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An Evening at the Philoctetes

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Prelude

This comment fic began in response to this Twitfic:

 

Which led to the following conversation between myself and Crowgirl in the comment thread on the Twitfic:

Crowgirl: We've done it again, haven't we? Only this time we created the gayest department in post-war London.

Elizajane: We have, we have. *shakes head sa---* wait! #SorryNotSorry! *runs away cackling*

Crowgirl: So Lord Grantham and -- WhatsHisName [Sir Alec Myerson] who's actually supposed to be running the department can get together and get sloshed over it. And then probably end up snogging.

Pureimaginatrix: Because everything is gay and nothing hurts? ^_~

Elizajane: You know it.

This the following comment fic was born. It takes place in the Foyle's War 'verse of Crowgirl's creation (see here) crossed with the Downton Abbey 'verse of Elizajane's creation (see here and here), with a nod to the Foyle's War/The Bletchley Circle crossover Twitfics that Elizajane has been writing (here). Taken together, these combined 'verses feature the following same-sex couples who are happily, joyously gay:

Sybil Crawley/Gwen Dawson

Thomas Branson/Original Male Character

Isobel Crawley/Violet Crawley

Christopher Foyle/Paul Milner

Hilda Pierce/Jean McBrien

Sam Stewart/Susan Gray

Arthur Valentine/???

In short, no wonder Robert Crawley and Alec Myerson are a wee bit jealous ... cue the curtain rise.

oOo

‘I'd ask what we did to deserve this but they're all so fucking happy…’

‘I suppose it is the quietest department I've ever overseen... Although there was that one American that Valentine saw fit to knock down the stairs. Still. Can't say I blame him on that.’

‘Another whiskey?’

‘God, yes.’

Myerson lifts the bottle and finds it empty. ‘Damn. Don't suppose you'd be interested in coming 'round to the club with me? Much better vintage there.’

‘Why not.’

Which is how Grantham finds himself stepping into a cab with Sir Alec Myerson wondering what the hell he thinks he's doing because this ... this feels like playing with fire, somehow. But damn it, if he hasn't spent too many years watching everyone else have some bloody fun.

He rubs suddenly sweaty palms down his trouser legs, only to realize that Myerson has reached out and put a steadying hand on Grantham's nervously jumping knee.

He pulls his hand back as if he's nearly touched a hot poker.

Damn. The whiskey's gone to his head. And it wasn't even good whiskey.

Myerson peers sideways at Grantham in the uncertain light of passing streetlights. 'Don't like cabs?'

'Hm?' Grantham looks at him sharply.

Myerson puts a hand on Grantham's knee, nervously jogging up and down against the side of the seat. 'I knew someone else who didn't -- 'course, he'd been in some sort of bloody God-awful car crash during the first war.'

‘No -- no.’ Grantham struggles to keep a hold of the conversation, the ultimate aim of which continues to elude him whenever he tries to face it square on. ‘It isn't that.’

He forces his knee to still but Myerson doesn't remove his hand. Instead, he tightens his grip and the warmth from his palm seeps through the fine wool of Grantham's trouser leg.

It's not unpleasant. It's almost ... companionable.

Myerson follows Grantham's gaze and whips his hand back to himself, his palm burning as though he had touched a nettle. 'Bad habit. Picked up from the Americans. Always touching people.' He rubs his fingers together to rid himself of the feeling of solid bone and muscle under neat tweed.

It doesn't work and, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Grantham looking at him, frowning slightly, and he curses to himself. Bloody Americans.

Then the cab draws up at the club door and there's an immediate new topic of conversation.

‘The Philoctetes Society,’ Grantham says, stupidly reading the gilt letters soldered into the iron scroll work above the door. ‘I haven't been here in...well, since before the war.’ He'd remembered a friend of his from All Souls had joined. They'd dined here, once, when Grantham had been up to London for -- he no longer remembered.

‘We carry on,’ Myerson says, nodding to the cab driver who holds their door and pulling his wallet out of the breast pocket of his overcoat to pay the man. ‘Though the ranks are thinner than they were. We lost not a few members, and many of the younger chaps either can't afford the dues or find their own society more amusing.’

‘At least this way you can always find an empty table?’ Grantham has been trying to look on the bright side in recent years. He considers the warm light emanating from the club's windows. ‘Do they allow dogs?’

'Dogs?' Myerson blinks and shrugs out of his coat, handing it to the waiting attendant who also takes Grantham's. 'I've no idea -- do we allow dogs?'

The attendant -- a tall, dark young man -- nods. 'Oh, yes, sir. So long as they're well-behaved.'

Grantham brightens noticeably and nods affably to the young man.

'Hunting man, are you?' Myerson asks as he leads the way into the bar. It's quiet -- the benefit of a mid-week evening. There are a few regulars scattered here and there around the room, a chess game at one table, the bartender chatting to a tall American in a dark blue American military coat; he's been here several evenings, Myerson notes, on a guest card apparently.

Grantham smiles, slightly sheepishly as he sits down in one of the wide armchairs. 'No, not really. I -- just rather like having Tiaa about. Good company, you know.' 

‘So, Grantham,’ Myerson says, waving over one of the unobtrusive attendants who circulated the room waiting to be summoned. ‘How long do you plan to be in town?’

Then, to the waiter, ‘Two whiskeys, please, neat. The thirty-year malt, Glenbogle I think. On my account,’ in response to the unspoken question.

Grantham considers. ‘I have an appointment with my solicitor tomorrow morning, and then I've promised to meet my daughter Sybil and her -- and Miss Dawson for lunch at Kew. After that I -- I had not honestly thought.’

‘The Royal Opera is doing Elektra,’ Myerson offers. ‘I thought perhaps dinner and a show this week end?’

The arrival of the drinks -- two heavy tumblers with a healthy dose of Scotch in each -- prevents Grantham from having to answer immediately which is probably a blessing. His brain feels somewhat-- scrambled by this day and all he can think is 'Elektra? Why?'

It's a tempting thought, though. He hasn't been to a London show in years. 'How are you on Shakespeare?'

Myerson takes a sip of whiskey and leans back in his chair. 'Can't say I've thought about it much. Read it at school, of course. Miss Pierce tends to quote it at odd moments. Why?'

'I saw a playbill up this morning -- Richard Burton in Hamlet at the Old Vic.'

'Ah -- yes, I see. Yes --' Myerson salutes him with the glass. 'Yes, an excellent thought. I can see about tickets tomorrow, if you'd like?'

Grantham allows himself a smile: ‘In that case, I must insist on making arrangements for supper. I know just the place -- a French bistro on Ufford Street, off Waterloo. Assuming they're still in business. I'll telephone 'round in the morning.’

‘Excellent.’

‘They may not take reservations. Some of the smaller places refuse to, nowadays, no matter the name.’

Myerson sniffs. ‘Can't be helped, I suppose. Time moving endlessly forward.’

Grantham laughs, perhaps a bit too loudly as the man in the blue coat glances over at them from where he's still leaning on the bar.

‘Surely it can't be as hopeless as all that?’ he asks lightly. There are things he misses from his youth, certainly. But he would never wish to return there. In some ways his responsibilities have lightened considerably since his son-in-law took over the day-to-day management of their estates. With his daughters settled, each to her own satisfaction, he feels the weight of securing a Future for the family less and less every day. It's...liberating. In its way.

Or perhaps that's the Scotch talking. It really is -- was -- a very fine Scotch.

Or perhaps he's just getting old -- he laughs again at the thought that he'll end up like his mother, running off to...Egypt, wasn't it? with some last-minute lover-- Ah, well. At least she was happy. He didn't grudge her. God only knew she'd spent enough years hauling him from one crisis to another to have earned a rest on whatever terms she chose to take it.

'It isn't that funny, either,' says Myerson, but he's smiling.

'Oh, I don't know.' Grantham takes another sip of the excellent spirit and adds, 'I don't think I've had a single plan actually work out since about 1910. Half of my family is involved in some kind of illicit relationship that could end them in jail. And they're all bloody happy about it!'

Myerson snorts companionably. 'What's the quote -- a crime that hurts no-one is no crime? I know Foyle doesn't think I do, but I've always kept that in mind.'

For a brief moment, Grantham wishes he had turned down the last Scotch. Because his perceptions are pleasantly dulled around the edges and although this is -- in the general run of things -- a rather amenable state of affairs, he cannot help but feel that he's missing something rather key in this meandering conversation.

The slight blurring of his peripheral vision casts Myerson's expression in a dubious light. He wishes he could examine him closely, like he would one of the portraits in the National Gallery, but of course one doesn't do that sort of thing in a gentleman's club. It's rather too ... intimate.

And isn't that a strange thought? Where had that word bubbled up from?

‘Yes, well,’ he says in belated response to Myerson's remark. ‘As you say -- what's the crime in being ... happy?’ it comes out more of a question than he had intended. He sighs, twisting in his chair to lean across his own lap and offer up his empty glass for a toast:

‘To those among us brave enough to be happy, eh?’

For a moment he thinks he's overstepped the bounds of ... whatever camaraderie he and Myerson have inadvertently forged. Because Myerson looks at him sharply. In such a way as to remind Grantham that Myerson spent the war in a rather influential position within the SIS.

There's a pause.

‘To those of us brave enough to be happy,’ Myerson finally echoes. ‘And to the promise of Shakespeare at the end of this bloody week.’

oOo

The American officer at the bar turns his back on the two men, drains his glass, and grins at the barman. 'That's all for me.'

'Not having another, sir?' The man makes the dirty glass vanish.

'Nope, not tonight -- got a hot date.' He winks as he slips off the stool. 'Maybe another time? What's your name?'

'Jones, sir.'

'See you 'round, Jones.'