FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 6]
Apr. 9th, 2013 06:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.
Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
*
Viggo waved away Pearce’s overly solicitous attentions and came down to Sunday breakfast in his dressing gown. The robe failed to entirely conceal the previous evening’s clothes, or their sorry state of dishevelment. His trousers were wrinkled beyond hope, his shirt studs and cufflinks discarded, and the shirt itself, also crumpled, gaped open, exposing several inches of unbuttoned union suit and a fair expanse of bare chest. Noreen, the little Irish maid, bid him a sunny good morning, then sniffed and drew back, staring open-mouthed at his dishabille.
Viggo glared at the girl. "Is something wrong, Noreen?"
"N-no, sir." Her broad freckled face had turned bright red. "Coffee or tea this morning, sir?"
"Coffee," Viggo muttered, and slumped into his chair. When she had finished pouring, he caught her sleeve and gave her arm an awkward pat. "I’m sorry, dear. I’m not feeling very well. I didn’t mean to bark like that."
Noreen nodded sympathetically. "Sure it’s a terrible thing to suffer from a delicate stomach, sir. I’ll bring your breakfast. That’ll fix you up."
A diplomat in petticoats, Viggo thought, cradling his head in his hands. ‘A delicate stomach’ must have been some Irish euphemism for ‘three sheets to the wind.’ His head throbbed unmercifully, and he knew he doubtless reeked of the Kentucky bourbon he’d started in on the moment he and Grace had arrived home from the ball, the panacea to his colossal error in judgment. He pulled his hands upward, wincing at the faint rasping noise of his fingers against his unshaven cheeks. He hadn’t bothered to wash or shave. Well, if anyone objected, that was his own affair. It was his house, and he could do as he damned well pleased. He brought his coffee cup to his nose, steadying his hand. Was he still drunk? Perhaps he was. Tant pis, as the French said.
The side door slammed, and a moment later Grace sailed into the dining room in a smart pale-grey suit and feathered hat, peeling off her gloves. "There you are, lazybones! Michael asked after you." She sat at his right hand, then stared at him in much the same way the maid had. "I presume you won’t be going to a later Mass."
"You presume correctly." Tant pis.
Grace gave an audible sniff that clearly expressed her disapproval of her brother’s immodest apparel and unpleasant odor. "I see. Will you pass the coffee?"
Viggo handed the pot over without a word. The food came; he gazed down at it with an utter lack of appetite despite everything being cooked to his taste: bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, pancakes with butter and maple syrup. Gingerly, he plucked a piece of toast from the rack and nibbled at one dry end. His stomach lurched in protest.
"I’ve decided to stay on a bit," Grace said, taking a forkful of eggs.
"Have you?"
"Yes. Charlotte Welles has proved to be an absolute delight, not at all silly like most girls our age. She has no summer plans, and it turns out that she formed a suffrage group at her school – apparently it was the biggest scandal, but she’s quite sincere in her efforts. I think we’ll have very much in common. We might go back to Philadelphia if it’s not terribly hot, but in the main we’ll stay here, I think. Her parents have a cottage on Harvey’s Lake."
"Have they?"
"Yes, they have." Grace frowned. "Don’t you want me to stay? Am I interfering in something?"
Viggo shook his head. The motion made him dizzy. "Not at all – don’t be a goose. You know you’re welcome anytime, Gracie, and for as long as you please."
"Well, thank you." Grace scrutinized him. "There’s something else, though. Don’t you like Charlotte?"
Viggo took a sip of coffee. It burned a bitter trail down his throat and into his stomach. "She didn’t seem to care for me much."
Grace considered Viggo’s words. "Yes, she did seem – well, I think she’s shy. Anyway, it’s little wonder if she didn’t warm to you – you were in such a wax for most of the evening. And I didn’t like to ask with Charlotte in the carriage, but why didn’t Sean come back with us? Did he leave early?"
"I think he wasn’t feeling well."
"How odd. He seemed in perfectly fine fettle, I thought. He’s a marvelous dancer."
"I saw."
"Did you and he have a quarrel?"
Viggo scowled ferociously. "What makes you say that?"
Grace shrugged. "He didn’t come back with us, and it’s clear you’re in a foul mood about something."
"Well, why should we have quarreled?" Torn between the desire to flee so that he could nurse his wounds in private and a perverse craving to talk about Sean, Viggo took refuge in stirring the acrid, dark brown shallows of his coffee. Talk about Sean! As if it were easy to talk about crushed dreams and his own impulsive stupidity. "He said he wanted to walk home and to give you fond regards."
"I knew it, you did quarrel with him. You’re the world’s worst liar, Viggo Mortensen. What you two might have quarreled about is beyond me. Why don’t you go see him today and make it up?"
"Grace."
"You don’t want to lose him as an employee, do you?"
"Of course not." If Sean hadn’t already packed his bags and left, Viggo would eat his hat.
"Well, then?"
"Well, what?" He felt his patience ebbing rapidly. He took another sip of coffee.
"Shall I go speak to him for you?"
"No!" Viggo slammed his hand down hard on the table. China and silver rattled. "Damnation, Grace, mind your own affairs."
"You needn’t shout at me."
"I wasn’t shouting." He was shouting, or nearly so. He bit his lip and tried again. "I’m not shouting, but you will keep at me until I’m driven to distraction. For God’s sake, leave it be."
Grace flung her napkin down. "I was only trying to help." She rose to her feet and leveled a cold stare at him. "You’re very unpleasant when you’ve been drinking. I hope you realize that. I’m going for a walk." She brushed past Viggo in a swirl of watered silk and indignation.
"Where are you going?"
"What do you care?" The door banged shut.
"Charming," Viggo muttered. "Lovely way to spend a Sunday morning." He bit into another toast point, wincing as it stuck in his throat. He chased it with another swallow of coffee and felt his stomach heave again, a most definite warning. He folded his napkin neatly and laid it beside his cooling breakfast. The gesture evoked some vestige of self-control and training; he rose and made his way toward the staircase with as much dignity as he could muster.
Noreen hovered near the kitchen door. "All finished, sir?"
Viggo nodded, unable to speak. He mounted the stairs quietly, though his speed increased with each step. He made it to the water closet in time to sink to his knees and surrender the contents of his stomach. Gasping, his face feverish, he pulled the chain and leaned back against the wall, waiting for the next upheaval. He wasn’t disappointed; a few moments later, he retched again. After he was certain that it was all over, he got to shaky legs and slipped into the bathroom. He drew his own bath and climbed into the tub, shivering although the water was almost hot enough to scald. He wrung out a cloth and folded it over his forehead, then leaned back, letting the water close over his body. He shut his eyes, trying to calm his churning stomach and restless, unhappy spirits.
What had he done? How could he have been so foolish, so selfish and infantile? How did one even begin to apologize for such a rash action? Blaming it on impulsiveness, on champagne, on proximity and heat of the moment – all absurd excuses. He wouldn’t blame Sean a bit if he’d packed his bags and left. But if he hadn’t, Viggo would have to beg forgiveness and hope Sean didn’t wallop him into next week.
Viggo sat up. The cloth fell from his eyes.
Sean hadn’t walloped him. He could have. There had been time enough while Viggo was kissing him. It hadn’t been the world’s longest kiss, but it had been long enough for Sean to push him away in disgust or outrage. He had been stunned – shock had flared in Sean’s eyes, and he’d touched his mouth in a way that had suggested astonishment – but he’d allowed the kiss. Had Sean, perhaps, fled because he’d been surprised into discovering that the kiss had been a pleasure and not an insult?
He gripped the edges of the tub. I won’t pound on his door, he thought. I won’t chase him. But please, let him not leave before I can explain myself to him. Before I can ask if he feels the same way. Please.
*
Sean was at his desk at nine o’clock on Monday, sorting through the day’s post. As Viggo entered, he glanced up and quickly looked down again. "Morning, sir."
Anxiety and jubilation engaged in a quick shoving match in Viggo’s stomach, leaving him feeling a bit bruised and raw around the edges. He peered closely at Sean, unable to detect any emotion in his downcast face but dull embarrassment. He’d been ready to declare himself in the most passionate fashion, but Sean’s taciturn demeanor put paid to that at once. Still, he hadn’t fled, an optimistic sign. Viggo drew the curtains apart, flooding the room with bright sunshine, and took his seat. "Good morning, Sean."
"You have that inspection tour of the breaker this afternoon, sir."
"That’s right." Viggo scowled, shuffling through papers on his desk. "What’s the gentleman’s name?"
"Miles Whittaker. From the Department of Internal Affairs."
"Yes, that’s it. He’s staying at the Sterling. Well, I don’t expect any difficulties. What time am I to collect him?"
Sean consulted the leather book that held Viggo’s appointments. "Two o’clock, sir." He kept his eyes lowered; his voice was quiet, elaborately polite.
"Thank you." Viggo stole a glance at the marble mantel clock; it was seven minutes after nine. Were they both to act out this absurd charade for the majority of the day? He looked at Sean, scratching away in a ledger, the picture of industry. He gnawed on the edge of his thumbnail and felt his earlier confidence trickling away. He’d been so certain of his own intentions on Sunday, and here was Sean not meeting his eyes, all his former friendliness swept away in favor of cold formality. He'd stayed not because of any mutuality of feeling, but because Viggo employed him and paid him a living wage. That was the long and short of it. Disappointment lay like a hot stone in his belly. Better to forget the whole thing. He drew a breath and risked another look.
Sean had stopped writing and was sitting motionless at his desk. His hair hung in his eyes, obscuring his expression, but there were spots of bright pink on his cheeks and his posture evinced pure misery, undoubtedly caused by Viggo’s recklessness.
"Sean."
"Did you want some tea, sir?" Sean clattered up from his desk. "I’ve got a pot mashed – didn’t think to offer you any. I’m sorry for it." He started for the door, his face averted.
"No. Please stay for just a moment. I’d like to talk to you."
Sean halted, his hand on the doorknob. "Aye, that’s fine," he whispered, but would not turn.
"Won’t you sit? Please?" Viggo rose, gripping the edge of his desk, and moved across the carpet. He watched Sean’s shoulders hunch as he drew closer, and ached that he was the cause. He stretched out a hand and then pulled it back, fearing Sean would be repelled by his touch. "Please sit."
Sean perched on the edge of a horsehair chair and laced his fingers together, looking as though he might flee at the least provocation. Viggo took a seat on another chair, far enough away, he hoped, to set Sean at ease. "I must apologize for the other evening. I behaved disgracefully."
"It’s nowt. I’d already forgot."
"Your behavior would seem to indicate otherwise. Unless there’s another reason." Sean remained mute, and Viggo sighed. He had been upset that Sean wouldn’t meet his eyes; now it felt like a blessing. It would be easier to address himself to the top of Sean’s bowed head. "I’d had far too much to drink that night," he said, falling back on the excuse he’d promised himself he wouldn’t use. "I was…rash and impulsive and very, very stupid. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you decided to leave this minute. In fact, I didn’t quite expect to see you here this morning. I – I hope you won’t leave, though. I’ve come to rely upon you, Sean, and we work so well together –" He broke off abruptly. He was talking too much, babbling like a fool. "I don’t know what else to say but that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
"I weren’t," Sean said, still staring at the floor.
The softly spoken words pinned Viggo to his chair. Heat filled his chest. He pressed his hands to the arms of the chair. "You weren’t – I don’t understand, I don’t…."
"I weren’t sorry you did it." Now Sean met Viggo’s eyes.
"You…you weren't? Then why did you run?"
Sean shook his head and rose hastily to his feet. Viggo was afraid that he would bolt, but he only went to the mantel and leaned against it, as if its venerable solidity were the only thing in the room that would support him. He was pale now, the color drained from his cheeks. "Have you ever been with a man before?"
Viggo frowned. "Yes. In college. Nothing…meaningful." He blushed a little, unsure how much Sean wanted to hear.
"Never at home, though. Never where your family might find out, or your friends."
"No." Viggo made as if to stand, but the barest gesture of Sean’s hand kept him where he was. Some part of him, though, was secretly triumphant. I knew, he thought. Somehow I knew. "Have you?"
"Aye, I have. Once, anyroad. I were young and thick in the head. But what about you? You’re a man to be reckoned with here, and what would they say if they found out you…that we…you know. Could you live with that sort of scandal?" The flush returned.
Viggo was stung and irritated that what seemed to be a youthful indiscretion gave Sean some sort of worldly advantage. He rose to his feet and stalked to the mantel, fixing Sean with his most inimical stare. "I understand the meaning of prudence. I’m not Oscar Wilde, you know. I don’t plan to go to jail for writing incriminating letters and associating with male prostitutes. Besides, hang what other people think. I don’t care."
"Not even your family?" Sean asked softly. "Your mam and dad, your sister?"
Viggo thought about it for a moment, then shook his head scornfully, dismissing in a moment his family’s certain horror and what would surely be collective upheaval. "It’s none of their business. I don’t ask about what they choose to do in…in bed. At any rate, what right have you to lecture me? I’ve known the truth about myself for years. Perhaps you’re the one who hasn’t –" He broke off, watching Sean’s downcast face. The conversation wasn’t going as planned. He’d been so foolishly romantic, he’d thought to block the world out, but it seemed Sean was the more pragmatic. And there was a hurt still living in him, perhaps, a wound not altogether healed. Viggo cursed his thoughtlessness. "Forgive me. I didn’t mean – oh, for God’s sake, I don’t know what I mean."
Sean kept his gaze focused on the mantel clock that ticked with irritating strength and regularity in the sudden silence. Viggo took Sean’s measure with more audacity than before: his prominent nose and chin, so striking in profile, the long column of his throat, the gold hair that tumbled into his green eyes. Viggo took a cautious step forward, as if he were luring a bird. He yearned to touch the strong fingers – so much longer, so much more elegant than his own – that rested on the cool marble of the mantel, or to place his lips upon the spot just below one narrow ear with its tender lobe, Sean’s only feature that could properly be called delicate. Instead of touching him, for he knew Sean would flinch away, Viggo spoke in a voice that was all but inaudible. "You said you weren’t sorry. Does that mean you care for me, at least a little?"
"Oh, aye." Those two words were raw and agonized, as if they’d been painfully wrenched up from Sean’s chest. "I do that."
A shiver traveled up Viggo’s back; his heartbeat quickened with fear and hope. He lifted his hand with clumsy determination and stroked the knot of wrist bone that peeked out of Sean’s snowy cuff. "What are we to do about it?"
Sean tentatively touched Viggo's fingers, and then pulled away. His face was crimson. "I don’t know," he said. "I don’t know."
"I won’t press you, then," Viggo said, and wondered at all the times he’d seen that flush on Sean’s face. Could it have been for him? Good God, he hoped so. "Only – don’t leave, Sean. Please."
"I won’t."
"I’m not ordinarily so impulsive."
A broad smile lit Sean’s face. "You’d not have known it the other night. You were right bold, I thought."
Viggo’s knees felt weak. "Liquid courage."
The smile grew brighter. "Is that what it were?"
"It must have been." Viggo felt heavier without the weight of Sean’s touch; it had kindled yearning that he’d worked for weeks to bank. Sudden violence itched in his fingertips. He wanted to grasp Sean by the nape of the neck, pull him close so that their bodies would grind together in excruciating and glorious frustration, to drag him to the floor and couple like animals in sweating, snarling triumph. He forced himself to take a step backward. "Perhaps you could come to dinner one night this week."
Sean’s tongue crept out to wet his lips. "Aye. I’d like that."
"Good." Viggo went to sit at his desk, wondering if this new revelation would make working more difficult. He suspected so.
Sean edged toward the door. "I’ll be right back, sir."
"Viggo."
"Viggo," Sean repeated softly. "Did you want some tea?"
"Please. Thank you." Viggo looked down at his paperwork and smiled. His mouth was dry, his palms moist, his prick half hard, but he wasn’t so caught up in his own desire that he didn’t notice Sean’s obvious excitement. He reached down between his thighs and, shuddering, gave himself one languorous stroke.
He would wait, and be patient.
*
Why mine inspections had held any terrors for him, Viggo scarcely remembered. Hardly a week went by without someone visiting Mortensen Coal and getting a tour; an inspection seemed a commonplace thing now. There had been some serious accidents in West Virginia and further south, near Hazleton, that had prompted something of an uproar in the papers. Thus a municipal, union, or sometimes a state inspector was frequently dispatched to conduct surprise inspections. Viggo was rarely present on the tours, trusting Sean and Gavin Rowe to handle visitors and answer questions with promptness and certainty.
Today’s guest, however, demanded a higher degree of attention. Miles Whittaker, with the Department of Internal Affairs, was a young man, no more than thirty, but he had an accountant’s ponderous, dusty demeanor, and a government employee’s resigned suspicion, as if dishonesty and corruption in the private sector was inevitable, and the only question was when he would stumble upon it. Viggo sat next to Gavin in the mine boss’ office, waiting for him to deliver some sort of verdict. So far he’d only made notes in a leather-bound book and grunted, scarcely audible noises that could have meant anything.
With a sniff and a ceremonious lack of speed, Whittaker drew a spotless handkerchief from his inside breast pocket, removed his black-speckled pince-nez, and polished the lenses, his concentration suggesting a man performing a feat of extreme dexterity. Viggo watched in mild fascination. The man’s obvious disgust at the damp and dust of the mine had been amusing, if a little baffling. Surely it wasn't his first mine inspection. He wondered if Mr. Whittaker had angered a higher-up and brought the dismal job of mine inspector upon himself.
"It’s always handy to wear black on an inspection, I suppose," Viggo ventured with a smile.
Whittaker regarded his blackened handkerchief with a frown and replaced his pince-nez. "I beg your pardon?" He had watery, protuberant blue eyes and a Van Dyke beard that wagged when he spoke.
"Your clothes. It’s clever of you to wear black." Viggo tried a friendly smile, but he might as well have beamed at a chunk of anthracite for all the response he received. Whittaker folded his handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket with a sigh. Viggo smothered a sigh of his own. He was scheduled to entertain Mr. Whittaker at dinner tonight. He looked as if he needed a good dinner, for he was cadaverously thin. It was entirely possible, however, that the man’s eating habits were as stringent and abstemious as his personal mien. The evening did not promise to be a scintillating one. Viggo traded a despairing glance with Gavin Rowe, who shrugged almost imperceptibly and raised his eyes toward the ceiling. "Where can I take you next, Mr. Whittaker?" Viggo inquired, raising his voice as the breaker, having survived Whittaker’s scrutiny, churned into life outside the office door.
"I suppose we’re about through," Whittaker replied with another sigh. He consulted the notebook on the desk in front of him and flipped a page. He made a short notation in ink and languidly waved his bony hand over it to dry. "I’ll have a look at the outside of the grounds, if you please, and the general…ah…condition of the fencing and engineering. That should conclude things." He capped his pen with a glum expression, as if he expected Viggo to have saved all the bad news for the end of the tour.
"Very well." Viggo led him and Gavin back outdoors and followed quietly as Whittaker strolled the perimeter of the property, grunting as he made notations in his book. There was no cause for worry. Sean had been diligent about procuring the latest safety regulations and communicating them to Gavin, and Viggo’s efforts to install safety improvements would pay for themselves in a higher yield. Among the three of them, they had the mine shipshape, more than ready to weather the most exacting investigation.
The thought of Sean provoked a grin that Viggo failed to stifle. If he were entirely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he’d paid only scant attention to Mr. Whittaker’s minute audit of the mine operation. He was preoccupied with images of Sean’s shy smiles, his frequent flushes…and the breadth of his shoulders, his narrow hips, his long hands. It was too soon to be truly daring, but he longed to bury his face between Sean’s thighs, to unbutton his trousers and take Sean’s prick in his mouth.
"Mr. Mortensen?" Whittaker’s brows were drawn together.
"I’m sorry." Viggo struggled to recover himself. "Woolgathering, I’m afraid."
"I said I’d like to speak with your outside foreman."
"Oh, certainly. Gavin, would you find Harry, please?" Viggo offered Whittaker a somewhat dreamy smile, which the inspector met with a puzzled scowl. Viggo forced himself to affect a solemn attitude, and the two stood in silence for a time. Whittaker seemed perfectly content to stand in utter wordlessness, staring at his shoe tops, but Viggo was discomfited by the quiet. It would have been easy, though scarcely appropriate, to lose himself in thoughts of Sean again, so he cast about for a conversational gambit and finally fell back on some pleasantries his mother had used to engage his father’s business associates. "Does your wife mind that you’re on these long inspection tours, Mr. Whittaker?"
The scowl deepened. "I have not yet taken a wife, Mr. Mortensen." Whittaker examined the spine of his notebook. "There is a young lady who has captured my interest, however," he added in a lower voice.
"Perhaps you can tell me about her at dinner tonight."
Whittaker swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. "Perhaps. She’s a fine person. A person of most upstanding character. She lives in Fairfax, Virginia." A faint mottled blush spread over his cheeks, and he coughed. A smile trembled around the corners of his mouth, but did not quite materialize. Despite his awkwardness, he appeared both hopeful and handsome.
"You should take her a gift," Viggo suggested on an impulse. "There are some lovely shops in town. She’d forgive you for leaving so often."
"I may do that." Whittaker seemed to unbend slightly. His beard was wagging with less emphasis, at any rate. "And do you have a young lady, Mr. Mortensen?"
"No, I’m afraid not," Viggo said. "No young lady." A deep, secret pleasure overwhelmed him, and he smiled again.
"Hm. I see," Whittaker replied in a tone he must have regarded as thoughtful.
I don’t think you do, my friend, Viggo thought, and suppressed an idiotic bray of laughter by biting the inside of his cheek. Stop it, he scolded himself. You’re behaving like a lovesick fool. Another gale of merriment bubbled up, and he quashed it by digging his fingernails into the back of his hand. It felt delightful to be a lovesick fool, in fact. Young lady! He snorted, stifled it with a cough, and was relieved to see Gavin and Harry Slater approaching.
He made introductions and let Slater lead them to the outside machinery, describe the newest improvements, and demonstrate the safety features. Slater was pleasant, businesslike, and efficient, and the whole thing was over in no time. Gavin and Slater escorted them to Viggo’s carriage.
"How’s young Sean, Mr. Mortensen?" Slater inquired, holding the door-flap open for Mr. Whittaker.
Again the dreamy pleasure swept over Viggo. He cares for me, he longed to say, but arranged a mild expression on his face. "He’s quite well. I’d forgotten, he said you two were acquainted in England."
"That’s right. I was in Winsley for a few years. Not born and bred there myself, but it’s a pretty enough town, if you like things on the bleak side."
"I take it you didn’t," Whittaker said with a severe look.
"Oh, I tend to move on every few years, sir. Keeps the blood moving, it does. That Sean’s a right good lad. A bit of a wild one, but what young fellow isn’t?" Slater shrugged and smiled.
"I haven’t seen any indication of wildness," Viggo remarked pleasantly. Yet, he thought.
"Well, sir, nothing against him. Every lad’s got to sow his oats. I was surprised to learn he’s clerking away for you. Worked in the brickyards, last I knew him." Slater, still holding the door open, gestured for Viggo to climb into the carriage.
Viggo remained firmly planted. "He was a clerk for a few years in the employ of a Mr. Frederick Watkins, also of Winsley," he said, bristling at the implied slur against Sean’s intelligence. "Surely you knew him."
"Freddy? Sure I did. Everybody knows Freddy Watkins." Slater closed the door-flap and stepped away a few paces, out of Whittaker’s earshot, clearly expecting Viggo to follow him. Reluctantly, Viggo did. "Not to worry, I’m sure he’s a solid chap, especially if Freddy gave him a reference," Slater said in a low voice. "I don’t know him all that well, sir, so you’ll have to pardon me. So much is hearsay in small towns."
Viggo frowned. "Hearsay?"
"Ah, you know how it is, sir. People talk. Naught but hot air, usually. People always did wonder why he left Freddy’s employ so abruptly. Was a good job, you know. Easy work, fair wages, didn’t come home every night covered in mud. Must have had a right good reason to leave."
"Now look here, Mr. Slater. If you’re insinuating some dishonesty on Mr. Bean’ part, I really must protest. In fact, I won’t stand for any slander. He’s scrupulously honest and a hard worker besides."
Slater’s face contracted in dismay. "I’m sorry, sir. I oughtn’t to have said anything. All hot air, like I said. I’ll not mention it to another living soul."
Viggo’s curiosity was piqued, but he refused to indulge it. Besides, what rumors and hearsay could Slater possibly be talking about? It was true that he hadn’t asked Sean for references, but he was a hard worker, worth twice over what he earned. If he’d stolen so much as a dime, Viggo would know about it, for Sean went over the books with him once a week. No thief would do such a thing. "Please remember that, Mr. Slater. I won’t tolerate rumor-mongering among my employees. It’s bad for morale. If you have some solid evidence to present against someone, then I’d prefer that you came directly to me."
"Of course, sir. And Sean’s a good lad, no doubt about it. No one’s ever accused him of thieving." Slater sounded genuinely apologetic.
"Was there something particular, then?" Viggo asked, wincing as he waited for the answer.
"Only what I said, sir. People wondered why he left Watkins so quickly." Slater shrugged. "A lot of useless chatter, sir, and I’m sorry I brought it up."
Viggo relaxed. "Is that all? Good God, people leave employers quickly all the time."
"You’re right about that, sir."
"Very well. I must be going. Thank you for showing Mr. Whittaker around, Mr. Slater." Viggo gave Slater’s hand a firm shake, happy to dispel the little worm of uncertainty that had sprung to life in his belly.
"Not at all, sir."
Viggo bade Gavin farewell and climbed in beside Whittaker, who sat with his legs crossed and his arms folded. He felt a moment’s pity for the man and wondered if he courted his intended in a similarly clenched posture. It would be a struggle to attempt a kiss through all those tightly folded bones.
The ride back to the office was swifter than Viggo had hoped; he chose to talk about a gift for Whittaker’s young lady, and all the shops that were open to accommodate a man in love. By and by, his constricted guest relaxed, and by the time they’d reached the office, he’d cracked a smile or two. Beaming, Viggo trotted up the steps and opened the door.
Sean was there, his green eyes brimming with some indecipherable emotion. "I’ve mashed another pot of tea for Mr. Whittaker, sir," he said.
Uncharacteristic shyness unspooled in Viggo’s chest. "That’s very kind of you. Mr. Whittaker, shall we adjourn to the parlor? You can give me your notes there." Whittaker, slipping once more into his role of inspector, nodded and marched into the parlor. Once his back was turned, Viggo searched Sean’s face. It had been only a few hours since their mutually uncomfortable declarations.
Sean half-turned in the gaslit hallway. "I’ll get that tea." He glanced over his shoulder and then smiled, a broad, sweet smile that transformed his face. Swiftly, he moved down the hall into the kitchen, leaving Viggo alone.
Oh, dear God, Viggo thought, breaking into a grin of his own.
*
Of all nights, of all the blasted inconvenient nights for Michael to stop by unannounced and drone on and on, obviously expecting to be invited to dinner – it was intolerable. Didn’t anyone stand on ceremony any longer? Didn’t they feed him at the damned rectory? Viggo could see his brother’s nose all but twitch at the fragrance of roast chicken drifting from the kitchen, but he remained stubbornly silent, an expression of affability plastered to his face, forcing himself to pay attention to Michael and not to the gilded mantel clock that chimed every fifteen minutes to underscore Viggo’s growing discomfort.
Sean was late, perhaps not coming at all.
"Are you staying all summer?"
"What? Oh – yes, I suppose so," Viggo said. "I might go back for a weekend, but summer in the city…." He shrugged.
"Old York Road is hardly ‘the city,’" Michael snorted.
"Close enough. I can’t tell you how good it feels to be away from the whirl of it all. You should be grateful you’re in the priesthood. No need for that sort of thing."
"I’ve traded one kind of whirl for another, believe me. I presume you mean Mother’s new set, pressure to marry, and so on. It’s not so bad, is it?"
"Not horrible," Viggo admitted. "It’s just frustrating and tiresome, all that pushing and relentless jockeying for position. All that expectation – I just want to be left to myself. Besides, you don’t know those people."
"I’ve met a fair number of them," Michael said.
"Well, you know they live by a different set of morals, then. They’re all a bit fast for me." You’re a fine one to be talking about morals, Viggo thought. Unconsciously, his eyes strayed to the clock.
"Oh, I know," Michael replied with a sigh. "I wonder about some of the new people Mother’s taken up with. More concerned about proper form than actually living a decent life. But then, she’s chivvied a few of them into generous donations for the parish, some people who aren’t even Catholic. I’ve fed the homeless and destitute from the profits of some of what I hear might be Philadelphia’s biggest libertines." He sighed again. "Should I refuse it, or pray that by their generosity they will somehow grow in our Lord’s favor?"
"Of course you shouldn’t refuse it. I doubt those poor people care where the money comes from. Would you, if you were hungry?"
"I suppose not."
"At any rate, I think I shall stay in Wilkes-Barre for the summer," Viggo said, omitting his principal reason for doing so. "Why not? You’re here, and now Gracie. Perhaps the rest of the family will migrate as well."
"I doubt it. Mother and Father are too busy, you couldn’t drag Agnes away from her fellow, and the others wouldn’t want to leave their friends. I’m glad Gracie will be staying, though. Miss Welles seems like a lovely young lady, a good companion for her, even if she didn’t take to you. I’m sure her father was quite disappointed about that, though I must say it speaks for her good sense." Michael laughed. "In any case, it’ll be grand to have you about as well. Now if I’m keeping you from something, Viggo – dinner, perhaps – I’ll be happy to be on my way. You needn’t keep staring at the clock."
Hot embarrassment choked Viggo’s throat for a few seconds. "Well, I was expecting Sean, in fact. We had some business to discuss, and it would have been as well to discuss it over dinner. But he’s rather late. You’re welcome to stay, of course," he added lamely.
Michael frowned. "Just how late is he? It’s nearly seven."
"Forty minutes," Viggo replied, striving to keep disappointment out of his voice. "Perhaps he’s forgotten." But he couldn’t have. They’d made arrangements on Thursday, he’d reminded Sean on Friday, and here it was Saturday evening and no sign of him. Had he decided not to come, that the risk was too great?
"I thought he was a solid sort of fellow," Michael said.
"He is," Viggo said. "Very solid." He rose from the sofa and pulled the curtain aside. It was dusk, the trees soft black silhouettes against an ink-blue sky. He raised the window sash and peered down the street. The gas lamps were lit, but there was no sign of Sean.
"Stop hanging out the window like that."
"Sorry, Mother," Viggo mocked. He came back in, but left the window ajar. "Pretty evening. You might as well come in and have dinner, Michael – everything’s going to dry out if we don’t eat it." He spoke brightly to cover his dismay. All that talk on Monday, and all their little glances and smiles the rest of the week had come to nothing.
"So gracious of you. No wonder society tires you out. Oh, my brother Viggo?" Michael rose to his feet and addressed the ceiling. "He’s a marvelous host, just marvelous. He’ll invite you for dinner if his other guests decide not to show up."
"Oh, shut up, big mouth." Viggo reverted to a childhood taunt.
"You shut up." Michael punched his arm, and Viggo punched him back. Michael locked an arm around Viggo’s neck and gave his nose a fearsome tweak. Viggo squawked in surprise and dug an elbow into Michael’s stomach. They wrestled their way to the parlor door, fighting to get it open, then tripped over the carpet fringe and stumbled into the hall, where Pearce and Noreen sat at a little table, playing a card game.
Viggo pulled free of Michael’s grip and straightened his coat with tardy composure. "We’ll be having dinner now, Pearce. Noreen."
"Yes, sir." The valet and maid’s lack of reaction would have done credit to the most stone-faced English butler.
Viggo and Michael followed them into the dining room and sat at the two places that had been ready for nearly an hour. The elaborate place settings depressed Viggo anew. Perhaps he should have suggested a decent restaurant in one of the hotels, or even one of the humbler eateries they frequented at lunch – some neutral, familiar ground where they could both be comfortable, not this fortress of a house, so staid, formal, and intimidating. Still, Sean had accepted without any apparent discomfort. Not bothering to correct the slump in his posture, Viggo ate a forkful of chicken without noticing the taste.
"Excellent stuff," Michael said, taking a mouthful of buttered mashed potatoes. "Pity Sean didn’t come. You don’t suppose something happened to him, do you?"
"Good Lord, no," Viggo said. "What on earth could happen on a four-block walk? It’s not exactly the rough side of town."
"Do you want me to check in at Mrs. Donnelly’s after supper?"
Viggo’s lips twisted in an involuntary smile. Oh, that’s grand, he thought. Pardon, Mrs. Donnelly, but Mr. Bean was to turn up at my brother’s house for dinner and a possible illicit rendezvous – can you tell me if he’s in? "No, it’s not necessary, Michael. But thanks all the same." He bit into a boiled carrot. Perhaps Sean had forgotten their appointment after all, and Viggo was making too much of it. Or he wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t send word. Viggo thought he might stroll by the boardinghouse himself a little later. Most of the tenants would still be awake, even if Mrs. Donnelly wouldn’t quite approve. She had a soft spot for him, though, and he was able to charm her with comparative ease. And just in case Sean wasn’t feeling well, Viggo would bring him some oranges or biscuits to tide him over.
The rest of the evening mapped out satisfactorily, he consumed the meal, which hadn’t dried out at all, with more appetite. Michael rattled on entertainingly, full of harmless parish gossip. He had an amazing facility for remembering names and faces, which his parishioners doubtless appreciated. Viggo listened without contributing much, but with appreciation; Michael might have had a successful and satisfying career in vaudeville, had he not chosen the priesthood.
As they were finishing their cucumber salad, the doorbell jangled. Viggo and Michael stared at each other. "Could that be your long-lost guest at last?"
"Likely." Viggo wiped his mouth and set his napkin beside his plate. "No, I’ll get it, Pearce. Have Noreen set another place, if you please." He strode to the door, finding himself unreasonably irritated – with Sean, for being so late, with himself for getting into such a wax over a small time delay, with Michael for overstaying his welcome. He paused at the door to compose himself – and it wouldn’t hurt Sean to wait a few more seconds, if indeed it was he. Viggo had waited longer. All day, in fact, half-sick with giddy anticipation. Prepared to be cool and polite, he grasped the knob, swung the door open, and gaped in shock. "Oh, sweet Lord."
Sean’s face looked like a winter sunset. His right eye was a welter of purple-red bruises, and there was another bruise on the opposite cheekbone. A constellation of cuts and scrapes decorated his forehead, and his lower lip was split on one side. He tried to smile, and winced in pain. "Sorry I’m late."
"Sorry – what in God’s name happened to you?" Viggo took Sean’s arm and pulled him inside. "Good heavens, look at you. What happened?" He smelled the odor of beer on Sean’s clothes. With a stab of dismay, he recalled Harry Slater’s assertion that Sean was wild. "Did you have a fight?"
A bitter chuckle escaped Sean’s bleeding mouth. "Aye, you could say that."
"What’s this?" Michael, never one to be kept from a potentially interesting scene for long, came into the hall. He paused at the sight of Sean’s battered face and let out a long, low whistle. "Well, you’ve got into quite a scrape, haven’t you? How does the other fellow look?"
"There were three other fellows," Sean mumbled. "I reckon they look fine."
"Three!" Viggo recoiled.
"Aye. Jumped me, took my money. Bastards. Sorry, Father." Sean swayed and braced his hand against the wall. He brushed at a cut on his forehead with a dirty sleeve, leaving a smear of mingled grime and blood, and stared at his red-stained sleeve in bemusement.
Viggo’s compassion and practicality protested at such carelessness. "Michael, help me get him into the kitchen," he commanded, hauling one of Sean’s arms over his shoulder and all but dragging him down the hall.
"I can walk all right," Sean protested in a slurred voice.
"Viggo’s right. You look a bit unsteady on your pins," Michael said, taking Sean’s other arm. "Did they beat you unconscious? Have you a headache?"
"A bit." Even in the dim light of the gas lamps, Sean looked white beneath his scrapes and bruises. "I blacked out, but it were only for a moment, less than that even. Woke up in the alley behind the pub. A couple of lads brought me inside."
"Maybe we should take him to the hospital," Michael said.
"Nay. Don’t need a hospital," Sean insisted, his words made thick by his split lip. "Just let me sit awhile, get my breath back." He leaned heavily on the brothers as they steered him into the kitchen, where the cook, Mrs. McGuire, was piping whipped cream onto a glazed pear tart. The pastry tube clattered onto the table as she gaped open-mouthed at the three men invading her domain.
"Sorry about this, Mrs. McGuire," Viggo said. "But we need your help." Together, he and Michael eased Sean into a hard wooden chair. He managed to give Sean’s hand a discreet and affectionate squeeze, and earned a rueful half-smile in return. "Some clean cloths, I think, and hot water and soap…."
Mrs. McGuire stared for a few seconds more, then seemed to shake herself into action. She wiped her hands on her apron and strode toward Sean. "What happened to you, boyo? Try to steal someone else’s lass, did you?" She put a hand beneath his chin and tipped his face toward the lights.
"Nay. Just minding my own business, and the bast – the rascals jumped me."
"Ah, sure that’s what they all say. All right, Noreen, stop your gawping," she commanded the maid, who stood clutching a dinner plate close to her slight breasts, staring in wide-eyed fascination at Sean. "Heat some water, and don’t be all day about it."
"You don’t think he needs the hospital, do you, Mrs. McGuire?" Viggo inquired, unable to take his eyes from the ugly weals marring Sean’s face. He felt all duty lay upon his shoulders, and was quite ready to embark upon the most difficult mission if need be.
"Did you walk here, laddie?" Mrs. McGuire asked, dabbing at Sean’s cuts with a clean white towel and hot water.
"Aye."
"Didn’t faint on the way, did you?"
"Nay."
"Can you see proper? Only one of me, lad?"
"Aye, just the one," Sean answered, flinching as she cleaned another cut.
"Hold that there, that’s a good lad. Nay, Mr. Mortensen, he doesn’t need a hospital. Just a bit of bandaging and some rest. Noreen, go fetch the arnica and some bandages, and don’t be after telling me you can’t find them. Go on!"
Viggo and Michael stood back and let Mrs. McGuire tend to Sean, who submitted quietly to her ministrations. Only an occasional indrawn breath indicated that he felt any pain. Now that the worst seemed to be over, Viggo began to burn with outrage on Sean’s behalf. "I’m calling the police."
Sean regarded him bleakly with one bright green eye. "What for?"
"What for? To – to find the miscreants who did this to you, naturally. Do you think you’d be able to identify them if they were apprehended?"
"I doubt it." Sean flinched as Mrs. McGuire applied a salve to the cut on his lip. "They didn’t stand still and let me stare at them. I don’t see that it would do owt to fetch the police, anyroad. They’ll never find them."
"He’s right," Michael said, staring longingly at the pear tart. "That is, I don’t say you shouldn’t report the assault, but I wouldn’t expect to see your money again. Or the thieves, for that matter. It was awfully bold of them to attack you before it was full dark, though."
"Bold! It’s intolerable. My God, hoodlums beating and robbing people in broad daylight." Viggo shook his head reprovingly at Sean and Michael’s calm resignation. "Sean, I’m going to send Pearce for a policeman this minute."
"Don’t make him talk to a policeman now," Michael said. "Think, Viggo. He’s exhausted and in pain."
Viggo peered doubtfully at Sean. "But…shouldn’t he speak to one now, while the details are fresh? Sean?"
"What details? He said he couldn’t recall what they looked like. Leave him be. Take him in the morning, if you’re so bent on pursuing this." Michael sniffed the air regretfully. "That tart smells wonderful. I suppose I’d better go – it’s getting late."
"Oh, just take it with you," Viggo growled. "Noreen, give it to him, please. Then tell Pearce to get the carriage ready, and have him take my brother home. Clearly the streets aren’t fit for decent people at night."
Carrying the tart in a covered dish, Michael took his leave with cheerful goodbyes and wishes for Sean's swift recovery. Viggo and Sean were left in the kitchen as Mrs. McGuire bustled about, chattering. "I’m thinking you won’t want to be chewing anything with that mashed gob, boyo. I’ll make some beef tea for you, and Mr. Viggo can fetch you a nice strong whiskey, deaden the pain. Noreen, go and run a hot bath, then turn down the bedclothes in the green room. The young fella can sleep there tonight."
"Nay," Sean stammered, getting to his feet. "I just wanted to – I didn’t want you to think I’d forgot about the evening, sir."
"Nonsense, you must stay. You need a good night’s rest." Viggo looked over his shoulder to make sure that Mrs. McGuire was engrossed in her work, then leaned close to Sean’s ear. "I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of you in such a vulnerable state," he whispered. "Much as I’d like to."
Sean laughed soundlessly, then cringed. "Bloody hell, that hurts."
Viggo straightened. "Come along. I’ll get you that whiskey, and you can drink it in the bath, if you promise not to drown in the tub. It’s rather wide and deep."
"Sounds lovely."
Sean followed Viggo upstairs, and obediently went into the bathroom while Viggo ducked into his bedroom to rummage a clean nightshirt from his wardrobe. He snatched his green and gold silk dressing gown from its hook, and gathered up the decanter and glass he’d taken from the sideboard downstairs. He tapped on the bathroom door. "Sean? It’s Viggo."
"Aye, I’m in."
Viggo stepped into the steamy bathroom and tried not to stare. Sean leaned back against the rim of the deep tub, gingerly soaping himself, and although from Viggo’s vantage point only his head and shoulders were visible, it was still an enticing sight. His head was tipped back, exposing a long, smooth throat, and his naked shoulders were broad and strong. Viggo began to sweat from more than the heat of the bath.
Sean looked up. A shock of blond hair fell over the startling white of the bandage on his forehead. "This is more hospitality than you were ready to show me," he said gravely. "I’m sorry about it."
"Not at all, don’t be silly." Viggo draped the nightshirt and dressing gown over the back of a spindly chair and set the decanter and glass on a little table, pulling it closer to the tub. "I always thought this bathroom was needlessly large, but I suppose the spaciousness can come in handy now and again," he said. "Perhaps I’ll start bringing a whiskey up here every night. It ought to be quite soothing."
"Aye, I reckon so. If you don’t fall asleep and drown, that is." Sean glanced down. "You were right about the tub. It’s a bleeding lake, isn’t it?"
"It is," Viggo agreed. He did his best not to stare, but he stole a brief glance downward, then gasped. "Sean –" The light was low, but he was nonetheless able to see a profusion of bruises on Sean’s torso and stomach. "Oh, Sean." He knelt beside the tub and put his hand out as if to touch Sean’s chest, but then drew back. He averted his eyes from Sean's naked body. "Does it hurt terribly?"
"Oh, aye, it hurts," Sean said with a lopsided smile. "Can I have some of that whiskey?"
"Sorry – of course." Viggo poured a double and handed Sean the glass. "I’ll leave you to bathe in peace. I imagine you’ll want a little quiet after your ordeal."
"Don’t go," said Sean. "I wish – I don’t mind if you stay."
Viggo contained his delight. "All right." He stripped off his coat and sat cross-legged on the floor. "You know, I’ve never been in a fight. One of my sculling teammates accidentally brained me with an oar in college, but I’ve never been beaten, much less by three men. It must have been frightening."
"I were scared all right," Sean admitted. He took a deep drink and flinched. "Christ, that burns. Three on one weren’t a fair fight at all. I thought I might get my head bashed in."
"What happened? Did they just leap on you out of nowhere?"
"Not quite." Sean took another sip and set the glass on the little table. "I were in the pub having a pint of bitter – a bit of liquid courage to come here tonight, do you see?" He gave Viggo a wry grin, and Viggo laughed. "I finished up and went out the back to have a – to answer a call of nature, and when I’d done, I turned round, and three fellows were standing there, staring at me. One of them threw a glass of beer in my face, and then they just –" He shrugged. "Beat the tar out of me."
Viggo was aghast. "You should have screamed blue murder."
"Hard to yell out when two blokes are pinning you to the bloody wall and the third is pounding his fist into your guts," Sean replied dryly.
"That’s true, that’s true." Viggo dragged his hands through his hair. "How much money did they take?"
"Not much. That’s the hell of it. I only had four or five dollars on me."
"I’m so sorry."
"Nothing for you to be sorry for," Sean said.
"I’m sorry all the same." Viggo rose to his knees and planted a soft kiss on Sean’s temple. He tasted salt. "If I hadn’t invited you for this evening, it wouldn’t have happened."
Sean turned, and as their lips met, he groaned.
"Your poor hurt mouth," Viggo said.
"It’s not so bad."
"Liar." Viggo threaded his fingers in Sean’s hair and kissed the corner of his mouth, where it was unscathed. He kissed a path along Sean’s jaw to his ear, suckled on the lobe, and let his fingers drift to the smooth-skinned hollow at the base of Sean’s throat. "I should leave, and let you bathe."
"Don’t go."
"But I said I wouldn’t take advantage of your helpless state."
Sean grasped Viggo’s hand and brought it near his lips. "Aye, but what if I wanted you to?" He touched the tip of his tongue to Viggo’s index finger, then closed his mouth around it and sucked lightly.
"Oh, Lord," Viggo breathed, and kissed Sean’s neck, beneath his chin, anywhere that was undamaged. His prick was stiff in his trousers, and he felt faint from the heat and desire. Slowly, he extricated his finger from Sean’s mouth, and brushed the back of his hand over Sean’s cheek. The skin was taut, and just sleek enough to indicate that he’d shaved recently, perhaps just before he’d left the boardinghouse. Viggo let his trembling hand drift downward, down Sean’s throat to his chest. His fingers dipped into the warm water and skated lightly over Sean’s belly. He looked down and swallowed. Sean’s prick was stiff, straining upwards, his thighs sprawled as far apart as the tub allowed.
"Go on," Sean said in a rasping whisper. "Go on. Please."
Viggo plunged deeper, wetting his shirtsleeve to the elbow. He brushed past the coarse thatch of hair and curled his hand gently round Sean’s prick. His own erection was painful and he was sure that he was about to pass out from the heat, but he ignored his own discomfort and stroked lightly. He longed to ravish Sean’s open mouth, but instead braced himself against the tub with his free hand and moved in again to kiss Sean’s throat. His curled fingers moved faster, with greater urgency.
Sean moaned softly and tilted his head back, clutching the rim of the tub with both hands. His hips thrust up toward Viggo’s loosely closed fist.
A knock sounded on the door. "Mr. Mortensen? It’s Noreen. I’ve got Mr. Bean’ beef tea."
Viggo let go and sprang to his feet, reaching the door in two swift steps. He opened it and peered out, deftly shielding his excited state and his wet arm. "You can leave it in the green room, Noreen. Mr. Bean will be out directly."
"Mrs. McGuire says I should lay some nightclothes out for him, sir."
"I’ve done that. Hence my presence in the bathroom." He offered Noreen a reassuring smile. "Consider your duty discharged, dear. Thank Mrs. McGuire for the beef tea and please tell her Mr. Bean is going to sleep. I think I’ll retire for the evening as well."
"Sure you don’t need anything else, sir?"
Viggo stifled a laugh. "Quite sure."
"All right, sir. Good night." Noreen executed a little curtsy, which must have been difficult with the heavy covered tray in her hands, and moved silently down the hall.
Viggo closed the door and pivoted on his heel. He met Sean’s chagrined and slightly guilty gaze and burst into laughter. "Close shave."
"Bloody hell." Sean’s face was unnaturally pale, though he managed a shaky smile. "I thought you were going to let her come in."
"And given her the fright of a lifetime? Heavens, no." They both laughed, and Viggo sank onto the chair. He held out his still-wet arm. "Although…she might have thought I was helping to bathe you."
"I thought you were." Sean’s good eye twinkled.
Viggo’s blood pounded in his ears. Their actions had been so spontaneous and affectionate. Now, interrupted, he felt a weight and hesitation between them. It had been nearly a year since he’d been enveloped in that world of surreptitious caresses and fugitive glances, and he stared enrapt at Sean, half-aroused, half-terrified. "I’d like to finish."
Sean nodded, then placed both hands on either side of the tub and rose slowly to his feet. Water trickled down his naked body. A dozen incoherent thoughts about Adam and Venus and Apollo tripped through Viggo’s fevered mind. He reached behind him with one shaking hand and locked the door as Sean stepped out of the tub, his skin gleaming, and his cock fully erect.
Viggo watched, hypnotized, as Sean reached down and stroked himself. "What do you…do you want to, or should I…." He found himself unable to say the words.
"I want to fuck you," Sean’s voice was pitched low, a guttural growl.
The words, their vulgarity, shot straight to Viggo’s prick. He unfastened his tie and let it drop to the floor. He unbuttoned two shirt buttons, shrugged out of his braces, and pulled the shirt over his head without bothering to undo his cufflinks. The shirt landed at his feet. He kicked it aside impatiently, struggled out of the top half of his underwear, and then stopped, suddenly embarrassed and unsure what to do next.
Sean tilted his head to one side, frankly admiring. He took a few steps closer, reached out, and placed his hand on Viggo’s chest, stroking up and down. One slender finger brushed over a nipple. "That’s nice."
Viggo took a deep, shuddering breath. Despite the dimness of the lamps, he felt as if he were standing in blazing sunlight, every imperfection exposed. "Awfully hairy."
"I like it." Sean’s hand slid lower, down Viggo’s belly, to his trousers, rubbing against summer-weight wool and knitted cotton and the aching flesh between his legs. "Take the rest of your clothes off."
In his haste, Viggo nearly stumbled over his own feet. He divested himself of shoes and stockings in less time than it took to tell, and hurried out of his trousers and underwear. So many layers, even in the warmth of late spring, but at last he was as naked as Sean, and as hard.
Sean had drifted toward an étagère. He picked up a glass bottle of bath oil from Floris. "Yours?"
"Grace’s."
"You think she’ll mind?" Sean grinned.
"She’s at Charlotte’s for the weekend."
Sean unscrewed the cap. The heady aroma of jasmine filled the air, mingling with the steam from the bath. He tipped the bottle, and a small trickle of oil pooled in his palm. He brought his hand down and caressed himself.
Viggo bit his lip. "Where should I…." He made a helpless gesture with his hands.
"You don’t have to do owt that’s fancy," Sean said softly. "Bend over the sink."
Sean’s every word sent a thrill to Viggo’s prick. He nodded and leaned over the sink, clutching its hard edges, trembling and waiting. He felt Sean’s hand on his back, slick with oil, moving down, lower and lower to trace the outline of his backside, then felt strong fingers grasp his hips and the blunt thickness of Sean’s prick pushing inside. Viggo stifled a cry against his arm and waited for Sean to slide in all the way, to bury himself to the hilt. He pushed back and heard Sean groan. Sean was still for a moment, his body pressed tightly to Viggo’s. Slowly, he began to thrust in and out, his breathing hard and loud in the silence of the bathroom.
Viggo bore the initial discomfort – it had been so long – but as Sean began to move, his arousal returned, harder and stronger than before. He moaned and reached between his legs to stroke himself, borne up on Sean’s harsh breaths, the sensation of his taut body, the faint pain of long fingers digging into Viggo’s hips. He pushed back with all his strength, quivering, his toes pressing into the cold tile floor. Faster and harder he stroked, and released with a shudder that racked him from head to foot. He heard a strangled cry, and felt the weight of Sean’s chest on his back and Sean’s cheek against his shoulder.
He lifted his head. The mirror was too steamy to see their reflection. He would have liked to watch Sean pushing deep inside him. Fucking him. He moved slightly, his body stiff, and Sean stirred, pulled out slowly, and stepped away. Viggo rinsed his hand and turned. Sean was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze roaming over the contents of the bathroom as if he were trying to find something.
"I’d better go," Sean said.
A stab of dismay pierced Viggo’s insides. They couldn’t have been more intimate, and now Sean wanted to leave. "Why?"
Sean looked confused. "Well…I…" Unconsciously, he scratched himself. "When I were with Freddy Watkins, he always…when we finished –" He shrugged.
"He sent you away?"
"Aye."
Viggo stepped close to Sean and put a tentative hand on his arm. When Sean didn’t flinch away, he gathered him close, mindful of his aches and bruises. "Well, Freddy Watkins was a damned fool. I don’t want you to leave." Gently, he kissed the nape of Sean’s neck. I love him, he thought. God help me, I love him. "Will you stay?"
With trembling slowness, Sean relaxed in Viggo’s arms. "Aye," he said. "I’ll stay."
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
*
Viggo waved away Pearce’s overly solicitous attentions and came down to Sunday breakfast in his dressing gown. The robe failed to entirely conceal the previous evening’s clothes, or their sorry state of dishevelment. His trousers were wrinkled beyond hope, his shirt studs and cufflinks discarded, and the shirt itself, also crumpled, gaped open, exposing several inches of unbuttoned union suit and a fair expanse of bare chest. Noreen, the little Irish maid, bid him a sunny good morning, then sniffed and drew back, staring open-mouthed at his dishabille.
Viggo glared at the girl. "Is something wrong, Noreen?"
"N-no, sir." Her broad freckled face had turned bright red. "Coffee or tea this morning, sir?"
"Coffee," Viggo muttered, and slumped into his chair. When she had finished pouring, he caught her sleeve and gave her arm an awkward pat. "I’m sorry, dear. I’m not feeling very well. I didn’t mean to bark like that."
Noreen nodded sympathetically. "Sure it’s a terrible thing to suffer from a delicate stomach, sir. I’ll bring your breakfast. That’ll fix you up."
A diplomat in petticoats, Viggo thought, cradling his head in his hands. ‘A delicate stomach’ must have been some Irish euphemism for ‘three sheets to the wind.’ His head throbbed unmercifully, and he knew he doubtless reeked of the Kentucky bourbon he’d started in on the moment he and Grace had arrived home from the ball, the panacea to his colossal error in judgment. He pulled his hands upward, wincing at the faint rasping noise of his fingers against his unshaven cheeks. He hadn’t bothered to wash or shave. Well, if anyone objected, that was his own affair. It was his house, and he could do as he damned well pleased. He brought his coffee cup to his nose, steadying his hand. Was he still drunk? Perhaps he was. Tant pis, as the French said.
The side door slammed, and a moment later Grace sailed into the dining room in a smart pale-grey suit and feathered hat, peeling off her gloves. "There you are, lazybones! Michael asked after you." She sat at his right hand, then stared at him in much the same way the maid had. "I presume you won’t be going to a later Mass."
"You presume correctly." Tant pis.
Grace gave an audible sniff that clearly expressed her disapproval of her brother’s immodest apparel and unpleasant odor. "I see. Will you pass the coffee?"
Viggo handed the pot over without a word. The food came; he gazed down at it with an utter lack of appetite despite everything being cooked to his taste: bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, pancakes with butter and maple syrup. Gingerly, he plucked a piece of toast from the rack and nibbled at one dry end. His stomach lurched in protest.
"I’ve decided to stay on a bit," Grace said, taking a forkful of eggs.
"Have you?"
"Yes. Charlotte Welles has proved to be an absolute delight, not at all silly like most girls our age. She has no summer plans, and it turns out that she formed a suffrage group at her school – apparently it was the biggest scandal, but she’s quite sincere in her efforts. I think we’ll have very much in common. We might go back to Philadelphia if it’s not terribly hot, but in the main we’ll stay here, I think. Her parents have a cottage on Harvey’s Lake."
"Have they?"
"Yes, they have." Grace frowned. "Don’t you want me to stay? Am I interfering in something?"
Viggo shook his head. The motion made him dizzy. "Not at all – don’t be a goose. You know you’re welcome anytime, Gracie, and for as long as you please."
"Well, thank you." Grace scrutinized him. "There’s something else, though. Don’t you like Charlotte?"
Viggo took a sip of coffee. It burned a bitter trail down his throat and into his stomach. "She didn’t seem to care for me much."
Grace considered Viggo’s words. "Yes, she did seem – well, I think she’s shy. Anyway, it’s little wonder if she didn’t warm to you – you were in such a wax for most of the evening. And I didn’t like to ask with Charlotte in the carriage, but why didn’t Sean come back with us? Did he leave early?"
"I think he wasn’t feeling well."
"How odd. He seemed in perfectly fine fettle, I thought. He’s a marvelous dancer."
"I saw."
"Did you and he have a quarrel?"
Viggo scowled ferociously. "What makes you say that?"
Grace shrugged. "He didn’t come back with us, and it’s clear you’re in a foul mood about something."
"Well, why should we have quarreled?" Torn between the desire to flee so that he could nurse his wounds in private and a perverse craving to talk about Sean, Viggo took refuge in stirring the acrid, dark brown shallows of his coffee. Talk about Sean! As if it were easy to talk about crushed dreams and his own impulsive stupidity. "He said he wanted to walk home and to give you fond regards."
"I knew it, you did quarrel with him. You’re the world’s worst liar, Viggo Mortensen. What you two might have quarreled about is beyond me. Why don’t you go see him today and make it up?"
"Grace."
"You don’t want to lose him as an employee, do you?"
"Of course not." If Sean hadn’t already packed his bags and left, Viggo would eat his hat.
"Well, then?"
"Well, what?" He felt his patience ebbing rapidly. He took another sip of coffee.
"Shall I go speak to him for you?"
"No!" Viggo slammed his hand down hard on the table. China and silver rattled. "Damnation, Grace, mind your own affairs."
"You needn’t shout at me."
"I wasn’t shouting." He was shouting, or nearly so. He bit his lip and tried again. "I’m not shouting, but you will keep at me until I’m driven to distraction. For God’s sake, leave it be."
Grace flung her napkin down. "I was only trying to help." She rose to her feet and leveled a cold stare at him. "You’re very unpleasant when you’ve been drinking. I hope you realize that. I’m going for a walk." She brushed past Viggo in a swirl of watered silk and indignation.
"Where are you going?"
"What do you care?" The door banged shut.
"Charming," Viggo muttered. "Lovely way to spend a Sunday morning." He bit into another toast point, wincing as it stuck in his throat. He chased it with another swallow of coffee and felt his stomach heave again, a most definite warning. He folded his napkin neatly and laid it beside his cooling breakfast. The gesture evoked some vestige of self-control and training; he rose and made his way toward the staircase with as much dignity as he could muster.
Noreen hovered near the kitchen door. "All finished, sir?"
Viggo nodded, unable to speak. He mounted the stairs quietly, though his speed increased with each step. He made it to the water closet in time to sink to his knees and surrender the contents of his stomach. Gasping, his face feverish, he pulled the chain and leaned back against the wall, waiting for the next upheaval. He wasn’t disappointed; a few moments later, he retched again. After he was certain that it was all over, he got to shaky legs and slipped into the bathroom. He drew his own bath and climbed into the tub, shivering although the water was almost hot enough to scald. He wrung out a cloth and folded it over his forehead, then leaned back, letting the water close over his body. He shut his eyes, trying to calm his churning stomach and restless, unhappy spirits.
What had he done? How could he have been so foolish, so selfish and infantile? How did one even begin to apologize for such a rash action? Blaming it on impulsiveness, on champagne, on proximity and heat of the moment – all absurd excuses. He wouldn’t blame Sean a bit if he’d packed his bags and left. But if he hadn’t, Viggo would have to beg forgiveness and hope Sean didn’t wallop him into next week.
Viggo sat up. The cloth fell from his eyes.
Sean hadn’t walloped him. He could have. There had been time enough while Viggo was kissing him. It hadn’t been the world’s longest kiss, but it had been long enough for Sean to push him away in disgust or outrage. He had been stunned – shock had flared in Sean’s eyes, and he’d touched his mouth in a way that had suggested astonishment – but he’d allowed the kiss. Had Sean, perhaps, fled because he’d been surprised into discovering that the kiss had been a pleasure and not an insult?
He gripped the edges of the tub. I won’t pound on his door, he thought. I won’t chase him. But please, let him not leave before I can explain myself to him. Before I can ask if he feels the same way. Please.
*
Sean was at his desk at nine o’clock on Monday, sorting through the day’s post. As Viggo entered, he glanced up and quickly looked down again. "Morning, sir."
Anxiety and jubilation engaged in a quick shoving match in Viggo’s stomach, leaving him feeling a bit bruised and raw around the edges. He peered closely at Sean, unable to detect any emotion in his downcast face but dull embarrassment. He’d been ready to declare himself in the most passionate fashion, but Sean’s taciturn demeanor put paid to that at once. Still, he hadn’t fled, an optimistic sign. Viggo drew the curtains apart, flooding the room with bright sunshine, and took his seat. "Good morning, Sean."
"You have that inspection tour of the breaker this afternoon, sir."
"That’s right." Viggo scowled, shuffling through papers on his desk. "What’s the gentleman’s name?"
"Miles Whittaker. From the Department of Internal Affairs."
"Yes, that’s it. He’s staying at the Sterling. Well, I don’t expect any difficulties. What time am I to collect him?"
Sean consulted the leather book that held Viggo’s appointments. "Two o’clock, sir." He kept his eyes lowered; his voice was quiet, elaborately polite.
"Thank you." Viggo stole a glance at the marble mantel clock; it was seven minutes after nine. Were they both to act out this absurd charade for the majority of the day? He looked at Sean, scratching away in a ledger, the picture of industry. He gnawed on the edge of his thumbnail and felt his earlier confidence trickling away. He’d been so certain of his own intentions on Sunday, and here was Sean not meeting his eyes, all his former friendliness swept away in favor of cold formality. He'd stayed not because of any mutuality of feeling, but because Viggo employed him and paid him a living wage. That was the long and short of it. Disappointment lay like a hot stone in his belly. Better to forget the whole thing. He drew a breath and risked another look.
Sean had stopped writing and was sitting motionless at his desk. His hair hung in his eyes, obscuring his expression, but there were spots of bright pink on his cheeks and his posture evinced pure misery, undoubtedly caused by Viggo’s recklessness.
"Sean."
"Did you want some tea, sir?" Sean clattered up from his desk. "I’ve got a pot mashed – didn’t think to offer you any. I’m sorry for it." He started for the door, his face averted.
"No. Please stay for just a moment. I’d like to talk to you."
Sean halted, his hand on the doorknob. "Aye, that’s fine," he whispered, but would not turn.
"Won’t you sit? Please?" Viggo rose, gripping the edge of his desk, and moved across the carpet. He watched Sean’s shoulders hunch as he drew closer, and ached that he was the cause. He stretched out a hand and then pulled it back, fearing Sean would be repelled by his touch. "Please sit."
Sean perched on the edge of a horsehair chair and laced his fingers together, looking as though he might flee at the least provocation. Viggo took a seat on another chair, far enough away, he hoped, to set Sean at ease. "I must apologize for the other evening. I behaved disgracefully."
"It’s nowt. I’d already forgot."
"Your behavior would seem to indicate otherwise. Unless there’s another reason." Sean remained mute, and Viggo sighed. He had been upset that Sean wouldn’t meet his eyes; now it felt like a blessing. It would be easier to address himself to the top of Sean’s bowed head. "I’d had far too much to drink that night," he said, falling back on the excuse he’d promised himself he wouldn’t use. "I was…rash and impulsive and very, very stupid. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you decided to leave this minute. In fact, I didn’t quite expect to see you here this morning. I – I hope you won’t leave, though. I’ve come to rely upon you, Sean, and we work so well together –" He broke off abruptly. He was talking too much, babbling like a fool. "I don’t know what else to say but that I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."
"I weren’t," Sean said, still staring at the floor.
The softly spoken words pinned Viggo to his chair. Heat filled his chest. He pressed his hands to the arms of the chair. "You weren’t – I don’t understand, I don’t…."
"I weren’t sorry you did it." Now Sean met Viggo’s eyes.
"You…you weren't? Then why did you run?"
Sean shook his head and rose hastily to his feet. Viggo was afraid that he would bolt, but he only went to the mantel and leaned against it, as if its venerable solidity were the only thing in the room that would support him. He was pale now, the color drained from his cheeks. "Have you ever been with a man before?"
Viggo frowned. "Yes. In college. Nothing…meaningful." He blushed a little, unsure how much Sean wanted to hear.
"Never at home, though. Never where your family might find out, or your friends."
"No." Viggo made as if to stand, but the barest gesture of Sean’s hand kept him where he was. Some part of him, though, was secretly triumphant. I knew, he thought. Somehow I knew. "Have you?"
"Aye, I have. Once, anyroad. I were young and thick in the head. But what about you? You’re a man to be reckoned with here, and what would they say if they found out you…that we…you know. Could you live with that sort of scandal?" The flush returned.
Viggo was stung and irritated that what seemed to be a youthful indiscretion gave Sean some sort of worldly advantage. He rose to his feet and stalked to the mantel, fixing Sean with his most inimical stare. "I understand the meaning of prudence. I’m not Oscar Wilde, you know. I don’t plan to go to jail for writing incriminating letters and associating with male prostitutes. Besides, hang what other people think. I don’t care."
"Not even your family?" Sean asked softly. "Your mam and dad, your sister?"
Viggo thought about it for a moment, then shook his head scornfully, dismissing in a moment his family’s certain horror and what would surely be collective upheaval. "It’s none of their business. I don’t ask about what they choose to do in…in bed. At any rate, what right have you to lecture me? I’ve known the truth about myself for years. Perhaps you’re the one who hasn’t –" He broke off, watching Sean’s downcast face. The conversation wasn’t going as planned. He’d been so foolishly romantic, he’d thought to block the world out, but it seemed Sean was the more pragmatic. And there was a hurt still living in him, perhaps, a wound not altogether healed. Viggo cursed his thoughtlessness. "Forgive me. I didn’t mean – oh, for God’s sake, I don’t know what I mean."
Sean kept his gaze focused on the mantel clock that ticked with irritating strength and regularity in the sudden silence. Viggo took Sean’s measure with more audacity than before: his prominent nose and chin, so striking in profile, the long column of his throat, the gold hair that tumbled into his green eyes. Viggo took a cautious step forward, as if he were luring a bird. He yearned to touch the strong fingers – so much longer, so much more elegant than his own – that rested on the cool marble of the mantel, or to place his lips upon the spot just below one narrow ear with its tender lobe, Sean’s only feature that could properly be called delicate. Instead of touching him, for he knew Sean would flinch away, Viggo spoke in a voice that was all but inaudible. "You said you weren’t sorry. Does that mean you care for me, at least a little?"
"Oh, aye." Those two words were raw and agonized, as if they’d been painfully wrenched up from Sean’s chest. "I do that."
A shiver traveled up Viggo’s back; his heartbeat quickened with fear and hope. He lifted his hand with clumsy determination and stroked the knot of wrist bone that peeked out of Sean’s snowy cuff. "What are we to do about it?"
Sean tentatively touched Viggo's fingers, and then pulled away. His face was crimson. "I don’t know," he said. "I don’t know."
"I won’t press you, then," Viggo said, and wondered at all the times he’d seen that flush on Sean’s face. Could it have been for him? Good God, he hoped so. "Only – don’t leave, Sean. Please."
"I won’t."
"I’m not ordinarily so impulsive."
A broad smile lit Sean’s face. "You’d not have known it the other night. You were right bold, I thought."
Viggo’s knees felt weak. "Liquid courage."
The smile grew brighter. "Is that what it were?"
"It must have been." Viggo felt heavier without the weight of Sean’s touch; it had kindled yearning that he’d worked for weeks to bank. Sudden violence itched in his fingertips. He wanted to grasp Sean by the nape of the neck, pull him close so that their bodies would grind together in excruciating and glorious frustration, to drag him to the floor and couple like animals in sweating, snarling triumph. He forced himself to take a step backward. "Perhaps you could come to dinner one night this week."
Sean’s tongue crept out to wet his lips. "Aye. I’d like that."
"Good." Viggo went to sit at his desk, wondering if this new revelation would make working more difficult. He suspected so.
Sean edged toward the door. "I’ll be right back, sir."
"Viggo."
"Viggo," Sean repeated softly. "Did you want some tea?"
"Please. Thank you." Viggo looked down at his paperwork and smiled. His mouth was dry, his palms moist, his prick half hard, but he wasn’t so caught up in his own desire that he didn’t notice Sean’s obvious excitement. He reached down between his thighs and, shuddering, gave himself one languorous stroke.
He would wait, and be patient.
*
Why mine inspections had held any terrors for him, Viggo scarcely remembered. Hardly a week went by without someone visiting Mortensen Coal and getting a tour; an inspection seemed a commonplace thing now. There had been some serious accidents in West Virginia and further south, near Hazleton, that had prompted something of an uproar in the papers. Thus a municipal, union, or sometimes a state inspector was frequently dispatched to conduct surprise inspections. Viggo was rarely present on the tours, trusting Sean and Gavin Rowe to handle visitors and answer questions with promptness and certainty.
Today’s guest, however, demanded a higher degree of attention. Miles Whittaker, with the Department of Internal Affairs, was a young man, no more than thirty, but he had an accountant’s ponderous, dusty demeanor, and a government employee’s resigned suspicion, as if dishonesty and corruption in the private sector was inevitable, and the only question was when he would stumble upon it. Viggo sat next to Gavin in the mine boss’ office, waiting for him to deliver some sort of verdict. So far he’d only made notes in a leather-bound book and grunted, scarcely audible noises that could have meant anything.
With a sniff and a ceremonious lack of speed, Whittaker drew a spotless handkerchief from his inside breast pocket, removed his black-speckled pince-nez, and polished the lenses, his concentration suggesting a man performing a feat of extreme dexterity. Viggo watched in mild fascination. The man’s obvious disgust at the damp and dust of the mine had been amusing, if a little baffling. Surely it wasn't his first mine inspection. He wondered if Mr. Whittaker had angered a higher-up and brought the dismal job of mine inspector upon himself.
"It’s always handy to wear black on an inspection, I suppose," Viggo ventured with a smile.
Whittaker regarded his blackened handkerchief with a frown and replaced his pince-nez. "I beg your pardon?" He had watery, protuberant blue eyes and a Van Dyke beard that wagged when he spoke.
"Your clothes. It’s clever of you to wear black." Viggo tried a friendly smile, but he might as well have beamed at a chunk of anthracite for all the response he received. Whittaker folded his handkerchief and tucked it back into his pocket with a sigh. Viggo smothered a sigh of his own. He was scheduled to entertain Mr. Whittaker at dinner tonight. He looked as if he needed a good dinner, for he was cadaverously thin. It was entirely possible, however, that the man’s eating habits were as stringent and abstemious as his personal mien. The evening did not promise to be a scintillating one. Viggo traded a despairing glance with Gavin Rowe, who shrugged almost imperceptibly and raised his eyes toward the ceiling. "Where can I take you next, Mr. Whittaker?" Viggo inquired, raising his voice as the breaker, having survived Whittaker’s scrutiny, churned into life outside the office door.
"I suppose we’re about through," Whittaker replied with another sigh. He consulted the notebook on the desk in front of him and flipped a page. He made a short notation in ink and languidly waved his bony hand over it to dry. "I’ll have a look at the outside of the grounds, if you please, and the general…ah…condition of the fencing and engineering. That should conclude things." He capped his pen with a glum expression, as if he expected Viggo to have saved all the bad news for the end of the tour.
"Very well." Viggo led him and Gavin back outdoors and followed quietly as Whittaker strolled the perimeter of the property, grunting as he made notations in his book. There was no cause for worry. Sean had been diligent about procuring the latest safety regulations and communicating them to Gavin, and Viggo’s efforts to install safety improvements would pay for themselves in a higher yield. Among the three of them, they had the mine shipshape, more than ready to weather the most exacting investigation.
The thought of Sean provoked a grin that Viggo failed to stifle. If he were entirely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he’d paid only scant attention to Mr. Whittaker’s minute audit of the mine operation. He was preoccupied with images of Sean’s shy smiles, his frequent flushes…and the breadth of his shoulders, his narrow hips, his long hands. It was too soon to be truly daring, but he longed to bury his face between Sean’s thighs, to unbutton his trousers and take Sean’s prick in his mouth.
"Mr. Mortensen?" Whittaker’s brows were drawn together.
"I’m sorry." Viggo struggled to recover himself. "Woolgathering, I’m afraid."
"I said I’d like to speak with your outside foreman."
"Oh, certainly. Gavin, would you find Harry, please?" Viggo offered Whittaker a somewhat dreamy smile, which the inspector met with a puzzled scowl. Viggo forced himself to affect a solemn attitude, and the two stood in silence for a time. Whittaker seemed perfectly content to stand in utter wordlessness, staring at his shoe tops, but Viggo was discomfited by the quiet. It would have been easy, though scarcely appropriate, to lose himself in thoughts of Sean again, so he cast about for a conversational gambit and finally fell back on some pleasantries his mother had used to engage his father’s business associates. "Does your wife mind that you’re on these long inspection tours, Mr. Whittaker?"
The scowl deepened. "I have not yet taken a wife, Mr. Mortensen." Whittaker examined the spine of his notebook. "There is a young lady who has captured my interest, however," he added in a lower voice.
"Perhaps you can tell me about her at dinner tonight."
Whittaker swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed. "Perhaps. She’s a fine person. A person of most upstanding character. She lives in Fairfax, Virginia." A faint mottled blush spread over his cheeks, and he coughed. A smile trembled around the corners of his mouth, but did not quite materialize. Despite his awkwardness, he appeared both hopeful and handsome.
"You should take her a gift," Viggo suggested on an impulse. "There are some lovely shops in town. She’d forgive you for leaving so often."
"I may do that." Whittaker seemed to unbend slightly. His beard was wagging with less emphasis, at any rate. "And do you have a young lady, Mr. Mortensen?"
"No, I’m afraid not," Viggo said. "No young lady." A deep, secret pleasure overwhelmed him, and he smiled again.
"Hm. I see," Whittaker replied in a tone he must have regarded as thoughtful.
I don’t think you do, my friend, Viggo thought, and suppressed an idiotic bray of laughter by biting the inside of his cheek. Stop it, he scolded himself. You’re behaving like a lovesick fool. Another gale of merriment bubbled up, and he quashed it by digging his fingernails into the back of his hand. It felt delightful to be a lovesick fool, in fact. Young lady! He snorted, stifled it with a cough, and was relieved to see Gavin and Harry Slater approaching.
He made introductions and let Slater lead them to the outside machinery, describe the newest improvements, and demonstrate the safety features. Slater was pleasant, businesslike, and efficient, and the whole thing was over in no time. Gavin and Slater escorted them to Viggo’s carriage.
"How’s young Sean, Mr. Mortensen?" Slater inquired, holding the door-flap open for Mr. Whittaker.
Again the dreamy pleasure swept over Viggo. He cares for me, he longed to say, but arranged a mild expression on his face. "He’s quite well. I’d forgotten, he said you two were acquainted in England."
"That’s right. I was in Winsley for a few years. Not born and bred there myself, but it’s a pretty enough town, if you like things on the bleak side."
"I take it you didn’t," Whittaker said with a severe look.
"Oh, I tend to move on every few years, sir. Keeps the blood moving, it does. That Sean’s a right good lad. A bit of a wild one, but what young fellow isn’t?" Slater shrugged and smiled.
"I haven’t seen any indication of wildness," Viggo remarked pleasantly. Yet, he thought.
"Well, sir, nothing against him. Every lad’s got to sow his oats. I was surprised to learn he’s clerking away for you. Worked in the brickyards, last I knew him." Slater, still holding the door open, gestured for Viggo to climb into the carriage.
Viggo remained firmly planted. "He was a clerk for a few years in the employ of a Mr. Frederick Watkins, also of Winsley," he said, bristling at the implied slur against Sean’s intelligence. "Surely you knew him."
"Freddy? Sure I did. Everybody knows Freddy Watkins." Slater closed the door-flap and stepped away a few paces, out of Whittaker’s earshot, clearly expecting Viggo to follow him. Reluctantly, Viggo did. "Not to worry, I’m sure he’s a solid chap, especially if Freddy gave him a reference," Slater said in a low voice. "I don’t know him all that well, sir, so you’ll have to pardon me. So much is hearsay in small towns."
Viggo frowned. "Hearsay?"
"Ah, you know how it is, sir. People talk. Naught but hot air, usually. People always did wonder why he left Freddy’s employ so abruptly. Was a good job, you know. Easy work, fair wages, didn’t come home every night covered in mud. Must have had a right good reason to leave."
"Now look here, Mr. Slater. If you’re insinuating some dishonesty on Mr. Bean’ part, I really must protest. In fact, I won’t stand for any slander. He’s scrupulously honest and a hard worker besides."
Slater’s face contracted in dismay. "I’m sorry, sir. I oughtn’t to have said anything. All hot air, like I said. I’ll not mention it to another living soul."
Viggo’s curiosity was piqued, but he refused to indulge it. Besides, what rumors and hearsay could Slater possibly be talking about? It was true that he hadn’t asked Sean for references, but he was a hard worker, worth twice over what he earned. If he’d stolen so much as a dime, Viggo would know about it, for Sean went over the books with him once a week. No thief would do such a thing. "Please remember that, Mr. Slater. I won’t tolerate rumor-mongering among my employees. It’s bad for morale. If you have some solid evidence to present against someone, then I’d prefer that you came directly to me."
"Of course, sir. And Sean’s a good lad, no doubt about it. No one’s ever accused him of thieving." Slater sounded genuinely apologetic.
"Was there something particular, then?" Viggo asked, wincing as he waited for the answer.
"Only what I said, sir. People wondered why he left Watkins so quickly." Slater shrugged. "A lot of useless chatter, sir, and I’m sorry I brought it up."
Viggo relaxed. "Is that all? Good God, people leave employers quickly all the time."
"You’re right about that, sir."
"Very well. I must be going. Thank you for showing Mr. Whittaker around, Mr. Slater." Viggo gave Slater’s hand a firm shake, happy to dispel the little worm of uncertainty that had sprung to life in his belly.
"Not at all, sir."
Viggo bade Gavin farewell and climbed in beside Whittaker, who sat with his legs crossed and his arms folded. He felt a moment’s pity for the man and wondered if he courted his intended in a similarly clenched posture. It would be a struggle to attempt a kiss through all those tightly folded bones.
The ride back to the office was swifter than Viggo had hoped; he chose to talk about a gift for Whittaker’s young lady, and all the shops that were open to accommodate a man in love. By and by, his constricted guest relaxed, and by the time they’d reached the office, he’d cracked a smile or two. Beaming, Viggo trotted up the steps and opened the door.
Sean was there, his green eyes brimming with some indecipherable emotion. "I’ve mashed another pot of tea for Mr. Whittaker, sir," he said.
Uncharacteristic shyness unspooled in Viggo’s chest. "That’s very kind of you. Mr. Whittaker, shall we adjourn to the parlor? You can give me your notes there." Whittaker, slipping once more into his role of inspector, nodded and marched into the parlor. Once his back was turned, Viggo searched Sean’s face. It had been only a few hours since their mutually uncomfortable declarations.
Sean half-turned in the gaslit hallway. "I’ll get that tea." He glanced over his shoulder and then smiled, a broad, sweet smile that transformed his face. Swiftly, he moved down the hall into the kitchen, leaving Viggo alone.
Oh, dear God, Viggo thought, breaking into a grin of his own.
*
Of all nights, of all the blasted inconvenient nights for Michael to stop by unannounced and drone on and on, obviously expecting to be invited to dinner – it was intolerable. Didn’t anyone stand on ceremony any longer? Didn’t they feed him at the damned rectory? Viggo could see his brother’s nose all but twitch at the fragrance of roast chicken drifting from the kitchen, but he remained stubbornly silent, an expression of affability plastered to his face, forcing himself to pay attention to Michael and not to the gilded mantel clock that chimed every fifteen minutes to underscore Viggo’s growing discomfort.
Sean was late, perhaps not coming at all.
"Are you staying all summer?"
"What? Oh – yes, I suppose so," Viggo said. "I might go back for a weekend, but summer in the city…." He shrugged.
"Old York Road is hardly ‘the city,’" Michael snorted.
"Close enough. I can’t tell you how good it feels to be away from the whirl of it all. You should be grateful you’re in the priesthood. No need for that sort of thing."
"I’ve traded one kind of whirl for another, believe me. I presume you mean Mother’s new set, pressure to marry, and so on. It’s not so bad, is it?"
"Not horrible," Viggo admitted. "It’s just frustrating and tiresome, all that pushing and relentless jockeying for position. All that expectation – I just want to be left to myself. Besides, you don’t know those people."
"I’ve met a fair number of them," Michael said.
"Well, you know they live by a different set of morals, then. They’re all a bit fast for me." You’re a fine one to be talking about morals, Viggo thought. Unconsciously, his eyes strayed to the clock.
"Oh, I know," Michael replied with a sigh. "I wonder about some of the new people Mother’s taken up with. More concerned about proper form than actually living a decent life. But then, she’s chivvied a few of them into generous donations for the parish, some people who aren’t even Catholic. I’ve fed the homeless and destitute from the profits of some of what I hear might be Philadelphia’s biggest libertines." He sighed again. "Should I refuse it, or pray that by their generosity they will somehow grow in our Lord’s favor?"
"Of course you shouldn’t refuse it. I doubt those poor people care where the money comes from. Would you, if you were hungry?"
"I suppose not."
"At any rate, I think I shall stay in Wilkes-Barre for the summer," Viggo said, omitting his principal reason for doing so. "Why not? You’re here, and now Gracie. Perhaps the rest of the family will migrate as well."
"I doubt it. Mother and Father are too busy, you couldn’t drag Agnes away from her fellow, and the others wouldn’t want to leave their friends. I’m glad Gracie will be staying, though. Miss Welles seems like a lovely young lady, a good companion for her, even if she didn’t take to you. I’m sure her father was quite disappointed about that, though I must say it speaks for her good sense." Michael laughed. "In any case, it’ll be grand to have you about as well. Now if I’m keeping you from something, Viggo – dinner, perhaps – I’ll be happy to be on my way. You needn’t keep staring at the clock."
Hot embarrassment choked Viggo’s throat for a few seconds. "Well, I was expecting Sean, in fact. We had some business to discuss, and it would have been as well to discuss it over dinner. But he’s rather late. You’re welcome to stay, of course," he added lamely.
Michael frowned. "Just how late is he? It’s nearly seven."
"Forty minutes," Viggo replied, striving to keep disappointment out of his voice. "Perhaps he’s forgotten." But he couldn’t have. They’d made arrangements on Thursday, he’d reminded Sean on Friday, and here it was Saturday evening and no sign of him. Had he decided not to come, that the risk was too great?
"I thought he was a solid sort of fellow," Michael said.
"He is," Viggo said. "Very solid." He rose from the sofa and pulled the curtain aside. It was dusk, the trees soft black silhouettes against an ink-blue sky. He raised the window sash and peered down the street. The gas lamps were lit, but there was no sign of Sean.
"Stop hanging out the window like that."
"Sorry, Mother," Viggo mocked. He came back in, but left the window ajar. "Pretty evening. You might as well come in and have dinner, Michael – everything’s going to dry out if we don’t eat it." He spoke brightly to cover his dismay. All that talk on Monday, and all their little glances and smiles the rest of the week had come to nothing.
"So gracious of you. No wonder society tires you out. Oh, my brother Viggo?" Michael rose to his feet and addressed the ceiling. "He’s a marvelous host, just marvelous. He’ll invite you for dinner if his other guests decide not to show up."
"Oh, shut up, big mouth." Viggo reverted to a childhood taunt.
"You shut up." Michael punched his arm, and Viggo punched him back. Michael locked an arm around Viggo’s neck and gave his nose a fearsome tweak. Viggo squawked in surprise and dug an elbow into Michael’s stomach. They wrestled their way to the parlor door, fighting to get it open, then tripped over the carpet fringe and stumbled into the hall, where Pearce and Noreen sat at a little table, playing a card game.
Viggo pulled free of Michael’s grip and straightened his coat with tardy composure. "We’ll be having dinner now, Pearce. Noreen."
"Yes, sir." The valet and maid’s lack of reaction would have done credit to the most stone-faced English butler.
Viggo and Michael followed them into the dining room and sat at the two places that had been ready for nearly an hour. The elaborate place settings depressed Viggo anew. Perhaps he should have suggested a decent restaurant in one of the hotels, or even one of the humbler eateries they frequented at lunch – some neutral, familiar ground where they could both be comfortable, not this fortress of a house, so staid, formal, and intimidating. Still, Sean had accepted without any apparent discomfort. Not bothering to correct the slump in his posture, Viggo ate a forkful of chicken without noticing the taste.
"Excellent stuff," Michael said, taking a mouthful of buttered mashed potatoes. "Pity Sean didn’t come. You don’t suppose something happened to him, do you?"
"Good Lord, no," Viggo said. "What on earth could happen on a four-block walk? It’s not exactly the rough side of town."
"Do you want me to check in at Mrs. Donnelly’s after supper?"
Viggo’s lips twisted in an involuntary smile. Oh, that’s grand, he thought. Pardon, Mrs. Donnelly, but Mr. Bean was to turn up at my brother’s house for dinner and a possible illicit rendezvous – can you tell me if he’s in? "No, it’s not necessary, Michael. But thanks all the same." He bit into a boiled carrot. Perhaps Sean had forgotten their appointment after all, and Viggo was making too much of it. Or he wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t send word. Viggo thought he might stroll by the boardinghouse himself a little later. Most of the tenants would still be awake, even if Mrs. Donnelly wouldn’t quite approve. She had a soft spot for him, though, and he was able to charm her with comparative ease. And just in case Sean wasn’t feeling well, Viggo would bring him some oranges or biscuits to tide him over.
The rest of the evening mapped out satisfactorily, he consumed the meal, which hadn’t dried out at all, with more appetite. Michael rattled on entertainingly, full of harmless parish gossip. He had an amazing facility for remembering names and faces, which his parishioners doubtless appreciated. Viggo listened without contributing much, but with appreciation; Michael might have had a successful and satisfying career in vaudeville, had he not chosen the priesthood.
As they were finishing their cucumber salad, the doorbell jangled. Viggo and Michael stared at each other. "Could that be your long-lost guest at last?"
"Likely." Viggo wiped his mouth and set his napkin beside his plate. "No, I’ll get it, Pearce. Have Noreen set another place, if you please." He strode to the door, finding himself unreasonably irritated – with Sean, for being so late, with himself for getting into such a wax over a small time delay, with Michael for overstaying his welcome. He paused at the door to compose himself – and it wouldn’t hurt Sean to wait a few more seconds, if indeed it was he. Viggo had waited longer. All day, in fact, half-sick with giddy anticipation. Prepared to be cool and polite, he grasped the knob, swung the door open, and gaped in shock. "Oh, sweet Lord."
Sean’s face looked like a winter sunset. His right eye was a welter of purple-red bruises, and there was another bruise on the opposite cheekbone. A constellation of cuts and scrapes decorated his forehead, and his lower lip was split on one side. He tried to smile, and winced in pain. "Sorry I’m late."
"Sorry – what in God’s name happened to you?" Viggo took Sean’s arm and pulled him inside. "Good heavens, look at you. What happened?" He smelled the odor of beer on Sean’s clothes. With a stab of dismay, he recalled Harry Slater’s assertion that Sean was wild. "Did you have a fight?"
A bitter chuckle escaped Sean’s bleeding mouth. "Aye, you could say that."
"What’s this?" Michael, never one to be kept from a potentially interesting scene for long, came into the hall. He paused at the sight of Sean’s battered face and let out a long, low whistle. "Well, you’ve got into quite a scrape, haven’t you? How does the other fellow look?"
"There were three other fellows," Sean mumbled. "I reckon they look fine."
"Three!" Viggo recoiled.
"Aye. Jumped me, took my money. Bastards. Sorry, Father." Sean swayed and braced his hand against the wall. He brushed at a cut on his forehead with a dirty sleeve, leaving a smear of mingled grime and blood, and stared at his red-stained sleeve in bemusement.
Viggo’s compassion and practicality protested at such carelessness. "Michael, help me get him into the kitchen," he commanded, hauling one of Sean’s arms over his shoulder and all but dragging him down the hall.
"I can walk all right," Sean protested in a slurred voice.
"Viggo’s right. You look a bit unsteady on your pins," Michael said, taking Sean’s other arm. "Did they beat you unconscious? Have you a headache?"
"A bit." Even in the dim light of the gas lamps, Sean looked white beneath his scrapes and bruises. "I blacked out, but it were only for a moment, less than that even. Woke up in the alley behind the pub. A couple of lads brought me inside."
"Maybe we should take him to the hospital," Michael said.
"Nay. Don’t need a hospital," Sean insisted, his words made thick by his split lip. "Just let me sit awhile, get my breath back." He leaned heavily on the brothers as they steered him into the kitchen, where the cook, Mrs. McGuire, was piping whipped cream onto a glazed pear tart. The pastry tube clattered onto the table as she gaped open-mouthed at the three men invading her domain.
"Sorry about this, Mrs. McGuire," Viggo said. "But we need your help." Together, he and Michael eased Sean into a hard wooden chair. He managed to give Sean’s hand a discreet and affectionate squeeze, and earned a rueful half-smile in return. "Some clean cloths, I think, and hot water and soap…."
Mrs. McGuire stared for a few seconds more, then seemed to shake herself into action. She wiped her hands on her apron and strode toward Sean. "What happened to you, boyo? Try to steal someone else’s lass, did you?" She put a hand beneath his chin and tipped his face toward the lights.
"Nay. Just minding my own business, and the bast – the rascals jumped me."
"Ah, sure that’s what they all say. All right, Noreen, stop your gawping," she commanded the maid, who stood clutching a dinner plate close to her slight breasts, staring in wide-eyed fascination at Sean. "Heat some water, and don’t be all day about it."
"You don’t think he needs the hospital, do you, Mrs. McGuire?" Viggo inquired, unable to take his eyes from the ugly weals marring Sean’s face. He felt all duty lay upon his shoulders, and was quite ready to embark upon the most difficult mission if need be.
"Did you walk here, laddie?" Mrs. McGuire asked, dabbing at Sean’s cuts with a clean white towel and hot water.
"Aye."
"Didn’t faint on the way, did you?"
"Nay."
"Can you see proper? Only one of me, lad?"
"Aye, just the one," Sean answered, flinching as she cleaned another cut.
"Hold that there, that’s a good lad. Nay, Mr. Mortensen, he doesn’t need a hospital. Just a bit of bandaging and some rest. Noreen, go fetch the arnica and some bandages, and don’t be after telling me you can’t find them. Go on!"
Viggo and Michael stood back and let Mrs. McGuire tend to Sean, who submitted quietly to her ministrations. Only an occasional indrawn breath indicated that he felt any pain. Now that the worst seemed to be over, Viggo began to burn with outrage on Sean’s behalf. "I’m calling the police."
Sean regarded him bleakly with one bright green eye. "What for?"
"What for? To – to find the miscreants who did this to you, naturally. Do you think you’d be able to identify them if they were apprehended?"
"I doubt it." Sean flinched as Mrs. McGuire applied a salve to the cut on his lip. "They didn’t stand still and let me stare at them. I don’t see that it would do owt to fetch the police, anyroad. They’ll never find them."
"He’s right," Michael said, staring longingly at the pear tart. "That is, I don’t say you shouldn’t report the assault, but I wouldn’t expect to see your money again. Or the thieves, for that matter. It was awfully bold of them to attack you before it was full dark, though."
"Bold! It’s intolerable. My God, hoodlums beating and robbing people in broad daylight." Viggo shook his head reprovingly at Sean and Michael’s calm resignation. "Sean, I’m going to send Pearce for a policeman this minute."
"Don’t make him talk to a policeman now," Michael said. "Think, Viggo. He’s exhausted and in pain."
Viggo peered doubtfully at Sean. "But…shouldn’t he speak to one now, while the details are fresh? Sean?"
"What details? He said he couldn’t recall what they looked like. Leave him be. Take him in the morning, if you’re so bent on pursuing this." Michael sniffed the air regretfully. "That tart smells wonderful. I suppose I’d better go – it’s getting late."
"Oh, just take it with you," Viggo growled. "Noreen, give it to him, please. Then tell Pearce to get the carriage ready, and have him take my brother home. Clearly the streets aren’t fit for decent people at night."
Carrying the tart in a covered dish, Michael took his leave with cheerful goodbyes and wishes for Sean's swift recovery. Viggo and Sean were left in the kitchen as Mrs. McGuire bustled about, chattering. "I’m thinking you won’t want to be chewing anything with that mashed gob, boyo. I’ll make some beef tea for you, and Mr. Viggo can fetch you a nice strong whiskey, deaden the pain. Noreen, go and run a hot bath, then turn down the bedclothes in the green room. The young fella can sleep there tonight."
"Nay," Sean stammered, getting to his feet. "I just wanted to – I didn’t want you to think I’d forgot about the evening, sir."
"Nonsense, you must stay. You need a good night’s rest." Viggo looked over his shoulder to make sure that Mrs. McGuire was engrossed in her work, then leaned close to Sean’s ear. "I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of you in such a vulnerable state," he whispered. "Much as I’d like to."
Sean laughed soundlessly, then cringed. "Bloody hell, that hurts."
Viggo straightened. "Come along. I’ll get you that whiskey, and you can drink it in the bath, if you promise not to drown in the tub. It’s rather wide and deep."
"Sounds lovely."
Sean followed Viggo upstairs, and obediently went into the bathroom while Viggo ducked into his bedroom to rummage a clean nightshirt from his wardrobe. He snatched his green and gold silk dressing gown from its hook, and gathered up the decanter and glass he’d taken from the sideboard downstairs. He tapped on the bathroom door. "Sean? It’s Viggo."
"Aye, I’m in."
Viggo stepped into the steamy bathroom and tried not to stare. Sean leaned back against the rim of the deep tub, gingerly soaping himself, and although from Viggo’s vantage point only his head and shoulders were visible, it was still an enticing sight. His head was tipped back, exposing a long, smooth throat, and his naked shoulders were broad and strong. Viggo began to sweat from more than the heat of the bath.
Sean looked up. A shock of blond hair fell over the startling white of the bandage on his forehead. "This is more hospitality than you were ready to show me," he said gravely. "I’m sorry about it."
"Not at all, don’t be silly." Viggo draped the nightshirt and dressing gown over the back of a spindly chair and set the decanter and glass on a little table, pulling it closer to the tub. "I always thought this bathroom was needlessly large, but I suppose the spaciousness can come in handy now and again," he said. "Perhaps I’ll start bringing a whiskey up here every night. It ought to be quite soothing."
"Aye, I reckon so. If you don’t fall asleep and drown, that is." Sean glanced down. "You were right about the tub. It’s a bleeding lake, isn’t it?"
"It is," Viggo agreed. He did his best not to stare, but he stole a brief glance downward, then gasped. "Sean –" The light was low, but he was nonetheless able to see a profusion of bruises on Sean’s torso and stomach. "Oh, Sean." He knelt beside the tub and put his hand out as if to touch Sean’s chest, but then drew back. He averted his eyes from Sean's naked body. "Does it hurt terribly?"
"Oh, aye, it hurts," Sean said with a lopsided smile. "Can I have some of that whiskey?"
"Sorry – of course." Viggo poured a double and handed Sean the glass. "I’ll leave you to bathe in peace. I imagine you’ll want a little quiet after your ordeal."
"Don’t go," said Sean. "I wish – I don’t mind if you stay."
Viggo contained his delight. "All right." He stripped off his coat and sat cross-legged on the floor. "You know, I’ve never been in a fight. One of my sculling teammates accidentally brained me with an oar in college, but I’ve never been beaten, much less by three men. It must have been frightening."
"I were scared all right," Sean admitted. He took a deep drink and flinched. "Christ, that burns. Three on one weren’t a fair fight at all. I thought I might get my head bashed in."
"What happened? Did they just leap on you out of nowhere?"
"Not quite." Sean took another sip and set the glass on the little table. "I were in the pub having a pint of bitter – a bit of liquid courage to come here tonight, do you see?" He gave Viggo a wry grin, and Viggo laughed. "I finished up and went out the back to have a – to answer a call of nature, and when I’d done, I turned round, and three fellows were standing there, staring at me. One of them threw a glass of beer in my face, and then they just –" He shrugged. "Beat the tar out of me."
Viggo was aghast. "You should have screamed blue murder."
"Hard to yell out when two blokes are pinning you to the bloody wall and the third is pounding his fist into your guts," Sean replied dryly.
"That’s true, that’s true." Viggo dragged his hands through his hair. "How much money did they take?"
"Not much. That’s the hell of it. I only had four or five dollars on me."
"I’m so sorry."
"Nothing for you to be sorry for," Sean said.
"I’m sorry all the same." Viggo rose to his knees and planted a soft kiss on Sean’s temple. He tasted salt. "If I hadn’t invited you for this evening, it wouldn’t have happened."
Sean turned, and as their lips met, he groaned.
"Your poor hurt mouth," Viggo said.
"It’s not so bad."
"Liar." Viggo threaded his fingers in Sean’s hair and kissed the corner of his mouth, where it was unscathed. He kissed a path along Sean’s jaw to his ear, suckled on the lobe, and let his fingers drift to the smooth-skinned hollow at the base of Sean’s throat. "I should leave, and let you bathe."
"Don’t go."
"But I said I wouldn’t take advantage of your helpless state."
Sean grasped Viggo’s hand and brought it near his lips. "Aye, but what if I wanted you to?" He touched the tip of his tongue to Viggo’s index finger, then closed his mouth around it and sucked lightly.
"Oh, Lord," Viggo breathed, and kissed Sean’s neck, beneath his chin, anywhere that was undamaged. His prick was stiff in his trousers, and he felt faint from the heat and desire. Slowly, he extricated his finger from Sean’s mouth, and brushed the back of his hand over Sean’s cheek. The skin was taut, and just sleek enough to indicate that he’d shaved recently, perhaps just before he’d left the boardinghouse. Viggo let his trembling hand drift downward, down Sean’s throat to his chest. His fingers dipped into the warm water and skated lightly over Sean’s belly. He looked down and swallowed. Sean’s prick was stiff, straining upwards, his thighs sprawled as far apart as the tub allowed.
"Go on," Sean said in a rasping whisper. "Go on. Please."
Viggo plunged deeper, wetting his shirtsleeve to the elbow. He brushed past the coarse thatch of hair and curled his hand gently round Sean’s prick. His own erection was painful and he was sure that he was about to pass out from the heat, but he ignored his own discomfort and stroked lightly. He longed to ravish Sean’s open mouth, but instead braced himself against the tub with his free hand and moved in again to kiss Sean’s throat. His curled fingers moved faster, with greater urgency.
Sean moaned softly and tilted his head back, clutching the rim of the tub with both hands. His hips thrust up toward Viggo’s loosely closed fist.
A knock sounded on the door. "Mr. Mortensen? It’s Noreen. I’ve got Mr. Bean’ beef tea."
Viggo let go and sprang to his feet, reaching the door in two swift steps. He opened it and peered out, deftly shielding his excited state and his wet arm. "You can leave it in the green room, Noreen. Mr. Bean will be out directly."
"Mrs. McGuire says I should lay some nightclothes out for him, sir."
"I’ve done that. Hence my presence in the bathroom." He offered Noreen a reassuring smile. "Consider your duty discharged, dear. Thank Mrs. McGuire for the beef tea and please tell her Mr. Bean is going to sleep. I think I’ll retire for the evening as well."
"Sure you don’t need anything else, sir?"
Viggo stifled a laugh. "Quite sure."
"All right, sir. Good night." Noreen executed a little curtsy, which must have been difficult with the heavy covered tray in her hands, and moved silently down the hall.
Viggo closed the door and pivoted on his heel. He met Sean’s chagrined and slightly guilty gaze and burst into laughter. "Close shave."
"Bloody hell." Sean’s face was unnaturally pale, though he managed a shaky smile. "I thought you were going to let her come in."
"And given her the fright of a lifetime? Heavens, no." They both laughed, and Viggo sank onto the chair. He held out his still-wet arm. "Although…she might have thought I was helping to bathe you."
"I thought you were." Sean’s good eye twinkled.
Viggo’s blood pounded in his ears. Their actions had been so spontaneous and affectionate. Now, interrupted, he felt a weight and hesitation between them. It had been nearly a year since he’d been enveloped in that world of surreptitious caresses and fugitive glances, and he stared enrapt at Sean, half-aroused, half-terrified. "I’d like to finish."
Sean nodded, then placed both hands on either side of the tub and rose slowly to his feet. Water trickled down his naked body. A dozen incoherent thoughts about Adam and Venus and Apollo tripped through Viggo’s fevered mind. He reached behind him with one shaking hand and locked the door as Sean stepped out of the tub, his skin gleaming, and his cock fully erect.
Viggo watched, hypnotized, as Sean reached down and stroked himself. "What do you…do you want to, or should I…." He found himself unable to say the words.
"I want to fuck you," Sean’s voice was pitched low, a guttural growl.
The words, their vulgarity, shot straight to Viggo’s prick. He unfastened his tie and let it drop to the floor. He unbuttoned two shirt buttons, shrugged out of his braces, and pulled the shirt over his head without bothering to undo his cufflinks. The shirt landed at his feet. He kicked it aside impatiently, struggled out of the top half of his underwear, and then stopped, suddenly embarrassed and unsure what to do next.
Sean tilted his head to one side, frankly admiring. He took a few steps closer, reached out, and placed his hand on Viggo’s chest, stroking up and down. One slender finger brushed over a nipple. "That’s nice."
Viggo took a deep, shuddering breath. Despite the dimness of the lamps, he felt as if he were standing in blazing sunlight, every imperfection exposed. "Awfully hairy."
"I like it." Sean’s hand slid lower, down Viggo’s belly, to his trousers, rubbing against summer-weight wool and knitted cotton and the aching flesh between his legs. "Take the rest of your clothes off."
In his haste, Viggo nearly stumbled over his own feet. He divested himself of shoes and stockings in less time than it took to tell, and hurried out of his trousers and underwear. So many layers, even in the warmth of late spring, but at last he was as naked as Sean, and as hard.
Sean had drifted toward an étagère. He picked up a glass bottle of bath oil from Floris. "Yours?"
"Grace’s."
"You think she’ll mind?" Sean grinned.
"She’s at Charlotte’s for the weekend."
Sean unscrewed the cap. The heady aroma of jasmine filled the air, mingling with the steam from the bath. He tipped the bottle, and a small trickle of oil pooled in his palm. He brought his hand down and caressed himself.
Viggo bit his lip. "Where should I…." He made a helpless gesture with his hands.
"You don’t have to do owt that’s fancy," Sean said softly. "Bend over the sink."
Sean’s every word sent a thrill to Viggo’s prick. He nodded and leaned over the sink, clutching its hard edges, trembling and waiting. He felt Sean’s hand on his back, slick with oil, moving down, lower and lower to trace the outline of his backside, then felt strong fingers grasp his hips and the blunt thickness of Sean’s prick pushing inside. Viggo stifled a cry against his arm and waited for Sean to slide in all the way, to bury himself to the hilt. He pushed back and heard Sean groan. Sean was still for a moment, his body pressed tightly to Viggo’s. Slowly, he began to thrust in and out, his breathing hard and loud in the silence of the bathroom.
Viggo bore the initial discomfort – it had been so long – but as Sean began to move, his arousal returned, harder and stronger than before. He moaned and reached between his legs to stroke himself, borne up on Sean’s harsh breaths, the sensation of his taut body, the faint pain of long fingers digging into Viggo’s hips. He pushed back with all his strength, quivering, his toes pressing into the cold tile floor. Faster and harder he stroked, and released with a shudder that racked him from head to foot. He heard a strangled cry, and felt the weight of Sean’s chest on his back and Sean’s cheek against his shoulder.
He lifted his head. The mirror was too steamy to see their reflection. He would have liked to watch Sean pushing deep inside him. Fucking him. He moved slightly, his body stiff, and Sean stirred, pulled out slowly, and stepped away. Viggo rinsed his hand and turned. Sean was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze roaming over the contents of the bathroom as if he were trying to find something.
"I’d better go," Sean said.
A stab of dismay pierced Viggo’s insides. They couldn’t have been more intimate, and now Sean wanted to leave. "Why?"
Sean looked confused. "Well…I…" Unconsciously, he scratched himself. "When I were with Freddy Watkins, he always…when we finished –" He shrugged.
"He sent you away?"
"Aye."
Viggo stepped close to Sean and put a tentative hand on his arm. When Sean didn’t flinch away, he gathered him close, mindful of his aches and bruises. "Well, Freddy Watkins was a damned fool. I don’t want you to leave." Gently, he kissed the nape of Sean’s neck. I love him, he thought. God help me, I love him. "Will you stay?"
With trembling slowness, Sean relaxed in Viggo’s arms. "Aye," he said. "I’ll stay."
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2013-04-10 12:29 am (UTC)Also: I thought vigbean sounded a bit weird, unti I realized the alternative was beano.
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Date: 2013-04-10 12:33 am (UTC)And yeah, vigbean is better than a flatulence remedy. :D
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Date: 2013-04-10 02:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-10 02:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-10 02:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-10 03:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-10 05:11 pm (UTC)Yes, Dirty Harry's grubby fingerprints are all over that nasty attack on poor Sean. I do like a bit of hurt/comfort, though and Sean is certainly comforted now!
I have fallen in love with this story all over again. *Hugs*
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Date: 2013-04-10 11:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-10 05:50 pm (UTC)And poor Sean all needing mmmmmm.
LOVE Viggo being so... shy/confused/torn/wondering/.... and Sean being the more knowledgeable one. But then that awful end.. Freddie made him leave.... that is oh lordy, reduced Sean to young and vulnerable and... unsure and that is DREADFUL that he has to think Viggo wants him to leave too. Good god.
And Mr. Whittaker... what has he to do with the plot? He's not just a ship that passes I presume? Or was he just an excuse to get Slater to drop nasties into Viggo's ear.
Michael I think should not have taken the cloth! But then.. eminently suitable as most of the vicars I've known are all partial to a tea and biscuits and cake if enough hints could be dropped!
Oooooh I am enjoying this. There's a programme on my Radio called... A GOOD READ... and this is one that is!!!!
Thanks ever so, and my goodness the soft Yorkshire is coming through a treat!!!!! I bet Mooms has told you already!
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Date: 2013-04-10 11:14 pm (UTC)I'm embarrassed to say I can't recall if Mr. Whittaker shows up again! There were tons of characters in the original story and I fined it down as best I could because there were way too many but as to Whittaker, I honestly cannot recall. He may have just survived the chopping.
Michael is based on a couple of priests of my acquaintance - surprisingly earthy and profane fellows. :)
I'm so happy it's a good read, and you're enjoying the Yorkshire! I don't write dialect, so I try to convey it through language. Glad it's working! Thank you so much!
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Date: 2013-04-10 08:11 pm (UTC)>> ...here was Sean not meeting his eyes, all his former friendliness swept away in favor of cold formality. He'd stayed not because of any mutuality of feeling, but because Viggo employed him and paid him a living wage. That was the long and short of it. <<
I love moments like this when realization sets in (wrong though it may be). Lovely.
xoxoxoxo
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Date: 2013-04-10 11:15 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you're enjoying it, sweetheart. Thank you.
XOXOXOXOXOXXOXO
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Date: 2013-04-13 09:44 pm (UTC)Hee!
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Date: 2013-04-10 09:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-10 11:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-11 09:02 pm (UTC)But now they know exactly what they want (not in Oscar Wilde fashion – that really made me chuckle), but being direct with each other.
So sorry Sean had to go through that – the scene in the tub reminded me of Stormy Monday . . .
Great update; thank you.
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