Cold Hands, Warm Heart

By Hollis Shiloh

Jason is self-conscious about his metal arm and uncomfortable with his sexuality.  A big, quiet guy who intimidates a lot of people without even trying to, he works as a cook — and has a hopeless crush on his friend, Dr. Kingsley.  Will Jason ever have a shot with his friend?  Or does life have a different curveball to throw him?

Approx. 22,000 words 
A steampunk-themed gay romance.

Takes place in the same world as "Like A One-Eyed Cat," "Gear Heart," "Wes and Kit," etc.

Can be read alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spare Words Press
• Release date: Feb 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386656661

Book preview

About the story:

Jason is self-conscious about his metal arm and uncomfortable with his sexuality.  A big, quiet guy who intimidates a lot of people without even trying to, he works as a cook — and has a hopeless crush on his friend, Dr. Kingsley.  Will Jason ever have a shot with his friend?  Or does life have a different curveball to throw him?

Approx. 22,000 words — A steampunk-themed gay romance.

Takes place in the same world as Like A One-Eyed Cat, Gear Heart, Wes and Kit, etc, but can be read alone.

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Jason Donnelly stalked through the foggy night.  He tried to keep a low profile, as he almost always did: an impossibility for a man his size, and for one with such an obviously metal arm.  It drew every stare.  He hated going out of the house.

Jason lived with and worked for Mr. Graeham, whom most people just called the boss.  Jason was a cook, though he had been a soldier before, where he had lost his arm — and his life — before being revived and fixed up with mechanical and magical additions to himself.

He was taking bread to the men down by the docks — the ones who hadn't come in out of the cold at Graeham's, for whatever reason.  Not every mechanicalized soldier could trust even that much.  It did take some effort, on some days.

These men begged, stole, borrowed, or fought for everything they had, which was very little.  Usually someone else took the bread, but they were all busy, and Jason couldn't make the men wait.  He'd shouldered the bag himself, muttered a grumpy see you later and headed out into the night.

They would be hungry.  They would be waiting.  And still he very much didn't want to go.  It made his skin crawl to see how they lived, or died, the other soldiers who hadn't found anyone to take them in, to protect them from a society that no longer wanted them, that was frightened of them.

Jason's arm and foot ached.  They might be metal now, but somehow they could still hurt on a cold, foggy night, and often chose to do so.  The phantom pain was annoying. 

Wait for me! called Dr. Harrold Kingsley, pushing up his glasses and running down the alleyway from the house to catch up with Jason. 

Jason glanced back, hugging the sack tighter.  In spite of himself — Harrold had never noticed him, and likely never would — he felt his heart give a little pitter-patter of fluttering happiness. 

Jason was very fond of the doctor.  Even though Harrold had been largely responsible for keeping Jason alive.

I'm sorry, but I'd like to see if anyone needs medical attention while I'm here, said Harrold, walking crisply in his clean, polished boots, holding his black doctor's bag competently by his side.

Want me to hold that for you? mumbled Jason.

Harrold cast him an affectionate look, and Jason felt the tips of his ears heating.  The doctor was so perfect — fine-boned, youthful-faced, clear-skinned, and clever-eyed.  He was compassionate and decisive, and always dressed impeccably.  And he barely knew Jason was alive, aside from being a doctor to him, and caring for him with his special conditions.  And as a friend.

I'm not feeble yet, Donnelly, said Harrold, hefting his bag a little higher.  He stifled a yawn, however.  It's been a long day, I must admit.

That was Dr. Kingsley — always on the move, helping on the crusade to improve the lot of men like Jason who were kept alive by magical machinery in a world where most people would rather they simply disappeared and died quietly, like the gentlemen they weren't. 

These ex-soldiers were a sore reminder to many of a war they would much rather forget entirely.  Jason felt their fear and disgust.  But he wanted to forget just as much.

The doctor hummed softly as he walked.  When the air was still and heavy around them, Jason almost thought he could smell the other man by taking a slow, deep breath and holding it.  Was that just the faintest scent of the doctor's harsh soap and rosewater?  He was really rather vain, thought Jason affectionately.  He longed to muss up the perfect man's hair, to make him smile in surprise, to make his body sing.

If that were even possible anymore.

Jason, began the doctor, about to say something that sounded vaguely didactic.

Just then three large men stepped into their path — and one more stepped up behind them.  They were intimidating in the gloom, lit only as hulking shapes in the darkness. 

Someone cracked his knuckles.  You Dr. Kingsley? asked one of the men gruffly.  His tone was at odds with the intimidating approach.  He sounded scared and gruff.

Jason's panic receded a touch, though he didn't move from his place in front of the doctor.  He had stepped there automatically, putting one arm back to shield him and hold him close. 

Dr. Kingsley allowed it.  He was always very trusting of Jason's choices and ability to keep him safe.  It was humbling and infuriating, at times, that he could trust Jason so very much, but seemed to have no earthly clue of Jason's fonder feelings for him.  Or perhaps just did not want to be aware of them, and so found it more convenient not to be.

Yes, that's correct, said Harrold crisply.  What do you want? 

He stayed near Jason.  Jason supposed he could have taken on all four men at once, if not for his concern over Harrold.  Keeping him safe was the main priority, and the doctor was not a fighter.  He was a man who healed people, with his prodigious skill as a physician, his sympathetic magic, and his training as a machinologist.  All these things worked well together to make him of much use to the community of mechanicalized men, such as it was.

The speaking thug cleared his throat awkwardly and floundered on.  Well, we, ah, that is, we'd be very appreciative if you'd just take a gander at our...our friend.

Here? asked Kingsley sharply.  He was all business, snapping open his bag, moving quickly around Jason's protective bulk.  Not in an alleyway, surely, sir?

N-no, that is...

From the street, there was a cough.  He's underground, sir, said a small, piping voice — an urchin boy had now crept up near the men.  He's my father, sir.  He can't hardly move these days.  What with the fights—

One of the men coughed, and the boy cut himself off abruptly, giving a little start as if he realized he'd said too much.  The boy edged nearer and tugged at Dr. Kingsley's sleeve.  If you can't help him, he'll die, sir.  They don't take men like my father at the hospitals.

Of course they didn't; Jason was all too painfully aware of that, as was Dr. Kingsley.

Of course I'll check on your father, said Harrold kindly, addressing the boy and allowing