drrutherford
Icarus Falls
| Separatist Son | Estranged Father | Neurosurgeon ⚕ | "There comes a time when the storm winds blow so strong that a man has no choice but to furl his sails."
1725 posts
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
Last Seen Blogs
rposk-blog
Rachel
meganediesoyoung
megane die so young
develline
arising
arainmorn-art
A clumsy auntie Rainy
Text
'But let's not delude ourselves. I'm not staying behind. I'm coming with you.'
Gideon's suddenly grateful for the dark that obscures his expression at that. Of course she's coming with him. God forbid Cece not have her way. "Y'know, foreign concept, I'm sure, but just cause this director's married to you, doesn't mean he's whipped." He grouses, about to tell her exactly what superior skills his character brings to the table when a distant alarm goes off like a harpy's cry.
He doesn't think much of it at first, until Cecelia declares that it's her car and breaks character suddenly, flouncing through the pantry, down a winding hall leading back into the ballroom. All the while, he half-strides, half-runs after her. "Hey wait! What's the rush, it's probably just a-" latecomer guest, he doesn't get the chance to say as they rejoin the others, half of them shooting Cecelia peculiar looks as if she's onto some obscure clue. "Sorry folks, sometimes she gets like this..." He puts on his Mr. Holliday again, barely keeping up with her. "What can I say?... Actresses."
They'll love that, he thinks, rewarded with some amused titters. Anyone who knows him knows he was once married to a real actress, and how badly that all ended. Art imitating life is a sour cherry on the sundae that's this murder mystery party, but the least he can do is poke fun at himself for George and Isobel's sake.
In fact, he thinks he's doing alright at this whole roleplaying business — it's rather Cece he's surprised about. She throws open the mansion's doors with something bordering on anxiety as he follows her out. That's when he sees her car.
Correction: Sees the other half of the party, gathered outside. Gawking at her car.
Gideon doesn't understand what he's peering at, initially. Her car's absolutely plastered with... Pictures?... No, photographs. He's still trailing after her, although his steps have slowed — but they stop altogether when his eyes finally register what he's looking at.
Illicit images of Cecelia, captured in several stages of undress and something more with a man, identity obscured by the position of his back which faces the camera. But the jet black hair, the style of shirt, the frame... One thing's for sure, clear as day even in the dark of the evening that surrounds them: It isn't Adam. It isn't Mr. Hathaway, the only man meant to be enjoying Cecelia Hathaway's very married attentions.
Gideon turns quickly away from the images, mind reeling. He doesn't look at the panicked woman who's reaching over the windscreen, trying to snatch some of the evidence down. Instead, he swallows, eyes falling back on everyone else.
"Alright, that's it. That's it... Show's over, folks." He calls, stepping out in front of the onlookers and gesturing to the mansion behind them, hoping that common courtesy (if nothing else) will oblige them to take the hint... However reluctantly they seem to heed it at present. In fact, the murder mystery game going on inside seems to have lost all appeal on the growing crowd; in seeing that something far more provocative is happening outdoors. No amount of glamorous, fictional dress-up can captivate as well as the evidence of some real dirty laundry.
"I SAID SHOW'S OVER!"
It's louder this time, bordering on a demand rather than an appeal to polite company. He waves his arms like a referee to drive the message home, hoping to herd them back inside and leave Cecelia to—
The slam of a car door slings his gaze over his shoulder. "Wait! Cece-..." She can't hear him over the rev of her engine, and even if she could, Gideon isn't sure that she'd stop. The car lurches into reverse, kicking up dust onto his roaring 20's suit, and in a matter of seconds she's gone, leaving a burst of chatter and a brewing scandal in her wake.
— End.
Cecelia's heart raced as Gideon's tension radiated through the darkness, his grip tightening around her wrists. Despite his attempt to maintain composure, she could sense the uncertainty in his voice, juxtaposed by her own excitement. What? George and Isobel, didn't do things in halves.
The abrupt, piercing scream shattered the oppressive silence, its reverberations echoing through the darkness and stirring a tumult of conflicting emotions within Cecelia. While her pulse quickened with a surge of exhilaration, a whisper of caution cautioned her against recklessness.
She understood the gravity of their situation, the lingering spectre of danger following in the wake of recent events. Yet, beneath the veneer of apprehension, an undeniable thrill thrummed through her veins, beckoning her towards the unknown depths of the tunnel. Besides, neither George nor Izzy had any associations with the shadowy underworld that Cecelia found herself tangentially involved with.
"Of course, darling. Please, be careful. I'll wait right here for you..." A pause, a laugh, was he kidding himself? "But let's not delude ourselves. I'm not staying behind. I'm coming with you, because clearly, someone needs to watch your back. Remember, I'm trained in three martial arts and rhythmic gymnastics. What are you going to do? Direct our murderer to death?"
She crept deeper into the darkness of the tunnel, her footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls, before she finally reached a weathered door. With a creak, she nudged it open, wondering where they had ended up now. She groped around cautiously, making sure to avoid Mr. Sensitive Gideon in the process, until her fingers found a light switch on the wall. The butler's pantry? Her gaze snapped to an unsettling scene unfolding before them: a bloodied knife resting ominously on the counter, its presence accentuated by a trail of crimson stains. Their next clue!
"What do you--" The shriek wail of a car alarm sliced through the tense atmosphere, jolting Cecelia into recognition—it was her own vehicle's alarm. What in the world? Had she accidentally triggered it with her keys? No, that couldn't be right; she'd checked her coat and left the keys at the coat check earlier. "Apologies, that's my car… just a moment," she interjected, momentarily breaking character as she swiftly made her way through the house, dismissing a few concerned guests along the way. Retrieving her coat, she extracted the keys and hastened outside to rectify the situation.
As Cecelia stepped outside, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach at the sight before her. Her cherished Aston Martin, once a symbol of her (and Adam's) success and refinement, now served as a canvas for her deepest shame—photographs of her affair with Ayaz plastered across its elegant surface. Each image was a piercing dagger to her heart, a cruel reminder of the betrayal that had shattered not only her carefully constructed facade but also led to Adam's recent departure. He's not coming back, Cece.
"No..., no, NO!" She scrambled, paying no mind to Izzy's concerned inquiries or the bewildered stares of the other guests as she approached her tarnished car. "No, no, no, no, no!!" With trembling hands, she began to tear at the damning images, each rip a testament to the unraveling of her carefully guarded secrets. Was he looking? Was he judging?
Weighted with sorrow, Cecelia painstakingly cleared a small space on the windscreen, her eyes refusing to look anywhere else.
The once-glamorous evening now lay in ruins, its allure overshadowed by the harsh reality of her own indiscretions and the painful consequences they had brought with them.
With a heavy heart and a soul burdened by regret, she sank into the driver's seat, the echoes of her shattered illusions ringing in her ears. Without a word, she turned the key in the ignition, the engine's low purr a mournful accompaniment to her solitary departure. With one last glance up towards the house, the guests, and Gideon, Cecelia swallowed and broke away.
This was the end.
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
He releases her a little reluctantly, having felt relieved for the tactile reassurance that she's here, safe, in one piece. After her date with not just any Russian mobster, it isn't something that could have been taken for granted, no matter how nicely Eleanor was treated on her date. "Be careful," He warns, feeling a bit like a broken record but unable to help himself on her account. "They're good at that, y'know? 'Made men'," – he won't use another word for it in so public a setting – "appearing charming. Showing you what they want you to believe of them... They don't tend to get so high up without that trait."
His own adoptive father is a prime example of that. Charisma is often more persuasive than morality, more seductive, even, and he knows too many people who've paid the price for that shortsightedness. Still, if only because he can't bear to be the one who wipes the smile from her face, Gideon mollfies the sentiment with an affirmation.
"I'm glad you're safe and that you had a good time. We all are."
He wonders how quickly the Russians might've paid the price if she hadn't. Eleanor Shipley isn't only one of the country's onscreen favourites — she's good friends with Lara, and their families tend to rub elbows not infrequently.
"Amélie's fine." He adds, happy to change the topic. "Floating around here somewhere, likely being simultaneously awed and terrified by all the excess." It's said with a smile, as if to say you'll have to forgive her. Not that her feelings on the matter are anything but valid. They are indeed surrounded by an obnoxious degree of wealth, and having grown up around much the same, he normally wouldn't bat an eyelash. But being with a woman from humbler means serves a good reality check every once in a while.
... It's one of a long list of reasons he's grateful for her.
"Where's your date, missy?" He grins. "... Or are you committed to selling false hope to all your fans in having come unspoken for?" He knows how many vie for the chance.
She couldn't contain her grin at that remark. Gideon's hugs definitely helped in the most dire of instances.
Eleanor contemplated his words, and upon reflection, he wasn't exactly wrong. She really wasn't one for trouble, and despite the spotlight being a requirement of her career, she was happy to escape it when it came to personal terms. Yet, sometimes she ended up right in the middle of the web; tangled and stuck. If only he knew about Henri. She wasn't going down that road though, not tonight. Even if she felt guilty keeping it from Gideon.
In the case that things went awry, Eleanor knew Gideon was always looking out for her, and she appreciated him checking in after her date. "Surprisingly well," she admitted, her grin softening as they sought refuge in a quieter area of the estate. It was nice to take a break from all of the noise and music blaring.
"He honestly was a gentleman the entire time. Even seemed to enjoy himself a little. We did the cooking class and he didn't complain when he got burned from it. I know I'm blissfully unaware at times," Eleanor continued, knowing that she was kept out of the loop between most of the fighting factions. "But I never once felt unsafe around him. I obviously don't know his life story, but unless he proves otherwise, he's okay in my book. Enough about me though. How are things on your end? With work, and your lovely lady?"
#'definitely helped in the most dire of instances' - why is she so cute :'')#also don't bother matching length - it just got away from me!#G x Eleanor#events#event: Awards '24#March '24#afterparty#pre plot drop
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
"Casablanca." It isn't hard to place the quote, coming from one of his favourite films. It's followed by an appreciative laugh. Just as charming as he rememb-
That's when he sees them, just as she's turned fully, the elfin curve of her cheekbone catching the unforgiving glare of the overheard light. There's a long scar running from her right eye up to the hairline. It isn't the only one, either. Scars a little too straight to be accidental, and too garishly stark to have been made by any surgeon's hand.
Surgeons know to follow the natural tension lines of a person's skin for a reason; scars always tucked neatly somewhere inconspicuous, especially on the face.
It's only then that Gideon realizes he's faltered into silence for a few beats, during which the source of his attention would've been obvious enough. Still, making up smoothly (if not very swiftly) for the faux pas, he moves to her counter. "What can I say? You have remarkably good gin." He replies, trying to keep his smile in place.
"How've- how've ya been?" And then, lest she feels more ill at ease with the elephant in the room than he does, he adds; "... You look a little different than when I saw you last." It's cautious, but, he hopes, with honesty that isn't unwelcome. "Still as lovely, though."
It's relatively slow at the bar this time of day, though she would never jinx herself by actually acknowledging that, so Olivia was taking advantage of the time to catch up on inventory. She was standing behind the bar, pen sticking out of her mouth as she reached for a bottle when an almost familiar voice spoke her name.
Abandoning inventory, she turned around and scrutinized the man in front of her before the recognition kicked in. "Mr. Rutherford. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in al the world, you walk into mine. What can I get for you?"
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
'Bad timing is all.'
He smiles at that, lets out a small huff in recognition. It could be the title to their own untimely tale, written over a dozen years ago, before their lives led them further and further apart. Bad timing is something he knows like the back of his hand.
"I hadn't really thought about whether or not you were involved in his activities..." It's true, mostly because he hasn't wanted to. Mostly because he runs from the thought, whenever it clouds the back of his mind like something ugly and foreboding that can't be put back down once it's been picked up. "I figured it wasn't my business."
That's less true, if only because there's a part of him that still struggles to accept it; that an interest in her safety – her happiness – is no longer his business.
"And for the record," the Rutherford continues, "I wouldn't think that anything you chose in that marriage was necessarily willing." Too faulty an accusation against a woman who'd once lived and breathed for the law, for human rights, and who never was given much choice in who she was marrying. "But I'd be the first to know that sometimes family doesn't give you much of a choice, willing or otherwise."
Which begs the question — "I guess that's why I'm asking. I was under the impression that you were free of him now... Was I mistaken?"
The exchange of pleasantries had clearly come to an end.
The last time Lyudmila recalled Gideon asking questions, the conversation took an unexpected turn, diverging from both of their expectations. The memory cast a shadow over her thoughts, prompting her gaze to lower toward the gold liquid swirling in the glass clasped in her hand. The sensation of his lips against hers suddenly felt vivid, causing a barely perceptible parting of her own. Though it had been a year since that moment, it seemed like ages ago, as if the woman who had initiated the passionate action were a stranger to her now.
Not only had she changed, but so many other aspects of her life had shifted. With that realization, her eyes flickered toward the faint outline of her wedding ring still visible on her finger.
So much has changed, yet the torn beneath her heart persists, pricking at her with each memory of theirs with painful melancholy while keeping a spot warm, especially for him.
"Bad timing, is all." Lyudmila met the Rutherford's gaze once more, speaking with a simple honesty. "Gideon, I..." She paused, carefully weighing her words. "...I'm not entirely sure how deeply you believe I was involved in Konstantin's..." Another pause. "...activities." Fairly enough, Lyudmila acknowledged that she had never disclosed much about her life with her ex-husband unless it was absolutely necessary. Therefore, she couldn't blame Gideon for assuming she had, or still maintained, any influence over his actions.
"However, I've always made it clear that I never associated myself with anything or anyone within his organization. At least, I thought I had."
Despite her success in deceiving everyone else, Gideon was always an exception. While she prided herself on her ability to don any suitable mask, Gideon consistently saw through it, effortlessly disarming her. He had no obligation to care, to notice the subtle nuances that others overlooked, or to worry. Yet, here he sat across from her, his gentle eyes brimming with oceans of concern for people, for her.
So much has changed, yet the look he gives her remains unchanged, retaining its gentle demeanor, regardless of the perceived wrongs he believes she may have committed under the veil of her marriage.
"It did not upset me. I just wished I could've done more. If not for myself, then for you." For the people she loves.
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
"Allegedly." He echoes with a scoff. "That's a good one." Doesn't stop him stepping closer, even though he wants to roll his eyes a second time in half as many minutes when she insists it's superficial. As if she could be the judge of that.
"You know these things start with a patient history, right?... Going out on a limb to guess this is far from your first time in an A&E." Sarcasm seeps into his tone as he stops before her, scrutinizing her face. It gives him enough vantage point to search for obvious injuries, while hoping she'll spit out half a convincing story in the meantime.
"So, Miss Rossi... Kindly indulge me."
Except she doesn't. Not immediately, anyway, as she opts for a question about a concussion instead, before following up with another bad joke.
'Should we prepare a coffin?'
Gideon grimaces in annoyance. It's clear he doesn't share her amusement.
"You're hilarious. Has anyone ever told you that?" Flat. Deterring.
Maybe because when he looks at her, he doesn't see the woman who'd spent a night in his bed last January. Doesn't see the woman he's squabbled with on and off ever since. Instead, he sees the woman who'd nearly bled to death on his couch last June, as he'd worked frantically to put her back together.
Another glance over his shoulder at the doorway. He'll be in hot waters for that as well, if it's ever found out. And although he'd had several compelling reasons to stitch her up that night — total trust that she'll never use it against him was not one of them.
Well, she thinks it's a riot no matter how unamused Gideon continues to be in her presence. With the foundations of the Sovrani fracturing around Giordana and the only world she's ever known threatening to topple with it, morbid humor becomes an easy crutch. Hadn't that been precisely what he liked about her back on the bridge?
His demeanor screams utter confusion at the fault of some misprint, clearly, but just as she expects him to walk right back out of the room and seek his actual patient... he doesn't. Still a glutton for being actively irritated whenever they meet, it seems.
What am I doing here with you?
A single, unobstructed brow lifts in response. Where does one even begin with that?
"Allegedly," she shrugs. "I think it's superficial." Most of her facial injuries are concealed by makeup, albeit with much wincing during application. Waltzing around the streets of London so obviously injured would beget more questions and pity stares than Giordana cares to indulge, so she covered what could be and shielded the rest with her hair.
Unfortunately the gash on her forehead remains the most prominent evidence and as fingers pry away dark locks to reveal it, she wonders why her first instinct is to even bother showing him. Probably for the same fucked up reason that he's still standing here. "Pretty sure I'll live, but since you're hanging around... Do I seem concussed? Should we prepare a coffin?"
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
YVONNE:
Her own first hand experience with what happens when you get it wrong was back home, asleep with the nanny watching her. Two years old and with an attitude to match. She could never completely regret her fling with Théo because of her daughter, but as far as consequences went, she got off relatively easy. Yvonne may not have seen Gideon's marriage up close and personal, but she did see the effects of his divorce and custody agreement. Sometimes it felt like Gideon saw Maddie more than he saw his own son.
Yvonne nodded slowly. She'd heard bits and pieces about Katherine's drug use, even if she hadn't been there to see the effects first hand. And it didn't take much time in their circles to see just how quickly "social dabbling" could turn into something more.
She reached out to put her hand on top of Gideon's and gave it a squeeze. "I'm sorry, Gideon. I really am. We're both good at only seeing what we want to see and putting those rose colored glasses to good use when it comes to red flags."
'We're both good at only seeing what we want to see and putting those rose colored glasses to good use when it comes to red flags.'
Although bittersweet, it brings him some relief to hear her say it. To include herself in it, in such a way as to suggest she has already considered some of the risks he hopes she'll carefully esteem after they've had this conversation. She isn't a lovelorn teenager anymore, but he was a good deal older than her when he fell for Katherine, and older age alone wasn't enough to save him. It's why he continues his story.
"Yeah... That was tough." He acknowledges, looking down at her hand over his own, and hoping to God she'll never know the pain of it. To wonder where his wife was, with whom, to hear the whispers of her coworkers and still, still stick his head in the sand... To feel as though the fault must lie with him, to redouble his efforts in giving her all that he had, every scrap of self-esteem, like a marionette to her perpetual pleasure.
A bitter smile traces his mouth as he echoes it: "... Tough."
"But nowhere near as tough as what came after." The man continues after a beat.
"She was pregnant with Felix when I found out she was still using. That-... It broke me." There's still a trace of fury in his voice as he recalls it. "I could have forgiven her almost anything, but to risk our son's life that way... After she gave birth, after Felix spent the first two weeks of his life hooked up in an incubator going through all kinds of invasive tests because of her drug use... I filed for divorce." And Gideon still thanks every higher power imaginable that his son has been lucky enough to escape permanent handicap as a result of his mother's choices, but it's been no thanks to Katherine.
"That's the reason you need to be extra careful. Your boyfriend might not use drugs, but that doesn't mean he can't negatively impact Maddie's life... Especially as she's getting old enough to know it." The older brother pauses for a minute, thinking of his niece. "Actually, 'careful' doesn't even cut it. Someone you're just seeing casually is one thing. A boyfriend is a different story. He'll be in the picture, therefore you need to be absolutely bloody certain, Yvie... If not for your own sake, though you deserve no less, then certainly for Madeleine's. You have the luxury of choosing the man. She doesn't."
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Gideon: Sounds ominous.
Gideon: Could do lunch tomorrow if that works for you? Pick a place, choice is yours.
Text | @drrutherford
Ayda: This is me checking on you.
Ayda: I know it's been a few weeks since.
Ayda: I was wondering if you were free for lunch.
Ayda: There are a couple things I wanted to share with you.
1 note
·
View note
Text
#his replies tmrw. promise 🤞#just been stretched thin at work and came down with a cold i've been fighting this whole week...#at war with the paparazzi. || mirror
0 notes
Photo
#burnt out a bit after a set of night shifts but will hopefully get to replies this coming week... Apologies for the delay#At war with the paparazzi. || Mirror#ignoring the wedding ring ;/
709 notes
·
View notes
Text
He looks at her when she admits she felt similarly about Théo. Yvonne's relationship to the French mobster had burned fast and burned out years ago. As much as he wishes that any of them might've succeeded in better shielding Yvonne from him, he doesn't regret the addition to the family that stemmed from that tryst. So maybe it's enough that his little sister has enough clarity in hindsight to understand why they'd all scolded her about it as much as they had, back then. There's no use for more 'I told you so's'.
"I don't know." He answers honestly. "I won't bullshit you by pretending I've figured it all out, because I haven't." He's been seeing Amélie for the last six months, and yet he still hasn't figured it out. What if he's wrong again?... What if it breaks? "I can't tell you how to get it right, but I can tell you what happens when you get it wrong."
Where Théodore had, fortunately, been a passing flame for Yvonne, the same could not be said for his ex-wife. She'd consumed years of his life, and given the custody battle he's about to re-enter, will likely consume him for some time yet.
"She had a drug problem." It drops like a deadweight from his memories. Much as he tries, he can't cull the bitterness from his voice as he recalls it. "No one knew the full extent before we were married. Or at least, I didn't. I caught her a couple times, she dismissed it as a bit of social dabbling — swore she'd get clean before the wedding."
And she had, at first. A real honeymoon. But the ink had barely dried on their marriage license when the problems started back up again.
"I don't know when or even why it started, exactly, but soon I found out she was using again... And that she'd—" He clears his throat, trying to swallow back the humiliation that surfaces, even now. But this is his little sister, and if he can protect her by telling her the truth, no matter what it costs him, then it's worth it.
"She was cheating on me." He doesn't meet Yvonne's eyes. "I didn't believe at first, of course... I thought— Well, I suppose it doesn't matter what I thought. It was happening, and I stuck my head in the sand because I didn't want to believe it."
The giggles had been nonstop when the news about Gideon and Katherine's relationship broke. One Friday night in the dorms had been spent marathoning her movies and when it was clear Yvonne would meet her at family Christmas, there were countless requests for autographs and pictures. She hadn't wanted to overwhelm the other woman, an never had much of an opportunity to actually approach her one-on-one, but Yvonne brought back as many stories as she could to pass on, at least.
"It's what I felt with Théo. And with the relationship that sent me running to London with my tail tucked between my legs." Was this the first time she acknowledged Jared out loud? It had to be. Briefly, she wondered if any of the others had even suspected she was in a relationship at that time? Oceans did wonders at hiding, after all.
It wasn't what she felt with Félix, though the familiar rush of butterflies had been building steadily. And maybe what she wanted to hear in this moment, after being betrayed by the romantic notion of love, was exactly what he wanted from her. Straightforward, to the point, and with clear expectations.
"So if I can't trust what people are saying to me, and based on my track record can't trust their actions, what can I trust? What do you trust?"
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
'I will try and keep Felicity away from this as long as I can...out of the London Advocate, but I won't be able to forever.'
He stills on the buttons of his suit. It's times like these that he regrets her connection to one of London's biggest papers, annoyed, despite himself. "Somehow I doubt that a flock of media people will help the matter in any way whatsoever." His words come out a little more curt than he intends, and recognizing belatedly that her offer was to avoid exactly that, Gideon softens his tone accordingly. "... I'm sorry, that was unfair." It takes some difficulty to admit it. "But I think you're right about Felicity... The longer you keep her off of this, the less messy it will be. We aren't even sure if it's real." The Rutherford reminds her, though it's less convincing than he'd like given the hurry with which he does up the rest of his suit and moves towards the door.
The questions can wait. All he can think of right now, is getting her out of here.
Gideon's the first to poke his head out the door, scanning the hallway for any signs of danger before he lets Amélie join him. There's nothing amiss as far as he can tell, but the demanding, discordant voices suggest that he and his girlfriend aren't the only ones who've seen the video. He reaches for her hand, fingers lacing tightly around hers, and without wasting another second, beelines towards the nearest exit. Ten minutes ago, he'd thought to himself that it paid to know the private rooms of the Berkeley Estate so well. Now, he's grateful to know the arrangement of the exits.
Gideon sets a merciless pace despite her high heels, keenly aware of the cacophony growing around them. The music's stopped, the commotion is growing, and people seem to have gotten the same idea as he and Amélie. He whips out his cell without a break in his stride and calls his driver. By the time they make it outside, the hired car has pulled up on the lot. Gideon opens the passenger's side door and helps Amélie in, handing her purse back to her when she's seated.
"Text me when you get home. I won't stay a second longer than necessary. Promise."
There's a hesitating beat. He wants to add something, on the off chance he doesn't get to, later. I love you, he considers, but it's all wrong like this; a confession inspired by fear, a 'just in case'... No, he thinks, she deserves better than that.
"Get there safe."
He pulls away before her pleading eyes can convince him otherwise, and raps the hood of the vehicle with two knuckles to signal it's good to go. The tail lights flicker to life as the driver pulls the car out of park, and with a rev of the engine she's on her way.
— End.
Amélie's mind was spinning, in a way that was specifically her.
One minute she'd had her lips against his, and now this. Last year's ending was enough to set her into that familiar quiet, internal panic. Although, she knew this wasn't about her, so much. This was Spencer's place, her best friend's partner and Gideon's best friend.
The weight of Gideon's hands on her shoulders was enough to keep her grounded, even if ever so slightly, but the unease remained as it always did with a woman with an anxious mind, festering like a sore that refused to heal.
Amélie wanted to cling to that idea, that this was simply this tasteless, awful prank or even a freaking malicious attempt to disrupt their evening. However, somewhere, deep down, this nagging voice whispered its relentless doubts, conjuring images she desperately tried to suppress. The French were here, and that meant...was there a war on the streets with unknowns? The Italian presence, maybe?
Felicity would be blowing up her phone in no time. God.
Guided off the piano, with the soft help her into her heels, Amélie's thoughts raced at the speed of light. How could they still be allowed to get away with this? The intrusion, the violation—it felt like an assault on those trying to enjoy their evening. Why couldn't these people just dissolve?
Felicity's name kept popping into mind, and as much as she wanted to ignore her -- she wouldn't be able to forever. But for Gideon's shake, she pushed her straps into place and sighed. "I'll, uh, I will try and keep Felicity away from this as long as I can...out of the London Advocate, but I won't be able to forever."
It was the problem working for a paper: all news, was news.
Amélie's already walking with him, arms wrapping around herself as she feels herself falling into a nightmare that she has no control over. It was part of the reason she hated social situations.
"You're staying here..." her words trailed off, as she chucked him a worried, doe-eyed glance. "What if it's not safe." She had to voice her concerns: there weren't many people in her life, but those that were, especially Gideon? She knew what the French were capable of, and his being here in a potential war made her feel sick.
The Rutherfords might've had money, but they weren't mobsters.
The offer of the luxury suite felt hollow now, tainted by the intrusion of this unbecoming reality. Still, Amélie nodded, silent in agreement. She would go, because she'd be more of a hindrance than a help, but she hated that he would stay behind. The thought... "You have nothing to make up for, you were wonderful."
Amélie couldn't shake the feeling of dread that clung to her like a second skin. Whatever awaited them outside, she hoped that the prank hadn't gone further than their phones: but she knew better. She hadn't gone into investigative journalism for nothing.
She saw the signs loud and clear. "You ready?"
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
"Indeed. You Russians are certainly the authority on cultured character."
It's slippery with sarcasm. It isn't the culture he takes issue with, but a very specific kind of Russian; bearing any relation to the name Vorshevsky and with few exceptions.
Still, it is a party, so whether he likes her or not, it isn't the time to stir the pot. Gideon takes the cue when she steps back and dips his head with a few parting words.
"If you're so determined to claim the superior class, may I suggest you remember that you're a guest in the home of the people you're calling self-important. Think about it... And enjoy the rest of your night." May she aspirate on her drink and catch pneumonia.
— End.
Svetlana's jaw tightened imperceptibly, in all honesty, she resisted the urge to roll her eyes but believed the juvenility of it would've derailed what she trying to accomplish.
She needed to maintain this delicate balance, even if she hated every second of it. Despite the biting tone of his words, she couldn't afford to leave. There were plans underway, and for once, she was getting a chance to step into that spotlight: and showcase her talents.
"It seems the cultured character is a trait that is becoming increasingly scarce," cool disdain evident, a flicker of blue eyes, a runover of his frame. "But intelligence," a short whistleblowing between her lips. "Was certainly missed on the people who commissioned these."
Svetlana took a graceful step back, gaze never leaving Gideon's. "I'm not going anywhere. People like this, with such a labyrinth of self-importance," she remarked. "Show their true colors in the end. You just have to wait and watch. And that's exactly what I intend to do" For now...
#G x Svetlana#wrapping this up my dear though I've enjoyed it 😂#events#event: awards '24#March '24#pre plot drop#afterparty#end
18 notes
·
View notes
Text
He practically has to break into a jog to keep up with Cecelia's imperial march across the ballroom. Feeling certain he'd manage it in far more dignified a manner were it not for the vice-grip on his hand. They enter the library, immediately ensconed by silence.
"Didn't expect to see you here either. Didn't know you knew the couple." Gideon begins carefully, trying to read her expression as she sweeps purposefully across the floor. Is she still mad at him for last time? For his abruptness with her on Awards' night?... But she'd accosted him in the men's washroom, is it honestly on him to apologize for that?
"Hey, about last time—" But if she cares or not about last time, Cecelia hides it well, cutting him off with instructions on looking for clues. "Right. Secret passageways." Gideon echoes, unable to hold back a disbelieving scoff. What does she think this is? Scooby Doo and Guess Who? There's no way George and Isobel would splurge that much money just to—
A loud click echoes in the chamber, followed by the sound of cranks and pulleys as one section of a bookcase gives way to exactly that. Oh God. He doesn't have to glance at Cece to imagine the look of sheer triumph on her face. Who'd thought it was a good idea to indulge that? Sure enough, Cecelia starts to sing, the bossy tone he's used to hearing slipping into something buttery smooth as she croons the chorus to New York, New York. It's a low, pleasing sound, and he's disturbed to find she can more than carry a tune. It shouldn't come as a surprise, given she must possess some eye and ear for talent to hire the Vixens she manages, but he'd never thought...
No, he'd rather not think of that, actually. And doesn't need to dwell on it further, as Cecelia turns away and disappears through the new opening in the bookcase, leaving him to look around once more in amazement, wondering what other trinkets in the library were actually just props set up for the party's benefit. Had they really spent good money on this??... He's starting to wonder why he's friends with these people.
'GIDEON, GET IN HERE!'
Christ. He practically jumps out of his skin and it has nothing to do with any farcical possibility of murder. "Ladylike." It's delivered on half a sigh, half a grumble as he rolls his eyes and moves to follow in the direction of her voice. "It's Mr. Holliday, actually. One would think you'd know that, given we've been married... How many years has it been, Dearest?" He's put on his American, but there's a good deal of sarcasm in it this time. Truth be told, as the Rutherford begins fumbling in the dark, he'd rather discuss Guildford. If she and Adam got out safely. If all her girls did, too. Something real.
"Anyway, the theme of this whole shindig..." He starts to opine in the dark. "It's a bit... much, no?" To call it uncouth would be putting it mildly. "I mean after what happened. Not that George and Isobel would know, they weren't in attendance as far as I know bu- Hey!! Watch it, that's my-... Would you just-" His 1920s wife has taken to batting her palms over his torso, in search of a cellphone he doesn't actually have on him. Trying to restrain her arm before she pokes his eye out, Gideon grits out;
"I know we're meant to be married but for goodne-"
A shrill scream goes up somewhere behind them and they freeze, one of Cecelia's wrists in each of his hands. He can see the whites of her eyes in the dark, but where she looks excited, thrilled — he's lived too many of these scenarios in real life to play-act the appropriate response. And wouldn't this be just the perfect set-up for a real life homicide?... He's being irrational, he knows, but dread begins to trickle down the back of his neck. He releases her wrists. "How 'bout you just stay here, okay? I'll go take a look. You wait, and when I return we can go through the rest of the tunnel together."
Dearest? She had to hand it to him.. stuffy Gideon Rutherford, was trying. She smiled, taking his hand and dragging him (why did he have to be such a stubborn mule about everything?) out of the ball room and down the hall into the library. Brilliant! She smirked, realising she was the sole sleuth who had caught onto the clue pointing her here: the pair of reading glasses clasped between the fallen Mrs. Future Van Duyn's cold, 'dead' fingers. "Okay, you search the collection of boring Medical books--" If there was a clue about murder it had to be somewhere between the real Van Duyn's textbooks, "and I'll check for secret passageways."
She pulled a book back on the opposite shelf, Wurthering Heights, no, too obvious. Nothing happened. "You know," she remarked casually, "I must admit, I didn't expect to find you here..." She treaded cautiously, aware of the delicate ground she stood on with him. Yet, she found herself less concerned about the possibility of stumbling and falling through. Somehow, amidst the chaos of her life, Gideon Rutherford's indifference toward her no longer held the weight it once did a few weeks ago.
Another book, another nothing. Sigh. "Anything?" She really thought the next clue had to be here. Where else would Van Duyn need her reading glasses? Maybe the kitchen? Did she have any flour on those lifeless fingers of hers?
Cece's own fingers trailed along the weathered spines of the books, her gaze darting around the dimly lit library. As she reached for a seemingly ordinary volume, her hand brushed against something unexpected—a hidden latch disguised as part of the shelf. With a soft click, a section of the bookcase swung open, revealing a concealed passage.
She turned, her eyes locking onto Gideon's, before singing, "These vagabond shoes, are longing to stray.. Right through the very heart of it.." Broadway? Your loss.
"Well, come on, this might've been the very passage the murderer used to sneak into the ballroom we need to follow it!" Intrigued by her own wit and gumption, Cece barely hesitated for a moment before stepping into the narrow corridor. The air grew cooler as she ventured further, the only sound her quiet footsteps echoing against the stone walls. Was he following? "GIDEON, GET IN HERE!"
She reached out, fumbling around for a source of light, before coming across Gideon's whatever-doo,"Well, darling, I know it's the 30s, but surely you can summon a bit of modern magic from your pocket, can't you? I refuse to navigate blindly just for the sake of historical accuracy—SHH." She slapped her hand across his mouth. "Did you hear that?" A shiver ran down her spine. There was definitely something else lurking in the tunnel with them. Something was on the move.
Outside the tunnel, unbeknownst to Cece, the blonde's blackmailer was currently lurking on the premises, fashioning her car into a scandalous scrapbook filled with compromising snapshots featuring her and Ayaz.
#tldr; rich ppl. smh.#G x Cecelia#April '24#DO NOT DARE MATCH LENGTH#i blinked and it got away from me
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
One corner of his mouth twitches at that, amused despite himself.
"You'll be pleased to know I've tidied up my act since..." A beat of hesitation, but Gideon smiles anyway, putting it as mildly as possible. "... Since we were young." And then, just to tease her a little bit; "Young-er, in your case." A glance over one shoulder, expression indulgently consoling. "You're still young."
He pours some freshly brewed tea for himself, and fetches the Jack Daniel's, bringing the bottle over with a tumbler. He sets it down in front of her, sensing that she's ever so subtly nervous. If it wasn't for their past, he might not have recognized it at all.
That's how well she wears her mask. — 'Was I ever known to divulge secrets?'
Straightening, Gideon shakes his head. "No. Can't say you were ever guilty of that." He twists the cap off the whiskey, fills her tumbler and adds a splash to his tea. Grabbing the mug, he eases into the faded armchair across from her, wanting to be at eye level. Never any power dynamics between them; some things stay sacred, even now. "Can't say you were ever much of a gossip, either, so no, that isn't why I've asked you here."
He'd always liked that about her. Whatever insight she'd obtained being a once-insider into his family, she'd kept to herself. Not a word slipped, though he's certain many had tried over the years. Not about him, not about his loved ones. It makes the intended topic of this conversation all the more difficult because of that.
"I upset you with that text... Didn't I?" Now or never, he thinks, keeping his tone placid, knowing. "When all hell broke lose at the Berkeleys."
Throughout her entire journey to the hospital, a curious knot twisted in Lyudmila's stomach. It mirrored the sensation one experiences before a first date, while awaiting entry into an exam room, or prior to a nerve-wracking interview, knowing deep down that the questions to come won't be pleasant.
Though Gideon's summons didn't catch her off guard (the reason behind it was hardly difficult to surmise), the chosen meeting place compensated for any lack of surprise.
"Did we convene in your office because you didn't have time to tidy up at home?" It felt clandestine, as though they were concealing something. Perhaps it was the late hour or the absence of the usual bustle behind the closed doors. Yet Lyudmila's tone remained light-hearted, ensuring the mood remained cheery.
Taking her seat on one of the leather couches as instructed, Lyudmila settled in comfortably before casting a gentle smile toward her companion. "Was I ever known to divulge secrets?" she teased, gesturing toward her chosen beverage for the evening—a choice she suspected she might need.
"So, ––" she began, exhaling softly as she crossed one leg over the other and settled back into the armrest, "I don't suppose you called to catch up on the latest gossip?"
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
"Then tell me what it is like."
But all it takes is for her to swallow and look away and he knows that she won't. Knows that she'll either crack a joke and make it out to be nothing, or that she'll double down, all bluster, until he takes the hint to leave.
It's the first. She dismisses whatever it is that's brought her in, omits names, keeps it vague. "Which bar? The Venue?" He presses, trying to discern whether it happened at work, some drunk patron she'd endured — or whether it happened during her leisure time. Some other bar, some other threat, someone else's problem. "Does Divya know?"
His list of issues with Divya Koshal runs a mile long, but he knows she'll be here for Isla in a heartbeat if the girl's in any kind of trouble. The lieutenant takes care of her own.
"Isla." It's spoken in a deadpan, but there's a warning tucked beneath it. I won't push, he'd said, but all he can think of is her in jail. Her, coming out of jail, walls built ten feet higher than they were when she went in and grown up much too fast. "I've as much pride as the next guy, but I'm not stupid enough to refuse a lifebuoy if I'm drowning. Maybe I can't help you, but I might know people who can." A thin veneer of sarcasm enters his tone, compelled by his worry for her. "But you got it all down pat, yea?... Someone broke your face and you're telling me you're fine."
For someone that was overtly against the life that the majority of his family lived, Gideon was nothing if not, the nosey neighbour with all the gossip. So when he stumbled through the way in which he'd found her, Isla wasn't the least bit surprised.
Few things in her world make Isla stop and second-guess herself. Force her into a mindset that requires her to think of something other than only herself. For so long, it'd been only survival, but the way in which her name falls from Gideon's lips makes her pause, swallow thickly and seek anything else in the room that might capture her attention. "It's not like that."
At least, she'd never seen it that way. Someone from the outside however, might have seen the Rutherfords taking Isla on as initially being leverage enough to keep her father and their small, quaint corner store safe. It'd been a choice though - she'd chosen to join them, and she'd been given that choice, hadn't she?
"It was just a run in with a couple assholes at the club," the blonde bit out the half lie rather easily and even still, she felt a jagged blade of guilt slice through her gut. Because it was easy to lie to him. To anyone. A thankful smile cracks her lips, "I don't need you to look out for me, Gid. I'm a big girl - tie my own shoes and everything."
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
"Yea..." Gideon agrees distantly, mind already in the past, wondering how to convey the story of his greatest heartbreak as if it's simple surgery; something to be dissected in a series of neat, sterile cuts.
"I was your age when I met her. It wasn't my first brush with love, either. You remember Diana, and Mila..." He lists the women she would've seen in and out of his life even back then, from the obligatory family holidays; the Christmases and Easters spent together. "But when I met Katherine, I..." He shakes his head, unable, even now, to capture the effect she'd had on him. Maybe it didn't need to be described. She was Britain's Darling by that point, and had even started to find success across the pond in Hollywood, as well. Teenagers worshipped her, and the media sought any spare second of her time. "You know I've always hated the spotlight, but something about Katherine... You'd do anything to be with her. In the spotlight, or out of it. It was worth it. She was worth it."
Or so he'd thought.
"Maybe that's what you feel with Félix. If anyone had told me it was just infatuation, I probably would have fought them. I wasn't going to listen to anyone tell me anything different when it came to her." And he fears, neither will his sister when it comes to her new boyfriend. "But there's truth to the cliché, Yvie: 'love is blind'. You think you're the only one who sees that person clearly, but sometimes, you're the one who sees them the least clear of all. Especially when they're charming enough to keep it that way."
The eldest brother looks at her, letting those words sink in. "And for goodness' sake, Yvonne, yours is a politician." Though there's hardly any difference between actors and MPs these days... "Look at Spencer." He adds, pulling an example closer to home. They both know the man. And despite his flaws, love him, too. It doesn't change the facts.
"If anyone can tell someone exactly what they want to hear, it's a goddamn politician."
This was a peace offering, Yvonne was well aware of that. Not just the pizza and beer and the excuse for a childfree night, though she appreciated those, but the story. The chance to be included in a piece of family lore.
She was halfway through a bite when Gideon started his story. While Gideon had barely started his beer, hers sat half empty already on on the table in front of her. For all the tabloid articles about her sister-in-law and the divorce that her friends consumed, the woman herself was an enigma to Yvonne. She was still a teen living on the other side of the world during their marriage and she could count the number of times they met in person on one hand.
"I get it. We weren't close. It's not like I told you about my relationship problems either."
#G x Yvonne#flashback#October '23#breaking the story up into a few pieces to give her time for her own inner monologue etc#and bc otherwise it would be an essay 😅
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
Well, she isn't Herbert Fitzgerald.
The flippant, Giordi-esque quip sails over his head as he stares at her for a split second before his gaze drops to the file in his hand. Sure enough, labelled with Herbert's name and personal identifiers. He's had the misfortune of memorizing both the man's face and NHS number over the years, thanks to his not-infrequent admissions for entirely preventable brain bleeds brought on by drunken slips and falls all around the city.
?Surgical Input — more like ?Chronic Bullshit.
Belatedly, he registers her remark. "That's not funny." He steps out of her cubicle to re-check the number, only to confirm that it's indeed the same room as the sticky label on the patient file. But no Herbert in sight.
"What am I doing here with you?"
There are so many ways it can be answered (or better yet, avoided) between them, both literal and metaphorical, so after a pause that only serves to emphasize the tension in the room, he clarifies;
"Here. Today. Why did they-... Do you also have a head injury?"
Tagged: @drrutherford
Location: St. Catherine's, A&E
When: A day or two post-everything
Despite all protests against the entire idea of venturing into a hospital, getting her ribs and possible (read: definite) concussion checked out by a qualified professional somehow became a nonnegotiable. Apparently her bathroom mirror hadn't received the proper training to make the call on whether any lasting damage was imposed by the other evening's scuffle. Annoying, but considering all that occurred with recent fallout, Giordana uncharacteristically found herself in the business of tempering waves rather than making them.
Sitting in a chair rather than on the parchment lined table as a quiet act of insubordination, she's already begrudgingly allowed the triage attendees to run a handful of tests and vitals. The results of which can apparently only be interpreted by the doctor on rotation tonight. Wholly inefficient from her point of view, but this is precisely why she doesn't work in the medical field. The man who enters minutes later just happens to be another solid reason in that arsenal.
"––Wow, they sent in the big guns. Guess I must be dying." Again. "And here I thought we'd filled our surgery quota for the fiscal year."
3 notes
·
View notes