Work Text:
Summer, 1938
As soon as he heard the door falling shut behind Tristan and James, Siegfried let out a sigh. What a ghastly debacle this evening had become! It should have been the celebration of Tristan’s birth and it had all turned it into a disaster of epic proportions.
A well-meant lie, pathetic and unforgivable as he knew now, had just destroyed his younger brother. He had seen Tristans’ eyes breaking after his brain had processed that he hadn’t passed his exams, that it all had been a horrendous lie, a hoax, and he had never felt lower. His little brother felt betrayed, even ridiculed. But the damage was done now and somehow he, they, had to find a way to cope with it. Surely it was nothing a drink and a hangover could fix.
The fair haired labrador was still by his side, as if she wanted to guard him, as if she felt his misery and at least she didn’t blame him. Her fur and the warmth of her body gave him comfort. He stole a glance from the empty glass on his desk. He would kill for another drink, for one more sip from the soothing liquid, that burned at first and brought peace later on. It was the kind of comfort he used to turn to in the past, after he had lost his Evelyn. Drowning his sorrow and grief in whiskey had been so easy, so lazy. And if it weren’t for a certain someone, he would empty the bottle and hope not to wake up again.
But he wouldn't dare. She wouldn't have him drunk like a beast.
His housekeeper was a woman with a strict codex and she hated when he was drunk - understandable considering her past with a drunkard husband. Not that he was sure she would have him at all. During the whole ordeal he had not just sensed the endless disappointment and withering anger in Tristan, he had felt it radiating from her too.
During the last couple of months she had warned him, begged him to come clear about his foolish lie but, of course, he hadn't listened to her. He had made her his accomplice. He had lured her into his web of lies. He would be lucky if she didn’t use her cricket batch on him when she laid eyes on him again.
From time to time he heard her moving about, clearing up the leftovers from the dinner party and her steps somehow calmed him down. Her steps were the heartbeat of his home, without hearing them, he could just as well cease to exist.
He had no idea how to explain their unique way of functioning. Their relationship constantly bounced between professional, platonic, and purely carnal.
Most of the time her cooking and her organisation skills saved his business and his private life. Then she was this highly efficient housekeeper who managed this house without breaking a sweat. Then there were evenings when they enjoyed reading a book together or playing a board game. He loved to make her laugh with the reinvention of rules or with his way of disguising his voice when he read one of the Poirot novels she liked so very much.
Some days, more often nights, they needed someone to share the burden of life and loss with. Someone who understood and whose tenderness could relieve the pain. In those nights they shared so much without waking up twisted in bedsheets the next morning.
He needed this now.
He needed her.
She was his salvation.
He gave the loyal dog one last cuddle and pushed himself upwards. With heavy steps he went through the passage. As expected she was in the kitchen, drying the last plates from dinner. The smell of the delicious dinner she had cooked here still hung in the air.
"Did you finally decide to come out of hiding?" she asked and he didn't miss the snark in her voice.
"Don't beat me up," he said, knowing he deserved her scorn, her fury.
"Well, I would like to." He approached her nevertheless and she hit him with her tea towel and turned away again, but didn’t walk away. She remained by his side and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her against him, so that he could bury his nose, all of himself actually, in her hair.
He half expected her to free herself out of his embrace, but she didn't. Her hand gently patted the one pressed on her belly.
"I need you," he whispered, encouraged by her gesture. She stiffed in his embrace and tightened his arms around her, afraid to lose physical contact with her.
"Why didn't you tell him before? Why ruin this night and everything else for him?"
"You know why." They had talked about this numerous times. If someone knew how he felt about his brother, it was her. He turned her to him and rested his forehead against hers. "I'll make it up to him. I'll find a way."
"And how?" she wondered, furiously. "You've been lying to him for months and you made me lie to him!"
"And I'm sorry for it all." His hands wrapped around the back of her neck. It was no lie when he said he needed her. She was the only one who could heal him, make him feel human again. One moment in her loving embrace, his hardness buried deeply inside of her so he could exorcise the misery, would help him to make sense of it all. With her help he would find a way to mend fences with Tristan.
Her blue eyes sparkled with fury, but he kissed her despite his fear for her rejection. To his relief she didn’t try to free herself from him. Her tongue slowly found his, accepted it, danced with it. He was about to cry as his emotions crashed over him. He almost stopped breathing while he lost himself in this kiss and in the end she was the one who broke it, leaving him panting and desperate for her. With agony he watched her turning her back on him to busy herself with the box where she kept the silver cutlery. He remembered how fiercely she had polished it during the afternoon, because she only wanted what was best for Tris, for her lad.
He was such a fool.
"You better find a way to make it up to him. I apologised to him, but I doubt he were ready to accept it. And the next time we celebrate a birthday, you better make sure this tart won't sit at our table."
Perplexed about the sudden change of the subject, he shook his head. "Now wait a minute… Margot was Tristan's guest and…" He caught her frown and then the penny dropped. "This isn't about Margot," he stated deadpan.
"You're such a superior thinker."
He groaned, not sure he wanted to open the box of Pandora or to name it better ‘Diana’ right now. Rubbing his forehead, he said,"I admit it wasn't one of my finest moments, but what was I supposed to tell her? Sorry, Mrs Brompton, but this is Audrey Hall, my wonderful housekeeper, and as soon as you walk out of the door I'm going to shag her brains out? Preferable on the kitchen table!?"
"There’s a poet lost on you," she returned with a roll of her eyes. "You know how to make a woman feel special."
She undid her apron and placed it neatly over the rest of the chair.
"Listen, it was a stupid misunderstanding. You know how I feel about you." He reached out to touch her cheek, but she pulled back, obviously still offended. "Yes, you made that very clear."
"You know I respect you more than any other breathing, human soul on earth."
She looked up to him. "You must be very desperate for a tryst," she concluded dryly. "Are you sure you don't want to ask Mrs Brompton for a quick roll in the hay? I'm pretty sure she'll be delighted to grant you the favour."
She was right - as she always was. Diana had signalled to him more than once that she wanted their relationship to take a step forward. The idea to sleep with her was alluring and he felt flattered by it. The woman was fun and didn’t look out for anything serious other than an affair. But tonight he didn’t just longed for ‘a roll in the hay’ as Audrey had just called it. Tonight he needed someone he could open up to, someone to hold him, someone to talk to. There was no room for pretence tonight. He wanted someone who knew him inside out, someone he trusted. Nothing casual would do. No Diana Brompton could offer him what Audrey Hall had to give.
And then there was some other element that aroused his curiosity, spiked his ego. "Are you jealous?"
She pursed her lips and crooked her right eyebrow. "I'm not. Sleep with anyone you want. The more the merrier." Then she bit her lower lip and looked away, her cheeks flushed, her hands trembling. Siegfried smirked, but knew better than to ruin this moment with a mocking comment.
She cared. And she cared about him more than she wanted to. He took a step forward until their bodies touched.
"I don't want to sleep with her," he said quietly. "I want you. Tonight more than ever before."
"You mean you need someone to compensate your bad conscience with."
"I want you," he repeated and leaned in to kiss her neck. "You." No one tasted like her, nothing aroused him like her scent. Something spicy and vibrant, just like her. As it was his habit, he started to remove her hairpins. He loved freeing her curls as he loved undressing her. She didn't refuse or complain when he kissed her face, captured her mouth for another kiss.
"You're blooming bastard," she mumbled against his mouth, as he deepened the kiss. He pressed his thigh between her legs, grinding her centre, daring her.
"I know," he replied. "I'm guilty as charged."
"Not here," she said when he found her zip and pulled it down. His hand caressed the naked skin of her back, fiddled with the clasp of her bra.
"Anywhere you want, my dear."
"Take me upstairs… Like a lady, not in here like a housekeeper."
"As you wish. But to your information, I never knew a finer lady."
Hoping to surprise her, he picked her up and earned a loud giggle. “You’ll hurt yourself!” she complained when he carried her out of the kitchen and into the passage. “Switch off the lights, you daft beggar…” the rest of her sentence was drowned out by their laughter when they accidentally smashed over a flower pot from the window cill.