Paper Doll - Part Two of Ten
Sep. 15th, 2011 06:29 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:
Templeton realizes that all may not have been as advertised in the Colonel's household, and struggles to deal with his growing curiosity about Mr. John Smith...
The sun was coming up over the grounds by the time Templeton finally cut the last man at the table out of the poker game, a straight flush that won him the pot.
Thousands of dollars, that, scattered about between abandoned shot glasses and low-balls and overflowing ashtrays, all of it speaking to the kind of night they’d had, once his opponent had found him. Once they’d snuck away from the main body of the hundred or so people the Colonel had invited here, the main party, the music and bright lights. Once they’d met up with about six or seven of the younger men, all friends of his one remaining opponent, and even a few women. Like that dark-haired Spanish beauty, Miss Charisa Sosa, who Templeton thought might hold some interesting possibilities for cover, the way she’d been smoking and cursing right along with the boys in the flickering candlelight of the storm glasses.
But the best part was that his opponent was smiling in defeat. If that wasn’t enough to get him into the social scene on Long Island, the young blonde didn’t know what was.
“That was the best game I’ve had in a long, long time, Mr. Peck,” the other man said, rising, throwing his jacket over a rumpled shoulder, kicking the back of the chair where his friend, a small, dark-haired man named Pike, was sleeping off one too many whiskeys. “What’s your secret?”
Templeton grinned back and started gathering bills and coins together into neat little stacks. “I ran a gentleman’s club in Chicago, Mr. Lynch. We didn’t endorse gambling, of course...”
“Of course not.” A hand was offered as Mr. Pike grumbled and stayed asleep, drooling on the table. “It was an exceptionally interesting evening. I hope you’ll swing by my own place in the city sometime. This entire area can be insufferably boring.”
Such a lovely sound, Templeton thought. He’d gotten dozens of cards that night, even more names - everyone, just as he’d predicted, seemed curious about him. But Mr. Lynch was the one who’d stuck with him, once he’d found him, suggested the game, played and talked and joked all night, but nothing, nothing yet about living in the city...and Templeton wasn’t too addled by a lack of sleep and overabundance of alcohol to not notice that.
“What are you doing out here, then?” he asked. “Do you have family in the area?”
“You could say that. My father keeps the family estate out here,” Lynch said, and kicked the back of his friend’s chair again. “I think you’ve already made his acquaintance, in fact.”
Templeton smiled, trying to remember an older Mr. Lynch from the evening. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t recall him. So many new faces last night...”
“Yes, must be overwhelming for the long-lost nephew from Chicago,” his tall opponent said with that painted-on smile, the faintest hint of sarcasm underneath. “It’s very nice, you know, of the Colonel to take you in like this.”
Enough to throw Templeton off-balance. “The Colonel’s a generous man, Mr. Lynch.”
“Yes, yes he is,” Mr. Lynch replied, and smiled wide. “But please, Mr. Peck, call me Vance, please, I insist. It’s only right.”
The blonde tapped a finger on the table. “Why’s that?”
And that Lynch smiled wide. “You’re fucking my father, or my father’s fucking you, which is likely more the case. That makes you family, doesn’t it?”
It hit hard, exploding overhead, ringing his ears, and for a split second, Templeton was paralyzed. But then he remembered himself, remembered to keep his balance... “That’s quite horrid of you, Mr. Lynch, accusing your host of being a homosexual...”
“Oh, I'm sorry," and Lynch frowned. "I phrased that wrong. I’m not accusing my dear old dad of anything, but I know what he’s been like since mother passed away in ‘12. I grew up in this house, after all." It was all casual, like they were talking about the weather, and Lynch tipped his friend out of his chair. Pike grunted, still effectively asleep, and the taller man hauled him to his feet by the collar. “What the Colonel does with his free time and money is none of my business, as long as the boy can keep it discreet.”
There really was no denying it, Templeton realized. There was a striking similarity there, height, coloring, those features...
Fuck, how did he miss that last night? Had he really had that much champagne? How were they introduced, or had they been? Hadn’t Lynch just shown up and taken him by the arm and led him out here...and Templeton wanted to punch himself, for letting his guard down so thoroughly as to allow that. “And what do you think?” the blonde replied archly. “You think I don’t have as much to lose as your father, should something like that get out as a rumor?”
Lynch shook his head, and wrapped his half-comatose friend’s arm around his neck. “You’ve got far more to lose, I think, and everything to gain. I think you’re perfectly happy to use your pretty face to keep comfy. And after your little performance with the poker game last night, I think you’re an accomplished liar.” He grinned, and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure having met you, Templeton. I look forward to seeing you at my home in Manhattan sometime.”
“I’ll be there, Vance. I’m sure there are all sorts of things we can discuss.”
“Like that sound my father makes when he comes in somebody’s mouth?” Lynch replied sweetly, and left yawning, dragging his half-senseless friend with him.
Templeton stared after his opponent as he slowly made his way up to the house, feeling his legs start to shake, not knowing what to do with any of that little revelation. Not knowing, not...and his stomach churned, grumbling loud displeasure with the half-dozens bourbons it had had forced into it over the past three hours.
He barely made it to the railing of the gazebo before his body emptied itself of the booze. And as he vomited up into Mr. Smith’s nice flower bed, collapsed back against a pillar once finished, feeling sweaty and weak, Templeton found himself wishing he could empty his mind the same way, rid himself of the last fifteen minutes, pretend like he hadn’t just been outed and insulted by the son of his lover, a son who had to be older than he...
“Been burning the candle at both ends tonight, have we?”
He looked up.
At Mr. Smith.
Standing there in his work pants and rolled, dirty white shirt, blue eyes nothing but concerned.
“No,” he groaned, and wiped his mouth off, tongue acrid and thick. “No...well, maybe, but...dammit, Mr. Smith, since when does the Colonel have a son?”
Mr. Smith sighed at that, and knelt down next to him. “That pretentious little shit Vance? He normally stays in the city, doesn’t come out here unless it’s very important.” That blue eyes scanned him once more. “And I guess he thought it was very important, laying eyes on his father’s new lover.”
Templeton nodded. He felt greasy and sweaty and not at all good right then, slightly sick, his hair oily between his fingers, and he hoped that Murdock would be able to do something about the strong smell of spirits in his clothes. “He said as much.”
“He’s trying for the Bureau of Investigation, so he can’t afford a family scandal.”
The younger man smiled. “That’s a nice thought. I could cause a family scandal...”
“Not without hurting yourself far, far worse in the process,” Mr. Smith replied softly, and reached out, one big hand pulling Face’s out of his hair, those fingers brushing his scalp so, so gently, and then closing, wrapping into the younger man’s, pulling him up.
A little too hard, though, and Templeton practically fell into Mr. Smith’s arms as he was lifted off the ground. For a moment, their bodies were close, very close, pressed tight, and he could see those blue eyes, stare right into them as they were staring into him...
“You’re in no condition to walk, Mr. Peck,” the gardener said with a nod. “Let me help you up to the house, and you can get some rest. How’s that sound?”
Mr. Smith was still holding him, and for some reason Templeton was finding it difficult to think much past that. All he could do was nod slowly.
And lean on that strong, tall frame as it helped him up the lawn.
The estate staff was distracted, cleaning up the remains of the party, glasses and empty food platters and napkins and all the other detrius, as Mr. Smith led Templeton into the house through the servant’s entrance.
“They’ll be focusing on the main areas right now. They won’t see us,” he said in a low murmur, and the young blonde nodded back.
“Why’s that matter?”
“We’ve got a few guests in the spare rooms today, I’d wager,” he laughed back. “And you’re not exactly looking your best.”
Templeton had to agree, once Mr. Smith deposited him in his own rooms, the show rooms that had been given to him for these times, the times when he couldn’t sleep with the Colonel. He got a good look at himself in the mirror over the low dresser. Absolutely ragged. Exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so tired. What was it about this place that was so tiring?
“It’s a nice place,” Mr. Smith said, thoughtful, and Templeton turned. The gardener had his hands in his pockets, staring out the wide bay window, that tall, slim body, lithe. Elegant, almost, framed against the morning like it was. “Lots of light.”
“In this room,” he replied, feeling heavy, and he shuffled over. “The Colonel’s room doesn’t really have windows. Nothing big enough to let in the light. And he keeps these big heavy curtains over them, all the time...”
Mr. Smith turned a bit. “You ever there in the morning or during the day?”
“No.”
“Only night?” The gardener went back to the window. “Then it really isn’t much of a problem, is it?”
That heavy feeling kept growing, kept getting worse, and he pitched forward, landing with his hands against the sill of the window, staring out. “No. You’re right. It’s better that way, with no light...”
A shoulder hit the wall next to the window, and Templeton realized Mr. Smith was looking at him again, one hand resting in the junction of the sill, fingers twitching just a little. Almost as if he was holding them back. Which didn’t make any sense at all. “Mr. Peck, I don’t want to be rude, but...”
“You haven’t had a problem with it so far,” he interjected, and went back to his contemplation of the grounds beyond his rooms.
“Mr. Peck,” the older man started again, a little louder this time, leaning in, just a little. “Mr. Peck, I have to ask, what’s a man like you doing in a situation like this?”
“Like what?”
That hand on the sill clenched up tight, and it was a few moments before that gorgeous tenor spoke again. “Mr. Peck, if...if I was ever fortunate to have...if I was as fortunate to have a man who...” and he stopped, softening, muttering. “Dammit...”
“If...if you had a man?” Templeton echoed, mouth dry. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Smith?”
“Nothing,” the gardener said sadly, and pushed away from the wall, heading for the door. “It means nothing, Mr. Peck. Forgive me, I spoke out of turn...”
“No, Mr. Smith!” the young man blurted, something snapping in him at the thought of being left alone right then, of not knowing, and grabbed out, dashing after. “No, please, finish what you were going to say!”
And somehow, his hand closed down around the older man’s wrist, stopping him cold, and it was as if a shiver ran through Mr. Smith at the touch.
He didn’t turn around.
But he did answer.
“If I had a man who loved me as you love the Colonel, I would return that love, give it everything, not dress him up, parade him around to the insults of my own children, cage him for my own benefit and visit him only when I wanted something from him...”
As he spoke, the word heated, grew louder, angrier, as if there was some great injustice there that had to be unearthed and destroyed, a landmine under the soil. And memories started churning awake in Templeton. Like the time he first saw the Colonel, like the first time the Colonel had kissed him, like the first time the Colonel took him, virgin, willing, in the officer’s bed in the command headquarters, clean and dry and far away from the dying on the front, fingers spreading him open, the shock of joining, the feel of it all, the expression on the Colonel’s face, lost in his pleasure, pleasure Templeton was giving him...
And those blue eyes turned up, something smoldering there, and suddenly their bodies were close again, the gardener using Templeton’s own grip on his wrist to pull them together.
“I would want him with me, Mr. Peck,” he finished, words close enough to taste. “I would want him with me, always, every moment, know his every desire, his every thought...”
Templeton didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to react to any of that. Mr. Smith was warm, warm against him, and the young man felt his heart start to race, rushing blood out to his cheeks, his ears, his nipples, down, down lower...and he shoved away, rubbing a hand across his chin.
“You would give your man less freedom, less, than what the Colonel has given me, if you’d want him around, every moment of the day,” Templeton retorted, temper flaring against it all again. The Colonel cared for him, had hunted for him, treasured him now... “You stand there and insult the man who does better than you would.”
For a long moment, there was a long silence. And then Mr. Smith’s shoulders sagged an imperceptible amount.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Peck,” the gardener said with a little bow of his head. “You’ve had a long night, and I should go see that the staff isn’t stealing your winnings.”
He waved that off, relieved he could laugh again, and smiled. Smiling was good. To cover all the nasty wounds. To plaster the wall and forget it had ever been punched, kicked, burned, broken. It was a trick he’d used a dozen times in his speakeasy. “It was only a thousand dollars or so. Hardly worth your time, Mr. Smith,” he laughed. “But thanks for everything this morning, really.”
“Of course, the Colonel wouldn’t see you go without your expensive baubles,” the older man said, emotionless, and ran a big hand through his silvery hair. “But the staff still can’t steal from the owner’s boy, so you’ll forgive me if I go stop them.”
And that was it. Mr. Smith was gone. Evaporated. As if he’d never been.
Templeton slammed the door after him. Locked it. And then, staring at the glass knob for a moment, jammed the valet chair up under, ensuring nobody could enter, even with the butler’s crafty set of keys.
He practically threw himself into the bathroom, plugging the tub and only waiting for it to fill for the time it took him to undress and toss the evening’s suit off on the bed. He grabbed a jar of Mediterranean bath salts - Turkish, the Colonel had said, when he’d requested that Templeton use them from now on - and dumped a small amount into the hot water, watching them dissolve as he thought.
As he tried to figure this whole thing out.
As he slowly stroked his own half-hard cock, feeling it pulse as the water rose to cover it.
Why was he reacting like that, to this Mr. Smith? Why? Why, when he had his lover, his Colonel, who so wanted to care for him, the man who thought to his comfort, like nobody had ever done before? Wasn’t that enough? Shouldn’t it be enough, being here?
But he couldn’t summon the Colonel to mind as the water started licking up his abs, higher and higher, as his hand continued to move. It wasn’t that huge bulk he thought of, that massive presence that overwhelmed and awed, the cool darkness of their nights together, the feel of the sheets against his cheek.
No.
Instead, Templeton found himself thinking of rough hands pulling his back against a lean body, moving in opposites, long strokes, up and down, roaming across him. A thumb running softly around the swelling crown of his cock, lightly tracing veins, long strokes again, one finger sliding back across the tender skin of his sac, pressing right behind, sliding forward again. One circuit of pleasure. Sunlight around him, everything warm and open, outside, the sky bright above him, shining in his eyes. Laying back against that chest, feeling it rumble beneath him.
What do you desire, Templeton? Tell me, tell me...I want you with me...
He gasped at that, and almost before he knew what he’d just imagined, he was coming, coming in long, long pulses into the salted water. Sweet-scented liquid splashed over the lip of the tub as he fought that climax, grabbed the lip and tried to pull upright, fighting against it all. But his body, traitorous thing that it was, chased release at the same time, and in the end, biology won. Sweeping over him. Shaking him to his core.
When it was over, the young blonde reached forward and turned off the water, which had risen nearly to the top of the tub, and settled back again.
“He’s a horrid man,” he said aloud. “Insulting your lover, his employer, so freely as he does.”
The words rang hollow in the steamy room.
The exhaustion, too, was rising in him again, and he went about his business quickly, washing and rinsing. Templeton pulled himself up when he’d gotten rid of the worst of the stale alcohol smell, and barely drying off enough, crawled into bed. Into bed alone, and he was more than happy for it. To lie beneath the crisp covers, smelling of lavender from the laundry. Into bed, in the sunlight, the sunlight of his fantasy, where Mr. Smith would touch him, so gently, just the way he wanted, just the way he'd always wanted...
Templeton yawned, and snuggled in, trying to shove it all away. No such easy fix for it all, then. Nothing so simple here in the Colonel’s house, nothing at all.
But perhaps he could ask his Colonel if they couldn't have something impromptu and bright this weekend. Out in the grass. Wouldn't that be lovely? Templeton told himself, and tried to imagine it. But Mr. Smith kept popping in, where he wasn't wanted, and the young man finally had to satisfy himself with slipping off into sleep.
With nothing at all resolved.
+++++
Things were quiet for a while after that, Templeton settling into the pace of life out in the verdant, peaceful green of Long Island.
Being here, his time with the Colonel, snatched from the man’s busy schedule, clothed and waking, was delightful. The older man, his man, doted on him, ravished him with praise, admiring this or that, telling him all those old, beautiful things he'd said when they were together in Europe. And he did take him places, despite his own cautions about public affection. To the opera and Broadway, to parties at other people's houses, both of them laughing and drinking and lying together, everything preserved for their time alone together. Templeton always felt a swell of pride when he was with the Colonel, the incomparable knowledge that he had a position in this world, that he was performing it all to the best of his ability.
The Colonel didn't take him every night, although Templeton made sure he was always prepared, just in case, just like he’d agreed. So some nights he lay there, facing the ceiling, fingers tugging gently on the head of his half-hard cock, feeling the heat beside him. Some nights, the Colonel fucked him how he liked to; rough. Always rough, rutting into him, fighting for his release, demanding everything.
And Templeton did his best to make it good for his lover, he really did. Gave everything he could. But some of those nights, he had to admit, he had to act a bit more than he would have wanted. He didn't exactly like it sweet, having had gotten his fill of Continental, effeminate boys while in Paris. He liked the way American men fucked, hard and fast, but there was something about the way the Colonel did it that made him feel dirty inside. Unclean. Like he really was just a toy for this man, some pretty plaything, and more than once he heard the gardener's words come back to him.
If I had a man who loved me as you love the Colonel, I would return that love...
It might have been the perfect romance, he imagined, this thing he had with the Colonel. Except for those words Mr. Smith had spoken, haunting him still.
It was all such a load of horse shit.
The Colonel loved him. Of course he did. Of course he wanted to return that...
Templeton turned, settling into a shoulder, smelling the faint musk of his sleeping lover’s skin, reaching a hand up to curl into his lover’s hair, scooting closer under the sheet. Templeton laid his cheek there, wanting to be close, wanting to be held all of the sudden. The Colonel wasn’t much of a cuddler, not unless he was prompted, and Templeton wriggled a little, hoping he could ease himself under that arm and clear away those thoughts.
“Mmhph,” the Colonel groaned, and Templeton found himself looking up into dark eyes. The older man yawned, and the younger used that opportunity to press full against him, sighing a little as fingers stroked into his hair. Did the Colonel feel how hard he was, how much he needed it all, needed him?
“What are you doing, my boy?”
Templeton smiled, sensing an opening, and kissed his lover. “Wanted to be close to you.”
Another sleepy sound, and that hand was running down his neck, his side, coming to rest right on his ass, and Templeton smiled to himself, rolling his hips forward, hoping, knowing...
But all he got was a slap. A hard slap, and a slight push, and he was on his back, the Colonel looming over him, his body pinning the blonde’s to the bed. “Not tonight, Templeton,” he warned sternly. “Did I ask you?”
“No, but...I...I thought...”
“You thought what, boy? What?” the Colonel asked, something hard starting to form in his words. “Beautiful boy, it’s no repudiation that I don’t require your services tonight. Don’t pout. You look terrible when you pout.”
Templeton bit his lip. “Should I go?”
“No, my boy, I want you right here,” his lover replied, and stroked his pillow-mussed curls. “You belong right here with me, always. You're mine, Templeton, and you do as I say. A good little soldier. Do you understand?”
He nodded, staring up. “Yes...”
“Then go to sleep, baby,” the Colonel ordered, voice still hard, and turned back over, eyes sliding shut, gone in moments.
But Templeton couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t.
...I would return that love...
God damn Mr. Smith.
That was what was poisoning all of his happiness, all the happiness he should have had. Some bitter old man, trying to ruin him, Templeton decided, hand slowly working his half-hard cock. It was all Mr. Smith’s fault, trying to convince him of things that weren’t true, that couldn’t be, that weren’t fair or right to even imagine. Of course it was his obligation to give, the Colonel’s right to take. His to thank, the Colonel's to demand.
Why would the gardener think it otherwise?
Templeton decided to ask him about that. Or no, wait, not ask. Tell. Tell that Mr. Smith it wasn’t true, that he was ignorant in the way these things worked and had no right to any of his flawed opinions. Then, the former lieutenant knew, he could put creeping doubt behind him, and refocus himself on pleasing his man. Just as he was supposed to.
He’d tell that damn gardener off.
Tomorrow.
First thing.
+++++
That morning, after the Colonel was gone, after Templeton bathed and dressed and Murdock fixed him his breakfast, which included a piece of what he’d come to think of as “apology-bacon”, he wandered for a good hour around the estate's grounds, trying to find the gardener. An impossible feat, it seemed. An hour of walking, trying to figure out what he was going to say, steeling himself for the inevitably nasty replies.
But just when he resolved to head back up to the house, shoes dewy and heart heavy, no closer to any answer he so desperately needed, Templeton heard a splash off the side of the little path. He found himself following through long, uncut grass, right against a little copse of ash trees. There was a pleasant little pond down that way, he remembered. Maybe Mr. Smith was cleaning it or something.
He rounded the trees, in clear view of the pond, barely a stone toss away, determined to give that damn man something to think about, but he stopped cold instead.
And dove behind the trunk of one of those trees.
Mr. Smith was there, at the pond, but hardly cleaning it, as Templeton had assumed. No, he had just finished a swim or something, and that splash the young man had heard had to be the sound of him pulling that long, lean body of his free of the surface, up on to the little dock. That was where he was when Templeton spotted him, back turned, arms stretching up overhead, muscles flexing all the way down his taughtly muscled, very scarred back, water running down brown skin, utterly naked.
Templeton clung to the safety of the shade, hardly daring to breath, not wanting to be seen now. But that man, that body...he was a man who obviously spent his days working, lifting and digging and planting and building, the way he looked. And the young man thought he’d caught the barest glimpse of his cock, hanging long and heavy between his legs, and that stuck in his mind. Stuck there, the very thought of it, what such a length as that would, could, feel in his mouth...
So, despite himself, not really meaning to, feeling dirty, feeling as if he could do nothing else, Templeton found himself moving back around that tree, deeper into the shadows, where he could watch.
And in Templeton’s vision, the gardener shook himself, seemingly unconcerned with his own nakedness, this far from the house, and stretched out on the wooden slats where he'd thrown a towel. Those big hands crossed behind his head, water droplets glistening on his skin, and Templeton was close enough to see the light, slicked sheen of silvery chest hair. He was beautiful, the young man thought wildly, staring still. Movement, and he thought for a moment he was lost. But it was just one of those big hands, sliding down across damp skin, down...
Templeton had to bite his lip at the sight that met his eyes then, as the man's massive cock stirred from it's resting place against a hard, brown thigh. As its master stroked a palm slowly down it's length, encouraging it to thicken, grow. From his little vantage point uphill, in the trees, he could see the man's lips part, and he fancied he could hear a gasp, shuddering little words, one of which sounded like baby, please. Maybe thinking of some old lover, a man from long ago, perhaps, Templeton thought with a stab of strange, strange jealousy.
Mr. Smith brought his hand back up, curling his fingers under that column of flesh, looking like he was tightening. Working himself, knee pulling up and falling open, the other big hand teasing up his chest to circle a nipple, those little sounds growing, losing himself in his dream lover, lips moving, whispering to whoever he held in his mind’s eye.
Templeton watched the whole thing, knowing he should leave, unable to budge as Mr. Smith pleasured himself so freely. His own imagination started running away with him again. That dream of sunshine and open air, that big hand treating Templeton’s own cock with such touches as what he was giving himself. He could feel himself growing hard at the erotic display, a hundred different flashes of possibility racing through his mind. Those gasps were growing louder, turning into little cries, and he thought he could hear, almost hear...
"Mister Peck!"
His name, his own name in that beautiful voice, thundering across the grass, shattered through Templeton. No, the young man told himself. No, no, no. It couldn't be, it shouldn't, it wasn't...
Mr. Smith groaned it again, his hand a blur, and then his hips arched up into his own touch, and he was cresting. Erupting in long, long spurts of pearly white.
Templeton threw himself back around the tree trunk, his name called out, again and again. He couldn’t watch that, he had no right, not even if it was his name on the other man’s lips as he came. but just then a stick cracked loud beneath his foot.
And those little breathy cries stopped.
Completely.
Templeton screwed his eyes up, knowing he needed to get out of here, right now, knowing he needed run, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t move at all. Couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t obey, wouldn’t follow his commands, wouldn’t help him out at all...
Then wet fingers touched his shoulder, and he just fucking knew he was lost.
“Mr. Peck?”
He groaned, and suddenly his body kicked into gear, trying to move away, eyes still shut.
But that wet hand stopped him. Not hard or tight, that hand. Resting on his neck, right against the short, prickled hairs above his collar. Holding him still, thumb just starting to rub.
“Mr. Peck. Look at me, lad. Please...”
That please cut right through him, and blinking, Templeton pulled his eyes up.
The first thing he noticed was how very, very exposed the other man was, a wrinkled workshirt thrown hastily on, unbuttoned, doing nothing to hide the shining trails of drying seed on his chest. Those blue eyes were still bright with orgasm, but there was a hint of fear there.
A whole lot of fear.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, not knowing what else to say. “I was trying...trying to find you, and then you, you were...I didn’t know what to...”
Mr. Smith looked away, his hand slipping away to rest on the smooth bark of the tree trunk Templeton was leaning on, and he ran his other through still-damp silver hair. “Is there something you need from me, Mr. Peck?” he asked, clearly trying to pull himself together. “Some reason why you wanted me at this hour?”
His mouth was suddenly dry. Mr. Peck. He’d said it as he came. What did that mean? Was it just some old man fantasizing? Was it... “I...I wanted to...wanted to ask you...”
“Wanted to ask me what, Mr. Peck?”
He squirmed, intensely uncomfortable, and tried to get the words out, what he’d resolved to say, what he’d resolved to declare to this man. But his brain was overloaded with the sight he’d just witnessed, with the vision of manhood standing before him now, his cock throbbing, erect, needy. He couldn’t manage it.
So he just moaned instead. And felt a hot, hot blush spreading over his cheeks.
Those blue eyes held him softly, black thoughts running beneath them, and Templeton found himself wrapping a hand around the wrist by his head, letting his fingers slide up, bracing himself against the stupid, stupid words.
But the gardener smiled, and leaned in a bit. “There is something you need from me, isn’t there, Mr. Peck?”
“W-what’s that?” Templeton asked, feeling his throat pinch.
“This,” Mr. Smith breathed, and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “And this.” Another kiss, to the hollow of his throat. A big hand moved up, popping the top button, those soft, wet lips kissing newly exposed skin. “And this...”
“Mr. Smith...” Templeton gasped, utterly confused, heat flaring through his body, hands scrambling all on their own, seeking a grip on something, anything, finding the edges of that workshirt, dragging them closer together, pulling their groins tight, and he had to stifle his cry, his erection sliding up a hard, hard thigh.
The older man groaned into his skin, and slid the next button out of it’s buttonhole, kissing him again.
Templeton let himself collapse against the tree behind him, let himself sink into the feeling of the older man’s lips, hands, the faintest brushes of teeth and tongue, all of it pulling his shirt open to the cool morning air. His own hands slipped up as Mr. Smith moved down, feeling sun-warmed skin, that light brushing of hair, beneath his palms, and he bit his lip, trying to hold back his little cry of pleasure as that wonderful mouth teased the thin line of hair from his bellybutton to the top of his trousers, hands starting to unthread his belt...
And he jerked back. Hard, scratching himself on the bark, thinking of those things the Colonel had told him, back in France, back in the headquarters. No. It wasn’t this man’s place, wasn’t his job. It was his, Templeton knew, his alone to give, never take...
He looked down, and found a heated pair of steel blue eyes staring back up at him. “What’s wrong, kid?” Mr. Smith asked him softly.
He bit his lip. “I...I...you shouldn’t...”
“Do you not want this?” the older man murmured, thumbing the delicate skin stretched over one hipbone, pressing another of those wonderful little kisses there. “Tell me what you want...
And then the gardener was pushing away, rocking back on his knees, like he was going to leave, and Templeton very nearly panicked. He grabbed for Mr. Smith’s wide, wonderful shoulders now, hands fisting up into the rough fabric of his shirt, holding him there. Holding him right there. He knew what he wanted, what he’d always wondered about, what he desperately needed at that moment. The throbbing between his legs was becoming unbearable, the pressure, the heat, how close Mr. Smith was to it...
“You can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t ask you for...”
“For what? For this?” And the older man mouthed around Templeton’s cock, sucking lightly through the fine material of his trousers.
Templeton bit back his whimper. “I can’t...”
“You can,” came the quiet insistence as his fly was opened, again, button by button. “You can fall back and let me pleasure you, can’t you?”
He sucked air and nodded at the same time as his cock was pulled free, dark and heavy with rushing, tingling blood, into the morning air. Templeton sighed then, forgetting to hold it back, and there was the tug of a strong, calloused hand around his cock at the sound.
“That’s it,” Mr. Smith said encouragingly, thumb playing across the slit of Templeton’s cock, precome beading across his nail. “I want to hear everything. I want you to let go and let me hear you. Can you do that for me? Please, can you?”
Suddenly mute, Templeton managed a nod, and the red, swollen crown disappeared into Mr. Smith’s mouth.
It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Something he’d never had before. That suction, that heat, the way everything moved around him, caressing him, holding him fast and turning the world. It was delicious, better with every inch the older man took in, tongue swirling and dipping. Templeton found himself choking down cry after cry, the faintest hints of the sound escaping the seal of his lips. Mr. Smith chuckled around his cock - which almost did Templeton in, right then and there - and lifted a hand to caress his balls, palming the heavy sac and pushing it up and a little forward.
And when Mr. Smith let him go to suck one ball, then the other, into his mouth, the young man found himself unable to stop the long, wanton moan that seemed to pull itself straight from his soul itself. It got him a soft hand on the hip and his balls were rolled again.
The coil of need in his belly was growing, growing with every second, and Templeton alternated between watching and moaning and tossing his head back, the pleasure of it all threatening to overwhelm him completely. He was panting freely, the noise drawn from him, demanded, found, given... And then Mr. Smith pulled off completely, licked a hot strip from behind the base of Templeton’s balls, all the way up to the tip of his cock, and sucked him gently back in, all the way, all the way through what Templeton knew had to be his gag reflex, all the way into his throat, both the man’s big hands tightening and hauling him forward, that coil snapped.
Utterly.
Templeton sobbed quietly through his orgasm. Quick and sudden, it exploded out of him, hard and fast, and it was all caught by that mouth, by Mr. Smith’s mouth, pulling him in, swallowing him down until the very last drop had escape, and his knees were watery.
The lanky gardener caught him as he moved back up, wrapping Templeton in his strong arms, holding him tight as he recovered.
“That was beautiful, kid, so beautiful. Thank you for letting me do that for you,” Mr. Smith murmured, kissing his temple and rubbing their cheeks together, stubble itching across stubble, a fantastic feeling.
“Templeton,” he whispered back, laying his head down on a broad shoulder, snuggling in as best he could, wondering at it all. He'd never known, never had anything like that before, never understood what kind of pleasure lay in that act, so frequently despicable, in his life. And the older man had given it, done it willingly, enjoyed...
“Templeton...” the older man breathed, and lifted his head again. "If I'm John."
Templeton nodded slowly. "John..." he tried, and got a dazzling smile in return.
But then John was moving away, that incredible body of his heading back out into the sun, which was beginning to grow hot, and started pulling on his pants. “I have work to be finished today, after my little swim, and no doubt you have things as well. I can’t stay.”
Templeton followed him, feet still a little unsteady, reaching out to touch a shoulder. “But...”
John turned, trousers zipped and a smile on his face, shirt still open to the belt. A hand touched the younger man’s face, and a smile broke out across the older’s as Templeton used that as his opportunity to pull up and in, slotting in exactly right, exactly how he’d always wanted to. So Templeton thought about that, how Templeton tried not to think about what they’d just done, what he’d wanted from the Colonel last night, how badly his life was going to end, if this got out...
“Shh, kid,” John soothed, rocking him a little, pulling him back in to that strong, warm chest. “It’s alright. You’re alright. It’s going to be alright...”
And it was in that moment that Templeton realized he was crying.
+++++
Templeton was fairly certain any telltale puffiness in his eyes had gone down by the time he made it back to the house. He’d been walking slow, trying to pull his thoughts together, trying to figure out what exactly had happened down by the pond, and what the hell any of it meant for him.
Mr. Smith, John, had held him for a few minutes after he’d broken down, held him gently, as he sobbed his way through it all. Templeton had felt weak, horribly so, but there was no judgment, no criticism from the older man as he’d lifted his face from that shoulder of John’s wrinkled shirt. Just another kiss.
And a few murmured words.
“I should go. You should go...”
Go.
A dismissal. Of course. Even after all the lovely words...
Templeton had let go then, turned, and starting buttoning up his shirt, tucking himself back together as he began walking away. “I understand, Mr. Smith...” he’d replied sadly over his shoulder.
“Templeton!” the older man had called after him, stopping him for a moment, getting him to turn. “Templeton, will I...will I see you again?”
He’d nodded. “Just tell me where and when, Mr. Smith,” he’d nodded. “I’ll be there for you.”
Nothing more after that.
And on his walk, he was still trying to puzzle it out.
Men wanting had always been part of his life. And ever since he was seventeen, since that bed in the headquarters building in France, since the Colonel had first shown him what his body was capable of giving, he’d never questioned those looks, those requests, those things that were taken.
But that, a man falling to his knees for him, that was something entirely new. And he’d thought, just for a little while there, that it had been something for him. Which was a ridiculous thing to think; it was nobody else’s place to please him. That wasn’t in the cards for him. And it was the same pattern, too, the gardener taking what he wanted, leaving when he wanted, leaving Templeton alone when it suited.
It didn’t add up. Did the older man have some kind of uncommon sexual fixation? Where sucking another man’s cock was just as enjoyable to him as having his cock sucked? Templeton had never minded the activity himself, something rather nice about it, certainly, a satisfaction in a job well done, but he’d never thought it as good as his own touch, nothing worth seeking out for pleasure. But men came to him for pleasure. Mr. Smith had seemed to want pleasure, had seemed to derive pleasure from it all, despite his position in it all.
Templeton couldn’t figure it out.
Any of it.
Having to service two men, he knew, instead of just one, especially when the second worked for the first, especially when he wasn’t sure what the second desired from him, was going to be a bit of a challenge.
But if that was how it was to be, he could bear it. With Mr. Smith, at least, he thought, he could enjoy it a little.
So Templeton found himself wandering back to the kitchen, down to the servants’ area, where Murdock was probably making a big fuss about something or other, and the eccentric butler did not disappoint. He was in a side room entertaining a few of the staff with an impromptu puppet show on the proper way to clean silver, faces sewn on socks in his hand, and Templeton lounged in the back for a few moments, smiling at the display.
Murdock sauntered over once he finished, smiling broadly at the young blonde, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Enjoying this fine morning, are we, old chap?” he asked, the Empire making an appearance, and Templeton rubbed a hand over his chin.
“I don’t really know,” he admitted. “I just...can I talk to you about something? Alone?”
That got him a nod and a puppet-clad hand around his shoulder. “Outside? This place is full o’ ears, y’know.”
And Templeton, despite his misgivings about the possibility of seeing Mr. Smith again that day, before he had it all worked out, nodded.
Murdock led him out to a sunny little corner of the main building, a place with tables and a little firepit that didn’t look much-used. Climbing vines covered the wall of the house next to them, spreading up the warm stone, and Templeton stared up at them for a moment. He could still feel that orgasm fluttering through his body. Aftershocks, even now? Had he ever come that hard before? At another man’s hand? At his own?
He couldn’t remember.
Such a shame.
He'd half believed some of the things that Mr. Smith had said. Although, he'd only half-understood most of that, but still...
“What’d’ya wanna talk about?” the butler asked, biting at a cuticle, the Texan reemerging in his speech now.
Templeton bit his lip. “How...how long have you known Mr. Smith?”
“The gardener?” And Murdock cocked his head up at the sky. “We were with Persing together, down in the Arizona territories, chasin’ after Apache and such, back in the day.”
That sounded familiar, the Persing thing. Templeton frowned. “Wasn’t the Colonel there, too?”
Murdock nodded, smiling a little. “Hannibal was his major at the time...”
“Hannibal?”
“Mr. Smith, o’ course. That’s what we all called him, back in the day...”
The young man nodded, absorbing that piece of information. Mr. Smith, a commissioned officer in the Army, with that as a nickname, the famous Roman? “How’d he get here, working for the Colonel?”
“He got real sick and the regimental docs said he shouldn’t serve anymore. So the Colonel offered him a job, any job he wanted. Prolly thought he was gonna go for something in the banks. But Mr. Smith said he wanted to be the gardener, and when ol’ Mr. Stevens died about six years ago, he took over as head.”
“Why didn’t he go to the bank job?”
Murdock shrugged. “He mostly just keeps to himself now, lives out in the little groundskeeper’s cottage thataways.”
Templeton sighed, and sat back in his chair. Shit. That wasn’t exactly helpful. Didn’t help him understand what he was up against, what he might expect. But he knew where he might be able to find the man. And showing up was always half the battle, wasn’t it?
“Thanks, Murdock,” he said, rising. “I appreciate it.”
“Why d’ya wanna know about him?” the butler asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Looks like he’s coming, we could ask him...”
Templeton looked down the lawn towards the approaching figure. Tall, lanky, suspenders down around his hips, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, sunlight glinting off that head of silver hair...he felt his mouth grow dry. How noble the man looked, even wrapped in those rough coverings. Although, Templeton thought, that was just because he knew what kind of beauty lay beneath, what was obscured...
But the gardener raised a hand and Murdock waved back, and Templeton knew he had to get out of there. Now. If Mr. Smith wanted a second time out of him today, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to perform for the Colonel tonight, and he must be able to prioritize the Colonel above anything else. Even if he’d like nothing better than to run down there, ask for a kiss like the ones from earlier, feel those arms around him again, holding him...
Using you, that voice in the back of his mind whispered to him. That’s all any of them want...
Templeton smiled his most disarming smile over the top of all of it and stretched a bit, studiously not looking over at Mr. Smith as he approached. “I think I’m going to head to the library, buddy. Can I get lunch there this afternoon?”
“Certainly, Mr. Peck...” Murdock said, and Templeton bolted for the safety of indoors.
Missing completely the look of worry on the gardener’s face as he neared.
+++++
It was two days before Templeton saw the gardener again.
The Colonel hadn’t asked him for anything that first night, after that morning with Mr. Smith, and he’d spent the next day in the library as well, going through the classics in their big leatherbound covers. Reading about the lives of others, lives of people who had never existed and never would, stories of great depth and passion, the men so brave and strong, the women so soft and sensual, loving each other, coming together in those sanctified and celebrated ways. He couldn’t picture himself in any story like that, and maybe that was his real punishment for being the way he was.
Love wasn’t possible. How could one man ever love another, when they were so clearly built to love women?
It was with those gloomy thoughts that he’d gone to bed the night before, but it had all been alright. The Colonel’s hands had been hard, heavy, holding him down with bruising force, like he was trying to tear him apart, and somehow that had all been just right. Just so. The way it was supposed to be. The way it was going to be for him. The way it had to be.
And understanding that simple truth, it turned out, made it easier to bear the pain.
But Murdock had served him breakfast outside the next morning, and that where Templeton was, finishing up his omelette, reading the morning paper that spoke of nothing consequential, when Mr. Smith found him.
“Kid?” the tall man asked, looking around and then leaning against the low wall of the wide stone terrace, pushing his cap up a little so those blue, blue eyes were staring up into his so clearly. “Templeton? Can you spare a moment or two? There’s something...”
He sighed and folded the paper up by his plate, leaving both as he stood. Breakfast outside. How convenient. Was Murdock in on this little plot as well? What would the butler eventually demand of him?
“Of course,” he replied, grabbing his hat up, and tossed his napkin on his chair, straightening his tie in its starched collar as he made his way down the few steps to the grass beyond. Mr. Smith was right there, waiting for him, and Templeton made sure he brushed the other man was he walked past, down onto the path. “Show me where.”
Mr. Smith cast one last glance back at the house and, nobody there to see, stroked two fingers down the back of Templeton’s hand. “I know a place, if you’ll follow,” he murmured.
Templeton nodded. What else was he to do?
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mentions of domestic violence and underage
Summary:
Templeton realizes that all may not have been as advertised in the Colonel's household, and struggles to deal with his growing curiosity about Mr. John Smith...
The sun was coming up over the grounds by the time Templeton finally cut the last man at the table out of the poker game, a straight flush that won him the pot.
Thousands of dollars, that, scattered about between abandoned shot glasses and low-balls and overflowing ashtrays, all of it speaking to the kind of night they’d had, once his opponent had found him. Once they’d snuck away from the main body of the hundred or so people the Colonel had invited here, the main party, the music and bright lights. Once they’d met up with about six or seven of the younger men, all friends of his one remaining opponent, and even a few women. Like that dark-haired Spanish beauty, Miss Charisa Sosa, who Templeton thought might hold some interesting possibilities for cover, the way she’d been smoking and cursing right along with the boys in the flickering candlelight of the storm glasses.
But the best part was that his opponent was smiling in defeat. If that wasn’t enough to get him into the social scene on Long Island, the young blonde didn’t know what was.
“That was the best game I’ve had in a long, long time, Mr. Peck,” the other man said, rising, throwing his jacket over a rumpled shoulder, kicking the back of the chair where his friend, a small, dark-haired man named Pike, was sleeping off one too many whiskeys. “What’s your secret?”
Templeton grinned back and started gathering bills and coins together into neat little stacks. “I ran a gentleman’s club in Chicago, Mr. Lynch. We didn’t endorse gambling, of course...”
“Of course not.” A hand was offered as Mr. Pike grumbled and stayed asleep, drooling on the table. “It was an exceptionally interesting evening. I hope you’ll swing by my own place in the city sometime. This entire area can be insufferably boring.”
Such a lovely sound, Templeton thought. He’d gotten dozens of cards that night, even more names - everyone, just as he’d predicted, seemed curious about him. But Mr. Lynch was the one who’d stuck with him, once he’d found him, suggested the game, played and talked and joked all night, but nothing, nothing yet about living in the city...and Templeton wasn’t too addled by a lack of sleep and overabundance of alcohol to not notice that.
“What are you doing out here, then?” he asked. “Do you have family in the area?”
“You could say that. My father keeps the family estate out here,” Lynch said, and kicked the back of his friend’s chair again. “I think you’ve already made his acquaintance, in fact.”
Templeton smiled, trying to remember an older Mr. Lynch from the evening. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t recall him. So many new faces last night...”
“Yes, must be overwhelming for the long-lost nephew from Chicago,” his tall opponent said with that painted-on smile, the faintest hint of sarcasm underneath. “It’s very nice, you know, of the Colonel to take you in like this.”
Enough to throw Templeton off-balance. “The Colonel’s a generous man, Mr. Lynch.”
“Yes, yes he is,” Mr. Lynch replied, and smiled wide. “But please, Mr. Peck, call me Vance, please, I insist. It’s only right.”
The blonde tapped a finger on the table. “Why’s that?”
And that Lynch smiled wide. “You’re fucking my father, or my father’s fucking you, which is likely more the case. That makes you family, doesn’t it?”
It hit hard, exploding overhead, ringing his ears, and for a split second, Templeton was paralyzed. But then he remembered himself, remembered to keep his balance... “That’s quite horrid of you, Mr. Lynch, accusing your host of being a homosexual...”
“Oh, I'm sorry," and Lynch frowned. "I phrased that wrong. I’m not accusing my dear old dad of anything, but I know what he’s been like since mother passed away in ‘12. I grew up in this house, after all." It was all casual, like they were talking about the weather, and Lynch tipped his friend out of his chair. Pike grunted, still effectively asleep, and the taller man hauled him to his feet by the collar. “What the Colonel does with his free time and money is none of my business, as long as the boy can keep it discreet.”
There really was no denying it, Templeton realized. There was a striking similarity there, height, coloring, those features...
Fuck, how did he miss that last night? Had he really had that much champagne? How were they introduced, or had they been? Hadn’t Lynch just shown up and taken him by the arm and led him out here...and Templeton wanted to punch himself, for letting his guard down so thoroughly as to allow that. “And what do you think?” the blonde replied archly. “You think I don’t have as much to lose as your father, should something like that get out as a rumor?”
Lynch shook his head, and wrapped his half-comatose friend’s arm around his neck. “You’ve got far more to lose, I think, and everything to gain. I think you’re perfectly happy to use your pretty face to keep comfy. And after your little performance with the poker game last night, I think you’re an accomplished liar.” He grinned, and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure having met you, Templeton. I look forward to seeing you at my home in Manhattan sometime.”
“I’ll be there, Vance. I’m sure there are all sorts of things we can discuss.”
“Like that sound my father makes when he comes in somebody’s mouth?” Lynch replied sweetly, and left yawning, dragging his half-senseless friend with him.
Templeton stared after his opponent as he slowly made his way up to the house, feeling his legs start to shake, not knowing what to do with any of that little revelation. Not knowing, not...and his stomach churned, grumbling loud displeasure with the half-dozens bourbons it had had forced into it over the past three hours.
He barely made it to the railing of the gazebo before his body emptied itself of the booze. And as he vomited up into Mr. Smith’s nice flower bed, collapsed back against a pillar once finished, feeling sweaty and weak, Templeton found himself wishing he could empty his mind the same way, rid himself of the last fifteen minutes, pretend like he hadn’t just been outed and insulted by the son of his lover, a son who had to be older than he...
“Been burning the candle at both ends tonight, have we?”
He looked up.
At Mr. Smith.
Standing there in his work pants and rolled, dirty white shirt, blue eyes nothing but concerned.
“No,” he groaned, and wiped his mouth off, tongue acrid and thick. “No...well, maybe, but...dammit, Mr. Smith, since when does the Colonel have a son?”
Mr. Smith sighed at that, and knelt down next to him. “That pretentious little shit Vance? He normally stays in the city, doesn’t come out here unless it’s very important.” That blue eyes scanned him once more. “And I guess he thought it was very important, laying eyes on his father’s new lover.”
Templeton nodded. He felt greasy and sweaty and not at all good right then, slightly sick, his hair oily between his fingers, and he hoped that Murdock would be able to do something about the strong smell of spirits in his clothes. “He said as much.”
“He’s trying for the Bureau of Investigation, so he can’t afford a family scandal.”
The younger man smiled. “That’s a nice thought. I could cause a family scandal...”
“Not without hurting yourself far, far worse in the process,” Mr. Smith replied softly, and reached out, one big hand pulling Face’s out of his hair, those fingers brushing his scalp so, so gently, and then closing, wrapping into the younger man’s, pulling him up.
A little too hard, though, and Templeton practically fell into Mr. Smith’s arms as he was lifted off the ground. For a moment, their bodies were close, very close, pressed tight, and he could see those blue eyes, stare right into them as they were staring into him...
“You’re in no condition to walk, Mr. Peck,” the gardener said with a nod. “Let me help you up to the house, and you can get some rest. How’s that sound?”
Mr. Smith was still holding him, and for some reason Templeton was finding it difficult to think much past that. All he could do was nod slowly.
And lean on that strong, tall frame as it helped him up the lawn.
The estate staff was distracted, cleaning up the remains of the party, glasses and empty food platters and napkins and all the other detrius, as Mr. Smith led Templeton into the house through the servant’s entrance.
“They’ll be focusing on the main areas right now. They won’t see us,” he said in a low murmur, and the young blonde nodded back.
“Why’s that matter?”
“We’ve got a few guests in the spare rooms today, I’d wager,” he laughed back. “And you’re not exactly looking your best.”
Templeton had to agree, once Mr. Smith deposited him in his own rooms, the show rooms that had been given to him for these times, the times when he couldn’t sleep with the Colonel. He got a good look at himself in the mirror over the low dresser. Absolutely ragged. Exhausted. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so tired. What was it about this place that was so tiring?
“It’s a nice place,” Mr. Smith said, thoughtful, and Templeton turned. The gardener had his hands in his pockets, staring out the wide bay window, that tall, slim body, lithe. Elegant, almost, framed against the morning like it was. “Lots of light.”
“In this room,” he replied, feeling heavy, and he shuffled over. “The Colonel’s room doesn’t really have windows. Nothing big enough to let in the light. And he keeps these big heavy curtains over them, all the time...”
Mr. Smith turned a bit. “You ever there in the morning or during the day?”
“No.”
“Only night?” The gardener went back to the window. “Then it really isn’t much of a problem, is it?”
That heavy feeling kept growing, kept getting worse, and he pitched forward, landing with his hands against the sill of the window, staring out. “No. You’re right. It’s better that way, with no light...”
A shoulder hit the wall next to the window, and Templeton realized Mr. Smith was looking at him again, one hand resting in the junction of the sill, fingers twitching just a little. Almost as if he was holding them back. Which didn’t make any sense at all. “Mr. Peck, I don’t want to be rude, but...”
“You haven’t had a problem with it so far,” he interjected, and went back to his contemplation of the grounds beyond his rooms.
“Mr. Peck,” the older man started again, a little louder this time, leaning in, just a little. “Mr. Peck, I have to ask, what’s a man like you doing in a situation like this?”
“Like what?”
That hand on the sill clenched up tight, and it was a few moments before that gorgeous tenor spoke again. “Mr. Peck, if...if I was ever fortunate to have...if I was as fortunate to have a man who...” and he stopped, softening, muttering. “Dammit...”
“If...if you had a man?” Templeton echoed, mouth dry. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Smith?”
“Nothing,” the gardener said sadly, and pushed away from the wall, heading for the door. “It means nothing, Mr. Peck. Forgive me, I spoke out of turn...”
“No, Mr. Smith!” the young man blurted, something snapping in him at the thought of being left alone right then, of not knowing, and grabbed out, dashing after. “No, please, finish what you were going to say!”
And somehow, his hand closed down around the older man’s wrist, stopping him cold, and it was as if a shiver ran through Mr. Smith at the touch.
He didn’t turn around.
But he did answer.
“If I had a man who loved me as you love the Colonel, I would return that love, give it everything, not dress him up, parade him around to the insults of my own children, cage him for my own benefit and visit him only when I wanted something from him...”
As he spoke, the word heated, grew louder, angrier, as if there was some great injustice there that had to be unearthed and destroyed, a landmine under the soil. And memories started churning awake in Templeton. Like the time he first saw the Colonel, like the first time the Colonel had kissed him, like the first time the Colonel took him, virgin, willing, in the officer’s bed in the command headquarters, clean and dry and far away from the dying on the front, fingers spreading him open, the shock of joining, the feel of it all, the expression on the Colonel’s face, lost in his pleasure, pleasure Templeton was giving him...
And those blue eyes turned up, something smoldering there, and suddenly their bodies were close again, the gardener using Templeton’s own grip on his wrist to pull them together.
“I would want him with me, Mr. Peck,” he finished, words close enough to taste. “I would want him with me, always, every moment, know his every desire, his every thought...”
Templeton didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to react to any of that. Mr. Smith was warm, warm against him, and the young man felt his heart start to race, rushing blood out to his cheeks, his ears, his nipples, down, down lower...and he shoved away, rubbing a hand across his chin.
“You would give your man less freedom, less, than what the Colonel has given me, if you’d want him around, every moment of the day,” Templeton retorted, temper flaring against it all again. The Colonel cared for him, had hunted for him, treasured him now... “You stand there and insult the man who does better than you would.”
For a long moment, there was a long silence. And then Mr. Smith’s shoulders sagged an imperceptible amount.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Peck,” the gardener said with a little bow of his head. “You’ve had a long night, and I should go see that the staff isn’t stealing your winnings.”
He waved that off, relieved he could laugh again, and smiled. Smiling was good. To cover all the nasty wounds. To plaster the wall and forget it had ever been punched, kicked, burned, broken. It was a trick he’d used a dozen times in his speakeasy. “It was only a thousand dollars or so. Hardly worth your time, Mr. Smith,” he laughed. “But thanks for everything this morning, really.”
“Of course, the Colonel wouldn’t see you go without your expensive baubles,” the older man said, emotionless, and ran a big hand through his silvery hair. “But the staff still can’t steal from the owner’s boy, so you’ll forgive me if I go stop them.”
And that was it. Mr. Smith was gone. Evaporated. As if he’d never been.
Templeton slammed the door after him. Locked it. And then, staring at the glass knob for a moment, jammed the valet chair up under, ensuring nobody could enter, even with the butler’s crafty set of keys.
He practically threw himself into the bathroom, plugging the tub and only waiting for it to fill for the time it took him to undress and toss the evening’s suit off on the bed. He grabbed a jar of Mediterranean bath salts - Turkish, the Colonel had said, when he’d requested that Templeton use them from now on - and dumped a small amount into the hot water, watching them dissolve as he thought.
As he tried to figure this whole thing out.
As he slowly stroked his own half-hard cock, feeling it pulse as the water rose to cover it.
Why was he reacting like that, to this Mr. Smith? Why? Why, when he had his lover, his Colonel, who so wanted to care for him, the man who thought to his comfort, like nobody had ever done before? Wasn’t that enough? Shouldn’t it be enough, being here?
But he couldn’t summon the Colonel to mind as the water started licking up his abs, higher and higher, as his hand continued to move. It wasn’t that huge bulk he thought of, that massive presence that overwhelmed and awed, the cool darkness of their nights together, the feel of the sheets against his cheek.
No.
Instead, Templeton found himself thinking of rough hands pulling his back against a lean body, moving in opposites, long strokes, up and down, roaming across him. A thumb running softly around the swelling crown of his cock, lightly tracing veins, long strokes again, one finger sliding back across the tender skin of his sac, pressing right behind, sliding forward again. One circuit of pleasure. Sunlight around him, everything warm and open, outside, the sky bright above him, shining in his eyes. Laying back against that chest, feeling it rumble beneath him.
What do you desire, Templeton? Tell me, tell me...I want you with me...
He gasped at that, and almost before he knew what he’d just imagined, he was coming, coming in long, long pulses into the salted water. Sweet-scented liquid splashed over the lip of the tub as he fought that climax, grabbed the lip and tried to pull upright, fighting against it all. But his body, traitorous thing that it was, chased release at the same time, and in the end, biology won. Sweeping over him. Shaking him to his core.
When it was over, the young blonde reached forward and turned off the water, which had risen nearly to the top of the tub, and settled back again.
“He’s a horrid man,” he said aloud. “Insulting your lover, his employer, so freely as he does.”
The words rang hollow in the steamy room.
The exhaustion, too, was rising in him again, and he went about his business quickly, washing and rinsing. Templeton pulled himself up when he’d gotten rid of the worst of the stale alcohol smell, and barely drying off enough, crawled into bed. Into bed alone, and he was more than happy for it. To lie beneath the crisp covers, smelling of lavender from the laundry. Into bed, in the sunlight, the sunlight of his fantasy, where Mr. Smith would touch him, so gently, just the way he wanted, just the way he'd always wanted...
Templeton yawned, and snuggled in, trying to shove it all away. No such easy fix for it all, then. Nothing so simple here in the Colonel’s house, nothing at all.
But perhaps he could ask his Colonel if they couldn't have something impromptu and bright this weekend. Out in the grass. Wouldn't that be lovely? Templeton told himself, and tried to imagine it. But Mr. Smith kept popping in, where he wasn't wanted, and the young man finally had to satisfy himself with slipping off into sleep.
With nothing at all resolved.
+++++
Things were quiet for a while after that, Templeton settling into the pace of life out in the verdant, peaceful green of Long Island.
Being here, his time with the Colonel, snatched from the man’s busy schedule, clothed and waking, was delightful. The older man, his man, doted on him, ravished him with praise, admiring this or that, telling him all those old, beautiful things he'd said when they were together in Europe. And he did take him places, despite his own cautions about public affection. To the opera and Broadway, to parties at other people's houses, both of them laughing and drinking and lying together, everything preserved for their time alone together. Templeton always felt a swell of pride when he was with the Colonel, the incomparable knowledge that he had a position in this world, that he was performing it all to the best of his ability.
The Colonel didn't take him every night, although Templeton made sure he was always prepared, just in case, just like he’d agreed. So some nights he lay there, facing the ceiling, fingers tugging gently on the head of his half-hard cock, feeling the heat beside him. Some nights, the Colonel fucked him how he liked to; rough. Always rough, rutting into him, fighting for his release, demanding everything.
And Templeton did his best to make it good for his lover, he really did. Gave everything he could. But some of those nights, he had to admit, he had to act a bit more than he would have wanted. He didn't exactly like it sweet, having had gotten his fill of Continental, effeminate boys while in Paris. He liked the way American men fucked, hard and fast, but there was something about the way the Colonel did it that made him feel dirty inside. Unclean. Like he really was just a toy for this man, some pretty plaything, and more than once he heard the gardener's words come back to him.
If I had a man who loved me as you love the Colonel, I would return that love...
It might have been the perfect romance, he imagined, this thing he had with the Colonel. Except for those words Mr. Smith had spoken, haunting him still.
It was all such a load of horse shit.
The Colonel loved him. Of course he did. Of course he wanted to return that...
Templeton turned, settling into a shoulder, smelling the faint musk of his sleeping lover’s skin, reaching a hand up to curl into his lover’s hair, scooting closer under the sheet. Templeton laid his cheek there, wanting to be close, wanting to be held all of the sudden. The Colonel wasn’t much of a cuddler, not unless he was prompted, and Templeton wriggled a little, hoping he could ease himself under that arm and clear away those thoughts.
“Mmhph,” the Colonel groaned, and Templeton found himself looking up into dark eyes. The older man yawned, and the younger used that opportunity to press full against him, sighing a little as fingers stroked into his hair. Did the Colonel feel how hard he was, how much he needed it all, needed him?
“What are you doing, my boy?”
Templeton smiled, sensing an opening, and kissed his lover. “Wanted to be close to you.”
Another sleepy sound, and that hand was running down his neck, his side, coming to rest right on his ass, and Templeton smiled to himself, rolling his hips forward, hoping, knowing...
But all he got was a slap. A hard slap, and a slight push, and he was on his back, the Colonel looming over him, his body pinning the blonde’s to the bed. “Not tonight, Templeton,” he warned sternly. “Did I ask you?”
“No, but...I...I thought...”
“You thought what, boy? What?” the Colonel asked, something hard starting to form in his words. “Beautiful boy, it’s no repudiation that I don’t require your services tonight. Don’t pout. You look terrible when you pout.”
Templeton bit his lip. “Should I go?”
“No, my boy, I want you right here,” his lover replied, and stroked his pillow-mussed curls. “You belong right here with me, always. You're mine, Templeton, and you do as I say. A good little soldier. Do you understand?”
He nodded, staring up. “Yes...”
“Then go to sleep, baby,” the Colonel ordered, voice still hard, and turned back over, eyes sliding shut, gone in moments.
But Templeton couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t.
...I would return that love...
God damn Mr. Smith.
That was what was poisoning all of his happiness, all the happiness he should have had. Some bitter old man, trying to ruin him, Templeton decided, hand slowly working his half-hard cock. It was all Mr. Smith’s fault, trying to convince him of things that weren’t true, that couldn’t be, that weren’t fair or right to even imagine. Of course it was his obligation to give, the Colonel’s right to take. His to thank, the Colonel's to demand.
Why would the gardener think it otherwise?
Templeton decided to ask him about that. Or no, wait, not ask. Tell. Tell that Mr. Smith it wasn’t true, that he was ignorant in the way these things worked and had no right to any of his flawed opinions. Then, the former lieutenant knew, he could put creeping doubt behind him, and refocus himself on pleasing his man. Just as he was supposed to.
He’d tell that damn gardener off.
Tomorrow.
First thing.
+++++
That morning, after the Colonel was gone, after Templeton bathed and dressed and Murdock fixed him his breakfast, which included a piece of what he’d come to think of as “apology-bacon”, he wandered for a good hour around the estate's grounds, trying to find the gardener. An impossible feat, it seemed. An hour of walking, trying to figure out what he was going to say, steeling himself for the inevitably nasty replies.
But just when he resolved to head back up to the house, shoes dewy and heart heavy, no closer to any answer he so desperately needed, Templeton heard a splash off the side of the little path. He found himself following through long, uncut grass, right against a little copse of ash trees. There was a pleasant little pond down that way, he remembered. Maybe Mr. Smith was cleaning it or something.
He rounded the trees, in clear view of the pond, barely a stone toss away, determined to give that damn man something to think about, but he stopped cold instead.
And dove behind the trunk of one of those trees.
Mr. Smith was there, at the pond, but hardly cleaning it, as Templeton had assumed. No, he had just finished a swim or something, and that splash the young man had heard had to be the sound of him pulling that long, lean body of his free of the surface, up on to the little dock. That was where he was when Templeton spotted him, back turned, arms stretching up overhead, muscles flexing all the way down his taughtly muscled, very scarred back, water running down brown skin, utterly naked.
Templeton clung to the safety of the shade, hardly daring to breath, not wanting to be seen now. But that man, that body...he was a man who obviously spent his days working, lifting and digging and planting and building, the way he looked. And the young man thought he’d caught the barest glimpse of his cock, hanging long and heavy between his legs, and that stuck in his mind. Stuck there, the very thought of it, what such a length as that would, could, feel in his mouth...
So, despite himself, not really meaning to, feeling dirty, feeling as if he could do nothing else, Templeton found himself moving back around that tree, deeper into the shadows, where he could watch.
And in Templeton’s vision, the gardener shook himself, seemingly unconcerned with his own nakedness, this far from the house, and stretched out on the wooden slats where he'd thrown a towel. Those big hands crossed behind his head, water droplets glistening on his skin, and Templeton was close enough to see the light, slicked sheen of silvery chest hair. He was beautiful, the young man thought wildly, staring still. Movement, and he thought for a moment he was lost. But it was just one of those big hands, sliding down across damp skin, down...
Templeton had to bite his lip at the sight that met his eyes then, as the man's massive cock stirred from it's resting place against a hard, brown thigh. As its master stroked a palm slowly down it's length, encouraging it to thicken, grow. From his little vantage point uphill, in the trees, he could see the man's lips part, and he fancied he could hear a gasp, shuddering little words, one of which sounded like baby, please. Maybe thinking of some old lover, a man from long ago, perhaps, Templeton thought with a stab of strange, strange jealousy.
Mr. Smith brought his hand back up, curling his fingers under that column of flesh, looking like he was tightening. Working himself, knee pulling up and falling open, the other big hand teasing up his chest to circle a nipple, those little sounds growing, losing himself in his dream lover, lips moving, whispering to whoever he held in his mind’s eye.
Templeton watched the whole thing, knowing he should leave, unable to budge as Mr. Smith pleasured himself so freely. His own imagination started running away with him again. That dream of sunshine and open air, that big hand treating Templeton’s own cock with such touches as what he was giving himself. He could feel himself growing hard at the erotic display, a hundred different flashes of possibility racing through his mind. Those gasps were growing louder, turning into little cries, and he thought he could hear, almost hear...
"Mister Peck!"
His name, his own name in that beautiful voice, thundering across the grass, shattered through Templeton. No, the young man told himself. No, no, no. It couldn't be, it shouldn't, it wasn't...
Mr. Smith groaned it again, his hand a blur, and then his hips arched up into his own touch, and he was cresting. Erupting in long, long spurts of pearly white.
Templeton threw himself back around the tree trunk, his name called out, again and again. He couldn’t watch that, he had no right, not even if it was his name on the other man’s lips as he came. but just then a stick cracked loud beneath his foot.
And those little breathy cries stopped.
Completely.
Templeton screwed his eyes up, knowing he needed to get out of here, right now, knowing he needed run, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t move at all. Couldn’t move. His legs wouldn’t obey, wouldn’t follow his commands, wouldn’t help him out at all...
Then wet fingers touched his shoulder, and he just fucking knew he was lost.
“Mr. Peck?”
He groaned, and suddenly his body kicked into gear, trying to move away, eyes still shut.
But that wet hand stopped him. Not hard or tight, that hand. Resting on his neck, right against the short, prickled hairs above his collar. Holding him still, thumb just starting to rub.
“Mr. Peck. Look at me, lad. Please...”
That please cut right through him, and blinking, Templeton pulled his eyes up.
The first thing he noticed was how very, very exposed the other man was, a wrinkled workshirt thrown hastily on, unbuttoned, doing nothing to hide the shining trails of drying seed on his chest. Those blue eyes were still bright with orgasm, but there was a hint of fear there.
A whole lot of fear.
“I’m sorry,” he stammered, not knowing what else to say. “I was trying...trying to find you, and then you, you were...I didn’t know what to...”
Mr. Smith looked away, his hand slipping away to rest on the smooth bark of the tree trunk Templeton was leaning on, and he ran his other through still-damp silver hair. “Is there something you need from me, Mr. Peck?” he asked, clearly trying to pull himself together. “Some reason why you wanted me at this hour?”
His mouth was suddenly dry. Mr. Peck. He’d said it as he came. What did that mean? Was it just some old man fantasizing? Was it... “I...I wanted to...wanted to ask you...”
“Wanted to ask me what, Mr. Peck?”
He squirmed, intensely uncomfortable, and tried to get the words out, what he’d resolved to say, what he’d resolved to declare to this man. But his brain was overloaded with the sight he’d just witnessed, with the vision of manhood standing before him now, his cock throbbing, erect, needy. He couldn’t manage it.
So he just moaned instead. And felt a hot, hot blush spreading over his cheeks.
Those blue eyes held him softly, black thoughts running beneath them, and Templeton found himself wrapping a hand around the wrist by his head, letting his fingers slide up, bracing himself against the stupid, stupid words.
But the gardener smiled, and leaned in a bit. “There is something you need from me, isn’t there, Mr. Peck?”
“W-what’s that?” Templeton asked, feeling his throat pinch.
“This,” Mr. Smith breathed, and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “And this.” Another kiss, to the hollow of his throat. A big hand moved up, popping the top button, those soft, wet lips kissing newly exposed skin. “And this...”
“Mr. Smith...” Templeton gasped, utterly confused, heat flaring through his body, hands scrambling all on their own, seeking a grip on something, anything, finding the edges of that workshirt, dragging them closer together, pulling their groins tight, and he had to stifle his cry, his erection sliding up a hard, hard thigh.
The older man groaned into his skin, and slid the next button out of it’s buttonhole, kissing him again.
Templeton let himself collapse against the tree behind him, let himself sink into the feeling of the older man’s lips, hands, the faintest brushes of teeth and tongue, all of it pulling his shirt open to the cool morning air. His own hands slipped up as Mr. Smith moved down, feeling sun-warmed skin, that light brushing of hair, beneath his palms, and he bit his lip, trying to hold back his little cry of pleasure as that wonderful mouth teased the thin line of hair from his bellybutton to the top of his trousers, hands starting to unthread his belt...
And he jerked back. Hard, scratching himself on the bark, thinking of those things the Colonel had told him, back in France, back in the headquarters. No. It wasn’t this man’s place, wasn’t his job. It was his, Templeton knew, his alone to give, never take...
He looked down, and found a heated pair of steel blue eyes staring back up at him. “What’s wrong, kid?” Mr. Smith asked him softly.
He bit his lip. “I...I...you shouldn’t...”
“Do you not want this?” the older man murmured, thumbing the delicate skin stretched over one hipbone, pressing another of those wonderful little kisses there. “Tell me what you want...
And then the gardener was pushing away, rocking back on his knees, like he was going to leave, and Templeton very nearly panicked. He grabbed for Mr. Smith’s wide, wonderful shoulders now, hands fisting up into the rough fabric of his shirt, holding him there. Holding him right there. He knew what he wanted, what he’d always wondered about, what he desperately needed at that moment. The throbbing between his legs was becoming unbearable, the pressure, the heat, how close Mr. Smith was to it...
“You can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t ask you for...”
“For what? For this?” And the older man mouthed around Templeton’s cock, sucking lightly through the fine material of his trousers.
Templeton bit back his whimper. “I can’t...”
“You can,” came the quiet insistence as his fly was opened, again, button by button. “You can fall back and let me pleasure you, can’t you?”
He sucked air and nodded at the same time as his cock was pulled free, dark and heavy with rushing, tingling blood, into the morning air. Templeton sighed then, forgetting to hold it back, and there was the tug of a strong, calloused hand around his cock at the sound.
“That’s it,” Mr. Smith said encouragingly, thumb playing across the slit of Templeton’s cock, precome beading across his nail. “I want to hear everything. I want you to let go and let me hear you. Can you do that for me? Please, can you?”
Suddenly mute, Templeton managed a nod, and the red, swollen crown disappeared into Mr. Smith’s mouth.
It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Something he’d never had before. That suction, that heat, the way everything moved around him, caressing him, holding him fast and turning the world. It was delicious, better with every inch the older man took in, tongue swirling and dipping. Templeton found himself choking down cry after cry, the faintest hints of the sound escaping the seal of his lips. Mr. Smith chuckled around his cock - which almost did Templeton in, right then and there - and lifted a hand to caress his balls, palming the heavy sac and pushing it up and a little forward.
And when Mr. Smith let him go to suck one ball, then the other, into his mouth, the young man found himself unable to stop the long, wanton moan that seemed to pull itself straight from his soul itself. It got him a soft hand on the hip and his balls were rolled again.
The coil of need in his belly was growing, growing with every second, and Templeton alternated between watching and moaning and tossing his head back, the pleasure of it all threatening to overwhelm him completely. He was panting freely, the noise drawn from him, demanded, found, given... And then Mr. Smith pulled off completely, licked a hot strip from behind the base of Templeton’s balls, all the way up to the tip of his cock, and sucked him gently back in, all the way, all the way through what Templeton knew had to be his gag reflex, all the way into his throat, both the man’s big hands tightening and hauling him forward, that coil snapped.
Utterly.
Templeton sobbed quietly through his orgasm. Quick and sudden, it exploded out of him, hard and fast, and it was all caught by that mouth, by Mr. Smith’s mouth, pulling him in, swallowing him down until the very last drop had escape, and his knees were watery.
The lanky gardener caught him as he moved back up, wrapping Templeton in his strong arms, holding him tight as he recovered.
“That was beautiful, kid, so beautiful. Thank you for letting me do that for you,” Mr. Smith murmured, kissing his temple and rubbing their cheeks together, stubble itching across stubble, a fantastic feeling.
“Templeton,” he whispered back, laying his head down on a broad shoulder, snuggling in as best he could, wondering at it all. He'd never known, never had anything like that before, never understood what kind of pleasure lay in that act, so frequently despicable, in his life. And the older man had given it, done it willingly, enjoyed...
“Templeton...” the older man breathed, and lifted his head again. "If I'm John."
Templeton nodded slowly. "John..." he tried, and got a dazzling smile in return.
But then John was moving away, that incredible body of his heading back out into the sun, which was beginning to grow hot, and started pulling on his pants. “I have work to be finished today, after my little swim, and no doubt you have things as well. I can’t stay.”
Templeton followed him, feet still a little unsteady, reaching out to touch a shoulder. “But...”
John turned, trousers zipped and a smile on his face, shirt still open to the belt. A hand touched the younger man’s face, and a smile broke out across the older’s as Templeton used that as his opportunity to pull up and in, slotting in exactly right, exactly how he’d always wanted to. So Templeton thought about that, how Templeton tried not to think about what they’d just done, what he’d wanted from the Colonel last night, how badly his life was going to end, if this got out...
“Shh, kid,” John soothed, rocking him a little, pulling him back in to that strong, warm chest. “It’s alright. You’re alright. It’s going to be alright...”
And it was in that moment that Templeton realized he was crying.
+++++
Templeton was fairly certain any telltale puffiness in his eyes had gone down by the time he made it back to the house. He’d been walking slow, trying to pull his thoughts together, trying to figure out what exactly had happened down by the pond, and what the hell any of it meant for him.
Mr. Smith, John, had held him for a few minutes after he’d broken down, held him gently, as he sobbed his way through it all. Templeton had felt weak, horribly so, but there was no judgment, no criticism from the older man as he’d lifted his face from that shoulder of John’s wrinkled shirt. Just another kiss.
And a few murmured words.
“I should go. You should go...”
Go.
A dismissal. Of course. Even after all the lovely words...
Templeton had let go then, turned, and starting buttoning up his shirt, tucking himself back together as he began walking away. “I understand, Mr. Smith...” he’d replied sadly over his shoulder.
“Templeton!” the older man had called after him, stopping him for a moment, getting him to turn. “Templeton, will I...will I see you again?”
He’d nodded. “Just tell me where and when, Mr. Smith,” he’d nodded. “I’ll be there for you.”
Nothing more after that.
And on his walk, he was still trying to puzzle it out.
Men wanting had always been part of his life. And ever since he was seventeen, since that bed in the headquarters building in France, since the Colonel had first shown him what his body was capable of giving, he’d never questioned those looks, those requests, those things that were taken.
But that, a man falling to his knees for him, that was something entirely new. And he’d thought, just for a little while there, that it had been something for him. Which was a ridiculous thing to think; it was nobody else’s place to please him. That wasn’t in the cards for him. And it was the same pattern, too, the gardener taking what he wanted, leaving when he wanted, leaving Templeton alone when it suited.
It didn’t add up. Did the older man have some kind of uncommon sexual fixation? Where sucking another man’s cock was just as enjoyable to him as having his cock sucked? Templeton had never minded the activity himself, something rather nice about it, certainly, a satisfaction in a job well done, but he’d never thought it as good as his own touch, nothing worth seeking out for pleasure. But men came to him for pleasure. Mr. Smith had seemed to want pleasure, had seemed to derive pleasure from it all, despite his position in it all.
Templeton couldn’t figure it out.
Any of it.
Having to service two men, he knew, instead of just one, especially when the second worked for the first, especially when he wasn’t sure what the second desired from him, was going to be a bit of a challenge.
But if that was how it was to be, he could bear it. With Mr. Smith, at least, he thought, he could enjoy it a little.
So Templeton found himself wandering back to the kitchen, down to the servants’ area, where Murdock was probably making a big fuss about something or other, and the eccentric butler did not disappoint. He was in a side room entertaining a few of the staff with an impromptu puppet show on the proper way to clean silver, faces sewn on socks in his hand, and Templeton lounged in the back for a few moments, smiling at the display.
Murdock sauntered over once he finished, smiling broadly at the young blonde, and clapped him on the shoulder. “Enjoying this fine morning, are we, old chap?” he asked, the Empire making an appearance, and Templeton rubbed a hand over his chin.
“I don’t really know,” he admitted. “I just...can I talk to you about something? Alone?”
That got him a nod and a puppet-clad hand around his shoulder. “Outside? This place is full o’ ears, y’know.”
And Templeton, despite his misgivings about the possibility of seeing Mr. Smith again that day, before he had it all worked out, nodded.
Murdock led him out to a sunny little corner of the main building, a place with tables and a little firepit that didn’t look much-used. Climbing vines covered the wall of the house next to them, spreading up the warm stone, and Templeton stared up at them for a moment. He could still feel that orgasm fluttering through his body. Aftershocks, even now? Had he ever come that hard before? At another man’s hand? At his own?
He couldn’t remember.
Such a shame.
He'd half believed some of the things that Mr. Smith had said. Although, he'd only half-understood most of that, but still...
“What’d’ya wanna talk about?” the butler asked, biting at a cuticle, the Texan reemerging in his speech now.
Templeton bit his lip. “How...how long have you known Mr. Smith?”
“The gardener?” And Murdock cocked his head up at the sky. “We were with Persing together, down in the Arizona territories, chasin’ after Apache and such, back in the day.”
That sounded familiar, the Persing thing. Templeton frowned. “Wasn’t the Colonel there, too?”
Murdock nodded, smiling a little. “Hannibal was his major at the time...”
“Hannibal?”
“Mr. Smith, o’ course. That’s what we all called him, back in the day...”
The young man nodded, absorbing that piece of information. Mr. Smith, a commissioned officer in the Army, with that as a nickname, the famous Roman? “How’d he get here, working for the Colonel?”
“He got real sick and the regimental docs said he shouldn’t serve anymore. So the Colonel offered him a job, any job he wanted. Prolly thought he was gonna go for something in the banks. But Mr. Smith said he wanted to be the gardener, and when ol’ Mr. Stevens died about six years ago, he took over as head.”
“Why didn’t he go to the bank job?”
Murdock shrugged. “He mostly just keeps to himself now, lives out in the little groundskeeper’s cottage thataways.”
Templeton sighed, and sat back in his chair. Shit. That wasn’t exactly helpful. Didn’t help him understand what he was up against, what he might expect. But he knew where he might be able to find the man. And showing up was always half the battle, wasn’t it?
“Thanks, Murdock,” he said, rising. “I appreciate it.”
“Why d’ya wanna know about him?” the butler asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “Looks like he’s coming, we could ask him...”
Templeton looked down the lawn towards the approaching figure. Tall, lanky, suspenders down around his hips, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, sunlight glinting off that head of silver hair...he felt his mouth grow dry. How noble the man looked, even wrapped in those rough coverings. Although, Templeton thought, that was just because he knew what kind of beauty lay beneath, what was obscured...
But the gardener raised a hand and Murdock waved back, and Templeton knew he had to get out of there. Now. If Mr. Smith wanted a second time out of him today, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to perform for the Colonel tonight, and he must be able to prioritize the Colonel above anything else. Even if he’d like nothing better than to run down there, ask for a kiss like the ones from earlier, feel those arms around him again, holding him...
Using you, that voice in the back of his mind whispered to him. That’s all any of them want...
Templeton smiled his most disarming smile over the top of all of it and stretched a bit, studiously not looking over at Mr. Smith as he approached. “I think I’m going to head to the library, buddy. Can I get lunch there this afternoon?”
“Certainly, Mr. Peck...” Murdock said, and Templeton bolted for the safety of indoors.
Missing completely the look of worry on the gardener’s face as he neared.
+++++
It was two days before Templeton saw the gardener again.
The Colonel hadn’t asked him for anything that first night, after that morning with Mr. Smith, and he’d spent the next day in the library as well, going through the classics in their big leatherbound covers. Reading about the lives of others, lives of people who had never existed and never would, stories of great depth and passion, the men so brave and strong, the women so soft and sensual, loving each other, coming together in those sanctified and celebrated ways. He couldn’t picture himself in any story like that, and maybe that was his real punishment for being the way he was.
Love wasn’t possible. How could one man ever love another, when they were so clearly built to love women?
It was with those gloomy thoughts that he’d gone to bed the night before, but it had all been alright. The Colonel’s hands had been hard, heavy, holding him down with bruising force, like he was trying to tear him apart, and somehow that had all been just right. Just so. The way it was supposed to be. The way it was going to be for him. The way it had to be.
And understanding that simple truth, it turned out, made it easier to bear the pain.
But Murdock had served him breakfast outside the next morning, and that where Templeton was, finishing up his omelette, reading the morning paper that spoke of nothing consequential, when Mr. Smith found him.
“Kid?” the tall man asked, looking around and then leaning against the low wall of the wide stone terrace, pushing his cap up a little so those blue, blue eyes were staring up into his so clearly. “Templeton? Can you spare a moment or two? There’s something...”
He sighed and folded the paper up by his plate, leaving both as he stood. Breakfast outside. How convenient. Was Murdock in on this little plot as well? What would the butler eventually demand of him?
“Of course,” he replied, grabbing his hat up, and tossed his napkin on his chair, straightening his tie in its starched collar as he made his way down the few steps to the grass beyond. Mr. Smith was right there, waiting for him, and Templeton made sure he brushed the other man was he walked past, down onto the path. “Show me where.”
Mr. Smith cast one last glance back at the house and, nobody there to see, stroked two fingers down the back of Templeton’s hand. “I know a place, if you’ll follow,” he murmured.
Templeton nodded. What else was he to do?
