He shut the door firmly behind him, pulled the flask from his pocket, and downed it. All of it, until the last drop fell on his tongue. And still, like a man dying of thirst, he wanted more. It was never enough these days. It didn't last the way he needed it to, and sooner or later, everything that he'd been desperate to avoid would inevitably creep back and set him off balance. And if it wasn't something within him, it was Theo doing it: reeling him in close until he thought he was safe and then finding the sorest bruise and jabbing at it hard. For what? For fun? For attention? What did he want? Did the man even know?
He paced, anxiously waiting for that fuzzy, hazy warmth to numb this over. His heart beat in his throat, and his nerves felt like fire, and something else burned in him, awakened once again by their latest argument. And he wanted it gone. He needed it to leave. He needed to be aloof and cool-headed and he needed not to care.
Why did he care? He'd said it himself that he didn't. He'd said that if Theo wanted to have a little fun with their newest bodyguard, whomever he may be, that he wouldn't be bothered by it. But he was. He hated it. The thought alone twisted him up inside in a way that it shouldn't have at all. Theo wasn't his. They'd both agreed to leave it be — to back away and not pursue this. So why did he feel so sick at the thought of the man behaving just as freely as he did? Theo didn't get upset when he'd talked about the brothel, after all. The man knew his habits. He knew where he used to go at night.
Oh, but that bothered Fletcher, too. He stopped in his tracks and his eye narrowed at the realization that he'd wanted to see jealousy. He'd hoped for it. He'd instigated this just as much as Theo had, digging for a reaction, looking for a sign that the man wanted him. He scoffed in disbelief. What were they doing? This was madness. Absolute madness. And he wondered if there was even a way out of it, or if they'd simply both been doomed to break and succumb to this siren's call.
It was fortunate that the whiskey had begun to work its magic. He'd found himself wondering. Bargaining. Finding ways around the rules so he could act on his desires. But every path led to pain — his, Theo's, or both. Was there no way forward, after all? Had he condemned himself to an impossible situation, convinced that he could weather it? And if that was the case...why hold back? To keep from hurting Theo a little longer? To keep from hurting himself? He fell backwards on the bed, arms spread wide, and grunted softly as he hit the mattress. He stared up at the ceiling and watched the world begin to spin, willing the booze to sweep through him and cleanse him of this sickness.
And then he heard it: Theo's voice. Theo, talking to himself. Berating himself. Saying Fletcher deserved better. Wanting to do better. And to his surprise, Fletch smiled at the absurdity of it. He laughed quietly and closed his eye. He allowed himself to drift. "What if I don't want you to be better?" he murmured.
In the days that followed, they went back to their careful dance again, stepping gracefully between the pitfalls of their hopes and wants. But he could feel himself slipping. There were moments when he thought the fire in him would sear his insides until it compelled him under the duress of torture to speak it aloud. Each time, the whiskey did less and less to quench it, and when his hands began to shake from the withdrawals, he could no longer deny that he had another, more serious problem. "Turning into you, old man," he said to Ven's memory as he watched his fingers quiver and felt his throat burn for more drink. "Look what you've done to me. We're all bloody hypocrites, now, aren't we?"
But he held it together: every cracked and broken piece of him. If he thought he smelled of whiskey, he'd cover it up with a cigarette. If he began to shake, he excused himself and blamed the cold. He didn't rightly know if anyone could see it. If they did, they didn't tell him, and he preferred it like that. It was none of their damned business, after all. He'd sort it all out eventually. He'd pick himself back up after midwinter, like he'd told himself before, and he'd carry on like nothing happened.
Only...he wasn't sure this time around. He couldn't tell anymore whether he drank to hide from his want of Theo or just to lay Ven and Ash to rest. It all spun together now, each thread inextricable from the twine. And if he didn't know, then he couldn't say for certain that it would get any better in the spring. And then he buried that thought, too, under more whiskey.
He waited through the weekend and chose an off day to visit The Siren. He wanted to do this thing quietly. Correctly. He wanted fewer witnesses — both to this scheme, and to his asking for a man. Still, Lydia gave him one hell of a look when he finally did. "I didn't have you pegged for the type," she snorted. But she sent Fletch along to a room nonetheless, and the man in question entered shortly thereafter.
He was tall. Taller than Theo, even, but certainly not a waifish beanpole. He had light hair that fell to his shoulders, and startling green eyes that could no doubt draw in men and women alike. His tanned skin suggested some southern blood, as did his full lips. Yes. He'd do. He wasn't Fletcher's type, really. He was uncannily good-looking in that shimmery, fairy-like way that the people of this country seemed to find pleasing for some reason. But if Edwina didn't look at him and see stars, then she was blinder than Fletcher's left eye.
"Like what you see?" he asked with an air of supreme confidence.
Fletch chuckled. "For me? No. For the woman I've got in mind? Yeah. Sit down. I've got a proposition for you."
He took some time to consider it — longer than Fletch had anticipated, honestly. But by the third day, delivered in a pretty, perfumed envelope that made Neish do a double take, they had their answer. By the fourth, he'd cleared the new guard with the Baron, and by the fifth, he'd sorted out the new rotation. Now all there was left to do was set the real plan into motion. So at the evening changing of the guard, when the house had quieted for the night, he dismissed Tiff at the door and slipped in with their new honey trap. He approached Theo where the nobleman sat, leaving a respectful distance between them.
"Theo, meet Neal," he began, keeping his voice low. "Neal, this is Theodore Archer. You're going to come to his rescue."
