The Great Grey

From the time Arthur had entered service, the festive season had always meant festive for someone else. The wealthy wintered in the country, far from his humble London family, and his employers had never considered fending for themselves to allow their staff time to celebrate on the day. No, when you were in service, your celebrations were forced to wait until the new year, if you were permitted the time at all. Too often the birth of their lord and savior was merely toasted with half a cup of middling brandy amidst their fellow servants in a spare moment before returning to their work.

In Arthur's case, there were a parade of parties to dress the Duke for, and a rotation of house guests he invariably serviced as well — There was always someone without a valet. The whole of the downstairs was enlisted in the expansion of tasks to create for the family a season that was merry and bright.

Arthur knew that Cash had returned, at last — Weeks it had been, pumping fitfully into his own hand on the nights when he did not fall directly into sleep — but had only spotted him twice, at a distance, which might have been worse than not having seen him at all. The urge to sneak in a handful of moments was strong, but there was simply no time — Not until two days after the turning of the new year, when all of the house guests had departed and the normal, steady hum of the household could resume.

They'd exchanged vague notes, which had felt a bit silly to Arthur despite the necessity of setting a private time and place. There would be no romps on the edges of copses anymore — The cold weather had at last taken its due hold. As he crept through the first proper snow of the season toward the stables, he had his doubts about the warmth of the place, but had to admit the canny, if convenient locale. No one would be looking to ride in this, unless there was a terrible emergency.

Bundled beneath his long wool coat, Arthur bobbled a bottle of wine into the crook of one arm as he pulled open the latch and stepped into the stable. The scent of fresh hay and a little damp met his nose as he blinked against the beginnings of snow blindness.

"Cash?" he called, and pulled the door closed behind him.

The visit in October had passed all together too quickly, but at least so too had the weeks he'd spent back in London, seeing to his personal affairs and licking the wounds his own stupidity had earned. The mares that the duke had bought had all been successfully covered by Priam, and so there hadn't been much of a cause for him to linger at Stourhead, anyway. Well, there'd been one hell of a reason – a reason with a dazzling smile, a tight ass, and an all-too-kissable mouth – but it wasn't a reason that would pay him, or give him duties to be seen to.

With his broken arm, Cash also hadn't been able to get the work he normally would've in London, either, especially with so many of the nobles gone from they city. Instead he'd turned to odd jobs to fill the hours; even taking clerking work, when it was available. Between his savings and that scant work, he'd finally scrounged up an apartment that fit his needs. It still turned his guts a bit to pay so much for space he didn't particularly need, but then again, there was a much better reason for it now.

Arthur deserved better than a clandestine fuck in a Wapping boarding house.

The holidays meant plenty of extra work, though, and Cash hadn't had any reason to stay in London for them. The journey back to Stourhead was much easier with only one horse, and with his arm almost entirely having healed. Mortimer had cautioned him about it, warned him in so many words that he wasn't some young man anymore, but that warning was dismissed as easily as any of the others he could've made. Disappointingly, the amount of work meant that there hadn't been time to do more than see Arthur from afar. More than once he'd had the crazy thought of sneaking into the valet's room in the earliest hours of the day, but the cowboy knew that such behavior would likely be frowned upon by a working man already short on sleep.

So he'd bided his time, helped in the stables and around the house, having to content himself with his hand and the promise of a quiet evening with the valet soon, eventually – after the holidays.

And now that it had finally come around, he'd gone and done the damn fool thing of banging his arm up again. It wasn't broken again, that much he was sure of – it was impossible to forget that awful, grating pain – but between the poor weather and the way the spooked coldblood had shoved him heavily into a tree, he'd decided to once again bind it tight to his body, which admittedly had helped, but would draw the kinds of questions from Arthur that Cash would rather not answer.

The hesitations and worries and anything else all faded as soon as he saw the valet enter the stables, though. Cash was grinning broadly without even realizing it, his head poking over the edge of the hayloft. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes." The greeting was accompanied by the almost-too-fast one-armed scramble down the ladder to join Arthur on the ground. Moving quickly, he didn't so much as pause before wrapping his good arm around Arthur's waist and kissing his cold lips hungrily.

"Been wantin' to do that since I got back," he informed the other as soon as their lips parted, a low chuckle accompanying the words. With the work he'd been doing, and his efforts in the hayloft, he'd chosen a warm sweater, thick trousers, and his old comfortable buckskin for the day; hardly a proper suit, but neat enough for the hay still attached to him, and of course his cheeks were shaved for Arthur's benefit – and now were reddened for the chill in the air, as was the tip of his nose.

Sinking into those strong, impatient arms was the easiest thing in the world to do, even if fretful questions had already begun to bloom in the back of Arthur's mind. He had missed Cash's warm mouth, and availed himself of it heartily, sighing as his lips parted and his tongue swept forward. To have this moment in the open of the stables, closed though they were and blanketed in snow, was a thrill and a blessing, a rare treasure in the daily bustle that was their lives, and he felt fairly aglow with it as Cash eased away.

"Careful," said Arthur, and winged his elbows out as a protective measure. "I've wine glasses in the pockets of my coat." They might have drunk directly from the bottle, or from the same dinged cups from their picnic, but this was meant to be a celebration, and beyond having a penchant for doing that sort of thing correctly where possible, Arthur also felt Cash deserved the proper treatment.

Frowning, eyebrows knitting together, he took in the state of Cash's strapped arm. "What've you done to yourself?" Worried blue eyes lifted to meet those of his reckless cowboy.

Were it warmer, and were the ground softer and cleaner, Cash would've been tempted to have the valet then and there. Sure, he'd not exactly been celibate while he was away, but it wasn't the same; wasn't like this. (It was enough to give him pause, if he cared to stop long enough to think about it. Pause, but not stop the runaway horse he'd found himself upon.)

Laughing, he obediently released Arthur, mindful of the glasses. "Well, look at you. Don't suppose the rest of dinner service in your trousers?" The gentle tease didn't mean that Cash failed to recognize the gesture. He would've been just as happy drinking the wine in whatever manner that Arthur wanted, but this was what Arthur wanted. He was just as prim in this as he was in anything else, and the American couldn't help the wry twist of his grin.

But then those attentive eyes fell to his injured arm, and the grin was suddenly rather more sheepish. "Ain't a big deal. I, ah... Well, I broke my arm back in October, not long after I got back to London. It's healed, more or less, 'cept I was workin' earlier and banged it up again. It's just sore is all, and I wanted it to be nice'n rested up for you."

The attempted placation was accompanied by a saucy wink, the American reaching to pull the valet towards the hayloft's ladder. He didn't really think that Arthur would leave it at that, but he'd play the optimist and hope for that much, anyway.

"No, but I've dessert in the front of my trousers, and I mean that literally," Arthur replied. The wine bottle was handed off, and he unbuttoned the front of his coat. Peeking over the top of his trousers was a tin box of Lindt chocolate confections sent to the Duke and discarded before even being opened — This time of year, the family received piles of such gifts, from people they knew and people they didn't. Arthur wasn't about to let anything so delectable go to waste.

With a flourish, Arthur withdrew the flat metal box, the sweets rattling about inside. "A bit banged up perhaps in transit, but should still be good. These are meant to be the best sort." Smooth in a way no other chocolate had managed yet, people said.

"I don't think I'd count breaking an arm as not a big deal," he said, and bit back the urge to ask why Cash hadn't written him to let him know. Whatever they had shared in their last rendezvous beneath that most accommodating tree, they weren't wed. The American could do as he liked and had no obligation to write to Arthur about anything at all, even if his mere aura had managed to sour the tryst Arthur had been indulging in with Archie since the summer. It ought to have been terrifying, that — And perhaps on some level it was — but simply being around the man had a way of banishing anything but the desire to be near him.

And, Arthur supposed now, a dose of well-earned worry.

"You really ought to be more careful," he said, and though he frowned, the words were not particularly chastising. "If you'd broken it again, you could've permanently damaged the arm, and you'd be laid up someplace not on top of me." And wouldn't that be a true shame?

"Of course you do," Cash started to leer, even leaning in as though expecting another kiss, only to be handed the bottle of wine. More to the point, Arthur held up a tin of sweets, and the cowboy was left laughing at his own presumptions and the valet's resourcefulness.

"Wine and candy? Why, Mr. Beckwith, now who's doin' the courtin'?" He teased, but it also truly did set an odd feeling alight in his chest at the thought of it. Holiday or no, the American hadn't been treated to such a, well, treat since his wife's death at the very least. (Which lead to an entirely different feeling, and he shied away from everything it might entail.)

In any case, he refused to let the matter of his arm spoil the evening. The thing was almost healed, current status aside, and Cash couldn't very well see a reason for Arthur to be so pressed about an injury from weeks ago. "I'm plenty careful, but a man's gotta work if he wants to eat." He wouldn't point out the obvious: if he hadn't been able to work, there wouldn't have been any reason for him to return to Stourhead, and he wouldn't be here now for this.

There was real worry in that frown, though, so he gave the wine to his bound right arm, and lifted his good hand to cup the valet's cheek in a touch that was gentle, for all the calluses on the cowboy's hand. "I'm alright, Arthur," Cash reassured him, voice low. "Now, stop fussin' and let's go where it's warmer. It'd be a shame to waste all our time on me bein' stupid." For all the weeks they'd spent apart, the American ached to savor every moment together. His hand fell from Arthur's cheek to instead take his hand, almost shyly intertwining their fingers as he pulled the valet towards the hayloft once more.

"It seemed only fair," Arthur replied, unable to keep the smile from curling his lips. "I didn't buy the chocolates, but I did the wine, just from town here, so no complaints that this bottle isn't as good as the last." He'd never heard if anyone had taken the blame for Cash's theft, but he also made it a point to stay as removed as possible from common house gossip.

"Do you know, I don't think I believe you," he added on the matter of Cash being 'plenty careful.' "You put me on the back of that horse and I thought I had moments to live," he teased, and allowed a smile as he leaned into the rough span of Cash's palm. "I'm not fussing. I care. I would be sorry to lose you," he admitted, and did not allow himself to lower his voice as if it were a grudging secret, or he was afraid. He meant every word.

Cash's hand curling over his own was warm but not of particular note — Not for the first moment, at any rate. The casual notching of their fingers together sent that warmth singing through Arthur's entire body, and he nearly tripped on their way back to the ladder.

"Give me that bottle," he insisted, and lifted it free before Cash could protest about his exemplary ladder-climbing skills or some such. The tin Arthur tucked back into the front of his trousers.

It didn't seem quite the appropriate moment to say the words that immediately sprang to Cash's lips – something to the effect of his willingness to drink cat piss, so long as it was boozy – so instead he defaulted to his other favorite sin. "I lost any decent palate I might've had years ago. 'Sides, the taste of you on my tongue makes everything else taste better, too."

The recollection of Arthur's short-lived and ill-fated riding career drew a loud, genuine laugh from him. "You looked like the ghost of Christ Himself had popped up in front of you," he crowed gleefully, though the humor was quickly shifted into something rather bashful at the admission. Even with the chill in the air, and somewhat hidden by their already-ruddy hue, Cash's cheeks heated with the matter of fact way Arthur said it. It wasn't exactly Shakespeare's sonnets or some other grand declaration, but that alone made it all the more special. It was far more believable said in such a plain way, and the cowboy's heart fair lurched in his chest, the footing under it not quite so firm suddenly.

"You ain't gonna lose me, nor even a piece of me," he promised, though he couldn't quite stifle his rueful grin. "You might end up regrettin' sayin' that, though. I'm told I snore somethin' awful." He couldn't help it; it wasn't that he wanted to dismiss or downplay Arthur's feelings, and God knew it wasn't that he felt any differently. It was a knot he wasn't quite ready to untangle, that was all.

Cash did open his mouth to protest the loss of the bottle, then rolled his eyes and merely started up the ladder. "Don't go cryin' to me if you drop it on the way up," he instead tossed over his shoulder, though his focus was quickly returned to the hayloft itself. He'd cleared a bit of space, pushing the bales back and hanging a kerosene lantern from the beam above. Spare horse blankets had been laid over the loose hay, and then covered with another blanket. Not a horse blanket, though it'd undoubtedly smell a bit like one, given that it was Cash's, and the man only rarely didn't smell like horse himself.

It wasn't the most romantic of spots, he supposed, but it was warmer than one might guess, and very safe from suspicious eyes or ears. While Arthur climbed up behind him, Cash took the moment to rapidly divest himself of the straps holding his arm in place. An exploratory roll of his shoulder didn't do more than ache, so he was more than willing to set the straps aside. "If you don't want those glasses gettin' broken, you'd best set 'em down quick-like," he warned as soon as Arthur had joined him in the cozy space, reaching to take the wine if only to get it out of the way, too.

"Oh good, I'd the idea that you might try to convince me to eat the meal first again," Arthur shot back, the corner of his mouth quirking into a wry smile. The impulse to sidle up against Cash before he mounted the ladder was fierce, and he damned all of the various and sundry items tucked about his person.

In declaring his affection, Arthur hadn't intended to sober the other man, but there was some little satisfaction in tapering off the laugh at his own expense. He maintained a certain studied calmness at Cash's reaction and his slipping so easily to humor as a mask, but Arthur's gaze was keen, and his heart clenched at the implication of sharing a bed long enough to be sleeping in it. He hadn't done that since... Well, since Rollo, if he wanted to be honest with himself.

"I know you're not suggesting my grip is lacking," he said as he firmed his hold on the bottle and began to navigate the ladder with particular care. Had the glasses not been in his pockets, he might have done a cleaner, more confident job, but at least there was room enough behind most of the rungs that he could hold the wine behind them and steady himself on his bent wrist. Getting to the top took some doing — Arthur was too prudent for a Cash style scramble.

Which was perhaps why, when he at last made the loft, there was scarcely time to take in the cozy space the American had crafted before he was warned of a forthcoming accosting.

"All right," he laughed, and began tugging his wares free as soon as Cash was reaching for the bottle. He passed off the glasses and chocolates tin, and then shrugged out of his heavy coat and suit jacket and laid them across a hay bale. "Come remind me why I've missed you so much."

Neither glasses, nor tin, nor bottle of wine were discarded without care. They weren't the priority now, but that didn't mean they were trash to be tossed away. Even so, Cash was all to eager to be rid of them, even as he was equally ready to see Arthur rid of his coat and jacket, and himself to shuck his buckskin.

Though he very much wanted to simply toss Arthur down and be upon him, he forced himself to move slowly, thoughtfully, though by no means hesitantly. The first order of business was, of course, wrapping an arm around his waist to pull him tightly against Cash's body, to kiss him with the heat and hunger that had been denied by those damn wine glasses earlier. Only when he'd had his fill did he shift his mouth to the valet's neck.

It was harder to smell, with the heavy scent of horse and hay in the air about them, but the faint scent of that fancy French soap and Arthur's cologne could still be detected. Cash drank it in like it was the finest thing he'd ever encountered, kisses giving way to nothing short of a tight hug, his face buried in the crook of Arthur's neck while he merely savored what he'd been without for far too long. It happened almost without his noticing; when he drew back, it was with a short, bashful laugh and a half a shrug.

More importantly, he couldn't very well just drag Arthur down to the little nest he'd made them. In the shadow cast by the lantern it was hard to see, but he shifted a few steps to reach up into the dark above them, his hand returning with a suit hanger. "It's cozy, but ain't no easy way to keep hay off your clothes." It had been a silly thing, a joke he'd thought of for himself before pausing to think on it again.

"There's a rope, just there, you can hang 'em from. That way you're not worryin' 'bout 'em the entire time," Cash teased, handing the man the hanger before casually stripping his own sweater over his head and tossing it aside, his boots very quick to follow so that he could shimmy out of his trousers. Only then did he flop back onto the bedding, propping his head up slightly with one arm behind it to act a pillow; his other slowly stroked his half-erect cock, all while he grinned up at the valet. "I'll be waitin'." And if he got a show in the meantime, all the better.