Chapter Text
The doctor pulled his woolen cap further over his eyes. He’d long since stowed his glasses in the breast pocket of his overcoat. It was only nine o’clock, but the sky was jet black, and cold sheets of rain poured over him, down his neck, into his shoes, and before him, obscuring his eyesight beyond the help of his, frankly, outdated specs. He didn’t stand a chance.
He just wanted somewhere warm to rest, but with hardly any money in his pocket, whatever hotel he stumbled upon would likely be too expensive for him, anyway. But cost can be measured in more than cash.
He turned a corner and, to his surprise, was greeted by the looming silhouette of a grand mansion. His bewilderment disappeared quite quickly; this was why the road he’d been following had turned to gravel. Why the shrubbery became (from what he could detect through the rain and darkness) fuller and greener. He’d been approaching the house for nearly a half mile, inadvertently following the long driveway.
The mansion was still rather far, and not a single window was illuminated, but he trudged onward toward it. Its grand face - made up of columns and towers and intricate carvings - was too alluring to turn away from. Sucking a string of phlegm back into his nose, and hitching his pack a bit higher, he made his was further up the drive.
It was a long, straight path, but immediately before the stone steps, it was circular, with a fountain in the middle. The O was, presumably, so that whoever had driven up didn’t have to drive back down the way in reverse. As for the fountain, the doctor couldn’t make out the forms depicted, or even whether the water was running (the fountain was overflowing, but certainly the torrents could be behind that).
His foot had just hit the first step when the mansion door opened, bathing him in a long, thin strip of yellow light. He looked up, and found that there was a crick in his neck; for miles, he’d been hunched over watching his feet, trying to avoid potholes and stones. Now, he looked high up toward the door.
The figure standing there was tall, and cast a long shadow. They were wearing a hood of some kind, obscuring any helpful features.
“Bonjour!” called the figure. “ As-tu besoin d'aide?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Ah, an American?”
“Of sorts.” The doctor climbed a few more steps. “I’m looking for shelter, maybe a meal, if you can spare it.”
“Come, come!”
Now that he had permission, the doctor bounded up the steps two at a time, sighing with relief once he was under the porch roof. The figure, he saw now, was wearing a brown cloak with fur trim so thick that all he could make out were the man's brown eyes.
“You said you were hungry, Monsieur?”
“Starving.”
The man led him inside. The warmth hit the doctor so hard that his nose and fingertips began to hurt, but it was a pleasant feeling.
Although his body was warming up, his clothes, decidedly, were not, so he began to remove his coat, only to find that it was about three pounds heavier than it had been when he put it on. His shirt, too, was densely saturated, and if he could feel his extremities, he knew his pants and socks would be dripping. Dripping all over the rather intimidating foyer of this stranger’s home.
The foyer was well-lit, by candles and lanterns alike. Overlooking it was a second-floor balcony, and a third-floor balcony above that. Those halls, as far as the doctor could tell, were just as warm and bright. He realized that the reason no lights shone through the dark rain was because all of the curtains were tightly drawn.
His host, meanwhile, had begun to yell for servants, demanding a meal and bath be prepared for his guest.
“Oh, there’s no need - I wouldn’t want to wake them up, or cause any trouble!”
“Monsieur, our day has just begun!” He removed his cloak and watched as his guest examined his appearance.
His host was adorned in a black shirt, a woman’s blouse, with a flared neckline and sleeves. He was wearing high-waisted slacks, typical of the day, but not high enough to conceal the sliver of midriff exposed by his shirt. The doctor put his glasses (which fogged almost instantly) on and noticed the particular rosiness of this man’s cheeks. Rouge, most definitely.
A servant entered the foyer, saying, “You're back already?” and paused when she saw the guest. “Too good!”
“He fell into my arms! Go fry him an egg, and let us get acquainted.”
When the woman left, the doctor held out his hand and said, “My name is Doctor Aaron Krieger.”
His host looked at his hand but didn’t take it. “A German?”
“I…” He tried to discern what angle to assume.
“I happen to appreciate the Jewish people in particular - their music and food, especially. Shall I cancel your egg?”
Bold. Krieger liked that, and decided to take a chance. After all, his host was willing to stand before him, unashamedly made up (Krieger noticed, upon closer inspection, his host's lips were redder than what was natural) and in women’s clothes. He reached down his collar and took out his necklace: an almost microscopic, but undeniable, silver star of David.
“An egg would be the height of luxury.”
The host smirked and took his still-outstretched hand, placing it in Krieger’s in such a position that the doctor was compelled to kiss his knuckles, but chose merely to shake his hand.
“You’ve seen nothing of luxury.” As he turned to lead Krieger to the dining room, he said, “Oh, and my name is Ray. Like, of the sunshine.” The irony of this was lost on Krieger, for now.
Ray refused to serve him a bite of food until he’d showered and changed. (Fair.) When Krieger emerged from the bathroom, however, his clothes had been taken for washing, but none extra were left on the bed. There were socks, and underwear, and a bathrobe so fluffy and warm that Krieger was compelled to bury his face in it for a moment, but no real clothes. Perhaps his host assumed he had a change of clothes in his backpack? Though, they’d be just as soaked as the rest of his belongings.
Krieger was too hungry and tired to be bothered. He doubted his eccentric master would mind as he slipped into the robe and underthings, along with his glasses. With clear vision, he saw all the ornate details of his bedroom in sharp relief. It was intimidating. He felt too uncouth to be in such a place, too dirty and uncivilized. But more than that, the looming mansion was too conspicuous for his taste.
Ray was at the foot of the stairs, waiting for him. He led him to the dining room, where a fire roared in the fireplace, backlighting the intricately carved chair at the head of the table. Krieger assumed that would be his host's seat, and thus was surprised when Ray pulled out the chair and indicated for him to rest there.
Sensing his guest's confusion, Ray said, “I want you close to the fire, docteur . A wet chill doesn't leave a man's bones easily.”
“Thank you.” When he sat, he expected Ray to take his seat at the other head of the long, long table, but was surprised again when he settled into the chair on Krieger's right side. This decision, he did not explain.
Someone set a plate of eggs and steak in front of him, and he lost any control he’d been trying to maintain. He ate like a free man; He had no idea that his life was on the line.
Ray was leaning on his hand, watching him closely. Despite the doctor’s sunken cheekbones, his physique was not the skeletal form Ray had expected. His hands weren’t bony and spider-like, but healthy, pink, and masculine. Probably quite warm. Krieger’s broad shoulders almost strained the robe, and his height left the hemline in a most immodest place, exposing his meaty thighs. Unfortunately, the robe fell in such a way that Ray couldn’t get a good look at the doctor’s torso, but he inferred that a sweet little belly could be found beneath the fluffy layer. Probably hairy, too, judging by the legs. He watched as the doctor ate like a savage, not bothering to cut the strips of steak before eating them.
Without asking, Ray reached out and pulled the collar of the robe away, so it fell down Krieger’s shoulder, exposing his neck. Needless to say, he paused from eating.
Ray caressed a green mark on his neck. “The piece is fake, then?”
“Hm?”
“The necklace. It’s fake.”
“Oh! Well, the chain is, but the pendant itself is real silver.”
Ray took his hand away. The doctor noticed his lip was curled.
“You don’t like silver?”
“I have the sensitive skin.”
“Your coloring goes more toward gold, anyway.”
Ray covered his mouth with his hand, not in shock, but to conceal his smile. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, you know.” He’d resumed eating, but with less urgency; now, he was soaking up the puddle of yolk with his toast. “You have the blonde hair, brown eyes, gold just matches better.”
“You noticed my eyes?”
“I’m a doctor: observant by nature.” The evasion was intentional.
“Well, I’m no doctor, but I certainly noticed yours…” He took Krieger’s chin in his hand and forced his posture upward. “ Émeraudes." Emeralds.
“Dan - Thank you.” He didn’t notice himself lean into the touch (despite the surprising chilliness of Ray's hand) as Ray removed it. Ray most certainly caught the motion.
“You forget, docteur, I know you are German. You may speak freely here.”
“Danke mein Herr.” Thank you, sir.
Ray smirked, again raising his hand to cover it. “Such a...masculine language.”
“I like it, sometimes.”
“And other times?”
“Other times I wish I spoke French.” He gestured with his fork, “Rolls off the tongue.”
“Mmm...Where your eyes are l l es émeraudes, your tongue is un rubis.” ...A ruby.
Krieger shifted in his seat. He knew the persuasion of his host, of course. At first, he thought that his snakelike flirtations were merely his personality, a master of flattery and an exquisite host. Now, he began to suspect genuine interest. He wished he’d been provided more than a robe.
Before he could respond, Ray placed his hand on Krieger’s cheek, stroking under his eye with a thumb.
“You look exhausted, docteur. Have you eaten enough?”
Krieger looked down at his plate and found, to his surprise, that it was empty. “Apparently so.”
Ray nodded, and pulled out two cigarettes: one for himself, which he fixed to the end of a long, black holder, and one for the doctor.
“Then, bonne nuit. Dors bien , mon jouet.”
“Gute Nacht. Nochmals vielen Dank.”
Krieger climbed the twisted staircase to the second floor, where his room was. He was surprised to find a fire in the grate. Before going to sleep, he rekindled it to its full potential, and unpacked his bag before it, laying everything out to dry. He suspected the endeavor was futile. The thick canvas pack itself would never be dry by morning, by which time he’d have to stow his belongings away, again, and return to the road.
For now, he was just grateful for the warm room, the soft bed, and the fresh underwear. He lifted the heavy blanket over his head (the fire was bright) and drifted off to sleep.
When Krieger awoke, the fire had gone mostly out, plunging the room into blue darkness. He groaned as he stood - his bones ached - and hobbled over to the window. To his surprise, it was still dark outside. His slumber could’ve been an hour or five, he had no clue. All he knew was his dry tongue and rumbling stomach. Pleased to find his cigarette from earlier (only half-smoked) on the bedside table, he lit it with the hot coals. He let it hang out of his mouth as he slipped his robe on and, relying mostly on the railing, made his groggy way downstairs.
He found himself in the dining room, simply because it was the only room he felt confident about. Luckily, Ray was in there, eating dinner while scanning the book perched before him. He looked up when Krieger entered. Ray was in his rightful seat before the fireplace.
“Awake so soon!”
“I...I got thirsty.”
“Down the hall is the kitchen.”
“Which door?”
“You’ll see; they keep it open.”
Krieger trudged down the hall, rubbing his eyes as he went. The clang of a pot hitting the floor startled him.
“Look what you did, moron!”
“Better on the floor than in your mouth!”
“Christ, don’t snap your cap, I’ll clean it up.”
Just then, the cook noticed Krieger in the doorway.
“You’re the special guest, huh?” The cook, much like Ray, toed the line of gender ambiguity, but did a much better job at blurring the lines. Krieger had no clue what this person was born as or what they were going for, but found he didn’t care. In fact, being in the presence of people so flagrantly rejecting tradition was comforting.
“Aw,” said the maid, like she pitied him for the night of luxury and warmth he’d just endured.
The cook nudged her. “This one’s gonna be here awhile.”
“Huh?”
“Ray said so. Besides, if he’s still here now - ” here meaning alive “ - there’s obviously a plan.”
Krieger was too tired try and figure that out. “Ray said to come down here for some food and water?”
“Some Joe’s what you need!” The cook passed him a mug and directed him to the coffee pot. “Milk’s in the fridge. I’ll heat up some dinner for you.”
“What time is it?”
“5:30, maybe 6.”
“In the morning?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then what makes it dinner?”
The cook gave him a sideways look, but didn’t respond.
Krieger drank his coffee, then another cupful, and felt the life blossoming behind his eyes. When the cook handed him a plate of meat and potatoes, he headed back to the dining room, only to be reprimanded.
“Docteur! Surely you don’t dress that way for dinner!”
“It’s 6 A.M.”
“I will not eat next to…” He gestured toward Krieger’s dishevelled appearance, from his mussed and curly hair down to his uneven socks. “I must insist that you change.”
“Your servant took my clothes,” said Krieger, getting annoyed.
Smiling, Ray chided, “ Mon jouet, did you think to check your closet?”
Several minutes later, Krieger reentered. He was wearing a white shirt with a high collar, a tie with a geometric pattern, and a vest, jacket, and pants, all of which were brown and rigidly creased.
“I’m no expert, but I don’t think these are...current.”
Ray’s eyes lit up. “Oh, but didn’t you just love the twenties?!”
“The fashion was different in Germany.”
“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to go back in time.”
Krieger sat and began to eat. “You enjoyed college, then?”
“Pardon?”
“I don’t know how old you are - ” truer words had never been spoken “ - but I suspect you’d have been college-aged in the twenties...?”
Ray merely looked away and chuckled, “I’m flattered.”
“I bet you wore those long strings of pearls, down to your, um...
Nabel.”
He pointed at his own belly button.
This, too, excited Ray. “Oh, I still do! The money i spent on those pearls, I’ll wear them for a century at least! And you, docteur, I should love to see you in a pair of plus-fours.”
“Never!”
“S'il vous plaît, you cannot hide those legs from the world!”
Krieger snorted through a mouthful of potatoes. “I beg your pardon?”
“They are shapely, mon jouet , surely you knew that?”
He was openly laughing, now. “I have never once been complimented for my legs!”
“C’est tragique!”
Krieger, still smiling, merely shook his head at his eccentric host.
Ray wiped his mouth and stood from the table. “My apologies,” he said, “But I have work that must be done before I retire.”
“Retire? Like, go to bed?”
“Oui.”
Krieger had already learned not to question this.
As he left the room, Ray said, “Feel free to explore the house while I’m asleep.”
“Oh, sir, I must be going.”
“Pardon?”
Krieger turned and looked up at his host. “I should get going, right after I’m done eating, in fact.”
“Nonsense. I insist you stay at least a week.”
“A week?! I…”
“Someone is expecting you? You have an appointment?”
“No, I didn’t have anything planned, but…”
“Stay. Until that cold goes away, at least.”
“Cold?”
“Explore, mon jouet, I think you will appreciate the library, especially. And don’t worry; anywhere you are not allowed to go will be locked.”
Krieger did, indeed, explore the house.
He began with the outside. In the back, below looming palms, was a gorgeous patio. Beyond that was a garden, diverse and colorful, with a gravel path running through it.
Krieger ventured down the driveway to get a good look at the house (He passed the fountain on the way. It turned out to be a sculpture of two muscular men, pawing at each other. A stream of water washed over them, mimicking sweat.) The house itself was as massive as he remembered, an amalgamation of columns and long, high windows.
Inside, Krieger spent some time simply wandering the halls. The twisted staircases and railings were gorgeously carved. The walls were covered with art, landscapes and portraits and still lives alike, as well as pieces such as Japanese swords and grand Swiss clocks. Among the three stories were countless bedrooms, all of which were very interesting. Some were covered in a thick layer of dust, while others were still missing sheets, which were being washed from the previous resident.
Every room contained belongings. Sometimes just pennies in a drawer, other times full outfits, books, wallets (missing identification, but stuffed nonetheless), watches, and more. Krieger pocketed nothing. In the quiet of the mansion, it was easy to feel as though he was being watched. He’d deluded himself into thinking it was some kind of moral test, like the staff inventoried all the lost and forgotten items, and would know if one went missing.
Some of the things were rather sinister. For example, under the pillow of one room was a long, silver dagger. In another was a journal, where the last entry (dated only a week prior) merely said “He,” and then a scribbled line, as if the book had been snatched away from the writer. That room had a large, black stain on the mattress. Perhaps the inkwell had burst, startling the writer, resulting in the scribble…
When Krieger finally stumbled upon the library, it was most unexpected. The door was the same as the bedrooms, and hidden away at the end of a second floor hallway. He opened the door and was greeted by a ceiling so tall, he was sure it extended into the third floor’s topography. This must be the tower he saw outside.
He threw open the heavy curtains, washing the room in California sunlight. The first place he went was the small shelf above the armchairs; Ray’s frequent reads.
There were three books: A large, glossy volume of illustrations titled Womenswear: A Catalogue of the Roaring Twenties, a hardcover copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray , and a French to English dictionary.
Krieger sat down with the dictionary, and after some searching (he knew less than nothing about French, by which I mean what little he thought he knew was entirely incorrect) found the entry he’d been looking for.
Mon jouet. “My toy.”
At nearly eight o’clock, Ray found Krieger in the library, bent over a copy of The Great Gatsby .
Ray fluttered into the room wearing a black shawl, long enough to qualify as a dress, but not a dress one would wear in public. Once again, a bit of his midriff was exposed; the neckline plunged, and a long string of pearls rested up against his warm skin. (Or, Krieger assumed it was warm.) On his head was a simple black turban, dark eyeshadow, and rather more lipstick than the day before.
“Bonjour, mon jouet.”
Krieger felt a silent thrill. “Guten Morgen, Spielzeug .”
“Spielzeug?!” he butchered. “I presume that means something like ‘lazy’? The sleeping beauty, I hope?”
“Something like that.” It meant toy, but Krieger resolved not to use it again; he rather liked being Ray's plaything.
Ray chuckled. “You will get used to this manor’s clock, eventually. Come, it’s time for breakfast.”
Without asking what “eventually” meant, Krieger followed Ray downstairs. He stayed about 5 feet behind, wary of stepping on the flowing material.
Over breakfast (Ray was, again, seated at the head of the table, with Krieger by his side) Ray informed his guest he’d be absent for the day - that is, the night.
“I have two days’ worth of work to do, since you came to us yesterday and overthrew my routine.”
Krieger smiled back, basking under the attention. For some reason, while Ray slept, Krieger found himself missing his company. At least he’d be able to sleep through Ray’s absence for tonight.
He paused. If he slept tonight, he’d wake up tomorrow morning as Ray went to sleep, spend the day without him, eat breakfast with him, then go back to bed for the night...a vicious cycle.
The doctor decided to stay up that night, aligning their schedules; after all, he was meant to stay the week, maybe longer. He had coughed earlier. Maybe the cold that Ray predicted was indeed settling in.
Vaguely, he thought, lack of sleep will only extend the life of the cold. Distinctly, he did not care.
He stayed up that night, mostly reading, until Ray got home around 6. He knew when Ray arrived home because Cheryl, the maid, found him and told him Ray had requested his presence. Pleasantly weary, Krieger followed her to Ray’s room.
He didn’t really need her, because Ray’s room was right where he thought it was: the glossy, cherrywood double doors on the third floor.
Ray had barely settled in when Krieger entered.
“Good evening, docteur.”
“Hello.”
Ray removed the string of pearls and hung it upon a large sculpture of a barren tree, on which many necklaces and bracelets were perched for storage. Neither of them spoke, but Krieger used to opportunity to examine the room around him. The room itself was almost the size of the dining room, and the hardwood floors (cherry, like everything else) were glossy. Krieger saw his disheveled reflection in the wood and frantically pawed at his hair. Around the bed was a deep red rug with gold tassels, too soft and thick to ever have been tread upon, he was sure.
The bed itself was so magnificently large, it must have been custom made. Krieger couldn’t get a good look at the bedspread, for the sheets were unmade. Evidently, Ray didn’t allow the staff in his room during the day.
On the bedside tables were ornate, Japanese lamps, matching the paintings on the wall and paper screen in the corner of the room. Although, why it was there was a mystery. Ray removed his turban (placing it carefully in its hatbox) and then, with his back to the doctor, unwound his intricate wrap, not bothering with any semblance of modesty. He let the long garment flutter to the floor (not worried about dust, because the floor was immaculate), exposing his marble sculpted back. Krieger couldn’t let himself look any lower than the back, or he’d surely lose control. Consequently, he didn’t notice that Ray was wearing women’s panties.
Ray covered himself with a white, silk robe, embroidered with a tiger, and a white turban this time. Finally, he faced Krieger, and sat on the edge of his bed.
“I have many friends, docteur. But far more than my friends are those who owe me favors.”
“Oh?”
“Oui. You see, I have a system. Sit.”
Krieger sat a healthy distance from his host.
“I pulled some strings, and - should you want it - got you a job.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Night shift, at the clinic in town. Seven in the evening to midnight, four days each week. There's a spare truck out back, mostly used by the landscapers, you can drive it there and back. I suspect your...curiosities far exceed that position, but it’s a start. Work your way to the top, use it as a reference, whatever you choose. Now, you are established as a doctor in the United States - I assumed your papers were lost, which is why you came to me so pauvre?”
“I...I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Oh, don’t you?”
Krieger looked up, meeting Ray’s eyes for the first time over the course of the conversation. His red lips were parted slightly, powdered lids sensually low over his eyes, long lashes fluttering towards him…
Tentatively, Krieger leaned in, only to be stopped at the last second by Ray’s hand on his chest. Ray took a deep breath through his nose. Krieger could tell that Ray was smelling him, though they were inches away from each other.
“Mon jouet, you taste like a strawberry on my tongue,” he whispered.
“Your tongue hasn’t tasted me yet.”
Ray inhaled again at the image (though he and Krieger were picturing two entirely different scenarios). “The only thing sweeter than you is l’anticipation.”
“Let me show you my gratitude.”
Ray shook his head. “Tell Poovey to send dinner to my room, tonight.”
“Sir…”
“Goodnight.” He was smiling. Krieger was sure he had a dazzling smile, if only he didn’t keep his lips closed so tight. How bad could his teeth possibly be? Surely it was nothing he lacked the money to fix.
“Wait, just one thing.”
“Yes?”
“You mentioned a system? That's why so many people owe you favors?”
“Ah,” he smirked. “Yes, you see, my friend at the clinic owed me a favor. Now, he has redeemed it. To some, that seems like a waste; they like to have someone to rely on.”
“Kind of...You didn't even use the favor for yourself.”
Ray sighed and laid down upon the bed. “But now, you owe me. I will inform you when I'm ready for the favor, mon jouet, but until then…”
Krieger nodded and left.
When he went back down to his room, he found Carol changing the sheets. His belongings were nowhere in sight.
“Before you ask,” she said, “He told me to move all your sh- all your things upstairs.”
“So, where do I sleep?”
“The room to the left of his.”
“Thanks...And, could you tell Poovey that he’s taking dinner in his room tonight?”
Upstairs, Krieger was delighted to find that his en suite bathroom shared a wall with Ray’s bedroom. As he ate his dinner, he sat in the tub and listened to Ray move around.
At one point he heard an unfamiliar voice, but it stopped quite suddenly. Krieger assumed it was the radio, but noted the apparent thinness of the walls.
Later, in the shower, he made no attempt to conceal his moan. He watched his cum hit the tiles and relished in the knowledge that Ray knew what he’d just done.
Finally, after twenty four hours of being awake, he collapsed into bed just as the sun began to rise.
He was officially acclimated.