Bedside Manners

[Hippolyte Barthélemy]

The afternoon sun filtered harshly through the heavy linen drapes of the bedroom, lighting up the dust swirling in the air. The room had grown quiet, as movement stilled into languid lounging and harsh breathing turned softer, and now, there was nothing but the quiet shuffle of the sheets and blankets as Hippolyte emerged briefly into the ray of sunlight to extract his snuff box from his waistcoat. The gilt edges gleamed in the sunlight as he extracted it, and the contemplative quiet was briefly broken as he took a sniff in either nostril, before placing it on the bedside table should Connor want to partake.

He exhaled with satisfaction and opened the window just enough to start to air out the room. The Lord Morrison's townhouse was well furnished and handsome in its own right, but as these things went, they were wholly alone in this moment. Connor, the forward-thinking man, had ensured that. There, was another thing he preferred back home, though the liberties they could still take here was worth having to contend the lack of servants.

Truly, he saw the use in the men who preferred to seduce their valets, but Hippolyte was quite fortunate that Connor was a fastidious dresser. In return for helping lace up his stays to their proper tightness, he was certain to lend him a newly starched cravat now that he noticed his laying in some crumpled up form near the doorway, not far away from Connor's gleaming waistcoat.

It was a pleasant moment like this. Quiet and still. Neither of them had any pressing appointments, nor were any eyes or ears lurking in the walls. Hippolyte placed himself back in the embrace of the sheets, taking in the figure of Connor as he laid there next to him.

The irregular marks dotting the Scotsman's upper body, darkening by the second, suited him as well as any silk waistcoat would, however. Hippolyte smiled crookedly as he felt the way the swollen areas of his chest were warmer underneath his fingers while he followed the line of his collarbone. Fine man. Certainly a resilient one.

A quite convenient friendship. Connor was of the sort who had thankfully not grown into his born role, but actually harboured both passion and ambition to a great degree. He seemed determined, like Hippolyte, that his accomplishments should be those of his own work, not the nepotism that infected the hospitals of the so-called Great Britain. He had potential.

Moreover, he was interesting, and had a knack for collecting useful informations on their peers. It would always be in moments like there, when they would finally have the space to speak truly and in detail. Hippolyte hummed as he brushed a thumb over his pulse and asked in a quiet voice,

"Hmm, how have the British Isles been treating you? I've been so contained at home, hardly many interesting news pass to me outside yours and Anwyl's letters."


Connor Morrison

Made by Riley at THQ!

[Connor Morrison]

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy             Thread: Bedside Manners               Notes: N/A Unseasonably warm, for the time of year. Even with the drapes blocking out the direct strike of the sun's rays, the air of the room was heavy with the afternoon heat. Under normal circumstances, Connor might have lingered only long enough to take a pinch of snuff before rising to dress. The warmth, however, urged laziness, and even the act of twisting his head on the rumpled sheets to watch the Frenchman rise for the snuffbox felt like a monumental effort.  The hazy heat gave an almost dreamlike quality to the whole scene. Hippolyte, long-limbed and pale, grew dappled with small patches of shifting sunlight as he crossed the room. The black hair that was always kept so carefully maintained in the public eye had fallen out of its usual neat arrangement; when he bent forward, the light caught the errant strands and struck them through with gold. There was something oddly satisfying, in seeing the great Ecole de Médecine's chef des travaux anatomiques look so eminently human.  As Hippolyte placed the snuffbox down to turn aside and pry open the window, the Scotsman shook off enough laziness to prop himself up on his elbows and stretch forward to take some of the snuff for himself. Once he had taken his fill, he slid the box back onto the bedside table, making a mental note — that he would, in all honesty, forget within a few minutes — to remind his companion not to forget it when they left for tonight's soireé.  The opening of the window, slight though it was, let a breath of a light breeze into the room, and Connor exhaled long and low in satisfaction as he twisted himself over to lie on his back, half tangled in the sheets. With his eyelids drooping, he did not see Hippolyte move to rejoin him, but the creak of the floorboards was enough to herald the man's approach — and, a moment later, the mattress sunk down under the Frenchman's weight, just as expected. Twisting his head again, Connor pried his eyes back open to watch as Hippolyte's hand reached out to wander its way along his collarbones. The press of those fingers against the blossoming marks was not quite enough to produce pain, but the tenderness of the skin warned that they would not soon fade. Thank God the fashions of the decade favoured high collars.  It was almost unnerving, this level of intimacy. This was far from the first time that they had shared a bed, but it was exceedingly rare that they ever lingered like this. Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps it was the new locale, or perhaps — Connor would not like to think of it — the prospect of the impending journey to Paris at the end of the season was hanging heavily enough between them that such intimacy could not quite be avoided. There was only so long Connor could put off questioning what that might mean.  But for now, in the warm, quiet London room, he was not inclined to dwell on the matter. For now, he leaned against Hippolyte's hand on his pulse and shut his eyes once more. Letting out a quiet hum of thought, he murmured, "We have had a few promising students. I think you met Liston last time you came — beast of a man, ought to qualify as a house surgeon by next year. More talent in his left thumb than half the rest of the students combined."

credit to Laura of Adox

[Hippolyte Barthélemy]

As Connor spoke, Hippolyte smiled, feeling the way his throat moved underneath his hand as he did. Some anatomical observations were on his mind, some notes of the tendons and muscles, the healthy pulse beneath his thumb - had he been in their previous mindset he might have experimented a bit with that pulse but ah, that was for another time.

That it might be unusual for Hippolyte to linger like this, enjoy his scant free time in the sunlight and stillness, did not register. To him, these intimacies, as they were, meant nothing much. It was a show of trust, certainly, but also a consequence of seizing a pleasant opportunity as it presented itself to him. Usually both their schedules were too busy to spare these moments.

Connor always seemed to follow his train of thought, it was a great relief to be around him, not needing to waste his time on politenesses and explanation, cutting right to the bone, whether it be in their more passionate moments or in simple scientific discourse.

"I did, yes, impressive young man, I'm relieved he is with you and not wasted on lesser instructors." his voice rumbled a bit low as he spoke, letting go of his pulse to brush his knuckles over his neck before shifting slightly to the side so that he could look at him better. He did look wonderful in the light of the afternoon.

"and here? Anyone of interest in London?"

Connor Morrison

Made by Riley at THQ!

[Connor Morrison]

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy             Thread: Bedside Manners               Notes: N/A Connor knew, without having to ask, that Hippolyte must be idly running through the names of muscles and tendons as he trailed his fingers along them. He was fond of doing that, in the rare moments that they lingered like this. Once, Connor had begun to murmur the names aloud as Hippolyte traced them, to test his own recollection — but that required actual effort, which Connor was not inclined to expend at the moment.  There was a part of him, even in this lazy, half-dormant state, that kept insisting that he ought to get up and dress instead of allowing this moment to stretch out any longer. To Hippolyte, the intimacy might mean little, but to Connor, it meant a little too much. The haze of the heat was enough to banish most coherent thoughts on that matter now, but Connor knew he should cut the moment short to save him the obsessing he would no doubt find himself doing later. The last time he had allowed himself to allow these small intimacies, he had berated himself nearly a fortnight for the weakness of it. And so, no doubt, he would again tonight.  But the part of him still lulled by the sunlight and the soft drag of Hippolyte's fingers along his skin kept him tethered, for now. In any case, if he rose now and severed off their conversation, Hippolyte would find it odd; they had no pressing engagements for several hours, and if Connor made a fuss of departing, Hippolyte would no doubt raise questions. That was enough of an excuse to indulge, for now.  He kept his eyes shut as he brought his hand up to hook his fingers lightly around Hippolyte's wrist, letting the index and middle finger come to rest on the slow, steady pulse. Under the Frenchman's own hand, Connor's throat rose and fell with a soft sigh. "Not many. Cooper, I suppose, but you know him. Guthrie continues to be an absolute bore. Anwyl speaks highly of Grainger, but I cannot say I've met the man myself." He cracked one eye open, just enough to peer over at Hippolyte, rendered almost glowing by the sun. Connor tried not to think much about that. "Abernethy is quite good — I believe he will be in attendance tonight, if you desire an introduction."

credit to Laura of Adox

[Hippolyte Barthélemy]

They could, indeed, linger here for hours. Though, knowing them, if they were to stay here, in this state of total relaxation, for too long, it was only a short matter of time before they went for another round. It was still a risk of doing so even if they were getting dressed to leave, of course, Hippolyte having previously found it hard to resist unlacing those stays again after seeing Connor come back together again between the walls of cotton and whalebone. He cut such a fine figure - there was a part of Hippolyte who hated the lack of places in London where his man would be appreciated properly.

Hippolyte listened with full attention while Connor listed off the names, some familiar some not. His fingers meanwhile playing with a stray curl, staying close to not disturb Connor's light grasp of his wrist. He knew he could count on him to be informed, as always, a clever and observant man. In their profession, their science, it was an constant distribution of both patients and peers to understand.

"Ah yes, I'm seeing Anwyl tomorrow, I should enquire then about Guthrie." He wouldn't be there tonight, thankfully, it was always a trial making conversation with the man in a crowd. This was of course nothing against him, he merely had a temperament that made him ill-suited, and Hippolyte would be more than happy to speak fondly of him to his colleagues to make up for his absence. He thought for a moment on Abernathy, severing their physical connection as he brushed his own hair out of his face.

"Abernathy, I suspect would be interesting, yes, I would appreciate your introduction. I have to make my turns among the old guard as well, you know how it is."

It felt almost odd to be planning like this, to exploit every moment he had around their peers, but such was habit upon his visits.

This time, however, he had ample time. It was his first whole season in over a decade where he would be in London for its duration. Not merely a week or two of operating and making connections. Breathing room, how foreign a concept that was. Frivolous matters, which demanded their own time, was also something unusual. Thank God he would be active at the Royal College for most of his stay, he could hardly afford to be so long away from his own operating table at home otherwise.

Though Connor's presence was making an excellent argument for being quite happy indeed about where he found himself right now. He exhaled softly and laid down a bit more to properly stretch out his limbs, only incurring a minor invasion of Connor's side of the bed.

"Is there anything else of note?" he breathed out as his leg extended and his back arched. He looked up at him with a wry smile. "I do not suppose you have spent your time in this city among the debutantes and the gossipmongers, hm?"

Connor Morrison

Made by Riley at THQ!

[Connor Morrison]

Tag: lennie3        Thread: Investigating Mr. Bridgerton           Notes: N/A It was an odd thing, to be lying here so exposed. Connor was not at all ashamed of his body — quite the opposite, in fact — but taking, as he did, such pride in fashion, he was accustomed to paying more attention to the clothes than to the body they sat upon. Stays to smooth the lines and aid posture, starching to ensure the correct placement of every fold of the cravat, precise shades of silk to complement the embroidery of the waistcoat, and on and on and on for every aspect of his wardrobe. He wore the title of dandy like a badge of honour.  Here, all of that was stripped away, in quite a literal sense. Hippolyte took all that apart, piece by piece. The time that Connor spent in front of the mirror, arranging and rearranging the minutest of details, all came undone in a hurried frenzy of grasping hands — the work of hours deconstructed in a matter of minutes. Connor never minded that, of course. Really, in the heat of the moment, the sheer amount of layers to undo and unlace and unbutton were quite irksome.  But he was used to rising to put himself back together, with Hippolyte's assistance, as soon as their little trysts ended. True, there were times — most times, in all honesty — when they only managed the task halfway before temptation had its way with them again, but even then, Connor returned to dressing himself once the moment had passed once more. It was never in any conscious, hurried way; if he were to question the matter, he would have scoffed at the idea that he was rushing to clothe himself or to escape any part of this union.  The rare times when they did linger, however, were always notable for the absence of that rise to dress again. Beyond the more conscious acts of tracing collarbones and feeling pulses, there was intimacy in the simple way they lay together, unhurried, exposed, and almost content.  Connor ought to have risen then. He could have, really — there would be nothing odd now about continuing the conversation as he got up to fetch the discarded items of clothing and don them once more. And he might have done so, had Hippolyte not stretched into his space and allowed a leg to drape across his. Almost unconsciously, he found himself turning his upper body so that he could sling an arm loosely around the Frenchman's waist, allowing his hand to settle in a position to trail an index finger lazily up and down the curve of his spine.  He would regret all of this, later. He would berate himself for it. But as long as they did not rise from this bed, that was a matter for another time.  When he opened his eyes properly, there was a faint, devious smirk on his lips. "Hm, you wish for gossip, do you?" He propped his chin up on his free hand, the elbow sinking into the mattress. "Well, let me see. There's the usual society nonsense of marriages and babies, but none of that is interesting. Only thing of note is that the Bridgerton girl — the eldest one, starts with a D — had a proposal from Prince Friedrich and turned it down in favour of that awful, surly Duke instead. Why, I can't fathom. Whistledown certainly had fun with that nonsense."

credit to Laura of Adox

[Hippolyte Barthélemy]

Hippolyte was so very relaxed in a way he could hardly remember when he last had been. Paris held its pleasures of course, but Connor had pushed him so wonderfully to this point of delighted exhaustion like no other could. He closed his eyes for a moment in contentment. Connor's finger tracing along the line of his back had him arch ever so slightly in the comforting pleasure of it. A simple movement, meeting it, encouraging his touch, exhaling softly.

He turned his head slightly, opening his eyes just enough so that he could look at him properly. His eyes were lazy in the light, meeting Connor's with a squint caused by his head resting on his arm and the smile on his lips. He liked seeing him like this, with all the evidence of his own actions on plain display. To be quite frank, it excited him that they were going to be going out tonight while Connor would harbour those beautifully blossoming bruises carefully concealed beneath his high collar. He contemplated where to put the next as Connor spoke of the idle societal gossip.

The most of it held no interest to him. As Connor had to smartly put it, it was the 'usual society nonsense' and sometimes Hippolyte did think this country would be much better off if their aristocracy were a bit more existentially threatened. That the Bridgertons were a focus of scandal also was not too much of a surprise, any young person inclined to marry would be rife for it, royals involved or not, especially in matters of the heart. Unpredictable things, he was glad to be rid of such urges. However, something did pique his interest. A brow raised and his eyes turned a bit sharper, losing their soft glow, as he questioned,

"Whistledown?"

Connor Morrison

Made by Riley at THQ!

[Connor Morrison]

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy             Thread: Bedside Manners               Notes: N/A Connor had, until this point, been able to keep himself lulled enough by the warmth and the weariness to put off how he felt about this whole situation. There was still that quiet sense, at the back of his mind, that he would regret allowing this vulnerability later, but that was dormant enough for now that he could ignore it.  Then Hippolyte pressed closer, arched his back, and squinted in the light, and the world stopped.  It stole Connor's breath, that image. He had admired Hippolyte, since before they had begun their trysts; he had wanted him, certainly; he had thought of him, at every turn, as handsome, sophisticated, skilled, desirable, and good company. He had long begun to acknowledge that there was something different than the other men Connor had taken to bed, over the years — with them, Connor was content to leave the connection confined to the dark back rooms, scarcely ever desiring their company outside those heated, private moments. He could not have pinpointed when, precisely, that changed in the case of Hippolyte. He would not have wished to, even if he were capable. When he had begun to take notice of the change, he had found a thousand ways to explain it away: it was only natural that he should desire the attention of an eminent surgeon outside of the bedroom, after all, and that did not mean anything profound. And, why, Hippolyte was perfectly charming! Would any man eschew his company over a glass of wine? And if Connor had chosen to take a position in Paris, what of that? It was certainly not for Hippolyte's sake — it was a sensible move for his career, nothing more.  In the hazy light filtering in through the window, lighting Hippolyte's languid, smiling face, those excuses now felt too transient and flimsy to grasp. He could fabricate an explanation for most things, fooling even himself, but there was little he could do to justify the sudden clenching and shuddering of his heart in his chest. He knew precisely what that meant.  But he would not, as usual, confront that. He thrust the feeling down hard, berating himself for the ridiculous weakness. He was not a simpering woman. Severing the eye contact between them, he turned his head towards the window and pushed a hand through his hair. It would muss the curls, but there was time enough to see to fixing that before the ball. "Oh, some gossip rag." He was thankful, at least, that his voice came out sounding perfectly nonchalant. Years of practice. "Everyone is all abuzz over it, as she names the subjects in full. It is all idle nonsense, mostly — who stepped on whose foot at the last ball, who lost a fortune in the horse races, so on. Anwyl was in it, two weeks ago. And wouldn't shut up about it, predictably."

credit to Laura of Adox

[Hippolyte Barthélemy]

There would, inevitably, come a point like this. Where the restless spirit seemed to come over Connor and they would both carry on, cease the languid energy they had thrust upon themselves, and emerge out of intimacy back into action. Hippolyte never objected. Why should he? It was not as if Connor rejected him in times like this, rather, he always seemed to want him, and who would he be to deny him? Certainly, following Connor's hand with his gaze as he pushed it through his mussed up hair, inspired some manner of thoughts in his mind - he always kept it at such a lovely length for him to wrap his fingers within and pull.

But that was not for now, their idle conversation was still carrying its course, and as insignificant as it may have felt, Hippolyte was quite keen to hear more of the current socials. Connor's mention of Dr. Anwyl took him by surprise, however, to the amount that he snorted softly.

"Anwyl did? Poor man, hardly out in society and still wrung out in the columns." He could hardly imagine what in the world would have given the poor man the reason to be listed in such company. As Hippolyte knew quite well, Anwyl could hardly cause a scandal even if he was reckless. Certainly, he was outspoken, but was that enough to take note of in a city as big a London, in a season as busy as this?

He exhaled in contemplation. It did not exactly sound like something that he need concern himself with, after all he was unlikely to engage in affairs of a very dramatic sort, but better to be prudent than reckless in matters of reputation. At least as long as he was here in London where his defences and connections were not yet as iron clad as he preferred them. Now, he was starting to feel restless too, grimacing in displeasure that these vanities of his should intrude upon a sanctum such as this.

His focused gaze travelled to Connor once more instead. The line of his neck and chest lit by the setting sun, the way the golden rays made his skin glow around the red lines and darkening bruises, the slight drape of the linens upon his limbs... Hippolyte felt the growing warmth of desire start to simmer within him once more. Connor was exquisite, as only few others could be.

Connor Morrison

Made by Riley at THQ!

[Connor Morrison]

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy             Thread: Bedside Manners               Notes: N/A Whether he had wanted to admit it or not, there was a part in the back of Connor's mind that had known change would be hanging between them for this whole London season. There was no way it could not. If Connor had been sensible, he might have paused to consider the weight of this transition in their arrangement; after all, seeing a man for a handful of weeks per year was a far cry from settling permanently in the same city and in the same place of work, and he had never fully paused to consider what that might mean for whatever existed between them. Oh, Connor had certainly known that it would make things different, but he had never allowed himself to dwell seriously on the matter.  He could not stop his mind now from drifting uneasily towards that topic. In spite of his best attempts to push the thoughts away, they wriggled back to the forefront every time. It would not be so easy to avoid this casual intimacy, when they called the same city home. During their usual nights together, snatched greedily from whatever scant weeks they shared during Hippolyte's visits, it was simple enough to find an excuse to cut that intimacy short; there was always a lesson to prepare, a dinner party to attend, or a letter to write, and when there was not a convenient excuse already at hand, Connor never had difficulty making one up.  That would not be so in Paris. Hitherto, there had always been an established date of parting, when Connor would once more find himself alone — he only needed to push the complicated feelings off until that point. In Paris, there would be no such arrangement. There were only so many excuses that Connor could come up with to explain his perpetual slinking from Hippolyte's bed.  What unsettled Connor most, he realised, was not that he would have to extricate himself more often from this quiet intimacy, but that a part of him did not particularly want to. There was a part of him — a growing part, if he was honest — that wanted to bask in these moments instead of cutting them brutally short. It was pleasant, to lie here with Hippolyte's company, talking of nothing in particular, sharing a bed like any other lovers might. It frightened him, that desire. He had always taken comfort in the idea that he was not like the other men who shared his proclivities; he might enjoy the carnal company of men, but that was meaningless sex and nothing more. He was not like the soft-hearted fools who believed they could fall in love with a fellow man — that was mere feminine delusion, to which he was certainly immune.  He'd genuinely believed that, for a while.  But the slow drag of Hippolyte's gaze along his body provided a welcome distraction from those troubling thoughts. Connor knew the man well enough to know precisely what that look in his eyes meant, and he was more than happy to seize on that opportunity to return to the easy, mindless refuge that passion afforded. Fixing a languid smile on his lips, he lifted his hand and trailed it pointedly down his chest, stopping just short of the sheet draped over his hips. "Why, Monsieur le Docteur, I believe there is something else on your mind than gossip columns."

credit to Laura of Adox

[Hippolyte Barthélemy]

As much as Hippolyte might had preferred to remain unbothered by the future, Paris loomed unquestionably ahead for them both. To Hippolyte it was an oncoming relief. Connor was brilliant, but his skills and talent were wasted here, where opportunity was slight and problems plentiful. Of course, there was also a more personal element to this relief, but it was a thing he could never name. He felt no desire to.

From their first meeting, it had felt like they had an understanding, and with each subsequent meeting, this understanding only solidified itself. There was no need to name what they were or how they felt. There was no need to examine a moment like this had just been, dissect it and study it under the microscope.

It had passed contentedly, and now they were refreshed once more. Returned to their stations, as it were. Certainly, Connor seemed eager to seize the moment.

He never did tire of him. He had no expectation that this should change once they had settled within reasonable reach of each other. In fact, having Connor in town, and in a town with such liberal attitudes, would generate quite a few exciting opportunities he was very keen, indeed, to introduce the man to. He felt his smirk turn into a crooked grin as his eyes followed the movement of Connor's hand.

"Hm... Perhaps I have tired of society and its restraints," he joked in a half-murmur, though his gaze was fixed still upon his chest as he considered his manifold opportunities. Their affairs were never languid, tender - even as he had been resting and stretching in the sun just before, this left no mark on his behaviour now as he rose more off of the bed so that he could easily put a hand upon his chest and push him down onto his back.

Connor Morrison

Made by Riley at THQ!

[Connor Morrison]

Tag: Hippolyte Barthélemy             Thread: Bedside Manners               Notes: N/A If anyone had asked Connor to list his flaws, repression would not have numbered among them. If anything, he considered himself somewhat of a libertine; when he wanted pleasure, he knew where to seek it, and he rarely restrained himself from the pursuit. In his mind, repression was the sort of thing that kept lawyers shackled to their desks and academics shut away in libraries. Indeed, on that vein, he might have been more inclined to call Anwyl repressed than himself, considering how uptight and reserved the man tended to be.  And yet, whether he would apply the word to himself or not, repressing was one of the things Connor arguably did best. He might indulge in whatever fleeting passion crossed his mind, and he might (and did) call that freedom, but that all remained surface level. Anything that went deeper than a passing fancy terrified him.  Therein lay the problem. When his connection with Hippolyte had been limited to sex and nothing more, it had been easy enough to indulge in the whims of the moment and push them out of mind once Hippolyte's carriage had clattered its way past Edinburgh's city limits. They had always fit well together, undoubtedly, and they had always enjoyed each other's company both in the bedroom and in the bustling medical community, but it never had to mean more than that.  The prospect of Paris had not frightened him, at first. After all, the position was ideal: better pay, better access to anatomical study, a thriving community, and at least a dozen other enticements that Connor would have been a fool to pass up. And he would have been lying to himself if he denied that the thought of having Hippolyte near at hand did not add another enticement. The thought of having his man no more than a carriage ride away, whenever he desired company, had intoxicated him with its heady promise.  Now, the uncertainty had begun to set in. Questions began to squirm, unwelcome, at the back of Connor's mind. With the two of them so close, what would that make them? He abhorred the term 'lovers,' but that was the word that kept intruding in his thoughts. It made him feel pathetic, like he had lowered himself to the station of mistresses who might grovel for scraps of attention. Close proximity to Hippolyte might satisfy certain, basic cravings, but it brought far more considerations than Connor was willing to dwell on.  So, back to that old familiar friend: repression. Even without Connor's conscious command, his mind knew what to do. Crush it down, shut it away, leave it for another time — never mind if that time ever came. Sex was easy. Sex provided a neat, convenient distraction. Sex, he could do. Meeting Hippolyte's crooked grin with one of his own, Connor pushed up a hand to shove against the Frenchman's shoulder to knock him on his back. With his palms planted on Hippolyte's chest, he straddled his hips, rocked deliberately back, and sighed.  "Satisfy me, then."

credit to Laura of Adox