Gin and Bitterness

Fandom: N/A - Based on my Saturday Dungeons and Dragons Campaign
Rating: T
Characters: Moira Gavenwood, Lazarus Maerret
Primary Pairings: Implied Moira Gavenwood/Lazarus Maerret
Secondary Pairings: Referred to Arthur Gavenwood/Lazarus Maerret
Word Count: 520

General Summary: After the death of Arthur Gavenwood, Lazarus finds himself answering Moira's question about his relationship to her late husband.

Author’s Note: This is just a fun little prompt that was for the term "prove" but also was inspired by carolferris joking about Moira being like "Well did my robe at least look good on you?"
 

            “You wore my robe.”

            It was a statement, not a question, and Lazarus merely shrugged. “Borrowed, yes. It was in the wardrobe.”

            Moira stared at him for a moment, then allowed her gaze to slip from his eyes down to his feet and back again, a rueful smile flickering at the corner of her lips. “Did you at least look good in it?”

            At this, Lazarus raised an eyebrow, but reached out to finger the hem of one of the sleeves. “I can always demonstrate, if you’ve any doubt.”

            There was a moment in which he felt certain that she was going to order him out of the room, but then she tilted her head to one side, as if considering it, and then offered the robe to him. “Though I would appreciate it if yo–”

            “I’d like to bathe first if it’s quite all right.” Lazarus cut her off, anticipating what she was about to suggest, and when she nodded, slipped into the bathroom.

            As he hung the robe up on clothing rack near the door and padded across the cool marble to the tub, he heard the tell-tale sound of the lock clicking on the bedroom door before he turned on the water. Slowly, he stripped out of his clothes, giving the bloodstained fabric a sad smile before shrugging and slipping free of the nigh invisible harness at his hips, a few simple command words enough to set it into the brief self-cleaning mode required for maintenance every so often. Sinking into the tub, he dispelled, one by one, the tiny illusions woven into his hair and skin, leaving him fully exposed beneath the water. There was, of course, the consideration that Moira might see fit to intrude on his bath and see him undisguised, but he was past caring.

            In any case, he doubted if she was likely to expose him – if she did, it would be his own fault.

            It wasn’t until he was fully dry, his hair still slightly ruffled from the process, that he approached the dressing gown. It hadn’t been laundered yet, and the fur trim still retained the barest hint of his own cologne mingled with the faintly intoxicating scent of Gavenwood’s own, something he realised that Moira must have also recognised immediately. Not waiting further, he slipped on the robe, tied the sash loosely about his waist, and slipped out into the room.

            Moira was still there, her hair tied loosely back from her face, a glass of wine in her hand as she watched from her place on the sofa, her eyes tracing over the contours of his body through the fabric, and while he made the decision not to let the robe fall open as he crossed the floor, he knew that he might as well have.

            Crossing one leg over the other, she leaned against the backrest and set her glass down on a nearby table, her eyes lingering back over the Undercommon glyph tattooed on his hip before rising to meet his gaze, a smile hovering about her lips.

            “If nothing else, my husband had taste.”