Victor Frankenstein x Laurent LeClaire x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist • ao3 • want to be tagged? | request info • ko-fi • series masterlist •
Summary: The Baron and The Artist have a reputation.
A/N: I'm so sorry, I couldn't help myself, I've been thinking about sideburn on sideburn action.
Warnings: Reader is a governess, I know Laurent and Victor aren't in the same time frame but I've messed about with that a little, reader has a scar on their palm, typos, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!
Word Count: 1420
In That First Minute We Met
You turn back around the second you hear his voice, almost freezing mid-step in the corridor. It filters through the heavy, grand wooden door, light and jovial as he laughs with Lord and Lady Bayshem.
You knew that your employers were planning on purchasing one of Mr LeClaire’s paintings, and hoping against hope that they could convince him to perhaps paint a portrait of them both as well. Ever since he had the backing of the Baron, he had seemingly skyrocketed into high society. He works now going for more money than you could ever hope to see.
But there were enough rumours about him and the Baron… how their hands lingered on each other. How they seemingly swept up whoever they chose to amuse them for a brief while before they chewed them up and spat them out broken and forlorn.
You didn’t need any of that.
Didn’t need to get caught in their crosshairs. Better to stay out of the way completely.
You move quietly, almost silently, turning the corridor and- smack straight into someone.
“My apologies,” you say quickly, your words all coming out in a rush as two strong hands take hold of your upper arms to stop you from stumbling.
“Not at all, I should apologise.”
You still at the sound of his voice before you look up.
“I should have been looking where I was going.” Victor smiles. The action is polite, charming even. But it doesn’t quite meet his eyes, like part of him is somewhere else during this conversation.
You nod, curtsy shallowly and step to move past him. But he says your name, moving a fraction to the left to block your exit.
You stop, your eyes fixed to the floor, to the way his black shoes look like shadows against the rug.
“That’s right, isn’t it?” He repeats your name again and, hesitantly, you nod.
You miss the way his smile widens, how his eyes light up when he realises your refusal to look at him isn’t out of respect or fear.
“Your Edward’s Governess, correct?”
“Yes, my lord.” Tension runs up your spine like the pattering of moth wings against glass.
“Please, my lord,” he chuckles darkly, “there is no need for that…” He pauses, letting himself look over you unabashedly while you keep your eyes downward.
“And, he’ll be going to St Thomas’s shortly, won’t he?” Victor continues, and you’re unable to hide the flash of bitterness that passes over you like a flinch.
Edward would be. In less than six weeks, the bright-eyed boy would be ferried off to boarding school. You’d know it was coming when you’d taken this job, stepping into the role when the previous governess had left to be married, with less than a year before Edward would be old enough to attend St Thomas’s.
But still, you’d grown fond of him. Attached to him in a way that made his soon departure oddly painful.
Plus, you’d be out of a job. Lord and Lady Bayshem didn’t have any other children that were still in the house, and you hadn’t yet managed to find any other suitable employment.
“Yes, my lord,” you repeat, your tone even and polite, subservient to a fault.
Victor takes in a small breath, the tiniest hint of displeasure in the sound. “It isn’t necessary to call me that, these social structures are tiresome.”
“I apologise.” You speak too quickly, rehearsed and disingenuous.
“There is no need to apologise,” there’s that frustration again. Burning at the edge of his word, dangerous and unyielding. “I am simply…” He pauses, moving his hand to be directly in your line of sight. He clicks his fingers once, the snap loud and abrasive as it echoes down the long corridor. “If I could have your attention?” It’s phrased as a question, his voice controlled enough that it could be considered polite. Just.
Finally, you look at him.
“I thought social structures were tiresome, my lord?” You snap and regret it instantly.
But instead of annoyance, the skin around his eyes crinkles as he smiles. “That I did.”
You swallow. You don’t like how he looks at you, how it makes you feel. He isn’t giving you the usual disinterested gaze of someone speaking to a servant.
“I apologise.” He bows his head lightly. “Perhaps you can find it in your heart to forgive me, or repay me with equal rudeness in the future?”
For once, all words seem to leave you. You’re not sure how to respond, how to retort to the cheeky look he gifts you with.
“I should have cut to the chase. George was telling me earlier about your science lessons with Edward.”
You fiddle with the skin around your thumbnail; the idea of Lord Bayshem discussing you with Baron Frankenstein settles oddly in your chest.
“They seem most varied, from making amateur replicas of Léon Foucault’s rotating mirror experiment with the boy, to reading The Structure and Distribution of Coral Reefs from start to finish. So much so, George tells me that Edward is determined to see a coral reef for himself.” Victor smiles. The expression is warm this time. “One would say this goes beyond the usual expectation of a governess’s duties?” The tease is gentle, but you still bristle a little.
The words come out of your mouth before you even think about them. “Perhaps one could infer to the inadequacy of your childhood teachers in the past?”
There’s a pause. A clean boundary you’ve overstepped. A minute expression crosses Victor’s face that you just can’t place.
“I-” You start.
“I cannot have you apologising again.”
You bite your lips together, fighting down the urge to go against his words. He could speak to the Lord and Lady, you could lose your position even sooner.
“I did tell you to repay me with equal rudeness in the future, but I feel that that was lacking. You can do much better.” There’s a hint of a smile that curls his lips mischievously.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude, my lord,” you start, but he speaks quickly.
“I know, and I’m ever so disappointed at the fact. I’m sure you could say some absolutely awful things to me, could you not?” He raises one eyebrow as he talks and you swallow.
“Are not some of those thoughts that dance around in your head half of the reason why you’ve turned on your heels away from the conversation in the library? Mine and Laurent’s reputation?”
He waits a beat for you to answer, his eyes gleaming when you have none.
“And didn’t I say not to call me ‘my lord’?” He takes a step closer, leaving barely a slither of space between your bodies. “Seems as though someone should give you some lessons in following instructions?” His voice is soft, deep and rich, a fraction above a whisper, and it makes you shiver involuntarily.
Slowly, he reaches out to your face, intending to lightly touch your cheek with the fingers of his leather gloves. You step back without thinking, your movements quick and hasty, far too reminiscent of a mouse panicky trying to outwit a cat. Instinctively, your left hand comes up to block his, and instead, he takes hold of your fingers, wrapping his own around yours.
“Ah, no need to be so shy.” The mirth in his voice should be irritating, but there’s something odd underneath, something that sounds like kindness.
His thumb just dances over your palm and, on reflex, your hand flinches as he brushes over the old scar tissue.
The jump of tendons surprises him, his line of sight darting away from your face to your hand. He pauses, frozen for a second as he takes in the hook shaped scar that runs along your skin, deep into the flesh of your palm before disappearing under your sleeve at your wrist.
It’s like he’s seen a ghost.
Part of you wants to ask, to question what has caused that sudden look of horror. But instead you snatch your hand back, easily breaking free of his light grip. You ball your fingers up into a fist and hold them close to your chest, hiding the old wound from his line of sight.
You keep your own gaze to the floor as you push past him quickly, side stepping so that your body does not have to touch his and then rush down the hall.
Victor watches you go, his shocked expression breaking into a small smile.
