was small for his age, or appeared that way, at least—maybe Lorcan should acknowledge that he doesn't have a single clue about the average growth rate of a quarter Fae, part witch human—but managed to get into more scraps than he did classrooms kept him young, despite the centuries he could claim; and last, but certainly not least, his daughter, who had her mother's quiet grace and charm, and her father's ability with knives, had kept him on his toes more than anyone else throughout his long life.
They were his new guiding light, his family, and, although he knew he had found his people, he never would have predicted he'd ever be lucky enough to actually belong somewhere, to be wanted for himself, not simply for what he could do. The havoc he could wreak with his powers. He was still learning each day to accept as fact what Elide told him every night.
It was enough that he could craft a wooden play sword, or gently plaster a cut... perhaps in that order. It was enough that he could turn his shadows, magic that had wrought destruction and death across battlefields and continents—not always for good—into fun play-acts against the wall for his little children. It was enough that he could give a massage, or advice born from years of hardship and war and life with his old Cadre. It was enough that he was here. Home.
characters: Lysander Lonan (of @leila-of-ravens ) also Lorcan Lonan (best dog), Beatrice Viano, brief cameo from Bramble (best bunny)
pairing: Lysander Lonan x Beatrice Viano / Vianan
words: ~1990
notes: set sometime after the Yule ball, catch up on the vianan series here!
Sleep doesn’t come easily for Beatrice these days. She’s always been a light sleeper, the slightest creak of a floorboard could wake her up, and it usually takes her a while to adjust to new surroundings. The Lonan Manor is no exception, so it’s no surprise that Beatrice is lying awake with only her racing thoughts and the sound of wind whipping through the trees outside to keep her company.
After lying in bed for another restless hour she gives up, deciding a cup of tea and a book are in order. She’s been thinking too much, worrying about the school back in Vesuvia and whether she’s truly good enough to run it. Despite her best efforts, the disparaging, sarcastic words a noble had said to her at the Yule ball have been running on an endless loop in her head,
“A shop owner. The education of Vesuvian youth is in good hands.”
She had stood up for herself in the moment, and Lysander had been very kind in shutting down the nobles' rude comments, but she can’t help but worry that they were right. She doesn’t have an education, not a formal one like all of the Umbrans she's met. Perhaps she really is better suited to stay at the shop forever.
Beatrice sighs and gets out of bed, pulling her cloak on to ward off the cold air. Bramble is still fast asleep on the corner of her bed and Beatrice gently scratches behind one of her ears as she passes by on the way to the door.
She knows she’s being silly, of course she’s qualified for this. Nadia trusts her, Lysander trusts her, and isn’t the point of the Vesuvian school to provide children with an education, a chance she’d never gotten? She decides to attempt to stop thinking about it for the night, she’s on vacation after all.
Beatrice heads down the hall and the first flight of stairs, trying to be quiet to avoid waking anyone up. She conjures a small ball of light into her hand to help her navigate the dark halls, though she knows her way around by now she hates the dark. A door creaks open behind her and before she can turn around to see who it is, a shape runs at her in the dark, knocking into her legs.
She squeals in surprise and her light spell accidentally grows in size until the whole hallway is flooded with bright light. Beatrice lifts a hand to shield her eyes and reins the spell back in until it's only a tiny orb in her palm again. She’s normally very good at controlling her magic, but being taken off guard like that had caused a near explosion of power.
She looks down to see Lorcan illuminated in her light, happily wagging his tail at her. “Lorcan! You gave me such a fright,” Beatrice whispers, leaning down to pet him. Lysander stands in the doorway of his office and when Beatrice notices him she stands up, brushing her hair behind her ears self consciously.
“Are you alright?” Lysander asks, his tone politely concerned.
“Yes, thank you. I didn’t expect anyone else to be awake, and I must confess I’m not a fan of the dark,” Beatrice admits. She takes in Lysander’s appearance, noticing that he’s still dressed in his day clothes. His shirtsleeves are rolled up nearly to his elbows and his face looks a bit pale, like he’s been working for too long.
“I apologize for startling you, Lorcan heard a sound and wanted to investigate. That was a very powerful illumination you just created. I thought it might already be daybreak,” Lysander says, and Beatrice can’t decide if he’s complimenting her or making a joke.
“My apologies for the brightness, I hope it didn’t hurt your eyes.” Beatrice looks down at Lorcan instead of meeting Lysander’s gaze.
“I think yours is a perfectly common fear. Many people possess the same distaste for darkness,” Lysander says. “Though I imagine for most people, the fear is not the darkness itself but rather what might be hidden in the darkness.”
“Indeed.” Beatrice looks at the dark stairwell behind her warily, wishing he would change the subject.
Lysander gives her a kind look, as if he understands her fear. “But you’re a magician, surely you must know that you’re prepared for whatever dangers you might face.”
“I suppose so.” She considers his statement, wondering how she’d actually fare under dangerous circumstances. She decides she’d rather not find out, she’s quite content using her magic for less extreme purposes. Lorcan sniffs at her hand and Beatrice reaches down to pet him again.
“I certainly wouldn’t want to find myself in a duel with you,” Lysander says and Beatrice laughs in surprise, that comment was definitely a joke. He doesn’t often make jokes around her and she finds she quite likes this side of him.
“I wouldn’t like to duel you either,” she replies.
Lysander’s lips quirk up into a half smile at her comment. “I find that I much prefer verbal debates.”
“They say that the pen is mightier than the sword,” Beatrice recites, returning his smile with one of her own.
“Quite right. I find that clichés often hold a modicum of truth,” Lysander says.
They stand there in silence for a minute, both smiling at each other before Beatrice finally looks away. Not wanting to make the moment awkward, she plans her escape. “Well, I think I’ll go make some tea, I doubt I’ll find sleep any time soon.”
Beatrice can hardly believe her luck as Lysander starts to follow her down the hallway. “I’ll accompany you. I find myself in need of some tea as well, it’s been a busy evening.”
They make their way to the kitchen, both remaining silent to avoid waking the rest of the household. Lorcan walks along beside Lysander, eagerly following him towards their destination. The manor is much colder at night and Beatrice wraps her cloak around her more snugly as they walk, grateful she’d thought to put it on before venturing out.
The fire in the kitchen hearth is still faintly burning, and the room is lit with a warm glow that just illuminates the side of Lysander’s face as he peruses the tea options. Leila has provided a large selection and Beatrice watches him choose, noticing the way his eyebrows furrow in concentration as he searches for his usual Earl Grey. When he finds the correct tea blend he moves away so Beatrice can look, his shoulder brushing hers as he takes a step towards the counter.
Beatrice tries not to react, but her face flushes slightly at the proximity. She turns towards the teas, pretending to read them while she watches Lysander choose a mug out of the corner of her eye. She decides on an herbal mix designed to bring on sleep. Leila has given her this tea plenty of times on nights like this, and while it doesn’t always work, the familiar aroma of chamomile and lavender is comforting.
Beatrice busies herself with filling the kettle, which is still sitting out from afternoon tea, and uses her magic to raise the water’s temperature to a boil. She pours water into her mug and sets her tea to steep before turning to fill Lysander’s. He thanks her and the two stand in companionable silence for a few moments while they wait for their tea.
When the tea has finished steeping Beatrice stirs a sugar cube into her mug, watching the liquid swirl around in circles. “Why are you up so late?” she asks, unable to help her curiosity.
Lysander stirs a splash of milk into his tea and takes a sip before replying. “I’ve been occupied with grading papers, it’s nearly the end of term.”
“I suppose I’ll be just as occupied with grading soon enough.” Beatrice takes a sip of her own tea and adds another sugar cube for good measure. “Though I’m sure grading simple spelling and arithmetic won’t be nearly as difficult as university level coursework.”
“The Vesuvian school is lucky to have you as its headmistress,” Lysander says, and Beatrice nearly chokes on her tea. He couldn’t have known how badly she needed to hear that reassurance.
“Thank you,” she says, the words a reflex of propriety as she scrambles to collect her thoughts into a fuller sentence. “I don’t think I’ve properly expressed how grateful I am for your assistance in opening the school.”
“Providing equal opportunity to an education is a noble goal. It’s my pleasure to give any assistance myself or Umbra can offer,” he replies, inclining his head as he speaks. “You’ve done an exceptional job with the plans thus far.”
“You’ll have to come back to Vesuvia to see the school someday. The construction is nearly complete, I can’t believe how beautiful it’s all turned out.” Beatrice smiles, as she always does when she talks about the school. She takes another sip of her tea, missing the way Lysander’s soft gaze has come to rest on her face.
“Perhaps,” he says simply, and Beatrice lets the subject drop.
She moves towards the doorway, turning over her shoulder to look at Lysander. “I should let you return to your work now. I think I’ll go read in the drawing room for a while.”
“I’ll join you, if that’s alright. I believe a change of scenery will help me get through these last few papers.” Lysander takes a step towards her and she nods hurriedly in assent.
“Of course, I wouldn’t mind the company. You’re very welcome to join me,” Beatrice says. “This is your home after all.”
“True, but you are a most welcome guest,” Lysander replies, darting up the stairs towards his office before Beatrice can fully register what he’s said. She giggles nervously under her breath and tries not to spill her tea as she walks down the hall to the drawing room. Lorcan follows after her, settling down by the fireplace in his usual spot.
She’s just picking a book off of one of the many shelves when Lysander returns with a stack of papers in hand and his mug of tea precariously balanced on top. He sets the papers and his mug on the tea table and moves to the fireplace, gently coaxing the dying embers back to life with his magic. Beatrice takes a seat on the couch and watches him work, impressed by how easily he seems to manipulate the flames. When he’s brought the fire back up enough to warm the room he takes a seat on the chair in front of the tea table. He looks up at Beatrice, who is still watching him closely, and she hurriedly looks down at her book, embarrassed to be caught staring for the thousandth time since she’s arrived here.
They sit in silence for the next half hour as Lysander works and Beatrice reads, and she finds herself feeling more relaxed then she has in a very long time. The quiet scratching of Lysander’s pen and the crackling fire in the fireplace seem to lull her and the words start swimming on the page in front of her as she struggles to keep her eyes open. Before she realizes how tired she even is, she starts to doze off to sleep.
Beatrice wakes hours later to find weak morning sunlight streaming in from behind the curtains and blearily realizes she’s still on the drawing room couch. The house is quiet and still, and someone’s placed a blanket over her. Her heart thuds oddly in her chest as she realizes it was likely Lysander. Beatrice pulls the blanket around her shoulders as she rises to a sitting position, and a smile she can’t begin to contain spreads across her face.
In the silence of the early morning, with nobody else awake yet to see it, Beatrice lets herself hope.
so @leechobsessed requested vianan kissing prompts from this list, and I wanted to write multiple bc I love this ship too much, so I decided to post them separately as little ficlets as I write them 💗💗
34. Kisses that start on their fingers and run up their arm, eventually ending on their lips
characters: Lysander Lonan (of @leila-of-ravens), Beatrice Viano, brief cameo from Lorcan (world’s best dog)
pairing: Lysander Lonan x Beatrice Viano / Vianan
words: 1077
Beatrice’s fingers waltz across the piano keys, playing a familiar tune she’d once learned from her aunt. It sounds a bit melancholy, but the song contains only happy memories for Beatrice.
When she’d first learned this song she was a lonely teenager just beginning to learn the joys of magic and that playing music could be fun rather than a chore. The song still brings her comfort, and when she finds herself missing her aunt or the sunlit streets of Vesuvia she plays this song and it brings her back.
She doesn’t get homesick often. Umbra has become her home and Lysander her family, but on cold nights like this she sometimes misses where she grew up. She misses the violets that grew outside her old bedroom window and the smell of pumpkin bread in the market. But at least she has her aunt’s song as a little piece of home.
As she plays, Beatrice moves along with the music. In the back of her mind she remembers her mother telling her as a child that playing like that, with emotion, is unladylike. So she shuts her eyes and leans into it even more, letting herself feel the rhythm and the melody. When she finishes her aunt’s song she launches into another. This one is more complex and she has to open her eyes again to watch the keys as she plays.
She’s so focused that she doesn’t notice she has an audience. Lysander stands behind her, flanked by Lorcan as he often is. He takes a step forward and Lorcan takes it as an invitation to run towards an unsuspecting Beatrice. She’s startled as Lorcan jumps at her from the side, trying to lick her face as she tries not to fall off of the piano bench.
“Hi Lorcan,” Beatrice coos as she pets him between the ears, “You scared me! Did you come to hear me play? Aren’t you just the sweetest puppy!” she continues to babble on as Lorcan wags his tail excitedly. She still hasn’t noticed Lysander standing a few feet away and trying to hold back a laugh as he watches.
“Do you know where my husband is, Lorcan?” She smiles at the dog, if Lorcan is nearby that usually means Lysander is too.
“I’m right here,” Lysander says and she whips her head around to look at him, taking in his humored expression. Lorcan takes off now that he’s greeted Beatrice, probably going to find his favorite spot in front of the drawing room fireplace.
“Oh, hello,” Beatrice smiles as Lysander takes a step towards her and reaches to put his hand on her shoulder. She looks up at him as he reads the sheet music to see what she was playing. “I apologize if my playing disrupted your work.”
“Not at all,” Lysander looks down to meet her eyes and presses a kiss to the top of her head, “It was lovely music to work to.”
“I’m glad you think so, I was struggling a little through the last half.” Beatrice scoots over to allow him to sit next to her on the piano bench.
“It sounded perfect to me.” He smiles and reaches to pluck a few notes on the piano.
“You’re only saying that to make me feel better,” She teases, watching as he starts to play a familiar melody, the song she was just playing.
“Well as your spouse, shouldn't I endeavor to boost your confidence?” He asks and she playfully nudges his shoulder with her own.
“So you admit my playing was lacking?” Beatrice laughs.
“Hmm,” Lysander meets her eyes again, pretending to ponder the question, “I think the only improvement would be to add to the song. I believe the composer was lacking, not you.”
“Is that so?” She grins, “Well what do you propose then, maestro?”
“Why don’t you play the melody,” He plays a piece of it briefly and moves his hands so she can take over, “And I’ll take the other half.”
With him focusing on the complicated octave chords her smaller hands struggle to reach, she’s able to play the melody more precisely. She smiles as they play, their arms and hands occasionally touching as their notes move closer together. Lysander starts adding extra notes to his part to make the song more complex, so Beatrice, not to be outdone, adds a few trills herself.
Neither of them bother to look at the sheet music, instead playing by ear and off of each other. By the time they reach the end of the song it barely sounds like the original anymore and they’re both laughing at the mess they’ve created.
“I’m not sure that’s better than the original, but it certainly had a lot more heart.” Beatrice leans her head to rest on his shoulder.
Lysander smiles in response and takes one of her hands in his, lifting it up as if reading the lines of her palm. He leans in to press a kiss to each of her fingertips before kissing her palm, lips pressing ever so carefully across her scar. Beatrice laughs at the gesture and is surprised when he doesn’t stop there and his lips meet the inside of her wrist. He continues to kiss up her arm, barely grazing his lips across the skin as he moves up to the crease of her elbow, the heart shaped mark on her upper arm, her shoulder.
Beatrice lifts her head off of his shoulder as he moves further up and turns so she can look at him. He kisses the dip of her collarbone, her neck, the sensitive spot just beneath her ear, and she suppresses a shiver. He moves towards her face, kissing her jaw then her cheek, her nose and then finally her lips.
It’s a soft kiss, sweet and lingering. His hands come up to either side of her face and Beatrice wraps her arms around his shoulders and tries not to push him off of the narrow piano bench. He rests his forehead against hers as he pulls away for air. They take advantage of the proximity to simply look at each other up close.
Lysander admires the light dusting of freckles across her nose and the blush on her cheeks that never quite goes away. Beatrice admires the line of his jaw and the way his dark eyes reflect the candlelight.
Lysander looks away first, back to the piano. “Shall we play another song?”
notes: alternate title- vianan are too in love to focus on their dinner
It’s a brisk afternoon in Umbra, one that has Beatrice wishing she’d brought her gloves. As they walk through the city towards the market, she looks to her right, noting that Lysander is better prepared for the weather with gloves on, a scarf around his neck, and his collar pulled up against the cold. The hand he’s holding is warm but her other, which holds a large wicker basket for their groceries, seems to be turning a bit blue.
When Lysander notices her shivering he halts his quick walking pace and reaches for the basket. She hands it over gladly and casts a warming charm on her cloak before sliding her hand into her pocket. With the threat of hypothermia halted, she’s much cheerier and swings their entwined hands as they walk. After living here for nearly a year she’s still not used to the cold, but she must admit it has its benefits, like hand holding.
“Do you have the list?” She asks as the bustling market comes into view.
“I memorized it. It felt unnecessary to carry around a slip of paper,” Lysander replies, noticing the brief look of worry in Beatrice’s eyes.
“Well I would like to be able to double check, we haven’t made this recipe before,” She frets, already trying to remember what was on the list she’d written last night. Did they need celery? Or was it carrots? Perhaps they should get both just in case.
“We haven’t made any recipe before.” Lysander’s smile fades as the crowds become more dense around him and Beatrice squeezes his hand gently to focus his attention on her rather than the people around them.
“You’re right,” Beatrice laughs. “We’ll figure it out, we’re both intelligent right? How hard can cooking really be.”
“You say that, but I recall the last time you tried to cook something the house nearly went up in flames.” He stops in front of a produce stand and gives her a half smile over his shoulder to let her know he’s joking.
“Oh hush, it was just a little smoke,” Beatrice scoffs, dropping his hand so she can rummage through the vegetables.
“A little,” He huffs, remembering the way they’d had to air out the house after, the both of them running around to open windows and doors. Once the smoke had cleared the house had been freezing cold from the winter air, and the two of them had sat in front of the fireplace for hours to get warm again. It’s a fond memory now that he thinks about it, but one he’d prefer not to repeat.
Neither of them have any cooking skill, Lysander from a life lived with servants and a cook, and Beatrice from lack of interest (and a fair amount of kitchen mishaps). But, like many things over the last few years, they’d decided to learn together. They’d found an easy recipe for roast chicken in a book, something that claims to be “so simple a beginner can do it”.
“Did you know that onions are one of the oldest known vegetables? According to historical records they’ve been cultivated for thousands of years.” Lysander watches as Beatrice places onions into the basket. She carefully lifts them up to inspect them, though if she’s being honest she has no idea what she’s looking for. Do onions grow ripe?
“I didn’t know that,” Beatrice replies, excited as always to learn something new. “Do you know why cutting onions causes tears? It’s because they release an invisible gas which irritates the eye.”
“I’ve never cut an onion before, I didn’t know they did that.” Lysander starts gathering potatoes into the basket, carefully counting out the amount they need. “I suppose we’ll need a handkerchief on hand during our cooking, just in case.”
“I’ll lend you mine,” Beatrice jokes, reaching into her pocket to flash her monogrammed handkerchief in his direction. The monogram catches her eye, it still has the letter V on it and she thinks, with a smile, that she should probably replace it with her new last name.
“That is most kind of you, Beatrice, but I hope neither of us are brought to tears over this dinner.” He gives her another half smile then turns to pay for the vegetables. They spend the rest of the shopping trip trading facts and stories about cooking. She tells him about the time she tried to cook for her aunt as a surprise and somehow got a metal pot stuck to the ceiling, and he tells her how he tried to bake a cake with Leila and they used salt instead of sugar.
“I usually leave the baking to Leith,” He laughs. The comment reminds Beatrice of how wonderful it is that she’s part of this family now too. She has her own stories with Leila and Leith, and even Lachlan. As she listens to Lysander talk about his family with that affectionate glint in his eye, she feels very lucky to be included.
By the time they leave the market it’s even colder out and it looks like snow is on the way, so they hurry home. Lysander grows more at ease the further they get from the market, so while the grocery basket is heavier the mood is lighter. Beatrice stays close to his side as they walk the few blocks home, and the chill wintery air doesn’t bother her in the slightest.
Lorcan greets them at the door, nearly knocking Beatrice over in his haste to greet her. She pets him between his ears and grabs the basket from Lysander so he can greet the dog. As Lysander pets him, Beatrice places the basket down and unlatches her cloak before reaching to help Lysander with his outerwear. Her hands gently unwind the scarf from around his neck and he uses her proximity as an excuse to kiss her cheek.
Beatrice smiles and kisses his cheek in return before reaching to help him out of his coat. When everything is put away in its place she makes her way to the kitchen where Lysander is busy unpacking the groceries. He carefully lines everything up on the counter, organizing the vegetables by size and color. Beatrice smiles at his focused expression, holding back a laugh as he holds two carrots up to compare them so he can get the order exactly right. Finally, she decides she needs to interrupt him before he starts organizing grains of salt.
“So, where do we begin?” She wraps an arm around the top of his shoulders as she leans over to read the recipe in the book laid out before them. It’s quite a large block of text, and she hopes they’ll be able to pull this off.
“We need to get the oven heated first, and boil some water for the potatoes,” Lysander dictates.
“That sounds simple enough! You can start the fire and I’ll get the water heated in no time.” Beatrice turns to find a pot and walks over to the faucet to fill it with water.
“Perhaps we should do this without magic?” Lysander suggests, raising an eyebrow as he watches her put her hands on the side of the pot to heat it with magic.
“I think we need every advantage we can get, my dear.” She focuses heat into her hands and the water begins bubbling almost immediately. She’s always been good with water, but heating her hands too hot aggravates her scar, so she’ll have to settle for a simmer as a head start.
“We might as well have you heat the chicken with your hands,” Lysander jokes as he starts the fire in the oven. She sets the pot down on the stove top to bring it to a full boil then turns to gently ruffle the front of his hair to brush it out of his eyes. His hair has gotten a bit longer than he usually keeps it, but Beatrice thinks it suits him.
“That might be how the fire started last time,” She says, chagrined. “I was too impatient to wait for the stove to heat up.”
“We’ll just have to find a way to pass the time while we wait then,” He says, pulling her into his arms. She wraps her arms around his waist and smiles as his lips meet hers. They kiss for a moment, warmed by the steam rising from the stove. Beatrice pulls away first, twisting out of his embrace with a grin.
“We should prepare the vegetables, there’s a lot more to do. Dinner now, kissing later.” She tries to take a step away but Lysander reaches for her shoulder, keeping her in place as he leans down to her again.
“Is that a promise?” Lysander teases, pressing one last kiss to her cheek.
Beatrice leans up to whisper in his ear, “Of course it is.” She pulls away, “Now help me chop these vegetables or we’ll never get this dinner done.”
She hands him a carrot and picks up an onion, trying to figure out the best way to cut it. The recipe said to dice them, and she does her best to follow those instructions. Her eyes start to water as soon as she cuts into the onion, and a single tear rolls down the side of her face. She wipes her eye on her sleeve and sets the knife down.
“Are you alright, Beatrice?” Lysander sets his knife down next to hers and reaches for the side of her face, turning her towards him.
“Yes, I’m fine, it’s just the onions. Remember how I told you they irritate the eye?” She tries to resist the urge to rub at her eyes, knowing that’ll just hurt them more. He seems satisfied by her answer and turns back to his task.
“What a peculiar vegetable,” He mutters and Beatrice laughs.
“Cooking is dangerous.”
“It is when you do it,” Lysander says, placing his neatly chopped carrot into a bowl. He reaches for another, not noticing Beatrice scowling at him. He looks so intently focused on his task again that she has no choice but to smile again at the crease in his forehead and the way he bites his lip slightly in concentration.
Half an hour later they’re placing the chicken into the oven. There’s been a distinct lack of kitchen mishaps so far and Beatrice is feeling quite proud of herself. She turns to Lysander with a grin on her face as he shuts the oven door, “We did it!”
“Technically we haven’t succeeded yet, it still has to cook,” He says and she reaches a finger to his lips to shush him.
“Think positively, darling.” Beatrice leans up to give him a quick peck on the lips. They go to set the table next, deciding to sit in the formal dining room instead of the kitchen table to make things more fancy. Beatrice sets out silverware as Lysander folds napkins. He seems to be spending a long time folding them, and when Beatrice looks over she notices he’s folded the cloth into the shape of a bird.
“Where on earth did you learn to do that?” She asks, “You’re full of surprises.”
“I read about it in a book once.” Lysander straightens the edge of the napkin and takes a step back, inspecting his work like an artist.
“Well, you’ve always been good with your hands...” Beatrice smirks over her shoulder at him as she returns to the kitchen, leaving Lysander to stare after her incredulously. He follows her a moment later and finds her sitting perched on the kitchen table, looking as if she was waiting for him.
“You’ve become an incurable flirt, Beatrice.” Lysander takes a step towards her, his arms going around her waist. She giggles lightly and leans in to kiss the corner of his jaw.
“I’ve always been like this, you just weren’t paying attention.”
“That is probably true,” He laughs, leaning down towards her, “but I certainly notice you now.”
“You do.” Beatrice leans forward to rest her forehead against his and he sighs, gently winding his hand into her hair.
“I do.”
Lysander leans in to kiss her then, and she melts into it as he pulls her closer. When he pulls away they stay with their heads pressed together, and she breathes in his familiar scent of earl grey. He’s still got his arms around her and after a moment, he starts to sway with her as if they’re dancing.
He steps back from the table and offers her his hand, “May I have this dance, Mrs. Lonan?”
She takes the offered hand and smiles, “Why of course you may.”
Beatrice gets down from the table and straightens her posture to the proper waltz position and Lysander echoes her movement as he begins to lead them in a circle around the kitchen. Despite the kitchen being quite spacious Beatrice nearly runs into a table as he spins her, the two focused on each other rather than their surroundings. Though they don’t have any music playing, she thinks dancing in the kitchen is much preferable to dancing in a ballroom. After a few slow turns about the room they stop, dizzy and a bit out of breath from laughter.
Beatrice closes the distance between them again, her lips pressing to his in a more fervent kiss than before. Lysander kisses her back as he gently pushes her against the wall by the door. She hooks her leg around his to pull him even closer and he opens his mouth in surprise, giving her the perfect opportunity to deepen the kiss. She runs her hands over his shoulders, careful not to touch his back, and wishes she could feel his soft skin instead of the fabric of his shirt.
Lysander seems to have the same idea and he reaches to untuck her sweater from her skirt. His warm hands make their way up her cold skin, one moving up her spine, the other ghosting up the side of her waist. Her hands reach for the buttons of his shirt and she manages to undo the top few without breaking the kiss. His fingers just ghost under the curve of her breast before he suddenly pulls away, nearly biting her tongue in his haste. She looks at him in confusion as he stares around the room as if searching for something.
“Beatrice, is the chicken burning?”
“We didn’t set a timer!” Beatrice rushes out of his arms and across the kitchen. When she opens the door of the oven she’s met with a puff of smoke.
“Is it burnt?” Lysander peers over her shoulder. When the smoke clears they find the chicken is only the slightest bit burnt, the vegetables only a little blackened. “I think that’s salvageable.”
“I’m cursed.” Beatrice throws her arms in the air to punctuate her statement, trying not to be too disappointed that the meal hadn’t turned out perfectly.
Lysander places the chicken on the counter to cool a bit and pulls her into a hug, resting his head on her shoulder. “I think it’s a perfectly acceptable first attempt.”
“You’re distracting,” She huffs, but hugs him back.
Though the meal is a bit overcooked, they’re proud of the dinner they’ve made together. The wine is good, the conversation even better, and by the time their plates are cleared Beatrice is feeling better about the success of the meal. She regards Lysander across the table from her and sets her glass down so she can take his hand.
“We make a pretty great team,” She smiles.
“I suppose that’s why I married you.” Lysander replies, his thumb running a gentle circle over hers.
“For my cooking skills?” Beatrice teases.
“Definitely not.” He responds so quickly that Beatrice can’t help but laugh. They get up to wash the mountain of dishes together, Beatrice washing and Lysander drying. As they work Beatrice can’t help but hum under her breath, the happiness bubbling out of her like the soap she’s using.
“So why did you marry me then?” Beatrice asks as they start to put the dishes away.
“I love you, why wouldn’t I marry you?” Lysander looks a bit confused at her question, she finds his befuddlement entirely too endearing. He puts the last of the cutlery away and turns to look at her, watching as face blushes pink.
“That’s a good reason to marry someone.” Her voice has gone quiet with affection as she meets his dark eyes with her own.
Lysander takes a step towards her and pulls her in by the waist, “Why did you marry me?”
“You already know,” She murmurs.
“It’s always nice to hear it again,” He prompts her, and she doesn’t need to be convinced. She’ll gladly tell him how she feels about him, she never wants to stop reminding him.
“Because I love you, of course.” She smiles as he leans in to kiss her cheek.
“That is indeed a very good reason to marry someone.”
