Investigator of the Supernatural, Brewer of Tea (sedulus) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-07-01 22:23:00 |
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Entry tags: | bertie eden, gabriel allen |
Who: Gabriel Allen & Bertram Eden
What: An unorthodox introduction
When: July 1, 1888
Where: A graveyard, followed by a tavern
Warning: Over-the-top cliche-ridden unrepentant Gothic romance
Status: Complete
Bertie was not so foolish as to loiter around the churchyards of London on nights of the full moon. The light would make it much easier to see, however, than the current barely-waning darkness, and the pursuit of an investigation would keep him from moping quite so desperately at the knowledge that somewhere out there, the Black Park pack would be running all together, wild and awe-inspiring, bosom companions all in their shared provenance.
Bertie paused then, set down his dim lantern to take out a small leather-bound notebook, and wrote bosom companions, shared provenance for later consideration. Perhaps something on the origins of such familiarity? With an allusion to ancient art? Or perhaps literary inspiration?
"'Gads, it's late," a gruff voice spoke up, startlingly clear, and Bertie's head jerked up from his writing, the nub of lead inscribing a jagged line across fragments of verse. "Shouldn't you be turned in? No sense hanging about here in the dark. It's going to come down something fierce, as well, you mark my words. Any moment now."
Bertie looked up at the indistinct mottle of clouds above, no more or less gray than usual, and frowned at the ghost who had startled him. "I should hate to be disagreeable, but I don't see any storm clouds. I do beg your pardon, sir. Bertram Eden."
"You mark my words," the ghost repeated, in the same tones. "Any moment now. Shouldn't you be turned in? No sense hanging about here in the dark."
Bertie opened his mouth to answer, but shut it again when the ghost continued to speak. This sort of phantom never failed to bring down his spirits--they existed only as loops of brief memory, unable to hold onto anything more than those grasping, elusive notions fresh in what was left of their minds.
"I suppose I should," Bertie answered instead, a little sorry, but at least he had no worries about rain. "I--"
He stopped before asking his next question. The ghost wouldn't be able to answer him, and it would only make more clear the ghost's temporary state. Bertie wouldn't even be able to learn his name, much less whether he knew of anyone who might have met their end at the hands - claws? teeth? - of a lone werewolf.
It was an unlikely line of questioning to lead him to a satisfactory answer, but Bertie had been in the neighborhood, so to speak, and it could not have done any harm to ask. A pack, of course, would never be so undisciplined or uncouth to bring harm to any humans on their territory - at least, not without provocation - so it would have to be a lone wolf, like the one Bertie believed must have attacked Lord and Lady Stanbury during their time abroad. He had started his search therefore in churchyards on the outskirts of pack territories, on the borders where a lone wolf might be more easily overlooked, thought to belong to a pack on one side of the border or the other.
"Mark my words," the ghost repeated. "Any moment now. It's going to come down something fierce."
"Yes, well I appreciate the warning," Bertie said politely. "I'll just be on my--"
And then it did, and the escalation from a few spattered droplets of rain to an all-out downpour left Bertie standing agog with his jaw hanging open and his notebook held unprotected to the mercy of the elements.
(They were not, at the moment, being terribly merciful.)
"Shouldn't you be turned in?" the ghost asked, disembodied by the heavy curtain of rain between Bertie and the ghost's wispy outline. Bertie could not fault his logic, and turned to flee the storm.
Gabriel didn’t tend to hang about graveyards after dark as a general rule, but he’d stopped by on his way to dinner to tend a bit to Victoria’s grave and drop off some flowers, as it’d been an embarrassingly long time since he’d been by to see to it, and he’d ended up staying a little longer than he’d intended, talking to her about Leah for a bit.
He knew Vic would’ve found a better solution than he and Leah had cobbled together -- she would’ve moved heaven and earth for her daughter, and between the two of them, they would’ve had understanding as to both her demon nature, and her unique needs as a woman with a reputation to maintain -- needs Vic understood far, far better than he ever could.
He missed her particularly at times like this -- times where he could’ve used a partner to bounce ideas off of who was just as invested in all this as he was -- and while their marriage had been a touch rocky at times, and more than a little unorthodox, he’d genuinely loved her, and she him, and they’d been looking forward to raising a child together; her sudden loss so soon after Leah was born had taken the breath out of him.
When he’d finally noticed it was getting dark, he’d said his goodbyes and made his way to the front gates briskly, swearing as the heavens suddenly opened up and began to rain heavily, and swearing again as a young man came careening through the rain, promptly tripped over a grave marker, and crashed into his arms at a high speed.
“Are you quite alright?” He asked, concerned as he looked down at him, the rain streaming from the brim of his hat to spatter on the younger man’s jacket.
It was a cultured voice, smooth and aristocratic and a step above the drawls Bertie remembered from Cambridge, although Bertie surely would have remembered meeting someone so...formidable? impressive? poised? at Cambridge. Or so he fervently hoped, because if he'd already made the gentleman's acquaintance and forgotten, it would be the worst possible manners.
"I do beg your pardon," Bertie gasped, stalling a little for time while he caught his breath again. "The fault was entirely mine, I should have been watching more carefully...ah, the lantern's gone out, bug-" He caught himself before lapsing into crude and impolite language, although the sinking feeling in his chest made him want to curse aloud at his ill luck.
It occurred to him to wonder what a gentleman was doing out in a graveyard at night without a lantern, and he had a heart-pounding, hopeful moment of wondering werewolf? which he absolutely could not speak aloud. He hoped the ghost with whom he'd conversed earlier was no longer around, as sometimes phantoms made things awkward with their partially-obscured presence. Bertie occasionally replied to things no one else heard, for instance, which never reflected well on him in the eyes of witnesses.
"I didn't mean to inconvenience you--thank you very kindly for your excellent reflexes. And in the rain, too. Sorry, let me..." Bertie straightened most of the way up, lunged for the lantern that had gone sprawling when he'd tripped, not so lucky as to be caught by a convenient passer-by, and realized a moment later that he'd made a grave - oh, how amusing, considering how he'd tripped - error.
The pain stole his breath again along with his balance, and he was aware that he'd swooned right back into the support of his companion without quite being able to do or say anything about it. "My apologies," he managed after a few heartbeats of sheer agony streaking up from his twisted ankle. "I appear to have had a grave mishap."
He exhaled a dizzy, breathless laugh at the terrible pun, and blinked somewhat dazedly up at the handsome man who surely could not be from Cambridge.
“Right,” Gabriel replied, rolling his eyes and grinning a little at the god-awful pun. The greyish cast to the young man’s face was far from a laughing matter, however, and the rain was still punishing. He looked down at him, concerned. “Let me get the lantern, shall I? There’s a pub just across from the front gates. Can you make it that far on my arm, so we might get out of this damned rain for a bit and to see what the damage is?”
He wondered what the clumsy fellow had been up to in the graveyard -- seeing as how he’d come with a lantern, apparently he’d been planning on staying past dark.
"Yes, of course," Bertie answered at once, without particularly considering whether it was true or not, because the alternative was just to sink down into the mud on his own, and that would obviously never do.
He nearly changed his opinion after the first hobbling step, but gritted his teeth and hurried on as much as he was able, his fingers white-knuckled and digging in like a falcon's talons to his benefactor's arm. He could not lose his dinner on a gentleman's shoes, he told himself firmly as he swallowed down the acid burn of nausea, not when he'd hardly had anything to drink with that dinner. It would be unbecoming.
The cold, punishing sting of rain lashing at the back of his neck when he stooped too far helped him to stave off the nausea, although if pressed he would have admitted that he did not feel at all well. The mud was looking ever better. They were at the gates, however, which meant there could not be much farther to go, and if Bertie was glad of the rain for keeping him present and lucid, the gentleman assisting him could not feel the same way about it, even under his fine hat.
"Did you think it would rain tonight?" Bertie asked, teeth gritted now not only from pain, but to keep from chattering as he spoke. "I didn't at all. I may not be a proper predictor of the weather."
The young man’s complexion was rapidly turning from grey to green, and while he was trying to maintain his composure, the small sounds of pain he was making every time he put down his foot for another labored step weren’t particularly promising.
The rain impossibly re-doubled its efforts, and Gabriel felt the fingers grasping his arm clench and spasm, and with a sigh, Gabriel paused. “Pardon,” he said, sweeping an arm under the young man’s legs. “I am fully aware it’s far from dignified,” he added, walking briskly with the man in his arms, trying not to jostle his ankle too badly, “but this will get us to our destination faster, and I’m concerned about your putting weight on that ankle for much longer.”
“And no,” he said, looking down at him with a bit of a grin, realizing the situation was more than ridiculous, “I even forgot my damned umbrella. What a mess.”
He could feel the young man shaking from a combination of cold and what might be shock in his arms. “Nearly there,” he said.
The surprise Bertie felt at being lifted in such a manner was quickly swept aside by relief at no longer having to put his weight on that damned ankle. Even the nausea seemed to recede, in spite of the rolling gait carrying him along which made Bertie feel as though he were rowing down the Thames. In the rain, obviously.
"You really are marvelously strong, aren't you?" he wondered aloud, unable to hold back the observation as he was now holding onto a truly impressive arm and shoulder, which were bulging as though to defy the seams and stitches which kept them so confined. Bertie expected them to burst their bonds at any moment now. "I'm sorry if I'm heavy, I shouldn't have had that second pie at supper. It was excellent pheasant, though, fresh off the estate. ...I do beg your pardon, where did you say you were from?"
He paused, realizing he'd done introductions backward and rudely, and admitted without meaning to, "I know I should offer my name, but at present I might be too embarrassed at the situation to do so. I feel rather like a heroine from a novel, being rescued like this, only I haven't any chaperone to disapprove and vow to tell my mother, so I've already created a scandal quite without trying."
Gabriel laughed at that as they finally made their way to the road and crossed it. “Well. I’d imagine as far as introductions go, this is a touch unorthodox, but I’m sure we’ll muddle through as best as we can. Gabriel Allen,” he said, grinning as he fumbled a little to pull open the door to the pub, the bartender looking over in all astonishment as they crossed the threshold.
“This gentleman has injured himself,” he called out. “Might we make use of your back room? And something warm and invigorating, I should think. Hot toddy, if you’ve got one.”
The bartender continued to gawp, but after a moment, waved them through, and they dripped their way to the back of the place, blessedly warm, and blessedly empty of onlookers.
Bertie tried to put on a brave face for the gawking spectators - nothing to see here, truly, merely some dashing heroics - but in the end was forced to alleviate some of his embarrassment by hiding his face entirely against Gabriel Allen's broad and rippling chest. "You may call me Leslie," he decided, naming a Cambridge chum on a whim. "Or perhaps Gilbert. Percy? Oh, it may as well be Bertie, for certainly only someone with my name, or at least some part of it, should have found themselves in this situation. It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. Mr Allen...Lord Allen?" Bertie hedged, not wanting to be improper. Rather, more improper.
"Do you know, I believe my father keeps hoping I should grow out of causing scandals, but I fail to see how even he might have predicted this one. I do hope you will let me stand you a drink, sir, and a meal at my club to show my gratitude. I hope you'll forgive me if I introduce you to any acquaintances with a somewhat poetically-altered regaling of this encounter. Perhaps I could have broken both legs and one arm, and even so I staggered staunchly on with the support of your arm."
Deposited onto a seat at last, Bertie clutched onto it and tried to keep the room from spinning dizzily. "Your arm," he repeated, talking almost mindlessly now to keep his mind from the throb of pain caused by mere contact with the hard floor. "Because it could not be anything more, I already come off terribly by comparison. Look at you. I dare say I shall have to put more thought into my physical exercise regimen. Mine is clearly woefully inadequate."
“You talk a great deal, don’t you,” Gabriel replied, amused, taking off his sopping wet overcoat and hat and hanging them on the back of a chair where they dolefully dripped onto the floor. “Whatever fiction you need to tell in order to maintain your honor among your clubmates, Bertie my lad, I am more than amenable to endorse should the opportunity arise. As long as it doesn’t end up being me that needs rescuing, that is,” he added with a grin and a laugh.
The bartender managed to rouse himself enough to be useful, and came by with a round of hot toddies. Gabriel sent him away again with a request for two clean barcloths, one he wouldn’t mind being torn into strips, and a bucket of ice, and the cut of Gabriel’s suit was apparently good enough to get him a nod of agreement and some further privacy.
“Just Mr. Allen will suit,” Gabriel continued, as he knelt to lift Bertie’s leg. “Gently,” he said, looking up at him. “Wouldn’t want you to faint on me, now,” he added, his mouth curling up at the corner.
“Now, Bertie,” he said, his expression suddenly serious. “I’m going to have to remove your shoe before your foot swells too much further. And it’ll most likely hurt, for which I apologize.”
The truth was, yes, Bertie did talk a lot. He might, however, have been talking even more than usual in an effort to be entertaining, because when he'd rambled on in the rain earlier, Mr Allen had laughed. Most often, the general response to Bertie going on about something was annoyance, or frustration, or well-meaning impatience at the best of times; but Mr Allen had laughed, and grinned, and only stopped smiling when he'd told Bertie his ankle was going to hurt quite a lot. Which he knew.
In addition, the transformation of Mr Allen's face from somber and gravely - ha! - concerned to smiling was like seeing a rare glimpse of sunshine from behind the ever-present London fog. He had a beautiful face for smiling. Bertie would talk for days if it would make him laugh again.
It was possible he'd become slightly delirious from the pain.
"Well," Bertie managed stoically, and not at all breathily and anxious about how much something might hurt if Mr Allen was warning him about it when Bertie was already in considerable pain. "It's a fine thing that I have this sturdy fainting couch, then. Not that I shall need it, I'm certain it will be more of a manly swoon."
He forced himself to swallow, eyes wide with trepidation but fixed on the reassuring gravity of Mr Allen's face. "Please," he managed a moment later, gripping tightly to his seat. "Do."
Mr Allen had not, in fact, been exaggerating about the additional pain. He did the best he could, but even with Bertie's - mostly useless - assistance, it was not a clean break, like popping a shoulder back into joint. It was more like having a tooth pulled, or Bertie's impression of such, waves of white fire licking up his leg as the boot was wiggled and pulled and finally wrenched off of him.
"There," Bertie said faintly, swaying in small circles where he sat but managing neither to faint nor vomit. "That was hardly anything at all."
“You did quite well,” Gabriel replied, looking up, concerned at the expression on his charge’s face, and wondering if it was possible for him to be much paler than he already was. “Truly,” he added. “Worst part’s done, now let’s get you out of that wet coat and get some hot toddy in you, and we’ll wrap and ice that ankle of yours before sending you on your way to get properly looked after.”
A particularly wobbly sway had Gabriel reach up awkwardly from his kneeling position to take hold of an arm, not wanting to drop or jar Bertie’s foot. “Steady on,” he said, gently.
It took some maneuvering -- they ended up having to worm Bertie out of his sopping overcoat while his leg was awkwardly hovering in mid-air before setting him up more comfortably on the bench (or as comfortably as could be managed), and Gabriel tutted at his lack of a suit coat underneath, and his wet shirt, which simply wouldn’t do.
“You know,” Gabriel continued thoughtfully, taking off his own suit coat, which had been kept relatively dry, and draping it unceremoniously over Bertie’s shoulders, “I’m rather glad I lingered on a bit longer than I’d planned tonight. Heaven help us if you’d tripped and fallen all on your own. That would’ve been decidedly more miserable, I’d imagine.” He patted Bertie heartily on the shoulder and passed him a steaming mug. “There,” he said. “Better, I hope?”
"Yes, thank you." Bertie wrapped his hands around the mug and found that, for all he was still soaked through and his ankle seemed to be swelling up more now with every dull throb of pain, it was true. "I cannot imagine being more properly looked after than I am now," he told Mr Allen solemnly, reaching over to tug a little at the warm coat wrapped around his shoulders.
He felt more subdued now, the energy having drained from him in their efforts to get him settled, leaving an odd sense of exhaustion after what had really not been such a trial, nor even taken terribly long. Bertie thought it could not have been an hour since he'd gone to the graveyard, which meant it was still early in the evening.
"I did mean to ask," Bertie said at last, in an effort to break the silent pause he'd created. "You did not appear to be well-equipped for rescuing graveyard blunderers after dark. Although I have reconsidered that opinion," he amended, snuggling slightly deeper into Gabriel's coat. "Clearly you are very capable with nothing to hand but your own facilities."
Unlike Bertie, who had managed to injure himself while doing nothing more than trying to escape the rain. "I suspect I would have brained myself on a headstone," he admitted a beat later, and dredged up a tired smile. "They would have been obliged to lay a second marker. 'Here lies Bertie, and there lies his unwitting and innocent murderer, may they both rest in peace.'"
Gabriel couldn’t help but chuckle at that, shaking his head as he took a sip of his own drink. “I was tending a grave, and stayed a little later than I’d planned,” he said, with a shrug. “It’s… well. One can get to talking, you know. Even if it is decidedly a one-way conversation.” He raised an eyebrow. “Now you… you brought a lantern, which tells me you were prepared for a night wandering among gravestones. Well. Somewhat prepared.” He grinned. “Mind telling me what mischief you were getting up to, then?”
The bartender’s return with the bucket and barcloths necessitated a pause in the conversation, and Gabriel made a bundle with one of the cloths and some ice, and passed it to Bertie. “There,” he said. “I know you’re quite cold enough already, but it’ll help some.” He sat in a nearby chair and started ripping the cloth into strips.
“Well?” He said, tipping his head Bertie’s way. “It’s the least you could do,” he added, teasing a little.
Bertie fumbled with the ice to buy himself some time, face flushed from embarrassment that he hoped Mr Allen would interpret as the effects of Bertie's (as yet untouched) toddy. "So you were out tending charitably to graves when you happened upon someone in need of rescue from the rain and malicious headstones. You may be a saint, sir. Certainly noble, and I am grateful for it," he added in a softer tone of voice, lest his joking be misinterpreted as a mockery of Mr Allen's fine character. "I am certain your...anyone graced with your conversation and attention, could not help but feel the same way."
He fidgeted a bit, nearly spilled the toddy over Mr Allen's borrowed coat, and forced himself to be still. "I was...pursuing an investigation. All entirely legal!" he assured Mr Allen at once, earnestness in his voice and his features. "That is what I do, I'm afraid, when left to my own devices. Well, it is what I do for...that is, my profession as well, I am in training to be an investigator, but it also sometimes becomes a...ah, leisure activity? I cannot seem to know when to leave it alone."
Bertie sighed heavily, knowing that this was one of those times he should have left it alone, and he could imagine the Chief Inspector's face if Bertie had spent the night with a swollen ankle in a graveyard during a downpour, obliged to stay at home the following day with a case of ague.
“An investigator in training, hm?” Gabriel replied, a little surprised. He wouldn’t have pegged the man as the sort who enjoyed working -- he’d known far, far too many like him who frittered away their time going to parties and bars, and lolling about on couches complaining about their losses at the last horse race. He’d been expecting some wild story in order to cover for trying to meet up surreptitiously with a lover -- although the graveyard was a little less well-traveled than certain parks.
“Your persistence does you credit,” he said, thoughtfully. “Although it most likely could’ve held off til morning -- graveyards provide a rather captive audience who don’t tend to travel as a general rule. What are you investigating, then? If you can say, that is. And would you care to wrap your own ankle, or should I try my best?” He asked, the cloth now in strips across his knee.
"Oh, no," Bertie exclaimed, rousing a little and searching for somewhere to set his toddy aside before simply shifting it awkwardly to one hand. "I couldn't possibly, you've done more than practically anyone would already. I can manage, I'm sure."
He retrieved the strips of bandage from Mr Allen's knee with care and only a little one-handed awkwardness, and set to wrapping himself up as efficiently as anyone with very little practical knowledge of first aid could. It helped that this was not the first time Bertie's clumsiness had resulted in a sprain or worse, and so he knew the principle of the thing, even if he was usually whining and complaining his way through it rather than paying close attention.
"And, well," Bertie continued on, face warming again, "you are quite correct, the morning would have been a far better time, but I am not at the best in the mornings--truly, if you think I am clumsy now, you should see me before dawn--and this is...something I am pursuing on my own time, outside of the office. It is a favor I am hoping to do for someone I esteem highly.
“I have not done very well at it so far," he sighed, giving up on juggling the toddy at last and deciding that drinking it all down was the only way to keep himself from staining Mr Allen's coat. It was hot and bracing, and Bertie felt much better when he lowered the mug to the floor a moment later. Suddenly the bandaging did not seem such an insurmountable task as it had before, when he'd had only one hand and less whiskey in his belly.
"It is a cold case," Bertie blurted a moment later, looking up at Mr Allen with wide, startled eyes. "I realize I...I may have given you the wrong impression, just now. It is not anything of which my superiors would disapprove, I assure you--it is merely that the department's resources are concentrated elsewhere, so I have taken this upon myself in my leisure hours."
“I certainly can’t find any fault with that,” Gabriel replied, taking up his toddy again and leaning back in his chair, looking over at Bertie and raising an appraising eyebrow. “It’s actually rather admirable, taking on extra work outside of one’s usual hours, doing one’s best to solve a case otherwise left to gather dust.” He tipped his glass. “I approve,” he said, smiling, “for what it’s worth. Even if it did end up with you nearly braining yourself on a headstone.”
He smiled, tipping his head a little in Bertie’s direction. “I’d never fault a man for being truly passionate about his chosen profession. So many turn up their nose at those who’d work for a living, but when the work is something one takes true pride and satisfaction in… well. I can think of far worse ways to spend one’s time on earth.”
“You’re looking significantly better,” he added. “It’s good to see you not quite so frightfully pale.”
"I feel much revived, thank you," Bertie replied, pleased to be able to say it, and nearly as pleased with the towel-wrapped bulk of his crudely-bandaged ankle, which had protested the binding but actually felt much better now for being so immobilized. "I really do hope you'll let me repay your kindness in some small way. You have gone above and beyond the acts of a good Samaritan, seeing me safely here, and...your coat, even," Bertie finished lamely, gesturing to it. "I would be pleased to treat you to dinner, tonight even, if you haven't dined already, although neither of us paints the best picture of ourselves at the moment..."
Bertie finally looked at his rescuer then, really looked, and had to amend his last statement, because Mr Allen painted a very fine picture indeed, and it was as though Bertie had been oblivious earlier to the fact that he was in shirtsleeves, having given up his coat for Bertie's comfort, and there was still rain clinging to his trousers and cuffs and possibly even inside his collar where the rain had run down, and Bertie was laid out in similar fashion, with the addition of a fine sheen of sweat from their efforts to treat his ankle, and it was very nearly indecent, actually, the picture they painted together, and Bertie had no idea why he'd failed so completely to notice it before. Perhaps he had the toddy to thank for noticing it now.
He was staring, he rebuked himself, and if he didn't speak soon, Mr Allen would have him tossed out for being an invert and no doubt wish to reclaim his coat. "Ah. What do you do?" Bertie blurted, grasping after a conversational lead. "You speak as though you have a...a calling, yourself."
Oh, God, what if he were a priest? That seemed all too likely, given the altruistic offer of assistance, and even the grave-visiting. Bertie might have been staring at a priest in shirtsleeves. A damp priest.
"Mine is not nearly so noble," Bertie stammered out, trying to divert his thoughts from possible priests and damp shirts. "It is kind of you to say so, but I'm rather ashamed to say that, while I do sometimes act purely from curiosity, which is not a virtue either, my current investigation stands to benefit me, so it cannot be lauded as a charitable act. I am sorry for it," he said, and meant it. He was suddenly disappointed that he wasn't pursuing a case simply to right some terrible wrong and see justice served. It seemed the sort of thing Mr Allen would do, for no reason besides that it stood to be done. "I wish it were for better motives."
Bertie’s looks were improved significantly by a return of the color to his cheeks, and Gabriel couldn’t help but notice the more focused concentration he was receiving now that the man was a bit more pulled together -- a look that he knew all too well.
He met the other man’s gaze evenly, taking a slow sip of his drink. He tended to practice significant caution about this sort of thing as a general rule -- it tended to be far less fraught in certain circles than others, where there were additional layers of secrets ensuring a general need for discretion -- but he had to admit, he was pleased by the attention. “Oh, I dabble,” he said, waving a hand a little dismissively. “I invest in a few things here and there, and I do charitable work, of course,” he added. “So, you see, neither of us are particularly as noble as we might be.”
Grinning slowly, he shrugged a little. “And I can still admire a man’s ambition, even if it is a touch self-serving. So never fear -- you haven’t lost my approval yet.”
Leaning forward, he looked up at Bertie. “I thought you’d already eaten?” He asked. “You were going on about… oh… pheasant pie, I believe?” He laughed a little, not unkindly. “And we do make a sight, don’t we. Not that I’d be averse to sharing a meal with you, but if you’d just be sitting there in your wet things and watching me eat instead of going home for a hot bath, well.” He tipped his head. “Perhaps another time?” He asked. “I think I’d quite like that. Tonight, though, a hot bath is most definitely in order, I should think.”
He shifted a fraction, his knee brushing against Bertie’s as he craned his neck to look down at the ankle. “More ice?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No, no, it's fine," Bertie assured, reaching down to pat the bundle of ice and wincing only slightly at the contact with his ankle. "I feel myself returning to tip-top shape in no time. And yes, I did already dine...did I really tell you about the pheasant pies? Both of them, I recall," he sighed as he thought back, although it was hard not to be touched that Mr Allen had listened to his ramblings enough to remember them. "But if you hadn't eaten yet, I could hardly express my gratitude for your kindness by turning you out, cold and hungry, into the rain. And while this place has very fine towels -" he nodded to his bandages "- I am less certain of their comestibles."
There was a pause while Bertie revisited Mr Allen's vague answer to his question, and then he favored Mr Allen with a narrow-eyed look. "How does a profession of charitable work, even among other things, make you less noble?" he inquired, rolling his eyes a little to show he was teasing, if sincere in his compliment. "Although if it means I have your approval, I shall stop protesting, as I can't see myself earning that for anything else tonight."
It was difficult not to sound as disappointed in that as he felt, when Mr Allen was suddenly so very close, and favoring him with a brief press of their knees together. Bertie had to be stern with himself not to think about the details of disrobing for the purpose of hot baths. "An investigator and a dabbler," he mused cheerfully, only a little breathy from the sight of Mr Allen looking up through his lashes in that disconcerting way. "We make quite an interesting pair. There could be a serial in the paper relating our adventures in unlikely scenarios."
Bertie's tongue attempted to dart out to wet his lips. He bit it instead. "Not this one," he clarified when he'd got hold of himself again. "I come off far too badly in this one. We shall have to have another."
Gabriel clapped a hand on Bertie’s shoulder. “It’s quite kind of you to be so concerned, but truly, don’t you worry about my supper tonight,” he said. “I’d much rather know you’re bundled off home, and will most likely bundle myself home as well. No use catching a cold over a spot of rain, I say. I’ll just have to look forward to seeing you again, sometime.”
“And I do believe there’s all sorts of adventures we might get ourselves in,” he added, giving the younger man’s shoulder a light squeeze, “...some more fit for public consumption than others,” he added with a wink, his tone teasing, and he reached for his overcoat hanging on the chair to fish around for his wallet.
“Here,” he said, “my card. I’ll hold you to that dinner.”