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“Going to scrub my back?”
“I’d like to be sure you won’t fall asleep and drown in the tub.”
“It’s a hip bath. I’d need to be a contortionist.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.”
With a final look—only to make sure that Will wouldn’t slip and knock himself out from sheer exhaustion, of course—Kim left him alone with his bath and went in search of suitable clothing.
He sighed, trying to rub the exhaustion from his own eyes. The past week had been hell, pure and simple. The initial panic, the ever-present twisting guilt, the intolerable not knowing, the bone-shaking fear at what he might find, even if his search was successful.
What he did find.
The iron chain around his ankle. The scrap of blanket, torn and soiled. The cold stone room, and the stone-cold fear in Will’s voice as they heard the car return.
God, he should have let Will strangle Libra. He’d have done it himself if he didn’t still need the bloody man.
He found Nanny in the kitchen, whipping up a meal that suffused the cottage in the hearty scents of meat and thick dark gravy.
“You are a miracle worker,” he said. “Tell me you didn’t bake that just now?”
She rolled her eyes, but fondly. He felt a sudden rush of familiarity, all at once welcome and gut-wrenching.
“Not surprised you have no idea how long it takes to cook a meal. Of course I didn’t. There was some pie left over in the larder; I’m just warming it up now.”
“Well, it smells heavenly. Do you know where I can find—”
“Tom’s things? Bedroom down the hall, in the trunk at the foot of the bed.”
Kim smiled his thanks at her and slipped out of the room.
He found her grandson’s clothing, including a set of pyjamas and a dressing gown that probably wouldn’t be too tight around the shoulders. The trunk also held some of Tom’s war effects and a letter beginning “We regret to inform—”
He remembered the day that letter came for Henry. How close had Will come to becoming just another letter home? How many friends had he seen die, relegated to their own letters to grieving families? He’d already gone through so much for this damned country. And now this. He didn’t deserve Zodiac coming after him, too.
In any case, at least Kim’s latest betrayal would spare him more pain.
Kim brought the bundle of cloth back to the scullery and froze in the doorway, struck at the sight in front of him.
Will was washing his hair. That, in itself, was not a miracle. It was in the way his body bowed, kneeling as if being baptised. It was in the way the knobs of his spine shifted under his skin, leaving no doubt that his body was alive, and whole, and right there safe in front of Kim. The way his strong hands worked to scrub away all evidence of Kim’s mistakes.
Kim had never really been an admirer of Renaissance art, and even less of religion, but as he stood there unable to move, he wondered whether maybe there wasn’t something to Mannerism, if this was what Michelangelo saw in his muses; the celebration of such godly human form in serpentine.
Will looked up and caught him staring.
“Enjoying the view?”
Kim was, but not, perhaps, in the way that Will meant. Still.
“Very much,” he smiled lightly. “Notwithstanding, here’s a dressing gown and pyjamas. They belonged to Nanny’s grandson, so treat them carefully, if you would.”
He set the clothing down on a nearby chair and held out the towel.
Will stood, unashamed, meeting Kim’s eyes with a hint of defiance. Water streamed in rivulets down the grooves of his body. His scars stood out in ridges and valleys, stained red from the heat of the bath. He hadn’t been given enough to drink during his captivity, and dehydration caused his skin to cling tightly to thick, well-defined muscle. He had also said there was nothing to do save for exercise to pass the time.
He must have been very, very bored.
If only he’d lived during Michelangelo’s time. His likeness would be sculpted and painted all over Tuscany, carved into angels on every corner.
Will Darling wasn’t an angel, though, not by any stretch of the imagination. The painters may have reveled in his muse, especially those with shared proclivities, but Kim knew the truth. He’d felt it under his own fingers: this was a man, solid flesh and pumping blood, and eminently more fragile than Kim liked to think about.
Thank God he was safe. Thank God he was unharmed.
Kim could lie to Will all he liked—and he did, repeatedly, and was about to do so again—but he tried not to make a habit of lying to himself. At least, not anymore.
He hadn’t spent six frantic days (and five sleepless nights, and a considerable amount of cash, and every single favour that a Marquess’s disgraced son could muster) searching for Will because Will was in possession of critical information—on his actual person, no less, of all the reckless and insane things…but no.
He didn’t do it for the safety and security of the country, or the reputation of the War Office. He didn’t do it to protect or preserve the life of an innocent bookseller, accidentally caught up in the machinations of politics and war. He didn’t even do it because his own mistakes had led to the kidnapping, and he needed to make amends. Although he needed to do that as well, and badly.
No. After every excuse was laid bare, interrogated and discarded, it simply came down to...it was Will who was in trouble. He’d done it because his feelings for Will Darling had grown, furiously quick and worryingly deep, and he simply couldn’t bear to have him hurt. Kim was a selfish creature. It didn’t matter to him what happened to other people, it mattered because it was Will, and Will was—
It was no use. He’d never tell Will any of this. What was the point in starting to tell the truth now? His job wasn’t done, and Will would despise him at the end of it all.
Far better to see him safe and say goodbye.
He pulled himself together, and suggested they eat. They talked a little about Kim’s childhood, and a little about his current work, and a little about Zodiac. Nothing of importance. When Will began to yawn, Kim cleared away the things.
“Bed. You need to sleep. I’ll show you the room.”
He took Will back to the bedroom that had once been Tom’s, not richly decorated but crackling cozy-warm with a fire in the grate and a homemade quilt on the bed.
“Where are you going to sleep?” Will asked.
“I can stretch out downstairs.”
Will’s eyes met Kim’s again, glinting cozy-warm in the firelight. “The bed’s big enough. We can share.”
Kim dug his fingernails into his palm. This was bleeding unfair. He shook his head and turned to leave. “You need a good night’s rest. I’ll go.”
Will pleaded softly, “Don’t.”
Kim’s head snapped up, shocked. Will took a step toward him. His hair was curling damply over his forehead and his breath was shaky. Kim had never seen him look so vulnerable. He’d spent the whole week in a panic, sure that Will was injured or tortured or dead, but he’d never really considered that Will might have his own breaking point. He’d always been so strong, endlessly and obstinately strong, and danger and pain and threat of mutilation and murder seemed to roll off him like water. Kim was the weak one, the one who begged and pleaded and hurt.
“Stay,” Will said lowly. “I’d like your company. It’s been a rough few days. When you turned up—I’ve never wanted to see anyone more.”
Kim knew it was just the aftermath of his confinement, the desperation and gratefulness at being rescued, at seeing a (halfway) friendly face again. It wasn’t really Kim he wanted, but Kim could pretend anyways. Just for a moment. Will dragged a beautifully rough hand down Kim’s cheek and jaw, through his hair, around the pulsebeat at his neck. Kim leaned into it, weak, always weak, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.
“You don’t need to be grateful to me,” he forced out.
“Bugger gratitude, I’m appreciative. I said that I didn’t think you were a shirker, and I was right. You came to get me, Kim. For all the pissing about, you did that.”
Will’s hand had moved to cradle the base of his head, fingers tangled in his hair, thumb slowly tracing patterns on his neck. He sighed into the touch.
“Don’t underestimate the pissing about.”
“I’m not, but don’t underestimate saving my life either. The other morning you said nothing had changed. Well, it has now. Maybe it doesn’t alter anything in the grand scheme, but—”
Will’s hand dropped away, and Kim felt like he could breathe again. God, was he fucked. Then Will's fingers tangled in his own, and his heart once again stuttered up an uneven rhythm.
“We don’t have to do anything,” Will said, almost in desperation. As if Kim needed convincing for the sake of his virtue. As if Kim wasn’t the one fighting every nerve in his body screaming and pulling toward Will, a scant few inches away.
Looking at Will looking at him this way, he almost couldn’t remember why it was a bad idea.
No, that wasn’t true. He'd already decided that he was done lying to himself.
Staying with Will tonight would hurt him so much more than Kim had ever hurt him before. He was weak, and he was a fool, but he was also—in love, he could admit it here in his head, and that wasn’t what someone in love would do to the object of his affection.
“You won’t thank me tomorrow if I do.” Will’s mouth opened but Kim continued. “No, really. You’re exhausted, and I’ll need to get moving at dawn and, well, common sense is required.”
Will opened his mouth again—probably to continue arguing, the beautiful contrary bastard—so Kim cut him off again, injecting a bit of truth.
“Don’t take this as a no. I can’t tell you quite how much I’d like to stay with you now; I’d strongly prefer not to go back to London at all. Oh, hell—”
He broke. He hauled Will toward him, not able to stand it another second, and kissed him. As it always did with them, wick instantly caught flame. Will was just as desperate, groaning harshly against his mouth.
Kim’s fingers found Will’s skin—still real, still there, still safe and whole.
“I was terrified,” he whispered. “Six days, Will. All my fault. I really thought you were in that shallow grave I spoke of.”
“I wasn’t so good myself,” Will admitted. Kim felt another flush of rage shudder through him. Libra would pay for this.
They clung to each other, hands and foreheads together. Kim drank in his nearness, memorized the warm broad weight of his body, mapped the calluses on his palms and the way his breath felt against his cheek.
And then he painted on a smile and stepped away.
“And now I am going to be sensible. I shall sleep downstairs, and you will get the good night you desperately need. Stay here for—say a week? I really do want you out of sight, out of London and Zodiac’s clutches.”
A week would be plenty of time to get to the pawn shop, find the book, turn it over to the War Office, and set the trap to catch the leak. And maybe he’d be able to kill Libra along the way.
“I’ll be in touch,” Kim lied.
Someone would be, in any case. Probably the War Office would send someone to debrief. Perversely, Kim hoped it would be Ingoldsby, so that Will could take out some of the frustration that he’d doubtless have when this was all over.
He knew better than to hope he’d see Will again himself. Will wouldn’t forgive this final betrayal, and Kim wouldn’t be fool enough to ask him. But at the moment, he was safe and whole, and if Kim could manage to finish the job, he’d remain that way.
“All right,” Will said, resigned. “If you say so.”
“Good man. Sleep, eat, recover, and let me try to sort this out as best I can. I’ll leave Nanny funds for your sustenance, so indulge all you like. Don’t contact anyone, and wait here for me, will you? No coming back to London early. You’ve done your part.”
Will nodded and sat heavily down on the bed.
Kim turned to leave, but paused when he heard his name.
“Thanks,” Will said in a rough, drowsy voice. “For everything.”
God.
Kim was queasy with what he was about to do. He smiled again, so that he wouldn’t do something intolerably humiliating like begin to cry.
“No more thanks, please. Just take care of yourself, for once.”
He took one last long look at Will before turning his back.
One more bundle of regrets to add to the pile, nothing more. He’d survived all the others. He could survive this just as well. And he could take some comfort that Will would be fine. More than fine, probably; he’d doubtless thrive. Will Darling had a whole life ahead of him, with his books and his mates at the pub and his charming Welsh girlfriend for company.
And Kim...well, Kim had his secrets.