Dr William James Henry

by Gimme-a-Hand-Scaevola

Years after leaving his apprenticeship where his only contact with Will Henry has been infrequent correspondence, Pellinore Warthrop is reunited with his one time assistant. Now grown and a scientist in his own right, Pellinore must face that their relationship has forever changed. Willenore

Pellinore swept through the kitchen toward his basement, rubbing a shaving nick on his jaw. His hand instinctively swung the door to shut it behind him and close him into his underground laboratory. Halfway closed he forestalled the action and wavered on the top step. He rocked back onto his heels, nostrils flaring at his own indecision. It had not been until that very moment that he had realized he was waiting for the mail, that he worried he would not hear the postman if he were locked away downstairs.

It would have been possible to argue to himself that sensitive remains might, on any delivery, be left upon his stoop by an ignorant mail carrier. Now that he was without an assistant he must be more prompt at fetching his own deliveries. But he could not quite bring himself to this pragmatic falsehood. Lying was, as he had so frequently told his one time young assistant, the worst form of buffoonery. He was waiting for a letter from Will Henry.

He worried at his lower lip, still standing on the top step of the basement. He had sent his last letter more than three weeks ago. Surely it had reached Will by now. He forced himself into motion downstairs, leaving the door open behind him. The words of his last letter were imprinted upon his mind, so many times had he rewritten it. He went over them once more while he slowly descended the stairs. It was not possible Will had taken offense. But the boy often seemed to seek out reasons to be upset with him.

Well, not so much a boy now. Pellinore moved aside Will's old stool, briefly remembering him eleven years old and being sick into a bucket. He was long passed that sort of thing now, at twenty three and being nearly a Monstrumologist himself.

"Sir?" Will had said, wringing his hands and fidgeting before the doctor.

"What is it, Will Henry?" Warthrop had snapped, "Have you not yet made any tea? It is nearly ten o'clock, snap to, Will Henry!"

"Sir...I...Can...Sir, I need to speak with you."

Pellinore looked at him and Will looked away. Pellinore did not say anything, but glowered at Will Henry expectantly and impatient.

Finally Will drew a letter from his back pocket and gave it to the doctor, not meeting his eyes, "I…" but he said nothing else.

Warthrop flicked open the letter and scanned over it. When he reached the bottom he scanned it again. And then a third time, "...You are leaving me, Will Henry." He did not say it like a question.

Will straightened his back, not having to look nearly as far up to meet Warthrop's eyes as he once had, "Sir, I… It isn't as though…"

Warthrop cut him off sharply, refolding the letter and returning it, "I will not allow it."

Will's shoulders fell momentarily then he flared, "You don't have the authority to keep me here! If I wish to study under Dr. Gowell then I will! I am not going to be your assistant forever!"

Warthrop looked down his nose at him, raising a dark eyebrow, "Dr. Gowell is a poor excuse for a scientist, he has contributed nothing of note to the encyclopediae and his latest paper could be refuted by," he scoffed and searched for something of suitably low intellect for his metaphor, "Dr. Walker." He clasped his hands behind his back, "No, Will Henry, Dr. Gowell will not do. Dr. Pendergast would be far better."

"...Sir, I… " Will awkwardly tried to recover from Warthrop's unforeseen line of dissatisfaction, "I did think of him. I thought he spoke well last year," Will said hesitantly, "But he usually...I thought he would want you to write a letter concerning me...I didn't-"

Warthrop glowered, "If you required my speaking on your behalf you ought to have asked me, Will Henry. Easily anticipated though your unoriginal ideas might me, still not even one such as I can read your thoughts."

"...Thank you, sir."

"Well?" Warthrop asked bluntly, "If you want a letter written, you shall have to fetch the ink and paper. Snap to, Will Henry. And put on tea!"

Will set to making tea and Warthop continued speaking to his back, "Dr. Pendergast is a fine Monstrumologist, he will provide suitable oversight for your apprenticeship. Although, to my recollection he has never been asked to provide the keynote address at a colloquium," Warthrop said dryly, referring without subtlety to his own address, given no more than two years previous.

Will colored, looking over his shoulder at Warthrop and still struggling to form the right words, "Sir, I know that you- but I feel that I ought to-"

"Yes, Will Henry. You ought to. I supposed I must take condolences that at least I could provide you the good sense to continue my work. Even if you flee my tutelage at your first opportunity."

"I do, sir. Want to continue your work, I mean."

Warthrop ruffled, "Yes, well, I suppose even monstrumology must survive a few practitioners of mediocre talent."

Will turned back to the tea, "Yes, sir."

In his basement, Warthrop perked up at the clopping of the metal mail slot opening and shutting. He wiped his gory hands on his lab coat and hurried upstairs. Odds were that there was no letter. Will said he might be heading an expedition but Warthrop had no idea when he was leaving if at all, he could have not yet even received Warthrop's correspondence.

Warthrop picked up the letters at the front door and flipped through them, leaving dark red finger smudges on all of the envelopes.

The Estate of Thomas Edison. The mayor of a town he had rid of a Gowrow. A number of monstrumologists requesting his input. An invoice from a maid he had recently thrown out. He dropped the mail back onto the floor and retreated to his laboratory, slamming the door behind him.

The specimen before him was of sufficient interest to capture his full attention now that the looming promise of the mail was not distracting him. He'd received it only the day before, a young Ogopogo from a lake in British Columbia. He had preserved its organs already but was interested in exploring its muscular structure. He had also thought the bones felt a bit dense and wanted to examine them in more detail. The Ogopogo were a well documented species, he was unhappily certain that this would probably lead to no original scholarship. But looking at a juvenile was interesting and it distracted him from the preserved remains of the German Grindylow that stared down at him from its shelf. That case was still unresolved. But he had his something of an impasse. With renewed fervor he threw himself into the inspection of the ogopogo.

As it had been for the last three years, it was slow going. He kept having to pause to write down his own measurements. Briefly, when Will had first left, he had considered taking on a new apprentice. Certainly anyone he would take on would greatly benefit. And there was a long list of young would-be monstrumologists vying to work at his side. But the thought of training someone else to take up Will Henry's abandoned mantle exhausted him. Better to work in solitude.

And still, even three years later, Will's absence felt temporary, as though any day now, Pellinore's shouts of "WILL HENREEEEE" would be answered and Will would appear as he once had, with tea, and take his place on his stool. Pellinore amended the thought, he was much more highly trained now. He could be of more use than taking dictation. Perhaps he would learn to think for himself. He might even be able to appear with tea and make useful observations.

P.S. Will you be accompanying Dr. Pendergast to the Society Colloquium this October?

The sudden shake of his hand accompanying the memory of his parting comment to Will in his last correspondent made him temporarily set down his scalpel. He glared and picked the instrument back up.

He worked straight through the night, taking an irritatingly long break around two in the morning to make his own tea only to return to his grotto. By midafternoon the quickly degrading specimen had been as thoroughly investigated as it was ever going to be. He had made interesting notes but he would need to succumb to a few hours of sleep before he could write anything of any length. He disposed of the non-preservable parts of the remains and packaged the rest to be sent to the Society. Then he stripped off his lab coat and washed the blood and viscera from his hands. Getting a few more days of labwork out of this only partially interesting specimen would have been ideal. Soon the Grindylow would be the only thing he had to look at. And he still felt unsure how to proceed. Only then did he jump and realize the day's mail must be waiting on the doorstep. He took the stairs two at a time and careened to the front door, his lack of sleep overcoming his decorum.

A letter from Dr. Pelt. Another request to take on an apprentice. An invitation to a gala in Chicago. Nothing of any worth at all. He dropped these letters on top of those from the day before and trudged upstairs to force himself into slumber. He would have to answer them. But not now. Now he wanted to sleep.

When he awoke the melancholia had come, bearing down upon him like a shroud that could not be drawn back. It sat, claustrophobic and cloying, upon his chest and made even the act of rising from his bed a nearly insurmountable task.

He turned over in his bed and faced the wall. He could die in this bed, unfinished Grindylow floating in his lab, and no one would ever notice. How long would it be until anyone came? Weeks perhaps, months. People were used to foul smells from the House of Warthrop. His would be no different from those of his specimens. It could be years before anyone missed him. It would be Robert, probably who would find his rotting remains.

He heard the mail slot clack open and shut.

He rose from the bed.

He shuffled downstairs in stocking feet and a nightshirt and looked at the new envelopes that had been left for him. He would have to read the others. They required him. Not today. Tomorrow perhaps. He flipped through the new ones.

An acquaintance from New Jersey. A man he didn't know from Minnesota. Dr. Grigsley requesting he look over new findings. Lilly Bates.

He nearly threw them to the ground but stopped himself at the last moment, letting the first three fall out of his fingers. Why would Miss Bates be writing him? He held the letter stiffly in his fingers, looking at her looping writing. The parchment was thick and smooth under his fingers, a high quality. He had to turn it over and open it. He had only to turn it in his fingers and slit it open. But his fingers would not cooperate.

They had been close, Miss Bates and Will Henry. Undoubtedly he wrote to her too. They might still be close. Would she have learned before him if something had befallen him? The coldness that had stung his chest: in the anthropophagus den, in the wilds of Canada, when he had seen Will sick with the Nidus poison, gripped him. Would it fall to Lilly Bates to inform him that Will had come to the same end so many young monstrumologists did?

He turned over the letter, pulling up the flap of the envelope and drawing out the card inside.

It was heavyweight like the envelope. He opened it, his thin shoulders tense.

Messer. William James Henry,

Your presence is most humbly requested at the marriage of Miss Lillian Bates and Mister Carlton Edgerton...

Warthrop dropped the letter, his shoulders slumping. He left the other correspondence on the floor and went into his library. He dropped into the chair behind his desk and reached for a cup of tea, only to remember he had not made any. He rose, went back to the kitchen and then, tea in hand, sat again at his desk.

He took out paper and an inkpen and attempted to begin on the topic of the ogopogo. He wrote no more than a few sentences when he dropped the pen. Perhaps another day when he felt less weary. He twitched his neck, flipping back his hair and opened the top desk drawer. There were a great many letters there by now. It was where he put Will's letters. He flipped his hair back again, gave up, and tethered it back with a length of ribbon he had taken to keeping with him for such purposes. He hated cutting it himself and the barber in town always insisting on idle chatter. As such it now hung around his shoulders. He would have to undergo a trip to the barber soon, before the Colloquium at any rate, but he did wish Will were around to silently cut it for him. Will had shaved him too. He was better at it. The nick he'd inflicted on his own jaw still stung.

He drew forth one of Will's letters at random and opened it. The paper was worn nearly flat, although it had come sharply folded. The ink too was worn from many touches of the finger. It was his first letter. Sent only a few weeks after his absence. It had sat unopened on this very desk for weeks after Pellinore received it.

Dr. Warthrop,

I wished to thank you for arranging my apprenticeship. Dr. Pendergast is, as you promised he would be, an excellent scientist and a worthy teacher. I will comment that he keeps more regular hours than I am used to and has yet to call me from my bed by shouting through the house. He has told me I am remarkably diligent. I suppose you will take credit for that also. Do you know that although it has been six weeks away, I still think that I am in my loft when first I awaken.

I will take no more of your time. I know better than most your distaste for personal correspondence.

Sincerely,

Will Henry

p.s. Do not feel obliged to write back. I know your time is pressed.

But Pellinore had written back. He had written back at once. Then destroyed the letter and started anew. Then rewritten it for clarity. Then again with finer penmanship. Then he had thrown all attempts in the fire and cursed Will Henry's outpouring. It had taken him a further week to produce a letter that he mailed, only to regret its wording the moment it was out of his hands.

The letters had continued through all three years of Will's absence. Pellinore had briefly worried that they would run dry things to speak about. But Will's letters only became more interesting as he continued his study. He told Pellinore of things that puzzled him in his most recent cases and was returned pages of literature to read and discrepancies to follow through with. It was that, truly that worried Pellinore so thoroughly about his most recent correspondence.

"There is a small matter of the thyroid. Will Henry, in the German Grindylow. I have gone through every page of notes on the matter, and I inspected the damnable organ in every way. I cannot account for its enlarged size. It is nearly four times the size of a creature of comparable weight. I am plagued, Will Henry…"

There had been more, he had explained the problem in full. A problem that was still not resolved. It had been the first time he had expressed a professional frustration in writing to Will Henry. It had always been the other way around before. Of course Will would probably not be able to help. He was still a young monstrumologist. Obviously an older scientist would be better. But the thought of sending anyone else this foolish problem that had him so stuck was abhorrent to him. He shoved Will's letter back into his desk and returned to the kitchen to find the very last, and rather stale, raspberry scone.

He leaned his head upon the wall as he nibbled his breakfast. He had shaved only yesterday. But he needed to bathe. He needed to do his dishes or find another maid. He needed to go to the market and buy sustenance. Instead he went back to his study and continued his work on the ogopogo. The Grindylow would have to wait until...until he could give it more attention.

When his hand cramped he took respite and bathed himself, depositing his fetid clothing into a basket for the launderer to collect at the back door. He dressed himself in what passed for clean clothing and descended into the market, coming back with scones and enough food for more than a week.

Fed and reasonably clean he allowed himself the rest of the day to immerse himself in his work, a call that was, thankfully, still loud enough to drown out the cacophony of the rest of the world. When it got dark, snottish over Will's old comment about regular hours, he retired. He lay for ten minutes, sleepless and rose to return to work.

He was not roused from his occupation until the post came the following morning. As he had before, he went directly to the door and collected the day's mail. There is was on top, not a letter but a heavy parcel.

Will Henry.

Dr. Warthrop,

Your notes on my Gamayun wing bones proved as useful as ever. Do you have a copy of that third book you mentioned? The one you sent is a godsend but for all the Russians we've run up against my grasp on the language is not what yours is. The translation has been slow work. I've drawn a diagram of a cross section of the bone, I knew you would like to see the latticework interior. I'd have sent a bone, but I'm not through with it yet. If I finish before I send this, I'll include a few samples.

I thought you would be interested to note that Dr. Pentergast could not cut them so cleanly as I could with that method you showed me, he was quite impressed. Although he only came to oversee, I am doing nearly all of my own work these days. I appreciate now how useful it would be to have a diligent assistant to take dictation, it's harder than I thought to hold an inkpen in bloody hands.

I've been thinking on your thyroid problem. I read something you might find useful last year, I've sent it along. I marked the pages relevant to your questions. But did you look at the eyes? Perhaps you noticed if they bulged. It could be an irregularity, I remember that you mentioned you had not seen a German variety before. I hope you do not mind, I sent word to a friend of mine in Germany to send you another. But before you begin shouting and throwing books, I mentioned nothing about you being stuck. Only that you wanted to take a look at one. He told me he would be honored to assist the great and renowned Dr. Warthrop (his words, not mine).

You seemed unwell in your last letter, you were more brief than you have been in years, I suspect you were only irate over the Grindylow. Still, I have sent something else to cheer you. I got a hold of a copy of Dr. Walker's latest paper. I thought his methodology would amuse you. I think he's forgotten that he is no longer a sheep herd.

Yours,

Will Henry

p.s. I'm sorry, doctor, I won't make it to the colloquium. I leave for Bangladesh at the close of September and will not have returned in time. I would have enjoyed watching you sneer over the cost of a New York dinner. Next year, however, I shall most certainly be in attendance.

Warthrop scrabbled for his notes on the Grindylow and called out in jubilation. Will was right, of course, there was bulging in the eyes. He would wait for the second set of remains to be sure. But he was nearly positive. An irregularity. A disease no doubt. Something on the order of Grave's disease. He flipped open the book Will had sent and tapped it happily. It reaffirmed Will's hypothesis. Maybe a foolish to overlook, but without an apprentice he was overworked, bound to make small errors on occasion. The second set of remains would be an asset and he greatly looked forward to it.

Assured, he inspected the laticework bones that Will had indeed included. It was a fine fractal lattice, nothing like the seemingly random fillings of a bird's wing. Beautiful. And his depiction of it had been quite true and excellently rendered.

Filled with energy from the letter he set to work. He had to complete his Grindylow work as well as that concerning the ogopogo. He also needed to respond to those other letters. He should forward Miss Bates' invitation he supposed. He did the letters first, pausing after each of them to look through Will's letter once more, where it lay upon his desk.

It was not until late that night that, as a treat, he sat down with Walker's paper. How Will had gotten it he did not know, but he would relish dismantling it. He selected his most brilliant red ink and set to work, writing in as vitriolic language as he could muster. Perhaps he would complete his overview and return it to Will. Will would enjoy that. Will was right, this did cheer him. Perhaps he would die unmissed in his own bed, but he would never write such a feeble paper as this!

He did not write back to Will for another week. Spending his spare thoughts in that time to formulate just what he wanted to say. He didn't have a copy of the book Will wanted, perhaps he would have time to send for one before Will went on his expedition. He would try, nonetheless. And he had translated the first text he had sent once before, he still had his notes. He'd found them and left them on the desk. He had no use for them without the original book, he might as well send them forward for Will.

He had wanted to wait to write until the Grindylow came. And when it had, what a fine specimen indeed. Much better preserved than the first, and indeed with a thyroid just in line with its size and eyes much less pushed forward. Everything about it was just as it was in its English cousins, only a big bigger and having a much greener complexion. Not a mystery in the slightest.

Oddly the comment that he thought of most was Will's mentioning that he worked mostly alone now. As he ought to. Pellinore had begun to work independently in his third year with von Helrung. But he had been ahead of Chanler and Pendergast was more rigid than von Helrung. Will must be doing well. Warmth spread through Pellinore's chest whenever he thought of this.

It wasn't until the second week in September than he completed his final draft of the letter.

Will,

Yes! Yes! It was naught but an inconsistency, I ought to have seen it. The second specimen was indispensable to my study. The book's passage was quite correct, as you saw. I have kept the book, I intend to read it through as long as you have sent it all this way. I have completed my work with the Grindylow, it shall be published in next quarter's Society Journal but I have enclosed a copy. That is for your eyes only, of course. I do not want it falling into another's hands.

Speaking of that. I did have a chance to look over Walker's paper and you were right again, it did cheer me. I've enclosed that too. You will take particular enjoyment from my comments on the fourth page, do take a look.

For your own research, I have attained a copy of the book you requested, it is in English this time, as that seems to be the only language you can handle. Have you even mastered your rudimentary Latin? You were always terrible with your classical languages. I've also sent along notes on translation of the first publication I sent you. You ought to learn Russian.

Domestically I fare terribly. The baker has retired at only seventy eight and has been replaced by her incorrigible daughter and granddaughter. They have stopped producing raspberry scones, Will Henry and yet they continue to call themselves a bakery. No amount of education from me has altered their minds a single whit. They offered me bran muffins in their stead. Bran muffins, Will. A greater insult to my personage I cannot determine. This town goes to the dogs.

Incidentally, have you come across The Will of an Eccentric yet? It is the newest from Verne. Adventure nonsense, of course as is common of Verne, but it seemed something you would enjoy. I fear this has become rather an expensively heavy parcel to send as I have sent my copy of this to you as well. Consider it a birthday present. A twenty four year old man ought to be able to take some time to read literature recommended him by one of the great minds of his day.

With this I shall leave you, I wish you great luck in your expedition. On that note I have been thinking that as a young and untried scientist with no grants or financial backing for this expedition that international postage may try your pursestrings. I have enclosed funds for this purpose. If you find you do not have the time to produce such correspondences, please return the funds.

Yours in sincerity,

Pellinore

He had been on tenterhooks since he sent it. It had taken him eight drafts before he could bring himself to send something signed only 'Pellinore.' Will had never called him Pellinore. But he ought to start. Maybe it was enough with 'sir's and 'doctor's. Will was soon to be a doctor himself. It would not do for him to continue to be so obsequious. He supposed that if Will could send him professional reading recommendations he could also call him by his given name.

He tried, for a moment, to imagine the way it would sound if Will were to say it. But he could not. He had no voice to attach this new and self assured Will Henry. It would not be the quaking boy who had stuck his head out a hansom cab's window like a dog to see the sights of New York. Nor would it be the shaking voice wreathed in childish anger. It was easier now and stronger. But thus far Pellinore had heard it only through letters and had no voice to give it life.

He was sure he was mimicking an exercise Will must have done many times before but he tried out the title, "Dr. Henry." James would have be exceptionally proud of him. His boy a monstrumologist. That, perhaps, would be something to be mentioned when he received the title officially.

Pellinore mused on what Will would do when he finished his apprenticeship. He could go off and work for himself, of course. Take up his own laboratory in whatever city he found himself. But perhaps he would not look down his nose at returning to New Jerusalem. Not as an assistant, of course. But Will had no family money, houses and laboratories were expensive. And expeditions were most successful when taken in pairs. It could be mutually beneficial. In his forties now, Pellinore was in no position to turn up his nose at the expediency of youthful vigour. Pellinore decided firmly then and there, Will ought to return to Harrington Lane after his education was complete. After all, even as a young monstrumologist he could benefit from Pellinore's superior expertise and experience. He would ask him at the Colloquium.

Pellinore arrived at the Colloquium with his hair cut and teased into the most elegant modern style in new clothing and a sharply black new medical case. He found his seat at a high table at the ball and looked expectantly around the other table before. His eyes found every young gaggle of scientists, looking for that unruly shock of brown hair. Was it that Will was too tall now, for Pellinore to recognize him without seeing him face on? Then, with a gut churning twist he remembered. Will was not coming. He was not in the county. Even Dr. Pendergast would not be in attendance to be badgered about Will's well doing.

He spent the rest of the week's festivities glowering and surly, reducing two young monstrumologist near to tears with his comments over their research.

He returned home when the colloquium had concluded and resumed his cloistered research. Months passed with no word from Will. The winter came and went. He had gone too far signing his given name. Will must have been laughing at him with Pendergast. As though Will would ever want to forgo such formalities on his behalf. As though he would wish to pretend such closeness. He ought to have simply called him Mr. Henry and forewent the Will. He ought to have sent fewer books. He ought to never have written back to Will. Not the first time and not the most recent, certainly.

It was June before he heard word. Nine months. He had stopped worrying over the mail in January. And still he had to wait until June before he heard. He had nearly written Will off for dead. When, finally, the parcel came, he let out a joyous little gasp and near to fell on it.

Pellinore,

I apologize, I know it's been too long. I couldn't get word to you when I was in Bangladesh. (Don't worry, the funds have been returned.) I ran into more trouble there than I ever would have thought, I have a few new scars to show for it. One of them across the back of my hand, it goes quite nicely with my severed finger. But, Pellinore, my expedition was successful! I could write you a novel about it. The Maal were beautiful. It made me think of what you told me when I was a boy. About looking the mistress of the wild in the face. Or something like that, you'll apologize that I never had your memory.

I had nearly written them off as legend but, Pellinore, they were there! Beautiful things, they looked near to human women in the face, only the masseter muscles were quite enlarged comparatively, and the noses far flatter. There are photographs. I have a camera now and take quite good pictures. God, we found dens of them in the wilds. They're a social creature. That was the first snag. We had anticipated only a few remaining and were ambushed.

As I discovered first hand, their claws hold some sort of paralyzing venom. I've sent along a vial, I know how clever you are with poisons. I haven't had a chance to look at it. They secrete it from a gland under their wrists. Don't worry, it wears off. I am as healthy as last you saw me, if perhaps a bit more careworn. We killed and captured one right off. Pentegast left with that one and I said I would return shortly.

That is what took me so long. Their culture was primitive, they may look like women, but are much more like dolphins or dogs in terms of intelligence and have no language. Still, they were fascinating to observe. I have many notebooks of observations. It will be my thesis. What do you think, Pellinore? I wanted your thoughts before I began the work of drafting it. Pendergast will have to approve it, of course, but I'd like to hear from you.

I have a live one, Pellinore. I brought it back in a tank. I drew up the designs and had it made and shipped back to me. That is some of what took me so long, as well as caring for it on the return journey. Him I should say. It is a male, even if the face is still feminine as compared to a human. I would like to present him, too, with my thesis, I think I've whipped up a diet that should keep him alive but he still tries to take off my fingers if I get too close. I know you'd disapprove, but I named him. In my defense I was with him for months, I couldn't just keep calling him 'the specimen.' I call him Fin, and I will admit my own unoriginality on the matter before you lambast me for it.

My god, it seems so long that I sent you that copy of Walker's paper. I woke Pendergast I laughed so hard at your comments. You have not changed, Pellinore.

I've only just got back. I wrote this the moment I was back to my desk and I am about to collapse in my bed from exhaustion. I will send it on and write more later. But I sent the photographs with it. I know you won't be able to wait.

Yours,

Will

Pellinore stood in the hall reading and rereading the letter. The first two 'Pellinore's were hesitant, as though he was not quite sure he was really allowed to write it. But they came easily after that. He had not been sure if he would commit to liking Will calling him Pellinore. But he found he rather did. But, Pellinore, my expedition was successful! He had felt a thrill in his stomach upon reading that. He knew the unbound joy it brought to come home from a successful venture, the bone deep satisfaction. To call him Pellinore and allow him to take some small part in that satisfaction made him feel more confidant than superior. But then, was he not Will's confidant? It was to him that Will wrote the moment he got back.

Pellinore read the letter once more, lingering over a line near the end. You have not changed, Pellinore. It had been said to him before, but never with affection. Never as though the act of his not changing were pleasant and not an unfortunate failing. Warmth curled in his belly at the words.

He sent a note post haste. He also would write more later, but there was no reason for Will to waylay his thesis pending Pellinore's approval.

Will,

Write the thesis, are you mad?

Yours,

Pellinore

When he had sent it he looked through the photographs at his desk. The Maal truly were beautiful. The slickness of their scales could be seen even in the sepia tones of the photographs. Will was right, like human women. Or a close enough facsimile that he could understand the local lore. Fishy and a bit doglike, quite muscular. Pendagast was in a few pictures, as well as a local woman who appeared to be their guide. But Will manned the camera in each of them and he did not appear. But the Maal were fascinating enough that Pellinore hardly noticed Will's absence. He had captured a stunning array of shots pointed downward at clear water where a female swam. One could mark the way it undulated. Beautiful.

In the year following their correspondence picked back up again, although it was slower on Will's end. A thesis, after all, demanded a great amount of time.

Will wrote briefly to thank him for the suit Pellinore had sent him for his twenty fifth birthday. Will noted also that he had not had time to celebrate but would wear the fashionable suit to his thesis defense. Of course, that had been why Pellinore had sent it. He had realized he didn't have any idea when Will's birthday was, but it seemed to have been nearly a year since he had sent the Jules Verne book and Will needed a suit. It had been expensive, he would not have sent it on a whim.

On August the twelfth at three in the afternoon Pellinore was jarred from a nap he had fallen into in the library by a rapping at the door. Befuddled and irritated Pellinore answered it, not bothering to conceal his bloodied shirt cuffs.

"What is is?" he sneered at the uniformed little man rolling on the balls of his feet on the stoop.

"Telegram, sir!" He said and handed over the slip paper.

Pellinore read it there on the stoop:

Thesis accepted. Stop. Dr. Henry. Stop. Will write. Stop

A broad smile crept over Pellinore's face. He tucked the telegram into his pocket and slammed the door on the telegram officer. Dr. Henry. He had not yet asked if he wished to return to Harrington Lane. He would have to now, before other arrangements were made.

But his letter would not come for a day at least. Buoyed himself by Will's success, he returned to the laboratory. Regardless of Will's achievement, there were still remains that demanded attention.

The yet unidentified toady thing lay dead on its back on Pellinore's necropsy table. He pulled on his lab coat and looked the thing up and down. He'd made his preliminary notes. He was ready to get a good look inside. He wondered how soon Will would return to Harrington Lane after he was asked. For of course he would return. He leveled his scalpel over the skin and pressed it. The skin was tough, it was difficult going. He had to proceed slowly. When the skin was slit, he would have to sharpen his scalpel after that, he opened the ribs and tenderly pinned it back into place, leaving the chest cavity exposed.

Wriggling young gurgled in the egg sack, startling him. With great pleasure he slit the sack and deposited the still living young into a container.

For hours he worked steadily, entirely immersed. It was passed midnight when a creak at the top of the stairs made him jump and look up. And then there he was, coming down the stairs, just as he had done umpteen times before.

"Will Henry!"

Pausing in his descent to look up and grin he said, "Doctor."

Warthrop set down his instruments and wiped his hands on his coat. "Will...I..received no word you were coming." He was rather taken aback. Not only by the suddenness of his appearance but by his appearance in and of itself. He was here. After more than five years. He was here.

Will came to the bottom of the steps and crossed the lab. Pellinore rounded the table to meet him. He was of a height with Pellinore, an inch shorter if at all. But his shoulders were those of his father, broad as Pellinore's had never been. Under his shirtsleeves it was clear he had become a well build man, lean and powerful.

Pellinore moved his arms, rethought himself, and clasped his hands behind his back. "Dr. Henry."

Will's face split into a broad grin, "I came straight here afterward. God, I'm starving."

Pellinore frowned, "Even now, a doctor and a monstrumologist and you cannot think beyond your stomach."

Will laughed, "Don't be an ass, doc- P-Pellinore." He stuttered over the name, unused to saying it aloud. His voice was deeper now.

Pellinore, for all his apparent ire, had not overcome Will's sudden appearance. Five years and what appeared to be fifty pounds of new muscle separated when last they had stood like this in this basement. And yet, it seemed so overwhelmingly familiar. Will returned to Harrington Lane like a cog long missing from a timepiece.

Pellinore cleared his throat, "Congratulations on your thesis, Doctor Henry. Your father would have been exceptionally proud of you."

Will raised his eyebrows and looked genuinely moved, "Thank you, Pellinore."

Pellinore shifted, his hands clutching each other behind his back, he needed to ask him, "Now, if you wish, I have provisions in the kitchen. I suppose given this momentous occasion I can take a brief respite."

Will led the way back to the kitchen, "I brought you something," he said smirking.

Without waiting for invitation, Pellinore seized one of the raspberry scones that had appeared on his kitchen table. Will joined him, sitting where he always had. Pellinore, likewise, took the seat opposite. Will had abandoned his suit jacket on the back of the chair on his way in. The suit was wrinkled now from its journey on a late night train, but was as fine a cut as Pellinore had thought it would be.

He should bring it up now. Before Will told him he had some ghastly apartment rented.

Pellinore took his time, chewing his scone.

"Will," he started slowly. He had thought through the terminology. It seemed crushingly important now. Surely Will would spend the night. It would more proper to wait a few hours at least. Let Will rest. But he could not stand if he disappeared again. Would it be another five years before they saw each other? Longer?

"Yes, si- Yes?"

"I have given this matter much consideration. I wish to extend you an offer." He paused here, awkward now that he had come to the actual asking.

Will leaned minutely forward, "Yes?"

It seemed to Pellinore that Will knew already what he was going to ask and it bolstered him, but he got ahead of himself, left off all the proper terminology he had so carefully crafted in lieu of a plea, "Come back."

"Si- Pellinore. Pellinore, I'm can't be your assisst-"

Warthrop glared, upset with both Will's response and his own failing, "Of course you cannot, you insult my intelligence, Will Henry. As though I would desire to so poorly use the abilities of a colleague. I ask you to return as a partner."

"A.. a partner? Really?"

Warthrop curled his lip, "Do you take me as foolish enough to have misspoke so drastically or merely a liar?"

"I- " Will looked around the kitchen. Pellinore watched his eyes settle on the molded bread and dirty tea cups, on the filled sink and dirty floor. For the first time it seriously struck Pellinore that Will might not want to come back. That he might prefer to work with second rate tools in a rented flat somewhere on his own. Then his eyes came back to Pellinore, "Yes. I'd be honored."

"Excellent," Pellinore said, looking at his hands and starting on his second scone, "Although judging from your height you may wish to move to one of the larger bedrooms."

Will let out an exhilarated laugh and leaned back in his chair, stretching and carding his hand through his hair. Pellinore's gaze was caught on Will's newly sharpened jaw, the broad chest. When he stretched back like that it was impossible not to notice the lean muscles of his arms. Ferociously, Pellinore attempted to repress these unwanted observations. He had been aware of the disfigurement of his affections for many years. His propensity to appreciate men as he did women. Care would have to be taken not to burden Will with knowledge of such unnatural attention. He was not inexperienced in the cloaking of such matters. He had never so burdened Jack Kearns and he had been far more observant than Will. But the fact remained that when Will rolled his head back to oust a crick from his neck Pellinore made note of the way it exposed his throat.

He had thought he would be free of it with Will. He looked so much like his father and James had never elicited this sort of observation from him. He connected this leanly muscled man in front of him with the correspondent who had sent him a book to advise his research and what could crudely be described as lust pooled in his belly.

Unsettled, still knocked off kilter by Will who had been so distant of an entity and now sitting in his kitchen, Pellinore began a flight back downstairs. But he stopped on the threshold and turned back.

"You can arrange for you things to be sent here in the morning. We ought to rest."

Will rolled up to his feet, surprising Pellinore anew with his height. "I thought you'd want to keep looking at that Jiraiya in the basement."

Not at his best Pellinore admitted his surprise before he could stifle himself, "Is that what it is? I had not yet identified it."

"Oh," Will said, with his hands in his pockets, "The wide nares and the yellowed parotid gland is a dead give away. Where'd you get it?"

Pellinore glared, coming to the unwelcome realization that Will's obvious competency was not making him easier to ignore. "It was sent to me from Bulgaria."

Will whistled, "Long way from home, they're from Japan. I've only ever read about them, I'd like to take a look."

Pellinore, face rigidly emotionless, held out his hand in half mocking invitation then followed Will to the basement.

Will's things came in three days. Pellinore had acclimated quickly to his return. It took concerted efforts not to bark at him like an assistant but he wanted him to stay. Still, without complaint Will cared for the tea and meals, saying quite seriously that he would prefer to starve than eat what Pellinore concocted.

The delivery men left the three crates of books and few cases of clothes and belongings in the foyer. When they left Will lifted, with remarkable ease, the first of the boxes of books. He turned toward the staircase, obviously heading toward the stairs.

"Where are you taking those?" Pellinore asked, worrying his lip unconsciously.

"My bedroom, where do you think?"

"That is...not an appropriate place for… set them up in the parlor."

Will set the box down, "The parlor?"

"My mother's sofa set is quite faded and goes unused. Have it sent off, find yourself a desk, you are in dire need of one. Where did you intend to write?"

"Oh, sure. I'll just-"

"I keep the money where I always have, find something appropriate for yourself."

Pellinore, who did not want to suffer Will's surprised but rather awkward thanks, left, fleeing into his library. Obviously it would be Warthrop money that covered expenses. Henry money did not exist.

In the days that followed Pellinore found he was rather more fond of the parlor when, instead of dusty couches, he could find Will in his shirtsleeves, sitting in a high backed armchair, book open on his lap, legs sprawled out in front of him.

On the third week of Will's residency Pellinore came into the parlor and paused before taking a seat in another armchair in the opposite corner. Will looked up at him over his book and Pellinore raised his eyebrows in question. Pellinore's house though this might be, he had allotted the parlor to Will. Asking his permission before intruding on the space was little more than a professional curtesy.

Will apparently did not mind because he went back to his book. Pellinore settled in the chair, opening his own book at the marker he had left. They sat in comfortable silence for more than an hour, working through their own text. Will's must have been in a language he was not familiar with as he kept frowning and making small marginal notes. He had taken to ruffling his hair when he was consternated and as such now appeared quite ruffled.

Pellinore's own hair had gotten rather long again and he wondered if Will would consent to cut it for him. He set down his book in his lap momentarily and drew his ribbon from his pocket to bind back his hair. Will looked up from his own book and Pellinore saw his eyes track the movement of Pellinore's hands.

Suddenly Will stood, dropping his book, "I'm making tea, do you want some?"

"Obviously," Pellinore said, looking back to his book.

Will disappeared to the kitchen for a few minutes and came back, setting a teacup down on the table next to Pellinore's chair. He then returned to his book.

A few further pages in and Pellinore felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise. He looked up and caught Will looking away.

Will brought his hand up to his face, eyes forced onto the page of his book, unmoving. He worried at his lower lip, a nervous habit stolen from Pellinore.

Pellinore did not allow himself to misconstrue Will's unease. It was only that of a one time subservient finding his footing as an equal. There was nothing unsavory about Will's half glances and sudden flights. He had only not yet found how far he would allow his superior ability to balance work and caring for human needs to extend. Could he make tea and supper without becoming some sort of assistant? Was it still his place to remind Pellinore to bathe and urge him to sleep? It was these things, surely, that plagued Will. They would plague anyone. This was a momentous transition.

Pellinore had not ever considered acting on the impulses that rose with his observations of Will. He certainly could not now, when Will did not know his own place. He found the thought of Will reciprocating an advance under the misconception that he still owed Pellinore fealty repugnant. He had never had this particular sort of interest in Will the boy apprentice.

There was a part of Pellinore that missed when they had exchanged letters. Alone, without Will as audience, it had been so easy to allow himself the guiltless thrill of a letter. Pellinore scowled at his book, straightening his back and holding himself rigidly. For an hour more they read in silence.

"Pellinore?"

He looked up at Will. His eyes were still the honey color of his youth.

Will set the book on his desk and rose, "Are you hungry? I'm making supper."

Pellinore rose also, carefully marking his book, "No, I will continue work in the basement, now that I have reviewed the technique for removing the venom sac. We need to have this completed in two days you will recall, your useful german friend said there was a new sample on its way."

"I'll eat something and be down."

"See that you are. It would be beyond foolishness to conclude the necropsy of a Guatemalan mercreature without the assistance of the resident specialist in aquatic mammalian cryptids."

Will, taking this for sarcasm, grinned, "If that's what you'd call the Society's leading expert in Maal." A letter from Pendegast had called him that, Will had said it as a joke.

Warthrop frowned, "What else would you call it?"

Will seemed to catch up and realize that Warthrop had been serious. He looked, for a moment, quite punch drunk, then his eyes flickered up and down Pellinore's frame. He made a half motion forward and Pellinore stepped back, turning to the door and fleeing. "Have your supper and come downstairs. The remains will not preserve forever. And snap to, Will He- Will."

"Warthrop," Will said, calling him back.

He turned and answered cooly, "Dr. Henry?"

"Enough with the snap to's."

Warthrop narrowed his eyes, "Allow me to rephrase, Dr. Henry. The specimen in our laboratory is decomposing as we speak. Your expertise is required."

"Of course, Pellinore, I'll be down in a few minutes." But he was smiling.

Pellinore went back to the basement, pausing at the hook where hung his lab coat. Next to it was a much whiter lab coat. Will's was much newer and, though not pristine, did not have the scorch marks at the cuffs nor the unliftable dark brown stains. Without Will's to compare it to, he had not realized how yellowed his had become. He slipped his one and resumed his work.

Will did join him in a few minutes and Warthrop could not help but note how his lab coat fit snugly on those broad shoulders. Will was indeed more well versed on aquatic cryptids and Warthrop allowed him free reign over the remains. He stood on the other side of the table to Pellinore, hunched over the remains.

After a long while of methodical work Will perked up and began a search in earnest. Pellinore was not certain what he was inspecting. Well, the liver, that much was apparent, but the reason behind his interest had not yet come to Warthrop. He had begun to murmur under his breath and looked about for an inkpen and paper.

Warthrop looked hard at where they lay on the desk behind him. They were supposed to be partners he supposed. If ever Will's unease over their altered status was going to be assuaged it would have to be Pellinore, the previous superior, who would do it. He hesitated. But he remembered well the irritation of having to pause in one's train of thought to write things down.

He set down his own tools, wiped his hands, and took up the writing instruments. He sat on the old stool and looked at Will expectantly, "If you wish more me to hear you properly you shall have to speak more clearly."

Will stared at him. Then, stuttering, he began his dictation.

It became easier. Will became more sure of himself. He asked now, if he wished for Pellinore to write notes for him and took his own turn when Pellinore was following a line of inquiry. They too had come to an arrangement over professional credit. Being that they worked together with every new specimen, Will had been a proponent of simply sharing credit on every find. Pellinore had destroyed that notion.

It would not have affected him much, but as he had told Will in no uncertain terms, if Will's name appeared behind Pellinore's it would be as if Will's did not exist. He was a burgeoning young scientist, he must make a name for himself without the attachment of an old master.

It had brought them to the somewhat awkward arrangement of designating a lead for each case and, were they to discover something truly extraordinary that required both of their joint skills, then they would share credit.

As it had been with Jack, it got easier to repress his appreciation of his cohabitant after the first few months of their living together. It was now really only in the moments before sleep when he allowed himself to linger on the thought of Will's sure hands and his broad shoulders. He was glad, at least, that Lilly Bates was safely married off now that Will would be attending Colloquiums so tall and strapping.

Still, it was clear that Will reciprocated none of Pellinore's predilections and the worth of a sure scientific partner and solid cohabitant was far greater than the chance of a...whatever it was he wanted from Will when he allowed himself to think on it.

Near to a year since Will had come back to Harrington Lane he skittered into the kitchen where Pellinore sat with a scone and a cup of tea, looking over newspapers for hints that might lead to a new expedition.

"Pell!" Will said, brandishing a letter.

He had not used this shortened version of Pellinore's name before, but he did not reprimand him, only raised his eyebrows.

"They- the Society, I mean - they want me to speak. They want me to present my thesis as part of the Colloquium."

Pellinore ruffled his papers, "Of course they do, it was an admiral thesis about a previously unstudied cryptid."

Will beamed, "You'll help me with the speech, right?"

"Of course."

He ran a hand through his hair, "I didn't even submit it…"

Pellinore stood to refill his teacup, "I submitted it."

"...You?"

"It was obvious you were not going to and I believed it was an academic work worthy of presentation."

A silence so absolute met this admission that Pellinore turned from the teapot to look at Will, concerned he had somehow offended him, going over his head to submit his thesis for consideration at the Colloquium. He covered this unease with chilliness.

Will stared at him, body tensed. Methodically he put the letter down and licked his lips. When he looked back up there was an intensity in his gaze that captured Pellinore's undivided attention. Will's lips were slightly parted, his eyes fairly burned looking at Pellinore. His gaze dragged over Pellinore's angular jaw, and the freshly washed tousles of hair that fell over his forehead, his long sharp limbs, then snapped back to his eyes.

For the moment that he held his gaze Pellinore thought Will's eyes looked strangely beguiling, as though lit from behind.

Then Will mastered himself and crossed his arms, "Thank you for submitting it. The Colloquium isn't far off, I should get to work on my speech."

"Yes…" Pellinore said, his release from Will's gaze feeling both a relief and a disappointment, "You ought to."

Will seemed to hardly be able to enjoy the ball so nervous was he over his speech the following day. He had dressed to the nines as Pellinore had and both of them sat watching the dancers picking at appetisers.

"There is a young lady who has been attempting to catch your eye for more than twenty minutes, Will," Pellinore teased, "I would have thought you would have asked her to dance."

Will nursed his champagne and glared at the floor, "I don't want to dance. Perhaps you should ask her."

Pellinore slurped down another oyster, "Perhaps I shall."

Will snorted.

"I do not know what you find so amusing, I am an excellent dancer."

"Then by all means, go and ask her."

Pellinore pulled at his shirt cuffs, "I am having oysters just now."

For the first time all night Will tossed back his head and laughed. Pellinore smirked.

"Anyway," Will said, "They've been dancing awhile now, the fight will break out soon enough."

"Hmm...So you believe. I still assert it will be more than an hour."

Will smirked at him, "You're on."

"We are already part of the betting pool, Will."

"I was thinking something more private. Between us."

That had Pellinore's attention, "And what? I would bet my own money against myself? Or have you come into an income?"

Will scowled at him, "The winner gets to pick a case to be lead on, even a really good one."

Pellinore's eyes glittered at this, "I will take that bet, Dr. Henry." He held out his hand and shook Will's, "If more than an hour passes," he checked his watch, "With no fight, I am the winner."

Will shook his hand and grinned.

When, within the next fifteen minutes, a Spanish monstrumologist had punched a Bulgarian in the nose and the dancing around them devolved into brawling, Pellinore cursed.

Will laughed with utter glee and finished his champaign, "We ought to retire before the police are called. I still dislike the New York City police force."

"Indeed," Pellinore said, eating a final oyster, "And I suspect you would like to subject me to a hundred more readings of your speech before tomorrow the moment we return to our hotel room."

Will led them around the perimeter of the room, carefully dodging the worst of the mayhem.

"Perhaps instead you would like to join in the festivities," Pellinore said, nodding toward the brawl as they slipped into the lobby. "Or do you only throw punches when there are young ladies to woo?"

Will colored, "It has been ten years since I fought that boy over Lilly Bates, will you ever let that go?"

"I do not see why I should."

"Mercy?" Will suggested, "Curtesy?"

Pellinore shrugged and hailed a cab now that they were on the street, "Not traits I am well known for, Will, as you well know."

Will did treat him to not a hundred, but seven rereadings of his speech the moment they were back in the hotel room. Pellinore could not really complain. How could he not be nervous before his first paper talk? And it is not as though Pellinore would not have been doing the same thing were their situations reversed. But at midnight he forced Will to give it up and rest.

It felt as though Pellinore had only just gotten to sleep when he was woken by Will fussing over his appearance the following morning, murmuring his speech not quite under his breath.

Pellinore dragged himself up and ran a hand over his eyes. He looked at Will and then, just as quickly, looked away. He was stripped to the waist, standing before the mirror carefully ridding his cheeks of stubble, the razor scraping smoothly over his jaw.

"Could you make more noise while you prepare yourself, Henry? For it does not seem possible," Warthrop grumbled.

"Sorry, Pell," Will said, wiping the shaving lotion from his face, "If it helps, there's breakfast."

Pellinore got up and made his way to the table where most of a breakfast remained, partially eaten. "Did they fail to send sausages or did you eat all of them?"

"There were only four," Will said defensively, "Have the toast."

By the time he had finished with breakfast and washed himself up Will was fully dressed, his hair miraculously tamed and fighting with his cravat.

On his third attempt to tie it satisfactorily Pellinore put down his own and crossed the room to Will, "For heaven's sake, allow me. Twenty six years old and you cannot even tie a proper cravat."

Will did not bite back but lifted his chin to allow Pellinore to lace the cravat properly. The skin of his throat was soft where Pellinore's fingertips brushed against it and his breath was hot on Pellinore's face. Pellinore focused his concentration on his fingers, twisting the cravat into position.

He gave it a final tug to tighten in, "There."

Will lowered his chin and Pellinore stepped back, quick to avoid how appealingly close their faces had been. Will needed to concentrate.

Will's gaze lingered on Pellinore's lips then he turned briskly away, regarding the cravat in the mirror, "Thank you, that's how it ought to look."

Will read through his own speech while Pellinore finished getting ready and then, together, they set out.

As Pellinore knew it would be, Will's speech was excellently executed. He spoke with an ease and casualness that Pellinore himself had never been able to adequately produce. Pellinore, who had the talking points memorized after so many rehearsals, found himself nearly as nervous as Will must be, silently reveling each time Will closed another of his arguments.

When Will concluded his speech his head looked up, searching for Pellinore who was seated high in his private box. Pellinore clapped along with the rest of the audience, also seeing fit to offer him a small approving nod.

In time to see the next speaker, Will joined Pellinore in the Warthrop box. He dropped into a seat next to him and grinned, his shoulders more at ease than they had been in weeks.

"Congratulations," Pellinore said quietly, "You were more than adequate."

Will nearly ran a hand through his hair, remembered the care he had gone to to fix it and dropped his hand back in his lap. He grinned at Pellinore and Pellinore looked at the new presenter.

Will had done well. Had sounded every bit the expert Pendegast has called him. With diligence Will would not be at all the mediocre monstrumologist Pellinore had called him when he was twenty. He would be an excellent monstrumologist. More than excellent. It had been affecting to see him in such bold command of the podium.

He had wished it had taken more of his concentration to follow the speaking, but he had heard it so many times he could follow it with only the slimmest portion of his attention. He had had enough spared to think of the soft throat about which he had tied that cravat. To wonder at its untying.

And now the same man was relaxed in the seat beside him, legs sprawled out, offering whispered comments, educated and insightful comments, on the presenters.

Will was in high spirits the rest of the day. He was stolen away from Pellinore's side a hundred times on their way back to the street to be congratulated on his accomplishment. The color was high in his cheeks and many times over was he clapped on the back and shaken by the hand.

But by the time they were in a hansom cab on their way back to the hotel he was quiet, nearly somber. Shuffling his feet and fidgeting.

Will unwound his cravat the moment the door to their hotel was closed.

"You needn't undress so fully," Pellinore commented, "After a few hours rest we will go out to dinner. Somewhere good I should think, given the occasion."

"I can always put it back on." He said wearily.

"You could not put it on the first time."

"Then you'll have to put it back on for me." He half turned and looked at Pellinore, cravat hanging loose around his neck, a slice of his throat and collarbone exposed. He shucked his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair.

Pellinore looked down at his hands. He still held the program for the day's speakers. His name was printed there in embossed ink, 'Dr. William Henry.' A stirring alit in Pellinore's belly.

Pellinore looked up and found Will staring at him. To cover his prolonged silence he said, "You spoke very well. In a few years of practice you may even become adept at it."

"What?" Will said, his eyes jumping up to Pellinore's eyes, seeming to snap him out of a private reverie.

"You complain that I do not offer praise and when I do you do not even do me the courtesy of listening," Warthrop said through gritted teeth.

"Sorry," Will squirmed, "Pellinore… I've gotten an… offer to join Dr. Aveloughn in his research on oceanic cryptids... "

Pellinore reeled back and stiffened, "That...That position would align with your professional expertise."

"Then you think I should accept."

"You have not?"

"I wanted to tell you first."

With a devastating coldness Pellinore thought of returning to the long silences broken by intermittent letters that were never long enough. He thought of the emptying of Will's parlor and the disappearance of his lab coat from the hook in the basement.

Will was waiting for him to say something. He ought to tell him to accept it. It was an excellent offer for him, and maybe consigning himself to working with his one time master was wearing on him. He should tell him to accept at once. Instead he said, "Don't go."

In sudden, rash motion Will came forward and pressed his lips against Pellinore's, his hand on Pellinore's jaw.

The contact was brief. There and then not. Pellinore could have convinced himself it had been delusion but for Will. He had reeled back, eyes wide with terror. He was right, as Pellinore well knew, to be frightened. For what he had done Pellinore could have him imprisoned.

Pellinore's first instinct, of course, was not to call the police. He lurched forward, seizing Will by the hips and kissing him. His belly exploded in sensation and his breath was shallow and fast. Will's lips were soft.

Will emitted a low, desperate noise and shifted Pellinore around by the hips, shoving him back against a wall.

Will's chest was pressed to Pellinore's and he had him pinned to a wall, mouth devouring Pellinore's hungrily. The noises he was making were turning Pellinore's head. This, unreal and impossible, ignited each nerve in Pellinore's skin. He released Will's hips. He was too much an opportunist to forego the tactile discovery of those broad shoulders.

In his own turn, Will had moved his hands upward as well, burying his fingers into Pellinore's hair, holding his head still and slightly turned, kissing him purposefully.

Pellinore, semi-reluctantly, strayed from Will's lips and kisses his jaw and down his throat, tasting the skin.

Will pressed himself harder against him, keening, "Pellinore- I- I do not want to go."

A nearly electrical surge went through Pellinore's spine.

Tentative and exploratory Will bent back Pellinore's jaw, lowering his lips to the soft skin of Pellinore's throat, mimicking the affections he had just rendered to Will.

Pellinore remembered that, unless Will had had dalliances during the course of his studies, the only experience he had in this sort of matter was the chaste kisses he had exchanged with Lilly Bates. It wasn't as though Pellinore had ever been a rake, but he at least had done this before, even if it had been with a woman, and a married woman at that.

But Will's lips on his skin made him lose his breath. As in all things, Will was gentle and beneath him Pellinore went weak at the knees.

"Will- Will," Pellinore said, lifting Will by the jaw to face him.

Will furrowed his brow, concerned he had done something wrong.

"We should not- Will…" He could not formulate an argument why. But he had spent so long combatting the impulse to do just this that it felt impossible that Will's fingers were on his waist, in his hair. That he knew, now, what Will tasted like.

The need to keep him in Harrington Lane was clawing now. He could not leave. Not now.

Will hovered over Pellinore's lips, "Why not? We are monstrumologists, we know how to be discrete."

Finding it supremely difficult to keep his head while Will's pelvis was pressed against his Pellinore said, "How long?"

"What?"

"How long, Will? How long have you-" He could not have tolerated it if Will had said his attentions had begun while he was still a boy, or in his raging teens. Pellinore had no wish to fulfill the needs of a boy seeking the approval of a cold and distant master.

"Since you gave me the parlor."

Pellinore found it in himself to be restrained for a final entreaty, "You are sure...Will, you must be...you must be quite sure." His final plea sounded desperate but he could still divest himself of this now. But if they proceeded he should never want to give Will Henry up.

Will did not answer hastily. He laid his forehead wearily against Pellinore's and closed his eyes. There was much to think about. It would not be the straightforward life of a wife and children. It was to take up with a professional colleague, something many would rightly consider foolish.

Will opened his eyes and wetted his lips, "Yes. I am sure, Pellinore."

Pellinoer could not hold himself back further, ruining Will's well combed hair, he carded it in his fingers and kissed him, running his tongue along Will's lips until they opened beneath him.

They had time. Pellinore had no inclination to rush this. This that was more ephemeral than a specimen decaying beneath his scalpel. He was not one to acquire only surface knowledge. He would leave no corner of Will undiscovered now that he had him in his hands.

He pulled Will's shirt loose and worked the buttons free. Will gasped as Pellinore's long fingers touched his bare belly, brushing upward over his ribs.

Will, not content to stand idle, slid Pellinore's jacket from his shoulders and deposited it behind him. Then he unwound his cravat, his fingers sure and slow. Will's fingers caught on the buttons of Pellinore's shirt when he ran his fingernails down Will's sides and he noised a small gasp.

Will stepped back and let his shirt slide off his arms, Pellinore following suit. With lidded eyes Pellinore pushed him back by the shoulders, his eyes devouring the muscled planes of Will's chest. Will walked back at Pellinore's urging. Pellinore pressed him to the edge of his bed and eased him back, following him onto the bed. With more surety than he felt, Pellinore situated himself on Will's hips, now freely exploring the skin of his stomach and chest. Gooseflesh followed his fingers and Will arched upward against him.

Will seized him by the wrist and pulled him forward, leaning up to kiss again Pellinore's throat. He was less gentle this time, scraping his teeth on Pellinore's pale flesh and making his pulse jump.

Will continued down, kissing and suckling experimentally. When he encountered a spot that elicited a jerk of Pellinore's fingers or one of his tiny keening exhalations he lingered over it, moving slow enough not to miss anything.

Pellinore coming undone under Will's lips danced his fingers at the waistband of his trousers, enjoying the soft hair that grew in a dark line downward from Will's navel.

Without warning Will, his weight and strength superior to Pellinore's flipped them over, pinning Pellinore to the coverlet. He paused now looming over Pellinore, his breath coming hard. He lifted his hand, his weight on his other elbow and softly brushed the hair from Pellinore's forehead. Pellinore nuzzled toward this gentle touch and Will dropped low to kiss him, fingers touching with utmost tenderness Pellinore's high cheekbones and running from his ear down his sharp jaw to the point of his chin.

Pellinore mewled and Will tipped back his chin, not so much kissing but running his lips along the underside of Pellinore's jaw and neck, breathing slow and hot against it. Pellinore shuddered. He raised his head again and exhaled into the shell of his ear, "Pellinore"

Pellinore's hands lifted to Will's hips and slid between their bodies. Will shifted up to give him room and he unbuttoned his trousers, sliding them down Will's legs.

Will got up and freed himself of his half off trousers and unlaced his drawers, letting those fall away as well.

Pellinore devoured the sight of him, bared and bound in the musculature of a man in his prime. Will leaned over him and unlatching his trousers as well, working the lacings of his drawers.

"Lift your hips, Pell."

Pellinore did as he was asked and Will slid the last of his vestments from him. Will stood for a moment and looked down at him, that back lighting returning to his gaze, breathing heavily through parted lips.

Pellinore shifted backward and tugged Will back down. They lay on their sides, facing each other. Their fingers and lips in turn ran over every reachable inch of each other: down thighs and across backs, up the lengths of arms and every crevice of torsos.

Both of them shivering and gasping, Pellinore moved first, his fingers running down Will's length. Will called out softly and his back arched at the first touch. When Pellinore's fingers closed around him he whimpered and dragged himself closer, tangling his legs with Pellinore's.

When Pellinore moved his hand, slow and firm, Will lifted his own to reciprocate, mimicking Pellinore. Pellinore cried out at his touch and Will drew back in surprise, looking sharply at Pellinore for encouragement to continue.

"Will," Pellinore breathed, "Do not stop - please."

They moved against each other, their breath mingling between them as they drew closer to the edge. Pellinore could not draw his eyes from the look of muted ecstasy on Will's face. His eyes lidded, muttering a mixture of endearments and Pellinore's name under his breath.

Will found his release first and the spilling of "Pellinore" from his lips with the fervent shaking of his body drove Pellinore over with him.

Both of them then lay shaking and clutching each other after.

Will leaned backward from the bed and plucked Pellinore's drawers from the ground, using them to wipe them clean and rolling both of them to a drier half of the bed. He pulled Pellinore against him, his muscular arms wrapped around Pellinore's more slender form.

Resting his head on Will's chest, pulled so tightly to it, felt heady and surreal. He smelled of cologne and sweat. Will began to run his fingers through Pellinore's hair.

Pellinore did not have the management over words to express the swelling of emotion in his chest. So instead he nuzzed against Will's chest and, now drowsy, allowed himself to sleep.