Paper Doll - Part One of Ten
Sep. 15th, 2011 06:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Face/OMC, Hannibal/Face
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mentions of domestic violence and underage
Summary: Part One of a fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
Ok. This idea has been in my head a while. And it won't leave. So here goes.
Face is the trophy partner of an older man. He's comfortable, has everything he could want, well everything he's supposed to want anyway.
Hannibal works for the guy, he's...idk...the caretaker?, maintenance man?
Something breaks, Face needs something, again, idk. They meet.
Cue desire, angst, stolen kisses, forbidden (brain-meltingly hot) sex.
Can be resolved however you want, and using whatever time period suits.
I just have this image of sweaty!hard-working!Hannibal and gorgeous!perfectly-dressed!Face staring at each other. Yearning.
Long prompt is long.
I shouldn't re-read the classics late at night - it's bad for me.
When Templeton Peck arrived at Colonel Lynch’s estate in Long Island, New York, he had no idea who he would meet there, or what would happen because of it.
Templeton Peck rubbed a hand across his mouth, letting his face fall down into his chin, elbow resting on the handle of the Rolls-Royce, watching the green lawn fall away into the drive of the massive estate house. Closer, closer, that place, with every turn of white-walled tires. And he felt nervousness flit through him.
Don’t be such a woman, Peck, he ordered himself. You know him, you trusted him with your life, he saved you from the trenches, claimed you for his own. You belong to him anyway...
He thought of the letter again, tucked in the inside pocket of his best suit, the only one suited to such a meeting as this, rather than the loose Chicago nights, and shivered as he touched it.
Lieutenant Peck,
I trust this meager note finds you in good health. I’ve thought of you often over the years since we parted, with fond recollection of our days of service together. If you would but join me at my family’s estate in New York, perhaps we could share in that recollection together. I wish to offer you a position on my staff, commiserate with the one you held while we were serving together in 1918...
Part of him hoped now, as he’d hoped when he first saw the letter, that this was an offer of a job, to merely be the Colonel’ secretary or something like that, but the meaning was clear as glass. The Colonel wished him where he had been, on his knees, on his back, and it had been so long since somebody had treated him with that same kind of care...
He’d thought of the Colonel fondly, too.
Very, very fondly.
And the man had bothered to take the trouble to track him down...
What was he to refuse such a man such a singular offer?
“Nervous?” the man in the seat across from him asked, grinning that lopsided grin of his. Murdock, the eccentric fellow who played butler to the Colonel. Who’d found him in Chicago a week ago to deliver the simple note and help him make arrangements, took him away, brought him here, Long Island...
The blonde man shook his head. “Of course not. I’m...I’m honored he still remembers me. Blanc Mont Ridge was a long time ago...”
“Three years is not so much time, Mr. Peck,” the butler replied in his soft tones, light Texan accent. “He speaks of you constantly. His lieutenant from the War. You occupy a special place in his heart.”
Templeton bit down on his thumb, the car stopping now, its gleaming length crunching to a halt in thick gravel. “I would...” he began, and looked directly at the butler as he said it, “I would appreciate it, Mr. Murdock, if you didn’t tell the Colonel where you found me. I couldn’t bear for him to know.”
“It’s just Murdock, Mr. Peck,” the dark-haired man replied, and cracked the door.
“Please,” Templeton said again, grabbing for the butler’s arm. “He wouldn’t want to hear that one of his men was working in a speakeasy...”
“It’s gonna be okay,” the butler assured him, and scrambled out of the car, holding the door for him. “May I be the first to welcome you home?”
The young man got out, settling his hat into its normal raking slant on his thick curls, and looked up at the place before him. It was grand, not in the way that the new, so-called skyscrapers in Chicago were grand. Grand in the way Paris had been, when the Colonel took him there during the War, the Illuminated City wrapped in grandeur and mystery, even in the midst of that conflict. And Templeton felt himself shivering in his light khaki jacket. Home. Yes, that was what the Colonel had asked of him, demanded of him, the call he had dared not disobey...
“Come along, Mr. Peck!” the butler called, Templeton’s single, battered suitcase in hand. “I’ll show you to your rooms!”
Behind him, the big black chauffeur was talking through the window to some tall, lanky man who’d just appeared, shears in hand, resting against, stained shirtsleeves rolled up and half his buttons undone. They both stopped when they realized he was looking over, and for a moment, Templeton’s eyes locked with those of the tall man.
Blue.
Blue eyes, very nearly the same color as his own, and he felt a flush creeping up from beneath his starched collar, locked into that very intense gaze, like the man was looking right through him...
“Mr. Peck?” the butler called again, and Templeton felt a rush of shame come over him. This wasn’t Paris, this wasn’t even Chicago, where vice was for sale on every corner and nobody begrudged a man his particular brand of pleasure. This was Long Island, and he wasn’t sure what they would think...
But it was no time to be worried about the perceptions around him. The butler was waiting, with his luggage, no less, and the young man pulled himself together and hurried up the stairs, into the vast house beyond.
“So tell me, Murdock,” Templeton entreated as they went up stairs and down a corridor, passing framed sabers and elephant guns, family relatives captured in heavy-handed oils on canvas forever, rich Turkish carpets beneath their feet. “Is the Colonel home? I admit, I’ve longed to see him.”
“No, no,” the butler replied and stopped, drawing a ring of keys from his pocket. “He had business to attend to in Manhattan. He’s into the stock market now, since he retired...”
“Of course,” the blonde replied softly.
Murdock turned the key and then stood, clapping Templeton on the shoulder. “Buck up there, old chap,” he said, going into a perfect Old Empire accent. “He wants you, our lordship does.” He pushed the door open and bowed a little, more for his own humor than for any real etiquette purposes, Templeton suspected. “And here you are.”
The young man stared.
The room was done in the latest style, all angles and clean sweeps of delicate iron, flowing glass, pale and inviting in the light from the wide bay window that overlooked long gardens spreading out behind the property. It was beautiful, far nicer than the tiny, gritty room he’d inhabited in Chicago. The one forced on him by mean circumstance. Beautiful, so beautiful...
“Mine?” he breathed, taking in the low bed, draped in pale gold, and a horrible thought clenched at him. “Are you certain? But the Colonel...”
“His room is down the hall,” Murdock explained, taking Templeton’s suitcase over to the open closet, huge, empty but for a single garment bag. “But this and its adjoining room are yours. He had it all decorated special for you. I've got you an appointment with the tailor tomorrow, and we'll get an expense account set up for ya. The Colonel wants to be sure you're as comfortable as possible while...”
"He always did love beautiful things," the young man murmured to himself, running a hand across the bed, hating the thought of sleeping in it alone. He was seized by a horrible thought. "But why my own room? aren’t I here for him? I thought he wanted...”
“You are,” the butlet said. “But this isn’t Paris, Mr. Peck. People are not so understanding of his Honor around here.”
Templeton leaned on the window, staring out over the lawn, feeling overwhelmed. And then he saw it. A man striding down one of the paths, strong, confident, that man from before, the gardener, the one who had looked at him with such...
He shivered. Turned away.
“May I see where the Colonel sleeps?” he asked. “I’d, I’d like to see...”
Murdock nodded, like he understood completely. “Come on. I’ll give you the full tour.” Then his eye sparkled and he grabbed Templeton by the elbow, leading him away. “Now, Mr. Peck, this house was built in 1833 by the Colonel’s great-granddaddy, who was fond of killing some of the animals you’re going to see on the walls...”
+++++
By the time the tour had concluded, three hours had passed, he’d shaken a dozen different hands in a dozen different little corners of the grounds, and Templeton was fairly confident he could recite the entire history of the estate and the Colonel’s family, back to his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, who’d been some sort of sea captain in the British Royal Navy. Old money, very old money, every inch of the place, and the young man was feeling a bit overwhelmed again.
He was relieved when he found himself back in that pleasant room, quiet and still, Murdock laying out the contents of the garment bag. A dark jacket, good quality, a fine material, and Templeton stared. “Is that...”
“...dinner jacket? Yup, that it is,” Murdock said, stepping back and crossing his arms. He looked down by his side. “No Bill, you’re gonna get those white little hairs all over Mr. Peck’s nice clothes.”
“Billy?” the blonde asked, raising an eyebrow.
Murdock shook his head, and knelt down, miming petting some imaginary thing. “The joys of being a dog owner,” he said, and smiled up at Templeton, still petting. “Supper’s in an hour. I gotta go check on the cook.”
“Will the Colonel be home then?” Templeton asked, stroking a hand down the jacket. Yes, good quality. Better than anything he’d owned back in Chicago and the newest cut. Tailored. His size. “Will I see him tonight?”
The butler nodded, scratching his dog’s ears now. “He’s asked me to have you ready to dine with him. And he usually don’t dine with nobody.”
“I’m honored,” he murmured, thinking again about his bar, the mob, the constant pressure to get deeper in on the bootlegging business, how they’d wanted him, the entreaties, the threats...worse than the trenches, that place. Worse. One never knew who had a gun, who was going to shoot, where death would come, in bed or the dance hall or the street...
“Bath is through that door, is case you want to freshen up a bit,” Murdock said and rose, snapping for the dog to follow, shutting the door.
Leaving Templeton alone.
He started stripping his tired clothes off, piece by piece, tie first, as he wandered into the bathroom, admiring the gleaming countertops and the tasteful selection of toiletries. Huge, that bath, and warm water rose instantly to the tap. He plugged the tub and wandered back out while it filled, tossing tie and jacket and shirt on the bed, the one he hoped he’d never have to use, staring out that wide window, out at the setting sun.
No sign of the gardener, the one who had looked at him so strangely, not that one, on his walk of the grounds. He’d met most everyone else, though, Murdock had said. Most of the staff seemed pleasant enough, unworried or unmindful of their employer’s tastes, or smart enough not to be rude to his new...whatever he was.
Which brought up an interesting question; what did this make him? Coming here, knowing damn well what the Colonel wanted, willing to give it. He’d been little more than a boy, when the Colonel had found him in the ranks, seventeen and barely that, enlistment a better option than the dank hole of an orphanage he’d been living in, or the streets, or in a whorehouse somewhere. But the veteran officer had treated him as if he’d been something special, some valued, something that deserved care, and now he’d come again when the man had called. To this house. Leaving the hollow, dull shine of his life in Chicago behind. To be...
“A damned fool,” he muttered to himself and shook it off. No point in worrying about it now. He was still sore from the overnight express train - a first class bunk was still a bunk on a train - and the bath would feel nice. And after all this effort the Colonel had gone through for him, he wanted to make sure he was at his best for the man.
His man. From now on. With any measure of luck. If he played his cards right... and he sighed, not wanting to think of this thing in practical terms. Templeton fingered the satin of that jacket once more, and padded barefoot into the fogging bath.
+++++
Templeton was just coming down the stairs, hair perfectly in place, not a thread out of order, wearing a splash of that rich cologne that had been left out for him, playing with the open ends of his sleeves, when he heard a car pull into the drive.
He hurried down the main staircase, slightly panicked. Everything had been in order, everything, except for cufflinks, which he had not been able to find anywhere. He’d left his own back in Chicago, the ones he'd purchased with the proceeds of a short dalliance, the butler insisting that the Colonel would take care of his needs. He would have felt bad, wearing such a thing in front of such an honorable man as his own commander, but he’d wanted to make a good impression. Not having those, he felt incomplete...
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the big door cracked, and swung inward, filling with the imposing form of...
“Lieutenant! Lieutenant Templeton Peck! How are you, my boy?”
He smiled with relief, remembering that boy, smiling at the man striding towards him. He was broader than he’d been back in the European theater, a bit rounder, a bit grayer, but his chocolate-dark eyes were keen and he was still handsome and he looked even better in that double-breasted suit than he had in his uniform khakis. “Colonel,” Templeton replied with a nod, tilting his chin up in invitation. “I’m well.”
“It’s so good to see you! After I’d heard you’d returned to the States, I wanted to extend this invitation then and there. But you didn’t come back to New York,” the Colonel said, stopping right in front of him, running a hand down his throat, across his shoulders, like he was sizing him up. Inspecting him, and Templeton felt another wave of nervousness about the cuff-links. He’d wanted to be perfect. “It was all I could do to find you.”
“It’s an honor you even remembered me,” he said, biting his lip.
“An honor?” the Colonel nodded slowly. “No, it almost killed me leaving you in Paris after the Treaty was signed. But you seemed so emphatic about it...”
“I...I didn’t think there was anything to be gained by coming back,” Templeton admitted, feeling the Colonel’s long, soft hands drop to encircle his wrists. “I didn’t think you’d want me still.”
“You’re mine, Templeton,” and the Colonel’s voice took on a bit of a hard tone. “You will always be mine. Do you know how long I looked for you, how worried I’ve been?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, dropping his head a bit.
The colonel stepped back, as if he was thinking about something very hard, and then smiled. “It doesn’t matter now. You’ve come, and I do hope you’ll consider this house your home from here on out.”
Templeton closed his eyes, feeling those words sink deep into him, and nodded. “It’d be...”
“An honor?” And the Colonel’s eyes were sparkling with humor. “And before I forget,” he added, digging in his pocket, drawing out a small velvet box embossed with the Tiffany’s logo. “I had Bosco stop me off on the way home to pick up a little something I had commissioned for you.” He snapped the lid open. “Such a beautiful boy deserves beautiful things, don’t you agree?”
Templeton felt his throat clench up, cutting his air off for a moment or two. Nestled there in the box, in a pile of dramatic red satin, were two diamond cufflinks, stones square-cut and set in gold. Huge stones... “my god,” he gasped, looking back up at the Colonel. “Sir, you shouldn’t, you didn’t have to...”
“I know I don’t need to, Templeton,” the Colonel said, lifting the first up and slipping it through the hand-sewn buttonholes of one sleeve, then the other. “But you’ll forgive an old man if he wants to dote on his lover, won’t you?”
Warmth spread through Templeton at those words, that lover, and he felt all that earlier nervousness start to wash away. “Yes, sir, I...”
The second one in, everything in place, the Colonel held the younger man’s wrists and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “Besides,” he whispered in Templeton’s ear, “I’m sure you can find a way to thank me later.”
He shivered in anticipation. “Of course, sir.”
“Good boy. Now what do you say we get on with our evening?”
And everything flowed from there.
Templeton knew this rhythm from Paris, from those weeks of leave they spent there. Dinner, scotch, cigars, talk, all those enthralling stories of the Colonel’s exploits fresh and new again. The talk stopping. The little time to retire, don’t you think, Templeton? spoken aloud with a little, quirking smile. Heading upstairs, to the bedroom, the Colonel’s huge bedroom, undressing the Colonel with fluid movements, kisses pressed to bare skin, worshipping that body. The Colonel lying back, bidding him to strip for his pleasure, stroking his own hardening manhood. Being bared, naked, drawn in, kissed, pressed down, stretched and oiled, entered, belly sliding on cool sheets, again and again and again, his own hand around his cock, the muscles working against his back, the Colonel’s shaft working deep inside, flooding him...
When it ended, when the pulses stopped, Templeton listened to breath cool in the evening air as the Colonel slipped free, rolled over on his back, and stroked his face with weak fingers. Templeton knew that cue, and automatically slid from the bed, fetching a washcloth from the bathroom and cleaning them both with smooth, easy movements.
The Colonel caught his wrist as soon as he was done, a little stronger, and pulled him back onto the bed. Templeton dropped the cloth on the nightstand and let himself be guided, laid down and positioned into the sheets, into that warm bed, shared by a man who cared so for him...
His older lover turned into him, tickling across his ribs.
“You’ll be ready for me, Templeton, when I want you,” the Colonel whispered, pulling the young man closer, hand resting possessively on his back. “Here, unless I tell you otherwise. And you will sleep with me, if we do not have company that might not understand. In public, we must be discreet, and whatever I must say or do is what I must. In private or in front of the staff, I will touch you, kiss you, do what I wish. These are the rules we must abide by. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“You’ll want for nothing, my boy. Anything you desire, it’s yours. Whatever you’ve gone through in the past, it’s over now. I want to see these care lines gone from your eyes. I want you to have your happiness.”
Templeton felt his heart swell, just a little, overriding the faint, very faint inking of dread at some of those words, and kissed the curve of the Colonel’s neck. The man he’d idolized, adored during the War.. “If I am here with you, sir, I will be happy.”
“Good, good,” the Colonel chuckled, stroking a hand through Templeton’s thick curls. “That is a good thing to hear. It’s so good, having you here with me...”
“I feel the same, sir,” the young man murmured, nuzzling in to the crook of a warm arm, under the covers, comfortable, safe. And if he was waiting for the little I love you he’d been hoping for, ever since the Colonel had first touched him on the shoulder and locked the office door, he didn’t get it that night.
But maybe, he told himself, someday, maybe, that would come in time, this time...
+++++
It was five days before Templeton found out who the gardener was.
Five days of shopping, standing for tailors, collecting finished items, dressing for dinner, undressing after...five long days, it seemed, but it wasn’t a bad way to live. A delight, really. Free choice of everything, anything, the finest things he could want, things he could never have obtained on his own. Nothing to worry about, nothing at all to concern him. Just as the Colonel had promised.
It was hard, the relaxing. He’d been on edge for too long, he figured. It’d been like this after the War ended, those first few months in Paris. Hearing the screams at night, the shells exploding overhead, the gunfire, the sirens, most of all the sirens. He’d been alone in his sleep then, though, no lover lasting more than a few nights, dreams falling through his mind, cold and burning.
Here, though, here he had the Colonel, the warm, solid bulk of the Colonel to curl up with, something real to reach out for in the night when the memories of bodies in alleys and casual murders, the threats, the torture...
But as intoxicating as all the luxury was, Templeton was finding it somewhat boring. He had no friends on Long Island - although the Colonel promised to get him out society at the next available moment - and no hobbies. The house had a grand library, something he intended to make use of at a later date, but for the moment, he wanted something physical, a way to burn off all the extra energy.
So he found himself wandering the grounds, talking long walks, taking it all in, enjoying the feel of the sun on his skin. He’d worked mostly nights in Chicago. It was a pleasure to be up during daylight hours. And that day seemed especially nice, not too hot or humid, a nice breeze...
Templeton walked right into something and stumbled, hard.
And a hand caught him.
“You should be more careful, Mr. Peck,” a soft voice told him, that hand pushing him back up. “You might fall right in to something you wouldn’t want to. Those nice clothes of yours.”
The young man looked down at the individual who’d just spoken, at the muddy handprint he’d left right on his shoulder, and huffed. “Not so nice now.”
The man, the tall gardener, recoiled a bit. “Sorry,” he said, looking down at his hands and wiping them casually on the legs of his baggy workpants, suspenders shrugged off his shoulders, loose shirt rolled up past his elbows. “But it could have been worse.”
A quick glance in front of him revealed a freshly dug bed, half-planted with gardenias, and Templeton felt embarrassed as he tried to brush the mud off his pale polo. “Oh,” he said.
“Yeah. Oh.” And the gardener sat back, tipping his hat up so he could look Templeton in the eye. “Don’t worry about the shirt. I’m sure the Colonel will buy you another one.”
Something in the way the older man said it made the younger extremely uncomfortable. Horribly uncomfortable. And then, that gaze, turning him inside out, seeking out every secret he had, breaking in, taking what he wanted... “I'm sure he will.”
“He loves his beautiful things, and loves his things beautiful,” the gardener said. “Wants to keep them clean and shiny.”
“Nobody’s keeping me...”
The gardener smiled, and went back to work, trowel in hand. “You think the Colonel’s got you here out of the kindness of his heart?”
Templeton felt like the ground was shifting out from under him, like he was falling. Who the hell was this man to say something like that to him? “You obviously don’t know the man very well. He was my commander in Europe, he raised me to Lieutenant, he recognized my potential...”
“In his bed, a kid like you? Absolutely he did.”
“You are out of line! How dare you say something like that to me!” Templeton snapped, anger taking over. He’d been trampled on his whole life, spent years fighting for respect, and he knew exactly what he was. But if he couldn’t demand that respect here... “I’ll have your name, sir.”
“To report to the butler?” There was another one of those chuckles, deep and almost sweet. “Let me give you a tip, kid, we’re old friends, he and I, fought wars of our own together. So save yourself the trouble.”
“When a man insults me or the people I care about, I like to know his name,” he replied flatly.
And the tall man stood. Smiled a little, looking at him, and offered him his hand. “John Hannibal Smith, Mr. Peck. I wasn’t trying to insult you. I think you should know the truth about the man you’re involved with.”
His palm was still dirty, but Templeton wasn’t about to be outdone by the man. So he took it and shook firmly, staring him right in the eye despite the way things seemed to be sliding apart, how warm he was growing... “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Smith. And I know the truth about the man I’m involved with. Maybe you should reconsider your own position.”
This Smith fellow pressed his lips together, something flitting behind those blue eyes of his, and he let go. “If a man such as yourself cares for him, perhaps I shall.”
“Good,” Templeton said, still feeling a bit dizzy. But that had to just be the anger ebbing away, he told himself. Not the way that big, rough hand had slid around his own, fitting just right, so perfect... “Good.”
The gardener smiled, and looked up at the sun. “It’s getting late. You should get in, get that shirt changed before the Colonel gets home.”
He nodded, not sure what just happened there and turned, shuffling a few steps down the smooth pavers, before it hit him. And he had to turn and ask. “Mr. Smith? What do you mean, a man such as myself?”
Mr. Smith didn’t look up from his flowers. “You’re right, kid, I was out of line. I’m sorry.”
Templeton nodded, knowing that should have appeased him, but the words, the sound of the man’s voice, that low, sweet timbre, stayed with him on the long walk up to the house.
After he washed his hands, though, stripped off the dirtied shirt and fetched something a little more appropriate for a casual supper, as the Colonel had indicated this morning, he looked out his wide window and saw the man again. Carrying his tools away in their bucket, hat slanted back, suspenders loose below his hips, off to wherever it was he went at night. Like he didn't have a care in the world.
And he made a note to ask Murdock about that Mr. John Hannibal Smith. Just to thorough. Of course. No other reason to be had.
Then he heard the faint sounds of Bosco’s car and the butler was knocking on his door, telling him it was time to come down and he shrugged the clean oxford on. Buttoning as he went. He could figure it out later. Right now, he had his man to please.
+++++
That night, dinner was light and the Colonel had not a drop of alcohol with it, his eyes glinting with lust the second he walked in the door. Templeton remembered what that meant, and thanked his stars the Colonel allowed him a five minute head start. It wasn’t quite enough time to stretch himself as much as he’d have wanted, and his clothes were all quite ruined by the time they were done.
“Beautiful boy,” the Colonel murmured when he'd pulled free, hand heavy in Templeton’s sweaty locks as the younger man wiped him down. “My beautiful, beautiful boy.”
And after his lover fell asleep, in the silence of his lover's room, Templeton kept hearing the damn gardener’s words.
He loves his beautiful things, and loves his things beautiful...
It took him a long time to fall asleep after that.
And when he did, the rough play of the evening infected Templeton’s dreams. The play of the man who cared for him turned in to something vile and mean, like a few times in Chicago, when he was caught in an alley, some man still thrusting into him, guns coming out and he was chased, chased in terror down dark streets he couldn’t escape...
Templeton woke at the touch of a hand to his cheek. He jerked up and away, body reacting instantly, smashing his naked body back against the ancient and ornate headboard, panting hard, unable to remember where he was, what he was...
“Shh, Templeton, my boy, the deep bass of the Colonel’s voice soothed, rubbing his hair. “You’re quite alright. Were you having a nightmare?”
He closed his eyes and remembered how frequent those had been during the War, how the Colonel had held him on those nights he woke up screaming, and he nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Never apologize to me for that,” the older man murmured, moving to stroke a hand down Templeton’s face. “You saw so many horrible things, so young, so fragile. So many terrible things...”
He nodded slowly, feeling his heart slow back to its normal rate. The Colonel understood. Of course he did. “But I had you.”
"Of course you did." Those dark eyes crinkled at the corners, and the Colonel kissed him softly. “And you always will, darling boy.”
Templeton wanted more of that kiss, feeling himself start to harden at the contact, needing his man, but the Colonel broke it far too soon. Swung out of bed for a wash, having the young blonde scrub his back and dry him off and suck him once more, before getting dressed. Underthings and socks and shirt and trousers, that rich pinstripe he wore to his offices, and still naked, Templeton helped with all of it. Sliding the tie into place, last of all, straightening the coordinating handkerchief in the wide breast pocket.
“You look masterful, sir,” he said softly and stroked his hands lightly down the front of the fine Italian wool. Templeton leaned in, daring a kiss, and the Colonel laughed as he kissed back and pushed his young lover away.
“You’ll be the death of me, boy, trying to seduce me before work.”
Templeton smiled back, biting his lip just like he knew the Colonel liked. “You’ll have to let me some day.”
“Maybe,” and those chocolate eyes were dancing with lust. “But,” the Colonel continued, turning away, towards the door, out, Templeton realized, heart falling a little, “not today. Not tomorrow, for that matter, for tomorrow we are going to have company. A bit of a soiree to welcome my long-lost nephew to society. Does that sound nice, Templeton?”
The blonde man smiled wider. “Sounds keen, sir.”
“Good, good. I know you’ve likely been bored around here this week, alone with nothing to do, but such matter must be handled delicately, of course.” The Colonel stopped at the door, and came back for one more kiss, running his fingers down Templeton’s chest, taking his manhood in and stroking lightly as he pulled away. Templeton shuddered and stared up at his lover, who just chuckled and moved away again. “Go back to bed, Templeton. Enjoy your lazy morning. Enjoy everything.”
And then the Colonel was gone.
The blonde waited for a few minutes, until he heard the car and knew the Colonel had departed for the day. Only then did he throw on one of those rich Oriental silk robes his lover had provided him with, and padded barefoot down the hall to his own room, his own bath, and try to soak some of the soreness out of his buttocks.
It took him until the water started to grow cold to realize nothing but time was going to help him with that, that day. He washed and dried himself, dressed casual, lingering a little at the closet, the gardener’s words coming again to haunt him.
He loves his beautiful things, and loves his things beautiful...
Templeton was a man who’d always prided himself on his appearance. It was important, he told himself then, showing a good face to the world. The right face. Exactly what they needed to see of him and nothing more.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he told himself firmly, but chose something a bit more relaxed for the day. Another shade of those comfortable, wide-legged trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled, matching pale vest. Simple. Casual
Casual enough to saunter down to the kitchen, where the butler was drawing peals of laughter from the fat old cook and her cute little assistant with some story about Indians and Mexicans, down in California, or some such nonsense as that. Templeton shoved his hands in his pockets and listened for a moment, chuckling a little himself, before pushing all the way in to the warm room, as cook was dumping pans of fresh bread out on the work table with a long paddle. Her young assistant was busy putting fruit and coffee and something that looked suspiciously like bacon, something he hasn’t seen since they got here. The entire space smelled, in a word, heavenly.
“Can get some of that, ma’am?” he asked innocently, looking at the basket.
The cook started. “Mr. Peck. I was just about to start on your breakfast. You’re normally not up before the Colonel leaves, and I thought...”
He smiled for her. That smile nobody could resist. “Can you at least send up some bacon, then? I’ve been meaning to ask, but...” and he trailed off, not wanting to say that he wasn’t comfortable, that he still felt like a bit of a stranger, a guest, with no right to question his host’s hospitality.
The old lady pressed her lips together, like she was trying to keep some answer in, but Murdock made a little harump sound in the back of his throat and cut it all off. “Go ‘head, cookie. Add another coffee for Mr. Peck here and toss it all in. He can come with me.” The butler winked at Templeton as the cook and her assistant got to work. “We’re gonna have us a picnic, if that sounds nice.”
He nodded, smiling, touched, for some reason, that the butler included him like that without a second thought. “Sounds nice,” he replied, and followed Murdock out.
Templeton almost forgot about the bacon, almost, as they crossed the wide lawns Mr. Smith kept so nice and green and level, down some little side path, across a patch of rougher sward with a small white gazebo, covered in climbing vines, set right in the middle of the grass.
Where Mr. Smith was waiting, leaning against a white wooden pillar, a thin novel in his long hand, a blanket already spread.
He looked up at their approach, smile faltering, and Templeton suddenly felt ashamed, remembering what the gardener had said the day before. About how he and Murdock fought their own wars together, or something like that. Old friends, then, they must have been, and he felt his cheeks growing hot as they neared.
“Good morning, HM,” the gardener said warily, and as he set his book aside, Templeton could have sworn the cover was in German. “I see you found our young Mr. Peck.”
“He was wandering the house, looking for bacon,” the butler chuckled.
“I wish you’d all call me Templeton, or just Peck,” he said softly, feeling more embarrassed now. It had to be Murdock's words. “It’s quite unnerving.”
“And will likely continue to be,” Mr. Smith replied, reaching over to take the basket from Murdock, looking at the young man, and Templeton had to look away. That gaze, those piercing eyes... “The Colonel is a stickler for formalities. Wouldn’t do to have one of the staff get your name wrong in front of him. Might result in a lost job for someone.”
Templeton smiled ruefully, and ran a hand back through his hair. He hadn’t bothered to oil it this morning, and it lacked its usual greased, smooth texture. Still wet from the bath, actually. “I hadn’t...I hadn’t considered that,” he admitted.
“You ought to,” John continued in that soft, gentle tenor of his, rumbling out into the morning. “Your actions could affect us all.”
Murdock plunked down on the blanket, and patted a space next to him before going to the picnic basket and unpacking items, making up plates. “Don’t mind him none, Mr. Peck. He’s always grumpy before he gets his coffee.”
Looking at Mr. Smith, those big hands of his, clean and comfortable-looking today, Templeton suddenly felt something in him grow hot again. It felt suspiciously like...and he sat down quickly, reaching for the plate of bacon and rough-cut bread Murdock just handed him. He would not entertain such thoughts about a man who worked for his lover. And besides, Templeton told himself, he was still irritated at the gardener for yesterday.
And then, as he was just about to take a bite of that delicious, greasy, piggy goodness, Mr. Smith gave Templeton a whole new reason to hate him.
“You, of course, know, Mr. Peck, that the reason you haven’t seen a bit of bacon in the last week is because the Colonel ordered cook not to serve you any” The gardener sat down and lit up a stogie. “Don’t you?”
For a moment, all the implications of what had just been said hung high in Templeton’s mind. That the Colonel was controlling what he ate, controlling how he looked, controlling his weight. That the Colonel was controlling everything...
But that was all insane. The Colonel was a noble man. There was no way he’d be okay with treating his lieutenant, his special boy, in such a base manner. He laughed at the absurdity of it, ignoring that sick feeling in his gut, not wanting to think about it at all. Both the butler and the gardener jerked a bit, Murdock frozen with a look of anxiety on his face.
Mr. Smith shook his head, tangling long fingers up into his silvery hair, eyes averted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Peck. That was cruel of me.”
The little apology nearly knocked him off-kilter again, and the former lieutenant found himself wondering why such a trivial thing as that man’s obvious discomfort should affect him as much as it did. “Guess that means I should get it when I can, right?” Templeton joked, taking a bite, grin firmly in place.
But the bacon, as he chewed, suddenly had no flavor.
Murdock, still tense, folded his legs up underneath him, grabbing a jar of jam from the basket and passing it to Templeton. He was watching Mr. Smith, though, and the older man was most definitely not meeting that gaze. The whole thing was intensely awkward, and Templeton wondered if John hadn’t
“So, Mr. Peck, how are you finding Long Island?” the butler tried.
Templeton smiled back. A little eccentric the man might be, with his imaginary dog and his accents and his strange sayings, but he seemed a gentle soul and he was clearly upset with everything that was going on. He patted Murdock’s knee, trying to tell him that everything was just fine, and smiled back. “It’s nice, it’s nice. When I was growing up in that orphanage uptown in Manhattan, I used to stare across the river and wonder what it would be like, out here...”
“You’re from New York City?” Murdock asked, a little excited. Like he really needed something to be excited about right then, and Templeton nodded, and then they were chatting about the various streets and parks and museums, and everything seemed to ease up.
But Mr. Smith still didn’t talk for the rest of their meal, eating his fill and listening, sharing nothing of his own, smoking that cigar of his in between bites, committing to nothing. A cold, cold man, Templeton thought, and was perfectly content to not speak to him at all, until Murdock mentioned something about the Army and Indian Wars.
“A right good time was that, wot? Chasing the savages across the desert?” the butler chuckled in that British of his.
A fire seemed to spark in the gardener, something flashing in his eyes as he pensively puffed away on his cigar. But whatever it was he was remembering, he didn’t vocalize it. “I would have ridden to hell and back with you boys,” he said, stretching his long legs out into the sunshine, and didn’t elaborate at all.
Exceptionally strange, Templeton thought, but tried not think about it, flicking the breadcrumbs off his vest, off his starched, crisp shirt, into the grass for the ants. He felt something thrill up his spine, and realized Mr. Smith was watching him with curious blue eyes. Templeton lifted to meet that gaze, challenging it with his own, and couldn’t figure out what he saw there. What was it? What was it, that Mr. Smith should find so intriguing or offensive about him to stare so?
“If you’re done eating, HM,” the silver-haired man said, casting another glance at Templeton, “and if our young Mr. Peck has moved on to preening, I’ve got work I should be doing.”
“I am not preening,” the younger man said heatedly, feeling a stab of anger.
Mr. Smith smiled a little and stood. “Those hedges aren’t going to cut themselves,” he said, and left.
Templeton watched him for a moment, blood beginning to pound in his ears, loud and hot. So rude, that man. Always insulting. What gave him the right...
He didn’t even notice he was rising himself when a hand brushed against his knee. “Ain’t worth it, Templeton,” the butler said quietly, and that, for some bizarre reason, was enough to spur him to his feet and down the path towards Mr. Smith’s retreating figure.
“Stop!” Templeton yelled, watching those suspenders sway with every move of the man’s hips. “Stop, Mr. Smith! I would talk to you!” The gardener kept going, a few more paces, passing right under the spreading boughs of a pair of heavy, gnarly oaks, off path now, and Templeton yelled again, hardly knowing why he was doing it. “Mr. Smith, stop this instant!”
That long stride halted, and that lanky, tall body leaned up against the bole of the tree. Lighting a fresh cigar.
Waiting.
Mr. Smith barely moved, barey acknowledged him at all but for a little head nod as Templeton approached. He twirled his cigar between big fingers, mud permanently caked under his nails, and didn’t look up. “I meant my apology for my comment about your breakfast.”
“I know.” And where had that come from?
“But I cannot apologize for its content. A brutal truth it might be, but a truth nonetheless. The Colonel will keep you the way he will,” and those eyes darted up to run over Templeton once, and fell again. “And he would probably have you stay as you are now. Young and beautiful...”
Something about the way he said it...and Templeton shook his head. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“Your physical appearance is hardly a matter of my opinion,” Mr. Smith said, head falling back aginst the tree, the long, tanned curve of his neck exposed, surprisingly graceful. He blew a mouthful of fragrant smoke up to the leaves of the tree above them. “You are beautiful, whether I think it or not.”
That sent a thrill through him again, like the one he’d had earlier, with that man watching him as he had. Templeton shook his head, reminding himself. He was angry with this upstart gardener, he was. “You’re right, it doesn’t matter what you think,” he replied brusquely, and made up his mind to leave and never speak to the man again.
But then.
“Does it matter what he thinks, Mr. Peck, your Colonel?” And Smith pushed off the tree, coming close, staring right into him. “Does it matter so much, that you’d let him reorder your life? Bring you here, dress you, feed you, like you’re some kind of paper doll, a mere plaything?”
Those words sunk in, hard and fast, and the young man wasn’t prepared for that. It shouldn’t have mattered, he knew. Shouldn’t matter at all because the Colonel had brought him here, because the Colonel had certain entitlements...but he still felt shaken. Terribly so. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know how to respond. “W-why, why ask something like that, Mr. Smith?”
“Because you’re a mystery to me, kid.” The gardener’s voice was soft, almost sad. “You seem more than capable of carving yourself a respectable life, with a good woman and a real job, instead of playing a shameful role like this.”
There was something about those words, spoken so simply, that touched something deep down in Templeton. He wasn’t sure what it was, though. Not sure at all. “I know there shame in it, Mr. Smith. Much, being a...a...”
“Homosexual?”
“...but it is what I am. What other options do I have?” he finished, wondering why this man was so comfortable with all of this. Was it because he worked for the Colonel? Or, and he hardly dared think it, hardly dared to think why he didn't dare think it, was Mr. Smith himself...
“There are other men, besides this one who would possess you, who you could be with.”
The younger man felt himself blushing. “I meant, what other options do I have, in the kind of person I love?”
“Do you love the Colonel?” the gardener asked, like he was prompting for an answer he already knew.
He smiled, thinking of that first day again, of the pause in the gunfire, the explosions, the dying, of the man who’d touched him on the shoulder and smiled down at him, muddy and blood-splattered as he was, and told him everything was going to be fine, that he wasn’t going to die here... “he saved me,” the young man answered honestly, warming to think of it. “I owe him...”
“Your body?” Mr. Smith asked, his hand twitching of its own accord, leaning forward a little, and Templeton could smell the rich scent of those cigars, of dark, good earth, of something rich and deep underneath it all. “Your life?” Those rough fingers brushed across the back of Templeton’s knuckles. “Your soul?”
That touch, so soft, so uncertain, so faint as to be the hope of contact, the promise of it, and Templeton shuddered a little, leaning into it without even meaning to. “I owe him everything, Mr. Smith. Everything I can give.”
Fingers retreated, and whatever subtle connection had been forming was lost. “You were a scared boy, Templeton. You’re not a boy anymore.” There was a smile on the older man’s lips, a secretive little smile, like there was something here that only he knew. “And that’s not a subjective opinion, either.”
“Mr. Smith...” he breathed, something in him begging, begging for something he didn’t understand...
“Mr. Peck!” Murdock hollered from down the path, just then, shattering it all apart. “Mr. Peck, we should get in! The Colonel wants me workin’ on your party today!”
“Coming!” he yelled back, feeling a blush of shame creep over him, wondering what Mr. Smith would say about all of this. If the gardener would care...
But the older man had retreated back to the safety of that tree, crossing his arms and propping up one arm on his hand, smoking thoughtfully. Staring forward. Saying nothing.
Templeton cast him one more glance, wondering what all that had been, those words, those eyes, seeing right through him like that, and turned away from it, following Murdock back up to the house.
To whatever was coming next.
+++++
Do you remember what we discussed, my boy?”
Templeton smiled as the Colonel adjusted his bow tie and smoothed down the shoulders of his jacket. The little party or soiree or whatever one called it was already begun, the music running up the stairs, guests from across the Colonel’s community arriving, and the young man felt a little thrill at the noise. A party. Society. Those he could do, do well, like he had in Chicago, in Paris. He’d be the toast of the neighborhood by the time it was all over, he knew. And all that would come with it.
He’d have a place in this world, be firmly anchored into the Colonel’s life, his shame washed over, permanently. Find a few other young men to con into friendship. Flirt with the girls, charm one or two into harmless romances. Never have to worry about being caught as what he was, being ostracized for it all. They were to head down in a few minutes. Just had to finish the final preparations up here, and the Colonel wouldn’t stop fussing.
“I know, sir,” Templeton teased, “I’m a distant nephew on your mother’s side, twice removed, out from Chicago for the summer...”
“...or perhaps longer, depending on how you like New York. I’ve offered to help you get established in business or whatever you like...”
“...but you know I’m something of a shiftless fellow, so you aren't thinking I'll do anything but drink your brandy and rides your horses. But it's fine. It’s a pleasure for you to have me here, keeping you company, for as long as I wish to stay with my beloved uncle,” Templeton concluded, shivering as those hands got heavier on his shoulders, squeezing around him. It wasn’t exactly his first choice of cover story, but it would work. It would.
This all had to, didn’t it?
Best behavior tonight, Templeton, he told himself. Best behavior.
The Colonel chuckled, a throaty, hungry little sound, and tilted the young man’s chin up with the crook of his finger. “You’re welcome here forever, beautiful boy. You know that.”
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” Face closed his eyes, and slid a hand down his patron’s fine shirt, up under his jacket, letting it rest where it would, pulling him in closer even as the Colonel helped shuffle them together. “You’ve always taken care of me.”
“And I always will,” the Colonel murmured, and pressed their lips together, soft, the barest promise of a kiss, and Templeton found himself whimpering just a bit. Fuck, he needed that. Gentle hands, big hands, so strong, so certain, holding him. “But first, dear boy, I need you to take care of something for me.”
Templeton let his hand slide down further, against the growing hardness, the insistent poke against his own thigh. Of course. And he didn’t know why that sent a little tremor or nervousness through him. He’d felt all wrong, the last two days, since talking to Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, and all his bizarre, baseless notions.
“I’ll crease my trousers, sir,” he replied with a teasing smile, covering it all up with something that wasn’t exactly a lie. He hated getting his good clothes messed up, and he wanted to make a good impression on everyone tonight.
“Such a vain thing,” the Colonel replied gently, tracing the edge of his jaw. And the downward pressure was starting, and there was only one way to respond to that, and Templeton smiled his sweetest smile and laid a light hand over the buttons of his lover’s fly as he sank gracefully to his knees.
Exactly where he was supposed to be. Where the Colonel always told him he belonged. The role he understood so, so well.
“I only want you to be happy with me,” he said softly, popping those buttons one by one, pulling the Colonel’s manhood out, stroking it. “Always want you to be happy with me...”
“Always will be, dear boy,” the older man said, taking himself by the base, taking a handful of caramel-blonde hair, holding his erect cock steady, pushing it against Templeton’s lower lip, just a little bit, suggesting...
Best behavior, he reminded himself, and parted his mouth, taking the Colonel in, groaning a little bit, just like the older man loved, and relaxed into the familiarity of it all, bringing his lover, his benevolent, affectionate lover, to orgasm.
“Uncle,” he breathed teasingly after he finished and swallowed and tucked the Colonel away again and let himself be pulled up by those big hands.
“Hmm, we might have to explore something of that,” the Colonel smiled, and patted the young blonde on the back, smiling a little at the questioning frown Templeton couldn’t stop. “You ready for your big debut, Templeton?”
“I want to be in your life, sir...” he replied, the words slipping loose, and he bit his lip, smiling. “If this is how we do that, then yes, I’m ready.”
“My sweet boy,” the Colonel murmured, and kissed him softly.
Templeton wrapped an arm around his lover’s neck, letting this be the guide. Letting himself sink into the right mindset for the night ahead, suiting up into duality of roles he had have to play here.
I owe him everything, Mr. Smith...
...you’re not a boy anymore...
What a comfort it was, he thought, being somebody else, not having to worry about the strange gardener’s words the other morning.
And with that firmly in mind, Templeton kissed his Colonel back.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mentions of domestic violence and underage
Summary: Part One of a fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
Ok. This idea has been in my head a while. And it won't leave. So here goes.
Face is the trophy partner of an older man. He's comfortable, has everything he could want, well everything he's supposed to want anyway.
Hannibal works for the guy, he's...idk...the caretaker?, maintenance man?
Something breaks, Face needs something, again, idk. They meet.
Cue desire, angst, stolen kisses, forbidden (brain-meltingly hot) sex.
Can be resolved however you want, and using whatever time period suits.
I just have this image of sweaty!hard-working!Hannibal and gorgeous!perfectly-dressed!Face staring at each other. Yearning.
Long prompt is long.
I shouldn't re-read the classics late at night - it's bad for me.
When Templeton Peck arrived at Colonel Lynch’s estate in Long Island, New York, he had no idea who he would meet there, or what would happen because of it.
Templeton Peck rubbed a hand across his mouth, letting his face fall down into his chin, elbow resting on the handle of the Rolls-Royce, watching the green lawn fall away into the drive of the massive estate house. Closer, closer, that place, with every turn of white-walled tires. And he felt nervousness flit through him.
Don’t be such a woman, Peck, he ordered himself. You know him, you trusted him with your life, he saved you from the trenches, claimed you for his own. You belong to him anyway...
He thought of the letter again, tucked in the inside pocket of his best suit, the only one suited to such a meeting as this, rather than the loose Chicago nights, and shivered as he touched it.
Lieutenant Peck,
I trust this meager note finds you in good health. I’ve thought of you often over the years since we parted, with fond recollection of our days of service together. If you would but join me at my family’s estate in New York, perhaps we could share in that recollection together. I wish to offer you a position on my staff, commiserate with the one you held while we were serving together in 1918...
Part of him hoped now, as he’d hoped when he first saw the letter, that this was an offer of a job, to merely be the Colonel’ secretary or something like that, but the meaning was clear as glass. The Colonel wished him where he had been, on his knees, on his back, and it had been so long since somebody had treated him with that same kind of care...
He’d thought of the Colonel fondly, too.
Very, very fondly.
And the man had bothered to take the trouble to track him down...
What was he to refuse such a man such a singular offer?
“Nervous?” the man in the seat across from him asked, grinning that lopsided grin of his. Murdock, the eccentric fellow who played butler to the Colonel. Who’d found him in Chicago a week ago to deliver the simple note and help him make arrangements, took him away, brought him here, Long Island...
The blonde man shook his head. “Of course not. I’m...I’m honored he still remembers me. Blanc Mont Ridge was a long time ago...”
“Three years is not so much time, Mr. Peck,” the butler replied in his soft tones, light Texan accent. “He speaks of you constantly. His lieutenant from the War. You occupy a special place in his heart.”
Templeton bit down on his thumb, the car stopping now, its gleaming length crunching to a halt in thick gravel. “I would...” he began, and looked directly at the butler as he said it, “I would appreciate it, Mr. Murdock, if you didn’t tell the Colonel where you found me. I couldn’t bear for him to know.”
“It’s just Murdock, Mr. Peck,” the dark-haired man replied, and cracked the door.
“Please,” Templeton said again, grabbing for the butler’s arm. “He wouldn’t want to hear that one of his men was working in a speakeasy...”
“It’s gonna be okay,” the butler assured him, and scrambled out of the car, holding the door for him. “May I be the first to welcome you home?”
The young man got out, settling his hat into its normal raking slant on his thick curls, and looked up at the place before him. It was grand, not in the way that the new, so-called skyscrapers in Chicago were grand. Grand in the way Paris had been, when the Colonel took him there during the War, the Illuminated City wrapped in grandeur and mystery, even in the midst of that conflict. And Templeton felt himself shivering in his light khaki jacket. Home. Yes, that was what the Colonel had asked of him, demanded of him, the call he had dared not disobey...
“Come along, Mr. Peck!” the butler called, Templeton’s single, battered suitcase in hand. “I’ll show you to your rooms!”
Behind him, the big black chauffeur was talking through the window to some tall, lanky man who’d just appeared, shears in hand, resting against, stained shirtsleeves rolled up and half his buttons undone. They both stopped when they realized he was looking over, and for a moment, Templeton’s eyes locked with those of the tall man.
Blue.
Blue eyes, very nearly the same color as his own, and he felt a flush creeping up from beneath his starched collar, locked into that very intense gaze, like the man was looking right through him...
“Mr. Peck?” the butler called again, and Templeton felt a rush of shame come over him. This wasn’t Paris, this wasn’t even Chicago, where vice was for sale on every corner and nobody begrudged a man his particular brand of pleasure. This was Long Island, and he wasn’t sure what they would think...
But it was no time to be worried about the perceptions around him. The butler was waiting, with his luggage, no less, and the young man pulled himself together and hurried up the stairs, into the vast house beyond.
“So tell me, Murdock,” Templeton entreated as they went up stairs and down a corridor, passing framed sabers and elephant guns, family relatives captured in heavy-handed oils on canvas forever, rich Turkish carpets beneath their feet. “Is the Colonel home? I admit, I’ve longed to see him.”
“No, no,” the butler replied and stopped, drawing a ring of keys from his pocket. “He had business to attend to in Manhattan. He’s into the stock market now, since he retired...”
“Of course,” the blonde replied softly.
Murdock turned the key and then stood, clapping Templeton on the shoulder. “Buck up there, old chap,” he said, going into a perfect Old Empire accent. “He wants you, our lordship does.” He pushed the door open and bowed a little, more for his own humor than for any real etiquette purposes, Templeton suspected. “And here you are.”
The young man stared.
The room was done in the latest style, all angles and clean sweeps of delicate iron, flowing glass, pale and inviting in the light from the wide bay window that overlooked long gardens spreading out behind the property. It was beautiful, far nicer than the tiny, gritty room he’d inhabited in Chicago. The one forced on him by mean circumstance. Beautiful, so beautiful...
“Mine?” he breathed, taking in the low bed, draped in pale gold, and a horrible thought clenched at him. “Are you certain? But the Colonel...”
“His room is down the hall,” Murdock explained, taking Templeton’s suitcase over to the open closet, huge, empty but for a single garment bag. “But this and its adjoining room are yours. He had it all decorated special for you. I've got you an appointment with the tailor tomorrow, and we'll get an expense account set up for ya. The Colonel wants to be sure you're as comfortable as possible while...”
"He always did love beautiful things," the young man murmured to himself, running a hand across the bed, hating the thought of sleeping in it alone. He was seized by a horrible thought. "But why my own room? aren’t I here for him? I thought he wanted...”
“You are,” the butlet said. “But this isn’t Paris, Mr. Peck. People are not so understanding of his Honor around here.”
Templeton leaned on the window, staring out over the lawn, feeling overwhelmed. And then he saw it. A man striding down one of the paths, strong, confident, that man from before, the gardener, the one who had looked at him with such...
He shivered. Turned away.
“May I see where the Colonel sleeps?” he asked. “I’d, I’d like to see...”
Murdock nodded, like he understood completely. “Come on. I’ll give you the full tour.” Then his eye sparkled and he grabbed Templeton by the elbow, leading him away. “Now, Mr. Peck, this house was built in 1833 by the Colonel’s great-granddaddy, who was fond of killing some of the animals you’re going to see on the walls...”
+++++
By the time the tour had concluded, three hours had passed, he’d shaken a dozen different hands in a dozen different little corners of the grounds, and Templeton was fairly confident he could recite the entire history of the estate and the Colonel’s family, back to his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, who’d been some sort of sea captain in the British Royal Navy. Old money, very old money, every inch of the place, and the young man was feeling a bit overwhelmed again.
He was relieved when he found himself back in that pleasant room, quiet and still, Murdock laying out the contents of the garment bag. A dark jacket, good quality, a fine material, and Templeton stared. “Is that...”
“...dinner jacket? Yup, that it is,” Murdock said, stepping back and crossing his arms. He looked down by his side. “No Bill, you’re gonna get those white little hairs all over Mr. Peck’s nice clothes.”
“Billy?” the blonde asked, raising an eyebrow.
Murdock shook his head, and knelt down, miming petting some imaginary thing. “The joys of being a dog owner,” he said, and smiled up at Templeton, still petting. “Supper’s in an hour. I gotta go check on the cook.”
“Will the Colonel be home then?” Templeton asked, stroking a hand down the jacket. Yes, good quality. Better than anything he’d owned back in Chicago and the newest cut. Tailored. His size. “Will I see him tonight?”
The butler nodded, scratching his dog’s ears now. “He’s asked me to have you ready to dine with him. And he usually don’t dine with nobody.”
“I’m honored,” he murmured, thinking again about his bar, the mob, the constant pressure to get deeper in on the bootlegging business, how they’d wanted him, the entreaties, the threats...worse than the trenches, that place. Worse. One never knew who had a gun, who was going to shoot, where death would come, in bed or the dance hall or the street...
“Bath is through that door, is case you want to freshen up a bit,” Murdock said and rose, snapping for the dog to follow, shutting the door.
Leaving Templeton alone.
He started stripping his tired clothes off, piece by piece, tie first, as he wandered into the bathroom, admiring the gleaming countertops and the tasteful selection of toiletries. Huge, that bath, and warm water rose instantly to the tap. He plugged the tub and wandered back out while it filled, tossing tie and jacket and shirt on the bed, the one he hoped he’d never have to use, staring out that wide window, out at the setting sun.
No sign of the gardener, the one who had looked at him so strangely, not that one, on his walk of the grounds. He’d met most everyone else, though, Murdock had said. Most of the staff seemed pleasant enough, unworried or unmindful of their employer’s tastes, or smart enough not to be rude to his new...whatever he was.
Which brought up an interesting question; what did this make him? Coming here, knowing damn well what the Colonel wanted, willing to give it. He’d been little more than a boy, when the Colonel had found him in the ranks, seventeen and barely that, enlistment a better option than the dank hole of an orphanage he’d been living in, or the streets, or in a whorehouse somewhere. But the veteran officer had treated him as if he’d been something special, some valued, something that deserved care, and now he’d come again when the man had called. To this house. Leaving the hollow, dull shine of his life in Chicago behind. To be...
“A damned fool,” he muttered to himself and shook it off. No point in worrying about it now. He was still sore from the overnight express train - a first class bunk was still a bunk on a train - and the bath would feel nice. And after all this effort the Colonel had gone through for him, he wanted to make sure he was at his best for the man.
His man. From now on. With any measure of luck. If he played his cards right... and he sighed, not wanting to think of this thing in practical terms. Templeton fingered the satin of that jacket once more, and padded barefoot into the fogging bath.
+++++
Templeton was just coming down the stairs, hair perfectly in place, not a thread out of order, wearing a splash of that rich cologne that had been left out for him, playing with the open ends of his sleeves, when he heard a car pull into the drive.
He hurried down the main staircase, slightly panicked. Everything had been in order, everything, except for cufflinks, which he had not been able to find anywhere. He’d left his own back in Chicago, the ones he'd purchased with the proceeds of a short dalliance, the butler insisting that the Colonel would take care of his needs. He would have felt bad, wearing such a thing in front of such an honorable man as his own commander, but he’d wanted to make a good impression. Not having those, he felt incomplete...
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the big door cracked, and swung inward, filling with the imposing form of...
“Lieutenant! Lieutenant Templeton Peck! How are you, my boy?”
He smiled with relief, remembering that boy, smiling at the man striding towards him. He was broader than he’d been back in the European theater, a bit rounder, a bit grayer, but his chocolate-dark eyes were keen and he was still handsome and he looked even better in that double-breasted suit than he had in his uniform khakis. “Colonel,” Templeton replied with a nod, tilting his chin up in invitation. “I’m well.”
“It’s so good to see you! After I’d heard you’d returned to the States, I wanted to extend this invitation then and there. But you didn’t come back to New York,” the Colonel said, stopping right in front of him, running a hand down his throat, across his shoulders, like he was sizing him up. Inspecting him, and Templeton felt another wave of nervousness about the cuff-links. He’d wanted to be perfect. “It was all I could do to find you.”
“It’s an honor you even remembered me,” he said, biting his lip.
“An honor?” the Colonel nodded slowly. “No, it almost killed me leaving you in Paris after the Treaty was signed. But you seemed so emphatic about it...”
“I...I didn’t think there was anything to be gained by coming back,” Templeton admitted, feeling the Colonel’s long, soft hands drop to encircle his wrists. “I didn’t think you’d want me still.”
“You’re mine, Templeton,” and the Colonel’s voice took on a bit of a hard tone. “You will always be mine. Do you know how long I looked for you, how worried I’ve been?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, dropping his head a bit.
The colonel stepped back, as if he was thinking about something very hard, and then smiled. “It doesn’t matter now. You’ve come, and I do hope you’ll consider this house your home from here on out.”
Templeton closed his eyes, feeling those words sink deep into him, and nodded. “It’d be...”
“An honor?” And the Colonel’s eyes were sparkling with humor. “And before I forget,” he added, digging in his pocket, drawing out a small velvet box embossed with the Tiffany’s logo. “I had Bosco stop me off on the way home to pick up a little something I had commissioned for you.” He snapped the lid open. “Such a beautiful boy deserves beautiful things, don’t you agree?”
Templeton felt his throat clench up, cutting his air off for a moment or two. Nestled there in the box, in a pile of dramatic red satin, were two diamond cufflinks, stones square-cut and set in gold. Huge stones... “my god,” he gasped, looking back up at the Colonel. “Sir, you shouldn’t, you didn’t have to...”
“I know I don’t need to, Templeton,” the Colonel said, lifting the first up and slipping it through the hand-sewn buttonholes of one sleeve, then the other. “But you’ll forgive an old man if he wants to dote on his lover, won’t you?”
Warmth spread through Templeton at those words, that lover, and he felt all that earlier nervousness start to wash away. “Yes, sir, I...”
The second one in, everything in place, the Colonel held the younger man’s wrists and placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “Besides,” he whispered in Templeton’s ear, “I’m sure you can find a way to thank me later.”
He shivered in anticipation. “Of course, sir.”
“Good boy. Now what do you say we get on with our evening?”
And everything flowed from there.
Templeton knew this rhythm from Paris, from those weeks of leave they spent there. Dinner, scotch, cigars, talk, all those enthralling stories of the Colonel’s exploits fresh and new again. The talk stopping. The little time to retire, don’t you think, Templeton? spoken aloud with a little, quirking smile. Heading upstairs, to the bedroom, the Colonel’s huge bedroom, undressing the Colonel with fluid movements, kisses pressed to bare skin, worshipping that body. The Colonel lying back, bidding him to strip for his pleasure, stroking his own hardening manhood. Being bared, naked, drawn in, kissed, pressed down, stretched and oiled, entered, belly sliding on cool sheets, again and again and again, his own hand around his cock, the muscles working against his back, the Colonel’s shaft working deep inside, flooding him...
When it ended, when the pulses stopped, Templeton listened to breath cool in the evening air as the Colonel slipped free, rolled over on his back, and stroked his face with weak fingers. Templeton knew that cue, and automatically slid from the bed, fetching a washcloth from the bathroom and cleaning them both with smooth, easy movements.
The Colonel caught his wrist as soon as he was done, a little stronger, and pulled him back onto the bed. Templeton dropped the cloth on the nightstand and let himself be guided, laid down and positioned into the sheets, into that warm bed, shared by a man who cared so for him...
His older lover turned into him, tickling across his ribs.
“You’ll be ready for me, Templeton, when I want you,” the Colonel whispered, pulling the young man closer, hand resting possessively on his back. “Here, unless I tell you otherwise. And you will sleep with me, if we do not have company that might not understand. In public, we must be discreet, and whatever I must say or do is what I must. In private or in front of the staff, I will touch you, kiss you, do what I wish. These are the rules we must abide by. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“You’ll want for nothing, my boy. Anything you desire, it’s yours. Whatever you’ve gone through in the past, it’s over now. I want to see these care lines gone from your eyes. I want you to have your happiness.”
Templeton felt his heart swell, just a little, overriding the faint, very faint inking of dread at some of those words, and kissed the curve of the Colonel’s neck. The man he’d idolized, adored during the War.. “If I am here with you, sir, I will be happy.”
“Good, good,” the Colonel chuckled, stroking a hand through Templeton’s thick curls. “That is a good thing to hear. It’s so good, having you here with me...”
“I feel the same, sir,” the young man murmured, nuzzling in to the crook of a warm arm, under the covers, comfortable, safe. And if he was waiting for the little I love you he’d been hoping for, ever since the Colonel had first touched him on the shoulder and locked the office door, he didn’t get it that night.
But maybe, he told himself, someday, maybe, that would come in time, this time...
+++++
It was five days before Templeton found out who the gardener was.
Five days of shopping, standing for tailors, collecting finished items, dressing for dinner, undressing after...five long days, it seemed, but it wasn’t a bad way to live. A delight, really. Free choice of everything, anything, the finest things he could want, things he could never have obtained on his own. Nothing to worry about, nothing at all to concern him. Just as the Colonel had promised.
It was hard, the relaxing. He’d been on edge for too long, he figured. It’d been like this after the War ended, those first few months in Paris. Hearing the screams at night, the shells exploding overhead, the gunfire, the sirens, most of all the sirens. He’d been alone in his sleep then, though, no lover lasting more than a few nights, dreams falling through his mind, cold and burning.
Here, though, here he had the Colonel, the warm, solid bulk of the Colonel to curl up with, something real to reach out for in the night when the memories of bodies in alleys and casual murders, the threats, the torture...
But as intoxicating as all the luxury was, Templeton was finding it somewhat boring. He had no friends on Long Island - although the Colonel promised to get him out society at the next available moment - and no hobbies. The house had a grand library, something he intended to make use of at a later date, but for the moment, he wanted something physical, a way to burn off all the extra energy.
So he found himself wandering the grounds, talking long walks, taking it all in, enjoying the feel of the sun on his skin. He’d worked mostly nights in Chicago. It was a pleasure to be up during daylight hours. And that day seemed especially nice, not too hot or humid, a nice breeze...
Templeton walked right into something and stumbled, hard.
And a hand caught him.
“You should be more careful, Mr. Peck,” a soft voice told him, that hand pushing him back up. “You might fall right in to something you wouldn’t want to. Those nice clothes of yours.”
The young man looked down at the individual who’d just spoken, at the muddy handprint he’d left right on his shoulder, and huffed. “Not so nice now.”
The man, the tall gardener, recoiled a bit. “Sorry,” he said, looking down at his hands and wiping them casually on the legs of his baggy workpants, suspenders shrugged off his shoulders, loose shirt rolled up past his elbows. “But it could have been worse.”
A quick glance in front of him revealed a freshly dug bed, half-planted with gardenias, and Templeton felt embarrassed as he tried to brush the mud off his pale polo. “Oh,” he said.
“Yeah. Oh.” And the gardener sat back, tipping his hat up so he could look Templeton in the eye. “Don’t worry about the shirt. I’m sure the Colonel will buy you another one.”
Something in the way the older man said it made the younger extremely uncomfortable. Horribly uncomfortable. And then, that gaze, turning him inside out, seeking out every secret he had, breaking in, taking what he wanted... “I'm sure he will.”
“He loves his beautiful things, and loves his things beautiful,” the gardener said. “Wants to keep them clean and shiny.”
“Nobody’s keeping me...”
The gardener smiled, and went back to work, trowel in hand. “You think the Colonel’s got you here out of the kindness of his heart?”
Templeton felt like the ground was shifting out from under him, like he was falling. Who the hell was this man to say something like that to him? “You obviously don’t know the man very well. He was my commander in Europe, he raised me to Lieutenant, he recognized my potential...”
“In his bed, a kid like you? Absolutely he did.”
“You are out of line! How dare you say something like that to me!” Templeton snapped, anger taking over. He’d been trampled on his whole life, spent years fighting for respect, and he knew exactly what he was. But if he couldn’t demand that respect here... “I’ll have your name, sir.”
“To report to the butler?” There was another one of those chuckles, deep and almost sweet. “Let me give you a tip, kid, we’re old friends, he and I, fought wars of our own together. So save yourself the trouble.”
“When a man insults me or the people I care about, I like to know his name,” he replied flatly.
And the tall man stood. Smiled a little, looking at him, and offered him his hand. “John Hannibal Smith, Mr. Peck. I wasn’t trying to insult you. I think you should know the truth about the man you’re involved with.”
His palm was still dirty, but Templeton wasn’t about to be outdone by the man. So he took it and shook firmly, staring him right in the eye despite the way things seemed to be sliding apart, how warm he was growing... “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Smith. And I know the truth about the man I’m involved with. Maybe you should reconsider your own position.”
This Smith fellow pressed his lips together, something flitting behind those blue eyes of his, and he let go. “If a man such as yourself cares for him, perhaps I shall.”
“Good,” Templeton said, still feeling a bit dizzy. But that had to just be the anger ebbing away, he told himself. Not the way that big, rough hand had slid around his own, fitting just right, so perfect... “Good.”
The gardener smiled, and looked up at the sun. “It’s getting late. You should get in, get that shirt changed before the Colonel gets home.”
He nodded, not sure what just happened there and turned, shuffling a few steps down the smooth pavers, before it hit him. And he had to turn and ask. “Mr. Smith? What do you mean, a man such as myself?”
Mr. Smith didn’t look up from his flowers. “You’re right, kid, I was out of line. I’m sorry.”
Templeton nodded, knowing that should have appeased him, but the words, the sound of the man’s voice, that low, sweet timbre, stayed with him on the long walk up to the house.
After he washed his hands, though, stripped off the dirtied shirt and fetched something a little more appropriate for a casual supper, as the Colonel had indicated this morning, he looked out his wide window and saw the man again. Carrying his tools away in their bucket, hat slanted back, suspenders loose below his hips, off to wherever it was he went at night. Like he didn't have a care in the world.
And he made a note to ask Murdock about that Mr. John Hannibal Smith. Just to thorough. Of course. No other reason to be had.
Then he heard the faint sounds of Bosco’s car and the butler was knocking on his door, telling him it was time to come down and he shrugged the clean oxford on. Buttoning as he went. He could figure it out later. Right now, he had his man to please.
+++++
That night, dinner was light and the Colonel had not a drop of alcohol with it, his eyes glinting with lust the second he walked in the door. Templeton remembered what that meant, and thanked his stars the Colonel allowed him a five minute head start. It wasn’t quite enough time to stretch himself as much as he’d have wanted, and his clothes were all quite ruined by the time they were done.
“Beautiful boy,” the Colonel murmured when he'd pulled free, hand heavy in Templeton’s sweaty locks as the younger man wiped him down. “My beautiful, beautiful boy.”
And after his lover fell asleep, in the silence of his lover's room, Templeton kept hearing the damn gardener’s words.
He loves his beautiful things, and loves his things beautiful...
It took him a long time to fall asleep after that.
And when he did, the rough play of the evening infected Templeton’s dreams. The play of the man who cared for him turned in to something vile and mean, like a few times in Chicago, when he was caught in an alley, some man still thrusting into him, guns coming out and he was chased, chased in terror down dark streets he couldn’t escape...
Templeton woke at the touch of a hand to his cheek. He jerked up and away, body reacting instantly, smashing his naked body back against the ancient and ornate headboard, panting hard, unable to remember where he was, what he was...
“Shh, Templeton, my boy, the deep bass of the Colonel’s voice soothed, rubbing his hair. “You’re quite alright. Were you having a nightmare?”
He closed his eyes and remembered how frequent those had been during the War, how the Colonel had held him on those nights he woke up screaming, and he nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”
“Never apologize to me for that,” the older man murmured, moving to stroke a hand down Templeton’s face. “You saw so many horrible things, so young, so fragile. So many terrible things...”
He nodded slowly, feeling his heart slow back to its normal rate. The Colonel understood. Of course he did. “But I had you.”
"Of course you did." Those dark eyes crinkled at the corners, and the Colonel kissed him softly. “And you always will, darling boy.”
Templeton wanted more of that kiss, feeling himself start to harden at the contact, needing his man, but the Colonel broke it far too soon. Swung out of bed for a wash, having the young blonde scrub his back and dry him off and suck him once more, before getting dressed. Underthings and socks and shirt and trousers, that rich pinstripe he wore to his offices, and still naked, Templeton helped with all of it. Sliding the tie into place, last of all, straightening the coordinating handkerchief in the wide breast pocket.
“You look masterful, sir,” he said softly and stroked his hands lightly down the front of the fine Italian wool. Templeton leaned in, daring a kiss, and the Colonel laughed as he kissed back and pushed his young lover away.
“You’ll be the death of me, boy, trying to seduce me before work.”
Templeton smiled back, biting his lip just like he knew the Colonel liked. “You’ll have to let me some day.”
“Maybe,” and those chocolate eyes were dancing with lust. “But,” the Colonel continued, turning away, towards the door, out, Templeton realized, heart falling a little, “not today. Not tomorrow, for that matter, for tomorrow we are going to have company. A bit of a soiree to welcome my long-lost nephew to society. Does that sound nice, Templeton?”
The blonde man smiled wider. “Sounds keen, sir.”
“Good, good. I know you’ve likely been bored around here this week, alone with nothing to do, but such matter must be handled delicately, of course.” The Colonel stopped at the door, and came back for one more kiss, running his fingers down Templeton’s chest, taking his manhood in and stroking lightly as he pulled away. Templeton shuddered and stared up at his lover, who just chuckled and moved away again. “Go back to bed, Templeton. Enjoy your lazy morning. Enjoy everything.”
And then the Colonel was gone.
The blonde waited for a few minutes, until he heard the car and knew the Colonel had departed for the day. Only then did he throw on one of those rich Oriental silk robes his lover had provided him with, and padded barefoot down the hall to his own room, his own bath, and try to soak some of the soreness out of his buttocks.
It took him until the water started to grow cold to realize nothing but time was going to help him with that, that day. He washed and dried himself, dressed casual, lingering a little at the closet, the gardener’s words coming again to haunt him.
He loves his beautiful things, and loves his things beautiful...
Templeton was a man who’d always prided himself on his appearance. It was important, he told himself then, showing a good face to the world. The right face. Exactly what they needed to see of him and nothing more.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” he told himself firmly, but chose something a bit more relaxed for the day. Another shade of those comfortable, wide-legged trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled, matching pale vest. Simple. Casual
Casual enough to saunter down to the kitchen, where the butler was drawing peals of laughter from the fat old cook and her cute little assistant with some story about Indians and Mexicans, down in California, or some such nonsense as that. Templeton shoved his hands in his pockets and listened for a moment, chuckling a little himself, before pushing all the way in to the warm room, as cook was dumping pans of fresh bread out on the work table with a long paddle. Her young assistant was busy putting fruit and coffee and something that looked suspiciously like bacon, something he hasn’t seen since they got here. The entire space smelled, in a word, heavenly.
“Can get some of that, ma’am?” he asked innocently, looking at the basket.
The cook started. “Mr. Peck. I was just about to start on your breakfast. You’re normally not up before the Colonel leaves, and I thought...”
He smiled for her. That smile nobody could resist. “Can you at least send up some bacon, then? I’ve been meaning to ask, but...” and he trailed off, not wanting to say that he wasn’t comfortable, that he still felt like a bit of a stranger, a guest, with no right to question his host’s hospitality.
The old lady pressed her lips together, like she was trying to keep some answer in, but Murdock made a little harump sound in the back of his throat and cut it all off. “Go ‘head, cookie. Add another coffee for Mr. Peck here and toss it all in. He can come with me.” The butler winked at Templeton as the cook and her assistant got to work. “We’re gonna have us a picnic, if that sounds nice.”
He nodded, smiling, touched, for some reason, that the butler included him like that without a second thought. “Sounds nice,” he replied, and followed Murdock out.
Templeton almost forgot about the bacon, almost, as they crossed the wide lawns Mr. Smith kept so nice and green and level, down some little side path, across a patch of rougher sward with a small white gazebo, covered in climbing vines, set right in the middle of the grass.
Where Mr. Smith was waiting, leaning against a white wooden pillar, a thin novel in his long hand, a blanket already spread.
He looked up at their approach, smile faltering, and Templeton suddenly felt ashamed, remembering what the gardener had said the day before. About how he and Murdock fought their own wars together, or something like that. Old friends, then, they must have been, and he felt his cheeks growing hot as they neared.
“Good morning, HM,” the gardener said warily, and as he set his book aside, Templeton could have sworn the cover was in German. “I see you found our young Mr. Peck.”
“He was wandering the house, looking for bacon,” the butler chuckled.
“I wish you’d all call me Templeton, or just Peck,” he said softly, feeling more embarrassed now. It had to be Murdock's words. “It’s quite unnerving.”
“And will likely continue to be,” Mr. Smith replied, reaching over to take the basket from Murdock, looking at the young man, and Templeton had to look away. That gaze, those piercing eyes... “The Colonel is a stickler for formalities. Wouldn’t do to have one of the staff get your name wrong in front of him. Might result in a lost job for someone.”
Templeton smiled ruefully, and ran a hand back through his hair. He hadn’t bothered to oil it this morning, and it lacked its usual greased, smooth texture. Still wet from the bath, actually. “I hadn’t...I hadn’t considered that,” he admitted.
“You ought to,” John continued in that soft, gentle tenor of his, rumbling out into the morning. “Your actions could affect us all.”
Murdock plunked down on the blanket, and patted a space next to him before going to the picnic basket and unpacking items, making up plates. “Don’t mind him none, Mr. Peck. He’s always grumpy before he gets his coffee.”
Looking at Mr. Smith, those big hands of his, clean and comfortable-looking today, Templeton suddenly felt something in him grow hot again. It felt suspiciously like...and he sat down quickly, reaching for the plate of bacon and rough-cut bread Murdock just handed him. He would not entertain such thoughts about a man who worked for his lover. And besides, Templeton told himself, he was still irritated at the gardener for yesterday.
And then, as he was just about to take a bite of that delicious, greasy, piggy goodness, Mr. Smith gave Templeton a whole new reason to hate him.
“You, of course, know, Mr. Peck, that the reason you haven’t seen a bit of bacon in the last week is because the Colonel ordered cook not to serve you any” The gardener sat down and lit up a stogie. “Don’t you?”
For a moment, all the implications of what had just been said hung high in Templeton’s mind. That the Colonel was controlling what he ate, controlling how he looked, controlling his weight. That the Colonel was controlling everything...
But that was all insane. The Colonel was a noble man. There was no way he’d be okay with treating his lieutenant, his special boy, in such a base manner. He laughed at the absurdity of it, ignoring that sick feeling in his gut, not wanting to think about it at all. Both the butler and the gardener jerked a bit, Murdock frozen with a look of anxiety on his face.
Mr. Smith shook his head, tangling long fingers up into his silvery hair, eyes averted. “I’m sorry, Mr. Peck. That was cruel of me.”
The little apology nearly knocked him off-kilter again, and the former lieutenant found himself wondering why such a trivial thing as that man’s obvious discomfort should affect him as much as it did. “Guess that means I should get it when I can, right?” Templeton joked, taking a bite, grin firmly in place.
But the bacon, as he chewed, suddenly had no flavor.
Murdock, still tense, folded his legs up underneath him, grabbing a jar of jam from the basket and passing it to Templeton. He was watching Mr. Smith, though, and the older man was most definitely not meeting that gaze. The whole thing was intensely awkward, and Templeton wondered if John hadn’t
“So, Mr. Peck, how are you finding Long Island?” the butler tried.
Templeton smiled back. A little eccentric the man might be, with his imaginary dog and his accents and his strange sayings, but he seemed a gentle soul and he was clearly upset with everything that was going on. He patted Murdock’s knee, trying to tell him that everything was just fine, and smiled back. “It’s nice, it’s nice. When I was growing up in that orphanage uptown in Manhattan, I used to stare across the river and wonder what it would be like, out here...”
“You’re from New York City?” Murdock asked, a little excited. Like he really needed something to be excited about right then, and Templeton nodded, and then they were chatting about the various streets and parks and museums, and everything seemed to ease up.
But Mr. Smith still didn’t talk for the rest of their meal, eating his fill and listening, sharing nothing of his own, smoking that cigar of his in between bites, committing to nothing. A cold, cold man, Templeton thought, and was perfectly content to not speak to him at all, until Murdock mentioned something about the Army and Indian Wars.
“A right good time was that, wot? Chasing the savages across the desert?” the butler chuckled in that British of his.
A fire seemed to spark in the gardener, something flashing in his eyes as he pensively puffed away on his cigar. But whatever it was he was remembering, he didn’t vocalize it. “I would have ridden to hell and back with you boys,” he said, stretching his long legs out into the sunshine, and didn’t elaborate at all.
Exceptionally strange, Templeton thought, but tried not think about it, flicking the breadcrumbs off his vest, off his starched, crisp shirt, into the grass for the ants. He felt something thrill up his spine, and realized Mr. Smith was watching him with curious blue eyes. Templeton lifted to meet that gaze, challenging it with his own, and couldn’t figure out what he saw there. What was it? What was it, that Mr. Smith should find so intriguing or offensive about him to stare so?
“If you’re done eating, HM,” the silver-haired man said, casting another glance at Templeton, “and if our young Mr. Peck has moved on to preening, I’ve got work I should be doing.”
“I am not preening,” the younger man said heatedly, feeling a stab of anger.
Mr. Smith smiled a little and stood. “Those hedges aren’t going to cut themselves,” he said, and left.
Templeton watched him for a moment, blood beginning to pound in his ears, loud and hot. So rude, that man. Always insulting. What gave him the right...
He didn’t even notice he was rising himself when a hand brushed against his knee. “Ain’t worth it, Templeton,” the butler said quietly, and that, for some bizarre reason, was enough to spur him to his feet and down the path towards Mr. Smith’s retreating figure.
“Stop!” Templeton yelled, watching those suspenders sway with every move of the man’s hips. “Stop, Mr. Smith! I would talk to you!” The gardener kept going, a few more paces, passing right under the spreading boughs of a pair of heavy, gnarly oaks, off path now, and Templeton yelled again, hardly knowing why he was doing it. “Mr. Smith, stop this instant!”
That long stride halted, and that lanky, tall body leaned up against the bole of the tree. Lighting a fresh cigar.
Waiting.
Mr. Smith barely moved, barey acknowledged him at all but for a little head nod as Templeton approached. He twirled his cigar between big fingers, mud permanently caked under his nails, and didn’t look up. “I meant my apology for my comment about your breakfast.”
“I know.” And where had that come from?
“But I cannot apologize for its content. A brutal truth it might be, but a truth nonetheless. The Colonel will keep you the way he will,” and those eyes darted up to run over Templeton once, and fell again. “And he would probably have you stay as you are now. Young and beautiful...”
Something about the way he said it...and Templeton shook his head. “You think I’m beautiful?”
“Your physical appearance is hardly a matter of my opinion,” Mr. Smith said, head falling back aginst the tree, the long, tanned curve of his neck exposed, surprisingly graceful. He blew a mouthful of fragrant smoke up to the leaves of the tree above them. “You are beautiful, whether I think it or not.”
That sent a thrill through him again, like the one he’d had earlier, with that man watching him as he had. Templeton shook his head, reminding himself. He was angry with this upstart gardener, he was. “You’re right, it doesn’t matter what you think,” he replied brusquely, and made up his mind to leave and never speak to the man again.
But then.
“Does it matter what he thinks, Mr. Peck, your Colonel?” And Smith pushed off the tree, coming close, staring right into him. “Does it matter so much, that you’d let him reorder your life? Bring you here, dress you, feed you, like you’re some kind of paper doll, a mere plaything?”
Those words sunk in, hard and fast, and the young man wasn’t prepared for that. It shouldn’t have mattered, he knew. Shouldn’t matter at all because the Colonel had brought him here, because the Colonel had certain entitlements...but he still felt shaken. Terribly so. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know how to respond. “W-why, why ask something like that, Mr. Smith?”
“Because you’re a mystery to me, kid.” The gardener’s voice was soft, almost sad. “You seem more than capable of carving yourself a respectable life, with a good woman and a real job, instead of playing a shameful role like this.”
There was something about those words, spoken so simply, that touched something deep down in Templeton. He wasn’t sure what it was, though. Not sure at all. “I know there shame in it, Mr. Smith. Much, being a...a...”
“Homosexual?”
“...but it is what I am. What other options do I have?” he finished, wondering why this man was so comfortable with all of this. Was it because he worked for the Colonel? Or, and he hardly dared think it, hardly dared to think why he didn't dare think it, was Mr. Smith himself...
“There are other men, besides this one who would possess you, who you could be with.”
The younger man felt himself blushing. “I meant, what other options do I have, in the kind of person I love?”
“Do you love the Colonel?” the gardener asked, like he was prompting for an answer he already knew.
He smiled, thinking of that first day again, of the pause in the gunfire, the explosions, the dying, of the man who’d touched him on the shoulder and smiled down at him, muddy and blood-splattered as he was, and told him everything was going to be fine, that he wasn’t going to die here... “he saved me,” the young man answered honestly, warming to think of it. “I owe him...”
“Your body?” Mr. Smith asked, his hand twitching of its own accord, leaning forward a little, and Templeton could smell the rich scent of those cigars, of dark, good earth, of something rich and deep underneath it all. “Your life?” Those rough fingers brushed across the back of Templeton’s knuckles. “Your soul?”
That touch, so soft, so uncertain, so faint as to be the hope of contact, the promise of it, and Templeton shuddered a little, leaning into it without even meaning to. “I owe him everything, Mr. Smith. Everything I can give.”
Fingers retreated, and whatever subtle connection had been forming was lost. “You were a scared boy, Templeton. You’re not a boy anymore.” There was a smile on the older man’s lips, a secretive little smile, like there was something here that only he knew. “And that’s not a subjective opinion, either.”
“Mr. Smith...” he breathed, something in him begging, begging for something he didn’t understand...
“Mr. Peck!” Murdock hollered from down the path, just then, shattering it all apart. “Mr. Peck, we should get in! The Colonel wants me workin’ on your party today!”
“Coming!” he yelled back, feeling a blush of shame creep over him, wondering what Mr. Smith would say about all of this. If the gardener would care...
But the older man had retreated back to the safety of that tree, crossing his arms and propping up one arm on his hand, smoking thoughtfully. Staring forward. Saying nothing.
Templeton cast him one more glance, wondering what all that had been, those words, those eyes, seeing right through him like that, and turned away from it, following Murdock back up to the house.
To whatever was coming next.
+++++
Do you remember what we discussed, my boy?”
Templeton smiled as the Colonel adjusted his bow tie and smoothed down the shoulders of his jacket. The little party or soiree or whatever one called it was already begun, the music running up the stairs, guests from across the Colonel’s community arriving, and the young man felt a little thrill at the noise. A party. Society. Those he could do, do well, like he had in Chicago, in Paris. He’d be the toast of the neighborhood by the time it was all over, he knew. And all that would come with it.
He’d have a place in this world, be firmly anchored into the Colonel’s life, his shame washed over, permanently. Find a few other young men to con into friendship. Flirt with the girls, charm one or two into harmless romances. Never have to worry about being caught as what he was, being ostracized for it all. They were to head down in a few minutes. Just had to finish the final preparations up here, and the Colonel wouldn’t stop fussing.
“I know, sir,” Templeton teased, “I’m a distant nephew on your mother’s side, twice removed, out from Chicago for the summer...”
“...or perhaps longer, depending on how you like New York. I’ve offered to help you get established in business or whatever you like...”
“...but you know I’m something of a shiftless fellow, so you aren't thinking I'll do anything but drink your brandy and rides your horses. But it's fine. It’s a pleasure for you to have me here, keeping you company, for as long as I wish to stay with my beloved uncle,” Templeton concluded, shivering as those hands got heavier on his shoulders, squeezing around him. It wasn’t exactly his first choice of cover story, but it would work. It would.
This all had to, didn’t it?
Best behavior tonight, Templeton, he told himself. Best behavior.
The Colonel chuckled, a throaty, hungry little sound, and tilted the young man’s chin up with the crook of his finger. “You’re welcome here forever, beautiful boy. You know that.”
“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” Face closed his eyes, and slid a hand down his patron’s fine shirt, up under his jacket, letting it rest where it would, pulling him in closer even as the Colonel helped shuffle them together. “You’ve always taken care of me.”
“And I always will,” the Colonel murmured, and pressed their lips together, soft, the barest promise of a kiss, and Templeton found himself whimpering just a bit. Fuck, he needed that. Gentle hands, big hands, so strong, so certain, holding him. “But first, dear boy, I need you to take care of something for me.”
Templeton let his hand slide down further, against the growing hardness, the insistent poke against his own thigh. Of course. And he didn’t know why that sent a little tremor or nervousness through him. He’d felt all wrong, the last two days, since talking to Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith, and all his bizarre, baseless notions.
“I’ll crease my trousers, sir,” he replied with a teasing smile, covering it all up with something that wasn’t exactly a lie. He hated getting his good clothes messed up, and he wanted to make a good impression on everyone tonight.
“Such a vain thing,” the Colonel replied gently, tracing the edge of his jaw. And the downward pressure was starting, and there was only one way to respond to that, and Templeton smiled his sweetest smile and laid a light hand over the buttons of his lover’s fly as he sank gracefully to his knees.
Exactly where he was supposed to be. Where the Colonel always told him he belonged. The role he understood so, so well.
“I only want you to be happy with me,” he said softly, popping those buttons one by one, pulling the Colonel’s manhood out, stroking it. “Always want you to be happy with me...”
“Always will be, dear boy,” the older man said, taking himself by the base, taking a handful of caramel-blonde hair, holding his erect cock steady, pushing it against Templeton’s lower lip, just a little bit, suggesting...
Best behavior, he reminded himself, and parted his mouth, taking the Colonel in, groaning a little bit, just like the older man loved, and relaxed into the familiarity of it all, bringing his lover, his benevolent, affectionate lover, to orgasm.
“Uncle,” he breathed teasingly after he finished and swallowed and tucked the Colonel away again and let himself be pulled up by those big hands.
“Hmm, we might have to explore something of that,” the Colonel smiled, and patted the young blonde on the back, smiling a little at the questioning frown Templeton couldn’t stop. “You ready for your big debut, Templeton?”
“I want to be in your life, sir...” he replied, the words slipping loose, and he bit his lip, smiling. “If this is how we do that, then yes, I’m ready.”
“My sweet boy,” the Colonel murmured, and kissed him softly.
Templeton wrapped an arm around his lover’s neck, letting this be the guide. Letting himself sink into the right mindset for the night ahead, suiting up into duality of roles he had have to play here.
I owe him everything, Mr. Smith...
...you’re not a boy anymore...
What a comfort it was, he thought, being somebody else, not having to worry about the strange gardener’s words the other morning.
And with that firmly in mind, Templeton kissed his Colonel back.
