Chapter Text
This is my first foray into writing something historical, so I hope you enjoy it. I will be updating it once a week.
DISCLAIMER: QAF and its characters are the sole property of Showtime and Cowlip Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.
Two Weeks Before Christmas...Late 1800's...Pittsburgh
The clip-clops of the horses' hooves were muffled by the snow that blanketed the muddy roads of the street; soft candlelight flickered in the storefronts nearby as the opulent brougham carriage - drawn by four, powerful, black stallions - carried its wealthy passenger back toward his home.
The lone man in the carriage was dressed impeccably in a charcoal gray, felt top hat, a black, wool frock coat, black puff tie, a white shirt with a high-stand collar, black cherry colored jacquard vest, striped gray-and-black trousers, and black, tie-up boots. His look was polished off with a pearl tie-tack, and a silver pocket watch mounted to a matching colored chain anchored to the middle button of his vest. After all, no matter what the occasion, Brian Kinney would never go out in public without being meticulously outfitted in the most luxurious apparel money could buy, and every piece of custom-tailored clothing fit him like a glove on his long, lean body.
Pulling the pocket watch out of his vest pocket, he observed the time: a little past nine p.m. He sighed. As he had anticipated, the holiday dinner at the Templeton's had been a dreadful bore, spent exchanging civilities with businessmen he could barely tolerate, and women who fawned all over him, his well-known reputation as a wealthy, single, attractive man preceding him wherever he went, and making both men and women alike pursue him like a fox being tracked by baying hounds. He could have brought home any one of the men or women who had expressed so much as an inkling of interest in him. But truthfully, he had found no one attractive enough to even go through the motions to satisfy his sexual appetite; at least, no man, anyway. For unbeknownst to the blue blood society of Pittsburgh, he only found men attractive, and always had. Women held no interest for him at all. It was a fact he had known for years now. Thanks to the money he had wisely invested over the years, however, whenever he couldn't find willing company to satisfy his urges, he could always purchase one for the right price. No cheap hookups for him. Everything for him was both understated and tasteful, whether it was his clothing or his tricks. And in exchange for the gentleman's ‘discretion,' he was richly rewarded afterward.
He gazed out the coach's window at the falling snow and the festive Christmas decorations, feeling nothing at all that would equate to any sort of holiday spirit. Truthfully, thanks in large part to being placed in a private school out of the country during his childhood, he had never really felt any need to celebrate Christmas, nor did it fill him with any feeling of hope or encouragement. The days of December were just another month on the calendar; one that he tolerated and breathed a sigh of relief about when they were gone and everyone went back to their daily, mundane lives afterward. Shaking his head at the frequent, festive displays of the holiday glaring at him from both sides of the almost deserted street, he leaned back in the plush, velvet cushion and closed his eyes.
His eyes flew back open several seconds later when he had to grab onto the side of the carriage to prevent himself from being tossed out of his seat as the vehicle hit something hard. "What the fuck?" he growled, his breathing rapid and his heart pounding at the unexpected action. "Reynolds! What's going on?" he yelled to his driver of several years, opening the side door to peer out into the thickly falling snow, the brim of his hat fortunately keeping the fat flakes from falling into his eyes.
"Sorry, Sir!" his driver called back to him as Brian watched him hurry over to the front ride side of the carriage and kneel down by the wheel. "I didn't see him until it was too late, and he ran right out in front of me!"
Brian frowned. Him? "What did you hit, Reynolds? Some mongrel?" There were way too many strays around the outskirts of Pittsburgh proper to suit him.
The man stood up and faced him, his complexion ashen as he shook his head. "No, Sir. It appears to be a young man; a boy."
"What!?" Brian gasped as he slid his long legs out of his seat and walked over to join the driver. As he stood next to him in the lights cast from the streetlamps along the road, all he could see was a curled up mass of dark cloth, except for what appeared to be light brown hair sticking out of the top. "Is he...?"
He watched as Reynolds reached down and felt against the boy's neck. "No, Sir. He's still breathing. But I hit him pretty hard, so there could be some internal injuries, and he's shivering, no doubt from the cold. I believe he needs urgent medical attention."
Brian peered down at the huddled form beneath him, almost unrecognizable. It was too hard to even tell it was a boy, but from the slim frame barely masked under the tatters he was wearing, his driver was evidently right. He nudged the form with his foot, getting a muffled moan from the victim. "Shit," he muttered. He knew the driver was right; they couldn't just leave him out here. "Well, there's no doctor's office open right now." It wasn't his fault if the kid had decided for whatever reason to live on the streets, but his driver had injured him. He sighed. "Very well. Place him in the carriage, and we'll take him back to the house. We can summon Dr. Weston."
The lanky, middle-aged man nodded. "Yes, Sir." Brian shook his head as he backed up enough to allow his driver to bend down and scoop the slim figure into his arms, wrinkling his nose as he got a whiff of the boy's smell. Obviously this street urchin hadn't bathed in who knows how long. "Great," he mumbled as he turned to head back to the carriage, waiting for his driver to place the semi-conscious boy across the opposite seat from him, choosing to place him prone across the length of it. "May I borrow your blanket, Sir?" Reynolds asked his employer.
Brian waved his hand in silent agreement, thinking anything that might help disguise the smell would be a good thing; he could always have it burned later. God knows he had plenty back at the house. "Yes, yes," he told him impatiently as he noticed the boy now shivering violently in his wet clothes. He reached to grab the wool blanket folded neatly next to his seat and hand it to Reynolds, who tucked it around the small body. "Haste, Reynolds," Brian urged his driver, beginning to be concerned that the boy may have some serious internal injuries; except for the one moan, he hadn't moved or said anything else. In his station, he never had much contact with homeless, poor beggars from the street, but he didn't want to be responsible for one this young dying, either, through his driver's hand, directly or indirectly. "I'll watch him," he answered the man's unspoken question as the other man nodded. "Go."
"Yes, Sir."
Dr. Weston pulled the tips of the stethoscope from his ears as he rose from the side of his patient's bed. Tucking the covers back around the young man's unconscious form, he turned and quietly headed back downstairs, finding Brian sitting in one of the study's overstuffed chairs. He placed his pipe down on the standing ashtray next to his chair and looked over at the doctor expectantly as he entered.
"Well, his vital signs are normal," the doctor reported as Brian nodded in relief. "I can see some bruising around his torso - no doubt from the impact of the accident with your carriage - and he appears dehydrated to me," he commented. "His ankle was injured fairly severely, but does not appear to be sprained or broken. I think he'll make a full recovery, and I see no signs of concussion, so he should awaken in a few hours. I think exhaustion may be more the cause for his unconsciousness, rather than his injuries. I would recommend bed rest and lots of fluids for the next couple of days, and soft foods; then he can eat some more substantial food once he's feeling better. He could certainly stand some more meat on his bones." The distinguished, older doctor shook his head sadly at the thought of the downtrodden, young man lying so listless underneath the wool blanket upstairs in one of Kinney's guestrooms. He was probably at least 15 pounds underweight, and from his tattered, dirty appearance it was obvious he likely lived on the streets like so many others did, foraging for food and a place to live on a daily basis.
Brian sighed, sensing the answer before the doctor responded. "And I'm assuming you mean bed rest here?"
"Well, he really shouldn't be moved for at least a few weeks until the ankle heals fully...and you do have plenty of room, Sir," the doctor pointed out matter-of-factly. Most other men wouldn't dare address Brian Kinney in such a direct manner; but having delivered the now wealthy man into the world as a newborn, the doctor knew Kinney was more bark than bite. "And both of us know that he apparently has nowhere to go from the looks of him."
Brian brushed the fingers of his right hand through his hair, realizing the man was right. But why was it HIS responsibility? "Look, he ran right out in front of our carriage..." He let out a deep breath of resignation, knowing there was really no other option. "A few weeks?"
The doctor nodded. "Minimum of two, I would say. It will probably take at least that long for him to bear weight and regain his strength again. In the meantime, he should stay off that foot, and then use it gradually until it is back to normal."
Brian exhaled a deep breath before nodding. "Okay, okay. He can stay until he's a little stronger, and the ankle is healed. But I'm not running some Wayward Home for Boys here. He'll need to go to an orphanage or something." Silently, he had to agree with one thing: as cold as it had been recently, even he couldn't just throw the boy back out into the streets with no home. But he wasn't staying HERE. Not any longer than he needed to.
Dr. Weston opened his mouth to reply...but then stopped. It wasn't his place to tell his client what to do with the boy upstairs. Besides, he knew Brian well enough by now to know that the man wasn't as insensitive and uncaring as he portrayed himself to be. He could be a cynical and irascible man; but also, he suspected, he had been made that way by his preference for solitude. Kinney had never married, and he never seemed to speak about family, or pleasurable matters, or hobbies; only his writing, which he did from home. But he also had known him long enough to guess that the man wouldn't just throw this injured young man out on the streets, either. What he would do with him, however, remained to be seen. There WAS one matter he needed to clarify, though. "He can't go to an orphanage, I don't believe so, anyway," he told him.
Brian frowned. "No? Why not? Isn't that their purpose? To take in children who have no place to go?"
The older man smiled. "Yes, that is correct. Remember, I'm their physician on call there. But their age limit is 16. I believe after examining the patient that your guest is no ‘boy.' A younger man, definitely. But I would estimate him to be a little older than their age limit, though; perhaps 19 or 20."
That surprised Brian; he hadn't gotten a very good look at the small form huddled under the tattered clothing and woolen blanket, but he had naturally assumed he was younger. Interesting. He shrugged. "Well, no matter. I feel a certain obligation, since my driver hit him - even though he ran out in front of us - to see that he is tended to. But once he's healed, he'll be on his way. I don't handle charity cases."
Weston sighed. "I understand," he told Brian as he made ready to go. "Please make sure he is fed as I instructed and kept warm. Once his ankle heals in a few weeks and he can support his weight on it, then he should be able to be on his own. I'll come back in a few days to check up on him. If any sort of emergency arises in the meantime - he doesn't wake up soon, he develops a fever or swelling around his ankle, or complains of severe pain in his chest area - please have one of your staff summon me immediately. I shall leave you with some medication to ease his pain should he need something."
Brian nodded as he walked the doctor over to the study door, noticing his manservant, Bellows, standing in his typical white gloves and black uniform suit near the front entrance. "Bellows will see you out. Thank you for coming at this late hour, Doctor. I will settle all costs once our unexpected guest is healed."
Weston nodded, knowing Brian was a man of his word, and he would be paid quite handsomely for his services. "You're welcome, Sir. If you need anything else, or his condition worsens, let me know." A whoosh of cold wind rushed through the heavy, wooden door as the doctor left, making Brian shiver as Bellows quickly closed the door behind him.
"I'm retiring for the night, Bellows."
The other man nodded. "Very good, Sir. I shall lock up, then. Have a good night."
Brian nodded back at him. "Oh, and instruct one of the wait staff to give our ragamuffin some clean clothes and provide a bath for him once he's awake," he added, not able to avoid crinkling his nose as he recalled the stench earlier. He decided it was a combination of rotten garbage and sweat; a quite unpleasant odor. If the boy, man, whatever he was, was going to be staying with them, at least he could be made more presentable. "Find one of the male servants who is around the same size, and give him some of their clothes to dress him with."
Bellows nodded. "As you wish, Sir. It shall be taken care of with dispatch. Good Evening."
"Good Evening," Brian replied, as he grasped the smooth, curved top of the banister and proceeded upstairs. His bedroom was located on the left-hand side, but he couldn't help making a turn down the other side to stop at the first bedroom on the right of the hallway, peering in at the stranger now lying in one of his guest room beds. The lights had been dimmed to a soft glow as he quietly walked inside and stood at the side of the bed, hearing the young man softly snoring. He could finally make out his face somewhat, noticing pale skin and long, shaggy, dirty-blond hair. He had to agree with the doctor; beneath the smudged, dirty face, the boy did appear to be, in fact, a young man, or at least one on the verge of it. Once he was more alert in the morning, he would question him further himself...after he had had a proper bath and clean clothes. Most likely, the bedding would have to be thoroughly cleaned, too - or burned. But the injured boy was in no shape for them to worry about that tonight.
Shaking his head over the unexpected circumstances, he turned and walked back out of the room toward his own bedroom, secure in the knowledge that his staff would watch over the house - and their unexpected guest - during his slumber.