The Great Grey

Ambrose Wilkes was not a man given to risky behavior. Whatever appearances implied, he keep a keen eye open, an ear to the ground, and never set foot in a room without knowing the broader context of the space and whom might endeavor to occupy it.

He was certain that to one Timothy Anderson, formerly Timothy MacCleary, profligate Mick bottom boy, he was to be considered reckless and deeply oblivious. Concerned only with the stiffness of his prick, perhaps. And yet after plucking that fierce little flower, after indulging a request to counterfeit violence in the doing so, Rosie had sent Mr. MacCleary back home with a silent escort and a full report back within twenty-four hours as to the mouse's dubious origins.

A fall from grace, it seemed, the East End inked as indelibly into him as the ink that marked him out as Greenstreet. Or, former Greenstreet, for whatever that was worth when getting fucked raw by the leader of the Black Powders.

And so a fortnight later, Rosie sat in the cradle of a well-worn chair in the corner of MacCleary's hardscrabble apartment, his ankle poised atop his opposite knee, a chipped cup steaming happily in his broad hands. He sat, and occasionally took a sip from the tea he'd helped himself to in the kitchen, and checked his pocket watch as he waited his little Irish mouse's return.

It had only taken a few days for the physical ache of his deflowering to fade. It had taken several more for the burning embarrassment of the encounter to become something more tolerable. After a week, Tim had decided against reporting to Cruickshanks about the entire ordeal. He'd seen the tail he'd been sent home with; did nothing to hide from it, nothing that might arouse further suspicion.

The Black Powders weren't his mission – there would be no Fenian plots among those truebred English souls, that much was certain. As long as Wilkes kept away, which he had seemed to be doing, Tim was in the clear to continue his work.

Except Wilkes hadn't kept away, he had planted himself happy-as-you-please at Tim's dinner table.

At least he'd had some warning; the elderly grandmother that lived next-door to him had warned him in a low voice, with the kind of disapproving pursed lips that implied far worse than what she said: Were you expecting a visitor, Mr. Anderson?

He had the blackjack that he kept on his person at all times, since coming back to the East End, and in a fair fight (or rather, a fairly unfair fight) he fancied he had a decent chance of taking the other man. But if it was violence that had been planned, why would the leader himself arrive? And so it was with some measure of confidence that he entered his own apartment, closing the door behind himself and leaning back against it to give a dark-eyed stare to the newest bane of his existence.

"What do you want?" There was a wariness in his voice, but otherwise it was kept even, measured; had he not been caught with his pants (almost literally) down two weeks before, things never would have escalated in the manner that they had. Tim had come to some measure of peace with himself and the events before, but he had also sworn it off as a momentary lapse, something never to be lingered upon or repeated. It would almost be a relief, then, if Wilkes were to simply threaten him and leave.

He didn't think he'd be that lucky.

"Hello to you, too, Mouse," said Rosie, and leaned back in his chair with the faint creak of ancient, unoiled wood. While he'd thought of his mouse any number of times over the last two weeks, he hadn't been as well-prepared for those dark, furious eyes as he'd imagined himself — Not belied by a twitch in his cock, which might have been simpler, but a shot of something headier that twisted hot behind his ribcage. He took a slow sip from his cup and surveyed the sulking form by the door with polite indifference.

"I'm curious, Mousy-mine," he began again with a slight cant of his head. "Why the questions? You see, that's the one bit I can't sort out." Cup still held between both hands, he leaned forward onto his elbows at the edge of the table. "You're not actual Greenstreet and my cock is not a divining rod."

Of all the possible nicknames that Wilkes could have favored him with, it wasn't the worst – but Tim hated it regardless. Worse was that it was likely Wilkes knew his name, or some variation of it. Whether it was supposed to be some mark of disrespect, or because the other man had some improper perception that the other night had meant anything was equal odds, as far as Tim was concerned.

Content at least that this wasn't going to be a violent encounter (not yet), he abandoned the perceived safety of the door to cross to the kettle. "I know the man who owns the Goose, and I know the men he pays to keep the peace there. You're not one of the latter, and you're certainly not the former." He busied himself with making his own cup of tea while he spoke, maintaining his Londoner accent regardless of the indirect accusation. "If you're going to be creeping about there, I'd just as soon find somewhere else to spend my money."

No sugar, a splash of cream, and finally he was left with nothing but to turn back to face the man, eyebrows raising slightly in silent question.

"So you will be going to Maggie's instead, then?" Rosie asked as he hunched forward across the table. Eyes bright, his lips curved into a sly smile. "Or should I be expecting you round the Gun?"

The idea that Rosie might have been 'creeping' about anywhere was on its own a preposterous notion, as was that dear Mousy was unaware of the Goose having changed hands. Still, if he wanted to put on his posh accent and pretend at ignorance, Rosie was willing to play along. Only —

"Could come over here and sit on my lap, Mouse," he allowed, still smiling as he deposited his cup atop the table and sat back again, hands spread. "Tell me all your filthy secrets whilst I give you a cuddle."

Clearly it was little more than a game for Wilkes. None of this had been in the file he had at the Yard, and somehow Tim was shocked that was the case. Even if he hadn't been picked up for indecency before, surely someone had to have known about his proclivities, since he apparently had no compunctions fucking any john that caught his fancy.

"You can expect anything you want." It soured his stomach, to hear the molly house invoked on those lips. The place was a headache on its own, luckily one that Timothy had no need to deal with. That Wilkes knew about it, and in such apparent detail, shouldn't have been so surprising – nor should the thought of the gangster visiting it twist Tim's stomach in such a fashion.

But he smiled, bland as could be, sipped his tea, and did his best to think of anything but Ambrose fucking Wilkes draped over some telegram messenger's pale arse.

"You couldn't afford me," Tim informed him, mimicking Wilkes' words from before, as he strolled the few steps to cross the kitchen and set his half-drank tea upon the table. Stopping by the man's side, he leaned in closer, hand seeming to reach for that horse cock before redirecting to gently chuck under his chin as though he were a child. "And the chair couldn't, either." The furniture had belong to the apartment before he'd arrived, and God only knew exactly how rotted the wood was by now.

A laugh, bright with astonishment, pushed from Rosie's throat, and in a blink he had hold of Mouse's wrist and the smaller man bodily twisted round and atop his waiting thighs.

"I can't speak for the chair, but I know how easily that greedy little arse of yours can be had," he said, the broad splay of his free hand clasped hard across Mouse's cheeks and jaw. "Go ahead, tell me again how you're not a sodomite, and then tell me how you're not Irish, either."

There remained something about Timothy Anderson that rang false, that put Rosie's hackles up regardless of how his cock felt about it. But lying was difficult when you were filled to the hilt, and opportunities had a way of presenting themselves in odd moments. Keep friends close and enemies closer, as the saying went.

It was the laugh, as much as the hands upon him, that sent a spike through his gut, straight into his cock. Shame still burned within him, but now it was a distant, clinical thing; this wasn't an unexpected encounter in a brothel. This was something far worse, far more dangerous, and far more real. There was plenty he'd done for his work before; this would just be another thing not spoken of, another method to serve the greater good.

The chair did creak at the sudden extra weight upon it, and it was for that reason that the slight man held his breath for a heartbeat. The chair held, though, even as his face was taken captive and he found himself staring at Wilkes from far too close a distance. "You didn't give me much in the way of a choice," he retorted. "I wasn't yet. That was my first time," Tim continued, face heating at the admission, voice catching slightly at the needless admission. Wilkes had already known as much.

He hadn't lied about being Irish; somehow it hadn't come up between Lucinda's mouth and Wilkes' prick. But his jaw found its way back into that same angrily stubborn set, and were it not for the hand upon his face Tim would've turned away. "Doesn't seem like you find it that off-putting." Plenty had, in his personal life; in the East and West both. The Black Powders weren't particular fans, either, with recent events – or was Wilkes simply hornier than he was English?

"Did I not?" Rosie asked, eyebrows lifting over the palest blue of his eyes. "I seem to recall a mouse begging to be fucked." He firmed his fingers against the little resistance offered to his grip, and jerked Mouse's face down so that he could look him properly in the eye, red-faced or not. "I very much doubt you'd care to get into a philosophical debate about what defines a sodomite, Princess." You either wanted to be fucked in the arse or you didn't, in Rosie's estimation; no amount of fussing about technicalities would change how much you enjoyed the ride.

"I just enjoy your sparkling personality that much, Mouse." That the Irishman would continue to keep such a hard hold of his irritation after everything was a bit beyond Rosie, but he couldn't say there wasn't entertainment found in the challenge. Abruptly, he sat back, releasing chin and wrist, and held both hands up again, palms out. "But let it never be said I ever forced anyone onto my cock, Irish or otherwise."

Tim was extremely aware of what he'd done; what he'd said was less perfectly remembered, but that much was impossible to forget. Even now the shame of it reared its head again; even as he noted how close they were, how blue Wilkes' eyes were, and wondered for the briefest moment how different it would be to kiss a man instead of a woman.

Then the moment passed, and the words were also allowed to pass without response. Wilkes' presence was like sandpaper, rasping against his patience and wearing it down with every word, every touch. The nicknames were just another thing to chip away at it, and with his face finally released Tim was able to look away; to breathe and consider how to proceed. He could get up, walk away – end this all right now.

It was the same option he'd had back at the brothel, and it was the same choice made.

"Do you even know my name?" Looking back at Wilkes, he scowled down at the other man. "And you still haven't told me yours." He'd nearly as good as said it by mentioning the Gun, but now it was a matter of principle. If Wilkes wanted to fuck him again, it would be as Tim, not mouse.