Investigator of the Supernatural, Brewer of Tea (sedulus) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-11-02 11:35:00 |
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Entry tags: | bertie eden |
Who: Bertram Eden, NPC Matthew Hill, and NPC James Percy
What: Pack business and poetry
Where: Night Watch offices, then St. James Park
When: 2nd November, 1888
Rating: PG
Matthew didn’t tend to come up to London terribly often, and when he did, he didn’t care for it much. The noise, the smells, the windy, twisty, narrow streets, the crush of the crowd, it tended to be a thing endured.
The last time he’d come to town, he’d come careening into the city, nearly half-mad with worry upon receiving word that Lucien had an attempt on his life, and he’d managed (somehow) to stumble his way to the hospital.
This time around, the circumstances were a great deal less worrisome, but his task was far from enjoyable -- a report on security measures being taken at Black Park over Samhain, to make sure that what happened to Luce never (ever) happened again. And because he wasn’t actively panicking, naturally, he managed to get thoroughly, utterly, completely lost -- lost to the point where he’d had to hire a cabbie to take him to the station, which had turned out to be only four blocks away. (He’d tossed the man a little extra to make up for it, and for not laughing at him.)
He came up the steps, a little breathless and flustered, and was quite relieved to find he was in the right place, and that Trainee Inspector Eden would be along shortly, and he stood, a little awkwardly, his hat twisting slightly in his hands as he waited in the lobby.
As soon as he heard the words 'Black Park' Bertie was on his feet, and came trotting out into the lobby at speed, slowing only to turn his head and cast his eyes down before he quickened his pace again and offered his hand to Matthew.
"Mr Hill, sir, it's good of you to come. I'm sorry you had to travel all this way--was it a difficult journey? Would you care for some tea? Please, come in--unless you'd rather be out of doors, then we could take a walk to a park, I have my notebook here and ready."
Matthew didn't look particularly comfortable in the station, and Bertie didn't know whether it was the gray stone walls or the presence of other werewolves from other packs inside the offices, but he wanted to set Matthew at ease however he could. Matthew had been - and still was - the easiest of the Black Park pack for Bertie to talk to, which made sense given that his role in the pack was that of confidant and mediator. Despite the difference in their backgrounds, Bertie had always found him a comfort.
Matthew took the proffered hand gladly, and clapped his free hand briefly on the back of Bertie’s neck.
“Aye, a walk’d be right nice,” he said, nodding. “I am heartily sorry for keepin’ you waiting, never been here before and got terrible lost.” He leaned in. “Is your Mr Percy in earshot?”
Bertie was practically vibrating with energy after Matthew scent-marked him, and his face fell only a little at the question, as he'd been thinking the same thing. "No, I did mean to tell you...he's on the stairs, just inside, but I told him you were coming, and I know he'd like me to pass along greetings. Although if you wanted..."
Bertie glanced around to see who was at the lobby desk - and of which species, and keenness of hearing - and then confided at a lower volume, "We've had some trouble here...or rather, the ghosts have, as I told Lord Black, and Jamie seems to be...well, Miss Bakst has put him back into her locket, or he's ended up there, anyway, so if you should like I can go and fetch it, and he can accompany us."
Bertie straightened up again, ready to dash off if requested. "And there's no need for an apology, none at all, I've had plenty to do here. Mostly make tea and file papers, I'm afraid, but that's the work that needs to be done."
And all that Bertie was trusted with, generally. He knew that came with being a trainee, but he still chafed with the desire to do more.
Matthew paused. He’d had another reason for wanting to go out on a walk -- the parcel he’d brought up from Black Park nestled in his coat -- something that seemed to suggest the need for a touch more privacy.
If it came down to it, he supposed it didn’t need to be made a production of. He wanted to return some property that wasn’t his to keep, and it could be as simple as that.
He shifted on his feet, and then nodded. “Aye,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind his comin’ along. Not at all.”
Bertie beamed, and gave Matthew a little half-bow before bolting off to snag the locket. "I'll be right back," he promised, and indeed Jamie wasn't hard to convince at all. He was less enthusiastic than Bertie, but then that was nearly always the case.
"Good afternoon, Mr Hill," Jamie said as they returned to the lobby, Bertie still tucking the locket out of sight beneath his collar. "I hope you're well, and the estate."
Bertie relayed the greeting faithfully, adding on after a brief pause to separate Jamie's words from his, "There's hasn't been any trouble, has there? Not with any of the ghosts, or the pack?"
Realizing they weren't in the best place for Matthew to say so, Bertie turned and gestured for Matthew to walk out with him, guiding their little group toward St. James' Park. It was crisp out of doors and Bertie had forgotten his coat, but if they walked briskly enough, he didn't believe he'd feel it too much.
“Aye, well enough, all things considered, ta, Mr Percy,” Matthew replied, jamming his hands into his pockets as they walked. “It’s good having a Lady about again, good all round, for the estate and pack both, and it’s been quiet enough, I suppose -- but that ent a good thing all the time.” He shrugged. “Never a good sign when it goes all quiet in the forest, and this feels similar. Like waitin’ for somethin’ to happen, only I’m not sure what, and I don’t quite fancy findin’ out.”
He hunched his shoulders a little as a carriage rattled by. “No unrest with th’ spirits round the Park, though, and thank God for that,” he added. “Lord Black mentioned your ordeal, Mr Percy, as part of his letter about the goings-on at th’ end of last month,” he added, “and I am glad to know it’s been sorted. Betty said it was right queer here in London during, her fur and teeth was on edge somethin’ fierce but we didn’t feel nothing where we were.” He paused. “Betty’s the cook,” he added, for Jamie’s benefit.
Seeing that Matthew's discomfort hadn't eased any along the street, Bertie dropped back and trotted around to the other side of him, in between Matthew and any further carriages. "I know what you mean," Bertie said quietly. "Not that's it's been too quiet here, but with the murders...it doesn't feel finished. I keep hoping that it is, that whatever happened at the end of September has put an end to it, but I can't quite believe it to be true. Not when there's no sign of what was done with the power raised, if power was the goal."
"It's good to know that it was limited to London, though," Jamie observed, and Bertie repeated that to Matthew, taking care to indicate where Jamie was standing - or rather, floating - so that Matthew wouldn't feel too much at sea.
"There have been no reports of any change in Faerie, either," Bertie contributed. "Nor anything from the other packs outside London, so far as I know. What about...the place you go, during the full moons?" Bertie didn't entirely understand it, having never been there, but he knew that it was magical, and that was enough to worry him.
“Aye, Mr Percy, I do believe so,” he replied. “And th’ Preserve?” Matthew added with a thoughtful frown. “Can’t say I’ve heard one way or t’other. The London household all came back to Black Park for the last moon -- Lord Black weren’t risking it, and it was good to get ‘em on familiar soil again to a body. I might ask about, see if any of ‘em talked to other London packs who’d have gone there.”
He reached out a hand to briefly touch Bertie’s shoulder. “Can’t imagine your work has been easy of late.”
Bertie glanced gratefully at Matthew, though there was still a worry-line creasing his brow. "I haven't had any of the truly difficult cases," he demurred. "It's only been hard for the waiting...there's been no news about Lord Black, and Scotland Yard hasn't had a lead on the Whitechapel murders, and the..."
He stopped, biting his tongue before he said anything about Charlindra Shiverthorn and his unfortunate encounter in the alley. "There's something else I'm waiting on," he finished carefully, "but I haven't heard any word on that, either." Thankfully. He truly hoped not to be pulled into any more alleyways.
"Miss Bakst believes the disturbance in September, the one that coincided with the two murders, to have been magically centered in Whitechapel as well," Bertie continued. "And..." He hesitated, but he trusted Matthew, and he could leave Gabriel's name out of it. He kept his voice low nonetheless, so much so that Jamie drifted closer to listen. "I would ask you to keep this between us--and Lord Black, of course--but there has been a sighting of Spring-heeled Jack at the site of one of the murders. There's no reason to believe him involved in the crime, but the suggestion has been made that whatever energy was produced, or released, or concentrated there, some with...sensitivities...like the Jack might be drawn to it."
Matthew nodded soberly, filing away that particular revelation to pass along to his Alpha word for word later. “I shall pass it on to Lord Black and otherwise keep your confidence, and thank you for it,” he said, nodding his head. “And if you think to, pass on my best to th’ young Miss Bakst? I am right glad you’ve got her around still. Seems the sort you’d want to keep on good terms with.”
They passed through the gate to the entrance to St James park just then, and Matthew could feel his shoulders relaxing. He managed to quell the rather inappropriate urge he had to take off his boots and socks, satisfying himself with brushing his hand against a few shrubs as they passed.
“So Mr Foster hasn’t passed anything on?” Matthew asked, before adding, quietly, “he still checking in on the regular? Or has he gone to ground?”
Bertie opened his mouth to reply, but Jamie got in first. "I like Miss Bakst as well. I think you should see more of her. In any number of ways," he suggested pointedly, and Bertie's mouth dropped the rest of the way open.
"Jamie!"
"I think she'd be good for you," Jamie continued blithely. "She'd keep you in line, certainly, wouldn't she?"
"I will certainly pass on your good wishes, as Miss Bakst is quite a good colleague and friend," Bertie emphasized, before grudgingly passing on, "Jamie seems to think she's useful for 'keeping me in line', and is making sordid remarks. I managed to insult her at the masquerade, you'll remember, and she stormed off."
"Yes, but then she nursed you back to health quite tenderly," Jamie replied with evident glee.
"I'm sure she has more appropriate admirers," Bertie replied with dignity, although he winced immediately after he said it, as he could well imagine how Miss Bakst would interpret that, and it wasn't at all how he'd intended it. "I beg your pardon, Mr Hill. Jamie--Mr Percy has evidently decided to play matchmaker."
"Spoilsport," Jamie sang out, drifting away again into the road, which didn't present any dangers for him, so Bertie couldn't protest fear for his safety, even if he delt the impulse.
Bertie sighed and tried to run a hand through his hair, nearly knocking his hat off in the process. "And no, nothing yet," he said, very quietly to Matthew. "Not a word. I'm...I worry, that his...conversion...might not be genuine. But Lord Black knows best," Bertie said, almost to reassure himself more than Matthew, "and I'm sure he knows what he's about."
Matthew was amused enough at the exchange Bertie was having -- it was no end of odd to hear half a conversation, and the topic at hand clearly flustered Bertie -- but when it turned back to Peter, he could feel his shoulderblades itch, and his lip curl oh so slightly at the corner.
It wouldn’t be loyal of him to remark on Lucien’s choices -- who he chose to trust, for one -- and while he feared his friend was being taken advantage of, blinded by his childhood love and memories, grasping at straws in an attempt to save a person who’d shown no such regard in return…
He frowned, ducking his head. “Aye,” he replied, catching Bertie’s eye and nodding grimly. It was the most he’d admit to -- an indirect confirmation of his own worries echoing Berties.
He rolled his shoulders. “We’ll have to keep waitin’ for now,” he said, frowning.
Anxiety pressed at Bertie anew, as he thought of the pack waiting, with tensions growing and no word to relieve them, their alpha in danger that could not be confronted. "How are the pack?" he asked low-voiced, worry evident in his tone despite his attempt to mask it. "It must be very difficult for them right now. And for you, especially. An invisible threat cannot be fought, and the longer it lurks in the shadows, the more phantoms seem to become real."
Bertie certainly knew something of that, with everything at the edges of his attention so maddeningly elusive. Mrs Linden's ghosts, Peter and Katherine Foster, Charlindra Shiverthorn, the Whitechapel murderer...he had no end of worries, at present, but very little tangibly to do about assuaging them.
Bertie thought of the pent-up aggression of so many snarling werewolves, afraid for their pack leader and protective of the pack itself, and worried at his lip. "If there's anything I can do..." he offered, weakly trailing off because he had nothing tangible to offer, no immediate way to help. "I hope you will let me know," he finished at last. "I...find I dislike waiting for something to do as much as you must, and would do more if I could."
Matthew looked over at Bertie, whose expression was the very definition of earnest, and nodded. “I know’t,” he said, quietly.
He paused, and dug around in his jacket, passing Bertie the package -- wrapped in paper, tied in string.
“I didn’t know what I’d taken,” he said, his voice low. “I knew it were somethin’ personal, once I read the first one.” He looked over at Bertie.
He’d been very nearly embarrassed upon the realization that he’d taken the lad’s poetry by mistake -- it seemed a deeply personal, private sort of thing, especially given the poems themselves -- like seeing someone naked and vulnerable after the full moon.
He’d read them, even though he knew he shouldn’t have, really -- had read them more than once, as a matter of fact, and even though he wasn’t the most literary of wolves, he’d found it worth the effort.
Bertie looked at the parcel, confusion all over his face. "What--?"
Matthew could have taken nothing of his, that he knew of. Unless... Bertie's stomach dropped. Could he have found something Mal had left behind, at Black Park? A gift Bertie had given him, or something else incriminating and private? Bertie's ears burned at the thought of it, but at least, he told himself, it was Matthew, who of everyone might not judge Bertie so harshly for inversion.
He didn't know whether he ought to open the wrapping, but he was curious, and Matthew was watching him patiently, and even Jamie had drifted over to look. If nothing else, perhaps he could make some excuse for whatever was inside, and hopefully maintain Matthew's good opinion.
He frowned when he saw the notebook, which looked much like the one in his jacket pocket, and again when he flipped through it. Realization dawned late, and not until he saw the notes on the former Lord Black's coffin, and the weapon fragment left inside to bear guilty evidence of an assassination.
"Oh," Bertie said, surprised, his confusion clearing up somewhat as he remembered leaving it for Matthew to show Lord Black, the drawing of the blade-tip and Jamie's relayed words. But...what had Matthew said, about the first one being personal?
Investigation took him to the first page of the little notebook, which held some snatches of verse, as all of his notebooks did when he carried them around with him, and he was ready to reassure Matthew that there was no harm done in reading unpublished poetry when it dawned on him, how long he had been carrying this particular notebook. It had been nearly full, which was why Bertie had simply left it rather than tearing out pages.
Bertie had done most of his soul-searching and grieving on loose paper in the isolation of his boarding rooms, sheet after sheet filled with regret for what he'd lost after Mal had gone, again, and Lord Black had suggested diplomatically that Bertie remove himself from contact with the pack. Those had been lost, or burned, or published, or pressed between the pages of well-loved volumes from Cambridge, books he'd shared in some way with Mal during their last year. But a few seedlings of verse had overwhelmed him when he sat in the office, or at the Lionhart or his club, or in a park somewhere apart from everyone, and those had been jotted down as they came to him, in the notebook he carried everywhere to take case notes and such poetic thoughts.
This notebook.
Bertie swallowed, but it still took a moment for him to find his voice. "Oh," he said again, and wondered if Matthew had recognized anything in the poems or their meaning, or if he'd just seen Bertie's poetry and known it was his private writings. Bertie didn't know which he wished for more. The language in these poems, safely hidden in his coat pocket, was nowhere near as veiled as in his published works. He had bled his soul onto these pages, freshly stricken to the heart and taking ink from the wound. But then, what he saw when he read them was different than anyone else might see.
Bertie cleared his throat again, and this time fared better in his speech. "Thank you," he said quietly. "I hadn't thought...but I'm glad of its return." His fingertips followed the edges of the binding all around, smoothing down the spine as if re-learning an old friend. He could feel Jamie nearby, but his friend held his silence.
“I only showed Lord Black the parts that were needed,” Matthew replied. “Weren’t mine to share, not… well. Not without talkin’ it over first.” He shrugged. “It didn’t seem the sort of thing you’d want gossiped about.” He frowned, looking down. “I am sorry, for takin’ it, for readin’ it, too, but it’s back where it belongs, and that’s somethin.”
"Oh," Bertie said again, his questions answered. So Matthew did know, at least in part, what those poems were about. It surprised him how relieved he felt at that--that his feelings had been shared with, and understood by, a member of his pack. Or rather, of Mal's pack. It eased a tiny bit of the pressure he felt he always carried with him, to be so known.
"I'm not sorry," Bertie found himself saying, and he believed it. Looking up from the book, he managed an only slightly-regretful smile for Matthew, and the regret was for the subject of the poems themselves, not for Matthew's seeing them. "I left it with you, after all, and there's no harm done."
Disinclination for talking of his feelings in any way, particularly the more passionate ones captured on those pages, clashed briefly at odds with the desire of any poet to hear how their work had been received. Bertie grappled with both impulses for a moment, and then let himself ask, "What did you think?"
No one else would likely read them, after all. And if Matthew had read them already, then there seemed no harm in asking for his opinion.
Matthew shrugged. “Beggin’ both your pardons,” he said, looking a little lost. “I haven’t read much by way of poetry, but it reminded me of the songs my da used to sing. When he were man and wolf both. Had a right clear voice, could cut right through a body, make you feel his own yearnin.” He paused, a touch embarrassed. “I ent… that is t’ say, I didn’t know you…” he frowned a little. “I didn’t know how you saw us. I thought at first it’d be about your Mal, but it weren’t, not really.”
Bertie smiled again, more wistful this time, and looked down. "No," he agreed, because they weren't. He'd been heartbroken over Mal, of course, but he'd been grieving the loss of the pack. The love poems Bertie had written - for love poems they were - had been for them.
The thought of Bertie's poetry reminding Matthew of his father singing as a wolf, howling his soul to the moon and the night sky, brought a lump to Bertie's throat. He wanted to thank Matthew for that, but he didn't know that he had the words just now.
"I suppose..." Bertie looked up at Matthew, too aware of the naked longing in his eyes, the yearning, as Matthew had called it. "I thought you knew. You were..." Embarrassed, Bertie cleared his throat and looked down again, thankful that Jamie was keeping his silence. He'd been running his hands over the notebook again, and now he folded the paper over it, tucking it away in its wrapping. "You were the only place that felt like home."
Busying himself with string and paper, Bertie bought just enough time to feel as though he had himself in hand again, and the smile he flashed at Matthew this time was brighter, and more at ease. "Thank you, for what you said about your father. I shall treasure that. And I'm sorry for asking, and putting you so on the spot, but you know what poets are like."
"Insufferable," Jamie murmured, and Bertie rolled his eyes in Jamie's direction, to be met by the shimmer of Jamie's own subtle smile.
“Can’t rightly say I do,” Matthew replied, his own smile a quiet echo of Bertie’s.
“He didn’t know neither,” he added, quietly. “He ent cruel. He thought it were for the best. Hell, we both did. Pardon.” He paused. “Can’t say it’d lead to anythin, but I think it’d be better if he knew than not.” He raised a hand, placating. “Haven’t told him yet, mind. Wouldn’t, if you’d rather not. But that’s what I think.”
There was no question which he Matthew meant. Bertie found himself trying to turn away, to start walking again, as if somehow physically putting distance between himself and their current location would also remove him from the conversation. He forced himself to stop and stay where he was, though he was looking more at Jamie - or through Jamie, more truthfully - than at Matthew.
"I can't see any point to it," Bertie said at last, after he'd wrestled down the pregnant silence brought on by Matthew's offer. "However I felt about the pack, you were never really mine, any more than Mal was. I was allowed to borrow some time, that's all. I'm useful now, where I am, and able to serve the pack somewhat, and Lord Black. That's all I want, really."
It wasn't, and Matthew surely knew it, but if Bertie told himself enough, perhaps he'd begin to believe it.
"I like to think I'm not cruel either," Bertie went on, able to look back at Matthew now with a crooked attempt at a smile. "You both did what was best for the pack, I don't deny it. It was better not to have me there. And I'm not pack."
Oh, how those words hurt, still, every time. Bertie pushed through them. "I believe Lord Black has enough weighing on his mind at present, without feeling..." Guilty? Regretful? Pitying? That last felt the most true. "...without revisiting matters that are in the past, now. It's over and done with, and I...I don't want to hurt him."
"Oh, Bertie," Jamie sighed quietly beside him. Bertie twitched slightly, but bit his tongue before he could respond. A part of him - a large part - clamored that this was his chance, this was all he had wanted, what Matthew was offering, a chance with the pack, with Lord Black, to be one of them...
But the reasoning part of him said that was unlikely at best, and that right now, he had Lord Black's trust, and good opinion, and he was serving the pack. That might change, if Lord Black learned that Bertie had been pining over Black Park for months. He might think it for the best to give Bertie some space, distance from Black Park, and withdraw again from all contact...
The thought of that very nearly made Bertie's throat constrict to choke him with anxious fear. He couldn't bear losing them twice, when he was only just winning them back. Even if it was only a fraction of what he wanted, it was still better than nothing.
Matthew looked at Bertie carefully, his fingers itching to reach for the back of the young man’s neck, clenching briefly at his side, but he held off; the lad seemed tense enough already, and he didn’t want to bring him to the point of breaking.
The way he talked about the pack, the way he talked about Lucien, it all clicked neatly into place in a way he’d simply not been able to see, and should have sooner.
He frowned, and shook his head. “Can’t say as I agree,” he said, quietly. “Things left unsaid have hurt ‘im a great deal more than this ever could, but I’ll abide, for your sake.” He jammed his hands back in his pockets. “You’re a decent man, and have done no end of good for us, and I’m grateful for’t. For you. He is too.”
The lump in his throat rose again, but Bertie swallowed it, and bowed his head in respect. "Then I'm glad of that, and honoured to serve the pack. Thank you, Beta...Mr Hill." Feeling self-conscious but nagged by instinct and experience alike, Bertie let his head tilt enough to turn the acknowledgement into submission to a superior in the pack, offering his throat in more than customary greeting and etiquette.
Movement drew his eye to the right, where Jamie shimmered faintly in the open daylight. Jamie's expression was somber, and somehow unfathomably old--it brought to Bertie's mind the question he rarely asked or thought on, of just how long Jamie had been dead. And of whether Jamie, as he was now, had any regrets that he yet lived with, so long after his death.
Impulsively, Bertie tightened the paper around the notebook, and held it out to Matthew. "Keep this," he said. "Please. I won't miss it, and...I'd like you to have it. If someday you think...he...might want to know, then you know him far better than I ever will, and I trust your judgement." Bertie smiled, feeling, for a moment, a bit lighter. "You're the heart of Black Park, after all."
Bertie let go of the parcel with one hand to fuss with his jacket, setting himself to rights on the outside even if he couldn't manage as well on the inside. He would, given time. "I think, perhaps, I need to find my own Black Park. I might just hold onto yours for a while, in the meantime."
Matthew nodded as he pocketed the book carefully, and he did reach for Bertie then, gently cupping his face in both hands and leaning forward to knock their foreheads together, resting there for the briefest of moments, one hand shifting to rest at the back of Bertie’s neck, holding it firm.
“Aye,” he said, quietly, before releasing him with a pat, and clearing his throat.
Bertie's smile broke out sweet and unfettered, and his shoulders dropped, tension easing as though drained away. "Thank you," he said quietly. It felt almost too much like a confession to say more, but Bertie wanted Matthew to know how much it meant to him that Matthew touched him that way, even though Bertie wasn't pack. "Every day that I know I smell like the pack...well, it helps."
Bertie shrugged helplessly, and glanced away to make certain they hadn't attracted any unwanted attention. "Would you like me to walk you back to the Night Watch? Or would you like to stay here, and walk for a while longer? We can take the long path around, if you'd like to enjoy the day." And Bertie would appreciate Matthew's steady company at his side, for as long as he had it. He glanced over at Jamie, who was still silent, and added, "I'm sure Jamie wouldn't mind the fresh air. He's as keen on the inside of gloomy buildings as you are, I think."
“That’s because I’ve been haunting a stairwell for years,” Jamie replied peevishly, as Bertie laughed and repeated the words for Matthew. “You’d grow tired of walls, too.”
“Seein’ as how that’s the case, then, Mr Percy,” Matthew replied, tipping his head and grinning, “I don’t think I’d mind th’ long path round at all.”