by Hollis Shiloh
"I think it's wonderful of the Skeffields to invite us to their party," said Kit, carefully undoing the buttons on his shirt. "They certainly didn't need to."
"I almost wish they'd invited us earlier," replied Wes, eying his partner's chest with appreciation. "It sounds as though we missed a lot of excitement."
"I am glad of that," said Kit ruefully. He turned, bare-chested and resplendent, to give Wes a smile. He was a slender man with a weak chest (though doing well lately) and warm eyes, intelligent and careful with his hands. He was also kindhearted and clever with machinery, a gentle and considerate man—and most of all, Wes loved him wholeheartedly.
"Darling." Wes moved forward and caught him, kissing him impulsively. "Of course." How could he have forgotten the ordeal his beloved had gone through? "You don't mind going back to the estate, do you?"
"Oh, no, as long as security is tight."
"It is. It will be. Robert's promised."
Mr. Skeffield's son, Robert Skeffield was an ex-army man, not unlike Wes. They both shared the same medical condition as well, having been mechanicalized during the war several years earlier, brought back to life and kept alive using mechanical and magical means. Though luckier than some, the condition caused fear and hatred among many regular people. Robert had so far managed to hide his condition, with the help of his rich father. Wes hadn't been so lucky and had been in difficult straits before meeting Kit.
He didn't like to think about the fact that he was basically living off Kit. Paying jobs were still few and far between for men such as himself, and his boyfriend, who was in poor health but diligent, basically kept them (and their rowdy little dog, Lolly) alive by his clock repair work.
At least Kit was doing marginally better since his last visit to the heart specialist. The adjustment to his medicine had made a slight difference, and he was visibly less wan and exhausted after physical exertion.
Which was quite nice for their lovemaking—not to mention everyday living.
Now Kit grinned at him and began to work the rest of Wes's clothing off, kissing his scarred flesh as he revealed it, inch by inch. They didn't speak a lot about the visit after that, but moved by degrees to the bed, and did what they loved best, taking care of one another with a tender sweetness, a need that never grew old.
#
Lolly woke Wes, barking up a storm. He listened for a moment, hearing what sounded like a knock on the front door. It was early, and Wes scowled as he crawled out of bed, grabbing at his trousers and glancing back worriedly at his partner. He didn't want Kit to have to wake up before he must. The trip to Skeffield Manor would be a long and arduous one, even if it was mostly by train. He needed his sleep.
"Shush, girl," called Wes, tripping over one of his shoes. He bit his lip to keep from cursing.
Lolly wagged her tail at him unrepentantly and proceeded to the door, her ears at high alert.
Since she and Kit had been held captive and hurt by two criminals trying to find a treasure hidden at Skeffield Manor, she had appointed herself even more firmly their protector. It was clearly her duty, in her little doggy mind, to be as vigilant as possible. She was especially protective of Kit, and seemed to view him as her young.
The knocking at the door was insistent, but seemed to be growing weaker. The dog and man glanced at each other—as if she could tell him what it was, for pity's sake—and then he hurried to the door and yanked it open, even though he wore only the trousers he'd hurriedly pulled on.
Bare-chested, scars exposed to the cool night air, he faced a stranger. "Yes? Who is it?" he asked sharply.
A man leaned there, pale-faced, smeared with blood. He sagged in the doorway, as if the last of his energy was gone for good. "You've got to...reach..."
He slumped forward, the last words unsaid. He lay very still, halfway fallen across the threshold, his blood smeared like a macabre painting around him.
Lolly began to bark hysterically. For one awful moment, Wes was frozen. Then he knelt and felt for a pulse. It was weak, but the man lived.
He lifted him gingerly and pulled him inside.
"Wes?" asked Kit sleepily from behind him. "What's wrong?"
Wes spoke as calmly as he could, but his hands and his voice shook. "Someone is trying to die on our doorstep. Call the police and the ambulance. We must stop him."
It had been a few years since his last battle, and he'd always done well in an emergency, but this reminded him unpleasantly of the war, where one moment everything was normal and people were drinking coffee and complaining about the cold, and the next—everything had gone far, far too wrong.
Kit made a sound in his throat, a kind of gasp, and hurried to the phone. Lolly crowded round Wes's ankles unhelpfully as he drew the man indoors and tried to staunch his blood flow. That involved finding his wound first, however.
"Kit! Kit!" he cried in alarm, raising his voice in desperation. "He doesn't have a pulse—he has clockwork!"
Kit put down the telephone quickly. "So...I can't call for an ambulance?"
They looked at one another in despair. The hospitals wouldn't treat mechanicalized men. They faced a great deal of discrimination, and that was one part of it. Perhaps the worst.
Kit put down the telephone and rushed over, checking the man competently. He was bleeding profusely. "His heart doesn't seem to be damaged," he commented. "But all those cuts. How do you suppose he got them?"
"I don't know. But we can't let him die here," said Wes desperately. He pressed on the worst of the wounds with strong hands, but the man had lost a great deal of blood. "There must be someone who can help."
Kit bit his lip, then nodded. "There... there's a man in town. I overheard someone talking recently, and... they gave me his name. I wrote down his address so we could contact him someday, when it seemed appropriate. He helps mechanicalized men. I'm sorry I forgot to tell you. It kept slipping my mind, I suppose."
"Well, for pity's sake, let's go to him. I'm not sure we can keep this man alive ourselves."
Kit was skilled with clockwork, and Wes had a soldier's knowledge of battlefield medicine. But the man was dying, and they needed expert help—someone to transfuse blood, someone to work magic to give the man extra healing strength: something more than good intentions and common knowledge.
Kit sprang to his coat hanging by the door and dug into the pocket. "Right. Here. I had it in my jacket. We'll take him right there. If they can't help us—"
He let the words die off. There was no point conjuring that picture before they needed to face it.
"Bundle him up the best you can," said Kit, willingly sacrificing his coat. "It's cold out and no taxi will take us if they guess. And cover your chest." He glanced at Wes quickly, wistfully, as if wishing he had time to appreciate his physique. Then he belted his dressing gown tighter and dashed out into the night to flag down a taxi cab.
In a flurry, Wes threw on some extra clothing, wrapped the man in a coat as best he could, and hurried out to join Kit, who was shivering on the sidewalk, having finally gotten a cab to stop. The man was limp in his arms, but still heavy. He bundled him in and thrust a long coat into Kit's hands.
"You didn't use mine," said Kit, glancing at him.
"No dogs," said the driver, putting his foot down as he eyed his passengers with increasing alarm.
"Lolly, no," said Wes sharply, nudging her back from trying to spring up to join them in the steam car.
"She'll be very good. I'll hold her," promised Kit.
"No dogs!" The man started the taxi moving. The steam engine sounded loud in the quiet night street.
"Lolly, stay," ordered Wes. As usual, she paid no attention to them and began to run along behind, panting. Wes and Kit cast one another despairing looks. Then they turned their attention to keeping their fellow passenger alive.
The cabbie drove at a fast speed, whether impressed by their urgency or just trying to outrun the dog, Wes didn't know or particularly care. They didn't outrun Lolly. Fortunately the streets were fairly bare at this time of night—almost four in the morning, too early yet for anyone but a couple of night workers and disreputable-looking folks out and about. A few men loitered, their caps pulled low. A woman or two hung at the edges of streets in loud clothing, chests half-bared, watching with interest as the cab roared by, a dog following it, barking.
At last they arrived at the residence. Wes felt cold seep all through him, to his bones. He had learned often enough just how much sympathy and help a mechanicalized man could hope for from society. He dreaded asking for help, even if it wasn't for himself this time. He just wanted to shrivel up and die, it pained him so. To ask and ask and always be denied was past bearing. It was easier to stop asking, to just suffer. But this man would die without help.
"We're here," said the driver grouchily, eying the dog in his rear-view mirror.
"Wait for us," said Kit.
"You bet your ass I'll wait. You haven't paid me!" He honked his horn for good measure as they trundled out of the cab, knocking their knees and skinning their elbows and stubbing their toes in their care not to jostle the dying man they carried between them.
A few months ago, Kit wouldn't have been strong enough to help, but now he carried nearly half the man's weight, biting his lip but not complaining or growing pale in the face. Except, of course, from anxiety. He had a small smear of blood on his cheek, Wes noticed. Really, it was good the cabbie had been so distracted by Lolly or he might have gotten suspicious and kicked them out. They didn't have many other transportation options at this time of night.
Kit left Wes to hold up the man's weight, leaning against him heavily, and rushed up to the door and knocked hard and long. Lolly joined him in a flash, adding her staccato bark to the mix. Kit leaned on the doorbell, then knocked, repeating the process till footsteps neared the door.
Someone flicked on a light. They had electric, Wes noticed dully. A roaring pounded in his ears, and he felt the thump of his own metal heart in his anxiety and fear. He wanted to curl up, to escape, to get away. But the man was dying, and he had nowhere else to take him. Who would help them? Would this house, this imposing stone building, turn them away? It wouldn't surprise him. Few things did anymore, when it came to the coldhearted nature of mankind.
A huge, imposing man opened the door, and Kit almost fell inside from leaning on it so hard. He straightened himself with effort, gasping in a quick breath, sounding scared.
"Please, can you help us? He's mechanicalized. He came to our doorstep, and he's dying. Losing blood fast. Please," said Kit in a rush. "We can pay!"
"Come in." The door creaked as the gigantic man held the door open. The dog rushed in first and Kit moved back to help Wes with the stranger.
The light lit the huge man from behind, so they couldn't see his face. It was half blinding, so bright and electric. But as they passed him, Wes's scattered wits caught the gleam of light on the metal of his arm.
One of his arms was mechanicalized, completely replaced by machinery. He gasped in a quick breath and bit his lip.
The huge man shut the door behind them with a thump and moved to help the bleeding man.
Others rushed forward now, a woman, tsking, and someone who looked reassuringly medical in his spectacles, wearing a concerned look. A little girl hovered around, and then hurried off at a word from the bespectacled man. "Get my bag," he told her.
"Yes, doc!" she said, dashing off. "So much blood!" she said, sounding thrilled by the excitement, in the gruesome way of childhood.
In short order, they had the man's clothing largely removed, and the worst of his wounds were being staunched by competent hands. Wes and Kit were edged away by the people who seemed to know what they were doing. The big man looked at them. He had a hard face, scarred and with an angry, impassive look to it. He grunted, then pointed towards the kitchen. "You can have coffee," he said.
"Thank you," said Kit, sounding a little scared and winded now that their part was done.
He finally had time for it to really hit him, Wes figured. He put an arm around his partner, sheltering him, and Kit leaned against him gratefully. They didn't attempt to tackle the stove, just sat there, Kit shivering a little and Wes holding him. They sat on kitchen chairs and waited, while not far away, people wrestled to save the life of a stranger.
#
"Hello?" A small man with gray hair, pale eyes, and a kind smile joined them in the kitchen. He wore a dressing gown and his hair was a mess. He walked slightly stooped, as if it hurt, and his feet shuffled a little. "You brought the man here?" he asked.
Wes nodded. He rubbed Kit's back a little more. The kitchen chairs were hard and cold, and Kit had seen and done too much tonight. He wasn't a soldier, and even on the newer medication, he was not healthy and hale.
Wes had left for a moment to go and pay the taxi driver, and to get the dog to settle down and stop bothering people. When he returned Kit had his hands pressed against his eyes and was shivering harder, his shoulders shaking. He wasn't crying, but he was extremely distressed and unhappy.
Wes had pulled him onto his lap at that point, and spent the next several minutes just holding him close and comforting him. He wasn't shivering as hard now, with both coats wrapped around him and Wes cuddling him, but he still wasn't up for conversation. He hid his face in Wes's shoulder and let Wes handle it.
"That's correct," said Wes. "They said we could wait here."
"Of course, of course. I'm sorry you've been left alone," said the old man genially. "He's in a bad way. I'll make you something to eat, and some coffee. Would that be all right?"
"Thank you," said Wes, a little startled. He'd expected to be interrogated, not waited on.
Kit raised his head a little. "Is he...is he going to live?" he asked faintly.
"We think so," said the old man gently. "We're very fortunate that Dr. Kingsley is here today. And you got that fellow here just in time. Do you know the injured man's name, by the way?"
"No," said Wes. "He showed up on our doorstep."
And then, as the man went about the room calmly, scrambling and frying some eggs (with mushrooms) and making them thick slices of toast, they ended up telling him everything, in spits and spurts. He was such a calm, gentle man, listening sympathetically and intelligently. Somehow or other, Lolly even behaved for him, sitting up attentively and begging silently, without tripping him as he moved about the kitchen.
It was warmed now with the stove running, and Kit had stopped shivering, and somehow or other they had told him their whole life story, between the two of them.
"Skeffield, you say," said the man, after they had talked about Mr. Skeffield and working for him, and the danger they'd suffered through. "I feel that I ought to know that name."
"He runs a big company. Or rather, his daughter mostly runs it now," said Wes, wondering as he did how they'd managed to tell the man that, too. Somehow he just seemed to inspire utter confidence with his calm and gentle way. There was something commanding about him, but unassuming at the same time. Wes thought he might be ex-military, although he didn't think most people would guess right away.
Soon they were eating, all three of them (four, counting Lolly, who got her own dish), and continuing to talk, but calmly now, on other topics.
The older man had introduced himself as Anthony Graeham. He had served in the military during the war, but was vague about what he'd done, and what rank he'd attained. Wes suspected something in espionage or counterintelligence.
For all that, Graeham seemed so gentle, not a hard, gimlet-eyed man. A few people popped in and out of the kitchen again as they ate, and those brief glimpses showed that many of those living there had a variety of things about them that would've made them stand out and not be welcomed elsewhere.
Aside from the little girl—who was bowlegged and undersized with an atrocious accent and a grubby-fingered habit of grabbing food without knife or fork and running off to eat it, giggling worse than an ill-mannered crow—there was the huge man with the mechanicalized arm, a set of conjoined twins, and a scarred little man with a big smile and dark, clever eyes.
"See ya, Boss!" he called, raising a hand and waving on his way out the door, after snatching a piece of the toast as he walked past the table. He was diminutive and bowlegged and had a cocky walk. He wore plain workman's clothing and looked like he could slip into the background of any crowd.
Graeham stopped eating and raised a hand, smiling. "Goodbye, and thank you," he said. "Do stop by with Marcus sometime soon."
The bowlegged little man gave him a big, cocky wink. "We will, Boss. We'll eat all your muffins!"
Graeham smiled widely, with obvious affection. "I would expect nothing less, Jimmy."
#
The old man snapped his fingers suddenly. "I do believe I know where I've heard the name Skeffield before. Goodness, time does fly. My memory!" He chuckled and shook his head. "Never mind, I am no longer concerned about him in the least." He smiled to himself. "Now, you must tell me what I can do for the two of you, since you've done so well by the stranger you brought to us. Regular Good Samaritans, I believe, when perhaps you're in need of some help yourself?"
The question was gentle, offered without condescension. He looked at them as if he understood a great deal. He had such a gentle, knowing way about him, nothing showy, just kind to the core. Wes couldn't feel offended.
"We're all right, sir," he said evenly. One would call the man sir. It was unavoidable.
Kit looked at him quickly, his lips parting.
Wes looked away. "I, ah, haven't been able to find steady work, sir."
"Ah," said Graeham gently, his crooked hands wrapped around a warm mug. He nodded. "Yes. I'll have to see if I can find anything for you. Thank you for bringing the man in. I hope he will recover, and we can all find out his name and how he managed to get into so much trouble." He rose slowly, as though it pained him.
"Don't you receive any magical treatment, sir?" asked Kit, his voice gentle with the compassion that came so easily to him. "Is it arthritis?"
"Ah, well I have treatments, but they only do so much. Now, can I offer you a ride home or would you like to spend the night? I have extra rooms." He looked at them expectantly.
Kit and Wes looked at one another. Wes had been about to accept the ride home, eager to get back to their own bed, but at the look of mute plea in Kit's exhausted eyes, he changed his answer immediately. "We'd be very grateful for a bed. We, ah, can share."
"Yes," said Graeham, with a small smile. "I thought you might."
"And if anyone can find our silly dog, we can get her out of your hair, as well," he said.
"No need to worry. I do believe your dog has found a friend in young Helena. My daughter, you know." He looked proud at the mere mention of the rowdy little girl Lolly had run off with. "I have a lot of children, all special in their own way."
Kit and Wes exchanged glances again. They held perfect understanding. This guy had to be the world's most generous man. Just how many people had he adopted, and how far would he go to help even strangers?
They went to the room one of the family showed him, feeling safe and perfectly in harmony. It was a small room, but warm and cozy. They fell asleep quickly in one another's arms, even without pajamas to change into.
#
Wes awoke early, with Kit still snuggled naked in his arms. He looked down fondly at his beloved's sleeping face. It always touched him, how much Kit trusted him. And despite being nearly the same age (Kit only slightly younger) he felt very protective of the man. He better educated than Wes, but there was something innocent about Kit, and it made Wes happy.
He was Kit's first lover, and only lover. He could hardly believe that no one in the world had seen the diamond in the rough and taken steps to make him their own. Not that Kit was in the rough—he was just shy and had less than perfect health. He didn't shine in every situation, and was always awkward around new people.
Wes found everything about him charming.
Now he waited as long as he could before his bladder insisted he get up. He moved Kit gently from his arms and went to find the toilet.
Afterwards, in the kitchen, he found the man with the mechanicalized arm making breakfast, and accepted some coffee with a thank you. Despite having eaten well in the middle of the night, he was hungry again. His metabolism had increased a lot with the gear heart to keep going.
He was gratefully eating breakfast when the man with the glasses from the previous night sat down to join him. Dr. Kingsley looked exhausted and sick at heart. Wes stopped chewing, his cheeks bulging, as he stared at the man, his heart turning over with fear that the stranger had died.
The doctor caught his look and shook his head, grimacing. "No, he's alive. But he's not awake and may not be for some time—if ever." He sighed, scraping fingers back through his disarrayed hair. "It's such a waste! There's no name on him, no information about his family—if he has one. There should be a system! People should be caring for these men, not leaving them to die in the street!"
The large cook brought him coffee and laid a hand on his shoulder. After a moment, the doctor blew his nose loudly and composed himself. He sat drinking coffee moodily for a few minutes, staring at the huge old stove, then roused himself to question Wes further.
Meanwhile, the big man set a meal before Kingsley, with a solicitous gentleness that Wes admired. The doctor, however, seemed unaware. He ate quickly, with a distracted thank-you to his friend.
"No, I'm sure I've never seen the man before," said Wes, when questioned again. "I don't know what he could've been doing coming to our home. Maybe he knew us from somewhere, but if so, it wasn't mutual. My partner didn't know him, either." He repeated the words the man had said to them, though both agreed he had probably been delirious after that much blood loss.
"He may have gone to the first house he found after being dumped somewhere by villains, but I don't think so," said the doctor. "He spoke to you. It sounds as though he was trying to reach you. And certainly the odds of finding someone helpful at any random house decrease exponentially for anyone with metalicized organs."
"Yeah," agreed Wes, feeling a little intimidated. He'd kept up with most of that speech, but not all of it.
The doctor continued talking, seemingly unaware. "There's nothing to do but retrace his steps, if you can, while I do the best I can to keep him alive and help him recover. Yes, I'll have to postpone my return. I'm definitely needed here." He looked at Wes, blinking once. "I'm Dr. Harrold Kingsley, by the way. Pleased to meet you?"
"Wesley Newton. Wes," said he, shaking the man's hand across the table. He caught a sharp cut of the eyes from the big man at the stove: a jealous, hard look.
"And I haven't met you, sir," said Wes respectfully.
The man with the arm made a sort of grimace. "Jason," he growled, stabbing at some eggs morosely, looking down at the stove and holding his metal arm self-consciously at his side, as though he didn't want to use it with them watching.
"Jason Donnelly," said Dr. Kingsley blithely. "We've known each other since the war. I worked with Dr. Gregory. Never learned to actually create the mechanicalization process, but I did learn enough to help patch people up. Not that I would mechanicalize anyone even if knew how, of course. It's no longer legal. But I do what I can to help my friends stay alive." Now he did smile at the big man, and Wes watched Jason's face transform to a look of shy happiness.
But Dr. Kingsley didn't appear to notice. He'd already turned back to Wes and continued talking. "But I don't remember you. You must've been operated on either before or after my time working as an aide to Dr. Gregory."
"I assume," said Wes awkwardly. "Graeham told you about me?"
The man nodded. "There aren't many secrets in this house. I'm sorry, did you mind my knowing?" He tilted his head slightly, looking concerned.
"No, of course not. It would be very helpful to know a doctor who could fix me up if I ever need it."
They exchanged a smile and another handshake before Wes excused himself, smoothly as he could, to go and check on Kit and find their dog and go home. It was all a bit overwhelming, if very welcome to find such a place and so many kind and understanding people. But he thought there was at least one secret being kept from Dr. Kingsley, and he wished poor Jason luck getting him to ever see what was right in front of his nose. Perhaps the doctor just didn't want to know, although he hadn't given Wes that impression at all.
Then again, what do I know of such things? He scowled at himself for assuming. He should ask Kit his opinion. Kit, fine-boned and sensitive, had grown up reading while other boys ran and played and shouted and punched. He'd been kept from rough play because of his poor health, but had developed a keen insight into people, Wes thought. He observed and read and noticed so many things. He'd know if Wes's thoughts were correct.
But when Wes climbed the stairs and went to gently wake Kit, he found all other thoughts fled his mind as he stared dry-mouthed at the beautiful man, stretching hedonistically and smiling up at him so sweetly. He climbed into bed, fully clothed, and drew Kit to him, to hug and kiss him good morning.
"You are my darling," he said, sounding silly to his own ears as he pressed a kiss against his pale skin. "You just are."
Kit laughed. "What a silly thing to say." He arched his neck a little, turning, a sweet little smile on his face, giving Wes more room to kiss him. He sighed, a happy, soft sound, and Wes stroked his side, feeling warm with gratitude.
"I'd like to pee first," said Kit softly. "And I need something to eat and drink. But oh, I do want you."
Wes sighed. "I suppose we'd better go home first. It wouldn't be very civilized to stay in bed all day when we were barely overnight guests."
Kit laughed and sat up, pulling free reluctantly and shaking his hair back. "No," he said. "But then, we're not very civilized, are we?" There was an evil glint in his eyes, a sparkle that Wes very much liked to see.
He got dressed, though, and they went to start the day, however reluctantly.
#
While Kit took care of his morning necessities, Wes hunted down the dog (she'd been very naughty, got hold of some scraps and stuffed herself silly and refused to feel guilty about it), and took his leave from Graeham, remembering to say thank-you several times. Graeham was all that was polite, even shook his hand, and mentioned the party again.
"You two are still planning to go?" he asked.
For a moment, Wes didn't know what he meant; then he remembered. "Oh, Skeffield's party! Yes, we have to leave today." He grimaced, a little worried whether Kit would be up to it. It would mean they couldn't try to track down the injured man's route. And it would curtail their lazy morning and afternoon plans...
"I might see you there." Graeham grinned, looking like he had a plan. "I called a friend, wrangled my own invitation. I wouldn't mind speaking to Skeffield about some business."
"Oh?" Wes raised an eyebrow, but the older man wasn't forthcoming. "Well, we'll be very glad to see you there, of course."
Then he left his address, asked to be informed of the man's recovery, if it happened, and offered to pay towards his upkeep. Graeham turned him down, which was kind of a relief when he thought of their finances. They had needed to save up for the train tickets just to attend the party. They didn't have a lot extra to spare right now.
Of course, if I could find work...
These thoughts depressed him enough he actually asked Kit if he wanted to walk home instead of taking a cab.
Kit stared at him, and a faint blush rose to his cheekbones. "No, I—"
"No," agreed Wes awkwardly. "Sorry."
"Don't. I'm..." He touched Wes's arm and sighed. He had such a gentle touch. And he was so easy to hurt with an awkward word. Wes tried to be careful of him, never wanted to hurt him. He'd been hurt enough. "I just don't think I should push it when we have the party to go to," he explained awkwardly.
"You're right," said Wes, and changed the subject hurriedly.
Lolly, fat and sleepy from the mess she'd made and the trouble she'd gotten into, insisted on being carried halfway home, and Wes did the honors.
Then they finished packing, left the dog with some friendly neighbors, still sleeping it off, and headed to the trains, hailing another taxi for their luggage and because of Kit.
"You've locked?" said Wes for the third time to Kit, as they loaded everything aboard.
Kit gave him a purse-lipped look, his eyes narrowing. "Would you like to check?" he asked crisply.
These were the first sharp words they'd had in months, even though they were only barely sharp at all. Wes swallowed hard, then moved back to the door and checked, pressing against it to be sure it was locked.
Kit stood watching him.
It was hard to read his face, but Wes felt ashamed as he made his way back and they climbed into the taxi.
They didn't talk, but after a bit, Kit sighed and leaned against his shoulder, sounding defeated. Somehow his hand found its way into Wes's and they held hands quietly. Wes rubbed a thumb over Kit's hand, soothing, gentling, apologizing. He wished he didn't get so anxious. Everything seemed so far outside his control sometimes that he just became obsessed. Visions of hooligans sneaking inside haunted him. He pictured them stealing all their things, vandalizing and laughing, and them returning to a gutted home. And the police wouldn't take it seriously if they found out he was mechanicalized; they'd think it was just his "friends" having turned on him.
Many of the ex-soldiers whose lives had been saved by magic and mechanisms had turned to crime, or at least been blamed for the crimes of others. They were a handy scapegoat at the moment, thought Wes grimly. Then he thought again of Graeham and felt warm inside. Somebody cared, anyway.
He wondered again who the man was, the injured man, and if he would recover.
How did he know to come to us? Maybe it was just luck?
Kit fell asleep on the way to the train, and again on the ride into the countryside. Wes propped him up and watched the landscape pass as the train juttered rhythmically along on its track, taking them away. He smoothed Kit's hair back, wondering if this tender anxiety for his lover would ever leave him.
And what should he call Kit? Lover, partner, boyfriend—it was all true, but none of it felt quite right, quite enough. It was a difficult thing to pin down, and would pinning it down precisely even help, or would it be like killing a butterfly to pin it to a card for eternity? Did the words matter? The hopeless, helpless love he felt for Kit couldn't fit in words, anyway. He only knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this man, and the feeling appeared to be mutual.
Kit held nothing back. In his eyes, so very often, shone exactly how he felt about Wes, exactly how much of his world Wes had changed, had become.
Oh, he'd lived a good life, working hard, taking care of himself...but he lived for Wes now, where once he had lived only because that was the better alternative to dying. Now he lived and took care of himself and was happy because the days belonged to them together.
Wes had never thought anyone would feel that way about him. Certainly no one as wonderful as Kit.
He only hoped he wouldn't manage to mess it up somehow, the way he'd managed to mess up other good things in his life.
Even dying—he'd managed to mess that up, because they brought him back to fight on, and then survive the war where so many others had died. (And was that part of the reason they hated them, the regular people? Because they'd survived when so many others hadn't? Or perhaps it was just the unknown, the unknowable, that great human weakness of fearing what you don't understand.)
At any rate, he was glad to be alive now, though there had been many days he wasn't. Maybe there was always something worth living for at the end, if you could just stick out the days when there wasn't. Maybe you had to find that thing worth living for to make those awful days worth it. And they were worth it—Kit was worth everything—but only in retrospect.
Really, it was a terrible risk to go on living, to know you could only make sense of it and find meaning in it later, if you were lucky. To say, "Ah, this is why!" and have it be enough. But it would have been an even greater risk to have given up and missed all of this—not made it through to the other side, the side where his life could properly begin, because Kit loved him.
Would he have found something else worth living for, rather than just the stubborn bent of nature keeping him alive, if he hadn't found Kit? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
He found himself thinking of Jason, there at the stove, longing for Dr. Kingsley. His heart went out to the big man as he thought of that longing that might never be fulfilled. Jason had a family, had a life, had a place with Graeham and his household of beloved misfits. But Jason clearly wanted more. Would he ever get it?
I hope so. I want him to have more.
He wanted it so very much, even though he didn't know the man. When had he become so softhearted, that the fate of strangers could mean so much to him? He tucked his arm around Kit more closely, feeling that tender, overwhelming gentleness inside him, so much it almost hurt.
#
Kit woke refreshed and smiled up at Wes sweetly. He was awake enough to disembark from the train with his wits about him, and they didn't get separated in the crowd.
One of the Manor's staff, Mr. Jenkins, was there with the car to pick them up. He waved his cap to be seen past the steam from the train whooshing around and filling the busy platform.
Kit gave a glad little cry and raised a hand, waving back, a big grin on his face. Wes picked up nearly all their luggage and lumbered forward, glancing quickly at Kit to be sure he didn't lose him. Kit kept hold of his arm, and carried one bag too. But he didn't try for more. He'd accepted that Wes did most of the heavy lifting between the two of them, especially if he was feeling tired.
Most people would not call Kit very brave, but Wes thought it did take a kind of bravery to face his ill health and live his life at the edges of it, always having to take it into account, giving into its whims but refusing to let it define him or make him stop enjoying life.
Wes wanted to do that, too. He was not just a throbbing metal heart, a mesh of scars: he was a man like any other, but different.
They climbed into the car, smiles all around, glad to see Jenkins again. Though their last visit had contained violence and danger, they had grown fond of everyone at the Manor, and it was good to see Jenkins again looking so hale and hearty and familiar.
"A lot of things have changed," he told them as he steered the big steam car towards its home. "You won't believe how much they've done. The pond and cold spring house are all a mess from the digging. We'll put that right when the weather's nice, but the biggest changes are inside! Not just the treasure being found, but the things young Louie has done." He shook his head. "Mr. Candless, I should call him, but he's like one of the family now."
He glanced at them, his expression taking them into his confidence. Kit sat up, looking eager. "What?" he asked, leaning forward. His hair flapped a little in the wind, and Wes reached up to touch it, gently, brushing it back with automatic tender fondness.
Jenkins gave them a wink. "Let's just say that officially, he and Robert are very good friends. And Mr. Skeffield is completely welcoming of his son's very good friend. But unofficially, they share a room and they're as near as married as two men folks can be." He hesitated, looking thoughtful. "I don't know if you'll like Louie, but we do. The missus and I. She took to him like a duck to water, for all his city ways and fancy clothes. He's a kind boy under the flighty artistic stuff and all those bright things he wears. We've got a dog now at the Manor, but it only listens to him—you'll have to see it to believe it. He's good for Robert, though, and even the master likes him."
Wes tried to form a picture of this man, but couldn't. He'd have to wait and see. But Kit appeared fascinated. "He's a designer, right? I'm sure I've heard of him. Isn't he pretty famous?" His eyes were round, impressed.
"Oh yes, cost a pretty penny to hire him. But he did do a good job with everything, and he stays now, just as a 'friend.'"
Kit laughed softly, sounding delighted. "I can't wait to meet him."
Wes felt dubious. He knew and liked Robert Skeffield from when they'd met earlier. They were both military men, both had been mechanicalized, though Robert's father had pulled strings to hide his differences so he could continue to serve in the military after the war ended and the others were discharged. Wes had felt a kind of kinship with him, even though the other man was far more handsome and successful than he had ever been or would ever be. It was difficult to imagine the smooth, slightly cool Robert with a flighty, artistic designer.
He would have pictured Robert with another soldier, perhaps—someone he'd served beside and developed longstanding feelings for, finally revealed after a slow, tortuous route to acceptance on both their parts.
Ah, but perhaps he'd read too many stories. Or perhaps he'd written his own feelings into it. Goodness knew he'd had enough crushes on men he'd served with, however briefly, on the front lines. They were always men who, now, reminded him of Kit, though: bright-eyed dreamers who looked for the best in the world, even though they rarely lived long enough to find it.
Beside him, Kit sighed happily. "Is there any of the treasure left? Will we get to see it?"
"Sure will. Some has to go to museums or back to other countries, of course—so many laws and experts and things—but there's plenty that they do get to legally keep, and Skeffield has it on display. He's right proud of it. Lots of magic and guards to keep it safe, of course, and it'll either get sold or be stored somewhere eventually, but he wants to show it at the party."
"I thought the party was to welcome Robert home—officially?" said Wes.
"Oh yes, officially. But it's unofficially to welcome Louie, too, and to let everybody see the treasure they're going to gossip about anyway."
Wes frowned. "Isn't that kind of, well, dangerous?"
Kit nodded, a frown troubling his brow. "Yes, there could be people coming to steal it."
"Oh, I'm sure there are. But we have security you wouldn't believe. Robert's pretty good at that, and they have the money to do a good job. Besides that, the magical ministry has taken quite the interest, since there was a fancy magic artifact with the treasure. The Skeffields were good about letting them investigate it all, and there's an agent around here, keeping an eye on everything and coordinating the magical protections of the place. It's pretty posh, these days." He gave them a wink. "Feel quite outclassed some of the time, an old dog like me."
"No!" said Kit. "It wouldn't be Skeffield Manor without Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins!"
The older man gave a chuckle. "Well, I'm glad to hear you say so, of course. Speaking of dogs, where's your Lolly?"
"We didn't really want to put her through the trip again," admitted Wes, feeling guilty. He knew the dog hated being left behind, but a fancy party was not the place to have a dog who never obeyed and did exactly as she pleased. She may have been a great help to them, practically saving Kit's life, but things should be much safer this time, and in the meantime he didn't want to run them both ragged trying to keep track of her in a fancy mansion full of strangers and breakable things.
Before, with the manor in poorer condition and fewer people around, it had been just barely acceptable to have a ragged, misbehaved mutt as a guest. Now, he wondered if he and Kit would even fit in, it seemed to have all changed so much. All the same, they'd be glad to see the Skeffields again, and he was as curious as Kit was about any remaining treasure. He hadn't quite believed in it before, and even now wanted to see it first before he really would.
#
There were a great many steam cars and old-fashioned, fancy, horse-drawn carriages around the place. Some were parked, some just pulling up. People wearing expensive clothing disembarked, and there were a number of servants swarming around and tough-looking, watchful-eyed men standing around who were probably the security.
"And you came to get us special!" said Kit, sounding delighted. But his hand in Wes's tightened. He looked intimidated by all the people here.
"Oh, you're no trouble," said Jenkins. "Besides, most of the guests have their own drivers."
Would Graeham come after all? Wes wondered. At first thought, he suspected the man wouldn't fit in with these people any better than he did.
Then, he thought again. Graeham would probably fit anywhere he wanted to. There was something about the man. Definitely espionage or something like that in the war, he thought.
When it was their turn to disembark, there were familiar and kindly staff waiting to see them. They remembered Wes, who had helped out around the manor during their visit so they wouldn't be a burden, and Kit, who was so sweet and gentle it was impossible to think of anyone not liking him.
The place had been spruced up, and Wes couldn't help but stare at some of the changes as they were taken to their guest bedroom. The wallpaper and everything else about the décor had been transformed. The house no longer looked old and forbidden, but lighter and more welcoming in a way he couldn't put his finger on exactly. The color changes, the rearranging, it was all part of it, but there was more. A feeling in the house of lightness and life, where before it had been dark and imposing and largely shut up.
#
Kit lay down to take a nap, and Wes, still restless, paced the room, not wanting to leave his partner alone. He wasn't superstitious—normally—but Kit had been hurt here before, and there were so very many people around. Even with the extra security, something could happen.
Nothing, however, did, and they went out to the gardens after Kit's restorative nap, walking calmly and sedately among the greenery and fruit trees, the paths lined with flowerbeds and statues and places to sit. They were enjoying themselves a great deal—Kit always seemed happier around nature—when a huge dog bounded towards them, slobbering, its eyes alight with intent.
"Oh!" said Kit, a little gasp surprised out of him as he flinched aside.
Wes moved forward to block the big dog's way. Kit didn't need to be knocked to the ground.
"Cesar!" cried a high voice, sounding appalled. "Stop it at once!"
The dog turned—they all turned—to see a small, rather petite man in a well-tailored lavender suit striding towards them. "You mustn't!" he scolded the dog, who rushed dutifully to him and pranced around him once, before lowering his head as if bowing, wagging his tail hard. The dog was nearly as big as the man, a huge, shaggy creature that probably had wolfhound in its heritage somewhere. It waited happily while the precise man with the pretty face scratched its head daintily.
If his mouth had been a bit tighter, Wes would have thought he was prissy. Everything about him seemed exact, his hair neatly combed, his suit tailored perfectly to fit his small, fastidious body. There was an elegance about him, and, as he looked up, a hesitant shyness. "Hello. I'm terribly sorry. I've been trying to teach him manners, but he—"
He stopped suddenly, a tentative smile growing on his face. He had a slender, pale face and large, expressive eyes that held vulnerability and gentleness. "You're Wes and Kit, aren't you?"
At the same moment, Kit said, "You're Candless, aren't you?"
They both laughed, sounding shy and delighted. Wes cast Kit a glance, surprised by this reaction. He saw his partner was blushing, holding out a hand shyly. "I can't believe I get to meet you," said Kit.
"I'm sorry about the dog. Hello. Do call me Louie—everyone does! Mr. Skeffield talks about you two all the time. How do you do?" He shook their hands one after the other, but not before wiping his carefully on a handkerchief, to be sure he was clean from touching the dog.
The dog seemed calmer now, having settled by his side, sitting there regally. It was a shockingly huge beast, and hard to believe such a little man could handle it. But the dog seemed happier and calmer beside him, letting its tongue loll, no longer trying to jump up or greet anyone.
Kit and Candless began to talk, eagerly. "I've read all about your design work, and saw some of it myself, although just two buildings," said Kit, still flushed.
"Well, I've certainly heard about your genius with clocks, and your adventures! I'm very glad you were willing to come back. It's wonderful to meet you two. Are you comfortable in your room? Robert was concerned that you not be forgotten in the rush."
"Robert," said Kit carefully. "Is he...well?"
"Yes," said Louie simply. His large, soft eyes looked larger and softer and gentler, as if lit from within, and his smile was shy, with a bit of a blush touching his cheek.
The man was clearly smitten.
"Oh! I know it's early, but can I show you the treasure now?" asked Louie. "It's not often I get to play tour guide, and I almost feel as if I know you two. It's wonderful to have someone friendly among all the important people." For a second, he looked smaller and more insecure, as if he wondered what he was doing in this big place, surrounded by so many people.
But that couldn't be the case. He was supposed to be an important designer or something, right? And now Wes could vaguely recall that he'd heard of the man, as well. He'd heard he was a bit of a socialite, going to party after party, his name linked to those of rich and powerful men. People like the Skeffields, but more so.
This should be a step down in the world for him, not up, surely?
At any rate, Kit was thrilled with the suggestion, and all three of them headed indoors, followed by the huge dog. While Louie and Kit were talking to one another, Wes took a few moments to get acquainted with the dog, letting it sniff his hands and scratching its ears now that it was calm. "Cesar, huh?" he asked, smiling at the huge, silly creature, who seemed to be all slobbering good cheer, not a mean bone in its huge body.
"He's practically a horse, isn't he?" asked Louie, whose quick gaze had caught sight of the new friendship. He smiled, his eyes crinkling a little at the edges. He had a sweet smile, but it irritated Wes, who wondered if it was fake or real. "But did you bring your famous dog along?"
And so they explained that they hadn't, and by the time they'd finished that and started another topic, they'd reached the room with the treasures. Louie played flighty tour guide on the way, pointing out paintings and aspects of the house he thought of interest. He was a silly, rather effete man, Wes thought coldly, eying the way Kit and he had their arms linked. What did Robert see in him? What did Kit?
Louie greeted the two imposing men guarding a door, and the three were allowed through. "See? Isn't it lovely?" said Louie, making a meal of the syllables of that last word.
Some men, thought Wes distastefully, made a fuss about their sexual orientation. It seemed a little unfair to him. Men like Louie Candless got to be as silly and fancy as they liked, while men like himself needed to hold a certain standard to not be thought less of. Not everybody could be a designer, where such things were allowed.
They moved among the shining treasures on tables, Kit exclaiming, Louie explaining. Some were made of gold or precious stones; others were paintings or vases, old weapons, or pieces of medieval armor.
A ruby ring flashed on Louie's finger as he gestured flamboyantly. "And here's a lovely urn that didn't have to be returned. They'll likely sell it to a museum, although Skeffield talks about it a great deal so I'm not entirely sure he'll actually go through with—"
He turned to take in Wes as well, and stopped mid-speech at the look he saw on his face. Hurt flashed across Louie's features, and he looked supremely vulnerable. He stopped talking and ducked his head, turning away.
Kit, surprised, turned to look at Wes, a question in his eyes. He didn't seem to understand. Wes didn't either, but he understood more than he liked.
Some of his disdain had been showing on his face. Louie, a sensitive soul, had seen it, and understood what it was to be scorned. Not expecting it from people he clearly considered new friends, he'd been really hurt.
After a moment, he rallied and began to talk again, in a voice that was nearly the same volume and held almost as much cheer. Wes held awkwardly silent, not sure how to fix it. It had to be the worst social faux pass, to find your host disgusting. But he'd never been good at social situations. And he had been a bit repulsed and annoyed by Louie. It wasn't fair, but it was true, and he couldn't take that back.
Kit squeezed Louie's arm gently, and they continued on, letting Wes hang back. He looked at things dully, wishing he could go home. Their place was small and comfortable, with a nice fire and a friendly kitchen, a small if poorly behaved dog, and just the two of them to make life comfortable. He didn't need to test his company manners and find them lacking. He didn't need to do anything but take care of himself and Kit.
#
There were drinks and mingling and polite conversation.
Even with Kit by his side, Wes felt unequal to it all. And they couldn't really talk privately. He felt uncomfortable in his good suit; the collar felt too tight, even though it was supposed to be in style. Kit had bought it for him specially for this event.
He felt a rising panic as they had to face more and more people who wanted polite conversation that he didn't know how to manage. This was a different world. Why had the Skeffields invited them?
A trim, handsome, dark-haired man moved to meet them, his eyes dark and clever, a drink in his hand, a slightly knowing smile on his face. "Wes Newton and Kit Fowler?" he asked, raising a brow.
"That's us," said Kit, still holding onto Wes's arm gently. Wes cast him a quick look, wondering if he was too tired, but he seemed to be holding up well. "I'm the clock repairman who was involved earlier."
"Yes. I'm Silus Smith," said the man. He took them in as if he saw them very clearly. He looked too clever for his own good, thought Wes sourly. "I work for the magical ministry. Just wanted to assure you the security should be up to snuff this time." He gave them a wink and moved away.
"Nerve of some people," said Wes.
Kit laughed a little nervously. "I'm sure he meant well."
"I'm not," said Wes darkly, glaring after the man who'd felt the need to remind Kit of his previous ordeal.
#
Louie seemed to be in the odd position of being almost one of the hosts. He looked to be in his element at the party, chatting gaily with anyone who approached him, clearly showing pride in his role as designer of the changes to the Manor and glad to explain them. But at the same time, he had no real standing there except as designer and friend.
Wes noticed that Robert couldn't seem to keep his eyes off the slender, talkative little man. Robert's gaze was possessive, warm, and hungry. If there was anyone in the room who managed to not realize they were together, Wes thought they must be very skilled in the art of self-deception.
Skeffield seemed pleased to have both his son and Louie here, but apparently they were still officially "friends and nothing more." He wondered how that worked, and why it was necessary. Skeffield was old-fashioned and not perhaps the most correct in all his views or vocabulary. He'd casually called Wes and Kit fairies the other time they'd visited, not seeming to mean it as an insult, but still saying it. But he'd also been welcoming, kind, and open about accepting them. He didn't seem like the sort of man to insist on "friendships" instead of lovers for his son.
Then again, what did Wes know of fathers and sons? He'd never known his own father.
Eventually they moved on to the dinner portion of the party.
Ah, so he had made it! There was Graeham, seated at the large dining table with the rest of the guests. He gave Wes a nod and smiled across the table between them. Too much distance separated them to talk even if they'd wanted to, but the older man looked resplendent in his dark suit, his graying hair neatly combed, almost shining in the candlelight.
The house had electricity, but the candlelight added an atmosphere that made the meal seem intimate and friendly, even with so many people here. They were clearly enjoying their food and looked happy to be there, though most of them could probably afford to dine in expensive restaurants every night if they wished.
Wes catalogued faces, trying to decide if any of them were secretly gentlemen thieves or assassins. He wondered about things like that sometimes.
Kit, beside him, kept up a careful conversation with the man on his right. The man on Wes's left was a stolid army type, who looked like he wanted to eat his roast in peace, his jaw grim as he chewed. Wes was glad enough to get out of making conversation.
There was a great deal of food, and all of it was good. Wes ate his way gratefully through course after course of it. His metabolism would burn it all off and want more by evening. It required a lot of energy to keep his magically and mechanically powered heart running properly.
Kit couldn't keep up as easily and left many things uneaten.
Robert and Louie each sat on one side of Skeffield, making conversation with their neighbors and looking happy. Wes had previously thought Robert was a self-possessed man, private, cynical, but happy enough. Now he saw the man when he was happy, and it really was different. His smiles weren't polished and charming and cynical anymore. He was in love.
How odd to think of someone being in love with that little sparrow of a man, all dressed up in finery like a peacock, or anything more than a skinny, silly show piece.
Skeffield raised his glass. "And now a toast to our designer, who helped find the treasure and make this house a home again."
Wow, that was so close to actually saying he was welcome there as more than a friend...
Louie blushed prettily and cut his gaze downward, his hands fluttering a little at the table and then going down to hide in his lap in case anyone should see them tremble. Robert looked at him with such love, he practically glowed.
Wes raised his glass dutifully for the toast.
Beside him, Kit gave a happy little sigh—his romantic heart!—and toasted along with gusto.
After a while, the meal was over. And seeing the treasure (officially) began. The guests were chattering and excited, even the dour army man perking up at this news. It was obvious why many of the people were there, whatever they said about coming to welcome Robert home from his military service and see the changes in the Manor.
Well, it was a rather interesting treasure—and to think of it being hidden in the house all along, for over a generation, with only a strange little magical device to keep it hidden half-on another plane of reality.
The little device had been whisked away by the magical ministry, which was still quite curious how the Skeffields had come to have it at all.
At any rate, though much of the treasure had to be returned to other countries, or was taken by the government, there was still a lot left that they owned outright.
And so the rich keep getting richer and the rest of us keep getting poorer, thought Wes.
Then he felt ashamed of himself. The Skeffields had never been anything but kind to him and Kit. He didn't want to resent them. But he did, a bit. And Louie.
#
They trooped to the treasure room. The guards still stood there, waiting, impassive and impressive-looking.
Silus Smith was there near the front of the group, unobtrusive but alert. Wes wasn't particularly sensitive to magic and couldn't do any of his own, but even he could practically see the man bristled with that skill and power. It didn't make him like the man any better, though, as he seemed to be cold and cynical and hard-edged, secretive and a bit unkind.
Well, perhaps that was a front he put up. Wes had done enough judging tonight. He felt a bit bad about that. He also wished the party could end so he could go home with Kit. Not that they would leave immediately, of course: they'd been invited to stay for a few more days. "If you can possibly manage it in your schedule," the message had read.
Was there an insult couched there, or were they being polite? He really was overthinking things lately...
"Just a minute," said Silus coldly. "There's been a breach." He swept his eyes over the crowd. "Who passed this door?"
The guards gestured. "Just Louie and two guests."
Smith scowled, as though that was the wrong answer. His gaze swept over the crowd. "Which two?"
Kit's hand on Wes's arm squeezed tighter, almost trembling. "It was us, sir," he piped up. "Louie took us in to see the treasure. But we didn't—I'm sure we didn't touch or break anything."
"No," said Silus curtly. Whispering and exclamations had begun; someone tittered. But he looked cold and fierce and savagely angry. "No, the magical protections I put up have been smashed." Silus stared hard at Louie, who was looking smaller and more fragile under this accusatory glare, actually pale with fear.
"I—I didn't..." He shrank back a little.
"Let me see that." The magician grabbed his hand, pointing to the ruby ring on it. It was flashy, just a tiny bit too large for his hand, and not in the best of taste, to Wes's way of thinking. "Where did you get this?" He held a hand over it in the air, muttering something under his breath, then pulled the ring off. Louie flinched; either Silus had been rough or his hands were cold.
"I—It was a present," said Louie, sounding small and faint.
Robert moved to stand beside him, finally, looking tall and straight and handsome, sturdy and protective. "Shouldn't you see if there's anything missing before going around accusing people?" he suggested in a mild voice that wasn't really terribly mild underneath.
Silus looked at him, then at Louie. "Yes," he said coldly. He whirled and entered the room. Nobody else dared to follow, except Mr. Skeffield, who after all owned the house.
Louie looked as though he wanted to disappear. He stared down at his hand, now bare of the ring.
"I do think we should know where the ring came from," muttered one of the guests. They appeared to have quickly become spectators.
Even though he wasn't deeply involved in the social scene (ha!) Wes cringed a little at the thought of how much gossip this party was going to bring into the world. Most of it was not likely to be very nice, either.
Louie was practically convicted of a crime already, and they still didn't know what was going on.