FIC: Let Me Walk in the Sun Once More, Lord Peter Wimsey, PG-13
So I signed up for schmoop_bingo and was all determined to write pairings that weren't Hilary/St. George! And look what my first fill was. SURPRISE
I don't even know how I'm going to get bingo on that card yet. I'm just making this up as I go along.
Title: Let Me Walk in the Sun Once More
Length: 1085
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: St. George/Hilary Thorpe (Lord Peter Wimsey)
Note: For schmoop_bingo, prompt: "anniversary- first." Betaed by the_antichris. My bingo card is here.
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Hilary had been in Rome nearly a week, doing her best to enjoy her holiday despite everything, when she came back from a walk one afternoon to find St. George sitting patiently on the steps in front of her hotel. He looked up at her when she drew near, smiling that hopeful little half-smile against which Hilary was completely powerless, and she sat down on the steps next to him without a moment's hesitation. "I wasn't sure from your letter if you wanted me here," he said, after a moment. "But I didn't want to wait two more weeks to see you."
Hilary folded her hands in her lap, shifting over slightly so that their knees pressed together. "I always wanted to visit Rome by myself," she confessed, as if it were a perfectly sensible response to what he had said. "It was going to be a gesture, you know, of independence or something-- I was going to come here last summer after I finished up at Oxford, but then I had you instead, and then I had a job, so I put it off. And then everything went all to hell and I thought--" She shrugged. "Well, that's that, then. And ran for the hills like an idiot."
"Lee," St. George began cautiously. "If you don't want me here--"
"Oh, for God's sake, would you let me finish?" Hilary laughed and pressed her face into his shoulder; they could have been up in her hotel room and half undressed by now, she thought, and that would have sorted everything out just fine. In the meantime, she clearly wasn't going to have much luck explaining herself when she couldn't even keep things straight in her own mind. "You'd think," she went on after a moment, "after an entire year of this, we'd be better at it."
"You'd think," he agreed, and reached for her hand.
Hilary squeezed his in return. "I want to have this holiday, and I want to have it alone, I think. But only if I know I've got you waiting for me back home."
St. George lit up; just beamed, in a way that could never fail to make Hilary's heart turn over. "I'm sorry. Whatever I did that set this off-- I can't actually recall what it was, just now, but I'm sure it was my fault and competely horrendous."
"You lost your cufflink under my sofa," said Hilary absently; she was watching him with what felt like such blatant relief and affection that it ought to have been embarrassing.
"Is that what it was? In that case, all is explained." St. George caught the way she was looking at him, then, so Hilary decided she had better kiss him before he could say anything smart about the matter.
She thought sometimes that, as a professional writer, she ought to be ashamed of never having the right words for him-- for the way his angular face went soft when he looked at her, for the way their fingers fit together, for the way she could make him speechless like no one else could-- but really, she decided, all she wanted was a little more time to try and work it out before she fouled things up for good. "I'm not a bit sorry you're here," Hilary told him, in case she hadn't entirely made that clear.
"I couldn't very well have stayed home, honestly." St. George snorted. "Not with Mother gloating all over your departure. She's been simply horrid about it."
"Well, she can be horrid to me in person when I get back." Hilary propped her chin on her hand and sighed.
St. George's fingers slid idly up the back of her neck. "Just like last year. We ought to make a tradition out of it."
"Did something happen this time last year?" Hilary smiled up at him. "I can't remember a thing; it must not have been that important."
"A year ago this past Tuesday," said St. George cheerfully, "I presented my suit to you, as the elderly say, and you-- for some reason I have yet to fathom-- chose to accept it instead of tossing me out a third-story window."
Hilary patted his knee. "And you repaid my generosity by taking me home to be interrogated by your parents."
"You know." He leaned back against the step behind him, elaborately casual. "It's nearly suppertime; there really can't be much point in my trying to get back out of the city until tomorrow."
Hilary took the hint immediately, for once. "I'd better buy you supper, then." And then, when St. George looked about to object: "It's the least I can do. I'm sure your substantial pride can take the blow."
-------
So they dined in a very civilized and proper celebratory fashion at Hilary's hotel; did nothing more than hold hands occasionally during the meal, and St. George escorted her back upstairs to her door with his hand very civilly placed on her back.
Less than a minute after the door had closed behind them, Hilary was sitting on the desk yanking St. George's shirt open while he pushed her skirt up around her waist and his mouth dragged down the side of her neck, and everything was finally perfect again.
When they were finished for the moment, she slumped against him with a groan, looping her arms around his neck and closing her eyes; after another minute she shifted forward off the desk, and St. George staggered back a step as he took her weight. "Careful," he complained half-heartedly. "You could give a man a moment to recover."
Hilary grumbled into his shoulder in response. "Getting old, are you, Jerry?"
"You're selfish, that's what you are." His long-suffering sigh ruffled her hair as he nudged her back onto the desk. "Selfish and spoilt."
"And I love you," Hilary reminded him, tightening her arms and legs about him all the same.
"And-- manipulative," St. George continued relentlessly, barely skipping a beat. "I can't imagine what any man would ever want with you."
Hilary lifted her head and kissed him lazily. She thought about waking up with him next morning, with the window letting in golden sunlight instead of the grey of fog; thought about not having to care for once who saw them come and go or at what hours. "Are you going to stand here and keep complaining, or are you taking me to bed?"
And after all, it was their anniversary. Perhaps she'd give it two nights before she sent him home.
END
I don't even know how I'm going to get bingo on that card yet. I'm just making this up as I go along.
Title: Let Me Walk in the Sun Once More
Length: 1085
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: St. George/Hilary Thorpe (Lord Peter Wimsey)
Note: For schmoop_bingo, prompt: "anniversary- first." Betaed by the_antichris. My bingo card is here.
----------------------------------------
Hilary had been in Rome nearly a week, doing her best to enjoy her holiday despite everything, when she came back from a walk one afternoon to find St. George sitting patiently on the steps in front of her hotel. He looked up at her when she drew near, smiling that hopeful little half-smile against which Hilary was completely powerless, and she sat down on the steps next to him without a moment's hesitation. "I wasn't sure from your letter if you wanted me here," he said, after a moment. "But I didn't want to wait two more weeks to see you."
Hilary folded her hands in her lap, shifting over slightly so that their knees pressed together. "I always wanted to visit Rome by myself," she confessed, as if it were a perfectly sensible response to what he had said. "It was going to be a gesture, you know, of independence or something-- I was going to come here last summer after I finished up at Oxford, but then I had you instead, and then I had a job, so I put it off. And then everything went all to hell and I thought--" She shrugged. "Well, that's that, then. And ran for the hills like an idiot."
"Lee," St. George began cautiously. "If you don't want me here--"
"Oh, for God's sake, would you let me finish?" Hilary laughed and pressed her face into his shoulder; they could have been up in her hotel room and half undressed by now, she thought, and that would have sorted everything out just fine. In the meantime, she clearly wasn't going to have much luck explaining herself when she couldn't even keep things straight in her own mind. "You'd think," she went on after a moment, "after an entire year of this, we'd be better at it."
"You'd think," he agreed, and reached for her hand.
Hilary squeezed his in return. "I want to have this holiday, and I want to have it alone, I think. But only if I know I've got you waiting for me back home."
St. George lit up; just beamed, in a way that could never fail to make Hilary's heart turn over. "I'm sorry. Whatever I did that set this off-- I can't actually recall what it was, just now, but I'm sure it was my fault and competely horrendous."
"You lost your cufflink under my sofa," said Hilary absently; she was watching him with what felt like such blatant relief and affection that it ought to have been embarrassing.
"Is that what it was? In that case, all is explained." St. George caught the way she was looking at him, then, so Hilary decided she had better kiss him before he could say anything smart about the matter.
She thought sometimes that, as a professional writer, she ought to be ashamed of never having the right words for him-- for the way his angular face went soft when he looked at her, for the way their fingers fit together, for the way she could make him speechless like no one else could-- but really, she decided, all she wanted was a little more time to try and work it out before she fouled things up for good. "I'm not a bit sorry you're here," Hilary told him, in case she hadn't entirely made that clear.
"I couldn't very well have stayed home, honestly." St. George snorted. "Not with Mother gloating all over your departure. She's been simply horrid about it."
"Well, she can be horrid to me in person when I get back." Hilary propped her chin on her hand and sighed.
St. George's fingers slid idly up the back of her neck. "Just like last year. We ought to make a tradition out of it."
"Did something happen this time last year?" Hilary smiled up at him. "I can't remember a thing; it must not have been that important."
"A year ago this past Tuesday," said St. George cheerfully, "I presented my suit to you, as the elderly say, and you-- for some reason I have yet to fathom-- chose to accept it instead of tossing me out a third-story window."
Hilary patted his knee. "And you repaid my generosity by taking me home to be interrogated by your parents."
"You know." He leaned back against the step behind him, elaborately casual. "It's nearly suppertime; there really can't be much point in my trying to get back out of the city until tomorrow."
Hilary took the hint immediately, for once. "I'd better buy you supper, then." And then, when St. George looked about to object: "It's the least I can do. I'm sure your substantial pride can take the blow."
-------
So they dined in a very civilized and proper celebratory fashion at Hilary's hotel; did nothing more than hold hands occasionally during the meal, and St. George escorted her back upstairs to her door with his hand very civilly placed on her back.
Less than a minute after the door had closed behind them, Hilary was sitting on the desk yanking St. George's shirt open while he pushed her skirt up around her waist and his mouth dragged down the side of her neck, and everything was finally perfect again.
When they were finished for the moment, she slumped against him with a groan, looping her arms around his neck and closing her eyes; after another minute she shifted forward off the desk, and St. George staggered back a step as he took her weight. "Careful," he complained half-heartedly. "You could give a man a moment to recover."
Hilary grumbled into his shoulder in response. "Getting old, are you, Jerry?"
"You're selfish, that's what you are." His long-suffering sigh ruffled her hair as he nudged her back onto the desk. "Selfish and spoilt."
"And I love you," Hilary reminded him, tightening her arms and legs about him all the same.
"And-- manipulative," St. George continued relentlessly, barely skipping a beat. "I can't imagine what any man would ever want with you."
Hilary lifted her head and kissed him lazily. She thought about waking up with him next morning, with the window letting in golden sunlight instead of the grey of fog; thought about not having to care for once who saw them come and go or at what hours. "Are you going to stand here and keep complaining, or are you taking me to bed?"
And after all, it was their anniversary. Perhaps she'd give it two nights before she sent him home.
END