FIC: Home through the night
Dec. 9th, 2008 06:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Home through the night
Author: Alex
Fandom: Crossover – Scarlet and Black/The Bounty
Pairing: Julien Sorel/Charles Churchill
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I rape and pillage public domain.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite, for support, friendship, inspiration, and beta. Additional thanks to crazy4ew for translation assistance.
Summary: Not all Christmases are peaceful ones.
Additional spoilerish note at bottom of story.
*
Charles beamed at Julien and turned up the wick of the lamp so that the table could be seen in all its seductive glory. Covered with a freshly starched linen cloth, it was laden with enough dishes for twelve people. There were platters of cold beef and rosy ham, codfish with parsley sauce, mincemeat pie, potatoes, turnips, Brussels sprouts, and hot bread covered with a spotless white tea towel. Their goblets of wine glowed a deep and serene red. Silver pots of mustard and butter and savory sauces dotted the table here and there, and a little bunch of winter chrysanthemums adorned its center. It was as festive and pretty a Christmas Eve dinner as had ever been set.
“Not so bright, please,” Julien said with a slight frown.
“I thought you’d want to see your food, lad,” Charles replied mildly, then shrugged. “But if not –“ He turned the wick down again and lifted his glass in a toast. “Another lovely Christmas.”
“And many more.” Julien took a sip of wine, nodded in approval, and began to eat. The dinner was excellent. Their housekeeper-cook, Mrs. O’Meara, had died three years ago, shortly after they had moved to a larger house near Washington Square Park. Since then, they had acquired a small day staff: a husband and wife who acted as butler and cook, and two girls to clean. All were refugees of the Famine, all were hard-working and efficient – and discreet. If they suspected that Charles and Julien were not distant cousins, they kept admirably silent on the matter. Discretion, in New York City, was a difficult thing to come by. Tonight they had already gone; they’d received their Christmas boxes early, along with two paid days off.
Julien ate with a sharply concentrated appetite. His day had been arduous; as newly appointed headmaster of the Osterhout School, his duties had increased fourfold and there were times when he ate dinner at eight or later. Charles, ever patient, always waited for him, and tonight was no exception.
Their conversation was minimal. Charles spoke only briefly of the day; he had closed the warehouse early, saying Christmas Eve was no time for the lads to be working at such a rate. Julien had a score of things to talk about, but they seemed trifling upon retrospect.
After dinner, they retired to the parlor. Charles lit the candles on their little potted Christmas tree, and they sat to read in the glow of lamps and firelight: Julien with a glass of brandy and his newspaper, Charles with his tot of whiskey and a copy of Sketches by Boz. The fire crackled agreeably against the steady pounding of sleet against the glass.
“An ugly night.”
Charles looked up. “What’s that, lad?”
“An ugly night,” Julien repeated, gesturing toward the curtained window. “I pity anyone abroad.”
“That’s the truth of it,” Charles nodded. “We’ll have ice on the porches tomorrow, you can be certain of it. I’ll put cinders down in the morning before George and Katie and the bairns come.”
“Very well.” They fell to their reading once more, but soon Julien found himself restive. The sound of Charles’ paper knife slicing through new pages grated on his nerves. Charles read at a fairly steady clip, and the sound – a long, methodical tearing -- was as regular as clockwork. “Charles.”
“Aye, what is it?” Charles frowned slightly over his spectacles.
“Perhaps you could cut ten or twenty pages ahead. The noise is a bit distracting.”
“All right. Sorry.” Charles sliced through the pages neatly, and then looked at Julien. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you.” Julien returned to his paper, but could not concentrate. After a few moments of impatiently skimming the pages, he tossed the paper down and stared at the fire, then at Charles reading, peaceful and cheerfully oblivious to Julien’s mood. An imp of the perverse seized Julien. He tucked his pince-nez into his breast pocket, rose and moved toward Charles’ chair, then sank to his knees and began to caress Charles’ thighs.
Startled, Charles dropped his book. “Good Lord, lad.”
Julien parted Charles’ knees wider, insinuating himself between them. “I noticed we neglected to purchase mistletoe this year.”
“Have we now?” Charles smiled, and stroked Julien’s cheek. “I suppose I forgot.”
“I can think of a few ways to compensate.” Julien moved his hand up Charles’ thigh, resting it squarely between his legs.
Charles flushed and placed his hand atop Julien’s. After a moment he removed Julien’s hand, squeezing it. “Come on, lad,” he muttered. “Enough of that now.” He gave Julien a tight, uncomfortable smile. “I haven’t finished this chapter.”
Julien felt heat suffuse his face. He sat still and silent for a moment, then rose stiffly and went back to his chair, picked up his paper, and opened it again, staring unseeing at the advertisements.
After a few moments had passed, Charles emitted a sigh. “Don’t be angry, Julien.”
“I’m not angry,” Julien said from behind his newspaper.
“I see.”
“I’m merely disappointed.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
Julien set his newspaper down and stared at Charles. “I trust there’s no hidden meaning in that remark.”
Charles met Julien’s stare coolly. “None at all.”
Julien picked up his newspaper again. He scanned the advertisements once more, then murmured, “It’s been three weeks.”
“Three weeks – what do you mean?”
“Please. You know exactly what I mean.” Julien threw the paper aside again and glared. “Three weeks since you’ve touched me. Have I suddenly become repellent to you? Do I emit some foul odor, or have I grown a hump upon my back?”
“Don’t say that,” Charles said softly. “You’re as handsome as the day I met you.” He rose and touched a branch of the little tree, then parted the curtains to look outside. “It is right nasty out there, isn’t it?”
“Very well – if you don’t wish to discuss it, then I think I’ll retire,” Julien said, rising to his feet. “Good night, Charles.”
“For the love of God, Julien – it’s Christmas. Don’t let’s quarrel tonight.”
“I’m not quarrelling. I’m going to bed.” Julien turned down the lamp on the table and made for the door, then pivoted on his heel. “Is it someone else?”
Charles wheeled away from the window. “What?”
“Someone else. That shipping merchant from Copenhagen, perhaps. What was his name – Sorensen? Or the man from Sheffield Coal, the one who was paying inordinate attention to you at dinner a fortnight ago.“
Charles took his spectacles off and set them on the table beside the potted tree. He walked slowly to the fire and stood before it. Without looking at Julien, he said, “Do you know, I wish you could hear yourself once in a great while. Jealousy doesn’t become you at all, lad. Particularly when there’s no reason for it.”
“Then there must be another reason that you haven’t touched me in three weeks. And when you have, it’s as if I’m being drowned in sugar. You –“ He broke off, clamping his mouth shut and cursing himself. Damn his incautious tongue --
“Drowned in sugar, you say?” Charles faced Julien, crossing his arms over his chest. His countenance had lost its color, despite the heat of the fire. “Drowned in sugar because I don’t knock you about or grab you by the hair or have a go at you without anything to ease the way?”
“That isn’t what I meant at all,” Julien snapped.
“No? Then what did you mean, if you please?”
Julien’s back stiffened at the hint of mockery in Charles’ tone. “I only meant that things have become –“
“Dull,” Charles finished. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“I would prefer that you allow me to speak. If you choose not to, there is no sense in continuing this conversation.” Julien opened the door and marched out of the parlor.
Charles followed before Julien had ascended the stairs halfway. “I suppose it’s my fault, after all. I’d thought that you’d prefer gentleness over violence. That you’d had enough violence in your past.”
Julien let out a sigh of exaggerated patience. “That was almost twenty years ago, for God’s sake. You evidently think me some sort of frail flower.”
For a long, dragging moment, Charles merely stared at Julien. Finally, he said in a voice so soft it was scarcely audible, “I don’t think that at all. But I’ll not stay here to be mocked by you, Julien. I’ve finished with that.” He disappeared into the cloakroom and emerged in his greatcoat, pulling on gloves and winding a muffler around his throat.
The temptation to simply turn and go upstairs was strong, but Julien stayed where he was. “Where are you going?”
“What do you bloody care?” Charles opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air and a sprinkling of sleet. He banged the door behind him, leaving the echo to reverberate through the foyer.
Julien stood glaring at the blameless door, quivering in rage. He pivoted and stormed upstairs. Once in the bedroom, he put another log on the fire and stabbed at it viciously with the poker, then undressed, leaving his clothes in an untidy heap on the floor, and got into bed. Charles could freeze, or rot for all he cared.
*
Julien awoke to the pressure of a large hand on his throat and a sensation of constriction around his middle. Panicked, he struggled to sit up, relaxing when he saw Charles’ silhouette in the dimness of the fire-lit room. Charles was kneeling over him, and even in the faint light Julien saw a cold gleam in his eyes. “What in the name of God are you doing?” he snarled, pushing Charles’ hand away.
Charles seized Julien’s wrist and held it, then leaned forward. “You said you were tired of being drowned in sugar.”
“You’re drunk. Get off me.”
With as little effort as if he were positioning a rag doll, Charles pinned Julien’s arms to his sides and held them with his knees. Then he reached out, and with one massive, powerful hand, grasped Julien’s lower jaw. “I’m not drunk at all. Now shut it,” he whispered, then pushed two fingers into Julien’s mouth. “Suck on them. Go ahead.”
Julien uttered a muffled protest and squirmed in outrage, then bit Charles’ fingers. As Charles yanked the insulted digits free, Julien renewed his struggling. “You leave, and then come back here without so much as a by-your-leave and expect me to – get off me, I tell you!“ He fumed and spluttered in useless anger as Charles pressed a hand over his lips.
“I told you to shut it. You bite me again and I’ll turn you over my bloody knee and give you the walloping you deserve. You’ll eat standing up for two days.” He took his hand away from Julien’s mouth and slipped it between his legs.
“I would dearly love to see you try.” Julien twisted beneath Charles’ weight, but it was like trying to squirm from beneath a mountain. Damn his presumption! If Charles thought he was going to simply roll over like a dog for a rough bit of slap and tickle, he was sorely mistaken. And yet Julien was more aroused than he’d been in months. “Bloody brute.”
“Aye, and you like it, don’t you?” Charles fastened his mouth on Julien’s in a hard, savage kiss, bruising him, then biting his neck. “Aye, I thought you did. You – ouch, God damn it!” Julien had worked one hand free and boxed Charles’ ear with all his strength. Growling, Charles pinned Julien’s arms again and rolled him, fighting and cursing, onto his belly.
The lawn of Julien’s nightshirt wrapped tightly around his upper thighs, then tore. Julien felt Charles’ hands fumbling, then there was another loud tearing sound as Charles grabbed the nightshirt and ripped it up the back. Julien, his face buried in the pillow, shivered as Charles’ hand lingered on the lower curve of his backside.
“Well now,” Charles said, panting slightly, “is it really a walloping you want? Or something else?” He wet two fingers and slowly worked them inside.
Julien fought to get his face clear of the pillow. “You have the utter temerity to –“ He swung awkwardly, only to have his wrist caught and pressed to the small of his back. He pushed his aroused sex into the mattress as Charles’ fingers pushed deeper. Then the fingers disappeared, and Julien all but whimpered in protest. Charles, no, don’t stop, for God’s sake –
“You won’t stop fighting me, will you, Provocateur?”
Julien felt an exultant leap at the old endearment. “No.” Then he stiffened at the feel of something winding round his wrists – the tattered shreds of his nightshirt. Sudden icy fear stabbed at him. Perhaps the old nightmares were not altogether banished. Then he felt another kiss on his shoulder -- still rough, abrasive, but not an enemy’s; it was Charles.
There had never been a time when he had not trusted Charles with his very life. He trusted him now. Reflexively, he wrenched at the strip of lawn binding his wrists. “Go on, then – now that you have me, take me.”
“Aye, I think I will. Kneel up. Do it!” Charles slapped Julien’s flank and dragged him to his knees, then pushed his head forward so his head was on the pillow and his backside raised. He unbuttoned his trousers and spat into his hand, readying himself in a few quick motions. Then he grabbed Julien's hips and pushed inside with a grunt.
After less than a minute of Charles’ quick, stabbing thrusts, Julien climaxed with a loud moan, shuddering uncontrollably. As he fought to catch his breath, his shoulders aching, Charles dug his fingers into Julien’s flesh and spent himself with a cry of his own. They tumbled to the bed, gasping and panting, slippery and sweating and exhausted.
Julien drifted to sleep for a few moments, then awoke and nudged Charles in the side. “Untie me. My hands are numb.”
“Christ, sorry, lad.” He bent to the task, then cursed. “The knots are too tight.”
“Fine sailor you are.” They snorted laughter.
“Hang on.” Charles extracted his knife from his pocket and sliced through the bonds easily, then rubbed Julien’s cold fingers. “There you are,” he said softly. “Turn around, lad. Give us a kiss.”
Julien turned and wound his arms round Charles’ neck, then kissed him. “You never fail to surprise me. Where have you been all this time?”
“Walking in the bloody snow. I headed for George and Katie’s, but I didn’t want to be bothering them so late. So I trudged about looking in every window – do you know every bloody house had some happy family inside it? Sure didn’t I feel like an interloper.”
“Oh, Charles,” Julien murmured, pierced by remorse, “I’m sorry.”
“Nay. It’s I who should be apologizing to you.”
“But I lost my temper. My tongue –“
“Hush,” Charles said, placing a finger, gentle now, upon Julien’s mouth. “You had a right. You had a right. It’s been weeks and I’ve not so much as looked at you, let alone touched you.”
Oddly shy, Julien ducked his head against Charles’ shoulder. “Why?”
Charles hesitated. “You know the last time we....well, I tried to….”
“You were tired,” Julien said. “I understand.”
“Nay. I couldn’t, Julien. And it wasn’t the first time, either. I felt unmanned.” He sat up, urging Julien up with him, and dragged a hand through his hair. “Christ almighty, Julien, I’m fifty-one. I’m not a – not a permanently hard twenty-year-old stallion.”
“I didn’t realize. That is – I didn't know how you felt.”
Charles gently pushed Julien away and rolled out of the disheveled bed. He stood by the window and lifted the curtain. “I didn’t want to tell you. I thought – what if this is the way it is from now on?”
Julien could not prevent a smile. “I think you disproved that this evening, Captain.”
“It’s not a joke, lad,” Charles sighed.
“No, of course not.” Julien rose from the bed, crossed the room, and wrapped his arms around Charles’ waist, resting his forehead on that strong back. Still so strong. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to burden you –“ Charles’ voice broke, and he sighed again. A shiver coursed through his broad frame.
Julien grasped Charles’ hand and led him to a chair, then gently urged him into it. He knelt before him, aware that they had assumed the same attitude earlier in the evening. “How can you say that to me?” It was a gentle reproach, but a reproach just the same. “How can you say that, after all we have been through together?”
Charles shook his head.
“Please, Charles.”
“I feared you wouldn’t want me any longer,” Charles whispered hoarsely.
Julien was silent for a long moment. At last he looked up with wet eyes. “You great fool.”
Charles’ face split in a grin. “Ah, laddie, laddie – you always know the right thing to say.” He leaned down and swept Julien into his arms, embracing him tightly. “Forgive me.” He drew Julien into a deep and passionate kiss. “And I’m sorry I’ve been such a dull stick.”
“That was your word, not mine,” Julien said. “But if we can manage a few more nights like tonight, I can’t say I’d object entirely.”
“I didn’t know you liked it so rough.”
“You remember all that furtive groping in the beginning well enough, do you not?” Julien laughed.
“Aye, but this was different. I thought I’d gone too far for a wee bit there.”
“I know it’s not real. And I have utter faith in you.”
“I know you do. God love you for it, Julien.” He kissed Julien again. “Listen to me. About that problem –“
“Hush,” Julien said. “In for a penny, in for a pound. I’m afraid you have me until the bitter end, Captain, no matter what happens.” He smiled. “I mourn the loss of my best nightshirt, however.”
“Oh, Jesus – sorry, lad.” Charles fingered the shreds of the nightshirt. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
The clock on the mantel struck twelve-thirty, and they glanced at each other in surprise. “Merry Christmas,” Julien said.
“Merry Christmas,” Charles replied. “What a way to ring in the day, eh?”
“Indeed,” Julien said. “We had better tidy up and get to bed. George and Katie and the children will be here early. Unless….”
“Aye – what?”
Julien’s tongue crept out to wet his lips. “Perhaps I can give you one of your Christmas gifts a bit early.”
Charles stood, pulling Julien with him. “Lead the way, lad. Lead the way.”
*
A steady hammering on the front door insinuated itself into Julien’s dream of holly-and-ivy-wreathed sailors dancing barefooted on the deck of the Bounty. Only the furious jangling of the bell blasted him from sleep. He sat up, tousle-headed and blinking, and stared at Charles, who was pulling his dressing gown over nothing at all. “Charles, I had the most absurd dream….”
“Never mind that, lad – who in God’s name is at the door? It’s only six o’clock.” He left the room, Julien following behind, shrugging into his own dressing gown. The bell continued to jangle. “Aye, well, hold your horses, I’m coming!” he snapped, and yanked the door open, prepared to upbraid what were probably some local urchins pulling pranks.
An elegantly dressed young man stood at the door. He was perhaps eighteen or twenty, of medium height, with black hair, blue-grey eyes, and a handsome mouth. His skin was pink from the cold, and he held a valise in one hand. He frowned at Charles. “Êtes-vous ce Julien Sorel?”
“Sorel, c'est moi,” Julien replied, stepping forward with an even more thunderous frown. “Qui êtes-vous?” He glanced at a befuddled Charles and shook his head. “Do you speak English?”
“Naturally,” the young man said, lifting his chin. “I have come a great distance to find you.”
“So it would seem,” Julien said with the barest trace of irony.
The young man regarded Julien skeptically. “I am in danger, sir. My mother assured me you would render me aid. That is, if my need was most dire and you were not too greatly inconvenienced.”
Julien’s frown deepened as he scrutinized the lad. “Indeed? And who is your mother?”
“You know her well, sir. My mother is Mathilde de la Mole. I am Hilaire-Marie Julien de la Mole.”
“De la Mole?” Julien felt a deep, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Impossible. It couldn’t be.
“That is correct. I was born Hilaire-Marie Julien Sorel de la Vernaye. Your son.”
Julien sagged against the doorframe, his mouth agape. He looked helplessly at Charles, who was staring at the young man as if he’d sprouted another head. “My son,” he whispered. Now the handsome features were as clear as could be; when Julien looked closely, he saw his own features and Mathilde's merged in the face of this arrogant young man.
Impossible...and yet.
Charles recovered himself first. “Come in, Mr. de la Mole – Hilaire, was it? You look right frozen. The parlor’s that way. Will you have a cup of tea?”
“Thank you.” The young man swept past them both with a decided air of haughty command. Mathilde's manners.
Charles gently grasped Julien's upper arm and propelled him toward the parlor. “I suppose life’s about to become a wee bit more interesting, lad.”
Julien, stunned, was incapable of speech. But nevertheless, he was inclined to agree.
End.
*This is a holiday snapshot and not the beginning of anything, I'm afraid. I hope you enjoy it.
Author: Alex
Fandom: Crossover – Scarlet and Black/The Bounty
Pairing: Julien Sorel/Charles Churchill
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I rape and pillage public domain.
Feedback: Is treasured.
Thanks: to
kimberlite, for support, friendship, inspiration, and beta. Additional thanks to crazy4ew for translation assistance.Summary: Not all Christmases are peaceful ones.
Additional spoilerish note at bottom of story.
*
Charles beamed at Julien and turned up the wick of the lamp so that the table could be seen in all its seductive glory. Covered with a freshly starched linen cloth, it was laden with enough dishes for twelve people. There were platters of cold beef and rosy ham, codfish with parsley sauce, mincemeat pie, potatoes, turnips, Brussels sprouts, and hot bread covered with a spotless white tea towel. Their goblets of wine glowed a deep and serene red. Silver pots of mustard and butter and savory sauces dotted the table here and there, and a little bunch of winter chrysanthemums adorned its center. It was as festive and pretty a Christmas Eve dinner as had ever been set.
“Not so bright, please,” Julien said with a slight frown.
“I thought you’d want to see your food, lad,” Charles replied mildly, then shrugged. “But if not –“ He turned the wick down again and lifted his glass in a toast. “Another lovely Christmas.”
“And many more.” Julien took a sip of wine, nodded in approval, and began to eat. The dinner was excellent. Their housekeeper-cook, Mrs. O’Meara, had died three years ago, shortly after they had moved to a larger house near Washington Square Park. Since then, they had acquired a small day staff: a husband and wife who acted as butler and cook, and two girls to clean. All were refugees of the Famine, all were hard-working and efficient – and discreet. If they suspected that Charles and Julien were not distant cousins, they kept admirably silent on the matter. Discretion, in New York City, was a difficult thing to come by. Tonight they had already gone; they’d received their Christmas boxes early, along with two paid days off.
Julien ate with a sharply concentrated appetite. His day had been arduous; as newly appointed headmaster of the Osterhout School, his duties had increased fourfold and there were times when he ate dinner at eight or later. Charles, ever patient, always waited for him, and tonight was no exception.
Their conversation was minimal. Charles spoke only briefly of the day; he had closed the warehouse early, saying Christmas Eve was no time for the lads to be working at such a rate. Julien had a score of things to talk about, but they seemed trifling upon retrospect.
After dinner, they retired to the parlor. Charles lit the candles on their little potted Christmas tree, and they sat to read in the glow of lamps and firelight: Julien with a glass of brandy and his newspaper, Charles with his tot of whiskey and a copy of Sketches by Boz. The fire crackled agreeably against the steady pounding of sleet against the glass.
“An ugly night.”
Charles looked up. “What’s that, lad?”
“An ugly night,” Julien repeated, gesturing toward the curtained window. “I pity anyone abroad.”
“That’s the truth of it,” Charles nodded. “We’ll have ice on the porches tomorrow, you can be certain of it. I’ll put cinders down in the morning before George and Katie and the bairns come.”
“Very well.” They fell to their reading once more, but soon Julien found himself restive. The sound of Charles’ paper knife slicing through new pages grated on his nerves. Charles read at a fairly steady clip, and the sound – a long, methodical tearing -- was as regular as clockwork. “Charles.”
“Aye, what is it?” Charles frowned slightly over his spectacles.
“Perhaps you could cut ten or twenty pages ahead. The noise is a bit distracting.”
“All right. Sorry.” Charles sliced through the pages neatly, and then looked at Julien. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you.” Julien returned to his paper, but could not concentrate. After a few moments of impatiently skimming the pages, he tossed the paper down and stared at the fire, then at Charles reading, peaceful and cheerfully oblivious to Julien’s mood. An imp of the perverse seized Julien. He tucked his pince-nez into his breast pocket, rose and moved toward Charles’ chair, then sank to his knees and began to caress Charles’ thighs.
Startled, Charles dropped his book. “Good Lord, lad.”
Julien parted Charles’ knees wider, insinuating himself between them. “I noticed we neglected to purchase mistletoe this year.”
“Have we now?” Charles smiled, and stroked Julien’s cheek. “I suppose I forgot.”
“I can think of a few ways to compensate.” Julien moved his hand up Charles’ thigh, resting it squarely between his legs.
Charles flushed and placed his hand atop Julien’s. After a moment he removed Julien’s hand, squeezing it. “Come on, lad,” he muttered. “Enough of that now.” He gave Julien a tight, uncomfortable smile. “I haven’t finished this chapter.”
Julien felt heat suffuse his face. He sat still and silent for a moment, then rose stiffly and went back to his chair, picked up his paper, and opened it again, staring unseeing at the advertisements.
After a few moments had passed, Charles emitted a sigh. “Don’t be angry, Julien.”
“I’m not angry,” Julien said from behind his newspaper.
“I see.”
“I’m merely disappointed.”
“Well, I’m sorry to have disappointed you.”
Julien set his newspaper down and stared at Charles. “I trust there’s no hidden meaning in that remark.”
Charles met Julien’s stare coolly. “None at all.”
Julien picked up his newspaper again. He scanned the advertisements once more, then murmured, “It’s been three weeks.”
“Three weeks – what do you mean?”
“Please. You know exactly what I mean.” Julien threw the paper aside again and glared. “Three weeks since you’ve touched me. Have I suddenly become repellent to you? Do I emit some foul odor, or have I grown a hump upon my back?”
“Don’t say that,” Charles said softly. “You’re as handsome as the day I met you.” He rose and touched a branch of the little tree, then parted the curtains to look outside. “It is right nasty out there, isn’t it?”
“Very well – if you don’t wish to discuss it, then I think I’ll retire,” Julien said, rising to his feet. “Good night, Charles.”
“For the love of God, Julien – it’s Christmas. Don’t let’s quarrel tonight.”
“I’m not quarrelling. I’m going to bed.” Julien turned down the lamp on the table and made for the door, then pivoted on his heel. “Is it someone else?”
Charles wheeled away from the window. “What?”
“Someone else. That shipping merchant from Copenhagen, perhaps. What was his name – Sorensen? Or the man from Sheffield Coal, the one who was paying inordinate attention to you at dinner a fortnight ago.“
Charles took his spectacles off and set them on the table beside the potted tree. He walked slowly to the fire and stood before it. Without looking at Julien, he said, “Do you know, I wish you could hear yourself once in a great while. Jealousy doesn’t become you at all, lad. Particularly when there’s no reason for it.”
“Then there must be another reason that you haven’t touched me in three weeks. And when you have, it’s as if I’m being drowned in sugar. You –“ He broke off, clamping his mouth shut and cursing himself. Damn his incautious tongue --
“Drowned in sugar, you say?” Charles faced Julien, crossing his arms over his chest. His countenance had lost its color, despite the heat of the fire. “Drowned in sugar because I don’t knock you about or grab you by the hair or have a go at you without anything to ease the way?”
“That isn’t what I meant at all,” Julien snapped.
“No? Then what did you mean, if you please?”
Julien’s back stiffened at the hint of mockery in Charles’ tone. “I only meant that things have become –“
“Dull,” Charles finished. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“I would prefer that you allow me to speak. If you choose not to, there is no sense in continuing this conversation.” Julien opened the door and marched out of the parlor.
Charles followed before Julien had ascended the stairs halfway. “I suppose it’s my fault, after all. I’d thought that you’d prefer gentleness over violence. That you’d had enough violence in your past.”
Julien let out a sigh of exaggerated patience. “That was almost twenty years ago, for God’s sake. You evidently think me some sort of frail flower.”
For a long, dragging moment, Charles merely stared at Julien. Finally, he said in a voice so soft it was scarcely audible, “I don’t think that at all. But I’ll not stay here to be mocked by you, Julien. I’ve finished with that.” He disappeared into the cloakroom and emerged in his greatcoat, pulling on gloves and winding a muffler around his throat.
The temptation to simply turn and go upstairs was strong, but Julien stayed where he was. “Where are you going?”
“What do you bloody care?” Charles opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air and a sprinkling of sleet. He banged the door behind him, leaving the echo to reverberate through the foyer.
Julien stood glaring at the blameless door, quivering in rage. He pivoted and stormed upstairs. Once in the bedroom, he put another log on the fire and stabbed at it viciously with the poker, then undressed, leaving his clothes in an untidy heap on the floor, and got into bed. Charles could freeze, or rot for all he cared.
*
Julien awoke to the pressure of a large hand on his throat and a sensation of constriction around his middle. Panicked, he struggled to sit up, relaxing when he saw Charles’ silhouette in the dimness of the fire-lit room. Charles was kneeling over him, and even in the faint light Julien saw a cold gleam in his eyes. “What in the name of God are you doing?” he snarled, pushing Charles’ hand away.
Charles seized Julien’s wrist and held it, then leaned forward. “You said you were tired of being drowned in sugar.”
“You’re drunk. Get off me.”
With as little effort as if he were positioning a rag doll, Charles pinned Julien’s arms to his sides and held them with his knees. Then he reached out, and with one massive, powerful hand, grasped Julien’s lower jaw. “I’m not drunk at all. Now shut it,” he whispered, then pushed two fingers into Julien’s mouth. “Suck on them. Go ahead.”
Julien uttered a muffled protest and squirmed in outrage, then bit Charles’ fingers. As Charles yanked the insulted digits free, Julien renewed his struggling. “You leave, and then come back here without so much as a by-your-leave and expect me to – get off me, I tell you!“ He fumed and spluttered in useless anger as Charles pressed a hand over his lips.
“I told you to shut it. You bite me again and I’ll turn you over my bloody knee and give you the walloping you deserve. You’ll eat standing up for two days.” He took his hand away from Julien’s mouth and slipped it between his legs.
“I would dearly love to see you try.” Julien twisted beneath Charles’ weight, but it was like trying to squirm from beneath a mountain. Damn his presumption! If Charles thought he was going to simply roll over like a dog for a rough bit of slap and tickle, he was sorely mistaken. And yet Julien was more aroused than he’d been in months. “Bloody brute.”
“Aye, and you like it, don’t you?” Charles fastened his mouth on Julien’s in a hard, savage kiss, bruising him, then biting his neck. “Aye, I thought you did. You – ouch, God damn it!” Julien had worked one hand free and boxed Charles’ ear with all his strength. Growling, Charles pinned Julien’s arms again and rolled him, fighting and cursing, onto his belly.
The lawn of Julien’s nightshirt wrapped tightly around his upper thighs, then tore. Julien felt Charles’ hands fumbling, then there was another loud tearing sound as Charles grabbed the nightshirt and ripped it up the back. Julien, his face buried in the pillow, shivered as Charles’ hand lingered on the lower curve of his backside.
“Well now,” Charles said, panting slightly, “is it really a walloping you want? Or something else?” He wet two fingers and slowly worked them inside.
Julien fought to get his face clear of the pillow. “You have the utter temerity to –“ He swung awkwardly, only to have his wrist caught and pressed to the small of his back. He pushed his aroused sex into the mattress as Charles’ fingers pushed deeper. Then the fingers disappeared, and Julien all but whimpered in protest. Charles, no, don’t stop, for God’s sake –
“You won’t stop fighting me, will you, Provocateur?”
Julien felt an exultant leap at the old endearment. “No.” Then he stiffened at the feel of something winding round his wrists – the tattered shreds of his nightshirt. Sudden icy fear stabbed at him. Perhaps the old nightmares were not altogether banished. Then he felt another kiss on his shoulder -- still rough, abrasive, but not an enemy’s; it was Charles.
There had never been a time when he had not trusted Charles with his very life. He trusted him now. Reflexively, he wrenched at the strip of lawn binding his wrists. “Go on, then – now that you have me, take me.”
“Aye, I think I will. Kneel up. Do it!” Charles slapped Julien’s flank and dragged him to his knees, then pushed his head forward so his head was on the pillow and his backside raised. He unbuttoned his trousers and spat into his hand, readying himself in a few quick motions. Then he grabbed Julien's hips and pushed inside with a grunt.
After less than a minute of Charles’ quick, stabbing thrusts, Julien climaxed with a loud moan, shuddering uncontrollably. As he fought to catch his breath, his shoulders aching, Charles dug his fingers into Julien’s flesh and spent himself with a cry of his own. They tumbled to the bed, gasping and panting, slippery and sweating and exhausted.
Julien drifted to sleep for a few moments, then awoke and nudged Charles in the side. “Untie me. My hands are numb.”
“Christ, sorry, lad.” He bent to the task, then cursed. “The knots are too tight.”
“Fine sailor you are.” They snorted laughter.
“Hang on.” Charles extracted his knife from his pocket and sliced through the bonds easily, then rubbed Julien’s cold fingers. “There you are,” he said softly. “Turn around, lad. Give us a kiss.”
Julien turned and wound his arms round Charles’ neck, then kissed him. “You never fail to surprise me. Where have you been all this time?”
“Walking in the bloody snow. I headed for George and Katie’s, but I didn’t want to be bothering them so late. So I trudged about looking in every window – do you know every bloody house had some happy family inside it? Sure didn’t I feel like an interloper.”
“Oh, Charles,” Julien murmured, pierced by remorse, “I’m sorry.”
“Nay. It’s I who should be apologizing to you.”
“But I lost my temper. My tongue –“
“Hush,” Charles said, placing a finger, gentle now, upon Julien’s mouth. “You had a right. You had a right. It’s been weeks and I’ve not so much as looked at you, let alone touched you.”
Oddly shy, Julien ducked his head against Charles’ shoulder. “Why?”
Charles hesitated. “You know the last time we....well, I tried to….”
“You were tired,” Julien said. “I understand.”
“Nay. I couldn’t, Julien. And it wasn’t the first time, either. I felt unmanned.” He sat up, urging Julien up with him, and dragged a hand through his hair. “Christ almighty, Julien, I’m fifty-one. I’m not a – not a permanently hard twenty-year-old stallion.”
“I didn’t realize. That is – I didn't know how you felt.”
Charles gently pushed Julien away and rolled out of the disheveled bed. He stood by the window and lifted the curtain. “I didn’t want to tell you. I thought – what if this is the way it is from now on?”
Julien could not prevent a smile. “I think you disproved that this evening, Captain.”
“It’s not a joke, lad,” Charles sighed.
“No, of course not.” Julien rose from the bed, crossed the room, and wrapped his arms around Charles’ waist, resting his forehead on that strong back. Still so strong. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to burden you –“ Charles’ voice broke, and he sighed again. A shiver coursed through his broad frame.
Julien grasped Charles’ hand and led him to a chair, then gently urged him into it. He knelt before him, aware that they had assumed the same attitude earlier in the evening. “How can you say that to me?” It was a gentle reproach, but a reproach just the same. “How can you say that, after all we have been through together?”
Charles shook his head.
“Please, Charles.”
“I feared you wouldn’t want me any longer,” Charles whispered hoarsely.
Julien was silent for a long moment. At last he looked up with wet eyes. “You great fool.”
Charles’ face split in a grin. “Ah, laddie, laddie – you always know the right thing to say.” He leaned down and swept Julien into his arms, embracing him tightly. “Forgive me.” He drew Julien into a deep and passionate kiss. “And I’m sorry I’ve been such a dull stick.”
“That was your word, not mine,” Julien said. “But if we can manage a few more nights like tonight, I can’t say I’d object entirely.”
“I didn’t know you liked it so rough.”
“You remember all that furtive groping in the beginning well enough, do you not?” Julien laughed.
“Aye, but this was different. I thought I’d gone too far for a wee bit there.”
“I know it’s not real. And I have utter faith in you.”
“I know you do. God love you for it, Julien.” He kissed Julien again. “Listen to me. About that problem –“
“Hush,” Julien said. “In for a penny, in for a pound. I’m afraid you have me until the bitter end, Captain, no matter what happens.” He smiled. “I mourn the loss of my best nightshirt, however.”
“Oh, Jesus – sorry, lad.” Charles fingered the shreds of the nightshirt. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
The clock on the mantel struck twelve-thirty, and they glanced at each other in surprise. “Merry Christmas,” Julien said.
“Merry Christmas,” Charles replied. “What a way to ring in the day, eh?”
“Indeed,” Julien said. “We had better tidy up and get to bed. George and Katie and the children will be here early. Unless….”
“Aye – what?”
Julien’s tongue crept out to wet his lips. “Perhaps I can give you one of your Christmas gifts a bit early.”
Charles stood, pulling Julien with him. “Lead the way, lad. Lead the way.”
*
A steady hammering on the front door insinuated itself into Julien’s dream of holly-and-ivy-wreathed sailors dancing barefooted on the deck of the Bounty. Only the furious jangling of the bell blasted him from sleep. He sat up, tousle-headed and blinking, and stared at Charles, who was pulling his dressing gown over nothing at all. “Charles, I had the most absurd dream….”
“Never mind that, lad – who in God’s name is at the door? It’s only six o’clock.” He left the room, Julien following behind, shrugging into his own dressing gown. The bell continued to jangle. “Aye, well, hold your horses, I’m coming!” he snapped, and yanked the door open, prepared to upbraid what were probably some local urchins pulling pranks.
An elegantly dressed young man stood at the door. He was perhaps eighteen or twenty, of medium height, with black hair, blue-grey eyes, and a handsome mouth. His skin was pink from the cold, and he held a valise in one hand. He frowned at Charles. “Êtes-vous ce Julien Sorel?”
“Sorel, c'est moi,” Julien replied, stepping forward with an even more thunderous frown. “Qui êtes-vous?” He glanced at a befuddled Charles and shook his head. “Do you speak English?”
“Naturally,” the young man said, lifting his chin. “I have come a great distance to find you.”
“So it would seem,” Julien said with the barest trace of irony.
The young man regarded Julien skeptically. “I am in danger, sir. My mother assured me you would render me aid. That is, if my need was most dire and you were not too greatly inconvenienced.”
Julien’s frown deepened as he scrutinized the lad. “Indeed? And who is your mother?”
“You know her well, sir. My mother is Mathilde de la Mole. I am Hilaire-Marie Julien de la Mole.”
“De la Mole?” Julien felt a deep, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Impossible. It couldn’t be.
“That is correct. I was born Hilaire-Marie Julien Sorel de la Vernaye. Your son.”
Julien sagged against the doorframe, his mouth agape. He looked helplessly at Charles, who was staring at the young man as if he’d sprouted another head. “My son,” he whispered. Now the handsome features were as clear as could be; when Julien looked closely, he saw his own features and Mathilde's merged in the face of this arrogant young man.
Impossible...and yet.
Charles recovered himself first. “Come in, Mr. de la Mole – Hilaire, was it? You look right frozen. The parlor’s that way. Will you have a cup of tea?”
“Thank you.” The young man swept past them both with a decided air of haughty command. Mathilde's manners.
Charles gently grasped Julien's upper arm and propelled him toward the parlor. “I suppose life’s about to become a wee bit more interesting, lad.”
Julien, stunned, was incapable of speech. But nevertheless, he was inclined to agree.
End.
*This is a holiday snapshot and not the beginning of anything, I'm afraid. I hope you enjoy it.
