{fic} the mirror crack'd from side to side . part eleven {davenport&roger} pg. 1924
.part eleven {davenport&roger} pg. 1924
winter
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p. i. ii. iii. iii a. iv. iv a. iv b. v. v a. vi. vii. viii. ix. x.
Eddison Manor
December, 1924
"We're off again," Roger told Davenport at breakfast one cold December morning. It was a Saturday, Roger's favourite day for it meant that Davenport could bring him his meal in bed. Together they would read the weekly broadsheets, making insightful remarks at the news, laughing over the classifieds, and thieving the crossword when the other wasn't looking. It was the closest their lives ever got to being a couple.
"Where? Bullock," Davenport added nonchalantly, stealing a slice of toast.
"I beg your pardon?" Roger did a double-take at the young man beside him whose buttery fingers were staining the newspaper dark.
"Five across. Where?" he repeated, taking the pen off Roger to fill in the crossword for himself. He was sat on the edge of the bed in only his waistcoat, shirtsleeves and trousers, his jacket abandoned over a chair on the other side of the room, completely oblivious to Roger who was still under the bed-sheets, a trail of egg yolk running over his chin. The fire burning in the hearth was warming the room, a bright contrast to the white-frosted world outside of the window. It was rather like slipping into a hot bath for Davenport who'd spent, since early morning, his time polishing silver in the kitchen.
"Edinburgh. You'll be pleased to know that I've two friends who are doing the unthinkable and betrothing themselves. Horrendous."
"Is it?" Davenport asked with faint surprise.
"Eight across," Roger explained. "So will you?"
"Betroth myself?"
"Come be my manservant." Roger wiggled his eyebrows. "I've asked mother if you can be spared and she said it was only natural for my choice of footman to be you. She thinks you my official keeper, isn't that nice?"
"Wonderful." Placing his crust on Roger's plate, Davenport leaned back against the bedcovers and looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling, his legs dangling over the side. "Really?"
"Why not?"
"You always go on your own."
"Precisely. That's why I'm not this time. I can find someone else--" began Roger, jiggling his legs slightly, dislodging Davenport from his position on the bed.
"No, no, it's fine," Davenport replied quickly, not catching Roger's grin. "I've never been up North. It'll be fun."
"Never? You're in for a treat! One word, James. Kilts. Who ever thought them up? Damn good idea if you ask me."
"I hate to disappoint but you won't be catching me in no skirt."
"Mores the pity," sighed Roger dramatically, stomach muscles tightening as he leant forward and kissed Davenport's forehead.
"I'll have to pack my suitcase," Davenport said as he pulled away, feigning annoyance and looking as though such trivialities were beneath him. "Whatever shall I wear?"
"That's the man I know and love!" Roger laughed heartily, cuffing Davenport's shoulder.
"I was being sarcastic, Sir. It'll be footman attire all week, I presume?"
"I'm sure we can sneak away. Bring a jumper. It'll be cold up there, and we wouldn't want anything important getting frostbite, would we?"
"We wouldn't."
Stroking Davenport's cheek with his index finger, Roger smiled simply. "Hm. Wonderful."
Davenport realised his stomach was swirling with excitement. It had been months since they'd had any time away together, months since they'd had anything more than a quick fumble in the dark. He longed for the chance to fall asleep beside the man he wanted, instead of the footman that had come to replace Hartley. He was an alright sort of chap, but his curiousity made him an unwelcome addition to Davenport's room. At least he went away on weekends, Roger reasoned, but Davenport still felt the watchful eyes.
"When are we going?"
"Well, that's the thing." Roger gave Davenport the look he occasionally reserved for the worst kind of misbehaviour. "We leave for the station in about an hour, to catch an eleven o'clock train. Aren't you thrilled?"
"I--" Davenport scratched his chin. "Yes," he decided at last. "Yes, I-- well, it's brilliant, isn't it?"
Roger laughed. "I feel like I'm having to convince you it is."
"No, it's... it is. Honestly. I'm--" Letting his smile falter slightly, Davenport looked out of the window. "It'll look a bit odd, won't it? Maybe you should go on your own. Maybe--"
"Maybe you should stop worrying. I know for a fact that she'd rather like you to go."
There was a twinkle in Roger's eye as Davenport cocked his head, frowning slightly. "Who?"
"Julia, of course. She has found herself a Scot to bed down for the winter with."
"Julia!" There was a note of relief in Davenport's voice as he sat more upright and began to grin. He remembered the young woman with a fondness usually lacking when regarding any of Roger's friends. She had been so good to them months ago, when they'd wrapped themselves in the solitude of summer and drifted off on the warm current of forgetting. She almost seemed grateful that Roger had found Davenport.
"Yes, dearest darling Jules. And the gang. Tris will be there, and Adam. Mitch, of course. So really, you won't be a footman at all. It's just all that anyone here need know. There, you're one of us."
"Historian. Oxford," sighed Davenport, remembering the mistake people had made the last time he'd mixed in their company. "Oh God."
"Quite. Perhaps you should take a copy of The Symposium to read on the train."
Davenport looked blankly at his lover.
"Or not," Roger continued, rolling his eyes. "You can tell you definitely weren't Oxford."
"I would've thought that there's a million and one things that give away how un-Oxford I am."
"You're not that common, James. I wouldn't allow you in my rooms if you didn't have a certain range of vocabulary."
"I have great vocabulary. You love my dirty mouth."
Smiling wickedly, Roger curled his hand around Davenport's chin. "Your mouth is perfection."
Shrugging out of Roger's touch, Davenport pulled on his jacket before picking up the breakfast tray, painfully aware of the blush that had risen on ivory cheeks.
"Later. You can say that later."
"I'll do a lot more than say it."
Davenport felt an uncomfortable twist below his stomach, a shot of adrenaline that wasn't needed presently, not when he had work to do. Groaning slightly, Davenport leant in for a lingering kiss.
"You'll be the death of me."
"I am slowly trying," Roger admitted in jest, folding his newspaper and slipping out from under the covers, his own pleasure at having Davenport so close evident from the lack of trouser bottoms.
"Roger--"
"James. You said it yourself. Later."
The journey down the staircase and through the corridors was a painful one, but Davenport managed the route with a bit of determination and cursing of Roger's name. Later, he'd promised. Smiling to himself Davenport cleared the dishes away and began to finally allow himself to imagine the next week. Oh, he'd find something to do later. Roger would regret the day he ever teased someone again.
---
The first snowfall of the season started as Roger and Davenport neared London. The journey had been quiet, the chauffeur one for whom conversation of their usual nature would not be appropriate in front of. Roger left him at the front of the station, tipping him for his service as Davenport helped a porter load their things onto a trolley.
"Thought we'd never get away."
"James, you must be civil. A gentleman, especially one from Oxford, holds his tongue."
"I'd look daft if I did that."
Suppressing a grin, Roger glanced at their small, red tickets and led Davenport in the direction of their carriage. He didn't fail to miss the open-mouthed expression of Davenport behind him, eyes wide as he took in the gleaming newness of the Flying Scotsman in all her glory. He seemed to still be in a state of awe as Roger helped him up with the bags, despite curious looks from a neighbouring car. The smell of varnished wood and heavy cloth rose from the tables and curtains, the perfume of a new-machine. Roger saw the romance in Davenport's eyes, the way he seemed to fall in love with the train like one would a person.
"It's magnificent," he said at last, fingers slightly skimming the window-frames and going further, to the luggage racks. Roger flopped gracefully into the carriage seat, crossing his legs and pulling a rolled up Times from the small travelling bag beside him. He hadn't had chance to read the daily news after Davenport had brought it to him; he smiled at seeing the fingerprints on the front page, a reminder of their morning together.
"How long will it take do you think?" asked Davenport, turning his gaze away from the ceiling to come and join Roger. He was painfully aware of his servants uniform, and was thankful for the lack of fellow passengers in their own car. He always felt awkward around Roger when he didn't know how he should conduct himself. It would be easy to act like servant and master, yet Roger often failed to treat him differently in public.
"Ten and a half hours," Roger answered without hesitation. At Davenport's look he shrugged and flicked the newspaper to rid it of creases. "What? I read the brochures."
The countryside passed by in a grey blur, the sky darkening by the minute. Rhythmically the train swayed on the rails, the ride not altogether comfortable as it sped along rails not used to such heavy carriages or brilliant speeds. Underneath them the dull roar of the sleepers echoed under the moving car. Davenport rested his cheek against the cold window and watched the city give way to open fields and forests, the tracks taking the train on snake-like paths through the trees and farmland. As they journeyed north the greens and browns seemed to fade away to white, the snow settling, falling heavier the longer they travelled.
Roger abandoned his paper after the first half an hour, joining Davenport as he looked out of the window. Now and then they'd point at things in the distance, the odd farmhouse, the lone horse, laughing as they created lives for the people who lived where they did not. More than once Davenport had mentioned his love of the countryside. Roger had always been pleasantly surprised, taking the footman for a city lad when he talked of trails through the woods, a small cottage in the forest, ideas that were romantic as much as impossible.
Their carriage was blessedly quiet of passengers, due to the immediate lull in travel after the holidays. The nation seemed to be in that perfect slumber caught between Christmas and the New Year. Roger had teased Julia on the phone when she'd told him of the date of her wedding. The thirty-first of December was an unusual choice for such an occasion, but then Julia and her family had never done things by halves. She'd sounded delighted when he'd called her up on it, replying only that she wanted her friends together to ring in the new and that, 'Roger darling, really, you really should start living a little more. Davenport will dispose of you if you don't regain your wonderful sense of fun.'
He couldn't wait to see his friends. They'd meant such a lot to him in youth that it thrilled him that he should be involved in their later years also. Seeing Mitch and Julia, coupled with the promise of meeting a few more old acquaintances, thrilled Roger no end. What's more, he could see that Davenport was genuinely looking forward to seeing the old crowd too. Roger knew how much their interest in Davenport as his own man meant to his lover. With Roger's Oxford boys, there had always been an element of snobbery. With the Vernes, they'd never expected anything of him other than his company. It means a lot to me too, Roger thought, though he'd never admit it.
They stopped briefly in York as the weather worsened, the warm tea a welcome relief from the on-board service. Davenport enjoyed his cream scone with relish, not noticing a smear of jam on the tip of his nose until Roger had the kindness to wipe it away with a napkin. Another hour later, when the train had reached Scotland, Roger began to realise his fatigue. Davenport was flagging somewhat, the side of his face now permanently fixed to the glass of the window, his eyes closing now and then with the effort of keeping them open. Roger vaguely wished for something to do, the completed crossword in the Times making him want something of a similar kind of entertain his listless mind.
"Where will I stay do you think?"
Roger hadn't realised how much the question had been bothering Davenport until he asked it; his voice carried a hint of nervousness as he stretched luxuriously and waited for Roger to reply.
"Knowing Julia she'll have put us in rooms beside each other. Remember, here you're a guest as much as I am. Just try not to talk to too many people." Roger grinned as Davenport reached to admonish him.
"I'll talk to who I like. I'll busy myself making lots of friends an' you'll be on your own. It'll be perfect."
"Is that so?" asked Roger, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
"Well. Sort of. I'll probably come to you afterwards when it's all over, just to rub it in." Sitting back in his chair smugly, Davenport sighed his contentment. "Do you really think she'll let me stay as a guest?"
"That's how the others first met you. I'll wager that's how they're expecting you to arrive."
"Good." Sighing, Davenport looked out of the window again. "We'll have enough snow to start a fight," he announced, looking pleased. "Reckon we're too old for snow forts?"
"Yes. But that's isn't going to stop you, is it?"
"Nope."
They laughed together, the sound overly loud in the quiet car.
"You'll be alright, James. You've got me."
Taking Roger's hand in cold fingers Davenport squeezed it tightly, before quickly letting go. "I know."
The train continued moving for another hour until, at last, they could make out the glowing lamps of the station in the evening gloom. Davenport stretched to pull down their luggage, casting a dark look at Roger as he walked passed and placed a firm hand on his backside before moving swiftly away. They left the carriage together, both falling out into a world of white, the lanterns from the carriages swaying in the breeze which had sprung up. It swirled the snow around them, flakes getting caught in hair and eyelashes as they pushed passed the busy crowd and made their way out into the open station hall.
Roger's thick coat did nothing to block out the Scottish chill and Davenport looked as though he too appeared ready to join the army of people lost to hypothermia. He wrapped his scarf more tightly around his neck, gesturing for Roger to do the same as he rummaged through his bags to bring out a pair of gloves.
"'Ere. Have these. I've got my uniform ones." He was pulling on the soft, white gloves even as he spoke. "Not exactly inconspicuous, but they'll do."
Roger took Davenport's spare gloves gratefully, eager to gain some of the feeling back into his numb fingers. "Here," he said, pulling Davenport's collar up around his neck. "What a pair we make."
"Just a regular couple of nancy southerners," Davenport agreed, laughing breathlessly, the cold air catching in his lungs.
A man was outside of the station, ready to drive Roger and Davenport to Julia's new home as soon as they had exited the large, iron-wrought station. Putting the suitcases in the back of the car, Davenport ran around to the backseat and sat beside Roger, holding his hand in the confines of their heavy coats as the car travelled to Julia's estate. He could feel Roger's thumb tickling his leg lightly as they watched each other carefully, both wearing smiles weighted with a sense of warning, of daring. The driver had his eyes fixed firmly on the road; it was with that knowledge in mind that Davenport found he could move his hand to Roger's thigh. He squeezed lightly, pleased at the darkening of Roger's pupils as his breathing became laboured.
Davenport became reckless when they were away from the house, Roger noted. He took chances, played him. Roger adored this game-plan, relied on it to keep him guessing and preoccupy his thoughts enough to wonder on his sanity. They were the most perfect partnership in the most imperfect of ways: it was with that thought in mind they continued their journey to the manor house.
They were quiet as the car jostled along the dirt path to the estate. The house was reasonable in size, perfect for entertaining without being overtly large. Roger congratulated Julia silently, a sort of pride blooming for his friend. As long as the chap was decent, he'd approve of the marriage heartily. He'd known her in youth, known her loves won and lost. He couldn't think of a better future for her than one with happiness. It seemed, at last, they'd both had their dreams come to fruition.
Thankful to finally rid himself of his coat, Roger stepped into the entrance hall, gesturing for Davenport to leave the bags in the car.
"You must be a bloody nightmare when I'm not looking back home," grumbled Davenport, struggling to get his gloves off. He whistled at the ornate ceiling as they strode through the hall, a footman gesturing for them to enter another room at the side of the house.
"You're a nightmare all the time. I still love you," Roger reasoned quietly, carefully straightening his jacket and tie. Davenport made a noise caught somewhere in between disbelief and submission. Shaking his head, Roger laughed and walked faster, the sounds of voices drifting through down an empty corridor.
"Could've got married somewhere a bit warmer, love," a familiar voice said as they approached the main dining hall.
"Like the tropics," another replied, sounding every bit as put out about the cold weather as Roger felt.
"Hello, lads."
The identical beaming expressions of Tristan and Adam greeted both Roger and Davenport as they turned around and saw who it was. Without thinking, Tristan embraced Roger in a hug as Adam went to shake Davenport's hand with his two, both men barely allowing the couple into the room.
"Will you look at this, Tris?" he laughed. "So they do live."
"We're very much alive and well. As are you, I see."
"Still braving life."
"Still living it to the full," Tristan added, winking at Adam.
"You're living it to the full. I'm being dragged along for the ride," he sighed, but Davenport saw the fond glint in his eyes as he nudged Tristan lightly with his shoulder.
"Say Rodge, it's great to see you! Can you believe the ol' girl's getting hitched at last?"
"He's still getting over the heart-break," Davenport cut in, eliciting a laugh from the room.
"Roger! Davenport! How splendid it is to see both of you." Julia's smile was as lovely and warm as the two men remembered it. She kissed them both on the cheek, pulling Davenport into an extra hug as if to silently reassure him that his presence was more than welcome in her house. "Would you believe these two are complaining about my hospitality already, Rodge?"
"I bloody well would. We were about to say the very same."
"It was nice of you to send the car, though," Davenport added with a shy grin. The blush he had felt rising during Julia's embrace was burning his cheeks but he smiled through the embarrassment, aware that they'd offer nothing but endearing glances at his timidity.
"Not at all, my darling. It was the least I could do. Obviously." She flicked an elegant look at Adam and Tristan. "Have you had dinner?" she asked Roger, heading for the table.
"No, I'm afraid. Is that a trouble?"
"I've a meal prepared just in case," she replied, looking pleased. "Sit, please. Make yourselves at home. Archie won't be too long. And my brother is loitering around here somewhere."
"Is it just us staying here?" Tristan asked, pulling his seat under the table as he sat down.
"Mummy is coming sometime. Mitch says we shouldn't hold our breaths." She paused, swallowing hard as though tasting something bitter. "Archie's parents have dined already. You may seem them later, but they're out at the moment visiting friends. Besides, they only live a couple of miles from here. It's quite wonderful really. They don't approve of me at all, of course. One of those mothers, you know the sort. No one is good enough for her son."
Davenport felt strange as he sat amongst the guests. The impulse to run from the room and find the other servants was almost overwhelming, yet Roger's firm hand on his thigh calmed him to the point where he could just about bear to sit without having to make conversation. Mitch came to them shortly after they had all settled, his face a picture of equal pleasantness to that of his sister's. Archie appeared a while later, when they'd all finished the second course. Davenport thought it odd that the man remained so quiet at the table; his affection for Julia seemed genuine enough, yet his reservations around her friends made Davenport wonder about kind of life that he had been used to. Judging from his nervous looks and ticks, Davenport could've bet that it certainly wasn't one that contained fireworks such as Julia and Mitch.
They retired after desert, Roger pleading tiredness and Davenport pleading Roger. The young man was amused to see that Roger's guess had been right. Their cases had been placed in rooms beside each other, and opposite of Adam and Tristan. Tristan had taken it upon himself to say something on the matter but Adam had nudged him out of the way with a warning look, much to Roger and Davenport's great amusement.
It was much later when Davenport had settled into his own room that Roger finally showed his face around the door.
"Hullo!"
"Get in, before someone sees you."
"My dear James, I do think that's entirely the point. Sorry I'm late," he added, striding over the threshold to Davenport and looping his waist with his arms. "I, uh, fell asleep."
"If I was a different lad I could take offence to that."
"Travelling does tire me so." He put a hand to his forehead in feigned exhaustion. "I see you still waited up for me..."
"Roger--" Davenport began.
"--I know what you're going to say. You're going to say 'Roger, we've got to be up early,' and the like. Well you're not spoiling my fun, I can tell you. We'll stay in all morning if it means a bit of piece and quiet." He nipped at Davenport's ear, before moving him over to the bed and pushing him gently onto the mattress. Feathers, Davenport noted numbly, Roger's fingers going to his shirt buttons as he slowly began to undress him.
"We do, though," sighed Davenport, allowing his eyes to flutter shut as he surrendered to the feel of Roger's fingers working their way under the button line of his shirt, cool hands pressed against warm stomach.
"They can wait," Roger said in a voice so convincing that Davenport knew his battle was done.
They got to sleep much later, both naked, bodies pressed closely together as Roger nestled behind Davenport. His arm was slung around Davenport's waist, the heat in the cold bedroom almost welcome compared to the sweaty, warm autumn nights that Davenport despised. Sighing contentedly, they both drifted into a deep sleep, the world lost to them as they dreamt of each other and that which was finally allowed to be.
winter
p. i. ii. iii. iii a. iv. iv a. iv b. v. v a. vi. vii. viii. ix. x.
Eddison Manor
December, 1924
"We're off again," Roger told Davenport at breakfast one cold December morning. It was a Saturday, Roger's favourite day for it meant that Davenport could bring him his meal in bed. Together they would read the weekly broadsheets, making insightful remarks at the news, laughing over the classifieds, and thieving the crossword when the other wasn't looking. It was the closest their lives ever got to being a couple.
"Where? Bullock," Davenport added nonchalantly, stealing a slice of toast.
"I beg your pardon?" Roger did a double-take at the young man beside him whose buttery fingers were staining the newspaper dark.
"Five across. Where?" he repeated, taking the pen off Roger to fill in the crossword for himself. He was sat on the edge of the bed in only his waistcoat, shirtsleeves and trousers, his jacket abandoned over a chair on the other side of the room, completely oblivious to Roger who was still under the bed-sheets, a trail of egg yolk running over his chin. The fire burning in the hearth was warming the room, a bright contrast to the white-frosted world outside of the window. It was rather like slipping into a hot bath for Davenport who'd spent, since early morning, his time polishing silver in the kitchen.
"Edinburgh. You'll be pleased to know that I've two friends who are doing the unthinkable and betrothing themselves. Horrendous."
"Is it?" Davenport asked with faint surprise.
"Eight across," Roger explained. "So will you?"
"Betroth myself?"
"Come be my manservant." Roger wiggled his eyebrows. "I've asked mother if you can be spared and she said it was only natural for my choice of footman to be you. She thinks you my official keeper, isn't that nice?"
"Wonderful." Placing his crust on Roger's plate, Davenport leaned back against the bedcovers and looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling, his legs dangling over the side. "Really?"
"Why not?"
"You always go on your own."
"Precisely. That's why I'm not this time. I can find someone else--" began Roger, jiggling his legs slightly, dislodging Davenport from his position on the bed.
"No, no, it's fine," Davenport replied quickly, not catching Roger's grin. "I've never been up North. It'll be fun."
"Never? You're in for a treat! One word, James. Kilts. Who ever thought them up? Damn good idea if you ask me."
"I hate to disappoint but you won't be catching me in no skirt."
"Mores the pity," sighed Roger dramatically, stomach muscles tightening as he leant forward and kissed Davenport's forehead.
"I'll have to pack my suitcase," Davenport said as he pulled away, feigning annoyance and looking as though such trivialities were beneath him. "Whatever shall I wear?"
"That's the man I know and love!" Roger laughed heartily, cuffing Davenport's shoulder.
"I was being sarcastic, Sir. It'll be footman attire all week, I presume?"
"I'm sure we can sneak away. Bring a jumper. It'll be cold up there, and we wouldn't want anything important getting frostbite, would we?"
"We wouldn't."
Stroking Davenport's cheek with his index finger, Roger smiled simply. "Hm. Wonderful."
Davenport realised his stomach was swirling with excitement. It had been months since they'd had any time away together, months since they'd had anything more than a quick fumble in the dark. He longed for the chance to fall asleep beside the man he wanted, instead of the footman that had come to replace Hartley. He was an alright sort of chap, but his curiousity made him an unwelcome addition to Davenport's room. At least he went away on weekends, Roger reasoned, but Davenport still felt the watchful eyes.
"When are we going?"
"Well, that's the thing." Roger gave Davenport the look he occasionally reserved for the worst kind of misbehaviour. "We leave for the station in about an hour, to catch an eleven o'clock train. Aren't you thrilled?"
"I--" Davenport scratched his chin. "Yes," he decided at last. "Yes, I-- well, it's brilliant, isn't it?"
Roger laughed. "I feel like I'm having to convince you it is."
"No, it's... it is. Honestly. I'm--" Letting his smile falter slightly, Davenport looked out of the window. "It'll look a bit odd, won't it? Maybe you should go on your own. Maybe--"
"Maybe you should stop worrying. I know for a fact that she'd rather like you to go."
There was a twinkle in Roger's eye as Davenport cocked his head, frowning slightly. "Who?"
"Julia, of course. She has found herself a Scot to bed down for the winter with."
"Julia!" There was a note of relief in Davenport's voice as he sat more upright and began to grin. He remembered the young woman with a fondness usually lacking when regarding any of Roger's friends. She had been so good to them months ago, when they'd wrapped themselves in the solitude of summer and drifted off on the warm current of forgetting. She almost seemed grateful that Roger had found Davenport.
"Yes, dearest darling Jules. And the gang. Tris will be there, and Adam. Mitch, of course. So really, you won't be a footman at all. It's just all that anyone here need know. There, you're one of us."
"Historian. Oxford," sighed Davenport, remembering the mistake people had made the last time he'd mixed in their company. "Oh God."
"Quite. Perhaps you should take a copy of The Symposium to read on the train."
Davenport looked blankly at his lover.
"Or not," Roger continued, rolling his eyes. "You can tell you definitely weren't Oxford."
"I would've thought that there's a million and one things that give away how un-Oxford I am."
"You're not that common, James. I wouldn't allow you in my rooms if you didn't have a certain range of vocabulary."
"I have great vocabulary. You love my dirty mouth."
Smiling wickedly, Roger curled his hand around Davenport's chin. "Your mouth is perfection."
Shrugging out of Roger's touch, Davenport pulled on his jacket before picking up the breakfast tray, painfully aware of the blush that had risen on ivory cheeks.
"Later. You can say that later."
"I'll do a lot more than say it."
Davenport felt an uncomfortable twist below his stomach, a shot of adrenaline that wasn't needed presently, not when he had work to do. Groaning slightly, Davenport leant in for a lingering kiss.
"You'll be the death of me."
"I am slowly trying," Roger admitted in jest, folding his newspaper and slipping out from under the covers, his own pleasure at having Davenport so close evident from the lack of trouser bottoms.
"Roger--"
"James. You said it yourself. Later."
The journey down the staircase and through the corridors was a painful one, but Davenport managed the route with a bit of determination and cursing of Roger's name. Later, he'd promised. Smiling to himself Davenport cleared the dishes away and began to finally allow himself to imagine the next week. Oh, he'd find something to do later. Roger would regret the day he ever teased someone again.
---
The first snowfall of the season started as Roger and Davenport neared London. The journey had been quiet, the chauffeur one for whom conversation of their usual nature would not be appropriate in front of. Roger left him at the front of the station, tipping him for his service as Davenport helped a porter load their things onto a trolley.
"Thought we'd never get away."
"James, you must be civil. A gentleman, especially one from Oxford, holds his tongue."
"I'd look daft if I did that."
Suppressing a grin, Roger glanced at their small, red tickets and led Davenport in the direction of their carriage. He didn't fail to miss the open-mouthed expression of Davenport behind him, eyes wide as he took in the gleaming newness of the Flying Scotsman in all her glory. He seemed to still be in a state of awe as Roger helped him up with the bags, despite curious looks from a neighbouring car. The smell of varnished wood and heavy cloth rose from the tables and curtains, the perfume of a new-machine. Roger saw the romance in Davenport's eyes, the way he seemed to fall in love with the train like one would a person.
"It's magnificent," he said at last, fingers slightly skimming the window-frames and going further, to the luggage racks. Roger flopped gracefully into the carriage seat, crossing his legs and pulling a rolled up Times from the small travelling bag beside him. He hadn't had chance to read the daily news after Davenport had brought it to him; he smiled at seeing the fingerprints on the front page, a reminder of their morning together.
"How long will it take do you think?" asked Davenport, turning his gaze away from the ceiling to come and join Roger. He was painfully aware of his servants uniform, and was thankful for the lack of fellow passengers in their own car. He always felt awkward around Roger when he didn't know how he should conduct himself. It would be easy to act like servant and master, yet Roger often failed to treat him differently in public.
"Ten and a half hours," Roger answered without hesitation. At Davenport's look he shrugged and flicked the newspaper to rid it of creases. "What? I read the brochures."
The countryside passed by in a grey blur, the sky darkening by the minute. Rhythmically the train swayed on the rails, the ride not altogether comfortable as it sped along rails not used to such heavy carriages or brilliant speeds. Underneath them the dull roar of the sleepers echoed under the moving car. Davenport rested his cheek against the cold window and watched the city give way to open fields and forests, the tracks taking the train on snake-like paths through the trees and farmland. As they journeyed north the greens and browns seemed to fade away to white, the snow settling, falling heavier the longer they travelled.
Roger abandoned his paper after the first half an hour, joining Davenport as he looked out of the window. Now and then they'd point at things in the distance, the odd farmhouse, the lone horse, laughing as they created lives for the people who lived where they did not. More than once Davenport had mentioned his love of the countryside. Roger had always been pleasantly surprised, taking the footman for a city lad when he talked of trails through the woods, a small cottage in the forest, ideas that were romantic as much as impossible.
Their carriage was blessedly quiet of passengers, due to the immediate lull in travel after the holidays. The nation seemed to be in that perfect slumber caught between Christmas and the New Year. Roger had teased Julia on the phone when she'd told him of the date of her wedding. The thirty-first of December was an unusual choice for such an occasion, but then Julia and her family had never done things by halves. She'd sounded delighted when he'd called her up on it, replying only that she wanted her friends together to ring in the new and that, 'Roger darling, really, you really should start living a little more. Davenport will dispose of you if you don't regain your wonderful sense of fun.'
He couldn't wait to see his friends. They'd meant such a lot to him in youth that it thrilled him that he should be involved in their later years also. Seeing Mitch and Julia, coupled with the promise of meeting a few more old acquaintances, thrilled Roger no end. What's more, he could see that Davenport was genuinely looking forward to seeing the old crowd too. Roger knew how much their interest in Davenport as his own man meant to his lover. With Roger's Oxford boys, there had always been an element of snobbery. With the Vernes, they'd never expected anything of him other than his company. It means a lot to me too, Roger thought, though he'd never admit it.
They stopped briefly in York as the weather worsened, the warm tea a welcome relief from the on-board service. Davenport enjoyed his cream scone with relish, not noticing a smear of jam on the tip of his nose until Roger had the kindness to wipe it away with a napkin. Another hour later, when the train had reached Scotland, Roger began to realise his fatigue. Davenport was flagging somewhat, the side of his face now permanently fixed to the glass of the window, his eyes closing now and then with the effort of keeping them open. Roger vaguely wished for something to do, the completed crossword in the Times making him want something of a similar kind of entertain his listless mind.
"Where will I stay do you think?"
Roger hadn't realised how much the question had been bothering Davenport until he asked it; his voice carried a hint of nervousness as he stretched luxuriously and waited for Roger to reply.
"Knowing Julia she'll have put us in rooms beside each other. Remember, here you're a guest as much as I am. Just try not to talk to too many people." Roger grinned as Davenport reached to admonish him.
"I'll talk to who I like. I'll busy myself making lots of friends an' you'll be on your own. It'll be perfect."
"Is that so?" asked Roger, raising his eyebrows in amusement.
"Well. Sort of. I'll probably come to you afterwards when it's all over, just to rub it in." Sitting back in his chair smugly, Davenport sighed his contentment. "Do you really think she'll let me stay as a guest?"
"That's how the others first met you. I'll wager that's how they're expecting you to arrive."
"Good." Sighing, Davenport looked out of the window again. "We'll have enough snow to start a fight," he announced, looking pleased. "Reckon we're too old for snow forts?"
"Yes. But that's isn't going to stop you, is it?"
"Nope."
They laughed together, the sound overly loud in the quiet car.
"You'll be alright, James. You've got me."
Taking Roger's hand in cold fingers Davenport squeezed it tightly, before quickly letting go. "I know."
The train continued moving for another hour until, at last, they could make out the glowing lamps of the station in the evening gloom. Davenport stretched to pull down their luggage, casting a dark look at Roger as he walked passed and placed a firm hand on his backside before moving swiftly away. They left the carriage together, both falling out into a world of white, the lanterns from the carriages swaying in the breeze which had sprung up. It swirled the snow around them, flakes getting caught in hair and eyelashes as they pushed passed the busy crowd and made their way out into the open station hall.
Roger's thick coat did nothing to block out the Scottish chill and Davenport looked as though he too appeared ready to join the army of people lost to hypothermia. He wrapped his scarf more tightly around his neck, gesturing for Roger to do the same as he rummaged through his bags to bring out a pair of gloves.
"'Ere. Have these. I've got my uniform ones." He was pulling on the soft, white gloves even as he spoke. "Not exactly inconspicuous, but they'll do."
Roger took Davenport's spare gloves gratefully, eager to gain some of the feeling back into his numb fingers. "Here," he said, pulling Davenport's collar up around his neck. "What a pair we make."
"Just a regular couple of nancy southerners," Davenport agreed, laughing breathlessly, the cold air catching in his lungs.
A man was outside of the station, ready to drive Roger and Davenport to Julia's new home as soon as they had exited the large, iron-wrought station. Putting the suitcases in the back of the car, Davenport ran around to the backseat and sat beside Roger, holding his hand in the confines of their heavy coats as the car travelled to Julia's estate. He could feel Roger's thumb tickling his leg lightly as they watched each other carefully, both wearing smiles weighted with a sense of warning, of daring. The driver had his eyes fixed firmly on the road; it was with that knowledge in mind that Davenport found he could move his hand to Roger's thigh. He squeezed lightly, pleased at the darkening of Roger's pupils as his breathing became laboured.
Davenport became reckless when they were away from the house, Roger noted. He took chances, played him. Roger adored this game-plan, relied on it to keep him guessing and preoccupy his thoughts enough to wonder on his sanity. They were the most perfect partnership in the most imperfect of ways: it was with that thought in mind they continued their journey to the manor house.
They were quiet as the car jostled along the dirt path to the estate. The house was reasonable in size, perfect for entertaining without being overtly large. Roger congratulated Julia silently, a sort of pride blooming for his friend. As long as the chap was decent, he'd approve of the marriage heartily. He'd known her in youth, known her loves won and lost. He couldn't think of a better future for her than one with happiness. It seemed, at last, they'd both had their dreams come to fruition.
Thankful to finally rid himself of his coat, Roger stepped into the entrance hall, gesturing for Davenport to leave the bags in the car.
"You must be a bloody nightmare when I'm not looking back home," grumbled Davenport, struggling to get his gloves off. He whistled at the ornate ceiling as they strode through the hall, a footman gesturing for them to enter another room at the side of the house.
"You're a nightmare all the time. I still love you," Roger reasoned quietly, carefully straightening his jacket and tie. Davenport made a noise caught somewhere in between disbelief and submission. Shaking his head, Roger laughed and walked faster, the sounds of voices drifting through down an empty corridor.
"Could've got married somewhere a bit warmer, love," a familiar voice said as they approached the main dining hall.
"Like the tropics," another replied, sounding every bit as put out about the cold weather as Roger felt.
"Hello, lads."
The identical beaming expressions of Tristan and Adam greeted both Roger and Davenport as they turned around and saw who it was. Without thinking, Tristan embraced Roger in a hug as Adam went to shake Davenport's hand with his two, both men barely allowing the couple into the room.
"Will you look at this, Tris?" he laughed. "So they do live."
"We're very much alive and well. As are you, I see."
"Still braving life."
"Still living it to the full," Tristan added, winking at Adam.
"You're living it to the full. I'm being dragged along for the ride," he sighed, but Davenport saw the fond glint in his eyes as he nudged Tristan lightly with his shoulder.
"Say Rodge, it's great to see you! Can you believe the ol' girl's getting hitched at last?"
"He's still getting over the heart-break," Davenport cut in, eliciting a laugh from the room.
"Roger! Davenport! How splendid it is to see both of you." Julia's smile was as lovely and warm as the two men remembered it. She kissed them both on the cheek, pulling Davenport into an extra hug as if to silently reassure him that his presence was more than welcome in her house. "Would you believe these two are complaining about my hospitality already, Rodge?"
"I bloody well would. We were about to say the very same."
"It was nice of you to send the car, though," Davenport added with a shy grin. The blush he had felt rising during Julia's embrace was burning his cheeks but he smiled through the embarrassment, aware that they'd offer nothing but endearing glances at his timidity.
"Not at all, my darling. It was the least I could do. Obviously." She flicked an elegant look at Adam and Tristan. "Have you had dinner?" she asked Roger, heading for the table.
"No, I'm afraid. Is that a trouble?"
"I've a meal prepared just in case," she replied, looking pleased. "Sit, please. Make yourselves at home. Archie won't be too long. And my brother is loitering around here somewhere."
"Is it just us staying here?" Tristan asked, pulling his seat under the table as he sat down.
"Mummy is coming sometime. Mitch says we shouldn't hold our breaths." She paused, swallowing hard as though tasting something bitter. "Archie's parents have dined already. You may seem them later, but they're out at the moment visiting friends. Besides, they only live a couple of miles from here. It's quite wonderful really. They don't approve of me at all, of course. One of those mothers, you know the sort. No one is good enough for her son."
Davenport felt strange as he sat amongst the guests. The impulse to run from the room and find the other servants was almost overwhelming, yet Roger's firm hand on his thigh calmed him to the point where he could just about bear to sit without having to make conversation. Mitch came to them shortly after they had all settled, his face a picture of equal pleasantness to that of his sister's. Archie appeared a while later, when they'd all finished the second course. Davenport thought it odd that the man remained so quiet at the table; his affection for Julia seemed genuine enough, yet his reservations around her friends made Davenport wonder about kind of life that he had been used to. Judging from his nervous looks and ticks, Davenport could've bet that it certainly wasn't one that contained fireworks such as Julia and Mitch.
They retired after desert, Roger pleading tiredness and Davenport pleading Roger. The young man was amused to see that Roger's guess had been right. Their cases had been placed in rooms beside each other, and opposite of Adam and Tristan. Tristan had taken it upon himself to say something on the matter but Adam had nudged him out of the way with a warning look, much to Roger and Davenport's great amusement.
It was much later when Davenport had settled into his own room that Roger finally showed his face around the door.
"Hullo!"
"Get in, before someone sees you."
"My dear James, I do think that's entirely the point. Sorry I'm late," he added, striding over the threshold to Davenport and looping his waist with his arms. "I, uh, fell asleep."
"If I was a different lad I could take offence to that."
"Travelling does tire me so." He put a hand to his forehead in feigned exhaustion. "I see you still waited up for me..."
"Roger--" Davenport began.
"--I know what you're going to say. You're going to say 'Roger, we've got to be up early,' and the like. Well you're not spoiling my fun, I can tell you. We'll stay in all morning if it means a bit of piece and quiet." He nipped at Davenport's ear, before moving him over to the bed and pushing him gently onto the mattress. Feathers, Davenport noted numbly, Roger's fingers going to his shirt buttons as he slowly began to undress him.
"We do, though," sighed Davenport, allowing his eyes to flutter shut as he surrendered to the feel of Roger's fingers working their way under the button line of his shirt, cool hands pressed against warm stomach.
"They can wait," Roger said in a voice so convincing that Davenport knew his battle was done.
They got to sleep much later, both naked, bodies pressed closely together as Roger nestled behind Davenport. His arm was slung around Davenport's waist, the heat in the cold bedroom almost welcome compared to the sweaty, warm autumn nights that Davenport despised. Sighing contentedly, they both drifted into a deep sleep, the world lost to them as they dreamt of each other and that which was finally allowed to be.