#I will have dozens of false awakenings in one dream sometimes

[creekfiend]

it's not like I enjoy regular nightmares or anything but I think that the worst kind of dreams that I have are actually false awakening dreams, which seem like an unusually malicious thing for a brain to do. it's like if your brain transformed into a very stereotypical comic book villain and then kidnapped itself. like why do we even have this lever. I wonder that about many functions of sleep though. there are a lot of levers that we should not have installed up there I think

[gothika666faerie]

Where His Happiness Was (Bertrand x Savannah)

           There were two distinct sensations Bertrand felt that roused him from the best sleep he had gotten for the longest time now. Ever since the estate went into ruination, every bedtime was a constant tumult of tossing and turning. For the past two nights however, respite came without resistance of complaint. Just as he had when he came falling into her arms. The first sensation was the brushing, a shy yet persistent caress of her fingers through his thick black hair as he lay, content like a kitten snuggled on a cushion, in her breasts. The second sensation was far less pleasant. It was the continuous, almost desperate vibration on the nightstand. He had texted Maxwell the moment he reached Savannah’s doorstep that he didn’t want to be disturbed until all was fully settled. His little brother, though on the frivolous and sometimes, moronic side, thankfully took the hint and focused his attentions on keeping Lady Emilee safe and on the right path in Shanghai. Until now, that is.

           Groaning, he groped blindly for the offending gadget and checked. Yup. Worst fear confirmed: it was Maxwell. Then again, it could have been Drake. He sent a little prayer of gratitude that, to avoid tracking, he never divulged his contacts to the man who still wanted to snap his neck for defiling his little sister. More times than I could count too. Smirking at the memory of Savannah clinging to him tightly as they made good use of her kitchen counter the night before, he pressed “Answer” and pulled himself up to recline against the headboard, rubbing his knuckles against his still awakening eyes.

           “Hello…?”

           “There you are!! I’ve been trying to reach you for over an hour now! Oh wait,” There was that sheepish tinge in his little brother’s voice that Bertrand had to admit he missed. “I may have forgotten we’re six hours ahead here in NYC. Oops…”

           “Well, you still called at 8am, my time, brother…I hope it is important,” He managed out in his usual sternness though his gaze drifted down to the naked, curvaceous frame under the blankets longingly. If this was a false lead or Maxwell just wanting permission to get another dozen peacocks, he was going to hang up and spoon the woman he loved. Preferably with his phone switched off and flung in some forgotten corner of the bedroom.

           “Oh, Bertrand, you have no idea! I managed to get a lead on Tariq. He’s totally in NYC! I called some of those expensive, renowned fashion stores he frequents and well, after some patented Maxwell Beaumont persuasion, they were more than happy to tell me his latest purchases and whereabouts.” This was new. Bertrand listened now, more alert and at attention. Savannah stirred next to him and he soothed her with one hand, running his fingers through her brown locks and brushing his knuckles against her smooth cheek as he hissed as quietly as he could into the phone.

           “We’ll need to narrow down the search. There are far too many stores as it is, aren’t there?”

           “Er yeah…that’s the bad news. I managed to narrow as far as I go but, it still adds up to 10.” He halted his caresses to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose. He should be more grateful and perhaps proud that Maxwell was taking initiative but, this was still putting them at a disadvantage. The Parisian paradise needed to come to an end eventually. He turns once more to regard the slumbering damsel who stole his heart the day he met her as she rolls onto her side, facing him, eyes closed, eyelashes brushing her cheeks and her lips slightly parted. Her chocolate brown hair melting over the white sheets and complementing her olive skin. The world unfortunately doesn’t stop after one rediscovers true love and happiness. The estate was still in intermittent danger, Lady Emilee still needed her name cleared and to become Queen. It could have been easier. We could have had a happy life, Savannah. I can’t give you that. Not now. Maybe, oh God, maybe never.

           “Bertrand? Hello? Are you still there? You didn’t break up on me, did you?” Maxwell’s voice was reaching a panicky fever pitch and he snapped out of his reverie to reply.

           “Huh? Oh yes, hello. Yes. I heard you. I…I suppose I’ll need to come to NYC and aid you two in the investigation. Lord knows how you two survived without me.” He had to throw out that biting remark. It was expected of him now. Ever since all went to shit for him; the bankruptcy and the disappearance of the woman he loved, Bertrand changed for the worse. He shut himself up in Ramsford, his childhood home that was in danger of being foreclosed. The parties stopped. The warmth of the study had died off and faded away into the winds. The Cordonian Rubies seemed to acquire even more of an acerbic hit. His face hardened into iron and he erected brick walls around his heart. It became so that he forgot what it was like to be nice, to be warm and to be affectionate with his little brother. Or anyone for that matter.

           Then, when he knocked the door to her apartment and she opened it. She, with her face still leaving him as breathless as it did when he saw it at the first party she attended, standing shocked and carrying the baby in her one arm. His baby. His son. Little Bartie who blinked up his eyes, his eyes, up this strange man who was more familiar than he will know and then gave a questioning “Goo?” Bertrand could only respond in the one way. He had stepped in and wrapped his arms around them both. There were tears, waterfalls of them as she clutched tightly to him, whispering how she had never entertained the thought of him finding her though she pined from dawn till dusk for him. He could not find words then. He could only rest his forehead against hers, shuddering that she was right here. She was safe and alone. Waiting for him. Bartie could, with all the innocence of a growing baby, look at them with his big puzzled eyes. Seeing however that Mommy liked the presence of this strange man, he reached out a chubby hand to him. Bertrand looked up as he felt those small, stumpy fingers curling into his sweater vest.

           “This is…”

           “Yes, this is your son,” She pulled away, wiping at her eyes delicately with her fingertips before readjusting Bartie in her arms and cooing. “Bartie, this is Daddy. Say Daddy.”

           The baby screwed up his face in that moment into a sceptical frown and Bertrand had to laugh. Yes, this was his son alright. Sometimes, in life changing situations, you needed to see the positive side of it all. He leaned in then, seeing how Bartie had his grey eyes and the tendency to sneer, not to mention a difficulty to trust just anyone. He cautiously put a hand out to stroke the little boy’s head.

           “Hi, Bartie…yes, it’s…it’s Daddy.”

           “Da…da,” Bartie attempted, stretching the syllables and never breaking eye contact with Bertrand. His chubby hand went up again and seized hold of the its desired target. His father’s nose. And Bertrand had to laugh a second time, placing his own hand on the baby’s adamant fist. He was a strong one, this boy. An unpredicted swell of warm pride blossomed deep in his chest. A bubble of chuckles erupted from the cherub too and he proceeded to pull.

           “Hey, hey now…alright, now you’re just hurting Daddy. Bartie, no…stop it…” Savannah had tried to pry off the little rascal’s fingers. Bartie was just chuckling away and Bertrand never envisioned himself to be in such a situation. Have his firstborn pull on his nose and the woman he loved (still loves, god damn him and everything) try to stop the little babe. Eventually, the nose was extricated much to Bartie’s dismay and Savannah formally invited him in. They centred their son as Bertrand did need to know more about him. She listed out all he loved, his dislikes and pet peeves and Bartie was discovered to be an inquisitive, relatively well behaved young boy. His only little bit of nuisance was a tendency to get grabby with things not permitted to be grabbed and a hefty appetite. However, once his hunger was sated, he fell to sleep rather easily. Bertrand dryly remarked that he probably inherited that from Maxwell and Savannah covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.

           The baby asleep, however, after cuddles, carrying and bonding with this strange adult now called “Dada” led the mother and father to need to confront the many trumpeting elephants in the room. They sat on the sofa, having secured Bartie in the nursery with his hippo mobile and did what they should have done long ago. Talk properly, face to face, no distractions and laying all the cards out on the table. She was honest with him, trying not to let her emotions distort her story. How she left because she was heartbroken, fearing he didn’t love her and knowing she wouldn’t get support from the court who have taught her a slag for seducing the Duke of Ramsford, she had to get it from Maxwell. The only man she could trust to help and not judge her for it. Drake would have throttled Bertrand senseless and then ship her off back to America under the care of their too overbearing mother who, after her husband died, would just watch over Savannah and Bartie like a hawk. Paris had been her dream destination for a home and career. Yes, it was expensive, but she was trying to find a job and she had! Recently, she managed. Given her academic results from Belleview Academy in Cordonia, she, after gruelling interviews and writing tests, was about to teach a course on English language to French students and, if she could keep up with that, move on to teaching her majors in French. Once she had gotten her application accepted, she had texted Maxwell immediately to stop wiring money and the gifts. It was high time she got herself back into the real world. She was amid interviewing nannies now for taking care of Bartie and scouring for affordable childcare services. The university did tell her that there was a childcare centre on campus if she wished but it had been a bit pricey and it would entail her living on campus too. The apartment Maxwell helped her find was relatively luxurious and the hassle of moving furniture was just unnecessary. That was her story. She apologized in droves for keeping it from him, but she honestly had felt he didn’t love her or wanted anything to do with her. Hence, she thought to just move on with her life. She couldn’t bear disappointing Drake either, so he was kept in the dark too and she is so incredibly sorry that they fought because of her. She had told him to keep her secret but, her hot-headed brother was not listening to reason that night. Maxwell, Maxwell was just being Maxwell: wanting to help so badly that common sense is sometimes forgotten or brushed aside.

           Having absorbed all this (with the aid of Savannah cracking them a very necessary bottle of red wine), Bertrand in turn unloaded his reasonings for why he told her they could not be together. He hadn’t meant to mean it in the way that he didn’t care for her. Hell, that was as far from the truth as Cordonia from Paris. He had been besotted with her since the day they met. With her half-American ways, her effortless charm, her sometimes bashfulness that put colour in her cheeks and how she held her own among the other noblewomen despite being common born. How her eyes haunted him when he closed his and how he would purposefully be the first to help her up onto a horse at the stables, so he could touch her hand. Yet, how could they have been with their class difference so wide? He strove at first to be cold to her. Ignoring her at his first few parties, not asking her to dance and pushing her onto Maxwell though it hurt him to see her laugh with his younger brother. He was always looking at her though. Following her as she meandered about the room or the gardens of Ramsford. When they were all out with Drake and the now King Liam, his gaze would wander off to see her. See her down shots even better than a man or ride a horse with such panache and skill. He knew he was screwed. The legendary party animal had fallen for the most extraordinary commoner in Cordonia; nothing common about her at all. Then, the ruination happened, and he shut everyone out. No, he would not be pitied. He refused it. She deserved better than a man with empty coffers and only his title to throw around. He should not have that night. He should not have let her soft, tender hands run along his lapels. Nor run into his thick black hair. One kiss and he had been a goner. It was innocuous enough. He found her perusing one of his many books in the studies. What proceeded was a debate on the merits of John Donne and Lord Byron. Love poetry blossomed into gentle teasing and double entendres. This intensified into heated gazes, bitten lips and, most dangerous of all, touching.

           His desk witnessed the fiercest, most impassioned and heartfelt fucking he had ever experienced. How she whimpered out his name, nipping his shoulders. Her thighs slapping against his, her skin sweaty and heated against his. It had been a night that would come unbidden as he lay in bed, his left hand ably assisting him in clinging tight to the memory. He could not look at any other woman, much less fathom marry. Other than the financial aspects (he wasn’t lying when he told Emilee this albeit brusquely), he could not bear the thought of Savannah running off, eloping with another. No. She kept faithful. Single. Alone. Lonely.

           “Were there…other men?” He tried to make it as harmless sounding as possible. Her head snapped up so violently, she could have gotten whiplash.

           “No. None. No one at all. And…you? Other women?” He had solemnly shaken his head, his gaze focused on the crimson liquid swirling in his glass.

           “There was only you.”

           Then there was the silence, and with the silence came tension. She had shifted to move closer and he took in all her features, if not unchanged, were improved with the blessings of birthing a miracle. Her lips fuller, breasts larger, hips rounder and a pervading maturity eradiated from her. This was not the little party girl of long ago. She was a woman. If it weren’t for his stomach giving a rather embarrassing growl, they would have made extremely good use of that sofa Maxwell found on discount at a furniture store. He blushed and held his abdomen.

           “Uh…it’s been a while since I ate and…” She had given him that glorious smile he missed for so long and went straight to the kitchens. In no time, she had whipped up a simple yet delicious meal for two. Seared duck breasts in a resonantly sweet and tangy raspberry sauce. He went the extra mile and set the table for her, lighting candles and pouring more wine before helping her wash up. Something she couldn’t stop teasing him about.

           “I see the Duke of Ramsford doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.”

           “It’s rather an occupational hazard now…the servants left after a while…” She had shut up and once more, apologized but he told her no, there was nothing for her to apologize about. He was doomed to be in the poorhouse if not for Lady Emilee and seeing how Maxwell and she looked at each other, well, they truly were doomed. He couldn’t forgo his little brother’s happiness. He wasn’t that much of a curmudgeon. He’d done horrible things already like leak those bachelor party photos…something Maxwell had readily forgiven him for. He had been desperate, and Maxwell understood. Maxwell always understood. He was a fool, self-indulgent, hardly took things seriously but, his little brother was always there for him and despite everything, he was always there for Bertrand. He couldn’t forsake Maxwell finding love. The thought of his little brother heartbroken, no longer the cheerful spitfire he was. That, that cut deep into him. He knew Maxwell felt unloved, unwanted and nothing but a screw-up because of him. God, he knew nothing about how to feel and interact with people, especially under duress. While he was caving inward and becoming nastier to everyone, Maxwell bloomed like a fucking sunflower. The boy’s charm was infectious and his optimism, annoyingly indestructible. Savannah should have someone more free-spirited, more carefree, more willing to take risks. Not someone so darn old, traditional and uptight.

           She had been twenty-two when they first had each other. Almost twenty-three now and he would be thirty-six. Age-gap relationships were not revolutionary. Yet, Bertrand couldn’t shake off the feeling that while Savannah would be off, scampering with Bartie in a field of lush wildflowers, he would be at the back getting winded, bones creaking and slightly dizzy from the sun. No doubt complaining about the overabundance of insects, pollen and heat.

           But, she loved him. She. Loved. Him.

           They sat down and ate in relish. He complimented her cooking skill. She blushed and sipped the wine he poured. They talked about indifferent matters, having laid their cards bare and reminisced about what was before. They joked, they conversed, they swapped dark secrets (Bertrand once pretended to have a stroke to get out a date. Savannah streaked across the football field on a drunken dare) and to summarize, they had fun. They enjoyed each other’s company. He was supposed to sleep on the sofa. She insisted he stayed.

           He perhaps maybe should not have brushed her hair aside from her face and kissed her forehead. Her skin burned underneath his lips and his grey eyes met her brown eyes in a searing connection. Before long, he was pressing her up against the door to her bedroom, his mouth unable to be apart from hers. It wasn’t till her groping hand finally twisted the doorknob did they go crashing onto the bed and well, the rest was history. He remembers waking up the next morning, his shoulder aching from a bite mark, his back riddled with scratches and his neck raw with love bites. Oh, and that unbelievable satisfied, hot sensation between his thighs too. Savannah was equally euphoric. They could have stayed making love forever but, Bartie awoke and demanded to be the centre of attention. Unable to repress their rather addled and goofy smiles, Bertrand and Savannah started their day.

           That was two days ago. Two days of touring France, trying pastries in patisseries, scaling the Eiffel Tower, snapping too many pictures and carrying Bartie on his shoulders or arms. Kissing Savannah on the cheek or lips without a care in the world. Eating at cafes and sipping champagne. Running through sprinkler fountains and chasing pigeons. Feeding the ducks and teaching Bartie how to quack. Watching the sunset. Getting home and watching a family movie, playing Twister, pretending to be a lion and chasing after Mommy Gazelle and her baby. Bartie laughed and snorted and reaching out his chubby fists. After dinner, diaper changes, bath time and rocking him to sleep, Mommy and Daddy would love each other thoroughly, remember how their bodies and souls fitted one another so impeccably perfect.

           And today was today. He told Maxwell he would get the first flight back to NYC and to see him at the airport after he texted the flight details. Hanging up, he watched as Savannah yawned and fluttered her eyes open, smiling up at him.

           “Bonjour, mon amour,” She purred, reaching a hand over to trail her fingers up his arm, lightly caressing the firm bicep. He smiled, put the phone down and moved over to kiss her deeply. She relented into his embrace and was more than ready for morning play when he pulled away. She arched an eyebrow, confused.

           “I…I need to go to New York. Maxwell got a lead on Tariq and…I need to be there for the investigation,” He doesn’t want to meet her gaze as he gets up to head to the bathroom. Before he can step in, he feels soft, feminine arms wrapped around his waist. The most perfect breasts with her perky nipples pressing into his back relieved any tension from the phone call.

           “I’ll miss you…”

           “I will miss you too…”

           And so here they were. At the Charles de Gaulle airport, waiting for his flight to take off. She is holding Bartie in her arms, facing him, biting her lip. His flight was due soon. They had time. A little bit of time still. He has his arm around her, pressing his face against her hair and cheek.

           “I’m coming back. I promise you…I will come back and we…” He tightens his hold, kissing her cheek. “We will be together. The three of us.” Savannah shifts her head to look up at him, her eyes moist, the dam threatening to burst. Bartie, sensing the negativity in the air, was looking morose himself and playing with Bertrand’s sweater.

           “I... I love you…” It came out in the smallest of stutters, broken by quavers, by the emergence of tears and as quickly as she said it, she looked away until she felt his hands cup her face and make her look at him. His grey eyes, normally so icy, so stern, were now melted through with the warmth and depth of his want, his need for her. His thumbs caress her cheeks, brushing away the rivulets of tears.

           “Je, t’aime, mon amour…” He leans down and kisses her deeply just as the intercom buzzes on, announcing in crisp, clear and direct French that his flight was already for boarding and departure. They refused to part just yet. It wasn’t till the third time the announcement rang that he broke away. He bent and gave Bartie a kiss on the forehead and a squeeze too, inhaling the soft scent of his baby boy. Powder, family and a faint essence of milk and butter. The little boy whimpered and raised a hand.

           “Dada….”

           “Dada has to go, sweetheart,” He whispers, though it kills him. He kisses the fist his boy raises and clutches tightly to his boarding pass. Backing away from them, he looks at the two people he loves the most and needs to abandon right now, but only momentarily. “Au revoir, ma famille.”

           He is on the plane. He looks out the window. He sees Bartie, a tiny white speck, wearing a white shirt, bow tie and suspenders pressed on the glass and waving. Savannah kisses his head and looks up too, her eyes speaking volumes of how much she will miss him. He waves back and keeps staring out the window till he cannot see them anymore. He takes out his phone. Maxwell had texted that he would see him at the airport promptly. He closes the message inbox and goes straight to the gallery.

           With each scroll of his thumb, he saw pictures of them. His family. Smiling, laughing, making goofy faces. Happy. Together. A picture of Savannah holding Bartie in front of the Eiffel Tower. Him sharing a kiss with her on the beach. Bartie messily eating his first macaron. The three of them in front of Notre Dame Cathedral. The person who took it commented what a lovely family they looked. Yes, they were a family. Wet spots fell upon the phone screen and Bertrand wiped the tears away with his sleeve.

           Yes, he will return. He will return, and he will bring them back to Cordonia and they would be happy.

           Au revoir, ma famille. Daddy will be home soon.

@smartlillian @asherella-is-a-dork-3 @feisty-mary @leafnoyes