you could have my heart (and i would break it for you)

by Aviantei

William James Moriarty tended to prefer his men a bit taller, a bit sharper at the jaw and darker in complexion, but this one had managed to land in the exact exceptional sweet spot to catch his attention. William wanted to destroy him. (Who became destroyed in the end was a different matter altogether.) [William/Trans Male!OC] [Shibuya Operation - Story Storm]

2. Those Jade Green Eyes, Act Two

you could have my heart (and i would break it for you)

-or-

be gay do crime

By: Aviantei

[Shibuya Operation - Story Storm]

Those Jade Green Eyes, Act Two:

"don't lie to yourself (come with me)"

---

Moriarty Manor was so much smaller in comparison to the splendour that Jameson lived in that he almost felt ashamed of the luxury that had been handed to him. Of course, the Moriarty's residence was still much more extensive than any place he'd seen during his time in Whitechapel, but the gap in luxury considering that the Moriarty Earldom was higher ranked than Jameson's patron had been… It was enough to make him feel self-conscious despite the fact that he'd had no choice in his quality of life whatsoever.

Not to mention the price he'd paid for such things.

Seated on a couch in a study, Jameson hunched in on himself. Stratford was dead, and it still sometimes seemed like a dream, despite the fact that he'd just sat through an hours-long funeral and burial as public confirmation of the fact. Add in the additional information that it hadn't been a natural death, and instead some sort of plot orchestrated by none other than the very man Jameson had invited into bed on the same night of his patron's passing—yes, it all sounded like the sort of fantasy he'd conjured, a dream to comfort himself. Perhaps he would wake up, find out it was the evening of the party, and get to work just like he always did, the cycle of running his soul into the ground repeating all the way until there would be nothing of him left and beyond.

Except the earlier sensation of William James Moriarty's hand on his wrist still felt like fire had crawled into his very bones, even if the touch had been through sleeve and glove alike. And Jameson was seated in the man's study, filled with books and an antique-looking desk that had even more tomes and a variety of papers on it. Jameson knew from the profile Stratford had presented him with that the second son of the Moriarty family was a mathematician, one that had just started teaching at the university level despite his young age. A prodigy, as it were, and Jameson felt confident in using that term in more ways than one.

What am I even thinking? He'd just broken down in sobs in front of Moriarty, and he'd cried the entire carriage ride to their destination. It had just been within the past five minutes that he'd stopped, feeling too exhausted to continue but knowing that more grief would come and follow—not at Stratford's death, but at everything else he'd lost in the process—and now he was already thinking inappropriate thoughts. He didn't feel guilty for brushing off the death of his patron, not after everything the viscount had put him through, but to already be feeling such lust after one small act of kindness—Well, what did you expect from yourself?

What other reason would he have to invite you here, anyways?

Jameson was more than aware of what little worth he had. It was just with Stratford's death he would be passed off from one owner to another. If it would earn him enough favour to at least be treated well in the process, Jameson didn't have the slightest bit of concern over letting William James Moriarty use him however he liked.

If that was going to happen, he at least needed to make himself presentable, then. His clothes weren't in bad shape, but his face was a mess. Sure that it shouldn't run much more, Jameson blew out his nose in the handkerchief Moriarty had lent him, noting the incomplete set of initials (J.M) embroidered on the corner, and he was finishing up erasing the traces of tears from his face whenever the door to the study opened.

Moriarty entered, somehow managing to look even more appealing now that he'd shed his outer coat, though the rest of attire was still in mourning black. He came pushing a tea cart along, and Jameson wondered if the lack of a servant doing the work was because Moriarty had every intention of keeping the man in his study a secret. Just the thought brought a pleased blush to Jameson's cheeks along with a fantasy that kept him rather distracted until there was a China teacup presented to him, the liquid steaming.

"I know it's still hot, but be sure to drink up soon. You look rather chilled," Moriarty said. "Of course, there's sugar and cream, should you want it."

Jameson accepted the cup and saucer with gratitude. "If I could trouble you for some sugar, then?" Though he would have done at least twice the amount, Jameson didn't argue whenever Moriarty provided him with two lumps of sugar; he kept his own cup undoctored before settling down into the seat opposite of Jameson. "Thank you again. I…wasn't looking forward to going back there." Even if Stratford was gone, the memories of that place were extensive, and Jameson hated each and every one of them. Calling such a place home would be a disgrace to the term itself and every good thing it represented.

"I imagine not," Moriarty said, keeping watch. Hoping to appease him, Jameson took a sip of the tea—earl grey—and enjoyed the warmth seeping into his stomach. "I know it's been a short time, but do you know what it is you plan to do now?" Jameson shook his head; he'd never had the opportunity to imagine a future for himself before. "There's nothing wrong with that. But if you need help in exercising your newfound freedom, do let me know. I'm the one that caused this upheaval in your life; I should at least help you move forward."

Freedom. It was such an enticing word, one that Jameson had a hard time applying to himself. Yes, his captor was gone, but he didn't feel free. He'd witnessed it from his mother and her co-workers that had helped raise him: some things didn't leave you, some things stayed buried underneath your skin, ready to stab out and spill your blood whenever you least expected it. But Moriarty was right, at least in that Jameson had a new opportunity that he shouldn't waste.

Mama would have wanted me to be free. She always encouraged me to do what I wanted.

The problem was: what did Jameson want?

He didn't know, not after so long of existing to catering to other people's desires. He'd wanted Stratford gone, but that desire had already been fulfilled. And, well, he'd wanted Moriarty to come back and bed him again, but that wasn't something you could build an entire life on. Or, you could, but that wasn't right, either. What sort of purpose was he supposed to have now?

Who was he?

Sometimes, he still felt like that little boy left crying in the middle of the road, not knowing what to do without anyone to watch out for him: alone, cold, and colourless.

"You seem rather lost in thought," Moriarty said, calling Jameson back into the present, where he had company, warmth, and those scarlet eyes shocking life back into his system. "I will not force you to, but as a consultant, I am rather used to listening to the cares of others. I wouldn't mind lending an ear at all."

"…I couldn't make you do work in addition to everything else you've already done, Lord Moriarty."

"It would not be out of a sense of duty. I would like to help you if I can." There it was, that kindness that Jameson had noticed in him, that sense of care. That such a man could also orchestrate murder into an accident seemed contradictory, and yet the pieces fit into place as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Furthermore, there's no need to be so formal. I believe we've gone past such a point. You've already used my name before, and I give you permission to continue to do so."

The reminder made Jameson flush once more, and he doubted that he could pass it off as an effect of the tea. He took another drink anyways, avoiding eye contact until he pulled himself together. For all the time he spent on seducing other people, Jameson was discovering he was very bad at receiving such attention—was that because no one had ever bothered to treat him in such a way, or because it was Moriarty—because it was William?

"Very well, William," Jameson said, savouring the taste of the name. "In which case, you may continue to use my given name as well." Not just because he'd revelled in the sound of it moaned for him during the moments of William's release, but also because the last name he had in a legal context was both inaccurate and a bond tying him back to Stratford, a family name forced onto him because his mother hadn't had one to give him.

No, being just Jameson was fine, and much better than that. After all, he had chosen that for himself. That was at least one part of who he was, and nothing else.

William smiled at the offering, looking even prettier than usual. Jameson had thought so before whenever he'd first seen him, but William's face was a near work of art. While the more formal hairstyle he'd adapted for Stratford's party fit him well, there was something even more charming about his looks with his bangs free to hang in his face. Between the vivid colour of his eyes, the sharpness of his nose, and the precise placement of his cheekbones, there had to be plenty of other people who wanted to kiss William James Moriarty senseless. Jameson wanted to kiss him senseless, at any rate.

Imagine if I said that. He offered to help, and I ask him to take me again. I'd let him do it right here, too. There was that swirl of heat stirring beneath his stomach, but Jameson restrained himself. Unlike Aldborough manor, it was less probable that the Moriarty servants had orders to keep away—and even if they did, the Moriartys' home was small enough that Jameson didn't doubt it would be obvious what was transpiring anyways. Jameson may have already considered his reputation so tarnished that he wouldn't care if the whole household knew, but he couldn't push that same standard onto William.

"I'll be sure to do so, then, Jameson," William said, and Jameson couldn't help but love the sound of his name in the other man's mouth. "I'm realizing that I've posed a rather difficult question, though. I've seen cases similar to yours before—where someone has been so trapped by darkness that they're uncertain of what to do once they're free of it." It was a small concession, but Jameson felt a bit mollified by the fact that he wasn't alone in his uncertainty. "If it may help, you could think about the situation from a different angle. Rather, is there anything that you don't wish to do?"

The dam that had been sticking his thoughts seemed to disintegrate in that moment; Jameson had no shortage of things he never wished to do again. They were so numerous that he could have filled a whole book with them, and still have more to spare. That much must have been clear on his face, for William didn't press any further. No, his expression was expectant, as if he were biding his time until Jameson made a request that he could assist in. Unleashing the full list of his desires seemed to be an unnecessary burden, but Jameson had no issue in picking which option was the one he couldn't wait on.

"…I don't want to stay there anymore."

His voice sounded so weak, but he'd managed to say it. Feeling self-conscious, Jameson ducked into his shoulders, staring down at where his hands had formed into tight fists in his lap. Even thinking about Aldborough Manor sent his skin crawling; no matter how much luxury was there, Jameson had endured far too much in those halls to ever associate it with anything else. It wouldn't matter if he could tear down all the decorations and stay in a different room, starting from scratch, he'd always remember.

"Very well."

Jameson's head whipped up at the words, though William was taking another sip from his teacup without the faintest bit of hesitation. He soon caught sight of Jameson, those scarlet eyes flicking to him in an instant. "Did you expect me to refuse you?" William asked, but Jameson didn't have an answer. "This is simple enough. If you don't wish to stay in the viscount's former residence, then we just need to set things up so that won't be necessary. Of course, the first issue is that if you won't stay there, you'll need a different roof over your head instead. Feel free not to answer if this feels like prying, but as a ward of viscount, there must be money for you to use, yes?"

How kind of him not to mention that said money was also supplemented by Jameson's own unsavoury actions. The issue was that Jameson couldn't forget such a thing. How many of the fineries had been earned by him slipping into bed with someone else, either seducing them away into a scandal or letting lecherous hands do with him as they wished, as if he were nothing more than a prop? Just thinking about it was enough to make Jameson grimace.

"I don't expect there to be anything granted to me," he said, since the idea of Stratford seeing him as anything other than a hollow replacement for his mother was a near impossibility. "And even if there is, the idea of needing to rely on that man's 'charity' any longer…" He could do it, sure, but Jameson didn't think he'd be able to stand himself, to an even worse extreme than he already despised living in such a battered body. No, he'd rather go back to where he came from than that. Jameson stared down at his teacup, feeling too nauseous to take another drink. "I bet you think I'm full of nonsense, don't you?"

"Not in the slightest."

How could he always respond like that with no issue at all?

"Things like what you went through leave their marks on people," William said, his voice as calm and even as Jameson was coming to expect. "There's no need to force yourself to use something that has a negative association. That just means you'll need to find an alternate solution that doesn't involve you compromising yourself in the process. Though I can suggest a temporary option, if you'll hear me out." Jameson glanced up through his bangs, his heart in his throat. "My family is the one that put you in this position, so you would be more than welcome to use our guest room until you sort out what it is you want to do next."

Jameson was plenty aware that it was uncouth, but he couldn't close his hanging-open mouth. It was almost too neat and compact of a solution, but it would sort out his problem for the time being. "I'm afraid that if I don't have any money to my name, I won't be able to repay you, though."

"Again, no need for money." Well, Jameson could think of at least one alternate way to repay William, and he wouldn't mind that in the slightest. William offered a smile. "I'm sure we can tidy up a room for you as soon as tonight, if you so wish. I'd even be willing to escort you to your previous residence and back if there's anything you need to pick up."

Jameson almost said no, that he never wanted to go back there again—except that wasn't true. If nothing else, Stratford's obsession with his mother meant that he had the sole picture of her to ever been taken, and Jameson deserved at least that much from his patron; after that, he never wanted to see the place again.

So he inhaled and said, "If I could impose on your charity, then."

To which William smiled back and said, "I assure you, it's not an imposition at all."

---

Though he'd agreed to the idea, it took Jameson an ample amount of time to steel himself for the possibility of returning to the Aldborough manor. William waited, the two of them working their way through the whole of the teapot before Jameson nodded, his expression set in determination. It was admirable, even if it was also clear he wanted nothing than to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. It was for that reason that William didn't ask if Jameson were certain of going through with the trip that day; providing such concern could have made the resolve Jameson had manifested crumble, and William did not wish to see such a thing happen.

It didn't help that it was a rather long ride out to the manor. William did what he could to provide casual conversation to put Jameson at ease, but the other man's responses were minimal, and it was clear he was trying to hold himself together. If such a trip weren't even necessary in the first place, William wouldn't have suggested it, but he couldn't provide everything, nor could he be the one to declare that nothing should have been worth venturing into such a place in the first place. No, the least he could do was offer support where he could, and that would have to be enough.

William wished to help people overcome the shackles that suppressed them—both in society and their own hearts—but he couldn't do the most difficult work for them, and that was one of the hardest parts of the business he'd chosen to embroil himself with.

After about an hour of travel, the carriage pulled to a stop. "We've arrived," William said, but he earned no response. Jameson's expression wasn't vacant, but it also wasn't at ease, and there was a faint trembling to the line of his body, to the tight clutch of the fists in his lap. Would a touch help, or would it trigger the memory of so many unwanted touches before it? "Jameson," he tried, and that seemed to startle the man from his thoughts. "Take your time. There's no need to rush."

"Just being here is…" Jameson didn't complete the thought. For a moment, his hands twitched, as if he were about to reach for something, but in the end, they stayed clutched upon his thighs. Jameson took an inhale. "It's the last time, I suppose."

"It will be the last time, yes." Jameson nodded, and William opened the carriage door, disembarking first before offering a hand. "Whenever you're ready, my lord."

There was another long pause, and William wouldn't have been surprised if Jameson asked to leave. But he didn't, instead taking William's hand in a tight grip, their gloves pressing together all the way up to the moment whenever Jameson pushed open the door, entering at a rapid clip. Jameson wasted no time in dropping his hat, jacket, and cane into waiting places near the door, his jaw set as he looked at what must have been the same accessories for the now deceased viscount. William did the same, taking note at how the foyer seemed to be even more ostentatious in the daylight than it had been when lit up for entertaining guests, not to mention the stunned but still silent reactions of the few maids that they passed.

"I understand if you don't wish to answer," William said, following Jameson up the stairs and into the east wing, "but were the servants aware of the viscount's activities?"

"Some know more than others," Jameson said. "After all, you weren't anywhere the closest to the messiest of the lot I've dealt with." William considered that, not much liking the implications of leaving more than their combined release all over the blankets, but also not wishing to ask and make it any harder for Jameson to do what he needed to do. It was bad enough that his voice already sounded devoid of emotion. "But for the most part, my patron just had them leave me be. It would have been admirable how much he wanted to take care of me himself, were it not for the circumstances."

Before William could make a comment in response, Jameson stopped before a door in a near perfect recreation of their first meeting—except it wasn't, not with the two of them dressed in funeral garb rather than their socializing fineries, not whenever Jameson hesitated on the threshold. "There's… My mother," Jameson said. "He had a photo of her. I…I want that, if nothing else."

"You more than deserve to have it," William said, coming to stand beside him. "If you like, I can look for you instead."

But Jameson shook his head. "I…I appreciate it, but you've already gotten rid of him for me. I feel that if I don't take care of things myself, then I won't ever be able to get by without relying on you, William." He swallowed, at last placing his hand on the doorknob. "I just require your company. Being with you…was the first time I could stand what I had to do, so I think I can make it with you by my side."

"If it will help you, then I would have no objections to whatever you ask of me." Not whenever it was clear that Jameson was trying so very hard not to succumb to despair.

Jameson opened the door and marched inside, almost as if he were running away from his own hesitation. Though William had not set foot inside on his own, he recognized the place based on his memory of the building layouts and Louis's descriptions from when he'd finished setting up their plan into motion: Lord Stratford's bedroom. For a man having passed away in it not too long ago, you wouldn't have guessed for looking at it; even the drugged liquor was still in its spot by the bedside. But what struck William most wasn't anything that he could see, but rather what he couldn't: that the viscount had kept Jameson here at night, treating him like nothing more than a mere substitute, and one that he'd brought in from a vulnerable position at that, one that had no choice. And that it hadn't just been using Jameson for his own needs, but forcing him to submit to others as well…

William had made the right choice for accepting the job from Braybrooke, though for more reasons than he'd at first suspected.

Against the far wall, Jameson had busied himself with digging through the small desk there with stiff movements, and William took it upon himself to close the drapes around the bed. It would do little to hide it from view, but that little would at least be one less thing Jameson had to see and be reminded of. William made his way over to the other man's side, and Jameson seemed to have found his objective: a small photo print cradled in his hands as if it were made of the finest of chinaware.

It was in black and white, but it was still clear that she was Jameson's mother, from the shape of her nose to the gentle curve of her smile. It seemed that she'd been dressed up in finery for the photo, despite her occupation; William could have theorized on just what had happened between her and the Lord Stratford, but it wouldn't have done any good. What did matter was that Jameson had that one rare piece of her left over to cherish, and that was worth far more than anything else in the world at that moment.

"She was quite gorgeous," William said. Though he did have much more of a preference for men, he could appreciate aesthetic beauty in any person when they had it. No, it was not hard to imagine why the Lord Stratford had taken a liking to her, and then Jameson once she was gone; he had more than inherited his mother's good looks. "I'm sorry that you didn't get to stay with her longer."

"It cannot be helped," Jameson said, though he held the photo to his chest, treasuring it with everything he had before tucking it inside his jacket for safe keeping. It was a bit too large to be tucked into a locket, but William was certain they must at least have a frame that would fit it somewhere in their home. And if not, then it would be a simple matter to procure one. "I suppose I should at least change. I don't wish to give the mistaken impression that I care that he's dead."

William's mouth twitched towards a smile, but he managed to keep it under control. "That would be for the best. While we would have been happy to lend you some of ours, I'm afraid none of what we own would fit you well enough to venture out into public." At not quite a full head shorter than William, Jameson would have been left swimming in any of their outfits, even Louis's. "If you don't wish to use anything left over from here, bring the essentials and we'll work on tailoring you something new, should you wish."

For the first time since they'd arrived at the Aldborough manor, Jameson looked the slightest bit at ease. "I appreciate it," he said before turning towards the door. "This way. I got to have my own closet, for what little it was worth."

The next hall over was another bedroom, one that William could guess was more there for appearances' sake rather than any actual use. If nothing else, it seemed far more than a generic set of decorations than anything he could imagine Jameson putting together for himself. It was sterile, but at least that seemed to be a benefit in that Jameson could stand to walk inside without anywhere as much issue as entering the viscount's chambers, bringing in a lamp to clear away the shadows where the dwindling light of the day couldn't reach. The room seemed to have an attached walk-in closet rather than a simple wardrobe, and William wondered whatever for before he caught a glimpse inside.

There was a small section of a couple of suits—one of which was the formal attire from the party night, the other a more casual ensemble, but that was nowhere near enough to justify the size of it. No, that right went to the plethora of dresses all hung up with their lace and bright colours, and, judging by the grimace on Jameson's face, it was easy enough to deduce that these were a selection of "gifts" from his patron. How often had Jameson been forced to parade about in such garb, uncomfortable with who he was being forced to pretend to be?

"William," Jameson whispered, earning his full attention, "you said it was alright for me to do what I wished, yes?" William nodded, and Jameson walked forward, tugging a peach, silken sleeve towards him and toying with the ruffles on the end. "I think I want to burn it."

He was serious; there was no denying that whatsoever. William couldn't blame him, either, not when each piece of finery was no doubt drenched in unpleasant memories, such that each stitch of careful artisanal work had been spoiled. William stepped forward, drawing his hand through the dresses. "Lucky for you, my dear, I am an expert at burning." He turned to face Jameson, who was looking at William with an ardent curiosity. "Would you like to hear a story about me, Jameson?" Jameson nodded, letting the dress sleeve slip from his fingers. "In short, when I was young, my family at the time was a rather narrow-minded sort—the very type of people that would take advantage of the lower classes without hesitation. So my brothers and I set things up so that our home would burn down and appear to be an accident." He stepped closer. "I bring this up, because I'd like to know whether you just want to burn these or the whole of the house."

Jameson gaped for a moment, but the expression seemed to be more in awe than any sort of revulsion. Yes, the latter plan would take a bit more work, but it would be possible; why not erase such a place off the map? Considering how far and out of the way the viscount had placed his manor, there wouldn't be any real hope of quenching the flames once they started. William would be fine either way, but if Jameson wished, he could help in that capacity as well.

There was a sigh into a chuckle, and Jameson ran a hand through his hair. "You just get more and more incredible every time you open your mouth, William," he said, and those jade eyes scanned over the line of dresses. "If we were to set this room up in flames, I wouldn't be opposed to the rest of the place igniting with it."

"Allow me to offer you my assistance, then." William headed back towards the door and into Jameson's set piece of a bedroom. "I assume that since the lord's passing, most of the servants haven't been coming in to work every day."

"Yes, I told most of them that it would be best for them to wait at home for further instructions…" Jameson had come to stand in the doorway, watching as William went about the gas lamp at the bedside to get access to the oil inside. "Are you proposing we do this today?"

"Of course. This is to be the last time that you set foot in this place, correct?" William glanced back, offering Jameson a smile. "I wouldn't deny you the opportunity to be the one to destroy every last piece of evidence of what happened here."

---

While William went and took care of his preparations for the rest of the house, including whatever it was he planned to do to get the few remaining servants out of harm's way—Jameson could guess; a handful of the staff was weak to a pretty face, and the others would do whatever asked of them should they be given a substantial amount of coin—Jameson finished changing from his mourning clothes to the more casual wear suit he had. It wasn't ideal, considering that the garment had been bought for him by his patron, but it was the least uncomfortable out of everything else he'd been given, so it would have to do until a replacement could be procured.

Still, that meant that he didn't have all that much to pack up, and it seemed like a miracle that he even had enough to cover the bottom of his small bag for luggage. Oh, he had enough of a collection of underclothes and chest wraps, pairs of socks and gloves, but nothing else. The dresses were out of the question, and he didn't want a single piece of the jewellery to touch his skin ever again. He'd been there for eight years, and Jameson had little to nothing that he'd chosen for himself, and nothing at all that he'd earned.

It was with that thought in mind that Jameson had stood in the bedroom, staring down at his paltry suitcase, as if that would convince him to go ahead and remember something else that he wished to bring with him. But nothing sprung to mind, save the picture of his mother tucked safe against his breast. The Aldborough manor was empty and hollow, with nothing but ghosts haunting its halls.

"Do you need more time?" William asked, snapping Jameson from his reverie. With the darkened sky outside, it was clear he'd lost track of time. Unable to think of anything else, Jameson shook his head, and he would have closed up his bag had William not went to tuck a file inside first. "Just some papers that should be helpful for the future, is all. I brought our jackets and canes as well since we shan't have time to retrieve them later. Now, are you ready?"

Even as he shrugged on his offered jacket, Jameson couldn't say if he was ready for anything at all. The past several days still felt like a dream, and he was afraid that he'd wake up any second, the Lord Stratford beside him after yet another night following his whims. But if his choices were to follow along with William's suggestion or to stay stagnant in the place that had trapped him for so long, it was more than obvious what the choice would be.

"Are you certain I can do this?" The question had slipped out of Jameson's lips before he could consider it, and then it was too late to take it back. But, just as he'd been all day, William was patient, and he didn't interrupt as Jameson pulled his thoughts together. "I…I fear that even if the building is gone, I'll still be trapped here forever." He'd felt it in the handful of minutes that he'd been in Stratford's room, searching for his mother's picture, the way that dread and nausea bubbled up inside him, the way that he could still feel the hands of a dead man on his skin, taking whatever he wanted.

"Look here." The words were accompanied by a gentle finger underneath Jameson's chin, and William guided him so that they were staring into each other's eyes. If it were in any other circumstances, Jameson had no doubt that he would have caved into his purest desires then and there. "Before, you said it best: that it wasn't the actions of God that saved you, but instead those of another person." That he managed to remember Jameson's own words with such clarity was shock enough, but William continued to speak, "You are just as capable of saving yourself. All people have that capacity, no matter how deep it may be buried. That you chose to march back here yourself is proof that you are not helpless. So I know that you are more than capable of overcoming this and setting yourself free."

"But that's just because you're here. If you weren't, I wouldn't have even made it in the door, let alone feel that I could destroy it all just like that!"

"Is there something wrong with that?" Jameson didn't have a response to that, and, when William slid his finger away, Jameson couldn't drag his gaze away from him. "Sometimes, people need the assistance of others. I wouldn't be where I am today without my family. And perhaps you wouldn't have been able to handle coming back here on your own. But I don't believe that means you are any lesser for it, Jameson. So as long as you are doing what you wish, I will stand by your side if that is what is necessary." William took hold of Jameson's hand, pulling him along behind him. "Come. You will grasp your freedom with your own hands."

Too shocked by William's words, Jameson let himself be pulled along back towards Stratford's bedroom. He didn't even struggle as he was guided across the threshold, though his very insides revolted at the sight of it. With nothing but the light from the hallway and the sunset streaming in through the window, it was much closer to what it was like whenever Stratford would call Jameson there to toy with him than it had been in the light of day. That William was escorting him to the side of the bed didn't help matters, but Jameson's thoughts came to a halt as he caught onto a sharp, somewhat intoxicating aroma in the air.

Is that…kerosene?

William released Jameson's wrist, but it wasn't long until he made contact again, pressing a small, smooth square into his hands. When William pulled away, Jameson found a box of matches in his palm, a simple, everyday item that had taken on a very new meaning in that moment. One strike of the match, one small flame, and then the place that Jameson had been made to suffer for so long could disappear. It wouldn't erase the memories with it, but it would be a start, it would be a start.

"I've already drenched the bed clothes in the oil," William said, his voice just as smooth and seductive as it had been when he'd been atop Jameson, pushing him down into the mattress. "Everything is ready to go down in flames. All it needs is you to set off the catalyst. That is your right, and your right alone, Jameson."

No one could take this moment away from him. If Jameson wanted to, he didn't have to light the match. He could let it all go, run away into the vast openness of the world and never look back. But he did want to burn it all: the dresses, the bed, the goddamn house, until there was nothing but ashes left as the evidence. He just needed to be strong enough to do it, but how much strength did it require to light a match and drop it?

It shouldn't have taken much, no, and yet Jameson still felt his hands trembling as he went through the steps, striking the match and letting that one little flame glow in the growing dark, a point of heat inching ever closer to his fingertips. It seemed too easy, and yet so difficult, but what was the alternative? Not do it and let that regret linger behind him forever, let the place where he'd been so defiled stay standing?

"Mama," he murmured, or perhaps he thought, and that small little prayer was enough to bring him the clarity of mind to drop the match onto the blankets with purpose.

The flame caught in an instant, spreading out a low layer of orange across the blankets that soon grew in heat and intensity. There wasn't yet smoke, but Jameson felt out of breath, on such a dizzying high that he didn't even for a second think that the fire was dangerous, that he should put it out. No, this was a spark that he wanted to watch burn to the end, and he might have done so were it not for William's touch against his shoulder.

"I'm afraid we're on a time limit now, my dear," he said, and Jameson remembered that the idea was to burn the house down, not just the bed. "We should collect your bag, and you can take care of the dresses while we're there."

"R-right." At William's urging, Jameson followed behind, their pace a bit quicker than before. "Um, if we can, though," Jameson said, and William spared him a look as he navigated the turn in the hall. "The guest room. I'd like to also…"

"Ah, yes, I suppose you would," William said, understanding without an explanation. That was good, considering that Jameson didn't have it anywhere near in him to provide the details. "We should have enough time for that, then. I'll collect your bag and leave the closet to you, dear."

Jameson nodded, and it was with a renewed sense of vigour that he stepped back into his room for the final time. There was a manic energy buzzing through his veins that spurred him onward, and he didn't even bother with the matches in the closet, instead choosing to pick up the still lit lamp from the entrance and hurl it deep into the silk and lace and petticoats. The glass broke with a satisfying crash, and the flames caught upon the spilled oil, setting the smell of smoke to the air. Having retrieved the suitcase, William tugged him away by the wrist once more, and Jameson gripped onto the other man's hand tight, taking the lead and winding through the halls, near giddy as he hopped down the stairs raced towards the guest room, all potential decorum abandoned with no one to watch.

In any other situation, Jameson might have thrown himself onto the bed and pulled William down atop of him, just to savour the feeling again, but there was nowhere near enough time to enjoy such things as much as he'd want. So he settled instead for lighting several matches and pitching them into the sheets, the pillows, even onto the carpet, condemning this place and all its awful memories go up in smoke as well.

Before he knew it, Jameson was laughing as he dragged William towards the closest exit. For the first time since Stratford had died, this felt like freedom, an unbridled joy sweeping through him. He may not have been able to kill his patron with his own hands, but the man was gone nonetheless, and every extravagant and expensive item he'd prided himself on buying with his dirty money was going to burn down to the ground, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

They burst out into the night air, a fraction of freshness still present in comparison to the oil drenched insides of the Aldborough manor, and Jameson caught William's other wrist, spinning the man around in the loosest expression of a dance move before twirling on his own, arms spread out. There was no time to rest, and it would be a long ride back to London, but Jameson didn't care, not whenever the world and all the stars stretching out above him seemed accessible should he wish to do so.

I am free to choose to act as I want, and it was that thought that sent Jameson careening back towards William to catch his mouth in a kiss, the force of his leap sending them both tumbling onto the grass. But Jameson didn't care, drinking the taste of pure freedom for as long as he could. William didn't seem to have any objections, instead his hands catching onto Jameson's shoulders and his tongue returning each bit of exploration in kind until Jameson was forced to pull away, gasping for breath.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you so much."

His mouth curving into a gentle smile, William reached up, brushing the hair away from Jameson's eyes. "All I did was show you a pathway to move forward. You took those steps on your own." And as the fires caught hold, burning bright enough to add a red glow to the night, Jameson was certain of one thing in that moment:

William James Moriarty was the single most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

---

Between waking up alone in a room he didn't recognize and wearing clothes that weren't his own, Jameson felt rather disoriented. He sat up with his heart pounding, looking around for any sign of what had happened the night before. He didn't feel that distinct pressure inside him that still lingered after sex, but that didn't guarantee anything. If nothing else, he knew it wasn't one of Stratford's occasional trips he'd take Jameson on; Jameson wouldn't have been dressed in nightclothes otherwise.

And also that Stratford was dead.

It was the photograph on the bedside table that helped him realize it, the small rectangle containing his mother's likeness. The memories settled into place one at a time: the funeral, meeting William James Moriarty again, the revelation of why his patron had died, the offer for temporary lodgings at the Moriarty home, the burning of the Aldborough manor. Jameson didn't remember much past watching the blaze take over the night. No doubt, he'd fallen asleep on the carriage ride back to London and had been too tired to recall much of anything else.

He couldn't deny that it all still felt unreal, but succumbing to that wouldn't do him any good. If it were nothing but an illusion, then Jameson intended to enjoy it all for as long as he could. With that thought in mind, he pulled himself out of bed and dragged open the room's curtains, squinting into the sunlight. It was much brighter than he'd expected, and soon enough he found a clock that chose to inform him that it was fast approaching noon, which explained the faintest sense of grogginess he was experiencing.

With a faint recollection of where his new guest room rested in relation to the office he'd visited the day before, Jameson went about assembling himself into a much more presentable version of himself, finishing up with combing out the few tangles in his hair with his fingers and washing his face off in the basin, the chill of the water biting against his skin. He felt a bit more awake, if nothing else, and that was enough for him to brave navigating his temporary abode.

The guest room was on the third floor, so Jameson wasted no time in heading towards the staircase for the second, keeping his steps quiet. The last thing he wanted to do was run into some maid that would doubtless be quite interested in his presence.

"Oh, you're our new guest, yes?"

Jameson flinched as the man approached the stairs from below. He was tall, with russet brown hair slicked back and a suit assembled to a pristine degree, the green of his ascot pulling out the tone of his skin and the deep colour of his eyes. Though Jameson had never met the man before, he recognized him well enough from appearance alone, and it was much worse than he would have expected.

Never mind, I think I would prefer the maid right about now!

"E-Earl Moriarty," Jameson said, gripping tight onto the banister for support. If he could have used the woodwork as a shield, he would have, but that wasn't an option, and running away from the man who owned the house Jameson was imposing on wouldn't be a smart move.

"Ah, no need for that," the Earl Moriarty said, finishing closing the distance between them on the staircase. "I prefer not to go by my title when I can help it. Besides, you're a guest of William's, after all. Feel free to call me Albert." Getting such easy permission to call an Earl by his given name was enough to make Jameson's head spin, but at least he didn't pass out from the shock. "Well, I haven't had the pleasure of knowing you in advance, so could I trouble you for an introduction?"

"Ah, apologies." Jameson dipped into a quick bow. "I'm Jameson, my lo—Albert." Calling William by his name was one thing, what with them already having been far more intimate from a physical standpoint, but Jameson felt he would soon pass his limit, and it was just his first day there.

William's gaze was a piercing, calculating thing, and Albert's was no less intense. It was just more contemplative, but he did that underneath a smooth smile that had to make people weak in the knees. The Moriarty brothers had favourable blood indeed.

If Albert had any thoughts on Jameson's lack of providing a surname, he didn't voice them. "It's a pleasure to meet you, then," he said instead, and he had to know what he was doing with that broad smile, didn't he? "I take it that you were looking for William?" Not trusting his voice, Jameson nodded, feeling his face heating up. Albert had the mercy to not comment on that, either. "I believe he's still working, though I was just about to get him for lunch. You're more than welcome to join us."

The mere mention of food made Jameson recall that he hadn't eaten a thing since the prior morning, and that had been a paltry serving. The past few years had seen him with little appetite most of the time, and the prospect of attending a funeral and acting like he wasn't celebrating that Stratford was dead had squelched that desire further. And while Jameson didn't feel ravenous in that moment, the prospect of a fresh meal was more than appealing.

"I'd be more than glad to join if I've been invited," he said, keeping his manners intact and his stomach from growling. Able to summon the strength to do so, Jameson offered his own smile. "If I could trouble you to lead the way, then."

"Of course." With Albert in the point position, Jameson peeled his fingers away from the banister. As expected of someone with status and the confidence to match, Albert's stride was certain as he took the path Jameson remembered towards the study. "I take it by your lie-in that your room was to your liking? If there's anything that we've failed to provide, don't hesitate to let us know. We're more than happy to let you stay as long as you need."

"Oh, no, the room was more than I could ask for. I've forced myself on you at such short notice, too. There's no need to worry about me." Jameson was already imposing on the Moriartys more than enough. "I promise not to take too much time lingering here, so please don't feel that you need to go out of your way for me."

Albert let out a sound that wasn't quite pronounced enough to be a sigh. "Considering that we're the ones that have put you in this position, I believe going out of our way for you is the least we can do," he said, making it more than clear that he was more than aware of William's so-called crime consultancy. The recognition crashed into Jameson with an almost painful blow to the chest, and he was both grateful and distressed that trailing behind meant that he couldn't get a clear view of Albert's face.

Just how much did he know about Jameson, about why he was there? Did he know about the night of the party, of what Jameson had lured William off to do and why he had done it? Did he, too, know that Jameson was little better than the whores he'd grown up around, the difference amounting to nothing more than that he had an owner to dress him up in nice clothes? Did he know all the awful things Jameson had allowed to happen to people by seducing them?

The concern was more than enough for Jameson's lungs to feel tight, and he put a hand to his chest in hopes of steadying himself. Before, it had never mattered to him if people knew about him, because there hadn't been the chance to be anything else—because caring hurt far too much, and Jameson had locked those feelings away so that he wouldn't drown in them. And maybe it was pointless, considering why William was being kind to him, but Jameson didn't want to be viewed as nothing more than a toy for others' pleasure anymore.

Not that there's any point in voicing that wish. You can't change what you are.

So why even worry about it in the first place?

"Jameson," came William's voice, and Jameson blinked back to awareness. He'd been operating on autopilot, and he hadn't even noticed that they'd made it to their destination. Whenever the situation didn't call for black, it seemed that William dressed himself in deep browns, the flash of his red tie at his throat the perfect accent to bring out those eyes, and Jameson found that he liked the new side of the man just as much. "How are you feeling today? You were resting for quite a while."

"I'm fine. Apologies for sleeping in and missing breakfast when you were kind enough to invite me here." Jameson may not have grown up in it, but the years of practice made the formal language of the upper classes second nature to him.

"There's no need to apologise. You had quite the adventure last night, after all." Well, that wording wasn't incorrect, if nothing else. "Of course, we shouldn't dally any longer, or else I'm sure Louis will be worried. Jameson, I'll show you the rest of the house afterwards so you don't get lost while you're staying here."

"Much appreciated," Jameson said, trying his best to not trail after William like a duckling following their mother. Still trying to gauge the situation, he spared a glance at Albert, but he wasn't able to get a read on that enigmatic smile whatsoever.

In comparison to the Aldborough manor, it took but a few minutes to make their way downstairs and to the dining room, and Jameson had to readjust his expectations to the comparatively humble situation before him. Stratford had enjoyed extravagance in all things, and even meals that just included himself and Jameson took place at the largest dining table they had available. Here, while it was of a decent enough size that it wouldn't be cramped with all of them present, it wasn't by any means excessive. Even the tablecloth and dishes—while nice, there was no doubt there—were far more tasteful than gaudy.

"You can have the seat next to mine," William said before Jameson could even form the thought, and he nudged Jameson in the right direction with a gentle hand against his back. Albert, it seemed, had bypassed the table in favour of heading towards what had to be the kitchen, judging by the savoury aroma coming from its doorway. Feeling far too out of place, Jameson could do little more than sit in the chair offered to him while William flashed a smile at his quizzical expression. "Considering the sort of activities we get up to, I'm certain that you can imagine why having hired help would be risky." Yes, come to think of it, Jameson could; last night was more than enough proof that paying someone off wasn't worth much if another had much deeper pockets. "As such, we take care of the housework ourselves, though Louis does handle most of it. Ah, but you're a guest, so you can sit tight, and we'll have everything out in a moment." And then he, too, was headed towards the kitchen before Jameson could even get a word in edgewise.

Not that he had much time to feel awkward, because soon what had to be—based on what William had just said at any rate—the last of the Moriarty brothers, the fourth adopted son. Unlike Albert, whom Jameson had seen from a distance at a few social events he'd attended with Stratford, and William, whose familiarity to Jameson had been based on his status as a target, Louis James Moriarty was someone Jameson had never seen before, not even in portrait. His hair was a similar shade of blonde to William's, though his eyes weren't anywhere as vivid a red. An oval-lensed pair of glasses rested on his nose, and, for a moment, Jameson thought that Louis might have glowered in his direction, though that could have just been the result of his still somewhat frazzled mind state.

Well, I wouldn't want the person that tried to blackmail my brother by sleeping with him to show up at my dining table, either.

And then William and Albert were back in the room, bringing the clattering of dishes and murmurs of small talk and the aroma of fresh-cooked chicken with a side of rice. Jameson's mouth watered, but he held himself off until all others were seated and tucking into their own meals. The first mouthful was delicious, and Jameson swallowed down his sound of appreciation for the mix of herbs used for the seasoning.

Albert, seated right across from him, seemed to notice anyways, if his short chuckle was any indication. "Good, isn't it? Our Louis is a fine cook."

"Ah, yes, very much so," Jameson said. He glanced to Louis, who seemed pleased by the compliment, though he soon turned back to his own meal without so much as looking up. "I do appreciate you inviting me to your table on such short notice. I don't wish to add more trouble to your day, so please don't worry about me too much."

While apologising was the polite thing to do, Louis still didn't seem all that interested in the topic at hand, and Jameson was starting to regret addressing him in the first place. Finished chewing through his own mouthful, Louis swallowed and said without the slightest trace of irony, "Brother said it was necessary, so it's not a problem," and left it at that. It hadn't been trying to be reassuring, and Jameson was becoming well aware of just how out of place he was there. At least at Aldborough Manor, there wasn't any other family to be aware of just what role Jameson was there to play, which was about the one good thing that could be said about the situation, if there was anything at all.

"There's already three of us here," William said. "Integrating one more person into our days for the time being won't be much of an issue." Right, their arrangement was to be a temporary solution; Jameson just needed to figure out what he wanted from the future beyond that point. "I managed to get a substantial amount of work done this morning, so I can offer you my afternoon to help you gather the essentials. You should at least have more than one outfit to your name."

Knowing from the day before that discussing money wouldn't do any good, Jameson left that argument for later. And, well, though the suit he had now was more than enough, it had still been bought with Stratford's dirty money, and that was enough to make his skin crawl. "That would be nice," he said, managing to keep his voice from shaking. Jameson was well versed in keeping his true feelings hidden when in polite company. "Though if we were to go to a tailor, there might be some…complications."

Considering how William had first reacted upon finding Jameson's chest bindings, he hadn't known that Jameson's outer appearance and his body didn't match—and it was hard to tell if he'd shared that information with his brothers or not. Jameson knew full well from others' reactions that it was a risky topic to share, and he didn't feel like outing himself when it was unnecessary.

Lucky for him, William caught his meaning without the slightest issue, and he offered a reassuring smile that made his handsome face appear all the softer for it. "That won't be an issue. Our tailor is very accommodating to all sorts of personal preferences." Those scarlet eyes flicked across the table. "Just ask Albert. He's very picky, but he's never come away dissatisfied."

"You don't need to let Jameson know that," Albert said, but his tone was in jest. Even Louis formed a small smile, though he didn't laugh out loud. "But, yes, Mr Eden is very good with the details. Whatever you want to have, I'm sure he'll be more than happy to oblige. He cares much about his craft." Right, more chances to choose something I'm uncertain of—and that thought must have been visible on Jameson's face because Albert added, "He's also very skilled at finding what looks good on you, even if you don't have any ideas. You'll be in good hands." Jameson nodded, hoping that endorsement would be true. The thought of stripping down for measurements made his stomach turn, but he forced himself to keep eating. "I do wish I could come along; it's been a while since I've done any shopping, but, alas, there's work I need to attend to."

"As the Earl Moriarty, does that mean reporting to the House of Lords?" Jameson asked. He knew some rough basics of the family from what Stratford had told him, but most of that had been focused on William, who was a potential target, so Jameson couldn't do much more than guess to keep the conversation going.

"Some days, yes, but not today. I'm also a member of the Army, though I've been fortunate enough to not need to be deployed since my first trip to India." For Jameson, who'd never left London, the idea of being able to travel so far seemed to be impossible. "I'm afraid I don't have all that many exciting stories to share. I daresay William could entertain you far more with his academics than anything I could talk about."

William shook his head, and Jameson was once again struck by how warm they all were with each other, with how much this place felt like a home in comparison to the hollow façade Stratford had put on. "You make it sound like I've done things that are much more impressive than I have in reality, Albert."

"You're the one talking yourself down, Brother," Louis said, seeming to have a vested interest in William's reputation. "You're working on the final revisions for your latest thesis, and you're about to start your classes as a professor soon. You even have a guest lecture coming up next month." Given what Jameson knew of William's accomplishments in mathematics, that didn't seem all that far-fetched—and it was made all the more impressive considering that he hadn't even turned twenty-two yet.

"I concede to that much, but it doesn't mean that would be entertaining for Jameson to listen to." Jameson chose to not voice the fact that he'd be more than glad to listen to William reading off strings of meaningless numbers all day if need be. "Don't worry, I wouldn't want to bore you with something you're uninterested in."

"I'll confess I'm not sure I could keep up with the higher-level subjects, but I wouldn't be opposed to learning more," Jameson said. Stratford had given him an education equivalent of a noble, though that had been all through private tutors and so he could manage conversation at formal events. University level topics were a bit beyond him, but there were worse things than a convenient excuse to spend more time in William's company.

"Be careful. If you give me an offer like that, I might just take you up on it." For some reason, that made Jameson's cheeks start to heat up, and he busied himself with his side of bread in hopes that none of the Moriarty brothers would notice. "Still, enough of this talk about work for now. Louis, did you have the chance to start that book I leant to you?"

---

All things considered, William was willing to call lunch a success. He hadn't expected much issue when it came to Albert; his brother's willingness to help others in need whenever he could hadn't changed in the slightest since his youth, and he didn't mind opening their home to Jameson after the rather unfortunate loss of his home. Louis had seemed less pleased, but that was his general reaction to strangers. That he hadn't been open in his displeasure was enough for now. And Jameson had been receptive enough to conversation, which William had made sure not to pull in the direction of anything too personal. Yes, William may have been curious, but it would be better for Jameson to offer those details himself whenever he might be ready to do so.

"Are you sure this is going to be alright?" Jameson asked from the seat opposite of William in the carriage. He held a hand to his chest, so similar to that movement on that night whenever William had come across the binding across his chest. "I mean, I do want more clothes, but it's hard to get them without questions being asked."

William could sympathize; it was a lot to trust a stranger with such a secret. "I have every faith in Mr Eden keeping his confidence in all matters. That's part of why we use him." Jameson's curiosity was a good look on him, the wide eyes and the arch of his brow. "He's not involved with our business, of course, but he's never had an issue with providing us anything we need. And if you like, I'll be there with you."

Jameson nodded, though the purse of his lips gave it away that he wasn't convinced with one-hundred percent certainty that things would be fine. William couldn't fault him for that, but he also couldn't give the full reasons for his confidence without disrespecting Louis's privacy, and that was a matter William wouldn't ever compromise on. "I was wondering," Jameson said, a tremble in his voice, "about your brothers. How much do they…"

"Know about you?" Another nod, though Jameson was staring at his lap again. It was such a harsh contrast to the way he'd come alive the night before, full of laughter and vigour as he destroyed the cage of a manor that had held him for so many years. "We do all work on our cases together, so they understand your role in what happened to the Baron Braybrooke and his wife—" Jameson flinched "—though I did make sure to let them know that you were forced into it, as you told me."

"And…about my body?"

"That matter wasn't mine to divulge." Jameson's head snapped up, shock upon his face once again. It was more than clear that Jameson wasn't used to people respecting him in any way possible—considering he'd been used as a replacement for his mother, it was a wonder Stratford even gave him the capacity to act as a man in public in the first place. Then again, that might have been the point, not letting anyone else view him in such a manner. William couldn't say. "If you wish to tell them, I can assure you they would understand. But that is something I will never speak of on your behalf unless you give me express permission to do so, I can assure you of that much."

Jameson took a moment to let those words sink in, his hands fisted in his lap. "Don't take this as a complaint, but I don't understand how you can be so kind."

William paused, not having expected such a response. "I'm not so certain that I would call myself that," he said after a bit longer of a pause than he would have liked.

"Well, I would. At least to me." Having seemed to have realized what he'd just said, Jameson's cheeks flushed red, and William did nothing to call the other man out; his smile seemed to be enough to fluster Jameson with next to no effort. "Most people wouldn't bother to take their one-night stand into their home, in case you haven't noticed."

"Most people wouldn't be the one that killed said bed partner's patron, either." Jameson didn't seem to have a counterargument. "I consider this taking responsibility, Jameson, and it does not bother me to do so. Just because others wouldn't doesn't mean I won't." Jameson bit his lip, and William sighed. "Furthermore, you don't need to feel guilty about bedding me that night. While it's true we both had other motives, I would have accepted your advances in less unfortunate circumstances as well. Shall I admit that the other reason I chose to bed you was that I couldn't resist?"

It would have been easy to lie about such things, but William's words were truth. William had no doubt why Jameson had been put into such a role: because he was very appealing, and he was fun to bed. Of course, it would have been best if he'd never had to do such things, but William was, at the very least, grateful that he'd had the chance to taste those lips, to hear that voice call for him. And if their circumstances had been different—if Jameson hadn't made it clear just how used he had been—William would have already instigated another tryst for the opportunity to enjoy the other man all over again.

Jameson's blush was intense enough that it had snuck beneath his collar, suggesting the feeling was mutual, a fact to be logged for potential use later on. Still, he managed to compose himself enough to say with a pronounced dryness, "It seems that you get enjoyment out of teasing people in more places than the bedroom, my lord."

"I confess it's a bad habit of mine." William took a glance out the window noting the familiar shopfronts beyond the people bundled up in their winter jackets. "Since we're nearing our destination, though, I'll do my best to restrain myself, Jameson." But of course the smooth delivery of his name just made Jameson blush all the darker, and he was unable to muster a retort.

Well, William held his chuckle back, if nothing else.

---

As promised, there hadn't been many if any at all questions about Jameson's interest in men's clothing, even when he disrobed to receive accurate measurements. Mr Eden—a stocky man with nimble fingers and sharp eyes—had done little more than ask if he should accommodate to the wrap around Jameson's chest, and that had been that. It was strange but pleasant, and the tailor had offered plenty of suggestions whenever Jameson didn't have many specifics to request—other than he avoided the same style of his current ensemble. It had been simple, painless, and it would be about a week before his first pieces were completed and available, a date which Jameson now found himself looking forward to.

He hadn't looked forward to anything in quite a long time. The fact that it was new clothes that had captured his excitement seemed insignificant, though it was just a bit silly.

Jameson would take what little cause for happiness he could manage.

And, well, he supposed that William also fit into that category. It had been a simple line, a small amount of flirtation, but it had been enough to make Jameson wish for that chance again. The fact that William had stuck around while Jameson had gotten his measurements taken, those sharp eyes seeming to drink in his figure, not even looking away whenever Jameson noticed—it was unfair. How had such an attractive, smooth man come to exist, let alone cross Jameson's path?

And what he'd said—Shall I admit that the other reason I chose to bed you was that I couldn't resist? If that was true, it wouldn't be that hard to bed him again, would it? Not whenever William had promised that Jameson was free to do as he wished now.

Of course, such a thing would have to wait. They'd spent much of the afternoon ordering Jameson's new wardrobe—which, at William's insistence, had included several day-to-day outfits along with a more formal ensemble and had been paid for with the Moriartys' money—as well as procuring a few additional items, such as a new pocket watch, hat, and cane to match. If there was even the slightest chance of some of Stratford's wealth coming his way, Jameson could at least bring himself to pay William back as thanks for doing so much for him. Stopping in so many shops meant they were in the public eye until they made it back to Moriarty Manor, and then it was time for dinner, during which Jameson couldn't just cause a scene by admitting his own desire. Somehow, he survived all the way through dessert, though he had very little to contribute to the conversation.

"Could I trouble you for your company a bit longer?" William asked once the dishes were cleared away. Jameson resisted the urge to see how Albert and Louis reacted to the words. Not trusting his own voice, Jameson nodded. "Excellent. There's a few more matters we need to sort out, if you wouldn't mind discussing them in my office."

Unable to tell if that was a euphemism or not, Jameson saw no reason to object. "If you don't mind me intruding, I'd be happy to join you." William offered a smile, though it didn't have that same mischievous spark to it as earlier that afternoon. That did nothing to damper Jameson's enthusiasm as they went their separate way from the others, heading upstairs. Once there, William shut the door before heading to his desk, touching a pile of papers he'd left out.

"I understand that this conversation might be difficult, but I think it's better that we sort these matters out sooner rather than later," William said, and Jameson listened, uncertain as to what might be coming next. "Last night, I procured several documents from the viscount's office, many of which involve evidence of his blackmail activities." Jameson's mouth went dry, remembering the folder that William had tucked into his bag. "Of course, this was just a precaution. In some cases, whenever we complete a crime, we expose the wrongdoings of our targets. I wouldn't do anything without your permission, but I assume you wish to keep this matter under the rug?"

William hadn't been wrong; this was a difficult conversation to broach. "I…I think you can understand that I'd rather keep this matter a private one," Jameson managed to say.

"I thought as much, but I figured I'd be transparent and ask to be sure." William picked up the stack of papers, though there were still a few sheets left behind. "I haven't made any copies, so we can destroy these if you like. I'll leave that decision up to you." He offered them to Jameson, who stepped forward and took them. Sure enough, there were detailed records, including dates, monetary values, and a list of names, some more frequent than others. Jameson gripped onto the papers hard enough that they started to crumple, at least grateful that there weren't any more details than that. "My fireplace is yours to use if you wish."

Jameson had already been heading there, but the permission was nice of him to give. Not wishing to have to gather any individual sheets lest they scatter, he did take care with lowering the stack towards the flames, ensuring they all fell against the firewood, watching as the papers curled and blackened within the heat, destroyed the same way as the Aldborough Manor. Jameson released a shuddering breath. "I take it that this isn't the only matter we need to discuss?"

"No, it's not." Still hunched by the fireplace, Jameson looked to William, who had a serious expression on his face. "I took the steps to confirm it this morning through some connections, but it does seem that the viscount had a completed will already notarized." A sick feeling of dread twisted Jameson's stomach, which didn't go away whenever William said, "He chose to name you as his heir, in hopes that you'd be taken care of. I had been hoping to manipulate things in your favour, but it turned out there was no need to do that."

Jameson opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He didn't need to see the papers to confirm that. He didn't want to see them, didn't want to see his legal name listed there, as if there was nothing wrong with that, didn't want to think about Stratford trying to take care of Jameson after—after—

"What…what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Taken care of? What right did he have to say something like that? A rage unlike any he'd ever felt erupted inside him, burning Jameson's entire body from the inside out as he drew to his feet, his voice growing from a croak to a shout. "You ruined me, and then you did this. Am I supposed to be grateful for that? I wish you were still alive so I could tear your throat out with my own hands for even thinking such a thing! Piss off, piss off, piss off!"

He wanted to throw something, to hear glass shatter as it broke into thousands of pieces. He wanted to destroy himself, to tear the twisted feeling straight out of his chest. He wanted to banish any reminder of the short handful of years when things had been good, whenever Stratford had taken care of him as his mother's child and nothing more than that, to erase any modicum of kindness so he could continue to hate the viscount with every fraction of his being.

A sob raced up his throat, and Jameson slapped a hand over his mouth, attempting to stifle it and the tears that followed its lead. William had crossed the room at some point, his hand a warm, soothing presence against his shoulder. "Jameson."

"I don't want to…" Jameson managed to get out without breaking. "I…I've already cried enough because of him… He doesn't deserve any more tears from me." Stratford deserved nothing from Jameson, and he wasn't about to give him anything else—but the urge to cry was so overwhelming that he didn't think he'd be able to hold back much longer, and that thought just made him feel even grosser than he already did. "W-William, I…can you…"

Those gentle fingers slipped under Jameson's chin, forcing him to look up as William whispered, "Shall I be the one to make you cry instead?"

"…Please," Jameson said, not knowing what else he could do. "Please, William—"

A kiss cut him off, teeth sharp against his bottom lip in a bite hard enough to hurt. But it was a welcome distraction from the rest of the pain that would be let out if Jameson allowed it, so he had no objections whatsoever. William's arm snuck around him, the fingers under his chin curling into a scratch. "I'm going to be a bit rougher than last time, Jameson," he said, each word a purr. "You are to tell me if it's too much." Already feeling dizzy, Jameson nodded, and then William was kissing him again, Jameson hanging onto the other man's lapels for dear life.

William wasn't lying about being rougher, either, a hand fisting into Jameson's hair and teeth pressing against his neck. Jameson let out half of a groan, feeling the hard grab at his backside that pushed him forward, William's thigh sneaking between his legs with the perfect amount of friction. Chasing the pleasure as much as he could, Jameson grinded against William, his eyes squeezed shut. In a few deft moves with his teeth, William had managed to loosen Jameson's tie. Jameson offered a hand to undo his own collar, making away for William's tongue to press against his skin before sucking a mark into place and, whenever Jameson had undone enough buttons to shrug his layers out of the way, a harsh bite to his shoulder that drew blood from the skin and a few tears from his eyes.

"Yes," he moaned out, not wanting William to stop, the burn of pain stoking his desire ever further. William pulled back with red smearing his lips, visible for but a moment before he pushed Jameson back into him for another kiss, their teeth clicking together before Jameson was almost smothered by the tongue in his mouth, his heart pounding out of control. Not wanting to delay any longer, Jameson rubbed his hand over William's crotch, urging him to readiness as fast as he could, wishing for that pressure inside him to erase the feeling of anything else. William growled, but it didn't sound displeased, so Jameson continued as long as he could until there where hands gripping onto his hips, tugging him along.

Jameson almost stumbled as William lead him over to the couch, falling into the other man's lap without a single complaint. William bit against his collarbone next, pulling another moan from Jameson's mouth, and his hands were untucking Jameson's shirt to drag his nails up Jameson's back. He arched, breathing heavy, and went for his own belt with trembling hands.

"Ready already?" William asked, and Jameson nodded, unable to admit that he'd been ready for most of the afternoon. It was just that his wetness was all the more pronounced now, and he didn't want to wait any longer. William pulled Jameson down into a kiss, relinquishing his hold on Jameson's hair to undo his own belt in the process. Jameson forced himself up onto shaky legs to drop his pants and undershorts, stepping out of them without hesitation. William was ready for him, too, pulling Jameson close and guiding him down onto his erection, their bodies slipping together without any issue as Jameson moaned with reckless abandon. "I'm going to start now, then."

And he did, combining the perfect thrust of his hips upwards with jerking Jameson down, having more than enough strength to move him as William saw fit. A louder scream burst out of Jameson's mouth, and he had just enough sense of mind to muffle himself against William's shoulder, biting onto his jacket without meaning to. There was no gentle easing into it, but that was fine, each rough stroke hitting deep inside him, and Jameson was the faintest bit aware of the hot tears coursing over his cheeks. William, he tried to say, though it didn't come out right—but that didn't stop him from repeating it, anyways, using the name to cleanse himself of everything he'd gone through.

He'd chosen to do it, and that was the most important part.

So he clung onto William, moving in the rhythm set for him, relishing every thrust that hit hard inside him, pleasure and pain mixing together until they overlapped into one, pushed over the edge by the harsh rub of William's fingers against his clitoris, and Jameson threw his head back, his moan transforming into a sob right then and there as the tears at last broke through his overwhelmed defences, reducing him to nothing more than a sniffling, crying mess while William wrapped his arms around Jameson's shoulders and held him close until he stopped.

---

Jameson awoke the next morning with a much clearer head than he expected, almost as if the crying had helped him purge something from the depths of his soul. Still, it didn't feel right, thinking that he was now the inheritor of the Stratford's position—all that money built out of destroying people's lives, and for what? Because Stratford didn't think he had enough gold lining the halls of his home already? Oh, Jameson was still angry, but not enough to drive him to the edge again; William had made certain of that much. So it just brought on the question of "what now?"

As frustrating as it was, Jameson was now set for life; he could never do anything again, and Stratford's money would allow him to live out the rest of his days in comfort. Maybe it would have been different if Stratford hadn't been the one to give Jameson his inheritance, then living a good life would have been a way to spite him. But, no, his patron had wanted Jameson to live in comfort, and that was almost enough for Jameson to drop himself right back onto the streets of Whitechapel.

And yet: William.

It was pathetic, becoming so attached so quick. But Jameson couldn't deny how he felt, couldn't pretend that he didn't already adore him. And William had a purpose, delivering punishment to nobles that the law would leave untouched. Jameson swallowed, an idea forming in his mind; such things couldn't happen without money, and William's presence at the viscount's party showed that social clout was useful. If Jameson were to remain a noble, couldn't he also contribute?

There was a gentle knock on the door, jostling Jameson from his thoughts. He had a robe of his own now, so he wrapped it around his shoulders and headed to answer. "You're more awake this morning, I see," William said by way of greeting. "Are you feeling up to having breakfast with us today?"

Considering that Jameson could still feel the crust from crying stuck in the corner of his eyes, that was a fair enough question; he wouldn't be surprised if he looked awful. "I can be ready if you give me a few minutes," he said. "Though, um… There's something I wanted to talk to you about, so if you want to come in…"

"If you're comfortable with that." Considering that they'd had sex not just once, but twice, Jameson didn't have much issue with William being present while he changed. Since the guest room had a small worktable in it, William took the seat there while Jameson set about smoothing out his blankets to make the bed. "What can I help you out with, Jameson?"

"I think I know what I want to do next." Just saying the words was strange, but it also cemented the feeling in him as certainty. William looked curious, but he stayed silent and listened. "Let me help you with your crime consultant work."

It was a bit difficult to appear confident while still in his pyjamas, but Jameson held his ground anyways. There was a flicker of surprise across William's face, though his expression turned serious soon after. "You do realize you would be doing things that are considered illegal under the law, yes? Killing isn't something we're against doing if it's necessary. If you were to help, then you'd be part of that. You need to be sure before you commit to this."

"If it helps people like me, then I don't care what methods I have to use to do it." It wasn't like he wasn't already tainted enough as it was. Shrugging out of his robe and heading towards the closest, Jameson continued, "I don't want to live off of the viscount's money, and this way I can use it for something good. And…" He blushed, glad that he had his back turned. "I'd like to stay with you a little longer, if I could."

A long silence followed, and Jameson focused on wrapping his chest up and getting dressed, already missing the warmth of his bed. It wasn't until he was tucking in his shirttails that William spoke again. "Are you certain that's what you want, Jameson?"

"I am."

William sighed. "Very well." Jameson glanced over his shoulder, and William offered him a smile. "If that's what you want, then I see no reason not to allow it. We can discuss more over breakfast."

---

"If that's going to be the case, then we can adopt as a ward the Moriarty family, if you like," Albert said without so much as a moment of hesitation after hearing William's explanation. Louis paused with his work midway to his mouth, and Jameson almost choked on his tea. "I take it that you don't intend to serve as viscount, yes? This way we can change your name to something you'd prefer instead, too."

All of that made sense if you didn't think too hard about it, but that Albert seemed to not be the slightest bit concerned was odd. He gave Jameson a smile across the table. "Unless you have somewhere else you want to go, then it would be most convenient for you to stay here," Albert continued. "And of course, if you change your mind in the future, we can arrange things then as well. Wouldn't that be for the best?"

"I see making me feel like I'm dreaming runs in the family," Jameson muttered, then rushed to apologize as soon as he realized he'd spoken out loud. Lucky for him, Albert and William alike both seemed amused. "I also suspect that you'll go forward with this regardless, so please at least let me contribute some of my inheritance to you. I'll be more than glad to help with housework as well."

"I believe I could be convinced to make such an arrangement."

Jameson was certain he shouldn't feel like he'd just made a deal with the devil—but it enabled him to do what he wanted, so it would fine even if he had. William looked pleased as well, his smile wonderful to look at as he said, "In that case, we can sort things out in the next few days. Do let me know your full name preference, Jameson, and I'll take care of it."

That was a question in itself, and it wasn't as easy to answer as Jameson would have liked. He would have taken his mother's last name in a heartbeat—except she hadn't had one, just as much a child of the slums that Jameson had been. Still, he refused not to honour her, so he could make do.

"Verity," he said, and for once, the name felt like a blessing, rather than a curse. "I'd like my surname to be Verity, for my mother."

Albert nodded in approval. "Did you have a middle name you'd prefer, then?" he asked, landing another curveball with no issues whatsoever. Jameson had never been granted one of those, either—but Liam, William had said when asked for his name, and, even if it hadn't been the truth, it still meant something. Jameson swallowed, thinking it through, but he couldn't deny he liked the sound of it.

"Liam," Jameson said, and William gave him a look. Not ready to meet William's eyes, Jameson looked to Albert instead. "I would like that, as a reminder of where this all started."

William seemed to understand well enough, and he didn't argue. "Yes, I suppose that does suit you well. If you're satisfied, there's no reason to object. In which case…" William offered that enchanting smile as he said:

"Welcome, Jameson Liam Verity. Together we're going to change the world."

---

[Author's Notes]

Chapter two: AKA Jameson falls in love instantly. William's...another matter.

Thanks to polly81186, Sky Bearer 7227, Punk Trash Noiz for the favorites, follows, and review! I fully expect this fic to only appeal to a niche audience, so I'll take whatever support I can get, especially since I love this story to bits.

In the one shot version, this is where things would've wrapped up, but we're obviously not in the one shot version anymore. We're going all the way.

One of the trickiest bits with these early arcs is writing the main cast several years younger so keeping their traits but not having them be as refined. William is obvs still smart, but is trying really hard to act like he doesn't care about what he's doing, but you know, Albert is smooth but will be a little bit more awkward (if I can pull that off), and Louis is a bit more open about his distaste for anyone outside his family, haha. Hopefully I can do these amazing characters justice while putting a fresh spin on them.

Remember how this is part of [Shibuya Operation - Story Storm]? Well beta Noiz is writing a project, too, which updates on the same schedule as this one! Do go check out his Game of Thrones fic, you drain all the fear from me, which I happen to be beta-ing in return. Even without full canon context, I'm having fun with it, so don't miss out!

Title of the chapter is from Stereo Dive Foundation's "Alpha."

Next time: Those Jade Green Eyes, Act Three. Please look forward to it!

-Avi

[01.14.2022]