Chapter Text
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Labouchere. We’ll let you know of any further updates.”
Tiger shut the door to his home and released a heavy puff of air. His poor car crashed and abandoned in a village just fifteen miles away from the races earlier that day. That bloody girl, carried off to a mental inn after being found wandering around Euston Station aimlessly. That bloody girl — Agatha — Miles’ friend.
Miles.
If there was anyone he wanted to speak crossly with after a day like this, it was Miles. Even after all the strings he had to pull to get Miles and his friends a rush of excitement, there was no sympathy left for Tiger or his racing car. Agatha wasn’t even supposed to be the spare driver — someone had to take the brassard, of course, but he’d never needed a spare before — and what dumb luck that today of all days was the day that dirty bugger Plunkett threw a spanner from his car right into his shoulder. Sure, Miles fussed over him when he was taken out of the race (thankfully he saved much of the fussing for when they were in private), but as they heard the announcer declare that Agatha had run off the course with his car, all his friends could do was complain about how bored they were. Miles couldn’t even stand up for him and instead called him “stiff and pompous”. Some nerve he had.
On any given day, Miles Maitland was a brat, to say the least: whiney, entitled, clingy, and sometimes downright impossible. As lovely as he could be, Tiger found himself wondering, on his most impossible days, why he bothered to see him.
After a day like this, he decided, it was time to put an end to it, once and for all.
The breakup would be simple: he’d get rid of any trace of Miles in his home, leaving nothing to tempt him to crawl back to him. Next, he’d phone him to call everything off, tell him he didn’t want to see him again. Then, with every last piece of Miles out of sight and out of mind, he’d be finished, free to pursue anyone or anything he pleased.
The first thing he needed to dispose of were Miles’ letters. They, at the very least, were contained in one safe spot, and their discovery would lead him straight to hot waters. Tiger started a fire in his fireplace and waited for it to grow. Memories flickered of sitting with Miles on the couch as they tried to warm each other up the past winter, but Tiger shook it away, reminding himself of the task at hand.
He pulled back the corner of his rug to reveal a loose floorboard. He picked it out and grabbed the lockbox underneath. Fragrant perfume escaped as he opened the box to some of the letters Miles had sent him over their time together. Tiger had already disposed of most of Miles' letters in fear of them falling into the wrong hands, but these were his favorites, the sentiments he cherished most. He grabbed one to toss into the fire, but the words caught his eye:
My darling Tiger,
These unbearable winter nights don’t compare to how cold I am without you in my bed. Either of our nests is my favorite place to be, whether in the midst of passion or slumber, to lie beside you and watch your gentle breathing.
Do you remember the night your car broke down in the snow? How we huddled together to maintain whatever body heat we could as we trekked the rest of the way by foot? I think about it on frigid nights like these. I didn’t want to walk all the way there, but you reminded me fate would have other plans if we’d stayed inside. In fact, if we’d been any further from your house, I’m afraid we may have frozen to death — though, what a heavenly way to die, in your arms, if it were so. We made it just in time to pile ourselves with blankets, and inched ourselves as close to the fire as we could without burning ourselves (then again, would we have felt it in the numbing cold?).
I can’t help but think about how beautifully we fit into each other’s arms (and other places, mind you). You take care of me so well, my darling, even when I’m most stubborn, and I can only hope I may do the same for you.
With longing,
Miles
Tiger swallowed as he finished the letter, thinking over the last line in particular. Miles did take care of him well the few times he needed it, but he especially did so earlier that day when he’d been hit by the spanner. In front of everyone else around them, Miles kept his calm, no doubt after Tiger had quietly scolded him about his previous public display of affection before the race began; alone in the first aid tent, however, Miles let down his collected exterior. He was good at that: putting on a show, not a care in the world, all while reserving much of his true compassion and vulnerability for intimate moments among those he loved most.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Miles whispered, his eyes flickering back and forth between Tiger’s.
“He just got my shoulder, nothing else,” Tiger assured. “I thought he might’ve knocked it out of the socket, otherwise I would’ve kept going.”
“What a brute! I do wish you’d let me give him a piece of my mind,” Miles pouted.
“With all due respect, I believe that would only send you straight back here looking worse than I do.”
Miles clicked his tongue and waggled his finger. “Cheek!”
Tiger chuckled. “I’ll be fine in the morning, just a bit sore.”
Miles smiled gently and smoothed out Tiger’s hair. “My big, brave Tiger. Mother will draw you a nice, hot bath as soon as we get you home, how does that sound?”
Tiger smiled back. “Splendid.”
“Good boy.” With great caution, making sure absolutely no one would see, he pressed a quick kiss to Tiger’s hand and smudged away any lip paint it left. “Why don’t we go find Archie and Adam? I’m sure they’re getting a drink somewhere, and you could use one too. They can catch us up to speed on Aggie’s racing. I say, ‘up to speed’! I could use that in my column!”
He never did draw that bath — Tiger was so frustrated over his and his friends’ behavior that he found his own way home without him, but not before phoning the police about his runaway car. Now, here he was, thumbing page after page of sentiments, affection rekindling in his heart.
Yes, sometimes Miles Maitland could be downright impossible, but he was downright impossibly his.
The fire warmed him as it had in his and Miles’ memory and relaxed his sore, tired body. As he found himself nodding off again and again, he decided to head off to bed. He left the lockbox with its contents on the coffee table. He still wasn’t sure what he wanted to do about the letters — or Miles, really — but he’d have time in the morning to get everything sorted.
~*~*~
Tiger awoke to the ring of the doorbell. He rose slowly and let out a painful groan. Even though he prevented himself from completely falling asleep on the couch, his bed hadn’t healed his sore shoulder either. Another ring shook him out of his thoughts and he pulled on a robe to head to the door.
“Yes?” he answered somewhat groggily, though stiffened when he registered who exactly had woken him: the two policemen from last night. Good lord, what the devil could his poor car have gone through overnight in the garage?
“Morning, Mr. Labouchere,” one greeted, Constable Maxwell.
“Good — good morning, officers,” Tiger stumbled. “What brings you here? Another update on the car?”
“Oh no, your car’s fine, it’s nothing formal,” the other responded, Sergeant Bridge. “My mate here left his cap somewhere, and seeing as you were our last stop for the night, we were hoping you wouldn’t mind if he took a look.”
“Of course, go ahead.” He led them inside. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen it anywhere myself. Would either of you like some coffee or tea?”
“No need to go through any trouble,” Bridge said. “We’ll be out of your hair soon — you remember where you left it, don’t you, Maxwell?”
“I should be able to retrace my steps, if I may.”
“Of course, whatever you need,” Tiger said, stifling a yawn.
“He’s always losing things,” Bridge said as Maxwell ventured off. “Next it’ll be his head.”
Tiger chuckled. He tried to remember anywhere it could’ve ended up during their previous visit, but his exhaustion had taken over much of the evening. He replayed their visit in his head to the best of his ability: he invited them in and offered them tea, much like he’d just done, they sat in the lounge to discuss the whereabouts of Aggie and his car and what his options were, there was more paperwork to fill out, and then they left. Neither he nor Bridge could see it anywhere there in the walkway, so the only real option was the lounge, where Maxwell was now. Though Tiger didn’t remember seeing the hat while he was in the lounge last night when he—
Last night.
The lounge.
Tiger tried to remain calm as he made his way to the lounge with Bridge following behind. He had to have put them away, right? There was no way he’d left them—
“Miles Maitland? Isn’t that Lady Maitland’s boy, the queer?”
Tiger’s blood went cold as he and Sergeant Bridge found Constable Maxwell, hat in hand, hovering over papers on the coffee table.
The letters.
Miles’ letters.
Fuck.
“Let me see,” Bridge said. Tiger lingered behind the sofa, paralyzed. It was much too late for him to hide them now. Why had he left them sitting out? Why couldn’t he have thrown them into the fire as soon as he’d opened the box and been done with it? Why did he have to get so soft? “Good lord!” Bridge cried. “What the devil is this — this filthy smut!”
“I can explain,” Tiger choked.
“I think you’d better,” Bridge demanded.
Tiger looked between each gentleman, trying to steady his breathing. He held onto the top of the sofa, the only thing keeping him stable. His life flashed before his eyes, from the very beginning to what was to become of him if he didn’t think quickly.
“Well?”
“I don’t know him.”
The policemen glanced at one another.
“These sound rather intimate to be addressed to a complete stranger, don’t you think?” Maxwell asked.
“You don’t understand,” Tiger said. “He’s a fan, you see. An obsessed fan. He’s seen me race before. He… must’ve found my address somewhere and decided to write to me. But I swear, I only know of him from the papers, I’ve never really met him. I was just about to — to burn them.”
The door opened to a third policeman, Inspector Rosen. Had he left the door unlocked too? How much more careless could he get? “What’s the hold-up?” Rosen asked. “How long does it take to find a bleeding cap?”
“We found these letters,” Bridge explained. “I think you’re going to want to see them. Claims they’re from a ‘fan’ he ‘doesn’t know’. A fairytale, fit for a fairy. Caught him before he could dispose of them himself.”
Rosen grimaced looking over the letters and then at Tiger. “Why haven’t you come to the police over this matter?”
Tiger swallowed. “I was afraid. I thought… if I turned him in and any of it got out, my reputation would be soiled. They’d think I’m… like him.”
Rosen stared at him thoughtfully. There was no way they’d believe him, was there? Any moment now, Tiger thought, he would crumble under the eyes of the law and nothing would be left of him.
“Aye, let him go,” Rosen said finally. “That’s Henry Labouchere, you know, the race car driver. Damn good one, too. That's why they call him 'Tiger'. He’s no queer, he’s a man’s man. He’s got a girl, too, isn’t that right? Lord Winkeler’s daughter, Penelope?”
Tiger wet his dry lips and nodded quickly. Penelope was a girl he often ran into at events, always cheering for him in the crowd, and the papers couldn’t get enough of them together — a fan favorite, to say the least. She was a nice girl, yes, and Tiger was sure he’d be attracted to her under other circumstances, but now, she was his saving grace.
“I see,” Bridge said, nodding. He walked slowly to Tiger and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You needn’t worry any longer,” he stated. “Once we find him, he won’t bother you ever again.”
Tiger mustered a small smile back.
“We’ve been trying to get rid of this filthy queer for years,” said Maxwell as he gathered the letters. “But now we finally have the proper evidence to lock him up. You’re doing us a great service, you know.”
“Now we just need to find him, he’s always flittering about.”
“I think—" Tiger cleared his throat, rejecting the wave of nausea bubbling upward, “I think I overheard him at the races yesterday with his friends. Something about Manchester. A picnic, or… something. In Manchester.”
Tiger turned and caught eyes with Rosen. “Manchester it is,” he said simply. “Let’s get a move on, we’ve got everything we need to draw up a warrant — we’ll send someone to watch his home in case he returns early.” Bridge and Maxwell shuffled out the door, fully equipped with the missing cap and the written testimony of Miles’ love that Tiger had sworn to guard. Rosen turned back to Tiger before he followed them out. “I went to school with your father, you know. He’s a good man. I’m sure he raised you better than this.”
Tiger swallowed and nodded.
“About time you and Penelope settled down,” he continued. “Certainly wouldn’t get you caught up in a scandal like this, now would it?”
“No sir — erm, yes, sir,” Tiger stuttered. “Right, sir.”
Once the door was closed and the policemen were out of sight, the air flew out of Tiger’s lungs and his entire body quaked against the sofa. The realization of what he’d escaped crashed into him, and the wave of what he’d done was coming next.