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“I never understood that,” Kip says in the ringing aftermath of a verse of the Customs-House.
“Hm? What do you mean?”
“I mean, why did you take him captive? It just seemed wildly inefficient.”
“And the rest of the Customs-House affair was a model of efficiency,” I say dryly, and he rolls his eyes, flushing slightly. “My dear. Efficiency has never been my style.”
“No, I know, but – you had the information you needed. Pali and Damian could have scared him off, and then you wouldn't have had to keep him around.”
“Well, you say it like having him around was a terrible burden.”
“Wasn't it?”
“Oh no. He might have been helpless, but he was charming too, in a way.”
“But didn't he slow you down?” Kip mimics his wrists being bound together, a stumble –
“He wasn't tied up by that point! I'm not a brute, Kip, my goodness.”
“But then how could you know that he wouldn't run off?”
“I couldn't. He might have. But I was awfully charming, too, you know.”
He is so clearly baffled, and it seems a little gauche to come right out and say that I'd intended to spend the night with him (Xav, his name had been, I remember – we hadn't put it in the song for obvious reasons). But also - well, it was good to have an insider, if we suddenly had a question we hadn't thought to ask. And besides, it was wonderful inspiration to have a witness!
But Kip is still looking at me with that dubious expression, and before I can think better of it, I slip in closer to him.
“Trust me, darling, when Fitzroy Angursell has you captive, you're not thinking about how to escape.”
“I suppose you didn't have a reputation for unfounded violence,” he concedes.
“No, that was not what I was known for,” I purr, and Kip blushes a little. “You think he should have been afraid?”
“I don't know,” he says stoutly. “He certainly didn't seem – well, he was a bit helpless, wasn't he? And you might not have been violent, but you were certainly dangerous. Unpredictable.”
“Some people like that kind of thing.”
His blush deepens. “Being kidnapped?”
“Oh no.” I slide closer, insinuate myself into his space and push him, gentle but demanding, until his back is against the wall. “Being the center of some very focused attention. Being made aware of their, hm, helplessness –” My magic snaps to life and winds strands of cord like vines around his wrists, then lifts them above his head. I step even closer. The air goes strange and electric - my magic is touching him, but I step back. “The thrill of that uncertainty. After all – who do you think could stop me, if I wanted to keep them?”
He doesn't answer. His eyes are wide, his breath unsteady, his pulse climbing.
“Are you frightened, Lord Mdang?” I ask, trying to sink into a voice I'd long since abandoned, louche and lazy.
“No,” he says, too quickly.
“Counting on your great lord to save you?”
He draws another just-too-sharp breath – indignant, maybe? Because of course Kip Mdang doesn't need to be rescued – but this, this Lord Mdang, this helpless bureaucrat he's decided to play, he might – and I see my Kip underneath settling into his role.
“My lord will pay your ransom,” he says.
“Oh, peacock, I'm not after a ransom,” I say, and thrill as the nickname, which I'm sure would rankle terribly under any other circumstance, inspires a shiver instead. Daring, I run the back of my hand down his cheek to inspire another. “What fun would that be?”
“Then what do you want?” he asks.
“Your lord would be shocked,” I tell him, entirely honestly, for my own heart is rabbiting in its bone-cage. “I am not the shining knight of this story, Lord Mdang. I am not the heroic Damian Raskae or virtuous Masseo Umrit. I am the rogue, the knave, the trickster. Are you so proper that you can't imagine what such a man might want, as his trophy?” I grin, feral, as his mouth opens in surprise.
“You wouldn't –” he starts, breathy and all wide-eyed innocent, deliciously tempting. “There's nothing you would do to me that I wouldn't want.”
I think, Surely he doesn't mean that the way it sounds, and then he licks his lips and I say, involuntarily, “Oh.”
I step – closer – almost touching. Kip trembles slightly, straining against my restraints on and off. His eyes are glassy, and his mouth is half-open. I say, “You shouldn't tempt me.”
“You shouldn't resist,” he shoots back, and I don't. I press in and steal a kiss, hands fisting in his shirt to tug him up onto his toes, letting my magic dangle him there for a moment. His breath is warm, his lips plush, and as I sample his tongue I daresay I can detect the sweetness of the marmalade from breakfast.
One moment I am swept away with rapturous delight, kissing, kissing, kissing my Kip –
– and the next moment I am kissing Kip and he is strung up by my magic and I spring back and away, letting go of the sinuous cords so quickly that I have to catch him, and once he's steady I pull back again, torn between averting my face in shame and looking to him to show me how badly I have fucked this up. Of course that's not what he meant, everyone tells me, he's told me himself, that is never what he means – I cover my mouth with my hand but dart a desperate glance at him before I look away, and find alarm rising in his gaze as the last traces of that placid, helpless, entirely fictional Lord Mdang sweep away.
“Oh no no no,” I say, “fuck, fuck, Kip, I'm sorry, I –”
“What?” he says, sounding vague and dazed.
“I didn't mean – I thought you meant – I wasn't thinking – but that doesn't excuse –”
“Fitzroy, Fitzroy,” he says, and grasps my forearms forcefully, making me face him. I cannot at all read his expression as I page through the tome in my mind of what Kip looks like when he's – afraid, angry, disgusted, no no no –
Then he tugs me down and swallows my horrified squawking and my panicked breath, his mouth covering mine, kissing me, he is kissing me, and I find my breath again and let him have me – my joy, my ardor, my bewildered sweetness.
“Fitzroy,” he whispers again, and gives a shaky little laugh.
“You liked that?”
“Very much.”
“You like – that sort of play?”
“It's not something I've done before,” he says, abashed, “but yes, with you, it seems I do.” His shy grin goes a little crooked. “You called me a peacock.”
“You liked that, for certain.” I'm gaining confidence.
“I don't know why, exactly.”
“I don't care. Unless you do.”
“Hm. No, I don't need to understand. Not right now, anyway.”
“Did you…” I drop my voice back into something a little sultry. “Did you want me to keep going?”