#gave em the lil ol switcheroo

[early-sxnsets]

Sharing

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17343617/chapters/41375339

Chapter 7/11 of Of Wealth and Leisure

Word Count: 3502

Summary: A shared moment of intimacy is granted to Mr. Pitch and Sir Snow through Mr. Pitch's recovery period.

Doctor Wellbelove and Agatha take an afternoon railway back home the next day.

I wave them off, promising Agatha I’ll write to her and Penelope before winter falls. The rain from days ago starts up again, leaving puddles for their carriage to splash into as the sound of clomping hooves clashing with water. Under the shelter of the overhang, I watch as they slowly trail off until all that remains of them is the road they’d taken, waving around trees and the deep greens of late summer.

Before making my way back inside and inevitably back to Mr. Pitch’s room, I draw in a deep breath and exhale slowly through my nose, contemplating my emotions briefly. There’s a mild temptation trying to tug me towards Ebb’s house in hopes of unloading my mind, but I don’t feel like getting wet would be beneficial to me overall. Catching my death doesn’t sound appealing.

Therefore, I dismiss the idea and step back into the comfort of the manor. I make my way around, collecting lunch and a few books for Mr. Pitch and I  before walking up and knocking lightly at his bedroom door. A soft, sleepy rumble of “Come in” beckons me inside.

Lying amongst extra blankets with his leg propped up in the air, I find Mr. Pitch comfortably rising from his nap while still fully dressed in the night clothes he’d fallen asleep in evening before. His lips pull when he sees me, leading me to believe that he is still a bit loopy on the drugs Doctor Wellbelove had left for him to ease the pain.

“Ah, you’ve brought me lunch,” he hums, nose wrinkling right at his too-high bridge. “Come come, sit with me.”

There’s an odd appeal about Mr. Pitch being medicated; he’s more carefree. The absolute gentlest state I’ve seen this man in has been this past morning as he got portioned out small bits of opium. It calms his nerves and softens his edges, making him smile up at me like I’m the most important man in the world.

Is it an abuse of situational luck? I wouldn’t say so, given I’m not throwing myself at him like a dog in heat. Instead, I’m taming my growing knowledge of my platonic warmth towards him as I force myself into somewhat of an exposure therapy. The more I’m around him, the more my interest in him calms when we interact.

At moments like these, when he’s not trying to nip at my throat, I can settle in my skin beside him and read aloud or entertain him with a game of checkers. It’s not difficult to get him to interact, and frankly that’s the richest gift of all.

As I go to sit in the chair at the bedside, I feel the peculiar sensation of being touched. With the raising of my eyes, I peer over to see that I am being touched, or rather my sleeve is being tugged, by Mr. Pitch.

I look up at him, noticing that he’s staring at me quizzically as I hover over the seat of the chair. Before I can sneak in a word of confusion, he slips his own demand past me. “I had meant for you to sit on the bed.”

Flabbergasted, I glance between him and the open sheet of empty bed beside him. Surely, I shouldn’t be allowed to join him. “You must be joking. Are you?”

“Snow, am I one to crack such jokes?” he raises his brows, an intoxicated smile still sparkling on his face. Given by his expression, I shouldn’t take his offer and risk an inappropriate closeness, but it’s oh-so irresistible.

There’s a sinking conclusion that I must be absolutely out of my mind, for I’m sliding off my jacket and shoes and settling them atop the chair’s seat before climbing in beside him.

He must be somewhat mental, because there’s an unmistakable hum pouring from his throat whilst he watches me lounge out. In the silence of the moment, his head rolls to the side that faces me as his hands pick apart his bread into bite sized pieces. “What did you bring to read to me today?” he asks, eyeing up the small stack of books I’d carried in my arms.

I scan over the pile, listing off the titles before settling back down and studying his movements. Even in his drugged state, he concentrates just enough to gather pieces of bread, meat, and cheese from his platter and eat them one by one. It’s a childish system, but I decide against ridiculing at this time. That’s something best left for a sober mocking.

He tells me to read the poetry, attention turned towards his hands as I reach for the book. Yet, upon my return to an upright beside him, I feel the brush of a forehead settling on my shoulder. He stays, maintaining shut eyes and a slowly chewing jaw.

I freeze, breath clogged back in my throat as he simply relaxes further into me. I’m only pushed back into reality when he mutters out a quiet string of words. “Why aren’t you reading?”

Why aren’t I reading?

The cover glides in my hands, falling open to the first pages as I clear my throat and begin to read. My voice doesn’t raise beyond our private bubble of space, canopied by his bed and encased between the blanket on top of us. Within an hour, he’s back asleep, somewhat pressed up to me as he snores like an animal.

It’s quite funny, truly. Such an elegant man, but when under a mild sedative, he’s a child again.

Given my brief moment of freedom from Mr. Pitch's every whim, I make the active decision to trade out the poetry for a novel to read until he rises. It isn't until hours later and just past tea time that I feel the shift of his waking body.

His head lifts from the drool pile he’d left settled onto my shoulder, groaning in a mixture of disgust and pain. I’d assume this means his drugs wore thin, leaving him back to his original state. Despite this, he doesn’t rush to kick me out from his close-company. Instead, he draws himself upright and peers over me as he typically would and clears his throat. “Water,” he demands, voice cracking and crumbling from sleep and little use.

I immediately nod, turning to the small pitcher kept beside his bed and pouring it into a glass cup. He nods as a “thank you”, taking the water and tossing it back eagerly. A little dribbling down his chin and onto his shirt as he gulps and exhales, handing it back. He doesn't say word until after the exchange is over, but I hadn’t been anticipating one either. Not that I'd want a genuine moment of thankfulness from him.

“How long have I been out?” he grumbles his typical, bitter comment as his eyes cast down in disdain for his outfit. Still untouched as the same clothes he's worn since last night.

Out of impulse, I shrug as I keep watch over him. “A few hours.” My voice is purely one of gentle kindness, something of which I doubt he fully deserves. Curse me and my hidden intentions of normalcy.

It draws his attention, eyes raking over me judgmentally before his attention drifts away without the anticipated snarky remark. Instead, he settles back into his seat and analyzes me, making me feel like I’m an uncovered crime scene or a fine piece of art. He always seems to make me feel so distant and untouchable.

It’s a long while that we sit like this, him looking at me and me staring back as if I’m a caged animal watching its new owner. It’s unnerving, knowing that he could open me with just a gentle crack to my head. Out will spill my secrets, coating us like an extra blanket on his gothic bed.

“Tell me, Snow,” he says at last, skull resting back against the headboard and settling there comfortably amongst the carved gargoyles and licking, wooden flames. His hair sticks out at all angles, left untouched after his slumber. It's endearing. “Why is it that nobody knows your story?”

“Pardon?” My head draws back, eyes narrowing as I stare.

He shrugs in such a graceful way. It’s absolutely unfair. His shoulders drag up, pulling towards his jaw before slacking elegantly back at his sides. “You heard me quite clearly, Snow. I’m curious about you--everybody who’s anybody is curious about you.”

There’s nothing anybody needs to know about me. “What do you want to know?” I crumble, fingertips dragging along the edge of the book’s spine as he keeps his eyes locked on me. It sends chills up my spine and makes me want to tell him everything there is to my history. The nunnery, Lord David’s calling upon me. The lies and the unsaid truths of my nature. All the morbid stories everyone seeks, yet nobody's graced to hear.

“Where did you come from? Why do you eat so quickly?” his voice grows soft and gentle. A feather over a piano key, trying to tempt a note from me.

I should, theoretically, toss myself out the closest window. It’d be much more beneficial, and will most likely result in a positive outcome  as opposed to what Mr. Pitch wishes to elicit from me. The cruelest part of all is that I tell him. I’m too weak as to not to. Listening to the honey-sweetness of his voice makes me want to give him the world.

“I was orphaned,” I breathe, unable to raise my voice higher. “Left for dead, wrapped in a blanket and set in a basket on the streets with only a slip of paper holding my name. The nunnery took me in and raised me until I was nearly five, then Lord David went to fetch for me. Nobody ever told me why he picked me in particular, but it was me he wanted . Up until that point in my life, I was constantly starved...”

“Is that all?”

I shake my head, eyes downcasted as I squirm. He doesn’t even have to touch me to make me experience the weight of being smothered. Perhaps it’s the room, although it’s more than likely the truth that’s strangling me. “No,” I utter, “Lord David never kept me well when I was younger. There was long nights of lessons with few and far meals between. He raised me telling me I would provide a great fighter, in case the wealth was challenged. I was always told to never tell a soul where I’m from, either. It always made me feel like I was in trouble; like it was my fault.”

“Why was that?” It feels as though Mr. Pitch is the spy, coaxing answers from me. Now, I’m noticing he’s drawn closer, sitting in nearly breathing distance.

“Because I choose to follow what he says. He says someone may have to defend the name once he’s at proper power, and that he’ll be to weak to do it once the time is right. Therefore, he needs me to carry the illusion that I’m meant for this. That I'm not hidden swine. That I'm meant to be here…” I feel a hand on mine, and I flinch before registering that it’s Mr Pitch’s. He goes to pull it back, but I close mine around his, risking a glance into his eyes. “Don’t tell anybody--I beg of you. It could destroy me and make me more ostracized than I already am. Everyone believes I’m much like the other followers of Lord David, coming from wealthy families that left them to train and grow stronger. If… it they know I’m not…”

His hand squeezes mine, making me exhale and stare at him in utter panic as his other hand raises to rest upon my cheek. As if it’d make it better.

It doesn’t.

“I’ll never tell a soul,” he says gently. “You have my word.”

The constricting walls start disappearing entirely, my focus closing in on Mr. Pitch and his all-consuming presence. It’s as if he’s enveloping me, taking over the room around us and just existing as my barrier.

In a moment of weakness, I try to urge my curiosities out of him.

“What happened to your mother?” I whisper, staring at him wide-eyed and weak in his arms.

I somewhat fantasize him snapping my neck, as he easily could, yet he surprises me by running his thumb against the skin of my cheek. For a fleeting second, I wonder if I’m drugged and the view of him with such a sheep’s wool-soft smile is a hallucination. “Hadn’t anyone ever told you?”

I take a few deep breaths, shaking my head in a silent response as his thumb continues to drag against my skin. In a moment’s miracle, his hand drops from my face and settles back onto the pillow.

“Someone attacked,” he says quietly. “Came early evening, right after I’d finished my day’s classes and took a break to play around in the flower. She was in her study, overlooking the garden. I… don’t quite remember much beyond slashing pain, the stark blueness of the sky and waking up to mum not being there anymore. All I’ve been told is she threw herself between the attacker and I, and she hadn’t survived.”

I purse my lips, watching his eyes drop and feeling my own mind claw back to reality while his sinks away. I don’t have much to do, besides attempt a similar comfort.

My hand drops to his good knee, sliding up to rest on his mid tight. He tenses at first, and I contemplate pulling back, but he draws his leg out closer towards me after a second. It makes my heart patter faster, throat restricting as I catch his eyes.

“Was the killer ever caught?”

He appears shocked, shaking his head as if I’d said something irrational given the situation. “What? I… no. Never.”

“Then we have to catch them,” I whisper, urging closer. “I’ll help--I have to. You know my secret, and now I have to pay you back.”

“You surely do not have to,” he utters back, face contorting in confusion. “I have no reason to share this pain with you, and you have no reason to seek to solve a decades old crime.”

I scan his face, shifting a bit in my spot as my hand remains set on his thigh. “I wish to,” I add. “It’s unfair. I’m not rather fond of the unfair.” It’s not a lie; far from it. If it’s right, it’s what I should be doing with wishes for friendship aside. Yet, if it draws me closer to him, if it keeps me at such a distance as we’ve been for days, then I’ll solve all the crimes in England for him.

His jaw goes a bit slack, eyes darting back to my hand and up towards me. “Do you really wish to help me?”

“I’ll do anything.” I lean closer, feeling his breath on my cheek as he stares at me. “I’ll tear up half the country to solve this for you.”

“You are far too kind, Sir Snow.”

“And you're not too evil, Mr. Pitch.”

His tongue lets out and I watch it’s pink trail, swiping against his lip as my heart races out of my chest cavity. I’m positive that he’s tempting a quick word, but a knock at the bedroom door sends us flying apart. I scramble out of bed, jolting to a standing position and straightening out my shirt where it’s tucked in. He raises his blanket up further, pushing his hair back as he tries to smoothly call for the unknown person to enter.

In pops a servant, carrying a food tray. “Master Grimm stated that he’d assumed both of you would not be joining for dinner, given Master Pitch’s state, so I come to bring the food,” they say quickly, as if it's rehearsed, as they offer it out to me. I take with a nod, thanking it. The servant avoids eye contact with both of us, rushing out quickly and leaving me to stand somewhat awkwardly, a platter of food in my hands.

We exchange a glance, me standing and staring as he sits on the far opposite side of his bed. I nearly go to sit somewhere else, but he keeps the space beside him empty as an invitation that I can’t quite refuse.

In silence, we sit to eat side-by-side, nearly like we’d been doing such for years. It’s inescapably intimate; a couple’s dinner in a couple’s bed, if an illustration seeked fit to capture the moment. In the depths of my mind, I ponder what it'd be like to have a couple's dinner.

I clean up after us, leaving the tray outside the room and finding the instructions for Mr. Pitch's nighttime dose of the pain reliever. I settle beside him on the bed, filling his cup with the required amount of drops before he sips it down. His nose scrunches before he exhales and relaxes slightly, eyes trailing me as I reach out to grab my shoes and jacket to retire off to bed.

He stops me with a cleared throat and side-casted glance. “Sir Snow…” he begins. “Don’t find me rude, but… I did feel quite a bit calmer with you in the room. Of course, I would defend myself if I weren’t injured, but-”

“Do you wish me to stay in the room once more?”

“Until I’m sure I’m safe,” he adds, head bobbing once in a nod. Of course, I won’t refuse.

I leave my shoes and jacket, going to collect my blanket for the sofa as he stares. It leaves me unnerved and sends me spinning back to face him. He cuts in, once again, before I can. “My bed… is quite large…”

I shock, narrowing my eyes at him as I shift from foot to foot. “Mr. Pitch, are you not afraid of someone seeing us? Two men laying beside each other, is that not something to arouse suspicion?”

His hand dismissively waves, nose turning up. “The servants know to knock before entering. There should be no such worries.”

I stand frozen at first, torn between what’s clearly proper and what I may secretly wish for.

My urges win the battle.

After borrowing one of Mr. Pitch’s nightclothes, I rush to change in his bathroom and emerge to find him waiting with the blankets turned down. I settle beside him, hands folding on my chest nervously as we stare at each other.

He makes the first move of comfort, hand reaching out and grasping mine. “Are you positive that you’d be able to find my mother’s killer?”

I trace my fingertips along his knuckles in the briefest moment of weakness, studying the dips and curves of his face so stunningly close. “I’m convinced,” I murmur, pushing my fingers between his. “After all, you’re too smart and I’m too bold for it to not work.”

He exhales out, lips threatening a genuine smile as he stares off at me. “Thank you.”

I have to force myself to not overreact to his words, nearly positive I’d heard them wrong at first. After seconds of processing, I find it in myself to turn my body towards him and smile at him. “It’s my pleasure, Mr. Pitch.” I press our palms together, feeling his gaze soften as we stay locked in.

“Basilton,” he whispers after a few brief seconds. “Or--or Baz. I hear you trade such soft names within your friends, and it feels displacing to be referred to as mister.”

I study his face and nod my head slowly in understanding. “Baz,” I test, feeling it on my lips and watching him smile once again, keeping it in the privacy of just him and I. I wish to try it again. I do try it again. “Baz.”

“That’s enough, Snow.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Simon.”

“Hm… I prefer Snow.” He returns back to his playful smirk, and I feel like pushing him over. I can’t truly push him, of course--he’s got a broken leg, and we are laying down after all. So I settle for a shoulder nudge, which leads to receiving one back. Soon enough, we nudge each other back and forth until we sneak closer to poke and prod at each other’s faces. Eventually, in silent laughter, he collapses forward towards me with a full faced smile and settles his cheeks on top my shoulder.

Despite my best urges, I simply smooth back his roughed hair and smile. “Sleep well, Baz,” I whisper, enjoying the way his name rolls from my mouth.

He returns with a grunt, remaining against me as he dozes asleep.

I ponder for the moments before I sleep whether or not this is the beginning of our friendship. I think it may just be so.