Who: Malcolm Sayers and Bertram Eden What: Personal news, and discussing futures Where: The street, then the Lionhart When: August 21st, 1888 [backdate because we legit forgot to post this for a month] Rating: PG
It was time to get back out into the world that was London. Malcolm had spent a few weeks in Black Park spending time with his immediate family, doing some aide work for Lucien, and otherwise decompressing from the events that led him to twice defend his Alpha. One of those led to the death of the assailant.
Dressed his suit, high collar, tie, the nine-yards, Malcolm began his usual route that would include the Ministry, Lionhart, his flat, and a few other casual places. He steered clear of Whitechapel given the stories in the paper. It wasn’t a question of safety, just common sense. The young wolf turned a corner, walking up Gower Street and taking note of the trees and the sky - sniffing the air. Nature calmed him, but his pace slowed as he caught a familiar scent on the breeze - Bertie.
Bertie had spent many of his spare moments searching for the late Benson St Crane, but to no avail. He'd never encountered a spirit untethered to a particular location, and it was entirely possible that Mr St Crane simply ceased to be when he had no urgent desire to appear, or that Mrs Linden had followed through on her bargain with the ghost and laid him properly to rest.
Still, Bertie had to try. The hints he'd gleaned from that brief conversation were impossible to put out of his mind...a murder? a mutilated corpse? engineering espionage? foreign involvement? He couldn't walk away until he'd exhausted all options.
He was so intent on looking for the insubstantial, the immaterial, the shimmer of the nearly-unseen, that he nearly walked into someone substantial indeed. His body must have registered the familiar before Bertie's mind could process it--he reached out without thought, and everything in him seemed calm instead of his usual jumpiness around a stranger.
(Particularly one with whom he'd just nearly incited a collision.)
Once he'd properly registered the presence, Bertie's shoulders dropped even further, relaxing, and his chin tilted up a little...not quite offering his neck, because they weren't that anymore, but showing Mal a hint of his throat above his collar to set him at ease if he were on edge.
"I'm sorry," Bertie said, his hands at his sides once again though he hardly knew what to do with them, and they fluttered uselessly in the air. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and finally managed - because Lord Black had given permission, and this was not forbidden - "Hello, Mal."
Mal wasn’t even processing what was happening, his attention laser-focused on the scents (especially Bertie’s) to avoid the collision. He stilled at the young man’s reaching out, not immediately reacting beyond blinking. Then his senses centered and opened up to see Bertie standing there as the person who walked into him. Mal breathed in Bertie’s now-strong scent and willed himself not to smile. Just a hint of a grin. The wolf watched as his former lover gave a hint of throat. Tilting his head back just a little, Mal returned the gesture. Yet he missed the time where they’d offer necks.
Blinking slowly, Mal slowly flexed his fingers at his sides. “No worries,” he breathed and nodded. “Hello, Bertie. Are you...all right?”
"I meant to ask you that," Bertie replied at once. "I heard about the second attempt, and the gun...that you prevented it, I mean. The attack. Are you well? I haven't seen you...I mean, not that I would," Bertie amended at once, colouring. "Only I thought I might have seen you in the Lionhart, after, and Mac said you hadn't been in."
Bertie paused, and then added, "He said you were very brave. That you served nobly."
Mal’s features softened slightly, now letting the familiarity of Bertie’s scent ease his nerves. Then he frowned at Bertie’s words, the frown soon fading with Mac’s reported sentiments. “I am well,” he began and paused at Bertie’s colouring. “I..felt that I needed to spend some time at Black Park...visit my parents and siblings.” The wolf breathed. “Mac is very kind.” Mal slowly shifted his shoulders and back to assume a hint of that soldier posture. His hands slowly came in front of him, clasping gently. If one was attuned to Mal’s physical behavior, they would see a hint of the traumatic fear that originated from his time in the Army. Sometimes the sheer breath of the moment brought one to do brave and noble things.
Bertie had been there when Mal had returned from the army--it was why he'd been so concerned, after hearing the news. He licked his lips, trying to think of the right thing to say, as awkward as they had become with one another. Surely it was not his place anymore to offer more than polite comfort.
"I'm glad that you are well," Bertie offered weakly. "Or better, now. And returned to London. Have you...Lord Black is well? And the pack? And your..."
He should ask. It was the polite thing to do. Even if he didn't particularly wish to. It was a tight unhappiness in his throat. "...your fiancée?"
Comfort from friends, family were nearly always welcomed. But Mal didn’t want to seem needy or weaker than he had already presented himself. But he had changed a good bit in the last few years.
Mal paled a little at the slight barrage of questions, wanting to be that carefree wolf during his years at University. Then he coloured at Bertie’s last question. But Mal didn’t break eye contact immediately. “Lord Black is well. The pack is well also…,” he replied and tilted his head to one side ever so slightly. Though he truly understood and empathized with Isabel’s decision, Mal still felt a sliver of pain at the dissolution of their engagement. “Miss. Thatcher is well.”
"Good." Bertie said it with determination, as if firmness of conviction would make it so. "That's good. I'm glad."
This was awkward and hopeless. Bertie didn't know why he'd thought it would be different, given their parting. After a moment of painful silence, Bertie said, "Well, I should let you be on your way. You'll write, though, if you have need of me? Or visit the office?"
Mal was trying so hard to keep how he felt packed away. But he wanted to be selfish. He softly echoed that tight unhappiness in his own throat. The wolf listened and nodded.
He wanted to do more than to just talk to Bertie. It was pathetic and reckless. Nodding at the young man’s questions, there was another moment of silence.
“Bertie...she and I broke off our engagement.” Mal spoke softly, clasping his hands tightly as his shoulders began to slump.
Bertie's lips parted, but he didn't know what to say. "Oh," seemed entirely inadequate, but all he could manage. Then his conscience kicked in, and told him that instead of worrying over how he was feeling, he ought to think of Mal, who looked miserable.
"I'm sorry," Bertie said, and it managed to be honest. "I didn't...I didn't realize. That was thoughtless of me. Was it...just recently?"
Mal was really okay about it. But deep down, his self-confidence was at a low. With all that had happened recently, the wolf felt that he needed to reevaluate his life’s path. He had convinced himself that telling Bertie was better than having him find out when Isabel’s next engagement was announced in the papers.
“No need to be sorry,” Mal shook his head. “Somewhat recently. Miss. Thatcher met someone, possibly her mate, during Lord and Lady Black’s wedding reception. I’m...happy for her.” He nodded his head, reassuring himself more than anything else.
"Oh." It was, again, inadequate; the repetition hadn't given it any greater weight of meaning. Bertie swallowed the complicated feelings of jealousy and exclusion, and tried not to acknowledge the brief surge of hope. He wasn't Mal's mate--everyone had said so. Mal had been able to leave him twice over, first for the army and then for a woman, which only proved their point. That Miss Thatcher wasn't Mal's mate either didn't change that.
"That's...bloody awful." Bertie winced at himself, but that didn't take the words back. He'd meant to say something understanding, but when he thought of Mal looking forward to the next advancement in his standing and being left by the woman he'd arranged to marry, his reaction was of horrified sympathy.
"I'm sorry. I know you...and she...that you wanted...every happiness," Bertie finally fumbled out awkwardly, not wanting to misstep too badly. "Do you...I mean, Christ." Bertie rubbed at one sleeve and absently tugged at his cuff. "I suppose there's nothing anyone can do, but I...I would have, if there was. Or offered. I should still offer."
And yet the Army didn’t work out. And Isabel was not his mate. Mal was wondering where his life was going. Yet he had come face to face with Bertie once more - for the third time after a life-changing event or in the midst of one. Some of the more free-spirited people and wolves would say it was more than just coincidence and perhaps three times was the charm.
“It’s all right. It would be bloody awful if I did not agree to dissolve the engagement so she could pursue her possible mate.” Mal frowned. He would hate to be bound to someone who wasn’t his mate. It would be a horrible life...at least horrible in his heart.
“Please, don’t be sorry,” Mal spoke again, his voice a little stronger. “It was not meant to be,” he confessed and shook his head as he released his hands to reach up and pull at his collar. “Would you like to go to the Lionhart?” The wolf offered, wanting more than that, but did not want to be blatant.
The question took Bertie entirely by surprise, mostly because he had just been thinking it himself. Mal seemed to have pulled the words from his head.
"Now that, I should have offered," Bertie chided himself with a hesitant smile. "Yes, of course, I'll stand you a drink. You can...talk about it, if you'd like. About her. Had you two grown very close?" He bit his lip and shook his head. "Never mind, don't answer that yet. I should at least wait until you have a drink first."
A smile cracked Mal’s frown in response to Bertie’s hesitant smile. “Good, good.” Then the wolf stopped at the question about how close Isabel and he had gotten. “Mm, a drink yes.”
It was a pleasant day for a walk to the Lionhart, although unexpectedly silent--Mal offered almost no conversation at all, and Bertie bit his tongue to keep from blathering inanely along the entire journey. Mal had shut down at Bertie's ill-mannered question about Miss Thatcher, but Bertie didn't know what to say to make up for it.
"I'll fetch a round," Bertie offered, leaving Mal to find a table. It centered him somewhat, the routine of going to the bar, ordering drinks, and seeing Mac (and Mac's knowing look, though Bertie was too nervous to stay and strike up a conversation). When he found Mal again, he was more settled, the familiar surroundings of the Lionhart calling up memories of past nights here, with Mal and without.
Bertie pushed Mal's pint glass across the table to him, and took a quick drink of his own. Mal had always been easier to get talking after opium--it was a pity, Bertie thought, that they didn't have any.
"If you want to talk about it," Bertie said stoutly, before he could lose his nerve, "you have me to listen."
Mal needed a drink in order to relax more. Perhaps he could rekindle a better friendship with Bertie. He needed someone outside of his pack. So nodded at Bertie’s offer and found a table in a empty corner of the pub. The wolf settled into a seat and sighed. The Lionhart was a place of comfort.
“Thank you,” Mal spoke as he took up the offered pint glass. He took a generous sip and nodded to Bertie. Yes, opium would be helpful.
He breathed and then took another sip before speaking, “...She and I weren’t terribly close. No sparks or butterflies,” Mal shrugged. “I thought..perhaps she could have been the right one, but perhaps it was just me moving towards an end goal instead.” He sipped his drink again. It was true - Mal and Isabel weren’t a mated pair. It was more out of custom and pursuit of climbing the social and political ladder than anything else. At one point in his life, Mal thought that was what he wanted.
Bertie nodded. In his limited experience, those seeking marriage weren't often experiencing sparks or butterflies--they were looking to make a good match with someone they could grow to love, over time. Having had something else, however - the sparks, the butterflies - he understood why Mal would look for it again. Bertie knew that he would, given a choice.
"I am sorry," Bertie said again, uselessly. "I know you hoped..."
It was a meaningless sentiment, so he stopped it. "Is it official?" Bertie asked instead. "Will you wait until the new season to begin looking again?"
That might have been callous, but Bertie had been on the marriage market since he'd come of age, and dragged to as many dances and dinners as his parents could manage. He understood the system--he was a part of it.
Perhaps Isabel would have been a good match in time and Mal could have grown to love her. But that was the past now. He didn’t want to think on it beyond the possibility that she was finding happiness with her possible mate. And yes, the wolf wanted the sparks and butterflies. Those things made him feel alive.
Wrapping a hand around his pint, Mal listened. “No need to be sorry…,” he spoke. Then he blinked and frowned. “It is official. I don’t know,” the wolf added, looking down at his half-full pint. Mal was at a crossroads or so he thought. Did he still want to climb the social and political ladder or indulge the childish dream of just run away to become a bohemian poet?
Bertie nodded, and drank from his own glass. He waited for a few moments, but Mal didn't seem to have anything more to say. Bertie pressed his eyes closed, then drew in a breath. "Well, I'm sure you'll find someone soon, and the right someone, this time," he rallied, meeting Mal's eyes. "There are plenty of women out there looking for a good husband."
Joining in, Mal drank another generous sip. There was more he wanted to say, but felt as if this wasn’t the proper place or time. Had Bertie moved on as well? The wolf felt, or wanted to believe the young man hasn’t. Listening, Mal met Bertie’s eyes. “I appreciate your confidence, Bertie. I am not sure if I want to start looking again. Perhaps a bachelor’s life better suits me.”
Bertie didn't flinch, but it felt rather like a thin blade slice to hear that Mal was reconsidering marriage because of Miss Thatcher, when he had not for Bertie.
It was just that Mal was heartbroken, Bertie told himself, and couldn't imagine moving on so soon. "Give it some time," he advised. "You needn't think about it yet. You're right, it is early to reconsider, when you've only just broken the engagement."
Lord, he sounded like his mother. Bertie took a moment to wince in horror at himself, and hastily took another gulp from his glass.
Mal felt slices every time he thought about it. He wanted to be with Bertie. He wanted to be with him. Not a woman...not anymore. Society’s and the Pack’s rules were beginning to suffocate him.
Yes, he was heartbroken. Blinking at Bertie’s words, Mal kept his eyes on the other young man’s. There was so much he wanted to say, but at each portion he felt his tongue hit a fence. So he downed the rest of his pint and breathed before trying again in a whisper. “...I’m sorry, Bertie.”
"Heavens, why?" Bertie's voice was too-bright and falsely cheerful, but it was the only way he could think to manage this conversation. "I'm the one with sympathies. Do you think...?"
He hesitated, but plunged on ahead with his next thought, the only other reason - surely - that Mal might be considering putting off marriage now. "Given Miss Thatcher's...development, do you think you might wait, to try to find your mate?"
It might be a long wait. It might be so long that it never ended. But Bertie could understand, having ended his first engagement this way, why Mal might not want to risk a second. Of course he wanted a woman who was a werewolf, who understood him fully and would bring him into her pack, perhaps one day to ascend to Beta status, or even higher. Given that, it made sense that he might not want to risk fate touching either of them after pledging a troth.
Bertie thought he might have another drink after this one. Perhaps Mac might settle him at the bar somewhere to savagely write poetry until he passed out in his cups.
Mal did flinch at Bertie’s cheerfulness. Perhaps it was best coming from him. Wrinkling his nose, the wolf nodded. “I will wait….to find my mate or for them to find me.” He was starting to think it would better to have the sparks and butterflies before the engagement. But would he ever experience what he had with Bertie ever again? Sentimental fool.
Going through life without a mate, a wolf could go mad. And that was a terrible fate for any creature. Suddenly remembering the side trip he had made before catching Bertie’s scent outside, Mal patted over his left breast pocket. It had been a while since he had partaken, but with how he was feeling - it would either be opium or relations that would mellow him out.
"Well," Bertie said, and then found he had no more to come after it. He couldn't simply leave, and Mal seemed to be settling in, so he took another drink instead. He would finish out his drink, and then they would go their separate ways, and Bertie could be maudlin in private.
It would be more complicated now that Bertie was Night Watch liaison to Lord Black's aide. Bertie remembered just last week being desperate to see Mal again, to have Mal touch him, even once, to leave his scent on him. Now it just seemed to be punishing them both.
Perhaps it would be best to head back to Black Park and go for a run. Mal blinked at Bertie’s beginning to speak again only to grow silent. But he wanted to stay in this pub - surrounded by memories and looking over at his friend and once lover.
The wolf reached into his coat and slipped out the small brown paper package. Then he discreetly slid it across the table to Bertie. “For your muses.” It was better to give his friend a gift than do something here that would find its way back to Lord Black.
Bertie's heartbeat quickened, and he reached for the package, his fingertips resting where Mal's had on the paper a moment ago. He hoped Mal didn't note the catch of his breath as he undid the package, wondering what was inside. It was too small to be a book, or a journal, but perhaps a poem, one of Mal's, folded up...
His mouth quirked in understanding as he saw the contents. "Thank you," he said quietly. If he was remembering their first real meeting, and the evening they'd spent together surrounded by poetry and opium fumes, well. He thought Mal might be, too.
Unfortunately for Bertie, Mal did note the catch of Bertie’s breath. The wolf missed the young man’s sounds, scent, and the sight of him. He missed him. It had been a while since composed any poetry.
“You’re welcome,” Mal whispered. He was thinking of that evening of opium, poetry, and pillows. “I miss…” he began then bit his lower lip. Sighing, Mal shook his head. “I miss us,” the wolf spoke softly.
Bertie's chest clenched, so that he had to fight to draw in his next breath. "Mal," he began, and bit his lip before confessing very quietly, "I miss us too. I miss you."
He'd recognized Mal shutting him out, but hadn't been prepared for what it felt like to have Mal let him back in again. After six months, it was a pang of nostalgia and an ache of memories, the way they'd been then overlaid with where they were now.
"I mean it," Bertie continued, glancing down at the table. "If you should need a friend...you still have me. If you want me."
Mal couldn’t deny how he felt about Bertie. He had made a mistake thinking that following society's rules to rise in the ranks would make him happy. And yet his loyalty to his Alpha and his pack pulled as well.
“I miss you,” he breathed. His heart thumped hard in his chest, aching for how he had felt when he was with Bertie.
Looking over at Bertie, Mal nodded. “I need you…” Biting his lower lip and tilting his head to one side, the wolf whispered, “I do, Bertie.”
Bertie's smile ached, but it was there nonetheless. "Then you shall have me," he promised. "And stop that," he chided at once, with half a gesture as if to give a friendly shove Mal's shoulder before he cut it off. "You don't defer to me."
Bertie was no one in the pack--he deferred to everyone. Mal had shown Bertie his throat in the past, but that was trust, and a show of vulnerability, and the circumstances now were different.
"You'll call on me, if you should need to talk? For anything. We've no need to be strangers now, with the investigation." Bertie looked at Mal with his lower lip caught briefly between his teeth. "I hope you won't be a stranger."
Mal’s gesture was to be apologetic, submissive to the hurt he had inflicted upon Bertie. “Perhaps I should defer,” he shrugged and nodded with a small smile.
“I will. I don’t want us to be strangers,” he confessed, flinching slightly.
Bertie shook his head, but didn't argue further. "You know where to find me," he told Mal. "And you're always welcome."