angelic_gabe (angelic_gabe) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-12-01 22:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | bertie eden, gabriel allen |
Who: Gabriel, Bertie
What: Gabriel spills the beans
Where: Bertie's flat
When: 17 November, 1888 [backdated ahoy!]
Rating: PG 13 adultish themes
Gabriel showed up to Bertie’s with provisions (meat pies and wine, and some oranges) -- he’d gotten in the habit of showing up food in hand, and it was only polite, really, even if they didn’t end up in bed. That, and Bertie seemed to fall on whatever he brought with a gusto and genuine sort of appreciation he could take pleasure in.
Bertie was complicated, but that was nothing new -- it was to be expected, really, when one of them lived in the margins of society and the other was a member of law enforcement, even though those lines were blurry ones -- after all, they were both breaking the law simply by being together, and Gabriel’s owning a brothel was technically illegal by human law, but the Night Watch (and Bertie) filtered those sorts of actions through a more forgiving frame.
His recent involvement with Biddie was another matter altogether, though, and that particular complication had been the cause of a very real moral dilemma -- while Gabriel had no particular quandary with reconciling his connections to London’s underbelly, those connections had yet to directly hurt his friend, or require he actively prevent Bertie from solving a case. Biddie had demanded both, a position he was not particularly pleased to be in.
It wasn’t Bertie’s fault, though, and he didn’t want to neglect his friend as a result.
Bertie’d greeted him with a rush news of Lord Black, who apparently had finally come to his senses (and about damn time too), and a celebratory air that rather immediately led to a tumble into bed, the pies and wine left for later.
Contentment seemed too mild a word for what Bertie was feeling, like something he'd settled on in place of happiness, but that simply wasn't the case. He was happy, deliriously so, but he was also calm, settled, grounded, all of those words that seemed best summed up by content.
He thought he might write an ode to contentment, just to restore the feeling's good name. It was the sort of trite fluff that the papers would publish in a heartbeat to fill the space in between news columns. Bertie smiled to himself, biting the inside of his cheek, and decided he would take up a pen tomorrow on the subject.
Otherwise, he felt not depleted at all, but rather energized, as though Gabriel had somehow reversed the natural order of their congress. Bertie tried never to think of Dex and Gabriel at once, or in each other's company, as that seemed the height of rudeness, but it was difficult not to recognize the differences he felt in the aftermath of love with each of them, completely separate states of being and emotion.
Bertie wondered if this was something Gabriel couldn't help either, comparing lovers in how they made him feel, as he was too much a gentleman to compare them otherwise. Then he wondered if the reason he didn't feel drained was because Gabriel hadn't been moved by as great a passion as he might be with Caspian, or the other lover Caspian had mentioned who shared Gabriel's favours. Then he wondered if Gabriel was about to take him to task for thinking too much and too loudly, when he ought to be thinking not at all.
Bertie's smile grew, and he moved a few inches over on Gabriel's chest to apply his lips attentively to Gabriel's nipple, so he would know he hadn't been ignored nor forgotten. He was sprawled loosely over Gabriel, but still wide-awake and vibrant with emotion, too much so to drowse. His hand stroked Gabriel's hip lightly, petting him in the event that Gabriel wished to doze off to a soothing touch. He'd looked so tired the last time they'd seen one another, strained and weary. World-weary, perhaps.
Bertie suckled softly until his mouth slipped free, and then he left kisses around his prize in a ring. He was glad that Gabriel seemed recovered now, and that he'd come by when Bertie had sent a note. It had felt too strange, not seeing him for some time after the masquerade, though Bertie knew that life had a way of sweeping people along from time to time.
He let his hand wander a little ways down Gabriel's thigh, just to see if he was paying attention, and smiled again. Or perhaps simply more. He didn't feel as though he'd lost it since that walk in St. James Park.
Gabriel grinned, loose-limbed and pleased, relaxed, and relieved to see Bertie so obviously happy. He let his own hands wander down Bertie’s smooth expanse of back, and then plucked at the red string tied round his wrist.
“Need reminding for something?” He asked in an amused rumble, thoroughly appreciating Bertie’s bed-mussed hair and his reddened lips, and the glow about him -- he really did show at his best by candlelight.
"Oh." Bertie turned his head and rested his cheek on Gabriel's chest, gazing at the knotted string Zipporah - it was difficult to think of her properly as Miss Bakst after what she'd done for him - had tied as part of her protective magic.
"No. Well, maybe? But I don't believe so, no, though I don't know if it helps that I'm reminded of it regularly. I'm..." Bertie hesitated, not certain how much he wanted to reveal, but finally admitted, "healing. Or being healed. Miss Bakst attended me, after I asked for her aid. I'm quite well now," Bertie assured him at once, propping himself up on his chin to meet Gabriel's eyes with an earnest gaze. "Or much better, and will be well very soon. Miss Bakst said the string was to protect me from insult, while I'm vulnerable. I don't think she meant insult, or at least not...insults," Bertie considered, frowning thoughtfully. "I think it's meant for anything else that tries to harm me."
It was a sobering subject, but even the reminder of Miss Bakst coughing up and spitting out what looked tangibly like the foul decay from Bertie's nightmares didn't shake his calm. Bertie felt a new man, almost--he'd been steadier since speaking with Lord Black, as though he fit better inside his skin, and he'd tripped over hardly anything today, not feeling the need to rush madly and eagerly about. He might have a place. He might have a pack. That made him worth something, indeed.
Gabriel frowned a little, his fingers lightly touching Bertie’s wrist, the words vulnerable and harm lingering in the room, as his stomach slowly started to twist with guilt and worry. “I’m glad she was able to provide assistance. She’s a most useful creature. Was it continued trouble from the ball? ...Tell me?” He asked, his voice low, his eyes darting over to look into Bertie’s.
The reason Bertie had hesitated before speaking was plain on Gabriel's face, or one of them--he hadn't wanted to admit the silliness of nightmares and weakness, but he'd also known that Gabriel would get that look, the one that made him appear a decade older in an instant, full of troubled concern.
Shifting up slightly, Bertie reached to lay his hand on Gabriel's cheek, briefly removing the string from his view. "Now, this is why I wasn't going to mention it," he said, smiling lopsidedly. "I knew you'd worry. It's nothing, really." He stroked the slight stubble on Gabriel's jaw, and debated trying to move on to another subject, but he could tell from the stubborn furrow in Gabriel's brow that he wouldn't let this one go without more of an explanation.
Bertie reached up and smoothed that crease out, too.
"Miss Bakst called it a stain on my soul, from the necromancy spell, though I had nothing to do with it. She says I might have been affected because I...walk between both worlds, I believe was how she put it. She said it was easy for me to become unmoored, perhaps just from proximity. I'd been having...the most horrible dreams," Bertie admitted, though he was careful to keep his tone light, and not dwell on the images that had so disturbed him. "I felt paralyzed at night, and woke screaming, unable to breathe and with pain in my chest. I thought them just nightmares, but Jamie said...he said it was more than that. So I went to see Miss Bakst."
Bertie slithered up to drape himself over Gabriel head-to-toe, so that he could kiss him and cradle his cheek again in one hand. "I'm very well now, I promise you. I haven't dreamt such things since. You know Miss Bakst does excellent work, and she'd never have let me go again if I was truly possessed or haunted. It's just a shadow. The shadow of death, she said. No more than that."
She'd also said that if God were willing, he might recover, and that she'd had to draw that stain from him like poison from a wound, but that wasn't particularly reassuring, and nothing Gabriel needed to hear while he looked so drawn.
Bertie was describing this horror with a sort of matter-of-factness that very nearly made it worse -- ‘the shadow of death, no more’ made his own chest ache, and there was no hiding from that kind, gentle touch, that look of concern directed towards him, of all things, as if he were the one who’d been so awfully used.
He reached for Bertie’s heart, resting his palm over it, trying and failing to keep his fingers from trembling a little, his guilt very nearly eclipsed with a sudden surge of anger he tried his best to swallow.
“Good God,” he said, quietly. “You’re…” he frowned, looking up again to catch Bertie’s eyes briefly. “You’re certain it’s over and done with?” He said, carefully.
Bertie hesitated again, which as good as admitted guilt, so there was little point in being evasive. He didn't want to lie to Gabriel, anyway. "Not entirely," he admitted. "Miss Bakst said...she said that she would try, and I believe she succeeded, but what she did was to draw out the..." Bertie winced even before he said the word. "The poison, so that my soul could recover. She said it would take time to heal, which is why I have her string. But I haven't dreamt like that again since. And I haven't seen that..."
He stopped, feeling guilty and torn, and entirely unsure of what to say. Finally he decided to settle down next to Gabriel, scooting up a little to rest against the headboard, where Gabriel could lean or curl into him if he wished to. "It was the ghost summoned at the masquerade that was haunting me," Bertie explained. "Or I believe it so. It was very distinctive." He swallowed, and tried again not to imagine the ghost's gory countenance. "Headless, and it...it tangled up with some of my own fears, I believe. The..."
Bertie stopped again, reluctant to go on, but forced the words out. "The fire at the factory, the airships. I haven't been investigating, but I have thought about it. It's been difficult to let go. And I saw the ghost...at the masquerade, I thought I saw him raise his hands, and..." Bertie shook his head. "It's hard to remember. I wasn't very well, afterward. But in the...not dreams, exactly, but when he haunts me - haunted me - there was always fire, and smoke and ash. It's my mind playing tricks, I'm sure."
He couldn't remember now why he'd gone on for so long, and blinked himself back from those memories. He covered Gabriel's hand over his heart with his own, and then raised it to his lips to kiss it. "It's really better now," he said quietly. "I didn't want you to worry. It might not have all been the masquerade at all...if I'm walking between worlds, after all, there might be some shadow that rubs off on me from time to time. But Miss Bakst is very capable."
Bertie frowned, noting Gabriel's pallor. "You're the one who doesn't look well, now." He tried to make it teasing, but it came out laced through with worry. "Are you all right?"
There was something to be said about the inherent vulnerability in being naked.
He was prepared to tell Bertie he was worried for him, nothing more, but Bertie had just been brutally honest (honest in a way that only served to twist that hot knife of anger currently buried in his gut), and while he was used to lying -- was good at it, and did so quite often, as a matter of course -- the thought of continuing to do so in the face of such disclosure was simply too bitter to swallow.
“I don’t suppose I am, no,” he replied, softly.
He managed to meet Bertie’s eyes steadily enough, and while he wanted quite badly to reach for him, to run his fingers through his hair and nuzzle into his neck -- an easy, sweet comfort that was familiar and lovely -- he held back.
“Do you remember, when we were talking of Spring-heeled Jack, I told you that I appreciated your capacity to treat certain conversations as those between friends, despite your duties and obligations to the Night Watch?”
He frowned, a wry twist to his mouth, but even as he said it, he knew he couldn’t take it back. “If I were…” his frown deepened, and he sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, resting his palms carefully on his thighs. “If I were to tell you something, would it be possible to keep it in confidence?”
This reminded him of earlier, far more playful conversations about him being mistaken for a man of the cloth, a confessor of sorts, and it only made the knife twist further -- there was no victory here, whatever he chose, but keeping it all to himself was no longer an option.
Gabriel hadn't quite turned away and bowed his head, but his posture had a similar feeling to it, of needing distance, or of expecting it to be desired. It caused Bertie to sit up straighter as well, suddenly focused and more serious than he'd felt 'til now.
He had to consider his answer very carefully, because as much as he might wish it to be a simple 'yes', it was more complicated than that.
"It would depend on what you told me," Bertie said, voice low but steady. Gabriel had set himself apart, so Bertie didn't move after him, though the impulse to reach out and lay a hand on his back or shoulder was strong. "I know you to be an honourable man, so I don't believe it would be something that might endanger the lives of innocents, but if it were something I felt honour-bound to report, I couldn't pledge that I wouldn't, not without knowing the matter. Which I understand, of course, you can't tell me. But I have other loyalties, as well, and if it should mean harm to anyone at Black Park..."
He hoped that this wasn't about the assassination attempts, although as soon as he'd thought that, he changed his mind. There had been nothing but silence from the Fosters, and they needed a break on the case, badly. If Gabriel knew something, Bertie wished to know it--but he also could not promise not to act on it.
Gabriel had said he was not all right, though, and Bertie had a loyalty to him, as well, of friendship and intimates. He had asked for Bertie's confidence, and Bertie badly wished to offer it to him.
"Is there a vow I can give that would satisfy you?" Bertie asked softly. "If it will harm none to do so, nor change fates, nor break my oath of duty to the Night Watch and the Crown, then I will not act on what you tell me here, until you release me from this confidence. I will listen as your friend, and trust that you speak to me as mine."
Finally he broke, and reached out to touch Gabriel's shoulder lightly, leaving his hand there as a point of contact. "What is it?"
Bertie’s assurances still left all sorts of room for parsing -- Gabriel knew there was mostly simply curiosity (and a healthy dose of suspicion) on his part when it came to Biddie, and no active investigation as of yet, and his disclosure might change that, but he wanted to be done with it all -- he was tired of keeping it to himself, of watching Bertie spin in circles.
“I was at the warehouse on the day of the fire,” he said, quietly. “I was there on a tour, as a prospective investor, of all things.” He could feel Bertie shift behind him, and took in a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Let me… I need to get through it,” he added, before exhaling.
“I saw the two men who started the fire. One was a demon, the other a witch, and they were Russian. I also saw Mrs Linden kill them in self-defense, in defense of me as well, and yes, the witch died by beheading.” The next part was tricker -- he spread his fingers to keep from gripping his thighs. “She was… she is a woman who is very secretive and protective of her reputation, and did not know me well, and as such, didn’t trust me to hold my tongue.” The irony of that was not lost on him, and he laughed shortly without any humor behind it. “She knocked me out, and took me aboard an airship bound for Constantinople, and once I came to, we talked. When she had determined I was well-connected, she decided it would be slightly less inconvenient to treat with me than it would be to toss me overboard, and we came to a mutually agreeable set of terms, after which we returned to London.”
That last part sounded a touch more bitter than he’d intended, and he sighed. “Given I knew of your interest in her, and her tendency to react strongly towards people who’d caused her problems, one of the explicit terms of our agreement was that you would not…” he paused. “That you would not be physically harmed,” he settled on. “At the ball, she summoned the ghost to frighten the men who’d wronged her, with a spell she…” he swore a little under his breath. “A spell she used you to accomplish,” he managed. “...So I further clarified what those terms entailed, and received assurances that she would no longer involve you in her schemes.”
His shoulders slumped. “She’s seeking justice for the death of her employees and for the insult to her property, and trusts no-one but herself to pursue it. She’s acted out of fear, out of anger towards those who’ve done her wrong.”
He ran a hand over his face, feeling tired all of a sudden, and heartsick. “I thought telling you would only expose you to greater danger, and would place you at odds with your oath, with your sense of duty, and I was on delicate enough footing with her as it was. And then, you were there, at the ball, at her behest, and damn it all to hell, Bertie,” he said, a little broken. “I’m sorry,” he added. “I’m truly sorry. I don’t believe she’ll bother you any further, and if she does…” he frowned. “If she does, I shall take steps,” he said, quietly and firmly.
There was more to it than that, of course -- Biddie’s true nature was one he’d take to his grave, for one -- but that was the main of it. What Bertie thought of it all, however, was another matter entirely.
There was a great deal to take in, and Bertie didn't feel he was doing it well--there were too many other things grasping at his attention, mysteries and clues and pieces of evidence all slotting into a greater picture, one that was painted rather better than the scraps Bertie'd had until this point.
"I'm sorry, I think I need a moment," Bertie said, although for Gabriel's sake he tried not to draw out the silence too long as he absorbed everything Gabriel had just told him. He'd withdrawn his hand at Gabriel's request to let him speak, and without it Gabriel looked brittle, as though Bertie might have some power to break him. Or perhaps only that Mrs Linden had threatened to do so, and the cracks and fractures were only now showing. Showing, of course, because Gabriel was allowing Bertie to see them.
"She kidnapped you," Bertie translated for himself, when he'd processed everything as best he could for the moment. "And used me to...test you? To determine whether or not she'd kill you? She invited me to the factory to see whether or not I would swallow a story of helium and accidental sparks, because if I didn't, she'd reconsider whether or not to throw you out of an airship."
It was horrible when said aloud that way, and no less how Gabriel must feel for having lived it. Bertie remembered how wan and ill Gabriel had looked, on returning from his trip abroad. He remembered the...not an argument, they hadn't fought, but they'd been unhappy with one another, and Gabriel had been plain about what he could and could not offer. He remembered the bruises.
At that, his gaze focused again, and his voice had more strength. "She did more than knock you out," Bertie guessed, thinking of how battered Gabriel had been, and how careful in his movements. "She had you beaten, didn't she? And held hostage, until you agreed to keep her secrets?"
Bertie swallowed. "And at the masquerade, her invitation...was that a warning for you, should you cross her? To keep you in line? Has she been using me to threaten you, knowing now that you'll act to protect me?"
The knowledge that he'd been directly targeted - and used - by such a spell as had left a stain on his soul, poison and shadow inside him, and nightmares that plagued him with horror was a revelation--he'd thought it an accident of exposure, no more. That Mrs Linden had done such an act deliberately was more in keeping with the shrewd, sharp-tongued and sharp-eyed woman he'd first met at the behest of Benson St. Crane, rather than the weeping, wailing mourner from the factory after the fire. She could be both, he thought, trying to be more charitable. It could have been honest grief, for her employees, as well as a tactical move. It was difficult, in muddled, emotional hindsight, to tell for certain.
One thing seemed clear, however--that Bertie could not permit himself to be used against Gabriel any longer, when it was causing him such torment. "You shouldn't go against her on my behalf. Not if it means your life," Bertie said firmly. "What about others? Does she know about Caspian, and...your other lover, the one you care for? Am I her only target for ensuring your silence, or will she move on to others if we seem to remove your connection to me? It's easy enough to stage a falling-out, but not if she'll only look to others. I at least have some small security, with the Night Watch, and Miss Bakst."
The enormity of what Gabriel had managed and sacrificed on Bertie's behalf loomed dauntingly before him, but he couldn't grasp that now, not yet, while he was still trying to sort through all the rest of it. It would have to be one thing at a time.
“It’s…” Gabriel frowned, his shoulders curling. “It’s not quite that sinister, Bertie. Honestly. She wasn’t using you to test me, she was using you because you were someone she saw as useful. She’d seen you as useful before I… before I came to know her better, because of your unique skills, and after, she took our agreement quite literally -- no physical harm.” A small flash of a smile, wry and sharp, flitted across his face. “She was no end of annoyed when your name came up during our negotiations. But I told her on no uncertain terms to back away at the ball, and I believe she’ll hold to it. And I do mean mutually agreeable -- it’s less of an ongoing threat, and more… a business arrangement we both benefit from, with leverage should that prove necessary, and while her leverage is indeed substantial, so is mine.”
He figured Bertie could read between the lines well enough -- there were secrets, and then there were secrets, and he’d told what he’d needed to in order to reconcile Bertie’s experiences -- that curiosity of his could be just as much of a poison as Biddie’s spell was.
“There are…” he frowned a little. “There are deeper sorts of laws beyond those we’ve tried to put in place in writing. Wilder, older, more powerful…” he exhaled. “She saved my life, and then chose to spare it despite her fears, and I believe her to be a woman of her word.”
Bertie knew from Night Watch training some of those laws, like the Sidhe rule of obligation for food and drink. He wondered yet again what sort of creature - being, he corrected himself - Mrs Linden was, and what unwritten laws she followed besides vengeance for harm done to those under her protection.
"It doesn't make sense," Bertie said slowly, as he thought through the chain of events. "Why would she need me to come to the factory, to speak to the ghosts and ask what happened, if she already knew? Did she tell them to lie, because she thought I would keep the Night Watch from looking into it? Can she...can she speak to ghosts after all?"
No, that didn't seem right--she hadn't been able to see or hear Benson St. Crane. Although...although she had seemed...aware of him, somewhat, when he'd been charged with emotion...or when Bertie was lending him strength? Could Mrs Linden, like Zipporah Bakst, see and hear ghosts more clearly while Bertie was there to amplify their connection?
He also wanted to argue on the point of physical harm, because he had seen what Zipporah had coughed up and spat out, what she'd drawn out of him, but a physical manifestation of psychological harm was quite a fine point on which to rest an argument. And in any event, it wouldn't help anything or anyone now, and would only cause Gabriel further worry.
On which point, Bertie should stop his questioning, and offer some comfort to the man hunched over defensively on the edge of his bed, as though expecting a blow or an order to depart.
"Never mind. It doesn't matter now, and is better let go. I understand why you did as you had to," Bertie said, trying to banish the lingering questions from his mind so that Gabriel would not doubt he meant it. "You had little choice. And I am grateful for the lengths you've gone to for my safety, without any word of thanks, and at such risk to yourself. I..." Bertie stopped himself before he said more, realizing his tendency to speak before he thought might, at present, lead to some disaster and grave hurt. "I'm grateful," he said again, more softly. "I never think to look for such kindness as you show me in friendship, nearly at every turn."
“If I’d told you sooner, you would’ve known to be wary, and wouldn’t have been hurt so,” he replied, a little hollowly. “If I’d been more explicit with her, she wouldn’t have dared to use you the way she did. And now…” Gabriel shook his head. “By telling you, I’ve made you complicit, forced you to cover for me, for her, and putting you in that position was the last…” he frowned. “You’re a man of principle, you trusted me, and all the while this past month I was…” he sighed. “God, I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.
It took Bertie a moment to find what he hoped might not be the wrong thing to say, and even then he was only cautiously optimistic, but Gabriel sounded so wretched that Bertie couldn't have blamed him even if he'd wanted to.
"I'm not the most practical person, but it sounds as though you've just said you both ought to've told me sooner, and not told me at all, so that I could be wary and also not have to feign ignorance all at once. And you weren't the reason her attention turned to me, you've already said--she knew of me before, she only just found a use for me now, and your intervention and negotiation might have saved me from harm. Without you, she might have simply killed me with the spell, to avoid what's just happened, my being haunted and wanting to investigate further."
That was an unpleasant thought, and one Bertie chose not to dwell on. He moved on before Gabriel could think too much on it either.
"If you don't want to be sensible about it, or can't be just yet, I understand. I wouldn't be able to be sensible either, in your place. You've had no right choices, and no one to speak with about them, or about what you've gone through, which I assure you, I consider far worse than a few dreams. I believe I got off lightly. I could pretend to be angry with you, if you liked," Bertie said softly, moving closer on the bed and hoping he didn't drive Gabriel away. "But in your situation, I can't think of what else I might have done. And you've had no support at all--if it had been me, I know you'd have been at my door with sandwiches, and a shoulder if I needed one."
Bertie reached out again to touch Gabriel's arm. "Will you let me be one, if you should need it now? I'm late, I know, but I am here."
Gabriel huffed a little in laughter at Bertie’s assessment, and shook his head. “You’re usually the one in knots, so I suppose turnabout is fair game,” he said, and he turned towards him then, resting his hand on his chest briefly before pulling him into an embrace.
It felt nearly like it shouldn’t be that easy -- that after all the build up, the moments of worry, there ought to be more -- he’d been expecting frustration and betrayal, dreading a sort of rift that couldn’t be mended, but it really did figure in the grand scheme of things, that Bertie, who’d gotten genuinely hurt over a slight at a party, who’d been frustrated with a boundary they both actively agreed upon and still wanted (for reasons Gabriel suspected were entirely external -- some odd amalgam of Dex and Mal and Cas and Black Park muddling things), would be unphased by this.
But there he was, warm, and comfortingly solid, and ineffably Bertie, and he could feel the acidic clench of his stomach unwind with the familiar smell of his neck, the weight of arms that were wrapped around him with a strength and certainty he hadn’t quite expected.
Bertie held Gabriel as if he needed to be kept firmly together and was incredibly fragile both at once, which was how he thought Gabriel might feel at present, and peppered his forehead and hair with kisses, tucking Gabriel in under his chin, which was where Bertie quite liked to be sometimes, trusted next to a vulnerable throat.
"I do owe you a few turns," Bertie admitted. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure I shall brood horribly about this at some point, and perhaps write a poem about it." He scattered a few more kisses, and then asked tentatively, "Was this why you didn't seem to think there was anything worth looking into, the second time I told you I had doubts about Mrs Linden? I thought you simply believed I was off-course, making wild accusations without any evidence of fact. She's been very good about that, avoiding evidence.
"Oh, and if you'd like to take a turn blaming me for something, as well--I had every intention of looking into her anyway, after the masquerade, whether you thought it wise or not. I just wasn't going to tell you about it. So now you've saved me from a considerable folly, which I'm sure would only have further aggravated the redoubtable Mrs Linden."
“If it was immediately after the fire, then yes, I was doing my best to direct you away from her,” he admitted, nuzzling against Bertie’s neck, the admission far easier now that he’d shown his hand. “But heavens,” he added, smiling very nearly despite himself, “you are a persistent fellow. It’s one of the reasons I like you,” he added, looking up at Bertie, and leaning up to kiss him softly in apology, “and I can hardly blame you for trusting your instincts, despite my attempts to throw you off scent.”
“I should like to read it, if you do,” he added, quietly, “and please do know,” he added, resting his cheek on Bertie’s shoulder, “should you wish to brood in company, and pepper me with endless questions and theories and fantastical ‘what if’s, I would welcome it.”
Bertie laughed a little. He had been rather like a dog with a bone in his suspicion of Mrs Linden, even in the absence of any real theory on what she might have conceivably done.
He had to admit, kidnapping Gabriel and using Bertie for a necromancy spell had not been among his guesses.
"Do you want me to talk about her again, then?" Bertie asked tentatively. "If it puts you into a difficult position, I don't want to make things worse with my wild notions. But if it would help you to make sense of anything, as well, I certainly can. With better direction now, I think. Unless she's best left alone, to do whatever it is she's chosen to do."
He began rubbing Gabriel's back, slow and thoughtful. "I have plenty of other subjects on which I could formulate fantastical theories, if you'd prefer it. It's not as though we have any shortage of mysteries of late."
He leaned down and kissed Gabriel again, surprising himself a little with how comfortable it was. 'Comfortable' was not a word Bertie had really applied to lovers before Gabriel. It seemed on the surface to be too much a compromise, like 'contentment.' And yet it didn't feel like anything of the kind.
"I haven't offered you sandwiches yet," Bertie observed, tilting his head to study Gabriel's face. "I believe you brought me food again, and we've failed to eat it. That was part of the deal, I believe, my offering you something to eat, along with the shoulder."
He couldn't help hugging Gabriel a little tighter at the reminder that Gabriel needed to be comforted, along with the knowledge of why.
“I shouldn’t mind an occasional sounding board, or being one in turn, should the occasion arise,” he replied, a little carefully. “It’s been… it’s been a challenge, sorting this business out on my own. There are times I certainly could’ve used your delightful brain.”
He reached up to run his fingers through Bertie’s hair, and cup his cheek lightly with his fingers. “And I should look forward to sifting through the mysteries of the universe with you very much,” he added, quietly. A sudden smile bloomed. “It really is a terrible habit I have, isn’t it, of bringing food and then distracting you too much for you to eat it.”
Bertie smiled in return, wider than he might have expected, given the seriousness of their conversation. "Truly terrible, yes." Leaning in, he pressed his lips to Gabriel's and remained there for just a moment, still and connected.
When they parted, he whispered with a grin, "But it was a very nice distraction."