Chapter Text
Siegfried wakes in considerable pain that morning, his body stiff and aching, his forearms covered in scratches, in little lacerations that prickle in the cool air of his bedroom. He uses his left hand to throw off the blankets and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, while his right hand lies heavily bandaged, sits uselessly beside him. And underneath the layers of crepe dressing, he can still feel the gash across his palm smarting hotly, thinks it might leave a nasty bruise once it heals. He’d waved off Mrs Hall’s concerns last night of course, when he’d trudged in well past twelve o’clock covered in blood, had tried to shrug away any anxieties, any cause for alarm with a small smile (for her) and a glass of whiskey (for himself). All in a day’s work, he’d said, dismissively, (while she’d tutted at him and brought out the medical box), the animal always comes first, he’d repeated (while she’d tended to his wounds and scolded him for working himself raw and bloody).
Grousing and groaning now, he moves gingerly to the wash basin on the dresser and slowly begins to dress himself for the day. It is an effort even to pull on his socks, to fasten his garters and Siegfried grabs the closest pair of clean trousers from the closet, manages to tug them over his legs and hips with great exertion. Through the closed door, he can already hear James and Helen heading downstairs for breakfast, greeting Mrs Hall good morning, catches the dogs barking excitedly. A glance at his watch tells him that surgery needs to open in an hour, and he’s at risk of falling behind schedule. To precipitate matters then, he decides to forgo his regular white vest and pulls a shirt from hanger instead, pushes his bare arms through the sleeves with a long hiss of pain, as the threads skim over his sensitive skin.
And it’s frustrating when he’s moving much more slowly that he’s used to, he hasn’t even done up his shirt halfway when the front door slams, is still struggling one-handed to do up the fiddly little buttons when he realises that breakfast must be over already, that everyone would have left for the day. Everyone except the housekeeper, that is, whose familiar footfalls he can hear climbing the steps now, crossing the upstairs hallway. He has nearly reached the end when he spots an extra button hole, groaning now because he must have missed one catch. Annoyed, Siegfried tries to undo the mistake but the button is stuck, it won’t give and he curses loudly at it. Next second, there is a brusque knock at his door before Mrs Hall pops her head in. She is carrying a basket of clean laundry under one arm, balanced on her hip as she pushes the door ajar.
“Everything alright in here, Mr Farnon?” she asks. “You’ve missed breakfast.”
“Yes, yes. Everything’s fine, Mrs Hall. Just this ruddy thing—” he says distractedly, his hand slipping backward and colliding hard with the edge of the dresser. “Ow! Christ!”
“Isn’t it a little early in the day to be takin’ the Lord’s name in vain?” she asks, mildly.
“Sorry,” he replies.
And he must look a very pitiable creature because she’s already closing the door behind her, is already shaking her head and setting her basket on the armchair in the corner of his bedroom. “Oh, alright. Give over.”
Audrey steps over to him and places gentle hands on his shoulders, guides him to the window, manoeuvres his large frame so that he’s facing her properly. She is all poise and efficiency, all calm composure and crisp movements as she begins to unfasten the slim column of buttons down his front without preamble, with those nimble fingers. Siegfried can feel the tension leaving his body as the first one comes apart with a gentle push and pull, senses a soft press and release of the stud from its fastening. Then the second and the third give way just as easily and she works her way down methodically, eyes focused on her task as if she had done this a thousand times. The fourth now, the fifth come free, and Siegfried is calmed by her presence, is soothed by the nearness of her, the light brushing of her knuckles against his middle.
“Whatever would I do without you, Mrs Hall?” he asks, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, I don’t know, Mr Farnon,” she says. “Perhaps you could hire a valet.”
His grin widens. “Touché.”
Clean starched cotton is peeling aside, his shirt begins to fall open, and inch by inch she is revealing his upper body to the cool air, uncovering his naked flesh to the light slanting in through the window. And Siegfried wonders vaguely if he ought to be embarrassed, whether he should feel shy or indiscreet that she is performing this service for him. But the woman was made of stern stuff, she had never blushed as he’d doff his soiled clothes after a day on the field after all, had barely batted an eye when she’d ordered him to undress himself in his own kitchen. (And he’d known better than to protest, than to track mud across her pristine floorboards. He’d only needed to be told once before he dropped his trousers, a single stern look was enough to strip down to his underthings.)
Yet he cannot pretend that he isn’t enjoying her attentions now, all her fretting and fussing over him, her tender ministrations. Siegfried can’t bring himself to feel sorry for it as he sees her dancing digits move over him, watches them in wonder. And he only hopes that he has not overstepped, only prays that he hasn’t taken advantage of her goodness as she disrobes him, as her gaze sweeps over the patch of wiry curls over his pectorals and the backs of her hands graze over his ribs. (He persuades himself that this is no different from any other occasion, that it is not unlike any other time she has secured his cufflinks or straightened his skewed tie, helped him into his jacket.) Yet, he’s not sure if he only imagines the slight hitch of her breath as she reaches his belly now, if he’s very much mistaken when he catches a dash of pink on her cheeks as her hands brush the soft swell of his stomach, when she undoes the last remaining studs.
Caught up in his deliberations as he is, Siegfried does not realise he’s been staring until her bright blue eyes suddenly flicker upward then, to meet his own. He hadn’t registered she was finished, that Audrey has made short work of his bungled attire and has reached the end of the length of material. (He only sees the lovely hues of the Dales' sky, the endless depths of the ocean her eyes, those pretty irises). Then there is a moment of confusion between them, a second of hesitation and the awkward brushing of fingers as he tries to take back the garment from her, as she moves to line up the two halves of his shirt for him. He feels his own cheeks redden under his beard when she seizes him, before warm palms land softly on his wrists to cease his movements, and he’s quite sure now, he’s almost certain that she is actually blushing.
“Here, you better let me do it,” she says. “Or you’ll still be here tomorrow.”
“Ah— Well.” Siegfried clears his throat. “Only if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“Just so long as you don’t get too used to it,” she teases, smiling now. “You’ll not be getting this treatment everyday.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he assures her.
She looks down from his face, turns away for a moment and busies herself by collecting his tie and waistcoat, a pair of cufflinks from the drawer and places them all in a tidy little bundle at the foot of his bed. And it occurs to Siegfried that she must have touched nearly every article of clothing he owns, that by now she has washed and pressed each garment with her own two hands, has mended any snag of fabric, darned every tear. Seeing her move about his private rooms just then, the very picture of domesticity, he’s amazed again at the way he takes charge of him, how she runs every facet of his home and practice. (He does not recall when exactly she had become indispensable to him, essential in every part of his existence, only knows that he could not imagine Skeldale House without her presence anymore, can no longer picture his own life without her there, beside him.)
His comrade in arms, his captain, Siegfried stands at ease when she grips his placket again, envelopes the fabric of his shirt in small, capable hands. Sharpshooting, skilled hands that could masterfully wield a weapon, which could nurse a bleeding wound as well as any medic might. (He remembers last night, when she had carefully rolled back his sleeves and tended his injuries, had administered antiseptic over the numerous cuts, wound bandages over his palm). His eyes are drawn down over and over to those slim, savvy fingers, again and again as they move over his middle. (The same hands he has reached for repeatedly in the course of their friendship, which he has sought out with his own so often until it became a habit.) She is more than halfway done already, has reached the button levelled with his navel and the shirt strains a little over his stomach.
He pats the small paunch, good-naturedly. “All your doing, I’m afraid,” he says.
And on any other day, the comment may have been tongue in cheek, in any other room in the house, it would have been offhand, droll perhaps and she would have laughed, swatted his bicep. Not in that moment however; his gentle teasing does not have the desired result, what with her hands presently on his body and the door of his bedroom firmly latched behind them. Not when she’s standing next to his unmade bed and tousled sheets, and she smells of his favourite shortbread biscuits and something vaguely floral, something distinctly like home. It feels far too intimate now, to suggest that her good food has made the once hard stomach muscles softer, rounder, that she has had any sort of physical effect on his person, and it makes Siegfried bite his tongue, makes the tips of his ears burn.
“I always liked a man who can eat,” she replies, quietly. He sees the blush creep up her neck once more, his eyes following as it settles on her cheeks, over her brow.
He would be lying then, if he said he isn’t affected by those words, whispered down the small gap between them. He would be fooling himself that his body is not responding to the delicate arch of her neck as her head bows beneath his chin, or to the tickle of her hair against him. (He won’t deny any longer that he is finding this entire exchange incredibly erotic, that despite himself, he is leaning forward, so that the tip of his nose brushes against her temple). He cannot go on pretending it is merely the steady warmth of her friendship which has tempered his heart (as his eyes shutter to a close and he breathes her in, inhales the sweet scent of her tresses) because somewhere along the way, they had ignited, had kindled into this slow-burning thing he has no name for (and now it brings the heat behind his eyes, between his legs as they stand this way together).
He swallows heavily as she finishes off the last button, as she picks up his tie to attach it around his collar. And he is willing his body to behave itself now, summoning all his self-control to remain proper and decent, to show the good and upstanding Mrs Hall the respect she deserves. Siegfried tries to veer his mind elsewhere, occupies himself by tucking in his shirt, using his good hand to shove the material into his trousers and it isn’t neatly done, not up to his usual trim kit, but it can hardly be helped. Then he starts on his braces, hauling them from where they hang at his sides, sliding them clumsily onto his shoulders and he is not up to muster but today, it would simply have to do. (And all the while, his mind considers just how he’d like to show her his regard, exactly the way he would bow between her knees, drag his lips across her thighs, would show Audrey just how great his esteem actually is and—)
“Stop it,” she says then, dropping his tie and smacking the back of his hand. “You’re getting them all twisted.”
Oh and that shouldn’t do anything, the sharp sting of her slap shouldn’t be good but it is delicious, and then Siegfried can’t think, can’t breathe because she’s stepping between his feet and her entire front is skimming lightly against him now. Suddenly, she is winding her slender arms around his large frame, means to smoothen out his shirt, to even out the tuft of fabric still hanging from his back but he isn’t prepared. Inhaling sharply at the unexpected contact, at the swell of her breasts pressing against his chest, he is petrified, frozen in place while her hands slide beneath his waistband, into the space between his trousers and bottom. Too late, he tries to turn away and his body is betraying him, his member is instantly hard against her and she gasps in his ear. (She has done this before in his private thoughts, in his secret mind, but they are in his bed and she writhes beneath him, pulls him closer, deeper and he—)
“Mrs Hall,” he whispers hoarsely, pulling himself away, breaking free from the circle of her arms. “Please, I’m so sorry.”