#rubed gold and crystal drop light

[daddyskinkyelf]

Mudroom - Beach Style Entry Example of a medium-sized beach-style entryway with a brown floor, ceramic tiles, blue walls, and a medium-sized wood front door.

[zodiac-star]

Mudroom - Beach Style Entry Example of a medium-sized beach-style entryway with a brown floor, ceramic tiles, blue walls, and a medium-sized wood front door.

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Just a Crack

Prompt: As a Virgil kinnie and Janus stan I wanted to ask if you could write a fic about the two of them and make it hurt? If you feel like it, I'd love a 20s setting with rich Janus, and Virgil accidentally stumbling into a shady Jazz-bar? I just think that idea would be pretty fun to read, and I absolutely adore the special brand of pain your writing brings. - anon

Read on Ao3 (seriously you're gonna want to, tumblr didn't let me do this all in one go)

Warnings: homophobia, mild dubcon but nothing explicit

Word Count: 20144

If there’s one rule about knocking on strange doors, it’s that you’d better be damn sure that what’s on the other side of them is better than what’s chasing you down on yours.

Now, this isn’t Virgil’s first time roaming the streets with a wad of papers stuffed in his shirt, nor is it even his first time in this neighborhood. It is the first time he’s been followed.

He spotted them about three blocks ago. Tall, not too broad, back suits and wool coats down past their knees. One has a hat, the other a pair of glasses. He’d taken a quick left, trying to gauge whether it was in fact him they were following or if they’d just gotten a whiff of some mugs without a firm description. To his dismay, it seems they’ve got him in their noses.

So, here Virgil is, walking up to the door that just about screams ‘don’t follow me in here’ and mustering all the charisma he knows he doesn’t have. Luckily for him, the two rubes behind him cut the show, hook, line, and sinker. Unluckily for him, a slat in the door opens.

“You the runner?”

Virgil nods sharply.

“Third floor down. Second door on your right. Don’t go for a handshake.”

Virgil takes one more look at the alley behind him and ducks inside. The man leads him down a long, dank corridor that smells of old giggle juice and shows him to a flight of stairs. Virgil gives him another nod and makes to keep going.

A hand snatches his arm.

He drops his weight, prepared to slug his way out of here when the man just squints at him.

“This your first time?”

Virgil manages a nod.

The man’s expression softens infinitesimally. He nods to the staircase. “For people like us, it’s best if we get in and get out. No use ankling around this place, it ain’t safe for the likes of you and me. Do your job, do it well, don’t ask too many questions.”

Well. That wins the award for the most cryptic warning he’s gotten recently.

“Best not linger here.”

Virgil starts down the staircase. Going by the state of the first hallway, he thinks he’d be forgiven for thinking that the whole way down would be like that.

Especially when he spots light coming from beneath him and the stairwell suddenly spills out into the most extravagant room he’s ever laid eyes on. Crystal chandeliers, carpeted floors, gold-trimmed tables and the floor covered with heels, fringe, double-breasted suits and tipped canes. Virgil’s eyes widen as he sees waitstaff in white shirts and black vests carrying trays of drinks, not just booze but mixed cocktails.

He’s seen movies, kick off.

The music plays from a band in the corner, the dance floor up and lively with more reckless abandon than Virgil’s parents. The crowd doesn’t seem to notice him, and why would they?

He pauses for a moment too long before he quickly hurries down the rest of the way to the third floor.

The music dulls a little as he finally gets below the floor, still audible but muffled, and he steps off the staircase onto a landing. What is this place?

The doors aren’t labeled, no name plates, but each one has the distinct feeling of belonging to someone. Another man in a suit greets him at the end of the small hall, gesturing to his right. Virgil follows the man down another hallway to a mahogany door emblazoned with a golden image of a two-headed snake. The man opens the door and ushers Virgil inside.

Virgil swallows as the door closes behind him with a solid thud.

The room he’s in is no less extravagant. It’s not quite an office, at least not one Virgil’s seen through the windows of big business buildings downtown. He’s pretty sure those don’t have three couches and a fireplace behind a desk the size of Virgil’s bed. He’s also pretty sure those aren’t carpeted within an inch of their lives with curtains drawn over one wall to make it seem like a window.

As he glances at them, he notices the man sitting in the chair.

He’s not facing Virgil. All he can see are two long legs—like, really long—ending in shiny black dress shoes and a gold-tipped cane cupped in a gloved hand. The gloves are yellow, as is the tie around the pork pie hat perched on his head.

Remember that thing about being sure what’s on the other side of a door is better than what’s chasing you on your side? Virgil’s pretty sure he would’ve been better off getting socked by the two mugs in the alley.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

Virgil does not startle easily. Yet the sudden voice makes him jump. He looks away quickly, embarrassment flooding his cheeks with a speed that takes him by surprise. He hears the soft creak of a chair and muffled footsteps getting closer.

“Are you just going to stand there like some lost puppy,” the voice asks wryly, “or are you going to sit?”

Virgil looks up just enough to see which chair is being indicated before he shuffles to it. Keep your head down. Don’t ask too many questions. Get in and get out.

He’s really looking forward to the ‘get out’ part.

“Good,” the man says casually as Virgil sits down and oh. Oh, no, that should not do what it does to him. Now he really can’t look up.

He hears the soft squeak of leather as the man sits down behind the desk. Hears the soft scratch of a pen on paper. Waits. Waits. He can do this. This isn’t the first time he’s been trapped in a situation, he can get out of this one too.

After a while there’s a noise of paper rustling as whatever the man was working on gets placed into a file and slid into a drawer. The man folds his gloved hands on the table and tilts his head, staring at Virgil’s bowed head.

Unbidden, the retort rises to the tip of his tongue and he bites it in reprimand.

“I know I said it’s rude to stare,” comes the voice, “but so is refusing to look.”

Then what the fuck am I supposed to do?

Virgil raises his head, willing his face to remain impassive as he looks into the face of the man in the room.

He doesn’t remain impassive, not completely.

One half of the man’s face is covered with burns. The other half is unfairly attractive. How is he not supposed to stare at something that pretty?

The man’s mouth tugs up into a smirk and Virgil clenches his hand under the table. “Much better. Now then, to business.”

With that, he stands, his cane in hand as he begins to pace around to Virgil’s side of the desk.

“There’s a situation down at the docks,” the man says, “we’re going to need you to wrap the mess up and serve it for dinner, do you understand?”

No. Not at all.

“There are two fish that still have yet to be caught. Serve them raw over a salad.”

What is happening?

“And, of course, a new glass of giggle water won’t go amiss either.” The man pauses, leaning on the cane as he looks at Virgil. “Don’t forget to bring in the new barrels while you’re outside.”

Virgil would like everything to stop for him to get a tad more of his business together, please, but that’s not really an option right now. So he just nods.

The man looks at him. Another smile spreads across his face and before he can blink, the tip of his cane is tickling the underside of Virgil’s chin.

Virgil gulps.

“I have to hand it to you,” the man says in a low, dangerous voice, “there aren’t many men with the balls to waltz in here.”

The cane tips his head up further.

“And certainly none that look this pretty.”

Oh. Oh, fuck. The man’s smile sharpens and he tilts his head.

“So,” he says, as if he doesn’t have Virgil basically pinned in the chair, “who sent you?”

“No—no one,” Virgil squeaks.

“Come, now,” the man purrs, the cane pressing a little harder into his throat, “there’s no point in lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.” He leans as far back in the chair as he can but the cane just follows. “I was being followed and I needed to get away. I just knocked on the door upstairs.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth,” Virgil spits, “whether or not you believe it is your problem.”

Probably not the smartest thing to say right now, but then again, choosing the door wasn’t the smartest thing either. Virgil’s having an off-night.

The man is silent for a moment. Then the cane moves. It pushes Virgil’s jaw one way, then the other, tilting his face back and forth as the man’s gaze sweeps over him.

The cane is withdrawn and Virgil gasps, rubbing his neck even though there was barely any pressure. The man steps forward, and again, and again, before he’s reaching out to tug down Virgil’s collar.

Virgil’s breath catches in his throat as the man’s hand smooths over the fabric, down to his jacket. He isn’t looking at Virgil’s face, only at his hand, leaving Virgil’s free to stare until the hand dips swiftly into his clothing and removes the wad of papers.

Shit.

The man turns away from him. Virgil is frozen in the chair. The papers shuffle as the cane is leant against the desk. Some hysterical part of Virgil wants to grab for it, swing it at the man’s head and run, get out, but the image of the man turning around to face Virgil as he’s holding it stills his hand.

“So,” he murmurs, “our little intruder isn’t anyone to worry about, hmm? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Virgil swallows. “If there’s one thing I can do, it’s keep my mouth shut. Ask the fuzz, I’ve never snitched once.”

The man hums.

“I swear.”

“Oh, you swear,” he says, turning back around, “well, then of course I believe you.”

Virgil wisely shuts up.

The man tilts his head, walking a little closer to him. Virgil tries not to draw back in the chair. After a moment, he holds out the papers.

Virgil takes them slowly, tucking them back into his shirt. The man hums again, examining the end of his cane.

“I don’t need to threaten you, do I?”

“No,” Virgil blurts out, “uh, no, sir.”

The man sets the tip of the cane back on the floor and looks at Virgil. He indicates the door with his head.

Virgil is up and out of the room before he can take another breath.

He hurries down the alleyway, not caring about whatever mugs may have been following him, just getting away, away, away from whatever that building is and whoever that man was. The part of his shirt the man touched still burns, his neck still tingles from the weight of the cane.

He’s panting by the time he mixes back into the street, the wad of papers in his pocket weighing less than a bag of feathers. He runs the rest of the way back to his apartment, dropping the papers off in the mailbox before triple-checking his door lock behind him.

Virgil collapses onto the bed, hands tangled in his hair as he breathes heavily. What the fuck was that? A speakeasy turned front for the mob? Some sort of white-collar gang? A secret pact for bootleggers?

He throws himself back on to the mattress with a groan. He scrubs his hands over his face.

Whatever it is, he can’t afford to be mixed up in it. And with any luck, he won’t be. Not ever again.

Virgil’s luck never has been thdre greatest.

He all but stumbles into work the next day, haphazardly tossing his coat onto the rack and collapsing at his desk, more than willing to lose himself in the repetitive work of copying dry textbooks and philosophical works too advanced for the likes of him. What he actually gets, however, is a heart attack on a plate.

Namely in the form of his boss calling him into his office because they have a client who needs their library evaluated for copy purposes and the man who looks up at him smiles with gloved hands folded in their lap.

Virgil is thankful that he has his hands full of documents so that he doesn’t have to fumble through declining a handshake.

“Sir, this is Virgil—“ thanks for that, now he knows my name— “and he will be more than happy to assist you—“ oh, will I now?— “with whatever needs you may have.”

“Thank you, Clive.” Oh. Oh, it’s this kind of power move, understood, please do it in the opposite direction of Virgil, thank you. “I’m sure he’ll do very well.”

Clive—or, as Virgil has to call him, Mr. Butler—all but preens under the attention and Virgil is both confused and disgusted. But he hides that behind shuffling through the stack of papers in his arms as the man turns to him.

“How long would it take you to commute out to Crowsbook?”

Virgil’s eyes widen. “Uh, at—at least an hour and a half, sir.”

The man hums. “Yes, much too long…”

“I can assure you that any work can be done here as long as Virgil has the—“

“We may as well go now.”

Wait, what?

“...sir?”

“Bring whatever you need to,” the man says as he sweeps out of the office, “the car will pick you up out front.”

Virgil is left standing there with an armful of papers, a boss that looks far too excited, and no idea what he’s going to do.

He ends up outside the building with his briefcase in hand, heart in his throat as a car that Virgil should not even be allowed to look at pulls smartly to the curb and a driver opens the door for him. He slides in warily, even more off-put when the man just watches him with thinly veiled amusement. And he seems more than content to let the awkward silence grow as he stares out the window.

Virgil’s not going to be the one to talk first.

The car pulls out of the city, onto the open road, and down, down, down to the gates of Crowsbook. Virgil stares unashamedly at the absolute palaces of houses they find, all white marble and manicured lawns and armies of staff tending to each one. The car keeps going, further and further into the mess Virgil doesn’t know a way out of as the anxiety builds.

Did the man…find him? Did he ask for him? Is he about to die? Is he about to be taken captive? What does he want? Was there something he saw in the papers? Is Virgil going to need to finish his will quicker than he anticipated?

The car jolting to a stop startles him. The door opens and he gets out, the man already walking toward the front door.

At least what Virgil assumes is the front door.

The place is fucking huge. It’s large enough to be a museum on its own, all tall walls and wings and—wait. Wait a goddamn second.

As the car pulls away, Virgil turns, catching sight of the name written over the entrance gate.

‘Ruxtole Estate.’

Shit. Shit.

Which means that the man who is now a client, the man whose house this is, the man who Virgil met at that building last night is—

Janus Delcour turns to him from the top of the entrance stairs. The house frowns about him, drawing Virgil closer into its jaws. The man raises a single eyebrow.

Virgil is so screwed.

The inside of the house is extravagant, he’s sure, but he’s not paying attention anymore. No, instead he’s got his eyes trained on the back of Mr. Delcour’s head, occasionally glancing around to keep track of how many turns they’re taking and where he’s going to have to go to get out. If Mr. Delcour notices anything, he doesn’t say. The click of dress shoes and the tip of a cane echo about the halls as he’s led deeper into the bowels of the mansion.

Only when another set of double doors is pushed open does Virgil accept that he has no idea where he is anymore.

“This,” Mr. Delcour says, “is my library. Several of these books are the only copies I have and unfortunately, that just won’t do.”

Virgil ignores the sweeping stacks of books in favor of fishing out pen and paper to write down the titles Mr. Delcour lists off. Some of them he’s heard of. Some of them he hasn’t. He glances about the library for a suitable place to sit and work only for Mr. Delcour to bid him to follow to another room.

“You’ll work here.”

Another office. At least, again, he has to guess that it’s an office because most offices don’t have two desks and a table. There’s a typewriter on the smaller—again, it’s the size of Virgil’s dining table—desk that Mr. Delcour gestured to off-hand.

“Your firm will have supplied you with the specifications of what I want printed,” he says, turning and leaning against the edge of his own desk, “along with deadlines and suggested benchmarks.”

Virgil’s fingers shake as he looks it over. He can do it, the schedule is…really reasonable, actually, but he can’t help glancing up at Mr. Delcour.

“Is there a problem?”

“Uh, no. No, sir. No problem.”

A hum, then Mr. Delcour tilts his head. “Do you have any questions?”

Why am I here? Did you track me down after last night? What was last night? What’s happening? Can I go home now?

“No, sir.”

“Good.”

Again. Rude.

“You can go ahead and get started, then,” Mr. Delcour says, turning and making to sit behind his own desk, “I’m sure someone like you can figure the rest out.”

And just like that, it’s like he doesn’t exist anymore. All he can do is look blankly at the list he’s written and turn, going back to the library to start looking. As he does, his mind fills with more and more questions, none of which he has answers to. The house yawns around him, its teeth bared and poised, ready to bite if he makes the slightest wrong move. He’s not used to this, being trapped like this, nor is he so used to the feeling of being watched when no one else is in the room. He knows that it’s ridiculous, that he just left the man in the office, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s about to turn around and find the tip of a cane pointed at his throat. He absentmindedly rubs at his neck as he finishes collecting the first set of books.

He hesitates at the door to the office again before biting his lip and just pushing the door open. Mr. Delcour doesn’t look up, which is great, and Virgil just sits down and pretends that this is a normal day of work with a normal workload for a normal client. Easier said than done.

Luckily for him and his workload, losing himself in typing has always been an easy feat. The words slur into sentences into paragraphs into pages, the papers sitting neatly in a growing pile to his left elbow. Every so often he catches Mr. Delcour looking at him before looking back down at his own work, but other than that, it’s as if Virgil is alone here, just working away.

Like this, it’s easy to forget that he’s sitting in the bowels of the most controversial estate in the country. It’s easy to forget that he’s typing at a desk that could’ve seen more bloodshed than an operating table. It’s easy to forget he’s just a few paces away from a man rumored to have the police, the lawyers, and the mayor in his pocket.

And that he met him last night in a speakeasy where he was all but threatened into keeping his mouth shut.

Easy to forget.

Easier when he glances at a clock and discovers that not only has he worked through both of his breaks, it’s nearly six in the evening.

Mr. Delcour notices the abrupt cease of keys and glances up. He follows Virgil’s gaze to the clock and raises an eyebrow.

“Do you have a prior appointment to get to?”

Virgil just blinks. “It’s late,” he says dumbly, “I should be going home.”

Mr. Delcour tilts his head. He stays silent. Virgil begins to itch under the gaze, getting up and making a show of cleaning the workspace up. When he stands up to leave, Mr. Delcour still hasn’t said a word.

“Is something wrong?”

It seems to shake the man out of his daze. He waves in Virgil’s general direction. “Go if you’re going.”

It’s an abrupt dismissal and one that leaves Virgil with the vague sense that he’s done something wrong.

The feeling lingers as he opens the door to his own apartment, walking inside and sitting down heavily. He takes off his coat on autopilot and leans back against the chair.

So.

He’s working for Janus Delcour.

He’s working in Ruxtole Estate.

He’s working in the same room as Janus Delcour.

Virgil’s breathing starts to pick up. His vision goes fuzzy. It’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to move. His table tilts away from him and the floor tilts up, rushing to meet him as the lights dim. He blinks and he’s looking at the ceiling, his lungs on fire as his mouth burns. His heart feels like it’s about to tear out of his chest.

He comes to with tears in his eyes and spittle all down one side of his face. He groans, his head immediately protesting the action as he tries to roll over. His ribs ache like he’s just run three miles flat. His legs ache too and his hands come back little by little, tingling as he opens and closes them. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe. Just breathe.

He lets his head fall forward onto his knees with a defeated sigh.

This is bad. This is really bad. This is really, really bad.

His chest itches. He needs his shirt off, his clothes off, he needs to wash the day away and have it be gone.

Virgil scrubs at his skin until there isn’t an inch that hasn’t been touched, until he can step out of his bathroom and breathe without feeling like there are eyes on him. He buries his face in his hands and scrubs at his face.

Okay. Okay. Okay.

He can do this. He’s done this before. He just has put his head down and do the work. Do the work, pay your dues, and then get out and far away and hope they never think of you again. He’s had a lifetime to learn how to be forgettable.

Now all he has to do is figure out why the idea of Mr. Delcour forgetting him has his stomach dropping like he’s at Coney Island.

Maybe he’s just tired. Yes. Tomorrow everything will make more sense.

Everything, as it turns out, does not make more sense in the morning. Instead, Virgil wakes up and barely has time to choke down a cup of coffee before there’s another expensive car waiting outside his apartment to take him back to Ruxtole Estate. He lifts his chin, shoves everything under his mask of professionalism, and walks into the study as though he knows he’s supposed to be there.

“Ah,” Mr. Delcour says, looking up as he enters, “good. You’re here.”

“Good morning, sir.” He sits down and pulls the typewriters toward him. He doesn’t look up again as he starts where he left off.

“Any issues I should be worried about?”

“No, sir.”

“Did the car find you alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Delcour huffs. “Am I going to get a response out of you that isn’t two words, one of them ‘sir?’”

Virgil pauses. He glances up. “I don’t know, sir.”

He’s met with a raised eyebrow. “Careful, now.”

“Sorry, sir.” Virgil turns back to work. Fuck. Shit. He’s supposed to be being forgettable, not the most sarcastic version of himself he can be. Granted, that wasn’t all of his sarcasm, but…the idea is there.

After a few moments, he hears the familiar scratch of a pen and the rustling of papers. There. This is good. This is fine. Everything is fine. This won’t be an issue. He nods politely to Mr. Delcour when he leaves for home and spends the evening shoveling takeout into his mouth with chopsticks.

The next day is the same. He takes the car, says thank you to the driver who looks like he’s never been thanked a day in his life and walks back inside. He sits down with a quiet ‘good morning’ and does his best to keep the sarcasm to a minimum. Occasionally he murmurs out loud to himself as he’s trying to figure out how a sentence is supposed to read and he’ll catch Mr. Delcour looking over at him.

“Sorry, sir,” he finds himself saying after one of the longer ones, “I can be quiet.”

“No need,” comes the reply, vaguely amused, “I can reassure myself that I have in fact read the books from my own library.”

Virgil pauses. “Are there…people who don’t?”

Mr. Delcour looks over at him, a smile growing. “A few.”

Virgil frowns. What kind of person would own a book and not bother to read it? That’s stupid. Books are made to be read. Only when there’s a chuckle from the other corner of the room does he realize he’s been glaring off into space for the last few minutes. He shakes himself and murmurs an apology before hurrying back to the typing.

“So what’s your favorite?”

He looks up. “Sir?”

“Your favorite,” Mr. Delcour repeats, “of the works you’ve copied.”

Virgil blinks. “Um…I don’t…I don’t make a habit of remembering them, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Oh, come now.” Mr. Delcour folds his hands on his desk. “You must read the words as you type them out, surely you remember some of them.”

“I remember them, I just don’t…” Virgil fumbles for the right words. “I remember them, I don’t get to read them.”

Mr. Delcour makes a noise in the back of his throat. “That does seem like a shame.”

“I guess I’ve never really thought about it.”

There’s a pause, but the silence doesn’t creep under Virgil’s shirt collar. Instead, as he starts to type again, he can feel Mr. Delcour watch him for another moment before speaking again.

“Is there one that you would’ve wanted to read?”

“Sir?”

“Instead of remembering,” comes the voice, “is there one you would’ve wanted to read?”

“I…” Virgil swallows. “There was a novel that came across my desk by Amelia Longsworth once.”

“Longsworth?” Mr. Delcour hums. “She’s science-fiction, isn’t she?”

“Y-yes, sir, or at least rumored to be.”

Mr. Delcour makes another noise, his chair swiveling back and forth as he looks at Virgil. “Are you a fan of science fiction?”

“…never really paid much attention to genre, sir.”

“Well, now, how do you find something you like to read?”

“I don’t, sir.”

Now Mr. Delcour frowns. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t often read for pleasure, sir, not when it’s my work.” Virgil switches the sheets of paper and begins to type again. “The few things I do read come recommended.”

Mr. Delcour is silent for a moment, and when Virgil looks up, he’s staring off into space.

“Sir?”

Mr. Delcour blinks. “Oh, nothing.”

He picks his pen up and that’s the end of it. Virgil goes back to work. Well. That was…not the most uncomfortable conversation he’s ever had. He’s suffered worse small talk waiting for the bus to arrive. And he…maybe he’s learned something.

If he finds himself enunciating his words a little more as he reads through sentences, that’s only so he has a better sense of how the words flow together.

He’s a little more genuine when he bids Mr. Delcour goodnight as he goes home.

The next few days progress similarly. He comes in, thanks the driver—whose name is Mickey, by the way—gets greeted as he enters the study, sits down, and gets to work. Something one of them says will draw the other’s attention and there will be a few moments of polite small talk before getting back to work. Virgil’s smile starts to feel a little less forced as he goes home.

But when he gets back to his apartment, the bubble pops.

He collapses onto his chair, shaking a little from the leftover adrenaline and wondering, wondering what the hell he thinks he’s doing. What he should be doing is be quiet. Keep his head down. Just work. Work and get out and make sure Mr. Delcour has no reason to remember his face, his voice, his words. Instead, he’s talking to the man, offering things about himself, answering questions. And while, yeah, maybe he could make an argument that being totally quiet would make him stand out more, the thought of possibly giving him more information on Virgil twists his stomach into knots.

But he can’t help it.

The longer he spends in that house, the more he actually spends time around the man and not the reputation, the less afraid he is. It’s not that big of a performance, putting on all of his social customs and behaving like he would in his office when there’s just the two of them in the same room. He doesn’t have so many eyes on him, he’s just…he can just be and work.

No small part of Virgil thrills at the thought.

He clenches his fist and takes another sip of his tea. It doesn’t matter. He can’t afford to get tied up in anything. If someone comes sniffing around Ruxtole Estate, even if he’s legally allowed to be there, even if he’s been contracted there, even if he’s been invited there, they still might ask questions.

He can’t have that.

No, Virgil makes up his mind to stay away from Mr. Delcour. He’s going to do his job and that’s it.

Of course, the next day decides that no, that’s not in fact what’s going to happen.

There’s a knock at the door and one of the staff opens it.

“Sir, a Mister Carmichael here to see you.”

Mr. Delcour nods and closes the file on his desk. Virgil looks between them as the door closes.

“Do you…want me to leave?”

“Hmm?” Mr. Delcour looks up at him. “No, no, no, no need. This shouldn’t take long.”

Still, Virgil glances between him and the door. He feels something nudging under the tip of his chin.

“Are you sure, sir?”

Mr. Delcour turns to him slowly. Virgil stares back, gaze darting all over his face. If the sudden intensifying of the gaze means anything, he’s sure Mr. Delcour knows exactly why he’s asking that question.

Mr. Delcour starts walking over to him. He holds Virgil’s gaze as he steps closer, closer, closer, until Virgil has to crane his neck back to look up at the man. Part of him wants to disappear into the chair and never emerge. Mr. Delcour tilts his head.

“I don’t have to threaten you,” he says quietly, “do I?”

Virgil swallows. “No, sir.”

“Then you don’t have to leave.”

Virgil nods sharply.

“Good.”

Mr. Delcour turns away and Virgil suppresses a shudder. The man walks back over to sit behind his desk and opens another folder. He picks up his pen and starts writing. No sooner has he done that, the door opens.

“Mister Carmichael, sir.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Delcour looks up and Virgil quickly tries to pay attention to his work as another man in a suit walks into the room. “And what brings you here today?”

“Uh, you called for me, sir.”

“Did I?” Virgil is definitely typing right now. He changes the sheet of paper as Mr. Delcour makes another note in his folder. “Ah, yes, that’s right, I did.”

Mister Carmichael shuffles. He glances at Virgil who studiously ignores it. He doesn’t ignore it when Mr. Delcour points to the chair opposite his desk.

“Sit.”

The other man sits, his hat clutched in his hands, worrying the brim. Mr. Delcour keeps looking at the folder in front of him. Virgil tries to lose himself in the words. He gets a few more paragraphs in before Mr. Delcour speaks.

“Do you recall what I asked you to do?”

Mister Carmichael startles. “Uh, you asked me to retrieve the packages from the pick-up location, sir.”

“And what location did I ask you to deliver them to?”

“The, uh, the storage one.”

The scratching of the pen stops.

“The, um,” he splutters, “the one down by the docks. Where Mr. Balton works. That one.”

Mr. Delcour sets down the pen and folds his hands. “By all means, Mister Carmichael, do repeat the same piece of information over and over again, you know how that thrills me.”

Virgil’s fingers stutter on the typewriter and he has to take a deep breath before he keeps typing.

“Uh, sorry, sir.”

Mr. Delcour hums. “Would you perhaps, then, be able to tell me why Mr. Balton has yet to receive these packages?”

Mister Carmichael begins to fidget with his hat again. “Uh, there’s been a traffic jam, sir. There’s—one of the bridges is out for construction and the truck has to be rerouted.”

“Oh, does it now?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“And where, may I ask,” Mr. Delcour says, voice far too light, “is the truck being rerouted to?”

Mister Carmichael stutters again. Mr. Delcour raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, dear. I hope you’re not losing your ability to speak. That would be most unfortunate for you.”

“No, no, n-no, sir, I can still speak.”

“Oh.” The voice takes on a tone of mock surprise. “Then you should be able to tell me where the truck is being re-routed.”

“Of course, sir, I can tell you, it’s, um, it’s—“

“Because the interesting thing,” Mr. Delcour says, “is that you claim you can tell me where the truck is, and yet you don’t seem to be able to follow through on your word.”

Virgil goes to change the sheet of paper and glances up, just in time to see Mr. Delcour tilt his head.

“And we don’t appreciate it when people don’t keep their word, do we?”

“N-no, sir.”

Virgil swallows.

“Then we’re in a bit of a situation,” Mr. Delcour says, “aren’t we?”

“Fifth Street Bridge,” Virgil blurts out.

Both men freeze and turn to look at him slowly. Mr. Delcour raises an eyebrow.

“What was that?”

“The bridge that’s been closed for construction is Madison Avenue’s,” Virgil says, valiantly ignoring the way his leg twitches under the table, “the only other bridge that is used to heavy traffic is Fifth Street.”

“Y-yeah, yeah!” Mister Carmichael looks back at Mr. Delcour. “It’s gone through there. I got a call from Barney that said they were bringing it the long way around, to try and get it into the shipping lanes.”

Mr. Delcour still hasn’t looked away from Virgil. His eyes narrow slightly as he looks Virgil up and down.

“Then I imagine you’ll need to be there to ensure the proper trade-off,” he says after a while.

“Yes, sir, yes, sir, I do.”

Mr. Delcour hums, looking back at him. “Then why are you still here?”

The man takes the hint and gets up, all but running out of the room. Virgil lets out a breath as the door closes, quickly finding the page he was on and beginning to type again. His fingers settle back into the keys of the typewriter as he tries to slow his racing heart.

“How did you know,” Mr. Delcour says suddenly, “that it was Madison bridge that closed?”

Virgil clears his throat. “Mickey and I got caught in the flack from it this morning. We had to go over Fifth.”

Mr. Delcour hums. Virgil glances up to see him looking at him with…an expression.

“Good job.”

Virgil blinks in surprise, feeling heat rush to his face. “Thank…you?”

The corner of Mr. Delcour’s mouth quirks up in a smile.

Virgil closes the door to his apartment with an odd feeling in his chest. That was…bizarre. He can’t tell whether it was a self-sacrificial need to bail Carmichael out of the way of Mr. Delcour’s wrath, or the need to offer information, or what, but he can’t put a finger on exactly why he decided to offer up that information. He collapses into his chair and rakes a hand through his hair.

Unbidden, the image of Mr. Delcour’s face springs to mind when Virgil had given him the answer and explained how he knew. The slight widening of the eyes, a quirk of the eyebrow. And especially the way he’d smiled. Sure, his lips had one turned up a little bit at one corner, but it was a smile. He’s smiled. Virgil had made Mr. Delcour smile.

And now there was a different funny feeling in his chest. Surprisingly enough, this one didn’t feel quite as awful.

It doesn’t go away when he gets back to work the next day. Instead, when Mr. Delcour looks up to bid him good morning, he’s smiling at Virgil. And Virgil finds himself smiling back.

This has the potential to be bad. To go wrong in so many different ways. And yet…it doesn’t. Nothing happens. At least nothing big happens. They’re still talking as they work, but it’s different now. Now, Mr. Delcour will start to make remarks about his work, murmuring details to himself as he writes or asking Virgil to bring him a book from one of the shelves nearer the walls. Virgil is careful to make sure their fingers never brush when he hands off the book, but sometimes Mr. Delcour will look at him as he hands it over and it’s much closer than it should be.

It would be wrong to say that Virgil relaxes into working here, but he does…settle. To the point where when he spots something he thinks needs to be addressed, he only hesitates for a moment before raising his voice.

“Sir?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m going to guess that if there are typos in the original prints, you don’t want them replicated into the transcriptions?”

Mr. Delcour looks up. “A typo? In the printed book?”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Delcour frowns, standing up and coming over to Virgil’s side. He holds out his hand for the book and Virgil passes it to him, pointing out the word in question. Mr. Delcour raises an eyebrow.

“Well,” he murmurs, handing it back, “well-spotted.”

“Just doing my job, sir,” Virgil mumbles.

“Mm. Yes, correct it when you can, and note the name and page number if you could.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Delcour pauses on the way back to his own desk, reaching out and laying a gloved hand on the stack on the end of Virgil’s desk. “These were all given to me,” he murmurs, mostly to himself, “I wonder why they still have errors.”

“Maybe they’re the author’s copy,” Virgil tries, “before the editors got their hands on them.”

Mr. Delcour laughs. Like, actually laughs. It’s short, over before Virgil can truly recognize it, but he laughs.

“I’m sure that would explain why some of them read more like a stream of consciousness than planned out novels.”

Virgil just blinks. Mr. Delcour looks over his shoulder, the laugh fading into a smile as he indicates the typewriter.

“As you were.”

It takes another moment for Virgil to refocus on his work. He dutifully notes the typos as he finds them. Book title, page number, typo and corrected word. The list is not long, he’s only found a couple in the span of a few days, but the list stays at his right elbow as he works.

And maybe, just maybe, he stops holding back all of his quips if only to hear the quiet huff of laughter from across the room.

“I’m going out,” Mr. Delcour announces a few days later, startling Virgil as he’s in the middle of a chapter that just won’t end, “feel free to stay as long as you like, Mickey will bring the car around for you when you’re ready to leave.”

Virgil barely has time to get a word in edgewise before he’s out the door.

For a moment, he just sits there, almost frozen, staring at an empty room that by all rights should feel empty with him in it. The typewriter sits impatiently under his hands. He’s alone in the Ruxtole Estate.

Well, alone save for the staff.

That’s enough. Virgil takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. The staff is still here. He’s not alone in this house. If he were to wander—which he most definitely will not be doing—he would run into someone. He will not wander. He will not go anywhere. It is enough to know he is not alone in this house.

That’s good.

That’s…that’s good.

He takes another deep breath and begins to lose himself in the writing again. The repetitive keys, the occasional pause to shift a piece of paper in and out, and of course, turning the pages of the books. Every so often he’ll glance up and it takes him a while to name the ache he feels when Mr. Delcour isn’t there with him too.

Then, of course, he glances up and blinks.

He looks around.

Oh. Oh, the sun’s set. Oh, he should leave. He should’ve left about two hours ago. Oh, dear. He needs to go. He should go right now. Right now.

He hastens to finish the page he’s working on because he can’t just up and leave in the middle of a task, but his fingers won’t click as fast as he needs them to and he can’t afford to start making mistakes right now. So he takes a deep breath and starts to type.

He jumps when he hears footsteps getting closer to the door and just manages to steel himself when the door swings open.

“Virgil?”

“Sorry, sir,” Virgil says, swallowing his fear as best he can, “I—I lost track of time.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Virgil will not turn around. He will not. He hears the footsteps get closer, closer, until half of his body tingles from having someone right behind him.

“I’m sorry, sir, I can leave now—“

“It’s late,” Mr. Delcour breaks in quietly, walking over to his desk and setting his coat down on top, “you must be tired.”

“…sir?”

“Do you want to stay?”

Virgil’s brain stutters to a halt. What? Stay? Here? Here?

“I—I’d hate to impose, sir—“

Mr. Delcour huffs. “You’ve seen the size of this place, Virgil, one more person is hardly an imposition.”

“I—I—“

Mr. Delcour just waits patiently. Virgil should say no. Literally every part of his brain is screaming at him to say no. To get out, to go home, to be as much of an inconvenience as he can be just to go.

“…only if it’s not too much trouble.”

Mr. Delcour lets out another huff, his head bowing for a moment as he walks back across the room, a slight smile on his face.

“I think, Virgil,” he says quietly, not enough to disrupt the silence, “that you and I have very different definitions of trouble.”

That thought keeps Virgil awake long into the night on a bed covered with sheets that don’t belong to him.

He doesn’t know how to navigate the next morning. Someone comes to his door with a small tray of breakfast, leaving him to get re-dressed in the clothes he wore yesterday and coming to collect them once he’d finished. He follows them awkwardly back to the office and tries valiantly to pretend that this isn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world.

Mr. Delcour isn’t inside when he gets there and Virgil is grateful for it, sinking back into the work as if it’ll let him escape from this confusing mess of a house.

Of course, that wishful thinking is conveniently overlooking the fact that anytime Mr. Delcour walks into the room, he commands the entirety of Virgil’s attention.

“If I hadn’t personally made you leave,” he says wryly as he strides into the room, looking as if he’d stepped off the runway of some fashion event Virgil could never put a name to, “I would’ve guessed you’d worked all night.”

When Virgil doesn’t respond with a quip or even acknowledge that he’d spoken, Mr. Delcour pauses, glancing at him before down at Virgil’s desk.

“Did you sleep well?”

“I slept fine, sir,” Virgil manages, “thank you. And, um, thank you for letting me stay. Last night, I mean. It, um…I won’t lose track of time like that again.”

Another pause. Then Mr. Delcour reaches out and a gloved hand gently tugs Virgil’s collar into place.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure,” he says softly, robbing Virgil’s breath with the slightest brush of gloved fingers against his throat.

Virgil has a harder time focusing that morning and if he leaves right on time, it isn’t because Mr. Delcour’s slightly smug smile is chasing him out of the door.

He can’t stop fussing with his collar, to the extent that Mickey asks him if he’s alright. He waves him off, saying he’s just a little antsy, he misses his apartment. Mickey makes a noise of understanding and promises to pick him up in the morning. Virgil storms upstairs and packs his things away hurriedly, absentmindedly running his hands over his throat, his collar, loosening his tie and pouring himself a glass of water.

He stayed at the Ruxtole Estate last night. He stayed in Mr. Delcour’s house last night.

He spent a night in Mr. Delcour’s house and the man asked if he’d slept well.

Virgil’s head feels fuzzy. His throat is dry. His chest itches a little. He shakes his head back and forth to clear it, downing another glass of water and storming to his bedroom.

He needs to get out. He needs to not be in four walls. He needs to breathe.

Within a few minutes, he’s changed and out the door, stopping to check the mailbox on the way. No new slips of paper. He did say he’d be taking a break, that he almost got nabbed and they needed to find someone else for a bit, but he checks. He doesn’t need to worry about that right now.

He vanishes into the crowd of night goers, effortlessly losing himself in their mess of glitz and glamor. No one notices him in a crowd and there is no better place to be alone than surrounded by strangers. The street comes alive under their feet and hums, carrying them this way and that in the bowels of an unsleeping city.

His feet remember the way to go, even if his head doesn’t know where he’s going. He slips behind the train station and down, down past the maintenance tunnel and into the barber shop. The clerk behind the counter takes a look at him and nods, gesturing to the door behind the third chair.

Virgil opens the door and is confronted with the loud music of a speakeasy. He swirls in between the crowd of bodies, moving through them as if they’re water until he gets to the bar.

“Virgil,” the bartender says, sliding him a glass, “haven’t seen you in an age. Where’ve you been?”

“Here and there,” he says vaguely, raising the glass to his lips, “but I’m sure you don’t need to know specifics.”

“That I don’t!” The bartender slides another drink further down the bar. “I have enough people in here complaining about their life stories, I don’t need any more. Just for that, your drink’s on the house.”

Virgil raises the glass in a toast and lets the whiskey burn down his throat. This. This is what he needs. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend that the burn is only on the inside and not on the outside, where a gloved hand may or may not have brushed his throat.

“Can I get another?”

“This one you’ve gotta pay for.”

“Deal.”

One drink becomes two. Two becomes three. By drink four, Virgil isn’t worried about thinking anymore. Instead, the air around him begins to spin, swept up in the music that reaches deep into his chest and twists, drawing forth not thoughts, not words, just rush. It’s past the point where things rationally start to link together and Virgil is awash in sensation.

Someone is talking to him. Virgil assumes he’s speaking back. A man’s hand is on his shoulder. He’s laughing. They’re laughing. They’re laughing together. Virgil is being invited for lunch. He thinks he says yes. He thinks the man’s name is Charlie. The man laughs at him and says yes, his name is Charlie, Virgil’s name is Virgil. Charlie’s hand is on his arm. It burns but it doesn’t hurt.

Charlie’s arm is around his waist. They’re walking up the stairs. Virgil can think a little better in the cool night air. There is a pleasant drunken flush to his cheeks but he has some of his words back, even if his tongue is a little thick. They get into a car. They go up a set of stairs. There’s a glass in his hand and he fills it with water from a sink. Charlie is drinking water too. They both say something about sobering up.

Charlie’s hand is in his hair. Charlie’s arm is around his back. Charlie’s body is pulling him through a door.

Virgil walks up the steps to his own apartment just as the clock strikes two in the morning.

Mickey comes to pick him up and they drive back to the estate. Virgil waves thank you to Mickey as he walks up the stairs and inside. The office door doesn’t creak as he opens it, calling out a polite ‘good morning’ as he sits down. Mr. Delcour raises his head, only to frown at Virgil.

“Is there something wrong?”

Mr. Delcour just keeps looking at him strangely. Virgil shifts a little under the scrutiny, checking if there’s something on his face, on his clothes, anything.

“Did you hurt yourself last night?”

“What? No, sir, I don’t think so.”

“You’re walking different.”

“What?”

Mr. Delcour gestures at him with a pen. “You’re walking different.”

“Uh…maybe I slept on it wrong.”

He’s stared at for a few more moments before Mr. Delcour turns back to his work. Virgil breathes a sigh of relief and sits down.

They work like that for a few hours, each one expressing vague exasperation at the words in front of them, much to the delight of the other, before Virgil looks up at the clock and suddenly lets out a laugh.

“Something amusing?”

“Oh, I just realized why it seems like I have no food in my house whenever I go home.”

“Oh?” Mr. Delcour raises an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

“Because we’ve been working through lunch almost every day.”

Mr. Delcour blinks. Then he tilts his head. “…that’s rather…out of character.”

“What is?”

“Me working through lunch.” Mr. Delcour glances at him. “I must’ve been…distracted.”

The tips of Virgil’s ears turn red as Mr. Delcour stands up from his desk.

“Well, then. Let’s go get something to eat, shall we?”

Virgil follows the other man into the hall, down the stairs, into a large dining room that makes Virgil feel inadequate simply by existing. Mr. Delcour steps through into a kitchen, presumably, talking to the staff there while Virgil gazes around at all the silverware and napkins that cost more than half his rent.

“You don’t mind sandwiches, do you?”

“Huh?” Virgil swings around to see Mr. Delcour not even trying to cover a smile at watching him jump.

“Sandwiches,” he says slowly, “yes?”

“Yes, yes, fine, thank you.”

“Well, it might be a moment, so…” He gestures to a chair. “Feel free to sit.”

Virgil looks at the chair like touching it will make one of them self-combust.

“It’s just a chair,��� comes the voice that’s definitely laughing at him, “it won’t hurt you.”

Part of Virgil wants to cover his hand with his sleeve before he pulls out the chair. But that might be even more rude, so he doesn’t do that. But he wants to.

Mr. Delcour is still laughing at him when he sits down, finally, shuffling like he’s worried about putting his weight on the chair.

“That,” he says, “was definitely the most graceful way I’ve ever seen someone sit down.”

Virgil burns with embarrassment and he clenches his jaw, not making eye contact. A cane taps against his foot under the table and he startles.

“Relax,” Mr. Delcour says, half-mocking, “nothing’s going to bite you.”

Virgil tries. Honestly he does, but the air of rich, lux, excess pushes in on him at this table, with Mr. Delcour at the head, and he feels so out of place. Even if another chair were filled, it would be better, but it’s just an absolute mess and he has no idea what he’s doing and he’s being rude now and—and—

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, oblivious to the eyes watching him keenly and the smile that is no longer apparent on its face.

The sandwiches come out and Virgil murmurs a thank you, eating it with as much dignity as one can eat a sandwich. Not much, but the effort is there and he keeps his eyes on his own food. It might be better to not eat at all if he’s going to feel this awkward doing it all the time.

No sooner has that thought crossed his mind, though, Mr. Delcour speaks up.

“Well, yes, that certainly does explain my penchant for absolutely terrorizing the staff during dinner,” he sighs, taking a drink from the glass set next to his elbow, “however could I have missed that?”

The man is a terror while hungry. Good to know.

Virgil stifles a laugh. Mr. Delcour gives him a look that’s clearly meant to make him keep his comments to himself but the man himself is smiling a little too much for it to be believable. So instead, Virgil simply shrugs and thanks him for lunch.

“Oh, no,” Mr. Delcour says, waving a gloved hand, “please. Thank me when I take you out properly.”

Virgil’s brain stutters. “What?”

“Well, we can keep staring at these walls for days,” he drawls, getting to his feet, “or we can take proper breaks as we work.”

He winks at Virgil and the rest of Virgil’s brain goes offline.

“Besides,” he says as he walks out of the dining room, “it’s not as if we lack for money to spend.”

So that’s how Virgil ends up going out to lunch with one of the richest men in the city on a daily basis. They don’t always go all the way into the city, nor do they frequent the types of places where Virgil gets looked at for the off-the-rack suit he’s wearing, but it happens enough times that one day, as they drive back, Mr. Delcour turns to Virgil in the back seat.

“While I can’t say I’ve never felt the need to distance myself from a restaurant, I certainly don’t do it with the extent that you seem to.”

Virgil swallows, looking out the window of the car. “Sorry, sir.”

Mr. Delcour is quiet for a moment. “Virgil.”

“Sir?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Sir?”

“You’re clearly uncomfortable,” Mr. Delcour says, “so what is it?”

Virgil takes a moment to breathe. “I’m not a fan of places where the waitstaff look at me like I’m a stain they want to rub out.”

The car is quiet for a moment.

“No, I would imagine not,” Mr. Delcour says finally, the gold top of his cane reflecting the sunlight as he toys with it, “I suppose that would make me want to run away too.”

Virgil swallows, trying for something that will lighten the mood. “Plus, I’m not in the habit of getting overcharged for something.”

Now Mr. Delcour raises an eyebrow. “Overcharged?”

“I’ve got a friend who runs her own restaurant a few towns over. She came into the city for a culinary thing once and spent about half her night off ranting to me about how the all charge too much for the sake of it.”

Mr. Delcour chuckles. “Oh, I’m sure she did.”

“Named about half a dozen places that were just as good if not better for half the price.”

“And these would be?”

And just like that, Virgil’s suddenly picking the places they go for lunch. It’s his turn to hide a smile when Mr. Delcour’s eyes widen in surprise at how good the food is and pretend he doesn’t see when a tip of far more than fifteen percent ends up in the cheque at the end of it. It’s his turn to exchange a look with Mickey in the rearview mirror when Mr. Delcour says he’d never been to that place before.

It’s…nice.

Which definitely means that Virgil’s plan of becoming forgettable is not working as well as he wanted it to.

But…but maybe he doesn’t want to anymore.

The first night they met is getting harder and harder to remember. Now when he sees Mr. Delcour, the first thing he thinks of isn’t the cold and calculating look in his eyes when he held Virgil in place with nothing but a stare, it’s the barely concealed amusement when Virgil makes a quip about how clearly the writer of a book wanted the reader to be as lost as the characters. It’s no longer the threat of a tipped cane at his throat but the gentle brush of gloved fingers as they fix his collar. It’s no longer the dry promise of a threat with the assuredness of full compliance but the sudden softness of a good morning or a good night.

Which might explain why he’s losing track of time more.

He makes sure to not look at Mr. Delcour’s smug smile when he starts to end work later and later and he definitely doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of asking to stay. So each night, when he gets up to leave, Mr. Delcour makes a game of just how long he can stretch out the offer of having Virgil spend the night.

Unfortunately for him, Virgil can and will take all opportunities to be thrown out of someone’s house as serious offers and not jokes, which results in Mr. Delcour physically blocking the door with his cane one night and huffing that Virgil knows where his room is, just go upstairs.

“Besides,” he calls as he walks away from a smirking Virgil, “Ms. Beale will be quite unhappy if the cinnamon rolls she’s baking for breakfast go to waste.”

Virgil will not be blackmailed with baked goods.

But he will be persuaded.

“Virgil,” Mr. Delcour says quietly when Virgil comes into the office the next morning still fixing his collar, “would you like to keep some of your clothes here?”

Virgil’s hand falters on his collar. “Sorry, sir?”

Mr. Delcour hides a smile as he gets up and walks over to him, beckoning him closer so he can tug the collar properly into place. 

“Would you like to keep some suits here,” he repeats, “it might be easier on us both rather than you going back to that apartment every few days.”

Virgil raises an eyebrow. “Easier on us both?”

“Well, you won’t be dragging yourself in and out of the same suit more than once and I won’t have to be convincing you of something we both know you want.”

“Are you admitting you have trouble keeping up with me, sir?”

Mr. Delcour raises an eyebrow and pointedly fixes Virgil’s tie. “Trouble understanding why only a fool would deny something obvious when you clearly have some sort of intelligence in that pretty head of yours, perhaps.”

Well. That’s unfair.

What is also unfair is that this feels…ordinary. It’s ordinary that Mickey picks him and a suitcase up the next morning, ordinary that he drops it off in the room he’s started to think of as his before going into the office. It shouldn’t—he is a contractor hired to do a job, this man is technically the client of his company. And yet…and yet.

So ordinary, in fact, that when Ms. Beale says there’s a call for him on the hall telephone, he doesn’t find it strange that whoever is looking for him knows to call here.

At least, not until he picks up the phone and says hello.

“Hello, lover boy,” he hears across the line and his blood runs cold.

“Who is this?”

“Why, doll, I’m hurt,” the voice simpers, “don’t you remember me? Our lovely night of passion?”

Virgil glances around. The hall is empty. He turns back to the phone and hisses into it.

“Who are you?”

“My, my, all the giggle juice must’ve been bad for your brain,” the voice laughs, “you knew me as Charlie, baby.”

Charlie. Virgil remembers.

Charlie’s hand in his hair. Charlie’s arm around his back. Charlie’s body pulling him through a door. Charlie—

Remembers, but not enough.

“What do you want,” he manages through gritted teeth.

“Oh, come now,” Charlie laughs, “why so hostile? You seemed to enjoy my attention during our night together.”

Oh, no.

“Our illicit, illegal night together.”

Fuck. Shit. The hairs on the back of Virgil’s neck stand up.

“You’re just as much to blame for that as I was,” Virgil snarls, “don’t forget that.”

“Me? I’m a happily married man, forcibly seduced by a dandy.”

Fucker wasn’t wearing a ring, a dark part of Virgil hisses even as he crowds closer to the phone. “You can’t prove that.”

“Oh, but I can, lover boy.”

Virgil’s hands begin to shake.

“You see, turns out that my neighbors were frightfully concerned about that night,” the voice says, “and would agree to be witnesses, I’m sure, if I ask. I’ve also got some photographs that would go a long way in front of a judge—“

“Stop,” Virgil grits out as nausea threatens the back of his throat, “just…stop.”

He takes a deep breath.

“What do you want?”

“Two thousand, this time next month.”

“I don’t have that kind of money!”

“That’s not my problem, lover boy,” Charlie giggles over the phone, “I’ll be in touch.”

The line goes dead. Virgil aches and part of him wants to go with it. He fumbles to get the phone back on its hook and his knees give out. He collapses to the ground and his chest begins to burn. He blinks. His vision blurs. His lungs catch fire as his throat splits in two. He blinks. The ceiling stares back at him as he pants himself ragged.

Someone has proof. Someone has proof. Someone has evidence against him that proves it. He’s—he’s—oh, god—

Virgil curls in on himself as he shudders on the floor. He has to get up. He has to figure this out. He has to come up with a plan, if not to get the truly insane amount of money then just to go. He’s done it once, he can do it again, he just has to—just has to—

But he can’t.

Because it won’t matter where he goes, not with this kind of proof. They’ll find him. Someone will find him.

Even if Virgil doesn’t want to be found.

Virgil takes a deep breath and pushes himself off the floor. He takes another, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them, desperately hoping someone won’t come and find him curled up like a sniveling child.

A familiar weight sinks into his shoulders. An old yoke he thought he cast away long ago. No. Not again. He won’t be a pawn in someone else’s scheme. He won’t let it happen. He’ll find away out.

He’ll find a way.

He pushes himself to his feet and tries his best to walk like something other than a dead man.

As it turns out, he’s not the only one who isn’t paying attention for the rest of the day. Mr. Delcour hardly spares him a glance as he comes back in, writing with a strange ferocity at his desk. The two of them fill the air with stilted noises and repetitive mutters of words neither of them can remember.

Mr. Delcour pushes his chair back as the sun starts to go down.

“I’m going out for the night,” he says as he passes Virgil, “don’t wait up.”

The door shuts behind him. Virgil waits until the footsteps vanish down the hall to push the typewriter further away and collapse onto his arms.

He’s been an idiot. He’s been such a fucking idiot.

This wasn’t some innocent thing that young boys do, this wasn’t somewhere where he knows everybody else, this was in the middle of a big city where people were as mysterious and nebulous as they come.

Was the man’s name even Charlie? Virgil doubts it.

Was he even drunk? Was this all a calculated con?

Did they figure they could extort Virgil because he knew Mr. Delcour? Is that why they asked for so much?

A bank won’t give him a loan that quickly and he has nothing to use as collateral. He doesn’t know anyone with that much money that would just give it to him and the idea of explaining what it’s for is enough to threaten another episode.

Virgil doesn’t know what to do.

After a good ten minutes of feeling sorry for himself, he picks his head up off the table and tries to get back to work. The words are slow, they don’t come quiet as quickly as he’s used to, but they do come and so he works. He works long into the night, hoping to numb his brain of all but the soft click-clack of his typewriter and the words, words, words on the page. The sun sets and stays set as Virgil works by the light of the bulbs in the corner of the room.

Footsteps.

But strange footsteps. Not the self-assured click of Mr. Delcour, nor the nearly silent ones of the staff. These ones drag. One foot hits the ground heavier than the other. Virgil stays put, continuing to type, only pauses when something thuds against the door.

He hears a muffled curse.

He turns, getting up just as someone pushes the door open with a groan.

“S-sir?”

Mr. Delcour looks up and Virgil’s eyes widen. The man is clearly injured. There’s a sharp graze along his jaw and he’s clutching his side. He looks equally as startled to see Virgil.

“I thought I told you,” he says in a painful wheeze, “not to wait up.”

“I thought I told you not to get hurt,” Virgil shoots back, hurrying forward to help the man to the couch.

“Oh, I’m sorry” Mr. Delcour mutters through gritted teeth, “did you say that? I missed the part where you said that.”

“Well, clearly I should have!”

Virgil lays Mr. Delcour down carefully on the couch, setting his cane aside but in easy reach and narrowing his eyes at him.

“Do you have a medical kit in here?”

“No, of course not, why would I?”

“Then why were you coming to this room?”

Mr. Delcour stares at him for a moment. Then he jerks his head toward his desk. “Second drawer.”

“See, that wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” Virgil quickly fetches the kit and sits back down on the part of the couch currently not occupied by legs that are too long and a torso that should not be having this much trouble breathing. “How bad is it?”

“I’m just peachy, thank you.”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Please, continue putting up a front, it will certainly make my job easier.”

“Oh, well, if you say so.”

Virgil grits his teeth. “I need to make sure your ribs aren’t broken and your lung isn’t about to get punctured. Those aren’t fun, trust me.”

Mr. Delcour looks up at him with a furrowed brow. Virgil sighs.

“You’re not the only one whose ever been thrown around, okay? Just…let me help?”

Mr. Delcour stares at him for a little longer before he gives a tiny nod.

“Thank you.” Virgil swallows. “Uh, we’re going to need to get your shirt off.”

As expected, he’s greeted with a raised eyebrow and the shadow of a smirk. “Quite eager to get me out of my clothes, are we?”

“I’m eager for you not to bleed out on this couch.”

Mr. Delcour tries to laugh but it comes out as a pained chuckle.

“Come on, just…can you sit up a bit? There, that’ll—that’ll make it easier.”

Virgil keeps his eye on his hands as he works, ignoring the fact that he’s taking off Mr. Delcour’s suit in favor of trying to assess how much damage has been done.

The man was able to walk here, so if his lung was going to be punctured it most likely would’ve been. He can still talk and lying down didn’t seem to make it worse, so he’s probably just got some bad bruising. And, as he carefully peels away the waistcoat to reveal a clean white shirt, he’s not bleeding. Very good.

“I’m going to undo your shirt now,” Virgil says softly, “stop me if you need to.”

He undoes each button with care, pausing any time there’s a sudden intake of breath or Mr. Delcour’s hands twitch. He’s careful to avoid touching his chest directly, easing the fabric away from his ribs to reveal a truly nasty bruise but nothing open.

“Well,” he mumbles, “could be worse.”

Another wheezing chuckle.

“Sorry, I’ll shut up.” He reaches for the kit and pulls out a tin of bruise cream, unscrewing the lid and glancing at how much is left. A fair amount. “Can I put this on?”

“Be my guest.”

Virgil is as careful as he knows how, pointedly ignoring the expanse of skin in front of him in favor of minding how much pressure he uses as he rubs the cream in. He can feel Mr. Delcour’s eyes on him as he works.

“You’re awfully good at that.”

“Practice.”

Mr. Delcour hums. “Now how could someone like you get good at something like this?”

Virgil stays quiet. His fingers dip back into the cream as he starts to work on the rest of the bruise.

“You’re a competent man,” Mr. Delcour continues, completely matter of fact, as if each word isn’t threatening to make heat pool in the base of Virgil’s cheeks, “good at your job, accomplished, efficient…”

“You’re very kind, sir.”

He gently taps Mr. Delcour’s side to get him to shift a little. Mr. Delcour does, but this has the consequence of now he’s staring directly at Virgil’s face.

“Respectable, too.” He tilts his head, considering him. “No disciplinary reports, no troubling incidents, no criminal record.”

Virgil’s hands pause for a moment. “You did a background check on me?”

“I was inviting you into my home, did you expect anything different?”

Virgil swallows and tries to continue. “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing of note.” Mr. Delcour shifts. “Which is what made me wonder.”

“…wonder what?”

“Why someone like you would need to be running bribe slips up and down the city.”

Part 2 bc tumblr is a bitch

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