He got home and let himself in. The kitchen was quiet, dark.
"Jason, you're up!" Harrold sat in the kitchen, looking disheveled and fighting back a yawn. He held a cup of cold coffee in front of him, his doctor's bag at his side and the top button on his wrinkled shirt undone. It showed an inch or so of fine, pale skin and a hint of chest hair. Jason was undone, as always.
"Did you have a late night call?"
"Yes, I just got back. Thanks," he said, leaning back and sounding grateful as Jason removed his cup and dumped it, then went to start a proper, fresh pot of coffee.
"Will you get any sleep at all tonight?"
"I doubt it, to be honest," said Harrold. He stared down at the table. "There's too much death, sometimes. I'll probably just lie awake and wish it would go away. Might be better off to read a book or start my rounds early." He yawned widely.
"Do you ever think you're pushing yourself too hard?"
"Oh, yes, but who else will?" He got up and took the fresh coffee from Jason's hands. Their fingers touched in the process. "Thank you." His blue eyes gleamed friendly and kind. "You're a lifesaver." He wandered away, sipping from the mug carefully.
Jason watched him go, miserable and lost as ever.
#
Since Harrold was home again, Jason didn't feel the need to go out. He didn't want to miss any time with his friend, talking to him, helping him out, or making sure he ate. Harrold had been planning to be gone for another week or so, and his early return lit up Jason's life.
He was quietly happy around the doctor — except for when he was quietly miserable. Nearly always quiet, though. He was that sort of man.
"Helena, I've asked you not to steal," said Graeham one day quietly to his latest adopted daughter, a little street urchin who had supported herself with theft.
"It weren't much," she said, hanging her head low. Graeham sighed softly, then drew her to sit on his knee at the kitchen table as he talked to her yet again about how stealing was wrong, and he knew it was hard, but she needed to practice not stealing, only taking things she earned or was given.
Jason moved back and forth at the stove, cooking eggs and ham for a large breakfast. There were muffins in the oven, too; and usually when the boss requested extra muffins it meant Jimmy and Marcus were coming over. Despite his small stature, Jimmy could eat a great deal of muffins, and always did. He stole some, too, although the boss never scolded him about it, not once in Jason's recollection. He could jam food into his pockets and cheeks and scuttle away guiltily and the boss wouldn't blink an eye. Did he think it was too late to change him? Did he consider it part of the man's payment for his jobs?
Jason thought it was some mixture of both, and more than that. Jimmy had worked for Graeham during the war, and the boss had saved his life at least once. It stood to reason he knew Jimmy better than anyone alive except perhaps his boyfriend Marcus, but even Jason knew the bare facts of Jimmy's life.
He'd been a climbing boy — a chimney sweep — when he was small, beaten to make him go up, and starved to keep him small enough to go up for longer. He had run away more than once and eventually scratched out his living on the streets and hiding on rooftop hideaways. He had never learned much respect for authority, or quite stopped seeming hungry all the time. For a little guy (and he was quite small) he really packed it away. Jason got the feeling he was always thinking about where his next meal would come from and what he would do if he was starving to death — beg, steal, come here and take all the muffins? Jason understood in a way, but in another, he found the little guy annoying. He was so obvious about his thievery, he might just as well have accepted a bag of whatever he wanted and said thank you like a decent human being instead of scuttling away with his pockets stuffed.
He and Jason did not speak to one another much.
Jason glanced at the little girl now, seated on Graeham's knee, her head bent. He shook his head in resigned disgust. The girl was holding back a grin, delighted in the attention. The boss was clearly giving her what she wanted most — time with him. It could be difficult to get, and he supposed he wouldn't begrudge her it, if she only wouldn't get it by taking things from the storeroom. He counted on knowing what he had, and not making someone rush out to market because all the raisins were missing and a naughty little girl had a stomachache from gorging on them in bed.
So there would be no raisins in the muffins today.
Once he had the breakfast on the table, hot and steamy and pleasant-smelling, Jason took a plate to eat outside. He liked to sit on the back step, facing the little patch of green connected to the boss's home. It felt peaceful to him, even with the noises and fumes of city life surrounding them. He liked the near-quiet of this hour of the morning, too.
But sometimes he missed the country a great deal. Just whole lanes of greenery, the houses not all jammed together with people packed into them and driven to desperation.
He ate his meal, got up, and went inside — and then wished he'd stayed, because Harrold was there, eating and chatting with Jimmy, and Jason hated Jimmy in that moment, the little thief, taking not just too many muffins but also the attention of Harrold. He would be gone all day, and this could've been Jason's one chance to talk to him. Or just to be near him, to see his smile.
Instead, he'd missed his chance because he'd wanted to eat in quiet, and had thought Harrold wasn't getting up yet anyway. The man had gone to sleep very late, and no one had planned to waken him: he had night duties or something at the hospital, on his official, paid consultation work. Not to mention his unpaid volunteer work with the mechanicalized men — and probably anybody else who asked, soft-hearted fellow that he was.
What beautiful surgeon's fingers he has, thought Jason as Harrold picked up a small, crispy piece of bacon with his fine-boned fingers. He even does that beautifully.
Harrold looked up as he crunched down on the bacon, and smiled at Jason. "Thank you for cooking. Delicious as always."
Jason ducked his head, feeling his cheeks heat. He didn't like to be so affected by the least word of praise…as long as it was from Harrold. But he was, always.
There was a childish snort and a little giggle. Helena's mouth was full as she spoke, spraying crumbs and sounding indistinct. "Why don't you kiss him?"
Harrold blinked, looking confused behind his glasses. Miss Lisha Collins, another of the boss's strays, sent the little girl a disapproving frown. "Don't talk with your mouth full, and don't interrupt the grownups," she scolded.
The little girl made a face at her. "Yer not my mom!" she yelled, and grabbed her food and ran from the table.
Harrold stared after her, blinking, looking confused, but then smiled apologetically up at Jason. He didn't offer any words, and he didn't seem embarrassed. He just sort of shrugged and went back to eating.
But Jason's day had just been ruined. He was awash with shame. If even the little girl saw how he felt about Harrold, did everyone — except Harrold? And perhaps he did too and only tolerated it, pretending not to notice.
"Gotta go buy some raisins," he muttered, and grabbed his jacket and hurried out into the street, head down. He shoved his hands into his pockets, hoping no one would notice his metal arm. Perhaps if he could hide it well enough…
He'd left in a hurry to escape, but he did have the money for raisins, and they did need them. It gave him something to do with these churning thoughts and miserable feelings. He pointed his feet in the right direction and walked.
There was a cough from an alleyway as he passed. "Hey," said a voice he recognized without being able to place it. He turned to look and saw Jess, the fighter, the man who was probably homeless, the man with the large Y-cut scar on his chest.
Jess stood leaning against a brick building. He was smoking the butt of a cigarette right down to the end, and he gave Jason a laconic nod. But his eyes were interested, sharp and clever and curious. And bright with savage hunger.
Jason hadn't lived as long as he had without knowing the look of hun
ger in a man's eyes. It wasn't some philosophical or sexual hunger, either. No, this man was starving. He could probably think of nothing right now except food, and hunger was torturing him. He was probably weak and cold and desperate. But he was standing here smoking and talking to Jason instead of begging or stealing. If he could buy food, he would've — with a look like that in his eye, he'd have used his last penny to buy bread.
Jason shoved his own sore heart and sad thoughts aside and immediately detoured to see the man in the alley. He gave him a perfunctory smile. "How are things?" he asked.
"Can't complain," said Jess, flicking ashes.
Oh, his eyes glittered with such hunger, and yet there was defiance there, too, a kind of rough and tumble ability to take on life even though he'd been knocked down two times already and was going down a third. Still not giving up.
"I have to go to the market. Walk with me?" suggested Jason, jerking his head towards the street.
"Sure." Jess fell fluidly into step with him. His strides were long, and Jason didn't have to slow down for him. Jess almost glittered with desperate hunger, smoking hard as he walked.
"How's Carl?" asked Jason. He glanced at the other man.
Jess winced. "Okay. Probably. He misses whatsisname."
Jess knew Harry's name, probably better than anyone but Carl. Again Jason didn't call him on his lie. "Good. Do you stay over often, or just after boxing?"
"Oh, once in a while," said Jess vaguely, waving a hand airily. He gave Jason a look, as if daring to call him on his lies and evasions. He was living rough, he was desperate, and he loved a man who didn't know he existed, but he had pride. Jason wasn't about to tear it away from him.
He began to talk, in a quiet, stilted voice about the girl who'd eaten all the raisins. Now he had to go and buy more. It was a poor tale, especially without being able to explain all of it properly or even wanting to.
"Do you like working for him?" asked Jess, a hint of strain showing in his voice now.
"He's all right. Good to us all. No favorites." Except maybe Jimmy — but Jimmy probably needed to be someone's favorite after a lifetime of neglect and harsh treatment.
"He might have some job openings soon, if you want to stop by and check," said Jason casually.
It was true: Graeham had started placing men successfully into jobs in the country, helping out sympathetic farmers, and on a few large, posh estates. For the most part, it was working out very well. He'd only matched up people who were hard-working and honest with folks who really wanted to help and needed to hire folks — nobody reluctant on either side.
If he ran out of employers or diligent employees, that was when things would become rough. But for now, he was making it work, new opportunities opening up under his golden touch, where they had been closed for so long. Jason thought there might be some actual progress in the boss's diligent, neverending quest to improve the lives of everybody in need. He had a sort of ruthless compassion that never let him quit.
Jess snorted bitterly. "Yes, accept charity. No, I'm sure I've never heard that before. He's the one that sends out bread to the docks, ain't he? Yeah." His voice held bitter disgust. "And now he's making busy work for the poor soljers, eh? Feh." He spat on the ground.
"He might be compassionate, but that's not the same as making busywork. Believe me, I earn my living working for him." He looked at the man, then closed his mouth. He was actually trembling a little, whether from cold or hunger or something else, Jason didn't know. He just knew this man was desperate and hopeless and lashing out. Talking him out of it wasn't going to happen, because he wasn't feeling reasonable. He was desperate, scared, and backed into a corner.
The market smelled lovely, as it always did. Jason bought a big loaf of bread at the first stand he saw. Without a word, he ripped it in half and gave half to Jess without looking at him. "Forgot my breakfast," he mumbled, and stuffed some of the bread in his mouth.
Jess didn't call him on it and didn't refuse the bread. He ate ravenously. It was delicious, hot and fresh and pungent. They wandered the market looking for the best-priced raisins that weren't going moldy or otherwise inedible.
"Here," said Jess, touching his sleeve and giving it a light tug. "That looks decent."
Jason glanced at him and offered him a smile of thanks. He bought the raisins, and they left together, walking deliberately away from all the delicious scents and foods of the busy marketplace.
Nobody had appeared to notice his metal arm in the hubbub and rush, for which Jason was grateful. But someone had bumped against it hard and then hurried away, giving him a freaked-out look as if he'd guessed enough to be afraid. It always made Jason feel miserable when people gave him that look, as if he was a monster. He'd been on the receiving end of it one way or another for much of his life, but it didn't make it easier.
At least Jess seemed a little less desperate now. He no longer had the knife-hard glitter of desperation in his gaze, but there was still something hollow and pushed to the edge in his face.
Jason surprised himself then. He reached up and pushed a hand back over Jess's hair, a kind of gentle yet rough touch that was meant to comfort, to soothe. "Come on," he said roughly. "Come back with me today."
Jess blinked several times, appearing startled. "What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.
He shrugged. "I mean, I can invite a friend over if I want. Stay. Eat. Stay the night. Just as a friend — I'm not asking more, believe me."
Jess looked at him then, searchingly, and somehow understanding. "Carl said something about you missing someone, too."
"Something like that," hedged Jason, reluctant to spill his wounded heart, wincing away even from the thought. But having Jess around would be a good distraction. He smiled. "And if you're desperate to help, you can always help me peel the potatoes. It takes a lot to feed that crowd, you know."
Jess snorted. "I might just take you up on that. Why not?" He sounded happy now, and Jason was glad. They walked back together, easily in step, and Jason reflected that the boss's relentless compassion was rubbing off on him, if Jason was now dragging home strays as well.
He didn't expect Jess would stay, but just taking him out of the cold and feeding him would be some help. And he wanted to be gentle to this man, wanted to shield him. The world could be such a hard place to live, and it was worse if you didn't have a home or enough to eat.
It also wasn't a lot of fun to have your heart breaking over someone who didn't love you.
#
To Jason's eyes, Jess was cautious and quiet and looked about to bolt any second, even though he seemed to bluster through with fake confidence that fooled everyone else.
Well — perhaps not the boss. Jason met Graeham's gaze for a second, and he saw understanding there. This was a proud and desperate man whom Jason wanted to help if he could. But he was not ready to be helped openly, and could only come here as a friend just now. So consequently Graeham shook the man's hand, pronounced himself pleased to meet one of Jason's friends, and then made himself scarce.
Jess calmed down when the kitchen was less crowded, when he was helping Jason peel potatoes.
He didn't have his bag with him, so Jason could only assume he had somewhere safe to stash it right now, or else had had it stolen. He certainly didn't ask.
Jess's hands had big knuckles that looked bigger because he was so thin. He had long hands, quick and clever with a peeling knife. He had an interesting face and build, slim but muscular, a quick grace about him. But sometimes, when nervous, he seemed all gawky elbows. He had a face that nobody could call handsome, not quite — there were too many angles and awkward rough edges — but when he smiled (showing crooked teeth and a wide, gentle mouth), he looked very appealing. His ears stuck out a little too far, and his eyebrows weren't quite even, but he was appealing even if he was nobody's idea of classically handsome.
Jason and he spoke little as they worked, but that was calm and welcome. Jason moved back and forth, setting things to bake,
moving other things off the stove and then back again. He'd gotten adept at juggling a kitchen, but he was cooking for almost thirty people tonight, what with all of the boss's regulars and guests, the family, and everyone who worked and lived here.
It was a big, busy household, and many of them needed to eat a great deal, whether because they were half-starved or because they had crazy metabolisms to stoke, or because of some other reason such as sheer greed. Either way, it took a mountain of food to satisfy them all, and Jason was in charge of making it most of the time.
He baked potatoes, fried potatoes, and made everybody's favorite cheesy, creamy potato dish to bubble in the oven. There was also some potato soup they took turns stirring.
Jess seemed to enjoy being there with him out of the cold and helping out. But he also ate a lot. Jason made sure of it; he invited Jess to help himself, and then set out bread and butter, cold ham, jam, and dried fruit. Jess ate steadily, buttering and folding up a piece of bread every few minutes, eating it quickly and carefully before returning to the ever-present potato peeling.
They filled the table with scraps and chopped potatoes, and worked together easily in silence.
Jason cut himself, and went to bandage it before he got blood all over the potatoes. He wondered if Harrold would have done it for him, if he were here.
"Let me help," said Jess awkwardly, hovering by his elbow when he saw Jason was struggling to bandage himself with his metal hand and his cut one. "You should probably see a doctor if there's one handy."
Cold Hands, Warm Heart: steampunk gay romance Page 3
