maurice toussant

Though she moves to go immediately, Celeste lingers in the doorway a moment longer, lips pressed together as she looks back to watch the scene playing out behind her — Maurice cradling the little girl in his arms, cooing and comforting and kissing her head. It’s a scene that should be endearing, one that might have even been enough to cool some of her lingering frustration, but beneath the surface of it, Celeste sees only the impending heartbreak and it worsens a too-familiar ache in her chest.

She had wanted a child so badly for so long, and though Maurice doesn’t speak much of it, Celeste knows there’s at least a part of him that would have wanted one too if it were possible. And in this moment, watching how gentle he is with her, seeing the worry creasing his brow, it’s more visible to her than ever before. He would have made a great father. But she can’t think about that now. She came here because Maurice said he needed her, but that doesn’t mean things are any better between them and the last thing anyone needed was for her to dwell on the family they can never have. She’s upset enough already, her patience worn so thin and her ability to bury her hurts rendered ineffective by the current weight of it all. So she turns without another word, pulling the door closed behind her as the child begins to cry in earnest.

It doesn’t take her long to procure the child a meal, even while forced to move at entirely human speeds. Within minutes, she’s pushing the door open again and setting a bowl of soup, more broth than anything, before them. Already, most of the fight seemed to have left the little girl leaving her lying against Maurice, chest heaving with exertion, a single small tear slipping down her cheeks as she shivers, but otherwise motionless. Even her crying has lost its power, more whimpering and sniffling than true cries. The sight of her now breaks Celeste’s heart, even more than the fighting had before, and instinctively, her hand reaches to offer some comfort of her own. She pulls it back almost as quickly, though. The child won’t want her too-cold touch, and Celeste cannot afford to get attached.

It wasn't something he thought about most times. There was no point in thinking about the impossible, and even though he greatly longed for a child at some times (if only to bring up a child with Celeste who wanted one more than he ever could), there was no point in thinking of the impossible. Vampires weren't changing and they couldn't have kids, that was just how it was.

But right now, holding the small child, he could briefly let those feelings bubble to the surface, his pale fingers briefly brushing sweaty hair from her face. He doesn't bother to look up when Celeste enters back into the room, doesn't move when she attempts to offer her own form of comfort. Instead, he reaches to take the soup from her, spooning a little bit onto the metal spoon and holding it to the childs mouth, cooing softly to her.

maurice (5'4", hollow-chested, thin and pale), who was the sickly little brother but had a knack for running that outmatched his brothers, was turned when claude went to the vampires in the farm next to theirs, pleading for them to save his brothers life. maurice had contracted another illness, a plague-like illness that slowly attacked his lungs, darkening his veins, killing him slowly and very painfully. he agreed to be turned. it helped him. but the physical effects did not go away, even if they wouldn't kill him.

maurice was turned. in a fight with his brother over the farm, he slashed him from his forehead to his neck, nearly killing his brother and forcing their maker to turn claude.

claude's anger, his cruelty, which was hidden from Maurice throughout his childhood and teenagehood was amplified a thousand times in his vampirehood. he became cruel, killing humans by the dozens, harvesting their blood and wanting to expand the land, killed their maker and his family despite Maurice's pleading to get to know them.

“A new couch would tie it all together,” she says, “and a new project would be fun.”

Though Celeste is always adding to the decor scattered about the house, she doesn’t often redecorate and truthfully, she hadn’t been planning on a complete redesign even now, just something to change so she didn’t feel so…stuck. But after all this time apart, she is almost desperate to make up for lost time and what better way to do it than a shared project. Their hobbies so seldom overlap on the best of days, anyways, and it makes this idea particularly enticing.

"Something to get our mind off of all of this."

He waves a non committal hand in the air to gesture towards their entire situation in hand. The thought of Maurice Toussant in a furniture store, even at night, makes him want to burst out laughing. Half the time, people thought he was just a teenager. Half the time, they thought Celeste was his mother, not the woman he'd been married to for over a thousand years.

Those few hours are half relief and half agony.

Celeste hadn’t been sure the agent in her blood would take to him. When logic crept back into her mind, she realized that she really hadn’t known what she was doing. The part of her that once experienced this was inaccessible to her, and as adamant as she was against the thought of making progeny, she had never felt the need to learn the process. Her maker hadn’t offered the information and she had never asked. An even higher logic said that the knowledge had come from somewhere and therefore it had to have been the right move, but how could she be sure?

Until she noticed the breath filling his lungs again, the strengthening of his heartbeats, the sealing of wounds in his flesh, and the cracking of setting bones. The relief had been almost dizzying, but then came a different kind of fear. The reasons she wouldn’t turn him. The very reasons they had argued. Would his mind take to vampirism as easily as his body had? Would he actually like his immortal life? How would the agent change him? Would he still be her Maurice? Could he be? After all, hers had not — memories sealed away, forced to grapple with what she had become, a millennium of loneliness. How many times had she contemplated ending it all until she met him? The human man who had somehow managed to give her life a sense of meaning. Not just the fleeting enjoyments that kept her going, but the belief that maybe this was what it had all been for. That every day had been leading to their moments together.

Falling in love with Maurice Toussant had been stupid and selfish and dangerous, as this only proved, but her time with him had truly been the best she’d ever had.

When he stirs, Celeste is standing on the other side of her bedroom, adjusting the various items laid across an ornate vanity for what had to be the hundredth time. She had not taken him back to his home though she had been closer to it. It was, after all, a human home and though he had given her permission to enter it before, Celeste couldn’t be sure whether she would still have access to it now, or whether she would have gained access to it already. And besides, in the moments following the near-tragedy of this, she had longed for safety, security, and comfort more than ever. So she had taken him home. To her home. It was already blacked out, stocked with whatever he could possibly need. It had taken her days to develop a need for blood, but she hadn’t made anyone else. Her maker had mentioned that was normal but couldn’t some still be different? What if Maurice was different? And if her turning was the norm, she had been sick for days after ‘coming down’ from the initial effect of the agent — practically bedridden and feeling almost as if she were dying all over again as it ate through her remaining human blood. This way, she can watch over him if that’s the case.

At the sound of his first movements, she turns, a smile lighting up her face ( now scrubbed clean of the blood-tears that had stained it earlier ), but at the sound of his words, everything in her wilts in an instant. The look on her face then is nothing short of despair. That part — the loss of her memory — had not been normal. It had happened before to others but it was rare and she hadn’t been expecting the same to happen to him.

She's his maker. He knows that. A PART of him knows that as well as he knows his own name, knows that he is now not human, that he had been sick for a long time and now he wasn't. He doesn't move for the longest moment, his eyes rapidly moving from her and then to the door. A part of him knew that the outside was dangerous, an innate feeling in his frame that was buzzing underneath the surface.

Letting out a shaky exhale, he allows the breath to calm him, to freeze him in place as green hues observe her. He observes the way she approaches him, as if SHE was the prey, her hands held outwards in a gesture to soothe him. As if she were not capable of destroying him in a second.

His heart raced just a bit faster in his chest, scrambling off of the bed, shaking his head.

“I am…not much of a dancer either,” Celeste admits through the distant tone of someone whose thoughts are far from the moment at hand, accent thicker as her focus abandons the cadence of her words.

In truth, though, they are not as far as they may seem, rather acutely aware of every sensation and every movement of the bodies around her as she falls into the position every young debutante knows as well as they know their own names — one hand in his, bodies close but not too close. However, unlike the debutantes littering the dance floor, Celeste does not smile up at him or bat her lashes or make any further attempt at small talk. She does not even look at him at first, eyes tracking Claude Toussant through the crowd. And the hand he takes does not lay delicately in his palm but instead, it grips his hard enough to ground the trembling of his fingers, to instinctively promise a protection he cannot get know her capable of. And all the while, Celeste swallows against the churning of her belly, unsure if the sudden nausea is the child growing inside or the flood of adrenaline in her veins.

Her gaze only comes back to Maurice when she loses his brother in the crowd ( which may feel to her like its own kind of danger but still satisfies a need to put distance between the two of them and the immediate threat ), meeting his eyes with a boldness than is far more natural to her than the easily-accepted politeness of before. A boldness that carries into her words now that it had been awoken.

“Keep looking at me. Pretend you really wanted this so he doesn’t suspect this is anything but a dance,” she tells him. “This will afford us a few moments but not many.”

She pauses as she twirls to the rhythm of the music and pulls closer again.

“If you want to disappear, perhaps I can create some sort of diversion and give you an easier escape.”

Her father would be furious, surely, but there is nothing he can do to her that she is not used to already and she would much rather it be her to face someone’s violent ire than him. If nothing else, it is inevitable for her. She has no escape, no way to disappear from his sight for long. But Maurice has a freedom she can only dream of. As long as he had a believable excuse, he could leave here tonight and postpone his brother’s “discussion” indefinitely.

“No one would question if a lady like me suddenly say…” she shoots a quick glance around, ignoring the sight of her father in the distance with a heavy swallow, “tripped over her gown and wrecked havoc upon the lemonade table? Too long out of society to know how to manage a ball gown and a crowd?”

It wouldn’t help her reputation any, it wouldn’t help her tonight when she returns to the de Beaumarche estate with her father, it wouldn’t help the girls find husbands. But it would help him now, and it would be mostly forgotten about in a few weeks, she is sure. It would just be a little faux pas, not a full on scandal. Nothing to pass up a pretty young wife and a substantial dowry over even if they were seemingly on very thin ice.

"He wouldn't fall for that. He knows that a distraction will allow me to slip away." Tongue licks at his lips for a brief moment, letting out a shaky sigh.

He knows that Celeste means well, but causing a distraction wouldn't do anything to deter Claude from finding Maurice. No. They needed something different than a loud distraction, something quiet that Claude would not expect. It was at that moment that Elodie approached, her youthful expression similar to Maurice's. She had his eyes, the Toussant eyes, and his dark hair, her curls loosely hanging. She was not a woman to live by societal ideals although she was still trying to find a husband, as Claude dictated to her.

It was that or Claude would arrange one and that thought was enough to spurn her into action. Gently, a gloved hand reaches out to touch Maurice's as she appears to stumble, nearly falling.

Maurice instantly steps backwards, grabbing at his sister to support her. She gives him a quick wink, flashing a similar one at Celeste, subtly gesturing for the woman to follow them with a sleight of hand. Maurice gently supports her as they head for the garden in the back, the one with a secret entrance outwards. They had both found it a few balls back.

"You’re   not   on   the   list."

"Need   a   light?"

"You   dropped   this."

"Is   that   your   drink   or   mine?"

"You're   late."

"I   thought   you'd   be   taller."

"You   always   stare   like   that?"

"They   told   me   not   to   trust   you."

"I   wasn’t   expecting   you."

"You   clean   up   well."

"You   look   lost."

"Haven’t   we   met?"

"Not   what   I   imagined."

"Are   you   following   me?"

"You’re   not   from   around   here."

"You’ve   got   something   on   your   cheek."

"Mind   if   I   cut   in?"

"You're   sitting   in   my   seat."

"I   was   warned   about   you."

"That’s   a   dangerous   smile."

"This   seat   taken?"

"You're   the   distraction."

"Why   are   you   looking   at   me   like   that?"

"You're   early."

"You're   late   on   purpose."

"First   time   here?"

"Try   the   champagne."

"That   color   suits   you."

"You're   exactly   how   I   pictured   you."

"We’re   not   supposed   to   talk."

"We   shouldn’t   be   seen   together."

"Do   I   know   you?"

"That   watch   doesn’t   match   your   suit."

"You’re   not   very   good   at   hiding."

"Someone’s   been   asking   about   you."

"Thought   you’d   never   show."

"You   have   good   taste   in   music."

"Don't   turn   around."

"Guess   we’re   partners   now."

"You   shouldn’t   be   here."

"Do   you   believe   in   fate?"

"You’re   late.   I   almost   left."

"That’s   my   drink."

"I   think   you’re   in   the   wrong   place."

"Your   cover’s   slipping."

"Tell   me   that   wasn’t   on   purpose."

"Are   you   going   to   apologize?"

"Care   to   dance?"

"That’s   quite   an   entrance."

"You   always   this   bold?"

"I’ve   heard   of   you."

"You’re   not   easy   to   find."

"You   look   nervous."

"Sit.   Please."

"You   read   the   file?"

"You   shouldn’t   trust   me."

"Nice   aim."

"We   weren’t   supposed   to   meet   yet."

"You   took   your   time."

"So,   you’re   the   infamous   one."

"Someone's   been   watching   me."

"Your   timing’s   suspicious."

"You   look   like   trouble."

"That’s   a   nice   trick."

"I’ve   been   looking   for   you."

"Are   you   hurt?"

"They   didn’t   say   you’d   be   charming."

"You   always   arrive   like   this?"

"That’s   classified."

"Don’t   trust   the   bartender."

"You're   bleeding."

"You   have   five   minutes."

"Where’s   your   partner?"

"I   wasn’t   briefed   on   you."

"You   have   terrible   timing."

"I   wasn’t   expecting   company."

"I   thought   you   were   a   myth."

"You   look   bored."

"I   saw   you   watching   me."

"You're   not   like   the   others."

"So,   you're   the   backup?"

"Try   not   to   get   killed."

"That's   a   dangerous   dress."

"You   don't   belong   here."

"We   meet   at   last."

"That’s   not   your   real   name."

"You   weren’t   followed,   right?"

"We’ve   never   met.   Officially."

"Don’t   say   my   name."

"Is   this   seat   cursed   too?"

"No   sudden   moves."

"We’re   alone   now."

"Take   off   the   mask."

"I   know   what   you   did."

"Who   let   you   in?"

"You’re   prettier   in   person."

"You’re   not   what   I   expected."

"You   shouldn’t   smile   like   that."

"Don’t   flatter   yourself."

“Wait, angels? Hang on, since when are celestials involved in this? I thought it was just the council being difficult and you dealing with being a deacon or whatever, not… not the heavenly hosts adding into the mix.”

"Ophelia." His voice is quiet. Does he feel bad for dragging her into his life? For exposing her to the dangers of the vampire world, and the knowledge that they were only one decision away from complete extinction by the angels that had created them.

As his cool breath ghosts across her skin, his words so sweet in her ears, her chest heaves between them, pulling in a breath that returns to the air as a sigh. Already she can feel it — the way her senses begin to grow stronger, like his words have woken a part of her that was sleeping, biding its time until the two came together again. Her fingers trail down his arms and she knows he feels it too, her slow, steady touch lingering on his skin, every nerve ending electrified. She draws it out, turning her head to bring her lips to his. Letting them hover just a hair’s breadth apart before claiming yet another kiss. But this one isn’t like the others. It’s not quick. It’s not a question with the promise of more if only she’ll forgive him. It’s the answer, and she takes her time giving it.

Guiding his hands, she brings them to her waist then slowly lower, following the gentle curves of her body until he can get a firm grasp on her thighs. As she pulls away from the kiss, just enough to allow her to speak, newly descended fangs drag lightly across his lower lip.

Her touch brings him to life, electrifying every inch of his frame, blood rushing to his face, rushing to other more intimate areas. He lets out a low groan as his body further responds to her, pulling her closer to his frame. He knew every single inch of his wife's body and he would never tire of her, of the sounds she made when he bit her, the moans he could draw out of her.

“Honey.” Celeste’s voice is a breathy whisper, the sound laced with all the pain she instantly feels on his behalf, heart breaking at the guilt she can actually see eating at him. She doesn’t need blood-ties to know it, but the intensity of his emotion is loud in their shared bond either way and it turns her stomach.

She could kill Claude Toussant herself for what he had put Maurice through all those centuries ago, for all the traumas he had etched so deeply into his little brother’s mind that they haunted him so vehemently still. She could tear her brother-in-law apart and never even blink at the violence her hands would be capable of because Claude would deserve every bit of it and more. The only thing that has ever stopped her from ridding their lives of the ever looming threat of him, of tracking him down just as she sought to track down her own tormentor, is the fact that he is so much older than her. So much faster and stronger. Even armed to the teeth, Celeste would never stand a chance against him and she knows it, and she will not hand herself over and let Claude take her from Maurice too.

“Listen to me. You are the sort of man who was dealt a terrible hand and did what it took to survive it. And then, you didn’t just survive it. You overcame your situation at great personal cost, and you never once looked back after. You fought to free yourself, you almost died to free yourself, and then you became the kind of man you always were at heart — a good one, with a compassionate, loving heart. The kind of man who knows what he believes is right and sticks with it even when it seems the whole world is against him. Who has and would give up everything, even his own life, to keep the people he loves safe. Who has already given up so much of his comfort and happiness and safety to keep our whole society safe despite all the opposition you’ve faced. That is the man you are right now, and that is all that matters. Well, that and one other thing…”

Her hand takes up its rhythm through his curls again and though he hides his face from her, her head tips as if she can meet his gaze anyways.

His wife's voice soothes some part of him that's broken. He feels that broken part stir just a little bit, soothed back into place but not healing. Never healing. He would always be a little broken, but he supposed that Celeste and him were both broken.

He will never be able to forgive himself for what he did. Nor would he ever want to. A large part of who he was is because of what he had done, is because of who his brother had made him to be. Part of who he was today was out of guilt of everything he did, the cruel realization that humans were so much more than meals that he could take freely. He had forgotten what it meant to be human in the two hundred years he had lingered with his brother.

The smile that crosses Anya’s face then, despite the heaviness of the mood just moments ago, is a beaming one bigger than most of those that came before it. After all, that was all she had ever wanted to hear, was it not? Even before Maurice, even before she truly knew what a loving father looked like, she had been working so hard, doing such terrible things, all to earn this moment right here. The moment in which she was finally enough. The moment in which she finally did well enough to be a good daughter, let alone the best daughter.

The words would have been sweet coming from her father’s tongue, but they are even sweeter coming from Maurice and sense of pride she feels rises in her stronger than ever before.

“Really? The best? You mean it?”

Not that he actually cared about anything Anya had done. Because he had always done worse. She would never actually know anything he had done, he would never actually tell her anything (only Celeste knew the horrors of his past and he wanted to keep it that way).

Celeste’s eyes linger on him for a moment. A beat too long, really. A beat that gives away the way her mind is lingering on his earlier words, the way her heart aches for him. And the way he makes all those tragedies, all the violence, she had only ever heard about suddenly real in a way it had never really been to her, so far removed from it all. She had always been sympathetic, but the sorrow in his gaze makes her something more. Something she isn’t sure she has a word for.

And then she seems to realize how long her silence is lingering. Brown eyes blink in rapid succession as she offers up several quick nods.

Grief was something he was used to feeling. It was a constant feeling ever since Order 66. That moment had changed EVERYTHING and he would never be the carefree padawan he had once been. Looking down at Lil Buddy, he lets out a shaky sigh, reaching out to fiddle with a loose screw on Lil Buddys hand. He says nothing for a long moment before lifting his eyes, green hues observing her for a second.