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thatrcooperA Very Rhoades Christmas
In which I was going to write a snippet after the events of Wicklow's Odyssey with all kinds of smut in it, and wound up distracted by a jealous Rhoades. But he's so adorable when he's pouting.
(Some slight spoilers for the novel, but nothing too bad I don't think. Also, unedited because this was for Tumblr)
Thank you to everyone who turned up to my Meet The Author chat. You were wonderful! *mwah*
For Lucy
“Alexander.”
Alexander stopped the scratch of his pen at the sound of his name, so rarely voiced outside of the bedroom. Wicklow called him Rhoades the rest of the time yet Alexander could not make himself mind. It added weight and meaning to something simple. He was Rhoades until Wicklow was trembling beneath him. Then he was Alexander, and his vicious warrior became soft and needy and sweetly unsure. Wicklow had a way of separating parts of himself, a strange system of division he barely seemed conscious of but which allowed him to do what must be done without regard for his personal well-being. It served his work well, even if it had given Alexander more than one sleepless night. He had asked Wicklow once to call him Alexander whenever he wished, not just when they were alone for the night, but now he understood. Wicklow wanted to protect himself and Alexander would allow him to, though it knifed through him each and every time he thought of it.
He glanced up to the doorway to his library where Wicklow had appeared with no warning, long hours after the time he would usually have made an appearance. Wicklow never showed up when dinner was being served. Alexander suspected it was pride, some misguided and incorrect worry that he’d be viewed as expecting a handout, though Alexander knew better than to address the issue directly. There was a silver serving cart by the settee bearing plates of trifle and tarts as well as a pot of coffee, now long since cold.
The cart was there every night if Wicklow and the team were in Washington, and Wicklow undoubtedly knew it was just for him. Yet he would not speak of that any more than Alexander would. His beloved was a complicated man. Luckily Alexander enjoyed being kept on his toes.
He swept a quick gaze over Wicklow, searching for a reason for his late arrival or any troubles on the horizon, and found nothing except a sweep of color in Wicklow’s pale cheeks that might have been from the frosty air outside if not for the accompanying shine in his deep blue eyes.
Those eyes were fixed on Alexander with that remarkable intensity that had struck Alexander the first time he’d seen them. Wicklow’s hair was growing overlong once more, sending waves of black over his forehead, and there was a mark from his magnifying goggles that meant he’d been working that day. But his hands were clean, if bare to the elements, and someone, no doubt Agent Sancho, had gifted him with a long scarf of white and blue dyed wool.
Alexander instantly conceived of a thousand different ways of removing the scarf, ensuring its destruction, and replacing it with a scarf of his choosing. He would act on none of the plans, but they were a comfort in what had otherwise been a long, lonely Christmas Eve.
The coat was Wicklow’s, black and thick and fine, his one grand purchase, as he called it, with the money from his work. It was entirely practical in the wet chill of winter in the capital. His shirt and collar were also his, plain white. There was no touch of Alexander about him and Alexander tried not to frown. At least Louis was not there to call him a petulant child for being jealous of a scarf. His friend was too observant by far.
He did not need to dress Wicklow. It was almost enough to fed him and care for him, bathe him when Wicklow allowed it, loan him books and sit with him as he read them. It had been an unpleasant week, and though Alexander was not a religious man, he had hoped for another quiet, contented evening in his library for his night before Christmas. He would have enjoyed feeding Wicklow sweets and brandy and basking in his pleasure before finally taking him up to bed.
Now the hour was late and from the scarf, Alexander could guess as to why. Wicklow had been spending the evening with his teammates.
By all rights Alexander should not be begrudge him that. By all rights Wicklow should have been warmed by the fire and brandy and sinking into the cushions on the settee by now, and Alexander would have come out from behind his desk to sit next to him.
Alexander realized he had been staring and cleared his throat to belatedly answer. “Private?”
“Private? Am I Private Doyle tonight?” Wicklow furrowed his brow, appearing older than his years for a moment, if just as serious as ever.
Alexander was not a nice man. He had ideals, as Wicklow liked to remind him, but he was a man who did not forget slights, who bided his time and sought vengeance even after years had gone by. But at that uncertain frown, he instantly forgave Wicklow for the unknowing sin of accepting a scarf from the one woman capable of making Alexander feel as foolish as a boy.
She was as a sister to Wicklow and had shown no interest in him, but still Alexander’s stomach tightened to think of her anywhere near his beloved.
“You are always Private Doyle, you know that.” Alexander stayed in his seat and swept another glance over Wicklow, trying to determine the cause of his mood. “The infamous Wicklow Doyle.” Wicklow’s lips were ever so slightly blue. Alexander was out of his seat and across the room in moments. “Won’t you come closer to the fire? Allow me to take your coat and scarf since you will not let the servants do it.”
Alexander exhaled with delight when Wicklow held still and permitted himself to be partially undressed. He took the coat, as well as the scarf, to an empty chair, though the melting snow would create damp patches and stain the wood.
Wicklow looked over the room. “You were alone?”
Alexander kept back his questions just in time and smoothed the consternation from his expression. In his mind, in his body, just behind his heart, was a sensation not unlike the first spark of what would become a roaring fire.
Wicklow had thought Alexander would have company and had kept himself away. As always, his concern and discretion were both misguided and exquisite. The entire town knew they were lovers. They had thought it long before it had actually happened. Indeed, Washington had known Alexander’s feelings long before Wicklow had accepted them. Some had even thought to use Wicklow against him in those days. Alexander’s retribution had been swift and public, as well as merciless enough to make Louis proud. He doubted anyone would try again.
But those were things Wicklow did not know. At least, those were things Wicklow had never directly acknowledged as he continued to rent his lonely single room at a boarding house and pretend in public that he was just another member of Alexander’s Sacred Band of spies. He protected Alexander and Alexander protected him, and Louis might call it foolish, but Louis would do the same for his precious girl-soldier though he would deny it to his death bed.
Alexander straightened and smiled. “Private, I was alone but I am alone no longer.” Unlike Wicklow he was sober, but he spoke as a drunk man. Wicklow ducked his head for a moment then glared up at him.
“You were waiting on me. I didn’t know.” Wicklow reached out as Alexander came back over to him, then paused, then shook himself and pressed himself against Alexander as he did when they had been apart for much longer than a day. “I would have been here if you’d told me. It’s cold.” His complaint was muttered against Alexander’s cravat. It was Alexander's favorite cravat, a deep blue silk the exact shade of Wicklow’s eyes. Wicklow never noticed. It only endeared him to Alexander more. Alexander was a fool just as Louis said he was.
“How much did you have to drink, Private?” Alexander turned so his nose was at the chilled skin of Wicklow’s ear. Wicklow shivered and Alexander thought of him standing outside for far too long, studying the house and wondering if he ought to come in. Alexander tightened his hold on Wicklow. “Do not wait.” He gave Wicklow no chance to answer his first question and buried his face in Wicklow’s neck, which was at least somewhat warm thanks to Agent Sancho’s scarf. He curled his fingers into Wicklow’s hair and Wicklow shivered again. “Take my welcome for granted and do not wait again.”
“She said if I was going to wait, I should be warmer,” Wicklow murmured, curling his icy fingers into Alexander’s waistcoat. “You’ve no cause to scowl at a bit of wool, Rhoades.”
His warrior was no less sharp for the cold and a few glasses of whiskey. Alexander let out a breath. “Alexander,” he corrected, for the library could serve as well as the bedroom, and they had hours of night left.
Wicklow’s hands slid up to tangle in inky blue silk. “Alexander.”
In which I was going to write a snippet after the events of Wicklow's Odyssey with all kinds of smut in it, and wound up distracted by a jealous Rhoades. But he's so adorable when he's pouting.
(Some slight spoilers for the novel, but nothing too bad I don't think. Also, unedited because this was for Tumblr)
Thank you to everyone who turned up to my Meet The Author chat. You were wonderful! *mwah*
For Lucy
“Alexander.”
Alexander stopped the scratch of his pen at the sound of his name, so rarely voiced outside of the bedroom. Wicklow called him Rhoades the rest of the time yet Alexander could not make himself mind. It added weight and meaning to something simple. He was Rhoades until Wicklow was trembling beneath him. Then he was Alexander, and his vicious warrior became soft and needy and sweetly unsure. Wicklow had a way of separating parts of himself, a strange system of division he barely seemed conscious of but which allowed him to do what must be done without regard for his personal well-being. It served his work well, even if it had given Alexander more than one sleepless night. He had asked Wicklow once to call him Alexander whenever he wished, not just when they were alone for the night, but now he understood. Wicklow wanted to protect himself and Alexander would allow him to, though it knifed through him each and every time he thought of it.
He glanced up to the doorway to his library where Wicklow had appeared with no warning, long hours after the time he would usually have made an appearance. Wicklow never showed up when dinner was being served. Alexander suspected it was pride, some misguided and incorrect worry that he’d be viewed as expecting a handout, though Alexander knew better than to address the issue directly. There was a silver serving cart by the settee bearing plates of trifle and tarts as well as a pot of coffee, now long since cold.
The cart was there every night if Wicklow and the team were in Washington, and Wicklow undoubtedly knew it was just for him. Yet he would not speak of that any more than Alexander would. His beloved was a complicated man. Luckily Alexander enjoyed being kept on his toes.
He swept a quick gaze over Wicklow, searching for a reason for his late arrival or any troubles on the horizon, and found nothing except a sweep of color in Wicklow’s pale cheeks that might have been from the frosty air outside if not for the accompanying shine in his deep blue eyes.
Those eyes were fixed on Alexander with that remarkable intensity that had struck Alexander the first time he’d seen them. Wicklow’s hair was growing overlong once more, sending waves of black over his forehead, and there was a mark from his magnifying goggles that meant he’d been working that day. But his hands were clean, if bare to the elements, and someone, no doubt Agent Sancho, had gifted him with a long scarf of white and blue dyed wool.
Alexander instantly conceived of a thousand different ways of removing the scarf, ensuring its destruction, and replacing it with a scarf of his choosing. He would act on none of the plans, but they were a comfort in what had otherwise been a long, lonely Christmas Eve.
The coat was Wicklow’s, black and thick and fine, his one grand purchase, as he called it, with the money from his work. It was entirely practical in the wet chill of winter in the capital. His shirt and collar were also his, plain white. There was no touch of Alexander about him and Alexander tried not to frown. At least Louis was not there to call him a petulant child for being jealous of a scarf. His friend was too observant by far.
He did not need to dress Wicklow. It was almost enough to fed him and care for him, bathe him when Wicklow allowed it, loan him books and sit with him as he read them. It had been an unpleasant week, and though Alexander was not a religious man, he had hoped for another quiet, contented evening in his library for his night before Christmas. He would have enjoyed feeding Wicklow sweets and brandy and basking in his pleasure before finally taking him up to bed.
Now the hour was late and from the scarf, Alexander could guess as to why. Wicklow had been spending the evening with his teammates.
By all rights Alexander should not be begrudge him that. By all rights Wicklow should have been warmed by the fire and brandy and sinking into the cushions on the settee by now, and Alexander would have come out from behind his desk to sit next to him.
Alexander realized he had been staring and cleared his throat to belatedly answer. “Private?”
“Private? Am I Private Doyle tonight?” Wicklow furrowed his brow, appearing older than his years for a moment, if just as serious as ever.
Alexander was not a nice man. He had ideals, as Wicklow liked to remind him, but he was a man who did not forget slights, who bided his time and sought vengeance even after years had gone by. But at that uncertain frown, he instantly forgave Wicklow for the unknowing sin of accepting a scarf from the one woman capable of making Alexander feel as foolish as a boy.
She was as a sister to Wicklow and had shown no interest in him, but still Alexander’s stomach tightened to think of her anywhere near his beloved.
“You are always Private Doyle, you know that.” Alexander stayed in his seat and swept another glance over Wicklow, trying to determine the cause of his mood. “The infamous Wicklow Doyle.” Wicklow’s lips were ever so slightly blue. Alexander was out of his seat and across the room in moments. “Won’t you come closer to the fire? Allow me to take your coat and scarf since you will not let the servants do it.”
Alexander exhaled with delight when Wicklow held still and permitted himself to be partially undressed. He took the coat, as well as the scarf, to an empty chair, though the melting snow would create damp patches and stain the wood.
Wicklow looked over the room. “You were alone?”
Alexander kept back his questions just in time and smoothed the consternation from his expression. In his mind, in his body, just behind his heart, was a sensation not unlike the first spark of what would become a roaring fire.
Wicklow had thought Alexander would have company and had kept himself away. As always, his concern and discretion were both misguided and exquisite. The entire town knew they were lovers. They had thought it long before it had actually happened. Indeed, Washington had known Alexander’s feelings long before Wicklow had accepted them. Some had even thought to use Wicklow against him in those days. Alexander’s retribution had been swift and public, as well as merciless enough to make Louis proud. He doubted anyone would try again.
But those were things Wicklow did not know. At least, those were things Wicklow had never directly acknowledged as he continued to rent his lonely single room at a boarding house and pretend in public that he was just another member of Alexander’s Sacred Band of spies. He protected Alexander and Alexander protected him, and Louis might call it foolish, but Louis would do the same for his precious girl-soldier though he would deny it to his death bed.
Alexander straightened and smiled. “Private, I was alone but I am alone no longer.” Unlike Wicklow he was sober, but he spoke as a drunk man. Wicklow ducked his head for a moment then glared up at him.
“You were waiting on me. I didn’t know.” Wicklow reached out as Alexander came back over to him, then paused, then shook himself and pressed himself against Alexander as he did when they had been apart for much longer than a day. “I would have been here if you’d told me. It’s cold.” His complaint was muttered against Alexander’s cravat. It was Alexander's favorite cravat, a deep blue silk the exact shade of Wicklow’s eyes. Wicklow never noticed. It only endeared him to Alexander more. Alexander was a fool just as Louis said he was.
“How much did you have to drink, Private?” Alexander turned so his nose was at the chilled skin of Wicklow’s ear. Wicklow shivered and Alexander thought of him standing outside for far too long, studying the house and wondering if he ought to come in. Alexander tightened his hold on Wicklow. “Do not wait.” He gave Wicklow no chance to answer his first question and buried his face in Wicklow’s neck, which was at least somewhat warm thanks to Agent Sancho’s scarf. He curled his fingers into Wicklow’s hair and Wicklow shivered again. “Take my welcome for granted and do not wait again.”
“She said if I was going to wait, I should be warmer,” Wicklow murmured, curling his icy fingers into Alexander’s waistcoat. “You’ve no cause to scowl at a bit of wool, Rhoades.”
His warrior was no less sharp for the cold and a few glasses of whiskey. Alexander let out a breath. “Alexander,” he corrected, for the library could serve as well as the bedroom, and they had hours of night left.
Wicklow’s hands slid up to tangle in inky blue silk. “Alexander.”
