By now, Bailey was exhausted, numb with cold, and still angry enough to make him feel extremely uncomfortable. He was naturally furious when he felt Amon's hands slide into his, but his body only had enough energy left for a grimace. Bailey breathed out a soft curse as Amon went from "incredibly and indecently" close to "now, this is just not right at all!" close. Lips grazed his cheek and a guttural sound issued from his throat that was a combination of a groan and growl. He could smell the musky scent of the other and the horrid, public display of intimacy made him want to vomit. The only thing keeping him from doing so was that he was nearly sure his insides had turned to ice except for his heart which was beating painfully against his rib cage. They might as well have been having sex out in the middle of the alleyway, however two men went about doing it, with all of the social lines that had been crossed, spit on, and broken by Amon in the span of the last fifteen minutes.
Amon turned his attention to Bailey's other cheek and the redhead turned his face away, but the kiss found its way all the same, causing him to flush. He winced, bracing himself for Amon's lips to sear his brow, but it did not come. A question came instead. Before Bailey had time to react, the street rat had let go of him. Now, without the stronger man to support him, Bailey nearly collapsed into the mud, clinging to the rough wall behind him for balance. His knees shook slightly as he gasped for air, not realizing he had practically been holding it while Amon was pressed against him. Bailey watched the puffs of his own breath snake and writhe in the air in front of him, dazed from this sudden, unexpected freedom. However, before he could get his scattered thoughts together, the handle of his revolver was in front of him. Bewildered, he absentmindedly took it in his stiff hands before Amon offered him his life. Thoughts snapped back into place and Bailey bared his teeth.
"Happy? Oh, trust me, there's no way you can ever make me happy," he croaked. Bailey cocked the hammer of the gun and held it up with both hands. "But this will be as damn close as you're going to get."
Despite the fact he had lovingly envisioned multiple ways with which he could kill this man, even when he was presented with the perfect opportunity to do it, he found himself holding back. Bailey didn't kill people. He didn't even fight people or exchange harsh words with others, much less kill someone. The angry part of him kept screaming at him, reminding him that this demon had killed Oliver and tore out his heart. He deserved to die. But the other part of him told him that he had no right to take anyone's life and that his family would be so disappointed in him if he did. Bailey shut his eyes tight, willing everything that had happened to have been part of some very terrible dream. But the cold still bit at his exposed skin and Amon still stood there, arms open.
Just do it! There are enough street rats in the world. And this one happened to kill someone you liked! Someone you might have even loved! Get rid of him! No one will miss him anyway, hissed the dark creature lurking at the back of his mind. It hurt Bailey to think such wicked thoughts, but they strengthened his resolve nonetheless. He knew he was already going to Hell for his attraction to men. He might as well go all the way.
Bailey pulled the trigger.
Killing Amon might have made up for the severe lack of manliness plaguing Bailey at this point, what with his clothes all filthy and his extremities shaking and the fact that he looked like he was going to pass out at any minute. However, this did not happen and just made Bailey look even more pathetic than he already was feeling.
The revolver was empty.
Thanks to the side of Bailey that didn't think he'd ever, ever hurt another human being in his entire life, the young man had decided to keep his revolver empty, and if he ever did run into trouble, he figured he would just bluff his way out of it. Bailey swore again. He could always, he supposed, throw the thing at Amon as hard as he could, but something told him that "as hard as he could" meant that it would probably end up landing behind him, if not on his own head.
Bailey could feel his vision getting blurry. His bourgeoisie lifestyle had not fashioned him into one who could stand being out in the cold London air for long periods of time, especially without any warm clothing. His whole body seemed to be shutting down on its own. He wondered if this is what it felt like to die.
"Bang. You're dead," he mumbled before dropping the gun into the mud for the second time and then completely passed out.
Amon had remained eyes-closed during most of this indecision, totally unaware of the slight turmoil running loose in his beloved's head. After all, wasn't this what Bailey had wanted?
But as prepared as the street rat tried to make himself, there was no helping the gentle shock that washed over him, the subtle cringe, as the click of the trigger appeared to echo all around him. However, something appeared… wrong. Amon had never had the privilege of standing in front of a revolver before, but he was certain when one pulled the little metal piece—the trigger—that a loud sound was supposed to come out of it, somewhere. Something like a bolt of thunder that spewed smoke and caused a great deal of bloodshed. This one didn't seem to make that loud noise, and as the man began to slowly reopen his eyes and look down at himself, he saw that the revolver had failed to make him bleed as well.
The thing was broken!
Surprised, Amon brought his eyes back onto the other, bewildered by the words that tumbled out of the man's pale lips, and then horrified by the sight of him falling so suddenly. Crying out to him, Amon wasted no time running towards him, knees sinking into the slush as he scrambled to roll the aristocrat's body onto his back. "Bailey?!" He tried again to no avail. "Bailey!"
Panic held him in a death grip. This was all too common place in the London streets, finding men, women, children—all frozen stiff in the snow. Their bodies hard as rock…
He scooped up the strawberry-blonde into his lap and wrapped his arms protectively around him. Bailey's body was still soft, but he was very, very cold and Amon hastily scanned the area around them for something warm he could wrap him in. There was nothing warm here. Just a soiled dress and apron… would the shawl help?
Adjusting his arms, Amon rose to his feet again with Bailey secure in his arms, held like a bride, as he hurried to retrieve the shawl. It was an itchy, uncomfortable thing but Amon hoped it would help keep his love warm. "Please don't leave me." He begged, images flooding his mind as he finished draping the shawl around the redhead's shoulders and chest. "I won't let you."
Amon made sure the shawl was wrapped up tight before he attempted to carry Bailey with him again. His mind was racing for somewhere to take him. Amon had always wanted Bailey to come live with him. He dreamed of having a home where they could live and be happy together, someplace warm and cozy. A home with a fireplace, hot food and comfortable chairs…
Someplace where he could never leave…
He was never going to let him leave…
A home, a home was what he needed, and Amon knew of just one place.
"They're pretty, aren't they?" He had to lick his lips to keep them from splitting when he smiled. Not that it helped much, he realized. He could still taste the rust on his bottom lip. "They look like stars. Orange ones! Oh, but I think I like spring the best. Don't you like spring? And summer, of course. Everyone loves summer."
It hurt to walk, and even more to breathe. Amon imagined that the inside of his throat must have been raw by now. Raw and lined with frost that thawed whenever he paused to swallow the nonexistent moisture in his cold mouth. It hurt to breathe, but Amon couldn't help but keep talking. He had been talking for the entire trip, pretending as if Bailey was listening and conversing along with him. Talking helped, he liked to believe. It helped Bailey to know he wasn't alone, and it helped Amon for the same exact reason. "What's your favorite color?"
A horrible pain pulsed with every step he took, jetting right up his legs—which he wasn't sure he even had anymore. They felt like blocks of wood connected to slabs of stone. It hurt, but Amon continued trudging through the shallow ice, concentrating all his warmth into Bailey as he did so and finding relief in knowing that they were almost there. Just in front of him the tall building stood, its structure ruining the gorgeous twilight sky, but remaining as beckoning as ever. "We're almost there."
Amon could hardly wrap his fingers around the brass knocker on the door. They just wouldn't coil properly, and soon the peasant lost patience and just proceeded to slam the side of his hand into the wood, ignoring the agony it caused him with a feverish flare. "Excuse me!" He shouted, gave the door one more heavy slam, then finally joined it with the other to help him keep Bailey up.
Old William was pacing back and forth in the main hallway, the varnished floor getting more scuffed up than it had ever been in its entire life. Some of the maids were crying in rooms far away from the one where the heart lay. A servant had ridden out to fetch the law enforcement and another had dashed off to town to search for their clearly traumatized master. When the violent pounding on the door started, William nearly had a heart attack. He rallied his composure and swiftly went to the door, hoping it was one of the servants returning with some sort of reassurance. The door was swung open and William had to take a few seconds to register what he was seeing. Master Bailey was lying in the arms of a mystery man and they both looked like they had traveled to hell and back. A very muddy and smelly hell, but hell nonetheless.
If the man currently holding his master had showed up to the front door on his own, he would've made sure that the man was violently ejected from the premises. However, due to the circumstances, this dilapidated young man carrying Bailey was something close to a saint in the old man's eyes.
"Oh, sir, you found him!" William cried, ushering this glorious mystery man into the manor. He called to the servants and the maids. "We cannot thank you enough for the service you have done our young master. Please, let the servants take Master Bailey out of your hands. You may go with these servants to wash up and I'm sure the master won't mind if you borrow some of his clothes. And you may stay in the manor as long as you like, sir! I think I can say this safely as you brought our beloved master back to us. No doubt you saved his life and when the master awakes, he will surely want to thank you himself. The servants will show you to the guest room when you have freshened up, sir."
Without giving the young man a chance to say anything, William and the other servants propelled him to a hot, bubbly bath. William was a nice, loyal butler who loved his master dearly, but he was an old man who was too blinded to even be suspicious of the ragged man he had just let into the house. Mind and heart at ease, he followed the servants up to Bailey's quarters.
From the look of things, the worst that had happened to Bailey was being out in the cold too long for his weak constitution. There were a couple scrapes, but nothing that needed medical attention. The worst that could happen was that he'd get a minor cold. William and a few maids put their unconscious master in a lukewarm bath where they attacked every atom of dirt until Bailey's skin was pink from the scrubbing. They then dressed him in a white silk shirt and black trousers before tossing him into a bed stuffed with the remains of a now surely extinct species of bird.
Bailey slept the whole night and for the better part of the next day, but when he awoke, he was warm and comfy in his own bed. It was a wonderful feeling. Everything was okay in the world. Everything that had happened was merely a horrible, horrible nightmare and now he was waking up with his head buried in six fluffy pillows. Afternoon sunlight was streaming in and making his clean hair shine golden.
And then he sat up. A roaring headache hit him right between the eyes and he realized for possibly the first time that his nose could be runny and stuffy at the same time. His eyes watered and his throat hurt when he swallowed. Bailey collapsed back onto his six fluffy pillows that didn't seem so comfortable anymore. After lying there, staring up at the ceiling and pitying himself, thoughts slowly began to flow through his mind like molasses. Bailey groaned and put his hand over his eyes.
All right, Bailey thought blearily, how did I get here? The last thing I did was try to shoot that man. Amon.
Bailey hissed through his teeth as the reminder of Oliver's death hit him harder than the headache did. But that still didn't answer the question as to how he managed to end up back in his bed from a filthy back alley. Bailey tried to call out to William, but his throat burned and killed the words before they could make their way out.
The warm welcoming was far from anything Amon had expected to receive. Granted, he was hoping for something like this to happen. Although he was lower than dirt in the eyes of the aristocracy and even to the working class, it was simply unheard of for anyone of any social class not to be given some sort of reward for doing a good deed. Especially for the aristocrats! And rescuing one of their own from the deprived streets of London was quite possibly the highest achievement one could ever hope for. There was without a doubt some sort of reward to gain from this, Amon simply didn't think it would be given so openly and with so much trust.
Even so, Amon could feel the return of a very dark presence. Something evil and heavy that nested in his chest and made every heart beat painful. Something about the butler—the maids, something about them was horribly wrong although he couldn't fathom why he would think so. They were nothing but dutiful, if not kind. Still, something compelled the young beggar to hate them. Not that his humble and courteous smiles would ever let that show.
The sun was high in the sky by the time Bailey began to stir. Amon didn't mind, of course. In fact, he had kept himself busy for much of the day. Not in his own room, of course. Much like a mischievous child, Amon had been sneaking in and out of Bailey's room all throughout the evening until he was caught by a maid who found him wandering the halls and forced him to sleep in his room with a cup of warm tea. However, that hardly stopped him and a few hours later, Amon was back in Bailey's room again to watch over him. Only this time whenever Amon suspected somebody was coming in he hid in the room.
There were quite a few places to hide, he discovered. And even more things to explore! Closets, dressers, small boxes, big boxes, and all sorts of things. Every thing and any thing Amon found, he analyzed as though it was something as mysterious as an ancient rune. To be honest, most of them were. Bailey held so many little curiosities that no mere peasant could ever hope to witness. Things like little oriental dishes, mechanical birds, something as simple as a carpet held ever lasting wonder for Amon. And the books! Books filled to the brim with words—many of them he couldn't even begin to decipher and he didn't care! They were mystifying all the same.
But as wild as the things in the room drove his curiosity, Bailey remained his top priority. He never once gave any object more interest or attention than he gave Bailey. Whenever the redhead so much as breathed Amon was right at his side, watching him with alert eyes, waiting for him to awaken. Amon was only too pleased when he finally did.
Watching from against the wall beside his bed, Amon didn't make a sound as Bailey motioned about upon the plush mattress. Instead, he waited for his beloved to settle down again before finally coming over, sitting unwelcomingly close on his bed beside him, all smiles as he cupped the side of his face, the blade of his knife up against the other. "How are you feeling?" He asked kindly. Strands of dark curls fell softly as the man leaned down, covering one of his eyes in a curtain of dark hair. The bath certainly did wonders for him. The slime and grimy dirt appeared to have completely left his skin; showing off its fair complexion in the sun's light while his hair finally began to show its life, no longer weighed down by filth. The borrowed clothes also birthed a new image for the lad. Amon no longer fit the description of a worthless street rat. He still, however, owned up to his title of being 'insane'.
"Oh, you look ill." The brunette muttered softly, holding a serious expression for a moment. Meanwhile his blade continued to tease Bailey, running its tip against his cheek and its body down his neck without ever slicing him. "I'm so sorry, Pet. Could I talk to you? It's important that I do. I think you will find it so."
He paused for a few lingering seconds, surprised by something only to break out into another cheerful grin. "Him? Don't be afraid of him, Love!" He chuckled, eyes fleeting to the dagger pressing harder against the other's cheek. "He wouldn't ever hurt you. He likes you almost as much as I do. He wouldn't hurt you, but he'd hurt everyone else…"
Bailey would have jumped from shock to suddenly see the bane of his existence sitting, not the least bit shockingly, too close to him but the dagger pressed to his face kept him from doing so. Granted, it took Bailey a moment to actually register that tall, dark and handsome was in fact tall, dark and terrible but it wasn't overly difficult to put two and two together once a blade was at an inappropriate proximity to his face. Under much different circumstances, Bailey would have loved to awaken to a handsome face leaning over him. Alas, there were many things that would've been pleasant about Amon if the situation were completely different. There were certainly too many aspects of the current predicament to completely register in Bailey's stuffed up head. One: how in the world did Amon end up in his home? Two: why was Amon wearing his clothes? Three: why would Amon actually look clean if he was a street rat? Four: what was he going to do now?
Questions one through three were answered when his bedroom door creaked open and William poked his head through the crack. He greeted Bailey merrily, noticed that his master was no doubt probably thanking his kind savior for saving his life, and excused himself immediately with a cheerful wave. It was rather unfortunate for Bailey that he had so many pillows, and made a mental note to himself to dispose of them, because the knife was obscured by the corner of a feather engorged sack. He tried to convey with his eyes to William that he was not in the company of a nice person, but because William was a little old man with poor eyesight and a conviction that everyone to do with Bailey was agreeable, this did not work at all. The door closed with a horribly ominous click and Bailey was once again left alone with Amon.
Amon's words were ever dripping with endearing names and laced with loving affection that would've made Bailey redden if he wasn't already from his cold. It also would've made him nauseous, but that was already in effect as well. Bailey gasped sharply as the knife's cool surface lay flush against his cheek, the pressure increasing slightly. The reassurance from Amon was anything but and the redhead turned pale. He swallowed hard and then winced as pain shot through the back of his throat.
"I don't know how you got in here or how you deceived my servants, but I want you out this minute. Get out or I'll send for the police. I'll even give you a head start before I put the hounds after you. Don't think I haven't forgotten what I set out to do. I will see you killed for what you did to Oliver, make no mistake about that. Now, get out!"
That's what Bailey wanted to say, but he was in such a state of complete surprise that the only thing he managed to croak out was, "Y…you!"
Bailey was trapped in his own bed and he just had to hope that whatever Amon wanted to talk about didn't involve knives, hearts, or molestation.
Amon had heard William's entrance moments before Bailey could and gracefully repositioned at least one of his arms as to keep a more respective impression before the old man entered. He had picked up on William's poor eyesight last night, however, he hadn't yet learned the exact limits. That is to say, he wasn't sure how far the old butler's eye sight could reach. In spite of himself, a sort of nervous tension crept up on him as the old man entered. Something that sat on his shoulders and lingered far after the other man had decided to depart, leaving Amon frozen in time with a sober expression. The only thing left moving was the dagger. Like a third hand, the blade appeared to be caressing Bailey's skin, swift and strangely careful. Then it stopped, retracted, and rested flat over Amon's other hand.
"I still want to make it up to you, you know." He spoke seriously. His voice had become a touch softer, much less excited than it had been before. The cheerful energy at least had vanished from his words. "I want to erase everything Oliver had imprinted on you. I want the chance—don't you agree this is the best chance?" A sweet little smile appeared. "Darling, all I want is you. I just want to show you how much you mean to me. No one can love you as much as I do. Absolutely no one! No one… your servants don't know who I am."
A short pause trailed after his words, and that smile grew darker.
"They don't know my name. You won't tell them, will you?" The brunette leaned closer, so close the ends of his hair might have tickled the tip of Bailey's nose. "I don't like them. I don't like them at all. None of them, and I know they'll take me away from you. They'll take me away and, Love, I don't want that. I don't want that! They'll take me away from you and I'll never see you again… I won't let that happen. Not again. Never again, and that's why you can't tell them. Not a thing. My friend won't hurt you, Bailey, but he'll hurt everyone else. I won't let them take you away again!"
Bailey felt the familiar wave of anger for Amon when Oliver's name was mentioned, but his anger soon turned to horror as the man began to threaten his servants. Now, Bailey never really considered his servants as anyone important. Most of the time, Bailey hardly noticed they were there. When he did notice them, the maids were bothersome and the butlers were too snooty for Bailey's taste. However, there was only one servant who actually meant anything to Bailey and that was William. The old man was more of a father to him than the one that waxed and curled his mustache for uptight social gatherings full of stiff, chauvinist gentlemen.
Bailey, his head still very fuzzy, slowly put his hand on Amon's chest (surprisingly warm) and pushed him up so that they were both sitting upright. Then he carefully slid out of the bed before collapsing into a nearby armchair. Bailey took a moment to put his hand over his eyes and shut out the glaring sunlight. Think, think, think. It was really a very inopportune time to have to think about something that could very well risk the lives of more innocent people as well as risk Bailey's personal space. It seemed that this Amon was at least capable of some sort of coherent discussion, but it was obvious that he was also very capable of ending any sort of verbal communication with his "friend". Like walking on egg shells, he thought. Not that Bailey had ever even seen an egg shell before.
"Look," said Bailey, shakily, finally looking up but not at Amon, "Amon, isn't it? There's really no need to be unreasonable in this matter. I'll give you your chance as long as you behave civilly and behaving civilly does not include sharp, pointed objects."
All right, Bailey Adams, he thought to himself, channel Elizabeth. You're a bloody grown man! Act like one! This person is no princess.
"But really, it would take no time at all for the servants and everyone else in society to find out for themselves that you're not a gentleman at all. What with your behavior. I suppose there are some gentlemen that behave so oddly, but they're usually very wealthy and I would hazard that you are not very wealthy. Besides, I don't like to be seen in the company of someone who is disagreeable. I hold parties here, you know, and if you want to make anything up to me, you can start by learning how to be presentable and socially adept. I'll even give you your first lesson today: don't call me 'darling' or 'love' or touch me in any sort of suggestive manner in public. For God's sake, man, you wouldn't even do that with a woman! And don't you know that having romantic notions about another man is punishable by law? It's 'Mr. Adams'. And perhaps 'Bailey', but I haven't decided who I want you to be yet. You clearly know how to read and write." Bailey scowled. "Put that poetry to good use and impress a few ladies of society if you have nothing else. Speaking of which, your homework is to come up with a proper last name for yourself. So now that I have agreed to let you stay in my home in exchange for my servants' safety, I believe it's quite up to you as to whether you can stay or not. Because if you do anything that would damage my reputation, the both of us will be out on the streets and I can assure you that you won't ever see me again seeing as I would rather die than have that happen, do you understand?"
Bailey nearly collapsed with the effort of the speech, but he tried to keep his posture all the same. The tone of voice was not his own; it was Elizabeth's. She had taught him more than any of their governesses had and that crisp manner of speaking had managed to drive itself into Bailey's head even after he was finished with schooling. Bailey was nearly trembling with the unusual burst of self confidence. To tell the truth, Bailey didn't like it. But it was a front he'd have to put on if he wanted any say in the matter. And something had snapped inside of him too. Perhaps he was tired of being so afraid of an unknown killer. Perhaps it was because the unknown killer had suddenly become a real person rather than a faceless phantom. In any case, at this point Bailey was too tired to wonder about it.
"I need some tea," Bailey groaned to himself. "Mister Amon, please tell William (the elderly chap) to take you to town and shop for some decent suits and shoes and whatnot. I don't want you wearing mine. In the mean time, I'm going to sit here and die of a cold in peace, thank you."
He finally spared Amon a glance and was still rather taken aback by the change in appearance. Then he had to remind himself that this man killed Oliver. He had to remember that. He had to remember that this was a person to be hated and loathed and at handed over to the law as soon as an opportunity presented itself. I have to remember the hate.