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Chartreuse curtains parted to reveal a sliver of the manor's gardens. Just visible was the water fountain; water emerging in a steady trickle from the arrow of a stone cherub and the neat little path (the gardener was employed for several hours a week and was good at his job) wound just out of sight in the direction of the forest. The gardens of Drake Manor stretched for acres with most of the land uncultivated and only ever in use for garden parties; when the women played croquet on the lawn and the men went hunting. Tim didn't get a choice in which he did - he or rather 'she' was a lady; an up and coming member of society who must act like one. So whilst the men left he stayed, stiffly holding a pastel mallet and trying to line up a shot without ripping the seams in a sickly pastel dress that was so tight he could hardly move. Tim watched the men leave on their trip with envy and received a tut from his mother; telling him not to slouch and to try to smile.
The meadows gradually shifted into a thicket where the men would stalk, single file with rifles in their hands; here the trees became more tight-knit the further you delved. The path growing steadily wilder and the ground underfoot slippery; last year one of the men from a neighboring family; the Cobblepots, had broken his arm after taking a nasty fall over a loose rock. Tim had only ever gone so far into them but they fascinated him all the same. There was, however, one who could navigate the woods with fervour - The Huntsman.
Jack Drake was rarely home (this, for instance was one of those times) but one rare occasion that sticks out in Tim's mind is the first time his father took him hunting. Just the two of them. It had been only a week since his mother's death and his father was on leave, would be for almost two months. The longest he'd stayed at the Manor with Tim as far back as he could remember. It was his twelfth birthday; his first birthday without his mother. It was rare she'd be home for more than a few hours on his birthday but she always remembered. Always. Lemon cake with buttercream icing and so many candles that the little plate sparkled like a bonfire. There was no cake - Father had forgotten to order one from the baker but he decided to make it up to his son with the trip, something for just the pair of them that Tim had always asked for but never been allowed. Jack didn't know how to bond with a daughter; it didn't come easily for him but he acquiesced - and when she came down the staircase in pants and a tunic, Jack had gritted his teeth and grabbed the supplies. Heading out the door without looking back again.
"Hurry up" Jack barked for what must have been the fifth time in several minutes. They'd only been walking fifteen minutes but the girl seemed to be stuck in a daydream. In actuality, Tim was transfixed by the forest. The way the roots of the trees were mangled like the bony fingers of an old man, the shades of green from a velvety emerald to a deep viridian. The human eye can see more shades of green than any other color. Tim had read that in a book once. Tim had read lots of things in books; had stored the knowledge as best he could like cramming all his clothes into a drawer and hoping it wouldn't burst. Jack Drake turned once more with a huff and yanked Tim by the arm, pulling him away from the edge of the forest and into step with him.
Tim's mind snapped back to the present as a blu of movement at the edge of the treeline caught his eye. Tim poked his head through the curtains to get a better look and there he saw him. The Huntsman.
He was a tall man, muscled and broad like an ox though he could only be a couple years older than Tim. 'He' only for the fact that Tim (though he was ashamed to say) did not know his name and the one time he'd asked his father for it several months ago he'd been scolded "They're the help, Timothy - you do not need to learn their names" Father doesn't like when Tim talks to any of the servants - only Mrs Mac (no first name of course) who brought the groceries weekly and had been his nanny as a child. She'd been with the family a long time and had been his mother's nanny too so even though she could be dotty and forgetful at times, it'd be wrong to fire her.
Tim eyed the Grandfather clock; she would be downstairs this very minute now with a delivery of home-baked croissants with flaky pastry or little tinctures of jam.
Tim should really go and greet her, to have their meager and inevitable conversation:
How are you?
I'm well, thank you
Good. Nice weather we're having.
Absolutely.
And your father?
Still in Belgium
Ah
Then she would hand over the basket, promising that she'd outdone herself with some brand new sweet treat for him to try and go. Leaving him alone in a mausoleum of a house.
Instead Tim stayed where he was and watched The Huntsman, axe strapped to his back, trekking toward the manor with a sweat glistened brow. He carried armfuls of chopped wood; his arms were bare and Tim could see a trickle of blood leaking down his forearm. A hastily wound bandage already spotted with red. So Tim craned his neck further, making out the - was that a claw mark?!?! When suddenly the man's head whipped up and locked eyes with Tim, doing so with such an intensity that it felt like the world turned to slow motion. Tim's brain urged his legs to move but somewhere the firing synapses were not reaching and he remained, frozen to the spot like a marble statue. To his credit, the Huntsman didn't lower his gaze but kept it steady - they were an odd color. An unnatural color. A shade of green that Tim had never seen before; acidic and turbulent like a storm over an ocean; like a vat of chemicals. His expression otherwise was impossible to read (Tim however was openly gaping; mouth ajar and eyes slightly wide) Then he winked.
He.
Winked.
This seemed to finally be the catalyst for his body to start moving again, and deal with the backlog of pent up thoughts. Immediately he was scrambling back from the window, everything back in hyperspeed. His foot caught on the edge of the curtain's fabric pooled on the floor and was sent sprawling, hitting his back against his desk with a loud thwack.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
And also ouch - there was a light scrape running the length of his back where he'd caught the sharp edge of the desk. Fan-fucking-tastic. Of course this was no comparison to the injury that the Huntsman was sporting; it was like a gouge barely covered by the ripped fabric that had been tied over it. Tim grimaced at the thought and let out a deep breath, pulling himself gingerly to his feet and letting out a stifled groan. Eventually, after shaking some sense into himself, he tentatively crept back to the window (carefully watching his footing; not wanting a repeat of before) and looked out. Nothing - the view of the garden was completely empty with only the stone cherub; peering up at him with a knowing smirk.
The Huntsman was already gone.
Gauze.
Bandages.
Alcohol.
Needle and thread.
Tim carried the med-pack across the lawn tightly to his chest; he wasn't supposed to be out without a chaperone, not that that stopped him of course - it was just that going to the servant's quarters was something he'd never done before. Not that he was nervous or anything! But even so, Tim kept a tight grip on the leather satchel till his knuckles turned bone white and looked over his shoulder several times on the way.
The sun was high in the sky - it would be a fair day, especially for Spring. Tim hadn't changed out of the clothes he was wearing; which was part of the reason he was so nervous making his way across the lawn in his sandy trousers and white tunic. He'd be expected to be wearing a dress; not to have his hair tied back and to be wearing clunky walking boots he's managed to pilfer after one of the hiking trips that were a size too big. But he felt determined; medical supplies weren't cheap and even if the Huntsman didn't want his help he'd need the supplies. That type of wound could easily get infected and then... Tim stopped his thoughts from spiralling as he approached the rows of cottages that made up the Servant's little corner of the grounds. There weren't many; most got carriages from the city or walked in the morning and did the same by nightfall - these were for the men and women needed overnight. There had been more when Tim was little. When his mother was still here...
He skirted the edges of the path, sticking to the shadows of eaves and porches until he approached a lone cabin, distinct in its isolation from the others. Like a stubborn child that refuses to play with the other children. It was neat from the outside, rose bushes lining the path and the sweet smell of peonies in the air. Tim hopped up the three stone stairs and before he lost his nerve, sharply knocked three times on the door.
A beat.
The sound of footfall; heavy footsteps. The type made by hiking boots with steel caps.
Tim steeled himself as the door swung open suddenly to reveal the Huntsman, a pistol pointed straight at Tim's heart.
A beat. Then another.
Tim's heart was jackhammering in his chest as he craned his neck to meet the eyes of the Huntsman who seemed so much taller than him. Tim wasn't short by any means but this man had a whole foot on him easily - probably more. Maybe that was exaggerating but Tim, when faced with the end of a gun barrel, was allowed to exaggerate.
Something flickered in the Huntsman's eyes and with a tight frown he lowered the pistol, and in a swift movement holstered it on his belt.
"What are you doing here?"
"You were hurt" Tim swallowed then gestured to the bandage on the man's arm that barely concealed the, now very obvious, claw mark. "I brought bandages to patch you up. If you wanted. I'm trained. I could help."
"Look Princess, that's very kind of you--"
"Don't call me that" Tim snapped suddenly before he could stop himself.
The man blinked a few times before finally speaking again
"Very kind of you, Prince, But I'm fine - I got this" He had a thick accent, Tim couldn't place it but he knew that he liked it.
"Oh and your version of handling it is getting gangrene?" Tim retorted and swung the medical pack deftly with his left hand. The man snorted despite himself and then finally:
"Fine. But only to patch me up, then you run on back home. Got it?"
"loud and clear"
"That's my name; don't wear it out" Tim spun to where the Huntsman stood, cleaning the kitchen worktop. Something must have shown in his tone since the man stopped his methodical scrubbing and looked at Tim again with that same piercing gaze he'd seen earlier. Those same eyes that now, here looked a cooler green. Like that of grass under a summer sky, like the stem of playful dandelions he used to make chains with. Crowns. Bounding over to his mother to gift her the chain, looping it around her neck.
"Something else you'd rather I call you?"
It could be a trick question. It could be to catch him out - maybe he'd rat to Tim's father. Maybe he'd tell one of the gossip mills and it'd be a headline within a few days. A beat passed until the Huntsman suddenly blurted out - "Jason"
Tim must have looked confused and he clarified "My name - it's Jason."
"That's a nice name" Tim answered awkwardly. Then Jason let out a bark of a laugh and Tim couldn't help but laugh too - he wasn't sure why he was laughing. Neither of them were, really. It was just one of those times when it was the only appropriate response. Finally he answered:
"Tim. Timothy actually but... I like Tim"
"I like it"
"Really?"
"Yes really"
Tim blushed and busied himself with unwrapping the bandages and running the hot water to disinfect the needle and the syringe.
"Don't bother" Jason said suddenly as Tim reached for the syringe after setting the needle down. "I don't need it"
Tim rolled his eyes and picked up the syringe anyway " It's a big wound - I get you're trying to be macho but--"
"I don't need it. Really" Jason repeated and when Tim met his gaze he knew that he was serious. Very serious. Tim left the syringe where it was and took the needle and the other supplies to the counter that Jason had just finished cleaning, setting them down in a neat pile and hopping onto the stool across from where Jason was already sitting. Tim looked up and met Jason's eyes - this was the closest they'd ever been. Jason - it really was a nice name.
Jason cleared his throat and began unpicking the bandages "Better make a start shouldn't we?"
Tim worked in silence diligently for ten minutes, head bent with the little gas lamp beside them flickering. Sometimes he'd sense Jason's gaze but whenever he discreetly tried to catch him in the act he always missed it. As he neared the midway point Tim finally piped up without looking away from his work:
"So how did you get it?"
"How did you get to be so goddamn nosy" Jason answered with the hint of a smile.Tim paused and peered up at him.
"Hey! It's hard not to notice. Pick a fight with a bear or something?"
Jason was silent for a long while before finally answering: "Yeah something like that"
Tim frowned but stayed silent. These were claw marks - larger than the hands of any normal man. Jason should be counting himself lucky that the wound hadn't hit an artery.
"Don't worry - the other guy looks worse"
"So it was a guy then?"
"What can I say? I have some crazy exes" Tim blushed at the insinuation but kept his head down letting Jason continue "It was someone I used to know... not an ex. Well--" He hesitated searching for the right word. Jason didn't know if all the words in the world could sum it up "We were partners, for a long time - he was like a father to me, took me in even though he didn't need to but now..." He trailed off and when Tim looked up he saw that Jason's gaze was hardened as he looked out of the window. The view of the gardens with the Manor slightly in the distance. This was not what Jason was seeing. Only he knew that.
"And this man... he did this to you?" Tim asked, trying to keep his tone calm and make sure these final stitches were straight. Though his hand threatened to waiver.
"Don't worry about it, Prince" Jason turned to look back down at Tim.
A stitch.
Another.
He tied off, snipping the extra.
Tim set the scissors down on the table and looked up. His hand still resting on Jason's forearm. Jason gently moved forward and cleared a strand of hair from Tim's face tucking it behind his ear. But instead of taking his hand away he kept it there, resting against the side of Tim's neck.
"You have really nice eyes" Jason said, finally breaking the silence. "Very blue... but not just that" Tim tried not to turn from his piercing gaze "They have little flecks of amber, like starlight. Like a sun exploding"
"Who knew you were a poet" Tim whispered and the side of Jason's mouth quirked up and he bent his head forward conspiratorially. Like he was telling a secret.
"Y'know I used to want to study English"
"Really?" Tim couldn't help the shock in his voice.
"Hey! Don't sound so surprised" Jason laughed, feigning annoyance. "I'll have you know I was the top of my class"
"Teacher's pet" Tim retorted with a grin.
"You're one to talk - I heard you're one of the smartest this side of Gotham"
"So... how did a smart guy like you end up a huntsman?"
Suddenly Jason pushed back from the table and stood up making Tim jump in surprise. "Where are my manners - you want something to drink? Or a snack or whatever." He turned his back to Tim and headed toward the rows of cupboards, throwing them open at seemingly random and deliberating their contents. "Sorry If my selection isn't as fancy as what you're used to Prince--"
Tim rolled his eyes "I'm sure I can suffer through it"
"I made scones" Jason offered like this wasn't a revelation for Tim.
"You made scones. You made scones"
"You seem to have a lot of assumptions about me--" Jason turned back, leaning against the counter "Don't you know not to judge a book by its cover?"
"I'm not. It's just hard to imagine you baking. Since you're so..."
"So?" Jason laughed before setting about preparing the scones, grabbing two plates and a slab of butter from a ceramic dish, spreading copious amounts on the sweet treats and topping them off with sliced strawberries. Tim watched in awe. Jason brought the finished plates over as well as a pitcher of lemonade (homemade as well since apparently Jason was a man of many talents) depositing them on the table with a flourish.
They were the best damn scones Tim had ever had. He took a bite and it was like he was instantly in heaven because wow these were so good.
"Like I said - probably doesn't compare to the 5 star gourmet chefs"
"I love it" Tim said around another mouthful of scone then swallowed and spoke again "These are by far the best scones I've ever had"
"And I'd say that these are the best stitches I've ever had" Jason motioned to his bandaged forearm "Like these are scarily neat; kinda like a robot did them. My stitches always end up wonky"
"Well... if you ever need stitches I'm your guy"
"And if you ever need some really fucking good scones - you know where to go"
"They are really fucking good"
"I know" Jason agreed, pouring himself a glass of lemonade, then pausing and pouring some for Tim as well.
"So how did you learn to make them"
Jason hesitated for a moment; keeping his eyes focused on the rim of his glass, inspecting for miniscule specks of dirt or chips.
"Where I used to live... there was a guy. A really great guy - Alfie. Alfred" Jason cleared his throat before speaking again "Anyway he was a butler, more than that but I suppose that was his job description. He taught me to cook after he caught me skulking around the kitchens. I always liked it there when I was a kid; hearing the hum of an oven, the warmth. The smell of freshly baked dough. And so I could spend more time there I asked him if he'd teach me and to my surprise he did. He taught me a lot. We'd spend hours going over recipes, sometimes we talked. About school and my friends or Alfred and his life before the job. But we mostly stayed silent. Sometimes being able to be silent with someone is more important than anything you have to say"
A long beat.
There was the sound of birdsong outside and the distant hum of bees.
"He sounds like a great guy. You must miss him" Tim said, gauging Jason's reaction.
"He was the best. Is the best" Jason corrected himself before taking a long sip of his glass, draining it in one swallow.
"Why don't you visit him?"
Tim knew what he was asking - he'd assumed that Jason had no relatives. Was an orphan but this apparently was not the case. Why else would he refuse vacation leave and instead stay on the property year round?
Jason seemed to weigh up the answer "I've changed and he hasn't. It's better that he remembers who I was before. That it isn't tainted by seeing me again"
"If someone truly loved you, then they would love you no matter what." Tim said.
"You read too many fairy tales" Jason replied with a shake of his head before finishing the last of his scone.
"Is that such a bad thing? Is it such a bad thing to look for a positive--"
"Naivety can get you killed" Jason interjected forcefully, there was an edge to his voice that wasn't there before "Take it from me Prince, things aren't as simple as you want them to be. Happily ever afters? They don't exist" Now his eyes seemed to be a cold green, so bright that Tim was sure that if the curtains were drawn and the gas lamp burnt out his eyes would glow, bringing an acidic aura to the room.
There was a long beat, unlike the previous ones, here the tension could be sliced with a knife. Cleaved through as easily as a slash through butter. Tim toyed with the mismatching cutlery by his plate, setting them neatly in a criss-cross formation on his plate.
"I'll wash up" Tim suggested, already on his feet, plate in hand and reaching for Jason's.
"You don't have to do that" Jason responded quickly, both of their hands, one on either side, taking hold of Jason's plate. "Let me help you"
They stood side by side for a while at the sink, Jason washing and Tim drying, their little chain methodical. They didn't speak but worked in a steady rhythm. Lather, rinse, dry, stack, repeat. The pair did so until all the dishes were washed and neatly put away in cupboards, where there was a space for everything. Tim passed a cup to Jason and motioned to the highest shelf, the one he couldn't reach, and Jason did it for him, stepping back and slinging the tea towel on a hook.
"I'm sorry for snapping like that" Jason said quietly. Tim turned to face him.
"It's fine" He replied
"It's really not" Jason sighed deeply, the sigh of a man far older than Jason. Someone who carried the weight of the world on their shoulders: "Maybe you should think about going home, Prince. It'll be getting dark soon"
"Yeah, I guess I should" Tim replied, he was close to Jason now. Could see the rise and fall of his chest. Neither of them made to move away. Jason then reached out, closing the distance between them and placing his palm on Tim's cheek. His heartbeat quickened to a jackhammer. Like the tick of a countdown toward an explosion. Racing.
"Is this okay?" Jason asked and Tim nodded, moving further into the touch, holding Jason's lower arm, careful to avoid the bandage, tightly taut by his own nimble fingers.
"Did you know that the human eye can see more shades of green than any other color?" Tim breathed. Jason snorted in reply and fidgeted with a strand of Tim's hair, twirling it between his fingers; the rich mahogany catching the light and turning a burnt umber. Tim focused on Jason's eyes; how tranquil they looked now. Like the eye of a storm.
"I've never seen eyes like yours before" Tim said, shifting onto his tip-toes so he could look Jason in the eye, placing a hand on his nape to steady his balance.
"I've never met anyone like you before" Jason replied, the hint of a blush coloring his cheeks. "Tim?"
"Mhm?"
"Can I kiss you?" Jason asked tentatively, like reaching for a light switch in the dark. Tim gave a single nod before leaning in, Jason's hand moving to his waist and pulling him against his body. And though he knew that stories don't have happily ever afters, Tim was content in the thought that some chapters do.