( neither state lasts terribly long; money flows into and out of his hands, and so do all manner of other interesting things. powerful enough to be a problem and self-involved enough to cause problems mostly for himself—
keeps him on his toes. on the run. onto the next most interesting thing, until he can't help himself but to turn back to see what's happened to the first while he was gone. )
[ He's never been broke, but he hates being bored and has been bored more often than not for the last few decades. Who knew trying to be a better person was so dull? ]
Are you going to drug me again if I invite you back?
Terry doesn't know where Guilliman has taken him to. He doesn't truly understand what's happened to him - to both of them, intertwined as they now are - but he doesn't care. His mortal worries are washed away in a sea of exquisite sensation, the first steps in chasing the pains and pleasures he'll be chasing for the rest of eternity.
He stands, nude and still covered in various fluids, healed and already wishing to be filled again. When he rests his hand against the primarch's bare flesh it's pure ecstasy.
"My lord?" he says, wondering what is expected of him now, or what forbidden delight they'd indulge in next.
It should have not been so easy for Roboute to grasp the weave of the materium and force them through, onto an island of his own solidified will. It should not have felt so good. It's like stretching long-stiff muscles, like returning to a home long-forgotten. It's like sweet, strong wine. He wants more.
This is what we should have been all along, he thinks wildly. He remembers Fulgrim saying something much the same, when they had dueled so many centuries ago. This is what they meant.
He can feel the illusion of his humanity flaking away like paper-ash, then resurfacing as his better nature tries to reassert itself -- his body a picture of his churning, frantic mind. Underneath, there is lapis lazuli scarred with gold, a burning laurel-crown, the fleeting impression of bullish horns and hooves.
"Terentianus," he breathes, gripping Terry's shoulders (feeling the bones shift and grind against each other underneath his hands, but not yet break -- he does not want them to break, and so they will not). "Do you know what you've done?"
He looks up at him, eyes wide with awe. His own soul needs more work before he can comprehend what he's seeing, but he's already twisted enough to find it all beautiful instead of horrifying.
"I've done what you desired," he says, head cocked to one side, "Haven't I?"
We're free now, he thinks. Free to be together without the weight of the Imperium crushing down on Guilliman. Free to stop worrying that he might leave and get diverted for so long that he returns to find Terry died waiting for him.
Guilliman bares his teeth, showing the tumult of his emotion in a huff of incense-scented breath. He draws back -- appalled at himself even as he moves, but not stopping, not wanting to stop, wanting to know how it feels and what it does to Terry, and he is already damned he is already damned -- and strikes his consort's face with the back of his hand.
"You have undone me. Everything that I have worked for --!"
The force of the strike smashes his skull, snaps his neck as he crumples to the ground. His only reaction to the pain is 'that's interesting'. A different sort of excruciating to their earlier encounter, and nowhere near as pleasing, but it's novel enough.
What actually bothers him is the anger. The thought that he may have done the wrong thing, but something else whispers sweet, soothing words in his ear every time he starts to doubt himself.
His skull reforms, his spine sets itself right. That, too, soothes him. It means Guilliman doesn't want him dead.
"Undone you?" he says, once again looking at him with awe, "But you are magnificent."
Horror, revelation, relief. For the second time he loses control of himself. For the second time he undoes his mistake, he pulls it all back from the brink. (And there is a thrill in that, isn't there? One of the few that he is well-acquainted with. The fear, the adrenaline, the pride when he manages the impossible once again.)
Terry is correct, at least, in his assessment of Roboute himself.
"Yes."
He will hardly argue about that. A monster, yes. But a magnificent one. "I had plans. There are things that must be done. Even now, they must be done. Do you expect me to accomplish them like this?"
It takes Terry some time to accept that Guilliman is gone. Either he's lost in the void, or he found what he was looking for, but he wasn't coming back. Terry could stay, he supposes. Enjoy the power he's gained, use it to take his pain out on everyone else. But that all seems so hollow now that he knows he can love again, and that his lover is out there somewhere just beyond his reach.
So he follows him into the void and finds himself stuck in countless dreams, always alone. Sometimes he's at his physical peak again. Sometimes he's a young man, back in the war. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of that large silhouette in the distance, closer every time, but he never gets to see his face or hear his voice. Until one day he reaches out and his hand hits a surface more solid and real than anything he's felt in a long while, his hazy vision clearing as he takes shape in this reality.
"...Sir?"
Tears well up in his eyes as he sees Guilliman's face again (oh god, if this is just another dream please let it never end). He's unaware of any danger he might be in. If he dies in this world, at least he got to see Guilliman again.
It's the strangest warp incursion Guilliman has endured since his -- return. Since fighting his way out of the dreams and nightmares of the Void, escaping first to more familiar hells, and then back into the material realm.
(It has changed him, his time in that strange little daemon world and his long quest back. It has broken him and made him more whole. It has also severely troubled his sons and the custodes who still think that he needs guarding. Their practicals do not match these new theoreticals.)
The incursion is barely a corridor's worth of torn reality, a cold darkness and a font of misshapen arachnid beasts -- but the familiarity of it has wild hope clawing at the primarch's throat, has him disregarding his ever-stressed guards and taking point to take care of the disruption.
And how fortunate -- thank the Throne! -- that he has, for he knows that his sons would not react with temperance and reason to a mortal suddenly toppling out of the warp, rift sealing shut behind him. He, though, he sees the lean frame and the long white hair and he's moving, quenching the flames of his Father's sword even as he bisects a last arachnid, and reaching, grasping. Catching. Pulling close, with a strangled cry.
"Terry."
He falls back, clutching the man to his armor. Allowing his sons to clean up the remains of the incursion, now that the rift has sealed. (Though many of them are distracted by their gene-father's unusual behavior for entire fractions of a second -- they'll be chastized for that later.)
"Terry," he repeats, hauling him up into his arms, dragging him close to cover his lips with his own. "Treasure." (If this is a farce, he'll make whatever is wearing his Argentum's face suffer in ways even the Ruinous Powers cannot conceive of.)
He smiles up at him. He's tired and hungry and a little dehydrated but none of that matters right now; he's back in Guilliman's arms and all is right with the world.
"Oh, Roboute, I..."
He wants to let all his feelings pour out but it doesn't feel right to do so here, when they have an audience. He reaches up to touch his face and tears gather in his eyes as he accepts that this is real, that he's in his lover's arms once more. The cold, hard armor separating them from real intimacy is only a minor inconvenience now - he's there and that's enough.
"I had to find you, somehow. I had to."
Said as if he's about to be scolded for jumping into the void on his own, as if Guilliman hadn't done the same.
"My sweet, my silvered prize," Roboute says in flowery High Gothic, dotting swift kisses all over Terry's face.
This mood is nothing any of his sons have seen before, and they stand bewildered, stunned by how this mortal stranger receives their primarch's adoration. But. But still. This is where Guilliman is made to be, made to rule over, and duty demands his attention. Still holding Terry against his armored chest, he turns to his sons and subordinates.
"Requisition baseline onboarding gear, grade Familia Primarii," he orders. A standard that has not been used for over ten thousand years, which various Ultramarines are looking up, and then are reacting to exactly what it implies. "I will attend the debrief, and then I shall rejoin Terentianus Silver. Captain Sicarius." One especially decorated Astartes with a brush-broom decoration on his helmet looks his way, punctuating the motion with one final burst of fire into a nearly-dead arachnid. "You will accompany the mortal to the apothecary. Full biogenetic sampling -- I am sorry, dear -- and then feudal-level preventatives. He is a double-alpha level charge."
"My Lord --"
"Cato." The man falls silent. "I have told you of my experiences while I was absent." There is not even a nod. Just a huff of static from that ornate helm. "If this man is who he is, he is from the third millennium. Even beyond what he is to me, those are finest human gene-samples since before the Long Night."
The man, at that, acquiesces, and steps forward to take custody of this mortal. Before he does, though, Roboute nuzzles up against Terry's ear and mutters -- "He's all bluster. Ask him his war stories."
Roboute will have to make his case to his sons and to the men who guard him in his Father's name. And it will take some time -- hours, even at the best. But until he can return to his beloved, he hopes that his most audacious and charming Victrix Guard can entertain his void-born consort through the endless tests and samples. (And, well... he does trust Terry to know how to handle a boisterous, somewhat battle-damaged soldier who thrives on positive reinforcement.)
After many hours, at last, Sicarius straightens, his helm long-gone, his russet-bearded cheeks lightly flushed from Silver's flirtations. "Our lord approaches."
And the doors to the apothecary open to admit the primarch, in his glory.
The first thing Terry realizes about this place is how little he understands. The lingo, the technology - but this is his home now and he'll have to get used to it. Guilliman can teach him enough, he's sure.
"Of course," he says before he's led away. As much as he wants to protest and demand a moment alone, he's in love with a very important man and thus certain protocols must be followed. That he understands well enough.
He seems to win over the man called Sicarius, at least, and he wonders if all of Guilliman's sons will be as vulnerable to his charms as the man himself. They chat, he listens intently to stories of war beyond anything he could imagine, he laughs and compliments him on his successes. And he is smart enough not to utter a word about that creature that seduced him in the void-induced dream he and Guilliman shared.
He perks up smiling as soon as Guilliman enters the room, both because he's happy to see him and because it may be the end of getting prodded at (for now).
"Hello," he responds, smiling tiredly. He has shed that magnificent armor, and is clad now in just bodyglove and tunic and cloak, and of course laurels -- the finery that his clothing in Rubilykskoye was a crude echo of.
"Captain Sicarius has not yet talked your ears completely off?" he asks, and the man seems to puff up with wounded pride, before realizing that his lord is teasing him. (The way that he wrinkles his nose is surreally reminiscent of Roboute.) "You are relieved, Captain. I shall escort our guest to my quarters. There will be more of this tomorrow, I'm afraid," he tells Terry, offering his hand to the mortal. "To ensure that your integration is as seamless as possible, and dispel what suspicion can be dispelled."
He picks him up, putting his broad arms underneath and around his time-lost lover, and carrying him away before they can be stopped. "You shall be given an itinerary to review, of course. But there are more important matters to address first." Such as -- ? Ah. Kissing, apparently. "You. Are incredible. How did you do it?"
[ When sightings of a giant man in the Himalayas were first reported, Terry dismissed them. Guilliman was always on his mind, but that was impossible. It was a trick of the light or an exaggeration of some poor fellow that was exceptionally tall but still human.
And then came the photos, and a few peaceful interactions with people who didn't threaten him, and some less peaceful interactions with people who did. Thankfully the rest of the world was ignorant about what a Primarch really was, or someone'd try to nuke him. There were plenty of people who'd love to dissect him or capture him, but they didn't know the full extent of what he was or they'd try a lot harder to get him.
Terry had connections all over the world and he finally found an overseas contact willing to retrieve him. The terms of the deal were as follows:
1. If you give him my message, he'll come willingly. 2. Upon his arrival, I will transfer ten million U.S. dollars to a tax-free account in your name. 3. If you bring him anywhere except to my door, he will kill you. There is no weapon on Earth that can defend you against him, so don't get any ideas.
It was stupid, perhaps, and he risked starting a worldwide crisis if his contact decided to go against his instructions, but he was willing to be stupid for love. He couldn't let his beloved exist alone in a strange world without ever knowing he was here. As for the attention it'd inevitably draw - he'd cross that bridge when he got there.
His contact would arrive with a simple handwritten note (along the lines of 'I love you, I'm here, I trust this person to bring you to me, I trust you to handle it if he doesn't'), sealed with the heraldry he'd been given permission to use. And, if all went well, he'd be waiting alone outside his Malibu mansion when a truck dropped off his precious cargo (after another generous bribe to avoid a Customs inspection; the things he does for love). ]
[He hadn't expected this. The warp was unpredictable, of course -- even traveling conventionally, it was never guaranteed that you'd emerge when and where you intended to. And he'd dragged himself through it on nothing more than will and instinct, his mortal flesh in tatters when he'd finally tumbled out onto the rocky plain. It had taken... some time... to piece himself together into something recognizable again. To do reconnaissance. And what he had found...
The familiarity and the strangeness of the landscape had been a shock. The staggering implications. Himalazia. But so different. Wild. Alive. Terra, but not as he knew it. Earth.
He began to make contact with the local peoples, learning their language, gathering information. (He knew he was observed. There was nothing to be done about that. A calculated risk.) The third millennium. An era he knew almost nothing about, save what he'd learned in conversation with the others trapped on that cursed daemon world.
Terry had been from the third millennium, he thought once, desperately. Just once. He wouldn't torture himself with impossible dreams. He had to focus on the practicals. Had to figure out what he would do, if he truly was trapped in the ancient past. Trade his existence for a better timeline? Make contact with passing xenos and leave this young world behind?
And then the mercenary had come to him with a miracle in hand. The heraldry. The handwriting. There had been no hesitation.
(Travel had not been pleasant -- this world knew nothing but the most basic human gene-lines. No accommodation fit for even an ogryn. He'd had to make do with fitting himself into cargo holds and the backs of commercial transport vehicles. Smuggled across borders like contraband. But it would be worth it. He knew. It had to be.)
When the back of the truck opened, he was more grateful then he'd ever been for his adaptive biology. Because it meant he didn't have to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dazzling sunlight before he could see his lover again.
He crosses the distance between them in less than a heartbeat, sweeping him up into his arms.]
[ Even as he's embraced he can hardly believe it's real. In the nights since his return he's woken up from so many dreams where he's with his beloved again, he began to wonder if the whole thing was an elaborate dream to begin with.
But he's here now, and as real as he felt in Rubilykskoye.
He gestures for Ezra, his financial manager (currently standing and staring at Guilliman with his mouth agape), to go and take care of his payment. That's the only other witness to their meeting, although he knows they'll attract plenty of attention eventually. ]
It's you. It's really you. [ He doesn't dare ask how, fearing that his beloved with disappear in his arms if he dares to question the reality of the situation. He rests his head against that strong chest and clutches desperately at his hand. ] Ezra will settle my business out here. I have everything ready for you inside.
[ He's moved his bedroom down to what was supposed to be the living room. It's the largest room with the highest ceiling, and will be easiest for Guilliman to get into. And, just like before, he's gotten a suitably large bed. This one was a special commission he ordered as soon as he realized Guilliman was here, and it was large enough to give him room to stretch out, adorned in blue silk sheets.
The house is, of course, not exactly well-defended or prepared to survive a missile strike. He can only hope his lover isn't too bothered by the thin walls and large windows. ]
[He kisses the top of Terry's head, breathes him in. The smell of his detergent, of his hygiene products, entirely new. Components foreign and archaic. Every part of this old-new world is a novelty. But the man is the one he knows and loves.
(He's still thinking, calculating, the billion implications of the situation that they're in. How little he knows. How limited his options are. The great unknown of his Father. But he won't allow those worries to ruin this reunion. He's dreamed of this for too long.)
He sighs, and holds Terry close to his chest as he approaches the building. The servant knows his duty, it seems, and he'll concern himself with him later.]
This is your home? 'Malibu.'
[His voice is measured. They had a conversation long ago about how insecure the building was, just from the mental image that Terry shared. His opinion hasn't changed. But now he can do something about it. His assessments are derailed by the sight that presents itself, though, once they enter the dwelling. One of the kindest, and certainly the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for him. Replicated here, in Terry's true home, in fine materials and his chosen colours.]
Yes. This is my home. [ He pauses. ] Our home, for as long as you want it to be.
[ Whatever happens in the coming days when word gets out that a local billionaire has not only smuggled the mysterious mountain giant into the country but is apparently romantically entangled with him can wait. They're together now. He'll enjoy it for what it is. ]
Do you like it? A bit of a rush job moving the bedroom out here, but we'll make it our own.
[He smiles down as his lover, trying to push away the thought -- For as long as we are able. For as long as you will have me.
Even as he stands before a bed large enough to hold him comfortably. Even as he holds Terry in his arms. The worry persists. A mortal with any grasp of the situation would be in hysterics. But he should be better. He kneels to set Terry down and he stays there, a hand cupping the side of his head.]
I do not know this past. You know that. I do not wish to burden you. But I fear that I may. I ask that you forgive me, if I do.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
for ethan -
I'll drink to that.
Speaking of, you seem to have walked off with my bottle of wine. I'll put it on your tab.
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( sure, it's a stretch, but ethan likes to push his luck. )
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[ Which is to say: yes, a little. ]
But I'm sure you miss the only local billionaire that knows how to have a good time.
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( neither state lasts terribly long; money flows into and out of his hands, and so do all manner of other interesting things. powerful enough to be a problem and self-involved enough to cause problems mostly for himself—
keeps him on his toes. on the run. onto the next most interesting thing, until he can't help himself but to turn back to see what's happened to the first while he was gone. )
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[ He's never been broke, but he hates being bored and has been bored more often than not for the last few decades. Who knew trying to be a better person was so dull? ]
Are you going to drug me again if I invite you back?
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for guilliman
He stands, nude and still covered in various fluids, healed and already wishing to be filled again. When he rests his hand against the primarch's bare flesh it's pure ecstasy.
"My lord?" he says, wondering what is expected of him now, or what forbidden delight they'd indulge in next.
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This is what we should have been all along, he thinks wildly. He remembers Fulgrim saying something much the same, when they had dueled so many centuries ago. This is what they meant.
He can feel the illusion of his humanity flaking away like paper-ash, then resurfacing as his better nature tries to reassert itself -- his body a picture of his churning, frantic mind. Underneath, there is lapis lazuli scarred with gold, a burning laurel-crown, the fleeting impression of bullish horns and hooves.
"Terentianus," he breathes, gripping Terry's shoulders (feeling the bones shift and grind against each other underneath his hands, but not yet break -- he does not want them to break, and so they will not). "Do you know what you've done?"
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"I've done what you desired," he says, head cocked to one side, "Haven't I?"
We're free now, he thinks. Free to be together without the weight of the Imperium crushing down on Guilliman. Free to stop worrying that he might leave and get diverted for so long that he returns to find Terry died waiting for him.
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"You have undone me. Everything that I have worked for --!"
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What actually bothers him is the anger. The thought that he may have done the wrong thing, but something else whispers sweet, soothing words in his ear every time he starts to doubt himself.
His skull reforms, his spine sets itself right. That, too, soothes him. It means Guilliman doesn't want him dead.
"Undone you?" he says, once again looking at him with awe, "But you are magnificent."
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Terry is correct, at least, in his assessment of Roboute himself.
"Yes."
He will hardly argue about that. A monster, yes. But a magnificent one. "I had plans. There are things that must be done. Even now, they must be done. Do you expect me to accomplish them like this?"
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for guilliman
So he follows him into the void and finds himself stuck in countless dreams, always alone. Sometimes he's at his physical peak again. Sometimes he's a young man, back in the war. Sometimes he catches a glimpse of that large silhouette in the distance, closer every time, but he never gets to see his face or hear his voice. Until one day he reaches out and his hand hits a surface more solid and real than anything he's felt in a long while, his hazy vision clearing as he takes shape in this reality.
"...Sir?"
Tears well up in his eyes as he sees Guilliman's face again (oh god, if this is just another dream please let it never end). He's unaware of any danger he might be in. If he dies in this world, at least he got to see Guilliman again.
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(It has changed him, his time in that strange little daemon world and his long quest back. It has broken him and made him more whole. It has also severely troubled his sons and the custodes who still think that he needs guarding. Their practicals do not match these new theoreticals.)
The incursion is barely a corridor's worth of torn reality, a cold darkness and a font of misshapen arachnid beasts -- but the familiarity of it has wild hope clawing at the primarch's throat, has him disregarding his ever-stressed guards and taking point to take care of the disruption.
And how fortunate -- thank the Throne! -- that he has, for he knows that his sons would not react with temperance and reason to a mortal suddenly toppling out of the warp, rift sealing shut behind him. He, though, he sees the lean frame and the long white hair and he's moving, quenching the flames of his Father's sword even as he bisects a last arachnid, and reaching, grasping. Catching. Pulling close, with a strangled cry.
"Terry."
He falls back, clutching the man to his armor. Allowing his sons to clean up the remains of the incursion, now that the rift has sealed. (Though many of them are distracted by their gene-father's unusual behavior for entire fractions of a second -- they'll be chastized for that later.)
"Terry," he repeats, hauling him up into his arms, dragging him close to cover his lips with his own. "Treasure." (If this is a farce, he'll make whatever is wearing his Argentum's face suffer in ways even the Ruinous Powers cannot conceive of.)
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"Oh, Roboute, I..."
He wants to let all his feelings pour out but it doesn't feel right to do so here, when they have an audience. He reaches up to touch his face and tears gather in his eyes as he accepts that this is real, that he's in his lover's arms once more. The cold, hard armor separating them from real intimacy is only a minor inconvenience now - he's there and that's enough.
"I had to find you, somehow. I had to."
Said as if he's about to be scolded for jumping into the void on his own, as if Guilliman hadn't done the same.
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This mood is nothing any of his sons have seen before, and they stand bewildered, stunned by how this mortal stranger receives their primarch's adoration. But. But still. This is where Guilliman is made to be, made to rule over, and duty demands his attention. Still holding Terry against his armored chest, he turns to his sons and subordinates.
"Requisition baseline onboarding gear, grade Familia Primarii," he orders. A standard that has not been used for over ten thousand years, which various Ultramarines are looking up, and then are reacting to exactly what it implies. "I will attend the debrief, and then I shall rejoin Terentianus Silver. Captain Sicarius." One especially decorated Astartes with a brush-broom decoration on his helmet looks his way, punctuating the motion with one final burst of fire into a nearly-dead arachnid. "You will accompany the mortal to the apothecary. Full biogenetic sampling -- I am sorry, dear -- and then feudal-level preventatives. He is a double-alpha level charge."
"My Lord --"
"Cato." The man falls silent. "I have told you of my experiences while I was absent." There is not even a nod. Just a huff of static from that ornate helm. "If this man is who he is, he is from the third millennium. Even beyond what he is to me, those are finest human gene-samples since before the Long Night."
The man, at that, acquiesces, and steps forward to take custody of this mortal. Before he does, though, Roboute nuzzles up against Terry's ear and mutters -- "He's all bluster. Ask him his war stories."
Roboute will have to make his case to his sons and to the men who guard him in his Father's name. And it will take some time -- hours, even at the best. But until he can return to his beloved, he hopes that his most audacious and charming Victrix Guard can entertain his void-born consort through the endless tests and samples. (And, well... he does trust Terry to know how to handle a boisterous, somewhat battle-damaged soldier who thrives on positive reinforcement.)
After many hours, at last, Sicarius straightens, his helm long-gone, his russet-bearded cheeks lightly flushed from Silver's flirtations. "Our lord approaches."
And the doors to the apothecary open to admit the primarch, in his glory.
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"Of course," he says before he's led away. As much as he wants to protest and demand a moment alone, he's in love with a very important man and thus certain protocols must be followed. That he understands well enough.
He seems to win over the man called Sicarius, at least, and he wonders if all of Guilliman's sons will be as vulnerable to his charms as the man himself. They chat, he listens intently to stories of war beyond anything he could imagine, he laughs and compliments him on his successes. And he is smart enough not to utter a word about that creature that seduced him in the void-induced dream he and Guilliman shared.
He perks up smiling as soon as Guilliman enters the room, both because he's happy to see him and because it may be the end of getting prodded at (for now).
"Hello again, sir."
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"Captain Sicarius has not yet talked your ears completely off?" he asks, and the man seems to puff up with wounded pride, before realizing that his lord is teasing him. (The way that he wrinkles his nose is surreally reminiscent of Roboute.) "You are relieved, Captain. I shall escort our guest to my quarters. There will be more of this tomorrow, I'm afraid," he tells Terry, offering his hand to the mortal. "To ensure that your integration is as seamless as possible, and dispel what suspicion can be dispelled."
He picks him up, putting his broad arms underneath and around his time-lost lover, and carrying him away before they can be stopped. "You shall be given an itinerary to review, of course. But there are more important matters to address first." Such as -- ? Ah. Kissing, apparently. "You. Are incredible. How did you do it?"
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for guilliman
And then came the photos, and a few peaceful interactions with people who didn't threaten him, and some less peaceful interactions with people who did. Thankfully the rest of the world was ignorant about what a Primarch really was, or someone'd try to nuke him. There were plenty of people who'd love to dissect him or capture him, but they didn't know the full extent of what he was or they'd try a lot harder to get him.
Terry had connections all over the world and he finally found an overseas contact willing to retrieve him. The terms of the deal were as follows:
1. If you give him my message, he'll come willingly.
2. Upon his arrival, I will transfer ten million U.S. dollars to a tax-free account in your name.
3. If you bring him anywhere except to my door, he will kill you. There is no weapon on Earth that can defend you against him, so don't get any ideas.
It was stupid, perhaps, and he risked starting a worldwide crisis if his contact decided to go against his instructions, but he was willing to be stupid for love. He couldn't let his beloved exist alone in a strange world without ever knowing he was here. As for the attention it'd inevitably draw - he'd cross that bridge when he got there.
His contact would arrive with a simple handwritten note (along the lines of 'I love you, I'm here, I trust this person to bring you to me, I trust you to handle it if he doesn't'), sealed with the heraldry he'd been given permission to use. And, if all went well, he'd be waiting alone outside his Malibu mansion when a truck dropped off his precious cargo (after another generous bribe to avoid a Customs inspection; the things he does for love). ]
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The familiarity and the strangeness of the landscape had been a shock. The staggering implications. Himalazia. But so different. Wild. Alive. Terra, but not as he knew it. Earth.
He began to make contact with the local peoples, learning their language, gathering information. (He knew he was observed. There was nothing to be done about that. A calculated risk.) The third millennium. An era he knew almost nothing about, save what he'd learned in conversation with the others trapped on that cursed daemon world.
Terry had been from the third millennium, he thought once, desperately. Just once. He wouldn't torture himself with impossible dreams. He had to focus on the practicals. Had to figure out what he would do, if he truly was trapped in the ancient past. Trade his existence for a better timeline? Make contact with passing xenos and leave this young world behind?
And then the mercenary had come to him with a miracle in hand. The heraldry. The handwriting. There had been no hesitation.
(Travel had not been pleasant -- this world knew nothing but the most basic human gene-lines. No accommodation fit for even an ogryn. He'd had to make do with fitting himself into cargo holds and the backs of commercial transport vehicles. Smuggled across borders like contraband. But it would be worth it. He knew. It had to be.)
When the back of the truck opened, he was more grateful then he'd ever been for his adaptive biology. Because it meant he didn't have to wait for his eyes to adjust to the dazzling sunlight before he could see his lover again.
He crosses the distance between them in less than a heartbeat, sweeping him up into his arms.]
Terry.
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[ Even as he's embraced he can hardly believe it's real. In the nights since his return he's woken up from so many dreams where he's with his beloved again, he began to wonder if the whole thing was an elaborate dream to begin with.
But he's here now, and as real as he felt in Rubilykskoye.
He gestures for Ezra, his financial manager (currently standing and staring at Guilliman with his mouth agape), to go and take care of his payment. That's the only other witness to their meeting, although he knows they'll attract plenty of attention eventually. ]
It's you. It's really you. [ He doesn't dare ask how, fearing that his beloved with disappear in his arms if he dares to question the reality of the situation. He rests his head against that strong chest and clutches desperately at his hand. ] Ezra will settle my business out here. I have everything ready for you inside.
[ He's moved his bedroom down to what was supposed to be the living room. It's the largest room with the highest ceiling, and will be easiest for Guilliman to get into. And, just like before, he's gotten a suitably large bed. This one was a special commission he ordered as soon as he realized Guilliman was here, and it was large enough to give him room to stretch out, adorned in blue silk sheets.
The house is, of course, not exactly well-defended or prepared to survive a missile strike. He can only hope his lover isn't too bothered by the thin walls and large windows. ]
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[He kisses the top of Terry's head, breathes him in. The smell of his detergent, of his hygiene products, entirely new. Components foreign and archaic. Every part of this old-new world is a novelty. But the man is the one he knows and loves.
(He's still thinking, calculating, the billion implications of the situation that they're in. How little he knows. How limited his options are. The great unknown of his Father. But he won't allow those worries to ruin this reunion. He's dreamed of this for too long.)
He sighs, and holds Terry close to his chest as he approaches the building. The servant knows his duty, it seems, and he'll concern himself with him later.]
This is your home? 'Malibu.'
[His voice is measured. They had a conversation long ago about how insecure the building was, just from the mental image that Terry shared. His opinion hasn't changed. But now he can do something about it. His assessments are derailed by the sight that presents itself, though, once they enter the dwelling. One of the kindest, and certainly the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for him. Replicated here, in Terry's true home, in fine materials and his chosen colours.]
-- oh. Terry.
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[ Whatever happens in the coming days when word gets out that a local billionaire has not only smuggled the mysterious mountain giant into the country but is apparently romantically entangled with him can wait. They're together now. He'll enjoy it for what it is. ]
Do you like it? A bit of a rush job moving the bedroom out here, but we'll make it our own.
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[He smiles down as his lover, trying to push away the thought -- For as long as we are able. For as long as you will have me.
Even as he stands before a bed large enough to hold him comfortably. Even as he holds Terry in his arms. The worry persists. A mortal with any grasp of the situation would be in hysterics. But he should be better. He kneels to set Terry down and he stays there, a hand cupping the side of his head.]
I do not know this past. You know that. I do not wish to burden you. But I fear that I may. I ask that you forgive me, if I do.
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