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srs2013_r3Word Count: 3,994
Characters: Castiel/James Novak, Lucifer/Nicholas Gordon, Margaret (Meg) Masters
Pairings: Castiel/Lucifer
Tags: Incest, Historical AU (Romantic Period)
"Heartstrings" Playlist
Off in the countryside, things were peaceful. The noise and the filth of the city were absent, no screaming, no factories, nothing but the light trickle of music that led Castiel up the path. Although his hand was trembling around his suitcase, he kept his head high. After all, it was, Michael had said, a simple assignment, posing as a human long enough to turn one man towards the path of righteousness. He didn’t even have to be righteous, just close enough that he could resist the Devil’s temptation. The truth was that Castiel thought the whole thing absurd, or at least it was absurd to send him on this particular errand. He had watched humans, yes, but slipping into their society, blending in among them, interacting with one directly-- these were all very different things. But orders were orders. Castiel blew out a sigh and made his way to the door. His knock was punctuated by one final note of music, drawn out in a strangely melancholic way that chilled Castiel and made him shudder down to his grace. He waited, counting footsteps, trying to ascertain anything about this man that he could before meeting him, but when the door opened, he was somewhat taken aback.
As with anyone somewhat notorious, Castiel had built up an image of his host. The only surviving son of a wealthy aristocrat, the man had gained renown for his musical abilities, a master of composition and performance, but after his wife died, he’d grown cold and bitter, eager to blame anyone or anything for her untimely passing. In the wake of his grief, he had, allegedly, written some decidedly unsavory things about several important officials and thus found himself effectively exiled from every prominent city to avoid retaliation. Castiel had little understanding of human social structures, but he had gone through the effort of securing a proper vest, tie, and coat in order to better blend in with what he expected to find here. He wondered if he had done something very wrong, because, when the door opened, the man before him wasn’t what he expected at all. He bore the high, white collar of his supposed station, but otherwise, he bordered on unkempt. His blond hair was disheveled, refusing to lie flat in any direction; he wore no vest, no tie; and his shirt sleeves were rolled up his forearms in a rather unorthodox way. For a moment, Castiel wondered if he had caught him unawares, but he had thought himself expected, a fact confirmed when the man finally smiled and greeted him.
“Hello. You must be who I’ve been waiting for.”
Castiel swallowed hard. “Yes. I’m James. James Novak.”
The man tilted his head, smile creeping up on one side more than the other. “James. Of course. I’m-- well, I suppose you know who I am, public disaster that I’ve become.”
“I don’t think you a disaster, Lord--”
“Oh, please, none of that. I daresay I’m effectively stripped of any rank I may ever have held. Disgrace robs us of our titles too. Nicholas Gordon, but honestly, Nick will suffice.”
“Nick,” Castiel echoed, nodding politely as he was ushered inside. His eyes swept over the stunning architecture, high arches and tinted windows, and he found himself struggling to keep up with the conversation they were having as they walked along.
“I’ve prepared a room for you which overlooks the gardens, as it seemed appropriate for your endeavors. Of course, you’re welcome to go anywhere you like, but having good lighting and a potentially inspirational view in your own quarters seemed fitting, I should think.” Nick glanced back, watching Castiel’s eyes move, and smiled. “I’m terribly embarrassed, James, but I’ve not had time to see much of your work. What do you paint?”
“Sorry?”
Nick raised his eyebrows and pointed to the second bag on Castiel’s shoulder. It suddenly felt very heavy. Art supplies. Of course. He was here masquerading as the artist that the man who had given over his body had been. It was a necessary part of the ruse that brought him here. He was supposed to be studying art and taking time from the city to produce some works to make a name for himself.
“Oh… Uhm… A variety of things. I enjoy landscapes. Frankly, everything is beautiful here. I’m sure there will be no limit to my inspiration. I’m deeply grateful for your hospitality, Lor-- Nick.”
“It’s no trouble. I confess, when I first received your request, I was a bit surprised. I would hate to taint your artistic endeavors by mere association.”
“I don’t think that will be problematic.”
“I sincerely hope not. I’m sure you’re very talented. Now, I have placed you on the opposite end of the house from where I tend to keep, but tell me, honestly, will the music trouble you?”
“Oh. No, not at all. What I heard before was beautiful. I’d be honored to hear you play.”
“The disgraced musician and the emerging artist.” Nick gave a light, airy laugh. “The poets would have a field day.”
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing. I was just teasing you, James. I apologize."
"Think nothing of it."
Nick smiled. "You're very kind," he said softly. "Good luck in your artwork, and if you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask."
Castiel thanked him and waited for the door to close before blowing out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. He dropped his bags on the floor and looked around his room. It would be fitting for an artist, if only he was one, but that was a complication he would sort out later. For the moment, he did as any other traveller might and collapsed upon the bed to rest.
In the days that followed, Castiel found Nick to be a nearly reclusive man. He seemed to avoid the common areas, and the house was large enough that incidental passings were rare and brief, even when Castiel started lingering in corridors in attempts to catch him. He supposed it made enough sense, each man keeping to himself as he was dedicated to his art. Nick’s music filled the house nearly constantly, but Castiel wasn’t truly there to be an artist. He needed to get close to the man somehow. After careful consideration, he determined that his best opportunity was to start taking meals together, so he dressed in preparation and made his way down to the dining area at what he thought to be an appropriate hour.
“Well, well, you must be the artist,” the young woman said, flashing him a smile. She was petite, fair skinned so that her dark hair stood out where it fell in little waves across her shoulders.
“James,” Castiel said.
“Meg,” she replied.
“Then you must be Lord Gordon’s--”
“Niece,” came the brisk reply from somewhere behind him.
Castiel turned and met Nick’s eyes with a strangely guilty look.
“Margaret is my niece. Unfortunately, she was just leaving.”
“Meg,” she corrected him gently, “and was I?”
“I should think so, given the hour.”
Meg flashed a smile, patting Nick’s chest lightly as she stepped by. “Take care of yourself,” she whispered, and then, giving Castiel one more look from head to foot, she went on her way.
Nick breathed out a sigh and closed his eyes, fingers pressed on either side of the bridge of his nose. “I sincerely apologize for her,” he said.
“She seemed lovely, what little I spoke with her.”
“Did she? I must have made a timely intervention then.”
“I didn’t realize you had any family. I’d thought you an only child.”
“The only son, which apparently is all that counts in our modern, enlightened society,” Nick muttered, making a move for a decanter of wine. “I apologize, James. I don’t mean to be unpleasant. So much time alone seems to have rendered me incapable of socializing with others appropriately.”
Castiel shook his head. “I don’t find you unpleasant at all. Does Meg not come by often then?”
“Brief visits, I’m afraid. She’s a very modern woman, loves rushing around the cities and making trouble for staunchy old men, which I fervently encourage, of course. But no, mostly she comes to bring the tonic.”
“Tonic?”
Nick offered a small, tired smile. “Terrible headaches in the evenings. Generally, I endeavor to ignore them, but left untreated for extended periods, they can put me down for days.”
“Oh… I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s not something that merits discussion or sympathy. Would you like a drink?”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, onto happier topics, hmm? How is your art coming along?”
“My… Oh… Right.” Castiel shifted his weight from foot to foot and turned his attention to his glass.
“Not feeling inspired yet?”
“It’s not a lack of inspiration, I don’t think… just…”
“Don’t trouble yourself, James,” Nick said with a casual shrug. “It comes when it comes.”
“Is that what it’s like for you? Inspiration, I mean.”
“I suppose so, sometimes.”
“I apologize. I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that I’ve lived here with you for over a week now, and I’ve hardly seen or talked to you at all.”
“Oh… Well, as I’ve said, solitude breeds bad habits. I apologize. You can come talk to me whenever you like.”
Castiel looked up, meeting Nick’s blue eyes with his own. “I’d hate to disturb you while you’re playing,” he said.
“Not at all. I’ll likely prove a poor conversationalist, but I’ll put forth an effort. You seem a fascinating young man, James, and I would very much like to know you.” Nick gave another smile, one that seemed forced and thin somehow. “Not tonight though,” he said, draining his glass and setting it aside. “I’m afraid it’s been far too long since Margaret’s last visit, and I’m going to have to spend the evening lying in a darkened room.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, but you’re very kind to ask. Now, please excuse me. Tomorrow, we’ll talk. I promise.”
Castiel nodded quietly and watched him go.
As he waited for their meeting, Castiel found himself increasingly curious about Nick. Perhaps he was relieved that his charge wasn’t accustomed to regular social interaction. It took a great deal of the pressure off, made it more likely that he would be able to pass himself as a human, but the sun rose and fell without him seeing the man at all. Even more curious, Castiel heard no music for three straight days. The only indication that anyone else was in the house at all was one chance meeting with Meg in the hallways. “Sorry, Jimmy,” she’d said quietly as she pushed by. “He’s not having a good day.” Castiel was left standing speechless, wondering how much Nick suffered from his strange affliction.
On the fourth day, he wandered out of his room to be greeted by the sound of haunting music. He followed it, hesitating only briefly, and found himself at a heavy, shut door. It seemed rude and somehow wrong to stop Nick’s playing, so Castiel waited, head resting against the heavy wood as he listened in. It bordered close to violation with how much of the man’s tragedy came through each note he played, but then the music stopped.
“You can come in, James.”
Castiel flushed with shame at having been caught, but he let himself in, glancing around before letting his eyes settle where Nick sat on the couch, cello still poised between his knees. He didn’t look well. His hair was messier than usual, and his skin had sunken into a sickly pallor that made the darkness under his eyes stand out harshly. Still, he gave Castiel the same smile he always did and gestured for him to sit.
“I sincerely apologize,” Nick said, setting his bow aside. “I promised to meet with you, and I failed to fill that obligation.”
“No, you needed some time to rest. Please don’t think of me as an obligation.”
Nick laughed softly. “I didn’t mean it like that. Did you get much of your art done then?”
“I… did not,” Castiel said, shaking his head. “I found myself very concerned for your health.”
That earned him another hint of a smile. “That’s very kind of you. I don’t think very many others are.”
“Meg certainly seemed to be.”
“She is, I think, but that’s a complicated issue, and I did say very many as opposed to none at all.”
“That’s true. ...Forgive me if this is too forward, but if you ever need assistance and Meg isn’t around, I would be happy to--”
“I’m alright, James, really. I appreciate the offer, more than you know, but it’s nothing anyone needs to be troubled by, some minor discomfort.”
“I apologize. I didn’t mean to upset you. It was just very quiet for the past three days, and I worried.”
Nick stopped where he was halfway through lifting a glass of water and met Castiel’s eyes. “Three days?”
Castiel nodded.
“...I see. I’m very sorry then. It got away from me more than I realized.”
“Please don’t apologize for it. I was more concerned about your wellbeing than I was about any missed conversation.”
“You’re very kind. Have I mentioned that?”
“Perhaps once or twice.”
They exchanged smiles, each relaxing back into his seat as the atmosphere around them began to shift, but Castiel was far more nervous than he let on. The desire to befriend this man had taken on a more personal note; his suffering and apparent loneliness was something that resonated with Castiel in a profound way that he didn’t understand. The problem was Castiel still had no idea how to do so. He supposed they needed to talk, but he had no idea what humans talked about. Castiel chewed his lip for a moment before Nick setting his glass down drew his eyes towards the heavy volume on the side table.
“Were you reading?” he asked. “I mean, obviously, you weren’t just now, but…”
“Hm? Oh, this?” Nick lifted the book up into his hands. “Paradise Lost,” he explained, offering it over. “I think it was intended to amuse me. All the so-called intellectuals are making an awful fuss about it.”
Castiel squinted at the pages as he thumbed through them. “A book about the fall of man?”
“An epic, technically speaking, but yes. Quite an interesting subject matter, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps. I do hear it’s very good, if not a bit inaccurate.”
“And would you know if it were inaccurate?”
Castiel looked up to meet his eyes.
“Were you there, James?”
“What do you mean ‘was I’... At the… I…”
“Relax,” Nick said, leaning back once more. “I was teasing you again. I should stop that. Here, I’ll let you borrow the book as an apology for my behavior, assuming it won’t interfere with your art.”
“I would hate to take it if you’re reading it,” Castiel murmured.
Nick dismissed him with a flippant gesture as he reached for his glass again. “Nonsense. I’ve read it before. It will give us something interesting to talk about during our visits. Oh… I’m sorry. That was presumptuous of me.”
“No, not at all. I would like to speak with you more often.”
“Good,” Nick said. “I’m glad for it.”
And that time, his smile seemed somehow more genuine.
In the privacy of his own room, Castiel secretly devoured Paradise Lost. It was, as predicted, terribly inaccurate, and yet he found much of it to be strangely compelling. It was the poetry, he convinced himself, but then it was much more. It felt blasphemous to even think it, but there was something vibrant and alive in Milton’s Satan that was reminiscent of Castiel’s lost brother, even if the two were perhaps more different than they were the same. Still, he felt ashamed of his thoughts, and he endeavored to keep them from Nick as they discussed the book in their increasingly frequent meetings. After all, Castiel’s task was to guide the man away from temptation, so when they talked, he focused on Heaven and the theme of hope in the final books, the idea that there is no pain, no tragedy that man cannot find his way home from. But then Nick started offering him other books from his collection, poems and plays that all seemed to hinge upon the same notion of romanticized revolution, the boldly impassioned rebel refusing to kneel before a tyrant.
Guilty about his new fascination, Castiel began to take his readings up into Nick’s study during the day. He felt a strange camaraderie with the man, spending most of his time there alternating between turning through the pages of various works and simply lying back and letting music wash over him. On more than one occasion, Castiel made his way upstairs only to find Nick’s door shut and the halls silent, and it was then that he noticed the unfamiliar ache in his chest at the separation. Whenever he saw Meg in the hallways, he would ask her questions, but she always refused to answer them, and so Castiel would be left waiting indefinitely. It became a relief to return to him. Even if he seemed tired and played no music the day after a bout of illness, Nick still greeted Castiel at the door with a gentle smile and spent hours listening to him talk.
He was laid across his couch, listening to Castiel go on about William Blake when he turned his head and said softly, “I’ve a question for you, James. You’ve been here with me for months now, and I’ve never once seen you paint or been allowed viewing any of your works. Why?”
“Oh… I’ve been distracted, I suppose.”
“I understand, but you should try. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Castiel answered quickly, but he said no more and was immensely grateful that Nick didn’t press him.
He did try, that night in his room. He stared at the blank page for hours, and it wasn’t as if he had no artistic inclination of his own. It was something he had thought about on many occasions, an outlet for all the secret thoughts and longings he kept closed off inside himself. Theoretically, it should have come natural to him. His hands were an artist’s hands, and his vision was that of an angel, keen and inclined to absorb every detail, but as he looked out over the garden in the morning light, he found that every rendering he attempted left him frustratedly unsatisfied.
It was only after a week of failed attempts, mounting frustrations, and two more requests from Nick to see his work that Castiel found his art. He began to move a brush to follow the line of Nick’s reclined form, far more beautiful than any plant or flower, and it finally came to him. Then it was easy. After every meeting, he’d spend hours sketching the way the musician’s hands cradled his violin, the way his arms moved to draw the bow, the way his brows drew together and his eyes closed in poignantly beautiful agony when he was lost in song. Castiel memorized and rendered every detail of the man’s hands and body and face, but he never showed him-- he couldn’t show him.
Castiel was startled the first time Nick came to knock on his door, looking surprisingly healthy and bearing that casual grace that had come to define him.
“There is an occasion,” he explained. “Some winter ball that many people are attending. It’s outside of the city, and I’ve been invited to play. It’s silly, I know, but I’ve a social obligation, and I’d like you to come with me. You could show the people there your works, and--”
“No."
“...No? Why not?”
“I don't know how to dance.”
Nick tilted his head, glancing Castiel up and down, and smiled with restrained laughter. “That’s a tragedy in its own right, James. Nevermind it. I’m certain I can teach you to dance well enough. You’ll meet me tonight? For dinner?”
Castiel didn’t want to go to a ball, certainly didn’t want to show anyone the art he’d been producing. But God help him, he wanted to have dinner with Nick, wanted to listen to his music, so he nodded, a polite agreement, and spent the rest of the day agonizing over painting a flower.
He was surprised when it was just the two of them that evening. Castiel had expected Meg to join them, to act as his dance partner while Nick played, but no. It was Nick who led Castiel to the open room. Nick’s arm around him, hand on his back, body so close that, for the first time, Castiel noticed the slight coolness of his skin.
“There’s no music,” he whispered, but Nick shushed him, held him closer.
“Yes there is. Feel; don’t listen.”
In an absurd way, it made sense. When Castiel closed his eyes, his mind called up every note Nick had ever played, and he could hear violin and cello overlapping like two parts of a duet, unable to meet. Every step felt fluid and natural. Nick’s hands on him felt natural. His body pressing close felt right.
Castiel pushed back sharply. “No,” he breathed out, eyes wide. “No, no, no.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do this. I--”
Nick tilted his head. “Why? Because of what you are or because of what I am?”
“Both,” Castiel blurted out, but then the words hit him, and he looked up slowly.
Nick-- Lucifer was staring at him quietly, brows drawn in that sad way that Castiel had memorized, eyes down on the floor. “You truly had no idea?”
“Of course not. You tricked me!”
“Tricked you? How?”
“Nick”
“James. ...I never lied to you, Castiel. I simply didn’t correct your assumption. Would you have even talked to me if I had?”
“The books then.”
“I neither wrote them nor forced you to read them. I made things available to you, and you came to the truth on your own.”
Castiel staggered backwards, but Lucifer caught his arm.
“Castiel, wait, please. I’m sorry you feel deceived, I am, but I didn’t intend this. Do you have any idea how many times I've wanted to tell you?”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“I sincerely thought you knew. I thought you must have figured it out by now and had decided to stay anyway.”
“Why would I do that? You’re going to destroy the world.”
“...I thought--” Lucifer swallowed hard and took his own step back. “I’ve destroyed nothing, Castiel. That was not my intent. I thought we understood each other. I see now I was mistaken.” He looked down, nodding quietly to himself. “I’ll not keep you further,” he whispered, dropping his grip.
Castiel ran up to his room, desperately sorting through his belongings for his sword and finding nothing but pages of artwork and borrowed books. He threw himself upon the bed and lay sobbing miserably, waiting for the inevitable. Instead, there came the soft sound of music, the mournful notes of a violin crying out with fresh loss so sincere that Castiel pushed himself upright and followed the sound.
He dropped his drawings on the table between them, watching Lucifer’s eyes move over them before rising to meet his own.
“Keep playing,” Castiel took his usual seat and pulled a fresh sheet of paper onto his lap. “I want you to keep playing.”
“I was never playing,” Lucifer said sincerely, but he lifted his violin to his shoulder and closed his eyes.
And if it were even possible, Castiel found that in knowing who his precious musician truly was, he only loved him more. He saw Lucifer clearly, rendered him faithfully, and made a silent vow that he would not sit idly by and let him languish in lonely suffering ever again.
