“You…” Wil’s eyebrows had gone up. “You built this?”
“Well, sort of.” Dallin shrugged, flicking another assessing glance about. Not the best example of craftsmanship he’d ever seen, but circumstance had not been his friend in this venture. “I’m not exactly a builder, so I rather commandeered a few who are.”
“It’s a bathhouse,” Wil said, a little redundantly, since his eyes were nailed to the oversized tub stood over the thin bed of coals in the center.
“More of a bath- shed, I think,” said Dallin. Actually, more like four walls slapped up around a fire-pit and a tub, though it had truly been a bitch-and-a-half to level out the frozen ground and smooth it down into a pseudo-floor. “And it’s not going to hold the heat like it should, though if we’re careful and attentive, we should be able to set the coals smoldering and fill the tub in the morning so the bath will be ready, say… after suppertime. And look.” Dallin hustled over to the head of the tub and laid a hand to the pump’s primer. “No filling buckets or coppers. You just pump water in, set the coals smoldering, and wait for the water to heat.” When Wil didn’t say anything, just stared blankly, Dallin rushed on, “And no emptying, either. You just take this hose-sluice-thing, set one end in the tub and the other in the gutter out the door—” More like a rough-dug ditch, but they were making-do here. “—and let it drain by itself.”
Well, Carver had said it might need some suction to get it going, but Dallin saw no need to point that out just yet. Despite the mental picture the instruction had evoked when Carver had said it, the more Dallin looked around now, the more he realized how truly shabby the little place looked. A far cry from the common bathhouse, certainly. This was more-or-less a tub set in the backyard with walls around it. Wood walls with too-thick splotches of resin Dallin hadn’t thought to sand off, tin-roofed and anchored in bare ground, with a jagged vent in the center of the ceiling, because it had taken Dallin almost a dozen tries to get the grip of the metal saw right. He hadn’t even thought to set another pit up for steam or hang hooks for bathsheets.
And Wil was just staring. “How did I not know this was here?” he asked.
“Um, well, it wasn’t.” Dallin shrugged. “We just kind of threw it together while you were busy with Thorne.”
Wil blinked. “You built this.”
Dallin wasn’t quite sure how to interpret the tone of that one—accusation? disbelief? disappointment?—so he merely nodded. “It’s only about fifty paces from the house,” he put in lamely. “And it’s private, so you won’t have to worry about anyone staring at you, and… and… well…”
Wil was silent again, staring about, green gaze taking in everything slowly. “Twenty-three,” he finally said softly and peered up at Dallin, his mouth twitching a tentative half-smile. “Twenty-three paces,” he clarified. “I was counting.”
Dallin almost sighed relief. He should have known. Wil’s earlier comment had been less, ‘ You built this,’ and more, ‘You built this for me’. Dallin was going to have to make a habit of giving Wil gifts more often, just so he could get used to the nuances. The surprise—no, shock—at the realization, the over-bright glimmer of the green eyes, the way Wil couldn’t seem to decide if he should smile or not, the confusion, the Why would you do that? Because he really didn’t know. And Dallin didn’t think he ever would.
“You… built this,” Wil repeated, slowly, like he was tasting the words, trying to get a feel for them.
“You built a bathhouse.”
Honesty made Dallin add, “Carver tapped the pump into the well and laid the piping, and Byldan actually framed the beams and everything. I only really did the walls.” He shrugged again. “I know it’s a bit shabby, but I’ve never really built anything before, and I wanted to make sure it—”
“You put up the walls?” Wil cut in, his gaze less dazed now, and more…
Dallin grinned. There was a definite glint to Wil’s eye that Dallin had got to know and love right away, because there was never any question what Wil meant by it, and it always meant something good. Dallin leaned back against the wall and let his grin go cocky. He nodded. “Which ones?” Wil wanted to know, voice going a touch lower as he shucked his scarf and bulky coat.
Dallin crossed his arms over his chest and jerked his head over his shoulder.
Wil stepped around the tub, laid one hand to the wall to Dallin’s left while the other set to work on the buttons of his thick, fuzzy jumper. “This one?” All of them, actually, but Dallin figured that was hardly Wil’s point. Dallin just nodded then sucked in a sharp breath when Wil tilted in, ran the tip of his cold nose up Dallin’s throat and gave him a quick lick beneath the chin. “So, are you going to fuck me up against the wall that you built for me with your own hands?”
Dallin had never really had the whole clichéd knee-melting experience before he’d met Wil, but now he was rather glad he was already leaning up against the wall. A wall that he’d built, now that he thought about it, and as much as he really, really, really liked Wil’s idea, Dallin thought perhaps fucking up against it was not the wisest thing in the world. He knew very well, after all, exactly how many nails he’d bent, and how many times Byldan had oh-so-politely instructed him to remove and replace various boards because he’d cocked them up when he’d hung them the first three times.
He watched Wil set to work on the top layer of the… it looked like four or five—of the four or five shirts he was wearing. Dallin tipped his mouth in a bit of a smirk and flicked a glance over at the tub. “I carried the tub from the wagon by myself.” Not by choice, but still.
Wil paused, expression going sly as he peered from Dallin to the tub and back to Dallin again.
“Looks pretty big.”
And bloody heavy, too.
“I bet you say that to all the lads,” Dallin retorted.
Wil grinned and sauntered back a few paces, still working on buttons. “Not all the lads can back it up.”
Which was probably as close to a mushy admission— You’re the only one—as Wil would ever let slip. Not because he didn’t mean it, but because he was a smart-arse and wouldn’t give Dallin the satisfaction. Even though he more-or-less ‘said’ it in various ways every day. And oh yeah, it was more than enough. Satisfaction—in every way imaginable—had rather taken on new definition for Dallin since Wil had come into his life.
“Are you going to let me thank you properly, or not?” Wil wanted to know, almost getting down to skin now, and really—was he honestly expecting an intelligent answer?
Dallin was going to have to come up with one anyway. Because this was important. “No,” Dallin managed, and kept his voice soft. He smiled a little at the way Wil’s eyebrows snapped up, and his head tilted, momentary confusion. “I’m going to thank you.”
Slowly, Dallin pushed himself away from the wall and stalked over toward Wil, watching Wil’s eyebrows climb higher. He laid his hands to Wil’s shoulders, let them slide down over strap-muscled arms before pushing the last shirt back and off Wil’s shoulders. Palms warming against perpetually hot skin, Dallin leaned in and laid a gentle kiss to Wil’s temple.
“And you’re going to shut up and let me.”
Because Wil should have everything he wanted. Even if had no idea he wanted it. And even if he’d never understand why someone just might want to give it to him.
End
About the Author
CAROLE CUMMINGS lives with her husband and family in Pennsylvania, USA, where she spends her time trying to find time to write. She’s the recipient of various amateur writing awards, and several of her short stories have been translated into Spanish, German, Chinese, and Polish.
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The Aisling Trilogy Page 109
