May 19th, 1891 — Macnair’s London Home

Outside of this room, Ford could entertain thoughts about what a terrible idea this was. He really did know what a terrible idea it was, too. Maybe he could have kidded himself into thinking it was fine the first week, but after the news of the engagement broke he was hard pressed to pretend anymore. He still tried. He tried to talk himself out of it mentally by reminding himself that Macnair didn't care now, and probably wouldn't start later. This was just sex, it wasn't a whole thing, and if he wanted any more proof that Macnair didn't see him as a friend or a confidante or whatever he need look no further than the fact that he'd found out the man was engaged by reading about it in the papers. Macnair was just using him as a pleasurable distraction from — whatever his deal was with Tatiana Lestrange, which was fine, honestly. Ford could do that. He could come over and enjoy himself and then he could leave and not get attached, or anything, because he knew what this was and what Macnair wanted from it. And if Macnair still said all those sweet nothings afterwards, then that was fine, because he could attribute that to pillow talk. And if Ford kept staying over afterwards even though he'd determined not to before he arrived, that was fine, too, because it wasn't like it meant anything; it was just convenient to stay and it was nice to hold someone. And if he'd stayed the night after their fight last Monday and they hadn't even gotten around to having sex and it therefore didn't seem to fit his mental template for what to expect from this whole thing, that was — weird, it was weird and Ford was decidedly Not Thinking About It. He didn't know how to square that with all of the other information he had, and he just knew that if he took that night out of its mental box and started to actually examine it, he'd start getting wrapped up in it, and then when this inevitably ended — which it would, because to Macnair it was just a pleasant distraction — it was going to hurt all the worse because Ford had let himself get caught up in a fantasy that had never really existed.

And even if he hadn't been treading carefully and pointedly not thinking about things to avoid having to deal with his feelings about those things, he still knew this was a bad idea. It was a bad idea to be fooling around with someone at all, whether or not there were feelings involved. It had already seen him distracted and irritated when he was supposed to be present for Cash, which was too important to let himself slip up on again. Ford didn’t really have the time and energy to spare on things like this, and sooner or later it might start seeping into the rest of his life even if he tried his best to contain it. Not to mention if he kept it up someone was going to notice that he was staying out suspiciously late too often. If his family started to put things together they’d suspect the worst, he thought: that he was fooling around with a girl. That would have been worse for a myriad of reasons, including the potential for pregnancy and the implication that Ford might eventually have to marry her and because it wasn’t a gentlemanly thing to do, taking advantage of a young woman for the sake of her virtue. No one in their right mind could have claimed Ford was taking advantage of Macnair, though, and obviously those other concerns were moot. The worst thing that could be said of this was that it was frivolous in a way that didn’t suit Ford’s role in life. This was the sort of fun men could have when they had all the time and money in the world, and no real responsibilities to speak of — it wasn’t really for him, and he knew that by continuing to answer Macnair’s letters he was pretending to a lifestyle he didn’t really own. He knew it couldn’t last, and knew objectively that he should probably call it off sooner rather than later. (Still: he didn’t feel half so guilty as he would have if he had been getting into trouble with a woman.)

And he still hadn't really put much thought into what this looked like in the future, or if it existed in the future at all. Macnair was going to be married sooner or later, and Ford hadn't figured out whether or not he was planning to keep seeing him, much less whether that was logistically feasible. It changed the whole balance of things, the risk/reward ratio on this thing that had been a stupid risk in the first place, and he hadn't figured out what to do about it. That whole conversation he'd had on Monday night was in the same mental box as everything that had followed, with kissing and cuddling even without the assumption of sex, and taking it out to determine how he felt about it would mean reckoning with all the rest of it too, which — he couldn't. Which meant that he didn't know what was going to happen with this, and he never knew when he went through the floo to Macnair's London house if it might be for the last time, which was as good a reason as any not to go anymore.

When he was here, though, Ford didn’t have time to think about any of that. From the moment he arrived up through their climaxes the only thing on his mind was Macnair’s pleasure. In the aftermath it was something else entirely. The urgency was gone, replaced with a cozy, muddled feeling in his brain that he very intentionally tried not to identify, but his thoughts were no less full than they were when he arrived. Instead of concentrating on what he could do for Macnair, however, he was focusing on Macnair himself. Things like watching the way the other man’s chest rose and fell with his breathing, and allowing his fingertips to trace over the curves of his torso, could captivate him for minutes. This was what he was doing, basking in the afterglow and drinking in the sights and sounds and feeling of Macnair’s bare chest and his slow breathing, doing all of these things without thinking about the fact that he was doing them, very carefully avoiding that it was dangerous to be doing these things, when he first saw the ghost.

He floated through the wall just on one side of the headboard, emerging in Ford’s field of vision a mere three or four feet away. At first Ford wasn’t sure what he was seeing, despite how often he worked with spirits — he had not particularly expected to see one here — and he blinked rapidly before realizing that shit, that was an actual ghost in the room with them, and shit, Ford was still naked. With a noise of surprise and alarm, he scrambled for the edge of the nearest sheet to try and cover himself, while the ghost, entirely unimpressed, drifted out through the opposite wall.

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Valerian Macnair

  

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Set by Lady!

He really ought to let Greengrass go.

The thought had first crossed his mind the morning after Greengrass' first visit, when he was left alone in his furnished bedroom in his almost entirely unfurnished home, watching the sunrise all by himself. The second time had been after they'd fought and Valerian had brought him back up to his bedroom, only to spend the rest of the night cuddled up together, fully-clothed. All of his sexual urges had disappeared and been replaced with an intense need to be with someone, and that had apparently meant wrapping his arms around Greengrass until his body decided it was content enough to fall asleep right then and there. It was a different aspect of an affair, one that Valerian did not usually indulge in—the emotionally intimate part. Making promises and empty declarations had always been his go-to for the emotional aspect of affairs, but compared to the pure intimacy of snuggling in slumber it felt empty and vain. It was empty and vain. He remembered waking up, realizing he'd fallen asleep with his fully-clothed limbs tangled in Greengrass', and being hit with the realization that he probably shouldn't get too comfortable.

But he had, because it had been a long time since he'd taken a lover. The few times before that had been one-night attachments—one fueled by booze, another by a mutual interest in potions that had spiraled into innuendos that spiraled into falling into bed together, but neither had been like this. Maybe it was the raw attraction between him and Greengrass, or maybe it was because something intimate had formed during their interaction with the boggart. (Or maybe it was just how eager a lover Greengrass was, how eager he wanted to be held, or maybe it was his big, brown eyes that Valerian kept getting lost in, or maybe—Merlin, the possibilities were endless.)

But each time Greengrass left it was with the expectation that there would be another time.

And Valerian enjoyed it. Greengrass was neither experienced nor overly confident or even an Adonis whose attractiveness bypassed that of any man he'd ever seen, but Greengrass was a good lover. He was caring and considerate and always wanted to give before he received, and that was something he hadn't experienced a lot with men. He liked how good it made him feel—physically and, although he didn't admit it, least of all to Greengrass, emotionally. It led to a sort of obsession that crept in slowly, but overwhelmed nonetheless. He could barely get through work without comparing a curly-haired patient to Greengrass, which was mildly annoying considering how seriously he took his work, but he found it difficult to be too annoyed when his mind drifted to Greengrass' smile and eyes and the way he made all those little noises Valerian loved to get out of him.

And that's how he got back to here. He was in a half-awake state, the feeling of Greengrass' fingers tracing across his chest sending a shudder through his body that sent his eyes fluttering shut. Each time had been like this since the first. Soon enough he began anticipating the moments after sex as much as he anticipated the actual act; he felt like something was being fulfilled that hadn't before, but he couldn't say what. Greengrass was tucked against his chest, and Valerian was using his fingernail to gently write his name on Greengrass' shoulder, leaving little red lines that disappeared shortly after. Perfectly serene. He hoped it would last forever, as he usually did every time Greengrass was here, and usually it was their time constraints that brought their meetings to an end, but this time was different.

Greengrass saw it first. The figure of a ghost—the old man, the same one Valerian had tried to tell Greengrass about the first time he'd visited—entered through the wall next to the bed, thoroughly spooking Greengrass which in turned spooked him. His chest panicked in tightness and he immediately reached out and grabbed a hold of the pillow Greengrass had been resting against for cover, but as soon as he'd covered himself the ghost had already passed through the wall into the hallway.

He let out a heavy breath, in part due to the panic but in part due to the sudden movements after being so still and so calm for so long. "—Well," was all he could manage, giving Greengrass a pained I'm sorry look.

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Ford had bunched the sheet around his lap and was holding it in place so firmly that his knuckles were white, but he thought he might have been better off with a pillow like Macnair had. The sheet was so thin that he still felt dreadfully exposed, even if he wasn't, and even if the ghost who'd wandered in had already gone. (Even if the ghost had already seen all of it, anyway, so there wasn't much good to be done in covering up).

Ford blinked at the wall where the ghost had disappeared, as though to ensure he wasn't about to return, then turned his wide eyes to Macnair. "Well?" he repeated. He didn't know what to say, but he was going to need a lot more information to go on than just that.

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Set by Lady!

In hindsight, it probably would have been a good idea to explain to Greengrass that there actually was a ghost. It had, after all, been the reason he'd waited so long to invite Greengrass over—he'd felt like he needed an excuse in case his plan to seduce Greengrass had gone downhill, because it had been a possibility even for that one brief moment in the sitting room. But he had seduced Greengrass, and the ghost had gone unmentioned afterwards.

Until now. His cheeks were flushed, but it was impossible to tell if it was from embarrassment or whether they were still red from the past half-hour spent in bed. Either way he was too flustered to worry about how he looked; his attention was focused on the alarmed look on Greengrass face, which then turned into panic because, dammit, what if Greengrass didn't want to continue visiting him?

"I told you—" He couldn't even finish a sentence because of the thick lump that had formed in his throat, which he hastily worked to swallow back down. "—that I had a ghost, but—" But he'd forgotten to mention it again. But he hadn't seen the ghost today, so it hadn't even crossed his mind. But he'd been so caught up in Greengrass each visit that it never came up.

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For half a moment Ford was honestly confused by that response, until he connected the dots back to what felt like a lifetime ago, when he'd first visited this place and Macnair had mentioned a ghost in the parlor downstairs. Ford had barely been paying attention, though, because he'd been too raw with nerves about what might happen that night. And he'd never, for one minute, believed that there was actually a ghost in this house.

"You were serious?" he nearly sputtered, in disbelief. He'd thought that had been a lie made up on the spot to distract him from Macnair's true intention for their meeting — he'd thought it was uncharacteristically clumsy for Macnair, even, since Ford had seen through it so easily. After they'd started kissing it had never crossed his mind again.

"Did you actually want me to… do something about him?" Ford asked, unable to reconcile this with what he'd thought Macnair had wanted from their first meeting — what had very obviously taken place.

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Set by Lady!

Valerian didn't know what to say. His gaze flickered between Greengrass and the wall, and then back to Greengrass, and then back to the wall...

Of course, he'd like to have something done about the ghost. On one hand the spirit had proved wholly unbothersome before now, at least compared to what a nuisance he'd thought it would have ended up being; but on the other hand, this entire situation was bothersome enough to instill him with a vindictive rage towards the spirit for interrupting such a sacred, blissful moment.

"Not... not now," he finally answered, adamant that he wouldn't have Greengrass leaving his bed for that. It was unromantic. Embarrassing. He still hadn't completely recovered from their coupling, and to even think of venturing out in search of the intruding spirit was exhausting enough. "I wouldn't have you work while you're here." Here meaning here—in his bedroom, in his bed, naked and vulnerable and warm and soft... "—and besides, he's... notoriously difficult to reason with."

(Although if Valerian was able to simply disappear through the walls when he was done talking to someone he didn't want to be around, he would also be notoriously difficult to reason with. He was starting to wish he could disappear through walls.)

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As the initial shock from the ghost's appearance started to dull, Ford's mind was able to turn towards the rest of it. The fact that Macnair didn't have an immediate answer was mortifying, because it left Ford wondering if maybe he had misread something about their first meeting here. Obviously things had worked out alright, at least for a little while, but if Macnair really had been trying to ask him over to handle a work-related favor, in the same vein as the boggart, and Ford had just… basically thrown himself at the other man instead of listening, that was horribly embarrassing. And another reason Ford shouldn't think too much about these nights where Macnair sleepily asked him to stay — there was a chance Macnair hadn't even started off with the intention of sex, much less any — feelings.

And if it wasn't bad enough thinking about the past, there was the future to consider, too: Ford was going to have to do something about that ghost. He couldn't ask Macnair to file a complaint and hope it got assigned to someone else, because what if the ghost said something to one of Ford's coworkers about what he'd seen? On the other hand, how the hell was Ford supposed to face someone who had just seen him naked, much less negotiate with them?

Ford pulled his knees up towards his chest and grabbed one of the spare pillows from the top of the bed. He placed the pillow on his knees and buried his head in it, willing himself to spontaneously cease existing rather than having to find a way to deal with this. "Oh my god," he moaned, voice muffled by the pillow.

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Set by Lady!

Would he ever be able to face Greengrass again? He felt so bad—the shame was almost as bad as the humiliation, because he’d brought Greengrass to his home and put him in an uncomfortable position, and now the other man looked absolutely miserable. After their fight in the parlor he'd done his best to avoid precisely this, because the last thing he wanted was another fight. Greengrass stuffed his head into the pillow and gave a loud moan that only worsened how he felt, because there was no clear way to help him, either. This was a far too awkward and pressing situation to handle through physical affection; at the end something still had to be done, and no amount of soothing touches would change that. But that was still the question, wasn't it? What could done? It was a decision Greengrass would have to make.

"Look," Valerian said, reluctantly prying himself from the bed. He pulled his clothes on—trousers first. which he struggled to get up, and then pulled his white shirt over his head, and then wrapped himself in his house coat. "This is my problem to deal with. I don't want you to be..." Upset. Unsettled by the idea of being in his house anymore than he already was. "I'll deal with this myself. Truly." In truth, Valerian did not like ghosts; they spoke to the reality of a life after death—or something after death—and the more Valerian considered it the more uneasy it made him. But the ghosts themselves were... far less a problem than a real, actual person, right? Right?

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Even Macnair saying look couldn’t drag Ford from his self-imposed pillow isolation immediately, and by the time Ford hesitantly peeked out from above the pillow Macnair was already half dressed. Ford blinked at him, color rising in his cheeks. He felt guilty. Ghosts were his thing, and if Macnair had originally asked him here to deal with one it wasn’t like he wanted to just walk away from it now. On the other hand, he would have rather faded into the wallpaper itself than had to talk to the ghost who’d just walked (floated) in on them both naked in bed.

“No, I can —” he started, his voice still a little shaky at the prospect. Ford shut his eyes and tried to remember what Macnair had even said about the ghost, back on the first night, and — he really hadn’t been paying that much attention, because he really hadn’t thought there was even the slightest chance the ghost was real. “You said he goes through multiple properties?” Ford recalled, hoping he was remembering correctly. “So you’d need Spirit Division involved anyway. It’s — I can figure it out.”

(He’d have to).

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Set by Lady!

Greengrass was saying No, I can, and Valerian instinctively wanted to reply with No, you can’t, because clearly Greengrass was flustered and embarrassed and Valerian didn’t want to get into the habit of making his lover feel as though he had to work when he’d come here for distinctly different reasons. But No, you can’t sounded like he was bossing Greengrass around, which was fine and dandy while in bed, but in this situation would only sound condescending and defensive.

“Yes, but—” He wanted to be sensitive, not only because Greengrass looked sensitive himself but because Valerian didn’t want to be harsh or pushy in a way that would make him unwilling to come back. “But I’m sure I can figure it out. And I’ll talk to the neighbors.” Which would presumably include subtle comments about all the ways in which he just loved to bring women to bed, just in case the ghost tried to say something.

Valerian climbed onto the bed, his clothes still hanging from his body unfastened and wrinkled, and sat next to Greengrass. He reached out placed his hand on top of the other man’s—a test to see how he’d react. “We’ll figure it out,” he promised. “Later.”

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Even the idea of anyone talking to neighbors brought a fresh rush of color to Ford’s cheeks, and he might have protested immediately if there wasn’t such a huge lump in his throat preventing him from speaking. He tried to swallow, but before he could clear it Macnair was back on the bed and reaching out to touch him. Ford’s insides tugged at the contact. This was different from being touched in that urgent, needy way that they touched each other at the beginnings of their interactions. It was different from the lazy, thoughtless way they touched each other after things were finished. This was a comforting sort of touch, intentional but with no ulterior need. Ford didn’t know how to feel about that. More importantly, he didn’t know what to do about that. Should he turn his hand over so that he could hold Macnair’s? Or lean in towards him, scoot closer on the bed? That seemed to be the appropriate physical response, but — but he didn’t know. Macnair trying to soothe him wasn’t something that had happened before, and it made Ford feel a certain way. He could recognize that there was a feeling there without recognizing what the feeling was, without wanting to name it. He didn’t know whether he wanted to hold Macnair’s hand or snuggle in close to him, and somehow these sorts of decisions were so much easier in the immediate aftermath of sex — they felt less loaded, when it was about sex and not about comfort.

“Uhm, alright,” Ford managed after a moment, his cheeks still bright red. He wondered if he’d been staring at Macnair — if his indecision about the hand on his had stretched out as long as he’d felt like it had or whether that had only been in his mind. “Later.”

Ford's arms were still crossed over his knees, with the pillow wedged between his knees and his face, and Macnair’s hand was still on his. He looked indecisively at Macnair, wrestling with — whatever this was. Then, suddenly, he moved across the bed and kissed Macnair on the mouth, just a quick peck. For half a second afterwards Ford froze, as though surprised by the kiss, then he leaned back towards his side of the bed and shifted his eyes to the floor. His cheeks were burning and the lump in his throat was back, and he didn’t know why he’d just done that but suspected of he did know, he'd find the answer deeply mortifying. “I guess I should go?”

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Set by Lady!

Valerian exhaled a breath he hadn't been aware he was holding as Greengrass finally relented. Even sitting around the room in awkward silence would have been better than following Greengrass, clothes and hair still mussed, searching for the ghost who had passed through the room. He kept his hand on Greengrass, not wanting to pull it away. He hoped Greengrass would do something, because at least a little reciprocal touch would give him affirmation that their affair wasn't coming to an end because of their unwelcome visitor, but Greengrass was just sitting there, staring at him with pink cheeks and a look in his eye that was doing things to his body that had never happened before. His chest constricted with anxiety, but his stomach was fluttering and all he could think was how the little freckles on Greengrass' nose stood out better when his face was pink, but then he felt guilt because Greengrass' face was only pink because of him—

And then Greengrass had leaned across the bed, and Greengrass had pecked him on the lips, and Valerian stilled. He didn't close his eyes, he didn't kiss him back, and then he felt absolutely idiotic because Greengrass had leaned away and was looking off to the side.

He felt the urge to crawl towards Greengrass and kiss him this time, partly because he thought it might help further soothe him but also because he felt like he'd like an opportunity to kiss him. But he didn't. He didn't and his heart skipped a beat when he realized he'd missed the window to do it, because Greengrass suggested he leave, and Valerian wanted to say No, don't. They hadn't resolved this, hadn't figured out how to handle the ghost, hadn't been reassured that they would be able to move forward from this, even if Greengrass' kiss indicated that he wasn't done with him. Valerian decided this—the awkwardness, the uncertainty—was not a feeling suited for him, and pushed himself off the bed in order to reel in his emotions before they started showing on his face.

"I'll see you out," he said quietly, leaning down to pick up the remaining clothes off the floor. His cheeks were pink by the time he'd stood up to toss them to Greengrass' side of the bed, and he struggled to meet the other man's eyes.

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Macnair was going to see him out. Ford sort of wished he wouldn’t, because he didn’t feel fully recovered from the embarrassment of all of this. He wanted to scramble to put his clothes on and make it as far as the other side of the door and then lean against the wall and catch his breath and try and collect himself and make his cheeks stop burning bright red, but he couldn’t do that if Macnair was going to see him out, and he couldn’t protest. This mean he was going straight from seeing Macnair at the floo downstairs to the parlor at home, though, and this was earlier than Ford had expected to be leaving, and someone might still be in the parlor at home. Having to go from holding things together for Macnair straight to having to hold things together for a sibling or for Mama was just too much — he wanted a chance to fall apart for a moment, before he had to put himself back together and think about what to do next. Especially after that moment with Macnair's hand on his.

It was good that Macnair had tossed him his clothes, at least, because that was one less thing to have to think about while he tried to collect himself enough to manage the next twenty minutes until he could make it to his bedroom at home. Ford fumbled through getting dressed as quickly as he could and swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump in his throat that just wouldn’t leave. He hadn’t noticed Macnair wasn’t meeting his eye, because Ford wasn’t meeting his, either.

“Alright,” he said as he buttoned up his shirt, already moving towards the door. “I’ll, uhm, write?”

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Set by Lady!

Valerian ran a hand through his hair, trying to make himself feel more presentable even though he knew it was silly. It made him feel better, though, and at this point he needed all the extra confidence he could get. He tugged his housecoat tighter around him, his eyes flickering up to Greengrass who was still looking away from him, and then began busily tidying the bed while the other man dressed himself—pulling the covers back over the bed in a semi-straight way, stacking the pillows near the headboard. After a moment he peeked up again and froze in his tracks, abandoning the last pillow at Greengrass' words to follow him across the room. Overcome with a sense of urgency, he stopped in front of the door, blocking Greengrass from exiting.

"Soon," he requested, placing his hand on the side of Greengrass' shoulder and running it down the length of his arm until he found his hand. He intertwined their fingers and squeezed them gently—a reassuring gesture if it was possible at all.

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Ford felt a surge of panic as Macnair stepped between him and the door. It wasn't that he was afraid of what Macnair would do, necessarily, only that anything he was going to say or do meant a further delay in when Ford was able to be alone next so that he could try and process this whole mess. And then Macnair was touching him again, which was even worse than blocking him. Ford let Macnair take his hand, feeling a little like he was having an out-of-body experience. He could feel Macnair's fingers in his, but he couldn't really spare the brain power to think about that, and all that meant. Because that was a gesture that meant something, and this was becoming a whole thing whether Ford thought about it or not, this lump in his throat and this feeling in his chest, and — Ford couldn't deal with this. Not while he was trying to wrap his mind around what to do with a ghost who'd seen him naked and still recovering from the embarrassment of that whole ordeal.

I guess this means he wanted me to hold his hand a minute ago, Ford thought, but it occurred to him only distantly, disconnected from everything else he was trying to struggle through. Disconnected, certainly, from any of the implications of that notion. Oh.

"Y-yeah," he agreed, and it was strange — he felt so dissociated from his body that it was like there were two versions of himself in the room, and he wasn't sure which one of them his voice was coming from. "Tomorrow?"

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Set by Lady!

Greengrass didn't look okay, and he understood, truly, but at the same time there was a part of him—the selfish part of him, no doubt—that felt a surge of annoyance that they couldn't even pretend the awkwardness didn't exist, even for just a moment. He wasn't even sure if it was directed at Greengrass, though, because usually his annoyance lingered and festered into resentment and sometimes even pettiness, but he knew if Greengrass would have so much as smiled all of his annoyance would have melted away.

And—usually—annoyance was not accompanied by such worry.

His heart pounded as he waited for Greengrass to squeeze his hand back, but he never did, and then Valerian's annoyance was replaced by a sudden mixture of dejection and insecurity and regret. Maybe he shouldn't have tried to hold Greengrass' hand, because it probably looked like he was smothering Greengrass and Greengrass probably thought that was weird, and—

He dropped Greengrass' hand. He wouldn't beg for affection like a sad child. He was better than that.

"Tomorrow," he agreed, his gaze flickering down to Greengrass' lips and then back to his big, brown, strangely distant eyes.

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