Who: Bertie, Matthew (NPC), Betty (NPC), Jamie (NPC), Lucien What: The Yule Party Where: Black Park Lodge When: 21 December, 1888 [Backdated] Rating: PG
Approaching Black Park, with all of the lights on and guests pulling up in their carriages, Bertie felt as though he were arriving again for the first time. Black Park hadn’t changed, but he thought that he had, since he’d been here last, and was seeing it with new eyes.
There was also the fact that he was here as a guest in his own right, and visiting the pack for the first time since his formal declaration to Lord Black, that he wished to be considered for a place with them. One day, he might belong here in truth, as more than an invited guest. He felt almost as though he already did.
Bertie walked up to the door and stepped inside, bowing his head to the pack member there in acknowledgement. His shoulders were back, eyes wide and serious; he was conscious that he was presenting himself to everyone here tonight, asking them to accept him among them. Inside was light and warmth and noise, and that feeling that had stayed with Bertie since his first visit here.
Home.
Matthew spotted Bertie from across the room, and made his way through the crowd in broad strides, a grin spreading across his face. “Mr Eden,” he said heartily, clapping his hand on the back of Bertie’s neck as he shook his hand. “It is good to see you,” he said, simply, his hand sliding to rest on Bertie’s shoulder. “Happy Christmas. How’ve you been keeping? Well, I hope.”
Bertie cast his eyes down and tilted his head, unable to stop the shy, impossibly happy smile from blooming at Matthew's greeting. "Happy Christmas, Mr Hill. Thank you, I'm glad to be here." He looked up at Matthew, the barely-contained excitement of being back at Black Park calmed by Matthew's steadiness and the weight of his hand, holding Bertie to the ground. "I understand I have you to thank for that."
Bertie swallowed, humbled anew by the gesture. "I don't know how to tell you how much it means to me. Words aren't enough. I'm usually quite good with them, but..." He shrugged very slightly, and his mouth curled up at the corners. "There are some things better expressed without them. I imagine Ned feels that way more often than I."
The expression on Bertie’s face was reason enough for his taking the stance he had, and he met Bertie’s smile with a broad one of his own.
“I told him that we’d do well t’ have people around us what wanted t’ be here, and I meant it,” he said quietly. “S’ good for us too.”
He gave Bertie’s shoulder a pat with a broad hand. “There’s some lads gettin’ the bonfire together if you’d care t’ join in, and th’ Lord Black is makin’ his way round the room. You already know many of the London household, I’d reckon, but if you need introductions, all you ever have to do is ask. Ent no trouble.”
He grinned. “And my sister, Sarah, I’ll want you to meet her, so you can take ‘er on at least one dance. She’s fond of dancin,” he added.
"I would be honoured and privileged," Bertie pronounced, making a slight and somber bow. Recovering his energetic enthusiasm almost at once upon straightening, he continued, "I'd like to meet as many of the pack as I may...and let them meet me, of course, should they wish to. The bonfire sounds an excellent beginning. Do they need any help, do you think?
"Oh," Bertie added as he remembered, "and I should like to speak with your cook as well, about...a surprise. I'm certain she must be busy this evening, but it would only take a moment. Or I can return at a better time, if it's better to keep out of the way tonight."
He knew how hectic a bustling party could be for the staff, and had no desire to make himself a nuisance underfoot. Even for a gift of werewolf-safe plum puddings.
“Kitchen first, to talk with our Bet,” Matthew replied, steering Bertie through the gathering crowd, “and I’m sure they wouldn’t turn down an extra pair of hands at the bonfire if you’re willin. Good luck,” he added. He knew the boys could be a little rambunctious, but they’d have decent enough manners with a guest this early in the evening, before they were too deep in their cups.
The kitchen was indeed a madhouse -- packed with extra hands for the evening, putting the finishing touches on a truly prodigious amount of food, and Matthew raised his hand towards a rosy-cheeked woman with flour on her nose who made her way over to them.
“Ah, yer the human lad what likes his jam tart,” she said, promptly, upon seeing Bertie. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you sneakin ‘em into yer pockets each time you’d be by th’ house. I got apricot and raspberry out there,” she added, grinning, brushing her hands on her apron in a cloud of flour. “What can I do ye for?”
Bertie flushed, pleased and embarrassed, and coughed into his fist before recovering his social grace--or what little he had of it. "I wanted to...Bertram Eden. Bertie," he corrected himself hastily, proving social grace was only a dream after all. He bowed his head respectfully to her, because werewolf pack rank and social rank were entirely different things, and Bertie wasn't landed gentry here, he was a supplicant.
"I wanted your permission to make a gift of food to Black Park for Christmas Dinner. I know it can be hard to...or rather, the charms in the puddings are all silver, so I thought..." Bertie glanced at Matthew, wondering if he should have asked Lord Black first, or whether such a gift would be appropriate or welcome. "I bought charms that are all safe, and wanted to send them in puddings for your feast. Though as fine as your jam tarts are, I'm certain the cooking won't compare," he added, grinning and a little shy. "Would you mind? I wouldn't want you to have two batches, though I'm sure they'd disappear quickly regardless."
“Oh, bless me,” Betty replied, beaming, “that’d be quite thoughtful of ye. Ta very much for thinkin’ to ask, I shall save off makin’ the puddings, and look forward to it.” She looked down at her hands, still well coated in flour, and rather than besmirch his dinner jacket, leaned up to briefly kiss his forehead. “There’s a good lad,” she said. “Just send to th’ lodge care of Betty, and I’ll know what they’re for.” She made a shooing gesture. “Go on then,” she added, laughing, her pink cheeks even pinker than before, “get on wi’ ye.”
Bertie was equally pink, nearly overwhelmed again by happiness, and the feeling of belonging. He had two blessings on him now, marking him as a friend, and would wear them all night as a proclamation. He nearly knocked into Matthew when he turned after thanking Betty, and then nearly did it anyway, a friendly nudge to show how excited and happy he was. He managed to rein himself in at the last moment, however, and left the kitchen inhaling deeply the wonderful scents of a holiday feast.
"Thank you," Bertie said quietly once they'd left the bustle and noise behind. "I should pay my respects to Lord Black now, I think, but I appreciate you seeing me down here. And I'd like to see Ned if--is he...walking upright, tonight?"
The reminder that Ned and Matthew had managed happiness where Bertie's attempts all seemed to fail miserably brought on a small pang, but one he ignored. He'd tried, with Dex. And Dex had tried. It was no one's fault that things had fallen apart. He wouldn't let it stop him from being happy for two friends who had beaten the odds together.
“He’ll be playin’ fiddle at the dance,” Matthew replied, “and a hello and a glass of punch wouldn’t go amiss. Just don’t expect more’n a friendly nod, is all.” Matthew paused in the hallway before they made their way back into the crowd. “It can be a tricky place to be in,” he said, thoughtfully, “seein’ as you’re in a space where you’re between a guest and family. There might be one or two folks who’ll push a little, who won’t know what to make of you, who might… well,” he added, with a little shrug, “might jockey a bit. Show their teeth some. Don’t…” he frowned a little. “Don’t take it as a sign of not fittin’, it’s more findin’ where and how you do, and some’ll be just jealous as to you gettin’ some favor from Lord Black, is all.”
He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, looking over at Bertie. “You’ll tell me if it’s somethin’ you’re worried over?” He met Bertie’s eye. “I’d rather hear than not,” he added. “And most of it is just gettin’ to know you. Once they do, they’ll like you well enough. Hard not to.”
Bertie shook his head a little, unable to stop the flush of pleasure at Matthew's words, and already feeling that he was floating so high he might not be able to come down. "They need to know my place, to accept me. I know that. And if I can't handle a few bared teeth, then I don't really deserve to be here at all."
He found he was looking forward to it, in truth. Each snarl, each 'friendly' shove, each touch would be another step toward belonging here, having an acknowledged place among the pack. Bertie would take everything they gave him if it brought him closer to that end.
Lingering a moment before they rejoined the party, Bertie asked, "Do you see me as fragile, being human? As an outsider? Would you still, if I didn't turn?"
This gave Matthew pause, and he took a few beats to gather his thoughts. “Different ent always a weakness,” he finally came to. “Sometimes, it can make everything stronger on the whole. Like bringin’ in our Lady Black has done,” he added, quietly, his voice low. “I think…” he frowned a little. “There’d be things you could never do in the same way, and others you might be able to do better, and it’d be…” he huffed a little. “I’d think it’d make for a challenge, is all, knowin’ there’d be that, to see what else would be needed to… to make sure you felt like you still had a place worth havin. It’d be… different.”
He bumped his shoulder against Bertie’s. “Not bad, mind. And a challenge I’m willin’ to take, if you are.”
Bertie nodded, chewing that over, and followed up with a belated, "Thank you," just as the warmth and noise of the party hit them. He cast a shy, grateful smile at Matthew, then bowed and bared his throat before trotting off toward the bonfire to join in the circle of younger werewolves surrounding it.
He learned quickly what Matthew had meant by wishing him good luck with helping out. Everyone, it seemed, had opinions on how the fire should be built, and which sticks and logs they wanted to add to it, and how much everyone else ought to be allowed to contribute. Bertie hovered uselessly for a while, but as soon as it became apparent that there would be no correct way to assist, he simply picked up a branch and thrust it into the fragile flames.
There was some snarling at that, which Bertie had expected, but it served to keep the wolves from snarling at each other, which Bertie rather thought Matthew would appreciate, as it would keep him from spending his evening cuffing ears and baring his teeth. Bertie circled the fire, identifying which sticks were being kept back as the prizes, and which areas of the fire were the most hotly contended. Whenever words grew sharp or voices loud, he'd slip in to take one of the weightier sticks, or poke at a section where the embers needed to be carefully tended, doing just enough damage to bring attention from the others.
He felt the shift when they stopped being so careful with him, and thought about what he'd asked Matthew regarding fragile humans when the first elbow dug into his ribs as he leaned forward to add a branch to the fire. A few minutes later a log was pushed with more force than necessary into his arms, scratching his wrist, but Zipporah's string was whole and unharmed, so Bertie ignored it. There was nearly a chase at one point, the result of a kindling dispute, but Bertie managed to insinuate himself clumsily into the path of it, and both participants slammed into him one after the other, bared their teeth and apologized without meaning a word of it, and found new places to tend.
As little as Bertie felt he was actually improving the quality of the bonfire, he couldn't deny that he was keeping busy. At least, until he wandered a little too close to the wrong side of the fire, and found his knuckles smacked by a thin sapling as a result.
He yelped before he could stop it, and the sound seemed to catalyze something in the others, something that turned restless sullenness at being sent away to do manual labor into directed aggression. Bertie couldn't tell if this had just become a game or something more serious, but he'd believed Matthew when he'd said they wouldn't harm a guest, wouldn't harm him, so he let them chase him around the edge of the fire in short bursts, let them bare their teeth and try to spook him into stumbling inside the cleared circle with sudden movements and loud noises, and stood his ground.
More or less. Whenever the taunts stopped feeling playful, Bertie was careful to look down, not baiting any of them into a direct challenge. He was a guest at their celebration, in their home--he didn't want to cause any real trouble.
In the end, it was an accident that sent him windmilling too close to the flames, and his own clumsiness that made him collide with the burning tip of the branch he was being mock-threatened with, losing his balance too quickly for the laughing young man holding it to yank it back out of range. Bertie stifled the cry this time, flinching back as hot cinders rained into his collar and burned his skin, and lost focus for the moment it took the wolves to snarl and surge and finally scatter, their game over now that someone had been - however minorly - hurt.
"That looks as though it hurts," Jamie observed, shimmering into view a few feet away, out of the light of the fire.
Bertie winced, brushing at his neck to shake loose any remaining cinders, though he thought they'd all died out and turned to ash after that brief second. "I was wondering where you'd gone," he answered, without addressing the question of pain. It did hurt, as it happened, but Bertie could manage it. He suspected he'd have an angry mark there for a few days, but nothing too serious.
"I wanted to give you some time to settle in alone, first," Jamie replied, sounding distracted. "I could frighten them for you, if you liked."
Bertie smiled in spite of himself. "They wouldn't be able to see you," he reminded Jamie, but suspected the point had been the gesture, rather than the practicality of it. "It's fine. No real harm done."
Jamie hummed noncommittally. "Maybe," he prevaricated, and Bertie raised his head to ask what that meant when he saw where Jamie was looking. "Lord Black might feel differently," Jamie continued, and faded out before Bertie could reply.
He hadn't intended to, regardless, already scrambling to his feet and baring his throat respectfully. The thoughtless, automatic gesture scraped the starched line of his collar along the fresh burn, and Bertie flinched, jerking upright again with less grace than he might have wished. "Lord Black," he greeted, bowing slightly instead, more carefully this time.
There was a quiet pause around the bonfire then, save for the shuffling of feet, eyes glancing studiously towards the ground.
Lucien quirked an eyebrow, and weighed his choices, letting the quiet linger for a bit. If Bertie had simply been a guest, there would be a riot act read -- but that wouldn’t necessarily fit the current circumstances, nor would it serve Bertie in future.
He cleared his throat. “Evening, lads,” he said, quietly. “Bit early yet for someone to get singed. No harm done, I hope?”
One of the younger wolves, Louis, stepped forward a little nervously, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he bared his neck. “Pologies,” he said, his eyes rolling over towards Bertie. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”
Bertie hoped that he hadn't just created resentment and future problems for himself with the pack by being a tremendous oaf, and trying to fit in. "No harm done," he repeated, loud enough to be heard by the others this time. "It was an accident, and entirely the fault of my own clumsiness. I hope you'll forgive me for being so constantly underfoot. I was a bit excited about the bonfire. I've never been to one--do you do this every year? Perhaps you can show me how it ought to be done, and I'll try to keep from falling in the next time around."
“Good,” Lucien replied, mildly. “And do try, please. We’ll have enough burned fingers and smoking shoes as it is by the end of the evening, I’d warrant.” He gave Bertie a nod, catching his eye, and clapped Louis lightly on the back of the neck. “I’ll see you lads about, I’m sure,” he said, “and if I don’t get the chance later, a good Yule to all of you.”
Upon his alpha’s departure, Louis shrugged, thrusting the stick he’d poked Bertie with fully into the fire.
“Clumsy eejit,” he said, without any particular malice behind it, and reached over to push Bertie lightly.
Bertie'd had enough rough-housing among the lads at Cambridge to know how to let himself be knocked off-balance without losing control of how far he staggered. He grinned at the youth and offered, "Always have been, I'm afraid. Bertie Eden," which started a round of introductions around the fire and a conversation about Yule traditions at Black Park that Bertie soaked up eagerly.
He wandered off from the fire when the conversation moved on to pack business Bertie didn't yet understand, and didn't admit to himself that he was looking for jam tarts. He found them along with Lord Black, again, and his cheeks flushed slightly with embarrassment at his earlier disgrace, eyes dropping to the table.
"Lord Black. Ah." Bertie glanced sideways, but Jamie was invisible again, presumably either listening in or drifting along. Still, Lord Black didn't know that. And Bertie did want to announce that he'd brought a guest who could hear their conversation, out of politeness. "James Percy is with me tonight. He asked me to pass on his greetings.”
That wasn’t entirely a lie--Jamie had asked, early on when they’d first arrived. “Thank you for inviting us...it's a lovely place to celebrate the longest night."
“Mr Percy is most certainly welcome, as are you,” Lucien replied with a brief nod of his head as he clasped Bertie’s hand in his, resting his free hand briefly on Bertie’s shoulder, “and I am glad at your being here. Truly no harm done?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “I know the lads can get their blood up when there’s festivities.”
Another brief smile crossed Bertie's face, and he shook his head, ignoring the way it caused his collar to scratch at his sore neck. He ought to put something cold on the burn, he supposed, but he could bear up for an evening. If Gabriel were to see it, he'd probably have chided and fussed. If Dex were to see it...well, he wouldn't, so again, there was no harm done.
"None, truly," Bertie promised. "I think they only have a great deal of energy and excitement, and I wanted to give them an outlet for it. I'm afraid I wasn't coordinated enough for the attempt. I truly hope I didn't cause any trouble."
That last was said with more seriousness, because Bertie knew very well that he caused disruption wherever he went, but he did mean to do better. He always meant to do better.
"I remember feeling as they do," Bertie explained, ducking his head bashfully. "Not so long ago, either, I'm afraid." Perking up slightly, he cleared his throat and suggested, "I suppose if nothing else, you can use me to teach quick reflexes to those unaware of how clumsy I can be."
Lucien laughed at that, shaking his head, and gave Bertie’s shoulder a light squeeze. “You’ve got decent instincts, son,” he said, “just don’t let ‘em run too roughshod. And for heaven’s sake, I do hope you’re able to enjoy yourself some.” He looked over at Bertie, tipping his head. “The full moon on the New Year and the days leading up to it would be a challenge,” he said, “but I should like to see you at the London house more often after the New Year, for a start.”
He knew the pull of this next full moon would be a particularly strong one, he could already feel it in his bones over a week out, and while he knew Mr Eden was no end of eager, this sort of thing was best done slowly and steadily.
Bertie swallowed, overwhelmed by the touch, the familiarity, the way Lord Black called him son as though Bertie had earned it. He was determined, more than ever, to do so.
"I would be honoured," Bertie answered solemnly, bowing his head. Looking around at the gathering, a smile bloomed on his face, and he said, "I don't think I could do anything besides enjoy myself here, Lord Black. It feels..." Very much like home, he thought, but swallowed it and said aloud instead, "It's a wonderful party. I'm looking forward to meeting everyone I can."
Bertie looked up to turn his smile on Lord Black. "I should let you greet your guests, but...I very much look forward to seeing you in the new year. And...thank you, again. This means..." He exhaled softly in wonder. "It means more than I can say, to be given this chance."
Lucien was reminded of one of Bertie’s poems, just then, the reason why he was here in the first place, really. Before he’d known better, he’d taken Bertie’s eagerness, his focus and attention and deference as coming from a place of making amends, of hoping (as ridiculous as that might be) for a second chance with Mal, of something much more base and sycophantic, a perception that, now he knew better, he was mildly ashamed he’d held.
“Well,” he said, quietly, “I am glad to be able to give it.” He tipped his head towards the crowd. “Go on, then,” he added, a grin flashing across his face. “And if I don’t get a chance to say so again, Happy Christmas.”