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Abe's Antiques is closed but not dark when she gets there, tucking her sedan into a parallel spot halfway down the block, sliding out and smoothing down the front of her opera gown. The silk tulle is finer fabric than she’s used to wearing-- heaven bless the woman who invented no-wrinkle fabrics, they had gotten her through more stake-outs and nights of overtime than she wants to think about-- but it’s already crinkled by design and she doesn’t think she did it that much damage by driving in it.
It's still a lot more fabric than she's used to having around her legs and she takes a handful of it to lift it off the sidewalk, striding confidently to the door, her heels striking against the pavement. It's already opening when she gets there, although the silhouette is a little broader and round-backed than Henry's.
Abe waves her inside; the half-lit shop is quiet and smells like someone's been polishing the hardwood furniture.
"He's getting ready," Abe says, giving her the eye-twinkling smile that must move so many Victorian occasional tables. "He's been talking about it all day."
"I'm not surprised. He had a lot to say about the opera at the precinct, too."
Abe laughs, a single loud guffaw before he restrains himself. "Yeah, that too."
She arches a brow, offers her own deliberately enigmatic smile. She's been wondering since Henry accepted her invitation what this was, exactly-- a pair of friends on a night out? Something else? She knows he was tangled up with Professor Dawes, and there's an unspoken tension-- not always a romantic or even positive one, but a tension-- between him and Detective Martinez.
Abe hasn't quite pinned it down for her, but she hadn’t got where she is by showing her hand too early.
The old shopkeeper eyebrows back at her, then shoots a glance towards the back of the shop. “He’s probably still in front of the mirror. Can I get you something-?” he asks.
“No, thank you.”
“I’ll see if he’s ready.” Abe heads to the back of the shop, sticking his head through a door tucked behind the counter. “Henry! Your date’s here!”
Something British and unintelligible floats back, but there’s the sound of movement. Abe steps away from the door with a flourish, doing a Vanna White presentation.
Henry strolls through the open doorway, gives his roommate a fond look and an eyeroll.
“Turn,” Abe commands, and Henry does, an elegant spin that shows off the fit of his tuxedo. …that’s not rented. A little old fashioned but much better quality than a back-of-the-closet relic of a prom outfit. Bespoke, maybe, or well-altered enough to pass. Actual cufflinks on the sleeves, a fresh shine on the shoes, and something in his hair that keeps the curl soft and under control. Well, there was never any question that he'd clean up nice, was there?
He gives her the same once-over she’s giving him, and she sees him identify the rented gown, the freshly cooked and curled hair, the special-occasion shoes that go months without being worn, and she also sees him identify that she looks damn good.
“You look lovely,” he says, before his gaze gets impolite and the silence gets awkward. It’s pure formula but also completely sincere.
He’s giving her the same warm, appreciative smile she’s seen him sneak in Martinez’s direction a few times, the same one he used to give Professor Dawes, and not for the first time she wonders if he even notices that she’s got about twenty years on both of them.
“Not so bad yourself,” she says warmly, completing the formula, and she means it too.
Abe elbows Henry lightly in the ribs. “All right, stop showing off.”
“It’s all right. He looks good in a tux,” she chuckles. It’s not just the fit— very flattering fit, shame about the tails in the back— but he knows he looks good, and it’s put that new-lipstick spring in his step, a coy little quirk in his smile.
“Shall we?” she offers, and holds out her arm. She’s never taken someone’s arm in her life, she doesn’t think, but with Henry it feels right and she knows he won’t leave her hanging.
“Delighted,” he says, formulaic-but-honest again, and tucks his hand into her elbow.
Abe gives him a wry look, unsurprised by his roommate’s romantic cheese. He steps past them to hold the door — convenient, Joanna doesn’t have to drop her skirt or Henry’s hand.
“Get him home by eleven,” Abe teases, and that should be fatherly but it isn’t. Not quite. Fond, though. Just another note in the mental file of questions she keeps about Henry Morgan.
“No promises,” she says coolly, and Henry’s eyes crease up with mischief.
The old shopkeeper shakes his head and shoos them out the door, all three of them smiling.
Since they seem to have settled on a dynamic tonight, she walks Henry to the door of her Subaru and opens it politely for him. There’s about half a second when he looks as if he’s going to protest, but then his expression smooths out. Apparently there’s enough gentleman going around to share.
“Thank you,” he says, but doesn’t get in. “I wonder— may I ask a somewhat forward question?”
“I’m listening.”
“You know that I respect you immensely— that I value my relationship with the NYPD, and the eleventh precinct especially. I would hate to cause a rift by presuming too much. I would be more than happy to attend the opera with you as a valued colleague and friend. However.” The pause is just for effect; he knows what he’s going to say. “I would also be more than happy if it were… something else.”
“I asked you because I had two tickets and I thought you’d enjoy it.” She holds the silence, keeping her lips tight until he shifts, growing uncertain, and then smiles, tapping her fingernails against the open car door to call his attention down to it. “But I’m willing to see where the night goes.”
“I look forward to it,” he murmurs, and tucks himself into the passenger seat.
She circles around and arranges herself into the driver’s seat -- it takes some adjusting of the mass of tulle, some careful folding over her legs. It feels good; she could get used to the cocoon of silk around her, and she’s always loved the way the gas pedal feels through the thinner, smoother soles of her pumps.
She waits for a break in the sparse evening traffic, and pulls out with an extra flourish, smiling to herself.
Henry leans back in the passenger seat, relaxing into the shared-chivalry role. For a second she actually thinks he may just ride in silence.
Then he takes that little ‘words are coming’ breath and her internal smile deepens. She’s seeing him in a new light tonight, but it’s the same old Henry.
“I must say, I had no idea you enjoyed the opera, Lieutenant. --Joanna?”
She nods slightly, allows him the name. “I can’t say I actually do." She hasn't ever actually been before. "But I’m a fan of Coleridge-Taylor. Always felt a personal connection.”
“Ah.” Henry pauses and then realization dawns on him.
There are moments where one can only be disappointed or pleasantly surprised. She waits.
“Your nephew’s run-in with Dovebird records, of course. Coleridge-Taylor’s own struggles to retain the rights to his music must have struck a chord--” He realizes the pun a second after it’s too late, and scowls at himself, brow furrowing.
Henry usually surprises her instead of disappointing her. She chuckles.
“So you know a something about him.”
“Oh, yes,” he enthuses, missing the irony. “I see something of a kindred spirit in him myself -- he loved the States, nearly became an expatriate as I did. A good humoured man with impeccable taste--” he pauses suddenly. “By all accounts.”
She has to wait until they stop at a red to slant a glance over at Henry. He has that shuttered look he gets when he trips over his own mouth, staring a thousand yards into the distance.
She always has to wonder where his head goes at times like these.
1904 - Washington, DC
“They may as well not give an artist any rights to his work, for all he’s allowed to exercise them.”
Henry stops in his tracks at the voice, cutting through the din of the crowd and the strange acoustics of the long hall and vaulted ceilings. A woman walking behind him collides with him, inserting a less than ladylike elbow into his ribs.
“Pardon me,” he murmurs, and changes course, weaving through the party crowd and back out in the corridor, wedging himself into a thick knot of people clustered around the speaker. A handsome, energetic young man is holding court in the middle of them, glass of wine in one hand, the other hand elegantly sketching out his points in the air.
“Say you are a composer and you wish to see your music performed. Well, now; are you rich? No?” A dismissive flourish with his hand. “Then have you got a patron? Ah, no? Well, then, do you have any other choice but to sell your work and every right to it for a pittance?” He laughs ruefully, and a sympathetic chuckle ripples through the crowd.
“No,” the orator finishes, and lets his hand fall despondently to his side.
Sighs and mutters of sympathy, side conversations starting; the young man turns to Henry, dark eyes alive with mischief. “Sir, you’re staring.”
“You’re a Briton,” Henry says, and then groans at his own stupidity.
“So are you. And I’ve become used to the Americans being surprised, but as a fellow countryman you should know that the English race and the Negro race are hardly exclusive.”
“Of course not!” Henry stammers, going red. “No-- no, that’s not what I meant. But unless there are more of our compatriots here tonight, that means you’re Samuel Coleridge-Taylor. You’re the man I came down from New York to see.”
“I am he. At your service, Mister--”
“Doctor. Henry Morgan.” He extends a hand, and Coleridge-Taylor shakes it warmly. “I can’t tell you-- I saw Hiawatha’s Wedding Feast in this very hall four years ago. It was magnificent. Transporting.”
The other man beams. “Oh? Tell me all about it.”
“Are you sure it isn’t a sore topic-?” Henry lifts a hand, realizes that he’s unconsciously imitating Coleridge-Taylor’s earlier gesture.
“Oh, the mercenary business of buying and selling music will always be sore,” the composer sighs. “Fifteen guineas, I sold Hiawatha for, and no matter how many thousands of pounds it brings in those fifteen guineas are all I’ll ever see of it. But appreciation of my work is never a sore topic.”
“Well, in that case, let me tell you how moved I was by your collaboration with Mister Dunbar-- we so rarely get performances of the latest music, I’ve had to content myself with sheet music. I still haven’t been able to get hold of your latest cantata.”
“I can do better than a bit of sheet music. If you are still in Washington day after tomorrow, come to dinner. I’m working on a piece to surprise my Jessie with and you can give me your opinion.”
“I’d love nothing better. I hope you have better luck selling it--”
“Not this one. No, not in my lifetime; I may not have the funds for the gifts my wife deserves, but I can at least give her something that is hers and hers alone. I’ll finish that Norse opera I’ve been drafting instead; I won’t feel as if I’m parting with an arm when I sell that.”
Coleridge-Taylor loops an arm around Henry’s back and tugs him toward another knot of people. “Now come meet my good friends in the Choral Society; tonight’s performance would be impossible without them, you know.”
“Then I owe them a debt of gratitude myself.” Henry lets himself be led along happily, practically aglow with delight and the anticipation of the performance to come.
Joanna leaves the Subaru with the valet at the Metropolitan Opera House, and lets Henry do the arm offering this time.
He’s glowing; he’s in his element. He knows the ticket taker, flirts with one of the ushers, asks after the coat-check attendant’s dog. It’s amazing; hilarious, but sweet. More of Henry’s contradictions; he holes himself up in his lab, did that stint as a grave digger, reads as the typical ME introvert on paper, but get him out here and he turns into this glittering social butterfly.
“Have I mentioned,” he says, fluttering back to her side fresh off charming another usher, “how grateful I am that you invited me? I was heartbroken when I found out that it was a limited performance. I was considering selling a kidney for tickets.”
His hand tucks into the crook of her arm again and she pats it soothingly. “It’s not a problem. I only have the two tickets, and I can't just invite one of my siblings or their children, and my friends are mostly in the force. Jo doesn’t do opera, and when I asked if Mike wanted to go to a Samuel Coleridge-Taylor production, he said he didn’t really like ‘that daffodil guy’.”
As predicted, Henry reacts like she sucker punched him, almost doubling over in the most dignified way possible. “That’s-- he’s conflating-- and it’s a Wordsworth poem.”
Her cheeks hurt with the effort of not grinning. “So I thought you might appreciate it more.”
“Thank you,” Henry says, so heartfelt that her suppressed smile softens and breaks out across her face.
“Joanna,” someone calls from across the lobby.
“Ray!” She gives Henry a little tug. “Come say thank you to the man who got me these tickets, all right?”
“With pleasure,” Henry says, straightening up. If he was wearing eye makeup he’d be checking it in the nearest reflection.
“You look fine,” she reassures him in an undertone, leading him over to her friends. “Ray, Kevin, this is Henry-- he works for the OCME. Henry, this is Ray, a friend on the force, and his husband--”
“Professor Cozner! I attended your lecture on the Herculaneum papyri at Columbia last year, a fascinating talk. Henry Morgan.”
Henry clasps Kevin’s hand with both of his, giving him that boyish smile that’s gotten him out of all those public indecency charges over the last few years, and then turns the same enthusiasm on Ray.
“A delight to meet Joanna’s friends. And I’m told I have you to thank for the ticket?”
“Yes,” Ray says flatly.
Henry is undaunted. She’s not sure a subway car could daunt him right now. “I’m immensely grateful. I’ve been an admirer of Coleridge-Taylor’s for years, and I adore the old opera standards.”
“I hope that you enjoy the show,” Ray says with just as much inflection as he had spoken with before.
Henry visibly takes himself down a few notches, in deference to her friend’s less energetic demeanor. “And I you. Joanna, I thought I might get some champagne before the performance starts-- may I get you anything?”
“The same, thanks.”
His chin goes up, and he strides away determinedly as if carrying her champagne is his new calling in life. Well, she’s not complaining. She murmurs a less overwhelming goodbye to Kevin and Ray, and then strolls off in a rustle of silk to find an usher to tell her where their seats are.
It turns out that they’re sitting in a box on the Dress Circle level, to stage left, and they have it entirely to themselves. It’s an odd experience, frankly, the sounds of the crowd below them murmuring up as the lower seating fills contrasted with the empty seats around them, the heavy curtains tied just so she and Henry have a view down and little else, and the high, solid frontage that she has to first lift her arms up to to be able to rest them on. She rests the bottle of champagne Henry had returned with against it, and places her glass carefully on the small empty table next to her, still feeling as if she’d thrown a stick for a dog and been returned an entire tree.
She’s not yet sure if it the box is isolating or wonderfully private-- well, she doesn’t mince words, does she? She’s not yet sure if it’s isolating or wonderfully intimate, but whatever it is, it is unquestionably theirs alone: an usher comes in five minutes to showtime and discreetly removes the few place tags for the remaining seats in the box.
Henry looks bemused as the tags disappear. It probably hasn’t occurred to him that there are people who’d actually let a personal conflict keep them from going to the opera. Frankly, she’s convinced he wouldn’t let the apocalypse stop him, even if he was the only one of the entire cast and audience to attend.
He’s practically vibrating in his seat beside hers. He has a tight enough hold on his manners not to be fidgeting or jumping, but most likely not even an anesthetic could keep Henry from drawing attention to himself. He doesn’t mean to, not deliberately, she’s sure about that. Subconsciously, yes; she sees the way he thrives on attention, in small non-threatening doses, on praise and friendship. Her niece Tamera is working on her counselling psychology PhD; she would probably be able to tell if it meant Henry had been a lonely child or a happy one, but all Joanna can tell is that, when he’s as pleased with himself as he is now, any pair of eyes on Henry spurs him on.
Luckily, he’s attractive and, for the time being, entertaining to listen to while he sketches out the history of the opera house with his hands and champagne glass, and fills it in much more thoroughly with a well-meaning lecture.
She offers the occasional ‘mm’ or nod and lets him talk until the lights dim and they both fall silent as a silver-haired man takes the stage to introduce the show. Well, she falls silent, and Henry gives it about ten seconds before he begins murmuring a counterpoint to the history of Thelma that's being imparted from the stage.
The opera itself starts soon enough, and she does her best to follow, but opera, any opera, isn’t something she’s been to before, nor something she’s had any interest in attending. Unfortunately, the longer the first act goes, the less likely she thinks it is she’ll be coming back.
She pours herself another glass of champagne. It’s not likely to make it that much harder to follow along with the story. There are captions up over the stage, but all the vocal gymnastics make it hard to tie them together with the actual music; she gets a syllable here and there, but she likes her lyrics at least half comprehensible.
Henry, though, he’s riveted, actually literally on the edge of his seat and leaning forward slightly over the box front.
He’s more interesting than the soprano onstage, so she watches him watching the opera. He’s getting something out of this she’s just not touching and it lights him up.
The soprano winds down, and he looks back to her. His eyebrows go up; his expression of surprise is big enough to see in the dark box. Almost guilty. Contrite, that’s the word, like he feels bad for enjoying this without her. He slides back in his chair and leans over.
“You really aren’t enjoying this,” he whispers.
“It’s fine,” she murmurs back. “Just not my usual thing.”
“I know. And it’s not--” his eyes flick back to the stage, around the empty box, and he swings his knees a little toward her, leans more toward her instead of the lighted stage, shifting his intense focus. “I will be the first to admit it’s not his best work. Or the finest opera. It’s quite formulaic. Admittedly, that’s some of the delight, for me.” He’s gearing up for the full-on Henry monologue, but somehow still keeping it to a whisper.
She leans in to listen. Maybe she’ll come away with a better idea of what the cast has been singing about, and either way it’s not going to make the opera less interesting.
He pauses and moistens his lips. She sees him inhale through his nose; he’s picking up her perfume. His eyes jerk back up to hers, and it wasn’t the soprano down on the stage they were lingering on.
All right, it’s actually going to make the opera much more interesting.
His voice is a little deeper when he starts again, still a low, low murmur. “Thelma is-- very much the summer blockbuster of its time. Norse mythology and contrived magical devices were a staple as much as-- the dozens of interchangeable superheroes and action stars are now. It’s nearly pandering in the way it plays to the tastes of the time, but it’s not -- without effort. This is his own take on the genre.”
He pauses, tips his chin towards the words over the screen. “The libretto is... joyfully overwrought, I think. He isn’t mocking the popular conventions, he’s embracing them, all the pomp and circumstance of the Edwardian age.”
“Baz Luhrman,” Reece murmurs back. Henry’s face goes blank in the faint light, and she shakes her head. “Director. He does the same thing. Embraces camp. Somebody should make you watch Moulin Rouge.”
“Perhaps they should,” Henry says thoughtfully. “I wish… I wish he’d had a chance to write another. This is such a first attempt, Joanna. His first libretto, his first solo opera. He hadn’t the chance to write another.”
“I know,” she says, in total agreement. Henry’s got a big heart and she’s softening towards the opera, even though it really does feel a little ridiculous to her. He’s sitting sideways on his chair with his knees almost touching her outer thigh. She widens her legs a little, and now they are touching.
“Now,” he murmurs. “We’re getting to the meat of the story. It’s classic; two suitors. You couldn’t have an opera without them any more than… than…”
“An action movie without explosions?”
“Precisely.”
“And Gudrun-- her name’s not in the title." Joanna shoots a look down at the woman in question. "She’s not going to make it to the end, is she?”
“No. The secondary female character… usually meets a tragic end, for all that she’s often also the one with more interest,” Henry agrees ruefully.
“Some things never change.” She reaches for her champagne and takes a sip.
“Now, Eric has the tenor part, and rather an ambitious one. Historically, the tenor part is versatile-- could be one of any dozen character types-- but this role is specifically a Leggerro Tenor, which is traditionally…”
His hand is on his knee, supporting him as he leans forward, and his fingertips are resting hot against her leg. He’s wearing a subtle cologne and it mingles with her perfume as they sit together whispering like conspiratorial schoolkids in the back of the class.
She’s on her third glass of champagne before she knows it, and the first act slides by on greased wheels. The orchestra winds down from the big bombastic climax to a light refrain the the lights slowly come up.
Henry takes a deep breath, sagging back a little. He reaches for the bottle of champagne and his eyebrows shoot up as he realizes how light it’s gotten.
“Well. I think a bit of water for us both? My goodness.”
“Don’t be gone too long. This is why I had to be here tonight.”
“Oh?”
“There’s going to be a piano solo before the second act. It’s the first public performance of a rediscovered sonata.”
“Goodness, of course it is. The poor man had more of his work get lost than stayed in circulation,” Henry says, smiling lopsidedly. “Thank you, I wouldn’t miss that for the world. I’ll be back in a moment.”
He stands up with a soft indrawn breath-- probably as stiff as she is-- but after a quick stretch he’s all bounce and enthusiasm again, ready to go fetch and be the perfect date. It's honest and genuine, and terribly sweet. It settles in her chest and blossoms there.
“Thank you, Henry,” she says warmly.
It’s the tiniest thing, but he preens. And then, after a second of hesitation, he leans down, takes her hand, and actually kisses her knuckles. His eyes flick up, looking for disapproval, and she has to laugh because she doesn’t think anyone’s ever pulled that before.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he says, and then he’s gone.
She leans back, stretching out her stiff back. She slips her feet out of her high-heels and stands up, flexing her feet on the clean, smooth floor.
She’s having a lot more fun than she thought she would, she has to admit it. Henry’s-- well, he just pulls you along when he gets on a roll, but she knew that. And she can't imagine what a penance this would be without his enthusiasm and interest. God, what if Mike had accepted--? It's enough to make her snort to herself as she checks her phone for anything urgent. No, no. She's very glad she's here with Henry.
She’s settled back down with a new glass of champagne-- she’s going to go slower on this one, she promises herself-- before Henry gets back. She doesn’t have to ask what took him so long, either, because along with two bottles of water he’s got a small golden box, one of the ones she saw them hawking at the concession stand.
“Henry,” she says, a little chiding, a little tolerant, a lot amused because it looks like she’s in for a nice classic seduction.
“A bit forward? I know. I’m afraid I couldn’t resist.” He puts the water bottles next to the champagne bottle and sits down with a leg hooked under his chair so that he’s almost-- almost -- presenting her the chocolates on one knee.
Oh, Lord. She didn’t sign up to take home a puppy, but she can practically see his tail wagging and she’s not sure she can say no to those eyes. She sets down her champagne on the little table and uses both hands to take the lid off the box. It goes next to her glass, and she surveys the neat quartet of chocolate truffles thoughtfully.
“None of those are nougat, right?”
“That one is marzipan,” he admits, and poor thing, his face falls like he’s let her down seriously.
“Not a big fan. You?”
“Yes,” he admits reluctantly.
Well, time for him to share the chivalry again, or whatever this is. She takes out the guilty chocolate, lets him see her holding it, and then touches it against his lips.
He blinks, then his eyes meet hers and hold while he takes a neat bite out of the truffle, chocolate shell and pale filling cracking under his even teeth.
“See?" she says, and holds his gaze. "No problem.”
His tongue flicks out and cleans a smear of chocolate off of his bottom lip. “I should never have worried.”
She lets him eat the rest by himself and takes a chocolate of her own. It turns out to be dark chocolate; that’s more like it.
They sit in comfortable silence; kill the last two overpriced chocolates, sip their water and champagne, and Joanna relaxes in the relative quiet and relative softness of her seat. She doesn’t get a lot of quiet moments in her line of work; this, with champagne and the aftertaste of bitter chocolate and the light music, she’s not in a hurry to move past this.
She lets her eyes close; it’s been a long day up to this point. She doesn’t get short ones.
“Joanna,” Henry says softly. “This is it-- their latest rediscovered sonata.”
She opens her eyes, sees what tipped Henry off immediately. Way stage left the spotlights have come up onto a single piano, and a pianist in a severe black dress strides over and sits down just as the house lights dim.
They lean forward together this time; neither of them needs to tell the other that this is going to be good.
The piece starts with a flutter, sweet and light as the bubbles in the champagne, and melts into a gentle harmony. It’s intimate, even more than a good piano solo is by default-- it’s a romance.
Henry draws in a deep breath, and there are breathy words on the exhale: “This wasn’t lost.”
“Mm-?”
“Not lost. Kept. He wrote this for his wife, not for a crowd. He played it occasionally for friends, but its primary audience was his wife Jessie. This wasn’t misfiled; it was kept. I’m almost sorry it was found, made public--”
“Henry?” She waits until he shuts his mouth and actually meets her eyes, his half guilty and half anxious. “How the hell do you know that?”
1904 - Washington D.C.
“Well, there you have it.” Coleridge-Taylor turns away from the piano, laying his hands on his knees as if he hasn’t just nearly stopped Henry’s heart. “Not a finished piece, but the bones of the thing. Jessie will be the first to hear it in its entirety.”
“Good God,” Henry says weakly, shaking off the thrall of the piece and coming back to the small parlour and his new friend's inquisitive expression. “A masterpiece, but it’s a good thing you don’t mean to sell it. They’d ban it like they did Salome.”
The musician lofts an eyebrow. “I could use a little notoriety. But not from this.”
“It’s a beautiful gift.”
“It isn’t half what she deserves.”
“I believe you,” Henry says, and does. He’s known women like that.
Still, what a love song.
Joanna watches Henry’s mouth open and close-- he’s not quite stammering but he’s made two false starts, not quite words.
She knows this, she’s seen this before: it means he’s about to lie to her. She cannot imagine what’s so bad that he’d have to. He’s dating someone on the inside? He got to see a rehearsal? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have to tell her this and they don’t have to let the night go sour this way. They’re going to miss the song.
She puts a hand on his. “Nevermind.”
He inhales and slowly lets it out. His eyes close. “I’m sorry.”
“Shh.” She squeezes his hand. “Listen to the music, Henry.”
He nods, and she feels his hand untense under hers. She puts a little reassuring pressure on his hand, eases it off. It takes a minute, but he realizes she's not going to push the issue and slowly he slips back into the music, and she does too.
She’s never seen a reference to this particular piece of music before, but Henry’s strange certainty is making more and more sense. This is… sex set to music. She knows the standards, she knows what it means when the low register calls out and the higher register answers. And the build from that sweet twinkling introduction to this throbbing call and response, well, that’s foreplay.
She shuts her eyes again and it’s not because she’s tired. Henry’s hand turns up under hers, fingers shyly tangling with hers.
She strokes her own fingers across the smooth back of his hand, traces his knuckles, traps his fingers between hers and lets them go in time with the music. She hears him stop breathing, then the shuddery exhale.
“Joanna. I… may I do something extremely forward?”
She opens her eyes slowly, and the big opera house in front of her, the lighted stage-- it’s almost a surprise she was so deep in her own head.
Henry’s half off his chair again, almost on his knees again.
They’ve got the box to themselves; the railing in front of them is high enough to hide them from the waist down.
“You might miss part of act two.”
“I’ve seen act two,” he says dismissively, like the opera he’s been so excited about comes second to whatever happens in this box.
“Music certainly has an effect on you,” she says, keeping her humor warm, keeping her breathing steady around the little beat of desire and excitement that's starting to pulse under her skin.
Henry’s eyes dip and raise again; he’d look contrite if he wasn’t fighting down a smile, a mischievous little quirk to his lips. His eyes are heavy lidded. It’s like he’s laughing at himself, some in-joke she hasn’t heard the punchline to yet.
“It has been said,” he admits, and his eyes twinkle even as he tries to look chastened. “On several occasions.”
1808 - Bath
The carriage is private, the driver discrete and hardly likely to hear much over the noise of shod hooves and rattling wheels on cobble stone, but still it is a wild risk that he is taking.
With Percy’s pulse throbbing against his tongue he thinks the risk worth it.
Percy dresses on the cutting edge of fashion, and it is a pretty thing but his buckskin trousers and codpiece are confining him cruelly. The sound Percy makes when he pulls that poor smothered cockstand free is sensual, as if this was a climax in and of itself, and he lifts his head to catch his lips and swallow the sound.
His hand works among the laces of Percy’s trousers; the rigid throb of Percy’s organ is a compliment to the thunder still pounding in his blood. There is an ecstasy in him that he must communicate to his friend, a joy he cannot contain. He kisses down Percy’s smooth jaw and neck, nuzzling deep under the collar of his shirt where a mark will not show, and sucks hard as he frigs Percy to ecstasy. He has only the duration of the ride to Percy’s rooms, but he can already feel the other man’s body starting to quiver.
“Henry!” Percy gasps, only just managing to keep his voice to a whisper. “God’s teeth, Henry! If I’d known you had this kind of devil in you before I’d have brought you to the opera years ago.”
1811 - The North Downs
The sweet sounds of the pianoforte— the sweeping seduction of Mozart — still have him under their spell, and it is only when Nora takes a step back and sags against that same instrument, her thighs creating a clatter of discordant noise, that they are startled back to their senses.
Nora pulls away and composes herself hurriedly, flustered, tucking the dark curl that he already loves behind her ear. Her lips are dewy and red, swollen with their kisses, and the sleeve of her elegant dress is pushed out of place where he applied his own lips to the length of her arm before he ravaged her mouth. How fortunate they were to have the music room to themselves for this moment, how fortunate they were Nora's aunt had not yet returned--
“I’m so terribly sorry.” He reaches out, thinks better of it, and lets his hands fall helplessly to his side. “I am a brute, my darling. Can you ever forgive me?”
“Why, Henry--” her eyes sparkle, and she turns away demurely, looking over her shoulder as she straightens her clothing. “I don’t think it’s such a bad thing that my fiancé has such a… passion for the arts. It is very refined of you. But you must control yourself— until the wedding.”
“Until the wedding,” he agrees, and he cannot shake the husky note out of his voice. Her bosom heaves, and her lips part just a little.
“I see I had better confine myself to jigs and waltzes until then,” she says, and her own voice is not entirely even itself. Her eyes flick down over him and he knows that she is not displeased with what she sees, or the prospect of his advances on their wedding night.
They smile a secret at one another— it will be a sweet penance to control this passion for a few months’ time.
He summons his decorum, bows to her, and quits the room-- before he can do something that will leave the servants gossiping and her father in a bloodthirsty mood.
He feels her eyes caress him as he goes, and the teasing notes of a sonata beginning again behind him.
1850 - New York
Ella shifts in her seat beside him, eyes fixed on the stage. Jenny Lind’s voice is as clear and sweet as if she had never injured it-- Henry is soaring along with the notes, helpless to do anything except take his friend’s hand. Her fingernails dig into his skin and he knows that she is helpless too.
They do not find words until a half an hour after it is over, collapsed against the door of Ella’s Harlem rooms and breathing as if they’ve run instead of staggered the distance.
“Oh, Henry,” Ella moans, running a hand down her sweat-damp face. “It was so beautiful.”
“Yes,” he breathes, feels the world tipping and swaying as if Ella's rooms are on a ship instead of the floor above a candle shop.
He goes to one knee-- an offer he knows is likely to be rejected, since Ella has all of his passion for the fairer sex and none of his enjoyment of men. But to his delight, she nods, and lets him slip his fingers up over her stockings, pressing his face against her skirts as his hands uncover and part and stroke, and he plays the rhythm of climactic piece over the bud of her sex, as if he can recapture the flute soaring with Lind’s soprano with just the rough stroke of his thumb.
“Music does something extraordinary to you, Henry,” she laughs, hiccuping in the middle, and he laughs breathlessly along with her, because they are friends and they trust one another with their lives and even their dignity.
1900 - Washington DC
The throngs of voices still vibrate in his very bones-- he is enraptured, uplifted. He is drunk on the chorale, has not sobered up all evening, not through dinner or here in their rented rooms. Only James’ cock, rigid and earthy and thick, seems to keep him tethered to the ground. He sucks rapturously, one hand teasing his darling’s bollocks, the other gripping James’ thigh as if to keep from floating away.
“You know what, you were right, it was worth it to come all this way... I’ve heard of a music lover but this-- Henry. Oh, God. Oh, Henry, Henry, Henry, Henry--”
1924 - Paris
“I should have known I’d find you coming out of there, Morgan, listening to that outmoded German filth,” his rival spits, pushing his back up against the alley wall, fisting his hands in the front of Henry's shirt. The dim light brightens and falls back as someone opens and shuts a door out on the street. “It’s just like you.”
“Count yourself lucky, Hemingway.” Henry bites the writer’s lip so hard that he tastes copper. “Wagner makes me almost charitable enough to tolerate you--”
“You pansy--”
But Henry deftly breaks the American’s hold, steps around him, and now it’s Hemingway’s back against the dirty brick. Hemingway snarls, takes a cruel handful of his hair, and crashes their lips back together.
1960 - New York
Abigail collapses in his lap, panting and boneless.
“Oh, Henry, darling,” she murmurs as he slips out of her. “Oh, careful. That’s just-- ah.”
He reaches blindly for his abandoned shirt to gently clean her shivering thighs and his, before extricating himself from the condom and disposing of it.
“That was lovely,” she murmurs, closing her legs and snuggling comfortably into his lap, propping her legs on the arm of the chair and letting her feet dangle.
“You’re lovely,” he says, gallantly and with complete sincerity radiating from every pore.
“I don’t think it’s been like that… goodness, since the last symphony.”
“We made it home this time,” Henry points out.
Abigail gives a throaty giggle. “Barely. I thought Miss Driver’s eyes were about to pop out of her head when we stumbled through the door.”
“We’ll have to give her something more on top of the stipend for looking after Abraham,” Henry says ruefully. It won’t do to scandalize the woman they’ve come to trust to look after their son; without her they’d have no nights like this.
“Oh, Henry. I love the way you love music, do you know that?”
He kisses her. What else is there to do?
Joanna sees the moment that Henry’s eyes focus and he comes back to the present-- eyes a little darker, smile a little filthier. It’s a good look on him.
“Well, then,” she says, and shifts, just moves one leg over so that there’s room between her knees.
He looks at her like he’s won the lottery; that look does something to her, sends a pulse up her thighs to the groin and a spark through her brain. He makes her want to put him through his paces and she’s not usually that aggressive.
Henry slides to his knees and rucks up the hem of her gown reverently, handing the tulle with care. He kisses up her stockings, just his soft lips, so careful to keep the thin fabric from running-- when he finds the elastic hem he nuzzles it down and covers the little crease left in her skin with little kisses.
She lets her hem fall, and her skirt down around his shoulders, hides him from view; shuts her eyes too and that’s all the camouflage they’re going to get.
He rubs his stubble against the softer skin of her thighs, nosing inward impatiently; she slides a hand down, pulls up her skirt so that she can touch Henry, find his shoulder, find his curly hair and give it a little tug inward. He rises on his knees to follow the pull, and he can’t hear him but she feels a moan muffled against her thigh.
He grinds his face against the crotch of her underwear, runs his nose up the crease of one thigh and down the other, and she feels the him inhale through the cotton before he starts to press hard kisses through the fabric, learning the shape of her slowly, frustrated but tantalized by the barrier of her underwear-- or is that just her?
The song has built up from seduction in the parlor to clothes flying in the bedroom, the pianist pounding the keys and easing off, then coming back harder and deeper.
Henry jolts into action, hands coming up to tug at the waist of her underwear. She braces her feet, puts a hand on Henry’s empty chair, and lifts her hips just enough to let him tug them off-- he skims them to her knees and then down, lifting first one pump and then the other through the legholes, and then she’s spreading her legs again and reaching down and under her skirt to pull his hair again. She can just see him jam her underwear into the pocket of his trousers, his knees and thighs visible past the hem of her skirt, and then his fingers are working his fly, but he doesn’t wait to get his dick out before his attention shifts back to her.
He gives her thighs a passing kiss and then goes straight for the groin; doesn’t dive right in, good man, but starts with those firm kisses again over her outer labia, sensitizing every inch of skin and every hair follicle before he finally nibbles his way inside to her wet inner labia and her clitoris. It's maddening not being able to see him, he's pressed too close to her for her to be able to guess what he's going to do by feel, and her head is starting to spin with the guessing game as much as heat.
He starts too gentle, but she presses on his head, firm pressure through the silk of her gown, and he licks and suckles harder, then harder, until she lets off the pressure and lets her hand fall to her thigh. He eases off teasingly, and then suddenly wraps her clit in the soft pressure of his lips, the tip of his tongue, and sucks hard.
There’s a climactic run down the piano that camouflages her gasp -- and he knew it, the little smart-ass, he’s heard this song before somehow. Doesn’t matter. Topic for another day, if ever. Her thighs are fluttering, warmth pooling and twisting in her belly. She can just barely hear the slap and rustle of Henry’s hand working between his legs, so he must have gotten his trousers open after all.
She melts back into the upholstered chair, pulse starting to pound in her temples. She’s doing her best to keep her breathing even-- they’ve got room and they’ve got privacy, but they don’t have that much room or that much privacy. That doesn’t make her feel guilty, not even in the fun way; no, she feels triumphant as her heart slams in her ears and the music vibrates inside her.
Henry falters-- just a second-- gasps and flutters his lips and hides his face against her thigh as he comes, and she starts to wind down for four, five disappointing breaths before he’s back at it, lapping her, sucking her, begging her to come along with him. She digs her fingers into the armrests of her chair, lower back arching, tries to keep her face from showing just in case, just in case anyone can see her--
Her thighs are starting to shake and she can’t tell if there’s an artistic throbbing tempo to the song or if that’s just the blood in her ears.
Then she’s over the peak, rolling her hips up and grabbing the seat of her chair in a deathgrip and not letting herself make any noise except a hissing gasp through her teeth, and then another, and then another-- and then it’s too much, and she pushes at the bulge of his head under his skirt, twists away.
He pulls back; he kisses her thighs, one, then the other until they stop trembling, until she slumps back and lets the aftershocks throb and jolt through her lazily. She feels something smooth and dry mopping her thighs clean-- a handkerchief. He cleans her with the same reverence he first kissed her, and smooths silk everywhere his stubble has rubbed or his teeth have grazed.
The song ends in a series of hard, glorious chords, and she can barely hear it.
She’s still breathing faster than she normally does, can still feel her heart pounding and the sweat at her hairline when the lights come back on and the applause starts outside their box. She blinks at the light, at the world rushing back in, and begins to clap as well.
Henry rises up casually beside her, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief that goes into the same pocket as her panties, but by the time he’s on his feet he’s clapping enthusiastically. If anyone can see them the way he’s grinning will leave no doubt about just how much they appreciated the performance.
“Aren’t you full of surprises?” she says, a little breathlessly.
“I might say the same.” His grin goes lopsided. “I’ll have to go spill some champagne on my pocketsquare now; I find a bit of drunken sloppiness covers a multitude of sins, and gives one a convenient excuse to wash things in the sink.”
“And resourceful, too,” she says, and Henry doesn’t look like he minds the implication that he’s a little easy; he just lets the compliment wash over him. He’s glowing like she must be, eyes running up and down her body adoringly.
“I do try.” It’s a visible effort to tear himself away from her. Does he know how attractive that is, his worshipful fixation? ...yeah, he probably does. “I’m sorry to leave you, but the lines are always ridiculous. I’ll be back in time for the next act.”
“Looking forward to it,” she purrs, and a happy shudder goes through him.
“And I. And to wherever the night may go,” he replies.