[Mature] A Rainy Night in the Stacks

[Genevieve De Silver]

Evening, 9th Loshis 2720

Jean DeSilver was back in Brunnhold, he had been staying at DeSilver manor, no he cursed himself, ‘staying’ was too charitable, he had been hiding, and mostly in a bottle. He could not face donning a dress and appearing at the University as Genevieve. His stomach heaved at the idea, but there were only so many times he could send letters attesting to being ill and unable to make the journey, and not being fit enough to lecture.

Cadoc had finally convinced him that he needed to return to the city, however nothing his faithful valet could say could make him return to that other life. It had been too long and he could not face it, hell’s teeth he did not even think of himself as that woman anymore.

Earlier that evening he had been sitting at the desk in his study trying to write yet another letter asking for an extension of his… her sabbatical, drinking coffee and smoking cigars one after the other when he slammed the pen down and exclaimed.

“Clocking damn this, I need a drink!”


He slammed the coffee cup down and it sloshed rich dark liquid over the half written letter and he did not even care. He stalked over to the drinks cabinet and found it empty. Neither he or Cadoc had restocked since they arrived that afternoon.

With a string of colourful oaths he stalked from the apartment, pausing only to pull on a grey rain cloak and wide brimmed hat in the same colour, over his green velvet high collared waistcoat over a white shirt, a pair of chestnut brown trousers and highly polished tan brogues.


So here he was looking for a tavern in the wet evening, his cloak and hat made almost black by the rain as he stalked through the streets. A cigar smouldering between his teeth, and a slight scowl on his gaunt face.

As he walked he paused, a figure across the street from him caught his attention, there was something familiar about how they moved. Jean squinted through the rain, yes, it was her, he was sure of it.

"Niccolette Ibutatu!"


Jean shouted as he put up a hand to hold his hat in place as he checked the street and ran across, the other hand up in a wave of greeting, his tired drawn face brightening into a smile. However as he got to a sudden blow to his back followed swiftly by a burning agony brought him up short, his face took on a look of surprise and he tried to look over his shoulder before he slowly fell forward to land on the rain slick cobbles.

A black feather crossbow bolt sticking from a spreading darker stain on the back of his rain darkened cloak.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, Loshis 9, 2720
A Rainy Street, The Stacks

Niccolette turned, glancing out of the side of her gaze at the edge of her own reflection. The gold-embroidered panel on the front of the gown gleamed in the light, the threads glittering softly.

“This Initiative,” the Professor went on, his voice gaining strength, “remains most important, and in truth has never been more so than the present moment. Whatever may have conspired, my dear, to keep us from this work, must be overcome.”

Niccolette turned back to look at him, all his thick white hair neatly combed, his neatly groomed mustache and goatee much the same. ”Of course,” she murmured beneath the flow of speech; she lifted her glass of wine to her mouth and took the smallest, slightest of sips, and then set it down once more, with a soft click against the damask table cloth.

Niccolette’s head was still clear by the time she left the dinner; she tucked all her dark hair beneath her heavy cloak, smoothing it over her face, and pulled it shut over the gown. The rain was pouring down, and she snapped open her umbrella over her, glancing up at the thick fabric.

“A coach, my dear?” His butler held the door, and he stood just behind, smiling.

“I shall walk,” Niccolette said. She did not look back again; she said nothing more. For all her boots were delicate and heeled, they were treated to be water proof, and she cared not about the puddles or the splashed as she made her way down the street.

It was a few steps before she could breathe, away from the cloying heavy cigar smoke and the thick scent of her own perfume. She didn’t dare to let it show; her back was as straight as it had ever been. Only once she knew she was out of sight did Niccolette sag against a nearby wall.

Damn you, she thought mildly, not for the first time that night, though there was no real heat to it. Damn you for leaving me to this.

Niccolette took a deep breath. She did not think she could cry; if she were going to, she thought practically, she had better reach the hotel first. She was already more than a little damp in uncomfortable places.

Niccolette went; she walked down the street, evenly and unafraid. The wash of her bright living field swept out from her through the dark rain-filled air; she feared the streets of the Stacks no more than she did the streets of the Rose, even in the midst of a dark, rainy evening. She adjusted the set of her umbrella, and went on, only a few blocks now from her hotel, thinking of little more than the chance to cry in peace, and perhaps to meditate.

Niccolette Ibutatu! She knew the voice; Niccolette turned, looking through the sheets of rain and the pale blue phosphor light at a familiar face between the brim of a hat. ”Jean!” Niccolette called, a hint of pleasure creeping into his voice. She had not seen him - well, she thought, since, and not for some months before as well.

He stumbled; he dropped, face first onto the wet cobblestones.

Niccolette’s head jerked up; there was a flurry of motion from a window opposite. She thought of it, coolly, for a moment - but he was already gone. She clicked her tongue lightly against her teeth, and went to Jean, kneeling.

The crossbow bolt was still in his back, pointed down; not the worst angle, Niccolette thought idly. It hadn’t - couldn’t have - killed him, for all that blood was mixing with the rainwater pooled on his oilskin cloak, for all she couldn’t see what damage it had done, not yet.

“Jean,” Niccolette said, crisply, her umbrella set aside, rain streaming over her. ”Jean!” She snapped her fingers next to his ear, and grimaced. She took his chin lightly in her fingers, looking down at him, waiting to meet his eyes when they finally opened; she wasn’t above slapping his cheek, if need be.

“You have been shot with a crossbow bolt, my friend,” Niccolette said, evenly and nonplussed. “Do not yet move. Do you have a pocket knife on you? Tell me where to find it.”

[Genevieve De Silver]

Evening, 9th Loshis 2720

Pain, Jean’s back felt like it was on fire but also cold at the same time, he let out a groan. He also realised his face also hurt, he spat out a mouth full of blood and shook his head, and groaned again, his head hurt.
Then he realised Nicco was talking to him, he blinked rain out of his eye and looked up into the familiar face.

“A what? A pocket knife? Yes, in my waistcoat."

He slowly rolled onto his side, then let out a choked scream, so she could get to his pocket.

“Wait, I’ve been bloody shot!"

Jean briefly blacked out again for a mix of pain and shock, he managed a pained laugh.

“Well, at least it was actually you. I hate to have got shot for shouting at a complete stranger. Damned flaming bloody cogs and gears but this hurts!"

He gritted his teeth and put out a hand.

“Help me up please, unless you plan on pulling this damn thing out of my back in the street?”

Jean kept his tone light, though his teeth were gritted and pain was bright in his ice blue eyes.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, Loshis 9, 2720
A Rainy Street, The Stacks

Niccolette tsked irritably when Jean rolled onto his side without waiting for her permission, her eyebrows lifting. She grinned when he said it that at least it had been her. “Quite fortunate that I was the stranger in question,” Niccolette put in, a little amusement in her tone. “You have been shot; I think you shall be fine, with perhaps a dashing scar for your efforts.”

“No, of course not out here. But yes, stay down for a moment,” Niccolette said, when Jean asked for her hand.

Without anything like hesitation, reluctance or modesty, Niccolette slid her hand into his waistcoat. She took out his pocket knife, opening it up, and held him still.

“This may hurt,” Niccolette said, casually. She went out two inches from the end of the shaft, feeling it and holding it in place with one hand. The other sawed at the wood with the pocket knife; the rain made it all thoroughly challenging and it took longer than she should have liked, but she managed to cut through the wood enough to snap it clean.

She tossed away the broken shaft, letting it run off into a drain. Jean’s rain coat she tugged out, lightly, far enough to hide the remainder of the shaft still protruding from his back. “We are not far from my hotel,” Niccolette said. She turned to Jean’s face, taking his chin in her hands and tilting his head, lightly, studying his pupils in the blue phosphor light; rain was streaming down both of their faces, washing the blood from his mouth.

Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her; Niccolette rose, her dress dripping wet beneath her heavy cloak, and extended her hands to Jean. “Well, you shall have to stand eventually,” her tone, too, was light, though her grasp was firm; she was slender, and small, but she could at least help him somewhat, though she was far from anything like pulling him to his feet.


“You may put your arm around my shoulders, if you wish,” Niccolette offered politely, looking at the old friend she had known for the better part of a decade, standing rain-soaked on the street, blood steadily trickling from the wound on his back and the cut inside his mouth. His eyes were bright, very bright, and his breath was rasping unevenly.

“Come,” Niccolette said, sharply, clapping her hands together. If he passed out, she thought, he risked injuring himself worse, and she would be able to do very little to stop him. An adrenaline spell would come back to haunt him later; a numbing spell might mean he did more damage to himself before she could get the arrow out. Perversely, Niccolette thought, half-amused, the easier she made it for him now, the worse it should be later.

“Other than just having been shot,” Niccolette said, lightly, beginning to walk down the street with Jean – two blocks, she thought, and they would be at the Palazzo di Rhodon, a charming little Bastian hotel in the Stacks where she often stayed, and where they had never once asked questions about candles, strange smells, stranger noises, or the occasional bloodstain, “how have you been?”

“I received your notes,” Niccolette added, a few moments later, glancing sideways at Jean, and then back out at the street. Her shoulders moved in a tiny, faint shrug. “I have not been much for correspondence, of late.”

[Genevieve De Silver]

Evening, 9th Loshis 2720

Jean gave a slight chuckle and then at Niccolette's words he drew a breath and braced for the pain. As she cut at shaft tears of pain sprung to Jean’s eyes and a high drawn out hiss escaped between his gritted teeth.

Once she was done Jean let out a string of colourful oaths in his native tongue. When he was on his feet, after a few shakey steps with Nicco's help, then he took a deep breath and willed himself to walk unaided. He knew the hotel she mentioned.

"Yes, I know the place, it's lovely, Exellent room serviceI recall."

His grin was pained and his already pale face had become even paler and taken on a slightly waxy sheen under the rain water.

Thankfully the street was near deserted, thanks to the rain and the hour. At Nicco's mention of his letters he let out a sigh, he felt terrible he had not tried harder to see her, after. He shook his head and winched again, his mouth still hurt.

"You have nothing to apologise for..."

The words tasted as bitter as the blood still in his mouth, he spat the blood away, the bitterness remaied. The truth was he had not expected her to write back, he had been a terrible friend, he should have tried harder. However he was too caught up in his own troubles, another lie, he had been sat in his library drinking and brooding is what he had been doing.
He said softly.

"I'm sorry Nicco, so damned sorry."

Then with noise between a sigh of relief and a groan of pain he saw the hotel.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, Loshis 9, 2720
A Rainy Street, The Stacks

Niccolette had not apologized; she agreed, in every inch of her blood and bones, with Jean’s statement that she had nothing to apologize for. She did not hold it against him; she knew him better than to take it so. She knew him, Niccolette thought, very well; he had been the among the first to congratulate her on her marriage, so many years earlier, and she and Uzoji had passed a very pleasant honeymoon in his snow-covered family home, on the outskirts of Vienda.

The rain was helpful, just then; Niccolette dismissed the sheen of moisture in her eyes, casting a critical eye back at Jean. He was walking under his power, albeit unsteadily, without leaning against her; his cloak was soaked utterly through, as were his clothes beneath. She thought, or at least hoped, that he could be taken for drunk rather than injured.

She had little in the way of reputation to ruin, Niccolette thought idly, and what she did have she did not much cared for, weighed against the health of a friend. The wound as it stood would not, she thought, be serious in the long time, but left too long or attended by an incompetent, and Jean risked a good deal indeed.

“As am I,” Niccolette said, quietly.

Jean groaned in relief at the sight of the hotel.

They went inside, both of them dripping wet on the carpet. Niccolette greeted the front desk attendant with a smile; she put her arm through Jean’s as they went up the stairs to her room on the second floor.

It was a spacious room, elegantly apportioned; there was a small balcony which looked out onto the atrium in the heart of the hotel, normally quite pleasant and just now streaming with rain. The doors, at least, were closed.

Niccolette took her own cloak off, briskly hanging it at the door. Her dress was soaked through, and heavy; she was glad off the small side buttons, which she undid with cold, damp hands, already walking to the fire. She stepped out of the dress when it was loose; her underthings beneath were damp, though less so than the dress, and considerably more comfortable. She paid her general state of undress absolutely no mind, crouching in front of the fire and lighting it quickly and competently. She breathed in, counting, and out, steadily, and watched the flames flicker.

Niccolette rose, glancing back at Jean. She raised her eyebrows. “Can you take off your clothing yourself, or do you require assistance?” She went back to him, frowning lightly. “We shall have to avoid jarring the shaft of the arrow,” she murmured, thoughtfully.

“Come on, sit,” after a moment of thought, Niccolette sat Jean down on the floor before the fire, where she had the light from it and the lamp to work from. He was slow, sluggish – the blood loss, she thought, irritably, and after a moment Niccolette huffed a sigh and reached for him herself, beginning to take off what she had to of his coat and jacket with steady, competent hands, and to undo buttons as required.

[Genevieve De Silver]

Evening, 9th Loshis 2720

As they entered the hotel Jean’s relief slowly began to trickle away and turn to dread, the lobby was a blur as they passed through it. Jean paid no attention to Nicco changing, he was too caught up in his own pain and worry, he shrugged out of his sodden rain cloak and hat, with Nicco’s help, teeth gritted.

He barely heard her words, he winced as the waistcoat came away from his shoulders, then he grabbed Niccolette’s hands as she started to unbutton his shirt.

“Nicco, please...”

His grey blue eyes were full of pleading, pain and hopelessness for he already knew what the answer must be. Pain choked off his voice as he shifted to undo the buttons on his shirt and he nearly black out again, his body was weak from days of drinking and not enough food or sleep, he struggled with the buttons.

He managed to get his shirt open, his bare chest shone pale in the fire light, except for the white silk wrappings tight around his chest, pressing his small breast flat.

Genevieve sagged before the fire, tears bright in her bloodshot eyes, unable to meet Nicco’s gaze.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, Loshis 9, 2720
Niccolette's Room, the Palazzo di Rhodon

Niccolette raised her eyebrows when Jean grabbed her hands. She sighed, a little, drawing them back to let him finish the unbuttoning himself, for all that he was swaying even as he sat. His face was drawn – paler than usual, even for the Gioran, with almost no color from the firelight.

A pity, Niccolette thought, idly, that even a man such as Jean – who was generally, Niccolette felt, a good example of the gender – should be subject to such absurd feelings over improprieties. I’m about to see your bare chest, she might have pointed out, and you’re very likely to spend the night; what harm does it do if my hands are the ones to undo your shirt? It was absurd, really.

All the same, she let him do it, his fingers fumbling at the shirt buttons; his eyes fluttered, but held open. Niccolette glanced away, thinking. In her trunk, she thought, she had at least some surgical equipment; since she had started volunteering at Grand Mercy, she had made more of a habit of carrying it about. It was fortunate, then; she had a small supply of chemicals for disinfecting, a scalpel, and proper grasping implements.

The first trick, she thought, would be quantitative spells, to gauge the best route for which to extract the arrow; she had found, amusingly, versions of some of the spells she’d heard a thousand times on the Eqe Aqawe to find a path through the currents, modified to be applicable to surgery of just this sort. She had not yet had the opportunity to test one, but – although she supposed she could just extract the arrow – if it worked, the spell would make the process considerably -

Jean’s hands stilled in the corner of her gaze. Niccolette turned back, slowly; she frowned, her gaze lowering slowly to the pale silk bandages wrapped around the other’s chest. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly; she looked down at Jean’s chest, again, nearly reaching out to brush damp fingers over the fine silk, and then frowning, and looking back up at Jean, who was sagging and refusing to look towards her.

“What…” Niccolette said, slowly. With the bulk of the jacket, vest and shirt removed, too, she could see the slender curve of Jean’s waist; there was, she thought, strangeness prickling over her skin, little mistaking him – him...

her, Niccolette thought, slowly, feeling very strange indeed. Jean still wouldn’t look at her, and there was wetness gleaming on his – her – their cheeks.

“What the fuck, Jean?” Niccolette asked, her eyebrows lifting. She eased back, just a little, taking her friend in in the gleam of the firelight and the lamp, all cool white brushed with reflected red, orange and yellow. Her lips pressed lightly together, and she waited, aware that her friend of nearly a decade was drained and weak from having been shot – rather recently shot – and yet at the same time, feeling rather as if she deserved at least something in terms of an explanation.

[Genevieve De Silver]

/

Evening, the 9th of Loshis, 2720.

Tears of shame and grief stung her eyes and she sagged even further over, how could she explain. How could she tell her oldest and dearest friend that she had lied to her since their first meeting? How could she explain this double life she lived.

Her pale shoulders shook with silent sobs for a time, the crushing despair even blotting out the pain of the bolt in her back. When Genevieve spoke, her voice was thick and rough, like every word was a strain.

"I'm sorry Niccolette, I never meant to lie to you. I meant to tell you everything, but how could I? What the hell could I tell you? Oh sorry I'm actually Genevieve your lecturer?"

She let out a savage bark of a laugh full of bitterness.

"That would have been a lie too damn! In Goar I could have lived however I damned please, women are not accepted to be quiet and submissive. My mother was respected and powerful in her own right, but not me, I was the daughter of an Anaxi I never felt welcome in my homeland. So we came to this country and I had to play the dutiful daughter. I hated my father for that."

She stared into the depths of the fire, she had never spoken these words out loud and as she carried on her voice was distant and hollow.

"Part of me was glad when my parents died in that crash, can you imagine that? It freed me, and shamed me all at once. I was able to live as myself, my true self."[/color]

She finally turned her red rimmed eyes to look at Nicco and those eyes were pits of sorrow.

"I never asked to be born like this."

Her voice cracked.

"I don't expect you to understand or even forgive me. Clocks but I wouldn't blame you if you sent me back out into the night wound at all. It's better than I deserve."

She looked down at her hands, his hands and wept. Softly she said.

"I'm so damned sorry…"

She struggled to her feet and swayed as the pain ripped at her again, but she gritted her teeth and started to pull her shirt closed despite the pain. And faced Niccolette, whatever her judgement would be, he would face it like a man at least, pale and drawn face set with grim determination.

[Niccolette Ibutatu]

Evening, Loshis 9, 2720
Niccolette's Room, the Palazzo di Rhodon

Up until the moment Jean said Genevieve, Niccolette still hadn’t quite understood. Perhaps she should have, already, she thought; she hadn’t. Until that moment, she had thought Jean still Genevieve’s twin, but a woman rather than a man or – something. It wasn’t until Jean – Genevieve – their bitter apology that Niccolette put the last of the pieces together, still kneeling on the ground before the man – the woman – her friend, Niccolette thought, not without more than a trace of bitterness herself.

They went on, like a wound lanced and left to drain, unstoppable and rank. Niccolette listened, her lips pressed together and her teeth clenched tight behind them. She met their gaze, unhesitatingly, when Jean – Genevieve, she thought, thinking of a half-heartedly attended history class more nearly a decade ago, and all the lectures she hadn’t listened to – met her gaze.

They stood, swaying visible, and began to fumble with their shirt once more, tears streaming down their – fuck, Niccolette thought, she was too fucking sick of this, his – cheeks, hands no steadier than they’d been before.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Niccolette spat. She came to her feet as well, not as steadily as she’d have liked, but at least she stood. She smacked Jean’s hands away from the buttons on her shirt. “How am I to deal with your back with your shirt on?”

Niccolette’s eyes sharpened; her field flared in the air around them, not sigiling but flexing, nonetheless, bearing down on the both of them. She caprised Jean, as deeply as she ever had, not pushing them away but reaching tightly inside; it was stronger than Jean had ever felt before. “Of course I am angry with you,” Niccolette said, shaking her head. “My gods! You could not have told me when I was in school – this I understand – but we have known each other many, many years! Many years – I have not been your student in more than eight.”

Niccolette huffed a sigh. “Fine. I am angry; you have disappointed me. You think I will let you go back out into the rain with an arrow sticking out of your back?” Niccolette raised both eyebrows, and shook her head. “How dare you.”

“Take your shirt off,” Niccolette said, firmly, “and your bandages too. I need you face down. You may have your choice to lie on the floor or the bed; I do not care. We are wasting time. Now!” She snapped her fingers, grateful they were dry enough to produce something like an audible noise.

Niccolette left Jean to finish their undressing. She could not feel it, she knew, not now, not if she were to cast. Not the anger she felt, not the hurt, not the betrayal. She could go to the mona with none of it, not if she wished to honor them; nor could she go with her care for Jean, for she knew all too well that this, too, was nothing to them.

Niccolette stalked to her trunk; she found the rhythm of her breath, steadily, in and out, and let all the rest go. She took the small black case where she kept her medical things, and brought it back to Jean.

“Later,” Niccolette said, coolly, “we will discuss all this and more. You will not escape it. For now, close your eyes; try to pass out, if you can. This will hurt.”