#billypold

Ipt.i - pride

The cellar below the Lamb and Flag is a racket of noise, bodies crushed together around the perimeter of the makeshift ring. Men bump shoulders and snipe at one another, egging each other on as they slip their money to the bookies. The air reeks of rust and sweat, sharp smoke from the firepit and grease from the lamps.

End of January following the Rip’s closing sees London in a state of moral ambiguity. Constables, overwhelmed by the chaos in the low-end districts, turn their backs on what lesser depravities people engage in to cope with the aftermath. Drunkenness, disorderly conduct, prostitution, possession of unlawful goods, are now swept under the rug while the Magistrate drags himself through the swamp of violent offenders (rounded up both during and after the final stages of the Rip’s expansion).

In addition, a sense of paranoia has settled in the cracks of London’s streets. Nobody trusts a face they don’t recognize and therefore, anyone who wasn’t working before, is certainly not about to be handed a position now.

Hence, Billy is here, shirtless, binding his knuckles for an unlicensed boxing match he needs to win or else he and his friends will be turned out. Mrs. Hudson has far less patience now than she did before (that is to say none), and though she reduced the price of their rent, she’s still on their arses about getting her money at exactly one minute past midnight on the 1st of the month.

It wouldn’t be so terrible if Watson hadn’t disappeared a week after Sherlock jumped into the unknown after Bea and Jessie’s mother, leaving 221B behind for Mrs. Hudson to rent to another well-to-do bloke and his sister. And Mycroft has been too busy to get in touch, though with what is anyone’s guess.

There is one other option that Billy refuses to consider. Shockingly, Bea respected his decision when it was brought up the first time. Maybe she’s grown, or maybe her resolve was eroded by everything that happened; either way, Billy appreciates Bea’s understanding, because he may have learned a thing or two about minding his pride, but some things cross a line and That is one of them.

“William Chisup!” Uriah Dunn, a stout man with a slit of a mouth and bushy mutton chops muffing his cheeks, yells above the cheers as soon as the third man is down.

Billy hates that name, hates who his mind associates it with – someone who tormented Billy until he outgrew the Parish and was put under Vic Collins’ care. But it’s better not to attract too much attention with a name now associated to a prince, so Billy reluctantly opts to use Father Bennett’s choice.

Taking a deep breath in, holding it in his lungs, Billy closes his eyes and tries to clear his mind.

A task much more easily accomplished without the paranoid part of his conscience insisting:

“Billy, we shouldn’t be here, mate.”

Billy opens his eyes, rolls them toward the ceiling as he sends up a prayer for patience, albeit Spike’s right.

Spikeshouldn’t be here because Spike is supposed to be keeping someone else off Billy’s back until the fight’s over and done with. Except that Spike is Spike and had other ideas, nobler ideas, and apparently his loyalties lie exclusively with the Crown since Spike’s here and not where Billy asked him to be. Twice.

Bloody turncoat.

“Relax,” Billy says, tightening the binding around his knuckles, “I know what I’m doing.”

Spike throws his hands up, drops them, “That’s wonderful, innit, except that you don’t h a v e to!?” He slows down the last bit, as if speaking to a particularly thick child, uses his hands to punctuate each word.

Finally, Billy turns to acknowledge him, “If you’re that uncomfortable with it, you can leave.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the ring where his opponent is banging his chest and building the crowd’s enthusiasm. The man’s big, bigger than Billy by three, but Billy watched an earlier match long enough to know he isn’t quick on his feet, relies entirely on his right hook and thick skull. Billy loosens his shoulders, shakes his hands, and cracks his neck, winks at Spike when he brags, “This won’t take long.”

Spike isn’t looking at him, though, gaze fixed at a point above Billy’s head. More precisely, at the top of the stairs that lead down from the backroom of the tavern above.

“You’re right.” Spike agrees, eyebrows raised in an expression that severely lacks pity, “It’ll be no time at all.”

Billy follows Spike’s line of sight.

“Shit.”

-

pt.ii – protection

Leo’s never been to the Lamb and Flag before, couldn’t even say he knew it existed before today, but then, he could say the same for a lot of the places he visited with the Baker Street Irregulars, as they’ve come to call themselves. Bea, Jessie, Spike—Billy, of course, and himself, too many sips into their ales, fingers greasy from fat and oil, after the incident with the Linen Man. Relieved to be alive and determined to find a light in the inky dark, they cackled to each other as they decided their group needed a proper name.

An irregular bunch they are, indeed.

Strangely, it was Louise who summoned Leo to tell him where he needed to be and gave him directions to the Lamb and Flag, “on behalf of an interested party,” she said, a secretive smile on her dusk-pink lips. Leo frowned, curious, but didn’t question his sister; simply hailed Daimler and requested a carriage be prepared.

Daimler, God bless him, was so far beyond his wits’ end, that he’d done as commanded with minimal grumbling, posture that of a long-suffering parent.

Leo asked that the carriage remain a few streets away from the tavern, lest anyone discover him prematurely. Daimler, once again, agreed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and flapped a hand, muttering darkly under his breath until Leo was out of earshot. Much had changed in the wake of the Rip, and Leo’s fortitude was one of them. Not even Daimler could argue that his Highness no longer required round-the-clock supervision.

Waltzing through the entrance, Leo found the place oddly deserted, the barman and one patron keeping each other company at a table close to the taps.

“I’m here for someone.” Leo said as directly as he could without suffering politeness.

“Aye?” The barman peered at him, his beady eyes lingering on Leo’s cuffs and fine shoes before he nodded toward a closed door at the back of the room. Whatever he spied made him agreeable. “Down the stairs. Mind your ‘ead.”

Leo didn’t understand until he found a smaller door at the rear of the backroom, partially hidden by a grey curtain that blended in with the wall. The instant he’d entered the backroom, he’d heard muffled shouting, which burst through the door like a punch the moment he opened it, Billy’s name curiously sharp above the rest. Altogether, the noise sounded as if it came from a fairly large group of people.

As the barman suggested, Leo ducked to avoid hitting his head on the frame and proceeded down the narrow, stone staircase.

Now, he stands at the bottom, eyes adjusting to the muddier light, and sees he was right; there are men packed into the cellar, all of them frothing at the mouth as someone yells Billy’s name for the second time. That’s when Leo spots him, Billy, on the fringe of the crowd, bare from the waist up with his hands bound and his tin soldier glinting.

Spike stands behind him, admiring the architecture of the ceiling as Billy glares daggers at him.

Just as Leo is about to step forward, the stench of sweat and the heat of an overworked body slams into him, halting him before he has a chance to move his feet. The room goes quiet as the giant of a man scrutinizes Leo, an unsettling grin on his swelling face.

“I think I should ‘ave a go at this one,” He declares, tossing a look of condescending glee over his shoulder to the crowd. The crowd snickers.

It’s clear this man is a fighter, his right eye pulpy, teeth red, and his interest in Leo sends a frisson of terror down Leo’s spine. “Wouldn’t tha’ be a laugh?” He says when he turns back to Leo, snorting and then hawking a wad of pink spit at Leo’s shoes. He lifts a hand, grabs Leo’s coat, and drags him close, smiling madly. “Whaddu you say, boy? Wanna go?”

Leo fixes the man with a hard stare, unwilling to take this sitting down. He opens his mouth to answer… And is interrupted.

“Oi,” Billy barks, his image completely eclipsed by the man’s fat head. “I think you’ll find it’s my turn.”

The man shoves Leo away, turns on his heel, a growl in his throat, “You’ll mind yer business—”

CRACK

The man falls in a heap, two of his teeth projected a short distance and clicking across the floor. Billy looms over him, chest heaving, patches of blood blooming in the binding on his right hand.

Calmly, a slight tremor of fury beneath his words, Billy says, “Don’t ever. Fucking. Touch ‘im.” Eyes crazed, he sends a warning glance to the crowd of men who’ve gone completely silent. “Got it?” He demands, waits for a few heads to bob, then casually steps over the unconscious man’s limp body, sliding easily into Leo’s space.

Movements sure, Billy runs his palms across Leo’s shoulders, cups Leo’s neck and rubs the calloused pads of his thumbs along Leo’s jawline. He dips his head and bumps their noses, expression soft when he asks in a gentle tone, “You alright, darling?”

Leo nods shakily and sucks the corner of his bottom lip into his mouth, flushed from the inside out. At a volume he’s certain only Billy can hear, he implores, “We need to leave.”

Billy makes a face, gaze flickering between Leo’s eyes. It takes a moment, but, at last, comprehension dawns on Billy’s face.

“Now.” Leo says more firmly.

Billy is only too happy to oblige.

So far, Leo’s encountered a pageant of laborers and vagrants and costermongers, underfed and overworked, eyes that have seen several lifetimes in the faces of young children. Those who occupy the rookery are all of a rough, unforgiving nature, marred and sooty, bodies morphed into crooked shapes under the weight of hours of hard work, every one of them a reflection of the environment wherein they’re forced to live.

Yet, there’s so much more beneath the gloom than anywhere Leo’s been. The people Leo’s observed—they make those brief snatches of happiness count, fully and completely, undiluted by the confining standards of propriety. They feel things bigger, broader, freer.

It’s beautiful in the rawest sense and every fiber of Leo’s being is drawn to it as a moth to the flame. He’s never felt so intensely in all his seventeen years, wonders if his sister, mother, other members of the nobility have allowed themselves to truly feel as such.

Sadly, Leo continues to stand as an outsider, unwelcome though he tries to blend in donning less afternoonified clothes. A disguise, Leo has learned, doesn’t work if one still wears fragments of one’s wealth in one’s mannerisms and speech. Since returning to Manchester Street a mere forty minutes ago, Leo’s already been shoved, barked at, solicited, and told where he can shove his Mary Ann wiles.

Splendid.

Still, hardly any of it penetrated the fog permeating Leo’s brain, the climax of their latest investigation lingering like a ghost that refuses to move on. Regardless of whether or not Leo was bothered by the last comment, Billy was roused to his feet, seemingly on Leo’s behalf, and the whole ordeal almost resulted in a row that Leo doubts Billy would’ve won.

The commenter was a burly, plum-colored fellow whose body was the width of three average men standing shoulder-to-shoulder. That he was missing two-thirds of an arm didn’t diminish the terrifying quality of his presence. Rather, it magnified it. The commenter spat in Billy’s face, made another snide remark; Billy stepped forward, a menacing expression miring his features.

The image Billy made swiftly knocked Leo’s brain back into the present.

He can’t deny the heat that bloomed in his belly at the sight of Billy so eager to defend him, shoulders squared, jaw set, the corded muscles in his forearms bouncing as he clenched and unclenched his fists. Leo believed it was confirmation of the great strides they made in their relationship throughout the investigation; or, more precisely, after it, between bidding the resurrectionists farewell and arriving at The Duck and Quiver.

Despite Billy’s standoffishness toward Leo from the point of their introduction, Leo’s thoughts haven’t strayed far from him. He and Leo made a good team, bouncing information back and forth as, aloud, they followed the clues laid out by the Tooth Fairy to their inevitable conclusion. Leo’s heart pounded, blood pumped, the sensation powerful as the world fell away and Leo became the sole focus of Billy’s attention.

Again, later, when he and Billy lost themselves in the high of executing something as diabolical as disposing a corpse—how Billy crashed into him, pinned him against a tree and brought him to insurmountable pleasure with hands and mouth; panting, moaning, the sound of Billy’s hoarse voice in Leo’s ear—In those moments, Leo felt exultant, untouchable, accepted.

And then, like plunging into icy water, the memory of Billy’s words resurfaced in his mind – “Don’t think this means anything, it’s just blowin’ off steam.” – spoken sharply as they straightened themselves out before retreating to the safety of Manchester Street.

Right. Yes. Of course. Why not add more fuel to the massive discourse burning Leo’s conscience? Because that’s exactly what he needed to round out an already shitty evening.

⚞⚟

They’re on their way to wish Bea luck when it happens.

Billy, Spike and Jessie trudge against the midafternoon crowd, Spike boasting a story from his childhood – no doubt exaggerated to the moon to impress Jessie. Billy listens with half an ear, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes on the ground. He doesn’t react when someone bumps into him.

“He’s in a mood,” Jessie teases to Spike when Spike tries, for the fourth time, to include Billy in the conversation.

Spike snorts, “I can see that. Which is why I’m trying to cheer ‘im up.” He sidles into Billy’s space, claps a friendly hand on Billy’s shoulder and asks, “Come on, mate, who shoved that monumental stick up your arse?”

Billy’s jaw twitches. He tucks his chin into his chest and hunches further into himself, hoping to relay how much he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Is it the whole we’re not good enough tripe?” Spike questions, rolling a hand in the air to encompass the tripe he’s referring to. “Because the way I look at it, we got lucky. Who wants to go to a stuffy old ball anyway?” Spike’s tone suggests he does, but Billy refrains from pointing it out, “Let Bea and the good doctor go and deal with all that crap, while we—” He leans back and grins across the breadth of Billy’s shoulders, winks at Jessie, “—get to enjoy ourselves!”

Billy doesn’t respond, simply shrugs and keeps his pace, his shoulder colliding with another man’s. Again, Billy doesn’t even seem to register that the man told him to, watch where yer goin’!

Yes, Billy’s in a mood, definitely, but it doesn’t have anything to do with Bea or Watson or the ball Spike mentioned. In fact, it was Billy’s idea to go find Bea before Watson collects her at Mrs. Smith’s shoppe.

As usual, Watson’s swanning Bea off to perform for another investigation, some undercover business that apparently, “Only Beatrice has the maturity and patience to pull off,” thanks for the confidence, “the rest of you will merely serve to attract unwanted attention.” As if Bea done up like a gateau de savoie won't attract attention. Although Bea has learned to carry herself less woodenly than she did, she isn't exactly graceful when laced into a gown. Jessie's the better candidate, equipped with supernatural powers to boot, but Watson's mind was made up. Besides, Billy's noticed that he and Bea have some sort of connection; they seem to get each other in a way that leaves everyone else behind.

Howbeit, Watson’s condescending remark isn’t what gets Billy’s dander up either. That honor goes to His Royal Highness, Prince I-Have-To-Escort-Helena. Not that Billy wants to go through the trouble of pampering and primping for a ball he’s sure he’ll hate every minute of. But Leo could’ve at least had the courtesy to pretend he was regretful, since he already has so much experience pretending to be something he isn’t.

Billy scowls at his shoes, kicks a pebble harder than he means to. He ducks his head and picks up his pace when he hears a strangled yelp and sees, from the corner of his eye, a man clasp his ankle and hop on one foot.

Oops.

It’s then that the short hairs at the back of his neck rise, his scalp tingles, the sensation of being watched shivering up Billy's spine. He lifts his chin and, immediately, his gaze is drawn to the end of the street.

“Isn’t that—?” Jessie starts, tugging Billy’s wrist to get his attention. Then, much quieter, under her breath, “Oh,” as if she's figured something out.

Billy yanks his wrist out of her light grasp and squares his shoulders, ignorant of the utterly baffled Spike sends Jessie behind his back. “Wait here,” he gruffs and stalks toward the end of the street. Or more precisely, toward who lingers there.

“We’ll meet you!” Spike calls after him and wraps an arm around Jessie. She tries to resist, head craning, but Spike guides her down the cross street in the direction of Mrs. Smith’s shoppe.

Like a wolf preparing to lunge, Billy stalks toward Leo, expression hard and fists clenched. Leo returns the sentiment with a rigid, neutral set to his features, stare unwavering. Billy inwardly chastises himself for the heat of desire that rushes through him upon seeing Leo. No matter how pissed he is with the prince, Billy can never deny how attractive Leo is like this, all lofty courage and attitude, golden against the smutty backdrop of the Marylebone rookery. God, Billy wants to strip Leo of his finery, fuck him until he remembers who he really belongs to. And it isn't, Billy thinks in a possessive growl, Helena.

Theirs will never be a public romance, a reality Billy understood from the start, only it didn't feel so impossibly cruel until the moment Leo casually mentioned he would be attending the very ball Bea and Watson would with Helena on his arm. As if he wasn't lounging between Billy's legs, his back to Billy's chest, his fingers laced with Billy's. It never ceases to amaze Billy how terrible Leo is at reading a room because Jessie's discomfited expression alone should've been a clue that something wasn't right. Even so, Billy kept his mouth shut because he's supposed to be fine with it, isn't he?

Easier said than done, Billy knows now.

As much as they - Billy and Leo and Leo and Helena - have an agreement, it still cuts deep when Billy has to step aside so Leo can appease his mother by flaunting the person society deems Leo's best match.

“What’re you doing here?” Billy demands to know the instant he’s within earshot.

Leo flinches slightly, then musters the confidence to say, “I’d like to have a word.”

“With your side piece?” Billy mocks disbelief, “I’ll bet.”

“Billy, please, if you would just listen—”

Billy’s in front of Leo now, standing at the closeness he’s grown accustomed to since he and Leo became he and Leo. He didn’t mean to narrow the distance so quickly, wants to hold on to the anger because it’s easier, except that to put himself anywhere else in Leo’s orbit feels intrinsically wrong.

“Better make it quick, your highness,” Billy sneers, “I’m sure your lady doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“For goodness’ sake,” Leo erupts through gritted teeth, though his tone maintains a respectable volume as propriety demands, “I’m not going.”

This stops Billy's mounting rage in its tracks, all at once replaced with a confusion that shows itself on Billy's face. A simple “What?” tumbles out of his mouth as he frowns at Leo as if Leo told him the sky is actually green.

“I’m not going.” Leo repeats.

Billy grabs Leo by the upper arm and drags him out of the middle of the crowded street, into a narrow lane that separates the butcher’s and an Indian-owned tearoom. Leo doesn’t resist, allows Billy to manhandle him, and stops moving altogether when Billy pushes him against the brick wall just inside the lane. Suddenly, Billy’s flooded with concern.

“What happened?” Because it has to be something awful if Leo can shirk his responsibility for the evening. “Is Helena alright?”

Leo’s brows furrow, eyes flickering between Billy’s, down to hover on Billy’s mouth before they slip to the ground where they remain. He huffs a humorless laugh, “Helena’s fine, you massive boor.” and slumps against the wall Billy has him pinned to by the shoulders, defeat obvious in his posture.

“Then what—?”

“It’s you!”

Well, that can't be right. Leo's never missed an engagement his mother's insisted upon for Billy in the weeks they've been, well, them. Billy has to make sure, “Me?”

Gesturing helplessly with one hand, Leo explains, “How can I go and act as though I care about anything my mother’s contemporaries have to say when all I can think about is you, here, upset with me?” A tiny smile curls Billy’s mouth, “I love you, you idiot.” Leo says as though he's said it a thousand times - he hasn't, this is the first and Leo doesn't appear to notice he's shared such an important declaration in the middle of a rant. Billy wants to say it back all the more for it. “Helena made a fuss when I told her, practically pushed me out the window so I would come find you.”

Floating on a wave of giddiness, assuaged by Leo's words, Billy remembers how much he likes Helena. Helena who has her Henrik in Münster and swore not to intrude on Leo's relationship with Billy as long as Leo issues her the same respect.

Billy leans in and places his forehead against Leo’s, hands sliding from Leo’s shoulders to cradle Leo’s jaw, resting the pads of his thumbs gently at the corners of Leo’s mouth. A small chuckle escapes him, unable to contain it, and Billy shuffles forward to press their bodies flush from waist to hips to knees, fondly brushes the tips of their noses, then tilts his head and captures Leo’s lips in a sweet yet hot-hungry kiss.

When he pulls back, he wonders, “Or maybe it’s Helena I should be thanking?” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, smiling playfully, “Should I be kissing her instead?”

Eyes in grumpy, feline slits, Leo protests, “Don’t you dare.”

“Mm, you’re right, she’s really not my type.”

Abruptly, Billy untangles himself from Leo, bends enough to grab Leo by the back of the thighs and lifts. Leo cries out shrilly, startled, the action forcing his legs to wrap around Billy’s waist and his arms to lock around Billy’s neck. Cackling, Billy pins Leo with his body, his fingers kneading the sensitive flesh just below Leo’s arse, eliciting a moan that he swallows greedily.

“Is this really the appropriate time?” Leo pants, throwing his head back when Billy grinds their hips together, making them both groan.

“Not even a little bit.”

As Billy leans in for another kiss, Leo interrupts by putting two fingers to Billy's lips. “Perhaps,” He says, voice pitched suggestively, “We should take this elsewhere,” Here, Leo kitten licks Billy’s parted lips, darts his tongue into Billy's mouth quickly, moves on to dot Billy’s jaw with a trail of dry kisses. He reaches Billy's ear and continues in a whisper, “Somewhere you can spread me open,” A nip to Billy’s earlobe, “And show me what happens when I upset you?”

Billy's cock twitches in interest. He takes in Leo’s pink cheeks and glassy, blown eyes, decides, “Sounds like a marvelous idea.”