please i beg u harry x reader age gap where harry is a bit insecure
OVER THE HILL ೃ࿔ HARRY LEWIS .ᐟ.ᐟ
summary: harry is about to turn thirty, and suddenly it’s like everyone around him has decided that means he’s basically ancient
content: age gap relationship, insecurity, mild angst, hurt/comfort, established relationship
a/n: this is just harry being deeply dramatic about ageing and then immediately getting shut down by josh AND reader because they have no time for his existential crises lmao
The joke starts with Ethan. Most things do.
"Right. Who wants to help me plan something absolutely humiliating for Harry's thirtieth?"
JJ immediately sits up. "I have ideas."
"I'm twenty-nine," Harry says.
"For another, what, five months?" Ethan says. "You're basically thirty, mate. You're on the slope."
"The slope," Harry repeats.
"Downward." Ethan makes a gesture that clearly represents a long decline into nothing. "Over the hill. Out of your prime. You're not going to be the baby anymore, H. What are you going to do with yourself?"
"I'm going to put you through the wall," Harry says pleasantly.
The thing is, it's not about the number.
He’s never cared about getting older. Or at least that’s what he tells himself. He watched the others turn thirty, watched them treat it like a funeral, and thought: that's not going to be me. He is not someone who does that. He is fine. He has always been fine.
The number is fine.
It's more... it's more that you're twenty-four.
It's more that twenty-four means something he's already moved past. The uncertainty. When everything still felt possible.
He remembers twenty-four. He was posting from his and the Cals flat, uploading videos at 2 am, not sure what any of it was going to be.
You're in that. You're in that age right now,and he's watching you from the outside of it like someone looking through glass.
He's already done things you haven't. He's been to places, made mistakes you don't know yet. He has six years of getting it wrong and figuring it out that sit between you like sediment, and sometimes he looks at you tucked into his side, making plans for things that are still ahead of you, and he thinks: She's going to want someone who's still in it with her.
Not someone with knees that crack on the stairs.
Not someone who remembers a version of the internet she was too young for.
Not someone who's already done his stupid years.
He doesn't say any of this, though. He's Harry. W2S incarnate. That's not him. Those insecure thoughts. And so he says nothing, and he makes a joke about Ethan's mom, and he pushes those feelings away.
Until Josh finds him in the car park.
It's much later now, and the afternoon has gone soft and slow. Most people have gone home, and Harry's leaning against the wall by the back exit, staring off into space.
He doesn't hear Josh until he's already next to him, and even then, Josh doesn't say anything straight away. Just sits down beside him, close enough that their shoulders are almost touching.
"You've been weird today," Josh says eventually.
"I'm always weird."
"Different weird." He pauses. "Since what Ethan said earlier."
Harry's jaw moves. "It's nothing. Ethan's a div."
"Yeah, he is," Josh agrees, easily. "But it got into your head."
Harry doesn't answer. That's an answer enough. They sit there for a moment, and somewhere across the car park a door bangs shut.
Josh finally turns to look at him. "The thirty thing, or the other thing?"
Harry looks up, his brows furrowed. How did he know?
"I pay attention," Josh says, like an apology almost.
There's a long pause. Harry's mouth does several things without committing to any of them.
"She's twenty-four," he says finally.
"Yeah."
"She's..." He stops and exhales through his nose. "She's got all of it still ahead of her, Josh, like… everything. And I've done all of it. I'm not... I'm not going to be figuring anything out alongside her, am I? I've already figured it out. She's going to want someone in it with her."
Josh is quiet for a moment.
"You think she doesn't know that?" he says.
Harry frowns. "What?"
"She's twenty-four," Josh says. "Not twelve. She knows how old you are, H. She knows you've already done things. And she’s still here." He says it like it's obvious. Like, Harry has somehow missed the most basic part.
Harry stares at his feet.
"You’ve seen the way she looks at you. Don’t act like you haven’t," Josh says, quieter now. "I have eyes. The boys have eyes. It's very obvious, honestly. It's a bit much."
Harry makes a noise that might be a laugh.
"Thirty's not over the hill," Josh says. "And even if it was, she'd be right there with you. That's the point." He squeezes Harry's shoulder once, firmly, and leaves.
Harry stands in the car park for another moment.
He doesn't figure anything out by the time he gets home. That's fine. Some things take longer than a car park.
You're already there when he arrives, key on the entry table, shoes off, settled into the sofa corner with your laptop like you belong there, you do, which is still sometimes a thing that catches him sideways. A documentary is already on. He doesn't remember agreeing on a documentary.
"You eat?" he asks.
"Mhm... Had yours as well," you say, not looking up. "Sorry."
He huffs out a laugh and settles down beside you.
"You're quiet," you say after a while.
"I'm always quiet," he says.
You looked at him over the top of your screen. "You literally have not stopped making noise since I met you."
He smiled despite himself and went back to his phone, scrolling without reading anything.
You watched him for a moment, then closed the laptop.
"Harry."
"Mm."
"What's going on?"
"Nothing." He could feel you still looking at him. "I'm fine."
"Okay," you said, and the careful neutrality of it was worse somehow than if you'd pushed.
You knew him well enough by now not to force it. Which meant you also knew him well enough to know something was actually wrong.
He put his phone face down on the cushion.
"Do you ever think..." he started, then stopped.
"Do I ever think?" you repeated, brows raised in amusement.
"That like..." He stared at the television. Some kind of bioluminescent creature drifted across the screen, slow and alien-like. “Like… I dunno, that maybe you’d be better off with someone your own age?”
The silence that followed was very still.
"No," you said sternly.
"I'm not... I'm not doing the insecure boyfriend thing. I'm just." He shifted, and his knee made a noise, a small but distinctly audible crack, and he laughed once, humourless. "I'm asking. Genuinely. Because I'm gonna be thirty, yeah? And you've got... you've got years of stuff you haven't done yet. Stuff I've already done, or I'm past the point of doing, and-"
"Harry."
"I'm just saying there's gonna come a point where-"
"Harry, stop."
He did. He looked at you.
You'd turned fully to face him, one knee pulled up to your chest. Your expression wasn't pitying, which he'd been half braced for. It was something firmer than that.
"Thirty isn't over the hill," you said.
"I know that," he said, which was partially true.
"And even if it was, which it is not, and I'll fight whoever said otherwise, that doesn't have anything to do with you and me. Where is this actually coming from?" You tilted your head slightly.
He didn't say anything.
"The lads been at you?"
A pause. "Little bit." He exhaled. "And the comments. Just... you know. The usual. Wroetoshaw's getting old, past his prime, gonna be over the hill-" He did a vague, dismissive gesture with his hand, like he could wave it off. "It's stupid. I know it's stupid."
"It's not stupid if it got in your head."
"It kind of is, though."
"No," you said, simple and firm. "It's not. You've always been the youngest. That's been part of how you see yourself for years. That's a weird thing to shift."
He bit his lip. "And the age gap thing-" he started.
"Is not a problem."
"You don't know..."
"I know what I want." Your voice didn't waver. "I know it's you. And I know you're acting like turning thirty is going to make you a completely different person, and it's not, it's just going to make you the same annoying, idiotic, actually quite soft person, but with maybe slightly more creaks in the joints-"
"Oi," he said.
"-and that's fine. That's what I want. That's what I signed up for."
He was quiet for a moment. The documentary kept going in the background.
"I just don't want you to look at me in five years and think you missed out," he said, and it came out quieter than he'd intended. "Like... there's things you'll want to do that I've already-"
"Then we'll do them again," you said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "Or we'll do different things. Harry, I'm not with you because of what you have or haven't done. I'm with you because of..." You paused, and he thought you might go soft on him, say something earnest and devastating, but instead the corner of your mouth turned up. "Well. I'm still working out exactly why, frankly, given the state of you."
He laughed, properly this time, and it broke something loose in his chest.
"Cheers," he said.
"Any time."
He reached over and pulled you into him, and you went without complaint, tucking yourself against his side like it was somewhere you'd been a hundred times. He pressed his mouth briefly to the top of your head.
"Thirty's not that old," he said, after a while.
"It's really not."
"The lads are all older than me still."
"Every single one of them."
"And I've still got a better hairline than JJ...."
"Objectively." You smiled.
On the screen, the deep-sea creature had found something luminous in the dark and drifted toward it.
"My knees are gonna be even more embarrassing in another few years," he said.
"I know," you said, and you sounded completely unbothered. "I've already made peace with it."
He tightened his arm around you, and neither of you said anything else for a while.
spent the last 3 days writing this 'cause i wanted to post it before the new episode! not a spec fic, more what i wish had happened at the end of 9x13 (what an episode, uhn?! 🤩) when buck and eddie make their way back to la, basically just add water tommy! thank you to @leashybebes for helping me make this possible 🥹
title from oh my days by orville peck
7669 words | rated T
also on AO3
The phone rings and Tommy sighs as he picks it up. "Kinard Transportation Services are not available at this moment. If you need a ride, call yourself an Uber."
"Tommy," There's an huff, indignant and Tommy rolls his eyes but waits. "Come on, man!"
"What do you want, Diaz?"
"Well-"
Tommy lets out a loud laugh. "You want a fucking ride, don't you?" He shakes his head, leaning back against his door. "I'm sorry, man," He was not. "I can't get my hands on a helicopter right now." Not for you.
"I know," Eddie says with a big sigh and Tommy frowns. "That's actually why I'm calling you, man."
"What are you talking about?" He straightens up, looking around the parking lot as if he'll find Diaz standing on the other side of it, which would be close to impossible.
"You never turned off Find My Friends since the last match we went to together," It wasn't his first priority, really, not when he was breaking up with- nope, not going there now. He had just forgotten about the whole thing. "You're like 2 miles away from us."
"Us?" Images of Evan on the floor crying for a Captain, a father, he had just lost flood his brain and it's not hard to start imagining the worst. He manages to hold back enough to keep his voice even. "What's going on?"
"We got into a nasty car accident in Bumfuck Nowhere, Buck got taken and the car I bought for like 5 dollars to find him just died on us." Tommy would almost laugh at the nonchalant way his old friend manages to explain a terrible situation, almost reminds him of a bar during game night with-stop.
Tommy sighs and opens Find My Friends. A little icon with a picture of Eddie and Chris pings up very close to him. He could get there in- "Give me ten minutes."
"Thanks, man."
If he spends the next five minutes trying to prepare himself for the fact that he'll be seeing Evan again, that's his prerogative. They were in a car accident, they are okay, they just need a ride, he can do that. He was on his way to LA anyway.
He had driven down to his Uncle's house in Arizona a few days ago for a car part, thought it was the perfect time to clear his head, get away a bit. The Firefighter Auction was…something. He didn't participate, obviously. He would not be caught dead on that stage. He was in the crowd though, right at the back, Lucy wanted to support her old teammates at the 118 and he had agreed to go with her. It was fine. He was over him.
It had been more than a year, after all.
Tommy had smiled when Harry got on stage, laughing loudly when Athena was the one who won the bidding war. The kid was at the 118, Bobby would have liked that, he thought. Eddie's heart was clearly not in it and the man was sporting a bandage that seemed fresh. A phone bidder wins a date with him, which was…suspicious.
He had wanted to smack over everyone in the crowd during Ravi's turn and he had almost raised a hand before he noticed May Grant do it for him. It had been interesting to say the least.
Tommy hadn't expected the production of Evan's turn on stage.
The video on the big screens, the music, the confident stride onto the stage. Everyone cheering and screaming for him, paddles raised in the air insistently. He had excused himself to the bathroom halfway between the ripping off of the shirt and the announcer beginning the bids.
It was fine. He was over him.
He parks the car right behind the absolute piece of junk scrap Eddie bought, where the man himself is talking heatedly with a man he would recognize anywhere. He takes another deep breath before he exits the car. It is fine. He is over him.
His plans to act cool, aloof, indifferent, go out the window the moment Evan turns and he gets a good look at the two men in front of him. Eddie had said car accident and kidnapping but-
"What the fuck happened to you two?!" His voice is more high-pitched than he meant it to be but Evan's face is full of scratches and he's holding his torso in pain and Eddie is equally as injured. What the fuck?!
"I-I thought you told him." Evan says, glancing between Eddie and him.
Eddie holds up his hands. "I did!"
"You said you were in a car accident, this looks like you-" He interrupts himself at the shifty looks in their faces. "Start talking." He all but orders.
And they do.
Between Evan's adorable stuttering and Eddie's tired voice, they tell him about coming back from Nashville to try and make it for Hen's surprise party and getting lost around New Mexico. About stopping at a diner for directions and getting into a fight. About leaving with directions towards the I-10 but getting run off the road by a big truck. About Eddie waking up in the hospital alone, injured and accused of having done something to Evan while Evan woke up in an unfamiliar house in unfamiliar clothes and being held captive by an unstable woman.
"And when we stopped at this truck stop, the car just wouldn't start again," Eddie continues. "Triple A doesn't work in a car I don't own."
"My phone was destroyed in the crash."
"And I refuse to get an Uber account."
Tommy sighs, leaning against the hood of his truck and running his hand through his hair. He was…overwhelmed. That was probably the best word to describe what he was feeling. He wants to wrap the two of them in bubble wrap, keep them in storage safe and sound. He wants to shove them into a hospital and not let them leave until they are okay. He wants to drive to New Mexico and give those people a piece of his mind. He looks up at Eddie, at the exhaustion in his eyes. He looks up at Evan, at the scratches on his face. He wants to kiss him, to hold him.
Fuck.
"Alright, well," Tommy clears his throat, slapping his hands once on his thighs as he stands up. "What do you two say we go home?" He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, at his truck.
It was almost anti-climatic.
Twenty minutes later, Tommy is driving west on the I-10, his truck now with two more people. Almost an hour later, Eddie is snoring in the back seat and Evan is strangely quiet in the passenger seat. The radio is on, quiet, he recognizes the familiar strings to You Shook Me All Night Long and he lets himself let that distract him. It almost works.
Because Evan is quiet now.
He had been talking to Eddie before, when the other man was awake, talking about all the landmarks they missed on their way home, before they got lost in New Mexico. And Eddie would roll his eyes, amused and nod and hum in agreement. Tommy thinks that Evan did it on purpose, used his voice to lull Eddie into a peaceful slumber.
He had been talking, almost animatedly, almost excited. Now, his leg was restless, he was hunched over himself. He was quiet and that was the strangest part of all.
"How are you feeling?" Tommy asks, quietly, not looking away from the road in front of him.
Evan isn't looking at him this time, those blue eyes shining bright in the skyscraper lights and he's glad to not be repeatedly reminded of that day. No, Evan keeps his head down, looking at a specific scratch on his finger. But he stops fidgeting.
"Tired."
And Tommy wants to shake himself, shake some sense, some respectability into himself. Wants to shake the need to take care of Evan, to care for him, to lo-Shake it off!
"I-If you want, you can sleep," Tommy offers, almost desperate for a quiet drive. For the prospect of looking at Evan all he wants without having to be careful. "I am okay to drive for the next few hours."
His cousin had an ergonomic mattress in his guest room and Tommy wanted to cry the moment he laid on it. He should have stolen it, set up a bed in the back of his truck, so that Evan had a comfortable place to sleep and- Get it together, Kinard.
But Evan shakes his head.
He shouldn't, he doesn't have the right. He asks anyway. "Do you, uhm, want to talk about it?"
Evan's breath is shaky as it comes out through his lips. He is silent and Tommy lets the silence linger, hopes that it comforts the younger man. That it shows that he is okay now.
"I keep thinking that," Evan starts, voice so quiet, it's almost drowned out by the sounds of the car, the road noise under the tires. Tommy hears it. "If I close my eyes, I'll wake up there."
Oh, that makes sense.
Tommy nods. "Eddie said that the people responsible were arrested."
"Yeah," Evan nods, lets it linger. "I told you about getting struck by lightning, right?"
Tommy nods, fingers clenching on the steering wheel, hands at 10 and 2.
He remembers. It was one of those sudden LA storms and he was staying over, their date running late and it wasn't like Tommy would say no to spending the night with Evan. He had woken up in the middle of the night to quiet whimpering, steady shaking from his left side. Evan had been curled up on his side of the bed, no longer draped across Tommy's chest like he usually was and all Tommy had been able to see was the man's bare back and the way his torso would stutter with his shaky breathing. He reached out an arm to pull Evan back towards him, to check on him when thunder struck and Evan's hand grasped his arm, nails sinking into his skin. He hadn't cared about that, he'd cared about how terrified Evan had been.
He doesn't want to think too much about that day.
About holding onto a crying Evan, about rubbing his damp back slowly, about whispering comforting words as rain fell and thunder rumbled outside, about watching his breathing calm as the storm moved away, about drawing a bath at 4AM, half-submerged in the hot water with Evan in his arms, slowly relaxing. About hearing that Evan had died for 3 minutes and 17 seconds. About the fact that he might have never met Evan Buckley.
"Yeah."
The sound of Evan's breathing is louder than Axl Rose's high-pitched singing of Welcome to the Jungle on the radio. He doesn't push, they have more than 6 hours until they reach LA, there's time. Eddie's snoring gets louder for a moment as he changes positions on the backseat.
"I-I was in a coma for a few days after that," Evan explains, quietly, and Tommy is glad for the comfortable padding on his steering wheel. "I, uh, I saw things?" Tommy spares him a raised eyebrow glance that makes Evan huff out a short laugh. It almost feels like a win. "I mean, I-I was dreaming while I was in that coma."
Tommy nods, letting out a noise of confirmation. He'd heard of things like that happening.
"It was, uhm, so real," Evan continues, eyes on the front window, on the open road. "I-I was a teacher, my parents were around, m-my brother was still alive," Tommy nods, he'd heard about Daniel, he was in a framed picture in Maddie and Howie's house. He had confused the young boy for Evan at first but the ages didn't match up - Maddie had explained who the child was to him. "B-But my sister was still with her ex and Eddie wasn't around and B-Bobby, he was, uhm," And Tommy cursed being in a car as he watches tears start running down Evan's cheeks. He holds out a hand anyway, his fingers finding the fabric of Evan's jeans and, like during a stormy LA night, Evan grips his hand, nails digging into his skin. "He was dead," He says it in a whisper, his gasping breath loud in the small space. "A-And when I woke up, Bobby said, uhm, he said I could message him, when I felt like, uhm, like I was stuck back there, th-that he would remind me that I was back in the real world."
Tommy grips Evan's hand back, desperately wishes he could pull his truck over, hold the other man through his tears. He spares a glance to a still sleeping Eddie through the rear view mirror, and, on instinct, brings Evan's hand to his lips, kisses the back of it, soft, lingering.
He feels Evan's eyes on him, forces himself to look out at the front window, hopes his pounding heart isn't audible through the highway sounds, Eddie's snores and the commercial for indigestion tablets on the radio. Evan's thumb moves slowly, so slowly, over his skin, grip still tight but looser. He wants to say something, anything, but he can only watch through the corner of his eye as Evan wipes his tears away, as he keeps his eyes on their joined hands. It feels like watching through a monitor surrounded by army officials, through a crowd of uniformed first responders. He feels useless, like there's not right word to say, no magic spell to make Evan feel better. He moves his thumb over the other man's skin.
"You weren't in the dream," Evan says so quiet and Tommy nods. They hadn't met yet. "T-There was one time, I, uh, I had a nightmare. I was stuck on that dream, at a dinner with my parents at Maddie's house and all I heard was her screams from the other room, it was-" He interrupts himself, letting out a shaky exhale. "I-I woke up a-and all I could think about was messaging B-Bobby but then y-you wrapped your arm around me and pulled me to you," Tommy didn't remember that night, not really. "You weren't in the dream and feeling you against me, it, uh, it reminded me that I wasn't there anymore. I-I didn't need to call Bobby to be sure."
Tommy nods and wonders when is he gonna stop feeling guilty for that night, for not staying and talking. The guilt isn't new, of course, he's felt it since the moment that door closed behind him. It hasn't stopped since.
"I-I'm sorry," Evan whispers and his grip turns so loose, Tommy feels his hand slip but he holds tighter. He's tired of running. "I don't want you to, uhm, to feel obligated to, I don't know, be nice to me or anything. I-I just, uhm, I needed to get it out."
"Evan-"
"Shit!" Eddie exclaims with a pained grunt from the backseat and Evan removes his hand completely. Tommy lets him, albeit reluctantly.
"You okay, Diaz?" Tommy calls out, flexes his fingers on the padded steering wheel as he watches from the corner of his eye as Evan turns to the passenger side window.
"I was turning to my left side and my arm hurts like a bitch," He groans and groans as he sits up on his seat. Tommy feels Eddie's eyes on the two of them over the rear view mirror. "You two okay?"
Tommy opens his mouth to answer, to try and give Evan another moment. He disagrees. "I was telling Tommy about my new house," It takes all he has not to act surprised. He nods instead with a small smile. "And the gym I set up in my backyard." His voice is cheerful, happy, fake and Tommy wants to shake Eddie, make him notice, make him ask.
"I still say you should put a pool there," Eddie says instead, leaning back on the seat and stroking his injured arm. "The kids would love it."
"The kids or you?" Evan laughs.
It's not the laughter that used to make Tommy's stomach start fluttering or make him feel so light he could fly. It's nothing like that, it's not real and he feels himself frown at the sound.
He tries to catch Evan's gaze. Fails.
"Fun for all ages!" Eddie calls out with a wide grin.
"Maybe in the summer," Evan acquiesced, turning back towards the front, hand stroking over his torso. "Do you think there's a chance for a pit stop, Tommy?"
Evan meets his eyes for a second, before he focuses somewhere outside the window, his smile is small, affable. He knows Evan's smiles, catalogued them for the entirety of the six months they were together, ranked them and revisited them when he needed them. This one isn't real.
Tommy takes a deep breath, looks out at the road, remembers the map, the last times he's made this journey before and nods. "Yeah, there's one about half an hour away."
"Awesome." Eddie does his best to stretch on the backseat without hurting himself.
It feels like torture, to drive, to focus on the road when his skin still tingles from holding Evan's hand once more after more than a year. It feels like torture to listen to Evan and Eddie talk about Chris, about Jee and baby Nash, happily, excitedly, casually, when he knows Evan isn't okay, that he is still suffering. It's not his place, if he was able to provide Evan with a listening ear, with a shoulder to cry on, then he'll do that. It is torture.
He stops the car at a shadowy spot.
It's fairly empty at this time of the afternoon, a couple of minivans sharing food between them, a dozen kids laughing and running about, clearly familiar to each other. A couple of bikers with Go-Pros on their helmets and a large truck with the curtains drawn on the cab.
The three of them leave the car, stretching with quiet groans and hisses and aches.
"Fuck," Eddie mutters. "Now that I'm standing up, I need to piss."
It startles a laugh out of Tommy.
"Yeah, I need to go too." Evan shuffles uncomfortably on his feet.
Tommy watches as Evan and Eddie glance at each other and sighs as soon as he figures out what will happen. He almost tries to stop them, remind them of their injuries, of the fact that there are more than enough toilets available. Ultimately, he just watches as the two limp quickly towards the restroom, pawing at each other in an attempt to push the other out of the way.
He shakes his head, fondly, almost willing to pretend he doesn't see the injuries and the changes on the two men that symbolize the passage of time. To pretend that it's more than a year ago and Evan and Eddie are bickering in the loft's kitchen and wrestling each other over what snack is best for a basketball game night.
Tommy walks into the 7-Eleven.
Tries to push away memories of nights laughing, cheering and shouting at a TV screen with Eddie while Evan looks at them confused and fascinated, joining in with a shout and a cheer of his own. Tries to forget the feeling of Evan's shoulders under his arm, shuffling closer against him. Tries to forget Eddie's groans when Evan would feed him a still-warm fry, or when they would share Tommy's beer bottle. Tries to forget the good times they had, together.
"Can we get donuts?"
Eddie's voice startles him. It's almost a blessing. He glances at his former friend and at the package of powdered mini donuts on the shelf in front of them. "You're in my truck," He says, a full answer but continues when Eddie only raises an eyebrow. "Obviously not."
"C'mon, man," Eddie whines. It almost manages to get a smile out of him. "I can be careful."
He moves down the aisle and grabs a pack of M&Ms and a pack of Cheez-Its, spares a glance at the pack of Nerds. Thinks of Evan's delight when they went to the aquarium, sitting by the main tank, watching the sharks and schools of fish swim around, sharing a packet between them.
It's like aquarium gravel, he had said.
"You can also walk your ass home, Diaz," He raises an eyebrow and grabs the colorful pack before he can think twice, before he can focus too much on the memory of Evan's eyes gleaming with delight as they watched a jellyfish swim close to the glass. "How about that?"
Eddie huffs, unable to fully cross his arms and that makes him smile. "I'll get us water."
Tommy sighs, ignoring Eddie's grumbling as he walks to the beverage aisle. He chooses to focus on an approaching Evan, his steps careful. He nods towards him, checking in. Evan nods back and Tommy feels a weight being lift off his shoulders.
"Pay for these," Tommy says as soon as Evan is close, passing him the basket and his card. "I'm going to the bathroom."
"T-Tommy-"
"The code is still the same," Tommy shrugs, not wanting to think too much about the trust he is still giving his ex-boyfriend. "I trust you." Tommy walks away before he gets an answer to that.
He takes his time.
They have four hours left. They are making better time than he expected, probably arriving in LA before midnight. Just four more hours. Four hours stuck in a car with his ex-boyfriend and the guy he accused his ex-boyfriend of having feelings for, the guy who was one of Tommy's closest friends before he ghosted him completely.
Tommy sighs. Why does he still get involved in these things?
And then he thinks of Howie carrying him out of a mall ready to explode, Howie calling him for a favor, and another, of Howie calling him to fly a helicopter to a sinking cruise ship and inadvertently bringing him back into the 118. He thinks of bonding with Eddie over their time in the army, the good and bad, over sports, going to fights. He thinks of getting to hang out with Chris, however short that time was, with Jee, getting his nails painted into fun colors. He thinks of catching up with Hen, watching how much her life got fuller, more lively. He thinks of getting to enjoy Bobby's cooking again, enjoy the man's paternal energy.
And he thinks of Evan, he's never stopped thinking of him. Evan, sitting in the back of the helicopter excited, anxious, determined. Evan, body damp from sweat on a sunny basketball court. Evan, in his dim-lit kitchen, lips parted and eyelashes fluttering from one kiss. Evan, sitting on the other side of the table at the restaurant, excited, anxious, worried. Evan, sitting on the other side of an outdoor cafe, excited, anxious, determined.
And he thinks of the moment he knew he'd do anything Evan asked him, anything. Evan, face covered in adorable boils, dressed in his best suit, lit by a warm Fall sun, making an eulogy for the corpse of a hundred year old outlaw. Evan, asking him to move in with him, eyes glinting with excitement, anxiety, determination.
And he thinks of the moment Tommy let fear ruin that. Of the moment Evan didn't fight for him. It doesn't matter.
Four hours to go.
The sun is starting to set and it lights up Evan's curls like a halo over his head. And he thinks of a familiar kitchen, the smell of bacon and eggs and bagels filling the air, the warm morning sun making him look so soft and warm and all wanted was to bully him back to bed, or just against the counter-top and kiss him, kiss him, kiss him.
He should have done that.
Evan's eyes find his as he approaches and this animalistic part of Tommy wants to grab him, put him over his shoulder and hide him. Hide him from everything and anything that could harm him. It's not a new sentiment, there really hasn't been a moment where Tommy didn't feel that. It's a part of him by now, to want to protect Evan, to keep him happy.
To love him.
Tommy sighs, defeated. He turns the sound into annoyance when he notices Eddie turning towards him too, hand frozen halfway to his mouth and a half-eaten box of powdered mini donuts in his other hand.
"Really?"
At least Evan has the decency to look guilty, Eddie just looks triumphant, eating his donuts with gleaming glee. It reminds him of those basketball nights again. Eddie with his own bowl of snacks because he convinced Evan to make them for him, victorious.
"H-He's gonna be careful," Evan quickly says, in defense of his best friend. "Promise."
Tommy glances towards Eddie, turning back towards Evan with a raised eyebrow and pointing over his shoulder at the way powdered sugar clings to their friend's mouth, chin, and the front of his shirt. Evan covers his face in shame, a whispered dude towards a nonplussed Eddie.
"Let's just go." Tommy walks towards his truck in a faster step.
"I'm really sorry, Tommy," Evan limps quickly to walk beside him. "I-I just-"
"You wanted to do something nice for your friend," Tommy interrupts in a soft tone, sparing a glance at the other man and the way he looks surprised, almost confused. "It's okay, Evan." He isn't mad, not even a little.
Besides, he has a plan.
As soon as they are in reach of the truck, Tommy unlocks it, sparing a look at Eddie still a few paces behind them. Evan is right behind him, already walking around the truck to the passenger side.
"Get in." Tommy instructs, a little rushed.
Evan looks startled for a split second before he does what he's told. The timing is almost too perfect. Their doors close behind them as they sit on their seats just as Eddie reaches for the handle of the backseat. Tommy quickly locks the car, making it so Eddie can't open the door.
Tommy watches with lips pressed together in glee as the man locked outside the car frowns and tries again. "Hey, Tommy, I can't get in."
It takes all he has not to cackle in delight. He opens his window a crack, just enough to be able to talk to Eddie. "I told you, Diaz, no powdered donuts in my truck."
"Tommy…" Evan's voice wobbles as he tries to hold in his laughter and Tommy loses his battle against a grin stretching over his face.
"Are you serious, man?"
His only answer is to close the window. He slides the key in the ignition and feels Evan's hand on his. He looks up at the frown on his ex's face. "You're not going to leave him here, are you?"
He kinda wants to.
Not leave him here in the middle of nowhere. Just, make it seem that way. Drive a few feet away, teach Eddie a lesson. To respect other people's requests.
"Nah," Tommy answers, he doesn't really want to. "Just teaching him a lesson."
Evan doesn't look relieved, Tommy doubts the other man actually thought he would do something like that. He looks less confused, like Tommy's answer matches Evan's perception.
"Come on, Tommy!"
Eddie's muffled voice makes him look outside. And he wants to laugh. There is an almost impossible amount of powdered sugar on his shirt now and despite the frown on the other man's face, it makes him softer. It reminds him of a large bowl of candy in a waiting room, of smiles and compliments that make Evan smile. It was good. Before.
Tommy opens the window a crack again. "Eat your donuts, Diaz." He closes it again and watches, amused, as Eddie huffs and puffs before leaning against the car to eat his donuts.
"Thank you."
Evan's voice is quiet and Tommy quickly loses interest in Eddie's tantrum to look at the man sitting in his passenger seat. Evan glances between the window in front of him and his hands and the radio and Tommy's jeans, never settling on one place.
"For messing with Eddie? It's my pleasure!" Tommy says with a smirk, wanting to make Evan laugh. It works, it feels like flying.
"No," Evan's voice wobbles from laughter and those beautiful soft eyes look up at him. "F-For giving us a ride, you really didn't have to." His cheeks are pink and he wants to touch them.
Tommy nods slowly. "I could have hung up on Eddie."
"E-Exactly," Evan's eyes are wide and it reminds him of adrenaline spiking during an helicopter chase around LA. "You could have."
Time to stop being a coward, Kinard.
"And I could lie right now, tell you that I'm just doing a favor for a friend, that I'm just being a good Samaritan and helping a fellow human out of a bad situation," Tommy says, feeling the swarm in his stomach revolt and sting. "I mean, I'm going your way, after all."
Evan shakes his head, barely a movement really. "You wouldn't lie to me."
It makes him falter. It's not true, he's lied before. I have a shift later, ringing painfully around his skull. He wonders if Evan realizes that, if he means that.
"No, I wouldn't," He shakes his head, forces himself to hold Evan's gaze. "I'm doing this because I wanted to see you, because I wanted to be around you again, help you in any way I can," Tommy says, it feels like an invisible weight is being lifted from his shoulders, something he didn't know was there before. "I could have hung up, I could lie, but I'm tired of pretending."
Evan's eyes are shiny, the sunset making the blue stand out, taking his breath away. "I'm tired of pretending too." The other man speaks quietly, almost afraid.
Once, during wildfire season, the engine on his helicopter stopped working.
It was just for half a second. Long enough for Lucy, his co-pilot, to freak out despite their training. Long enough for him to stop breathing. Just half a second where there was no gravity. It felt imminent. Like it was waiting for him to do something.
Waiting to see if they would crash. Waiting to see if they would make it.
It reminded him of now.
The silence was like a stalled engine. Evan's words had the capacity to be a crash landing, to be a smooth flight back to base. It felt imminent. He had to do something.
"Yeah?" He whispers, like pressing buttons on a flickering console, a death grip on the cyclic.
Evan nods, slowly, a free fall through an open sky. "I'm tired of pretending I don't-"
"I'm done!" Eddie's muffled voice and subsequent knocking on Tommy's window startles the two of them. "Can I come in now?"
The urge to drive away is strong. He's going to kill him.
Tommy glances at Evan, watches as he looks down at his hands, cheeks still pink. The engine is back online but the helicopter is on auto-pilot. He sighs and unlocks the door.
"That was a shitty move, Kinard." Eddie grumbles as he slides into the backseat.
"Is that a way to treat your only way home, Diaz?" Tommy raises his eyebrow through the rear view mirror before he turns the key in the ignition, driving out of the parking lot.
Evan reaches over to turn the radio back on, volume still low.
"Thanks, Tommy," Eddie says after a moment, after two choruses of Boogey Wonderland pass. Their eyes meet on the rear view mirror briefly. "I really appreciate it."
Tommy waves it away. "It's what anyone would do."
He feels Evan's eyes on the side of his face. Feels like glass, on display, seen.
"Maybe," Eddie shrugs, settling back on the middle seat. "But you still did it, man, I appreciate it. And, uh," Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Eddie glance at Evan. "I'm sorry for, uh, for ghosting you, man. It's just-"
"Don't worry about that," Tommy, once again, waves it away. "I get it."
He does.
Evan is his best friend. He knew the moment they broke up that he would lose everyone, specially Eddie. It didn't matter that they were friends before he and Evan started dating, it didn't matter that he knew Howie and Hen for decades before he met Evan.
It was doomed to happen. He gets it.
"There's a game on Friday," Eddie offers. "You should come to mine, we'll watch it together."
He wants to say no.
His and Evan's conversation was interrupted. For all he knows, he can accept the invitation and, as soon as they reach LA, Evan will say he never wants to see him again and Tommy will be left just as he did more than a year ago. Alone.
I'm tired of pretending.
And maybe Tommy is a little more hopeful now.
"Chris would love to see you again." In the long silence, Eddie adds in a sing-song voice.
"That's a low blow, Diaz," Tommy complains and sees Evan's lips stretch in a small smile out of the corner of his eye. "Fine, I'll go but I'm bringing the beers."
Eddie's smile is wide on the rear view mirror even as he tries to look annoyed. "Don't bring those weird caramel beers again, though, those tasted like shit." He wrinkles his nose in disgust.
And Tommy hated those too, they were a bad choice. "Maybe you just don't understand the taste of maturity." He adds, faux-condescendingly.
"I saw the way you almost gagged with those, man, don't even try!" Eddie laughs, pointing through the reflection.
"You didn't see shit!"
Evan laughs.
And Tommy has to see it happen.
The way his lips stretch, beautiful and happy. The way his cheeks rise enough to make his eyes almost look closed. The way he can still see the light happy blue anyway. The way he looks beautiful, gorgeous, perfect. The way Tommy never wants to look away.
It reminds him of a pick-up basketball game, one that Evan chose not to play in. It was after the game, Eddie and Tommy had lost against the guys from the 133, Evan handed each of them a bottle of water, watching from his perch on the bench as they guzzled it down and began to bicker and tease each other. Tommy had gotten distracted from the "argument" by the way Evan laughed and giggled, the way the sound settled in his chest, warm and light.
He plucks the sound from the air around him, adds it to the pile. Hoards it.
"How is Chris?" Tommy asks.
Last he'd seen Eddie, Chris was still in El Paso.
For the next few minutes, Tommy listens attentively as Eddie tells him about going back to El Paso for Chris, about trying to be a better father. Tells him about deciding to return to his house after the funeral. Tells him how Chris is doing well at school and how he decided to rejoin the chess team and how he's killing it at tournaments.
Eddie stops halfway through a retelling of the last tournament he went to. Confused, Tommy looks through the rear-view mirror to see Eddie focused on something else. On Evan.
Tommy glances towards the passenger seat and feels those flutters in his stomach again.
Turned towards the center console, Evan's lips are parted in those quiet snores he always pretended bothered him so he could see his cheeks turn pink and kiss them until Evan laughed. His arms are crossed in an attempt at comfort and his cheek is mushed against the seat. His legs are bent and crossed and Tommy hopes he's comfortable, as much as possible.
"I'm glad he's sleeping." Eddie whispers.
Tommy nods. "Yeah." He forces himself to look back at the road. He's carrying precious cargo.
"It's been a long day," Eddie rubs at his face, looking more tired than he has all day. "I thought he was dead, you know, when I woke up in the hospital, when I couldn't see Buck anywhere."
Tommy nods.
It feels like that lump is back. The possibility of losing Evan without even knowing about it. During the building collapse, when he heard that the 118 was trapped inside, he wondered if anyone would tell him if Evan died, or if he would find out through the radio or through a fucking newsletter.
"I'm glad I managed to help him, to get him out of there. I'm glad he isn't fucking dead." Eddie laughs, short and shaky, ending it with a trembling exhale.
"I'm glad too." Tommy's voice comes out warped, as he forces the words through the fear stuck in his throat. He blinks to clear the wetness in his eyes, flexes his hands on the steering wheel.
They are silent through the entirety of Money For Nothing.
"I hope you two manage to figure it out," Eddie says and Tommy frowns, confused. There's an embarrassed blush on the other man's face. "We kinda, uh, stopped Buck from calling you after the break-up. He didn't really tell us what happened so I, uh, I guess we thought the worst, you know?"
Tommy nods.
"He wasn't dealing with it well," Eddie continues and Tommy tries not to think of days isolated at home, of driving past the loft hoping to just see him. He didn't deal with it well, either. "But, uh, we should have tried to help him. So yeah, I know I'm kinda being a third wheel again b-"
"You're not a third wheel, Eddie," Tommy interrupts, holding Eddie's skeptical gaze in the mirror. "You never were one. You were my friend too, I wanted to hang out with you too."
Eddie doesn't look away for another minute, sighing when he finally does. "I, uh, I always worried, you know? B-But with Chris gone and you two in your honeymoon phase, I just, uh, I felt alone so I kinda latched on."
"I got it, don't worry." Tommy smiles.
He does. He enjoyed spending time with Eddie and Evan, getting to immerse himself in those moments. He just let his insecurities taint those moments for a while. Until now.
"If you drop me off first," Eddie suggests and Tommy tries to stamp on the butterflies trying to swarm his stomach again. He can't start hoping for things like this. "You can drop Buck off and then you two can talk." It's a pointed look.
Tommy sighs. The butterflies are gonna cause him indigestion. "Maybe, maybe."
His eyes land on Evan again, the way he's sleeping peacefully, the fact that he feels safe sleeping around them, around him. He catches Eddie's amused, teasing glance in the mirror and rolls hi eyes, feeling his cheeks heating up.
"Did you watch last week's match? Williams vs Gonzalez?"
It effectively distracts Eddie enough that they focus on the matches and games from the last year, catching up, making up for lost time. They are halfway through a hushed commentary on the Lakers game against the Celtics from a few months ago when he hears it.
Evan's quiet whines from the passenger seat.
He sees the way Evan's forehead is wrinkled in discomfort, lips down-turned, chest moving rapidly up and down. There's a concerned Buck? from the back seat.
"Evan?"
The man wakes up with a startled gasp and grasps tightly onto Tommy's forearm, midway through reaching out to him to comfort him. His eyes are wide and wild and his heart breaks.
"You're okay, Buck." Eddie reassures from the backseat.
Tommy moves his arm so he's holding Evan's hand instead. "You're safe, Evan, you're here."
He glances as much as he can towards his ex-boyfriend, sees the way he blinks away his tears, the way he's blinking himself back into reality. He wants to hold him. He can't.
"I-I'm okay," Evan whispers, taking deep breaths, like they are taught to do. "I'm sorry, guys."
"Don't apologize, Buck," Eddie quickly says, Tommy slowly rubs circles on the back of Evan's hand. "We're here for you."
Evan nods and Tommy manages to hold his eyes for long enough to subscribe to the sentiment. He mourns the loss of his touch when the other man retreats completely back to his seat.
"W-What were you two talking about?"
"Basketball." Eddie grins, letting Evan take control of the conversation.
"Oh?"
Tommy picks up the bag of treats from the floor of the passenger seat and drops it onto Evan's lap. "Eddie has the very incorrect opinion that the Lakers have had a bad season."
"It's not incorrect!" Eddie starts complaining, reaching a hand towards the bag Evan is looking through. "Compared to-Ow!" He exclaims pulling back his hand from where Tommy had slapped it away. "What the fuck?!"
Tommy grins, noticing the way Evan's big eyes look between the two of them. "You had your donuts, Diaz."
"I thought the snacks were for everyone, dude!" Eddie exclaims indignant.
"They were," Tommy points out. "Before you decided to get the donuts."
Eddie crosses his arms, slumping onto the backseat muttering to himself. Tommy catches Evan's conflicted gaze and winks. Evan smiles bashfully at him, catching up on his teasing, and it's like looking at the stars. Tommy digs for the Cheez-Its in the bag and throws them at Eddie, who exclaims in surprise.
"Next time, Diaz, do what I tell you."
Eddie rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, thanks." He speaks through a handful of cheesy biscuits.
Tommy flicks the volume on the radio up and watches as the tension in Evan's body slowly disappears, as he bops his head at the 80s rock, as he stuffs handfuls of Nerds into his mouth.
The last two hours of their journey pass easily. Music flowing, conversations about sports and emergencies and family, making it feel like old times. They start seeing familiar streets.
"C-Can you, uhm, can you drop off Eddie first?" Evan asks, carefully, and Tommy ignores the knowing smirk on Eddie's face at the question.
He clears his throat. "Sure," He answers, as nonchalant as possible. "You just have to put in your new address on the navigator." He nods towards his phone in the console holder.
"Of course."
Evan reaches for it, unlocking it with the code he learned early on in their relationship. Tommy tries not to think too much about the fact that he still remembers it. Muscle memory, probably.
Chris is waiting at the door with his Tia when Tommy stops at his house. Tommy waves at the teenager, receiving an at first confused wave before a wide smile shows up on his face. Eddie taps Tommy's shoulder a couple of times.
"See you Friday, man," And Tommy nods. Eddie turns to Evan, rubbing his shoulder carefully. "I'll come around tomorrow, okay? Get some rest."
"You too, Eds." Evan smiles with a nod.
Tommy waits until Eddie closes the door behind him, Tia Pepa already fussing over his injuries, before he drives away. There is silence in the car, he turned off the radio when they stopped and now only the occasional female voice of the navigator fills the space around them.
"Nice house." Tommy comments, stopping on the driveway of what seems to be Evan's house.
"T-Thanks."
Evan doesn't make a move and Tommy is sure he can hear the way his heart is pounding in the silence. He turns and sees him fiddle with empty bag of candy in his hands, biting his lip.
He should say something, he needs to say something.
"Can I-"
"Are yo-"
They speak at the same time.
Their eyes meet each other in the subsequent silence and Tommy wonders if Evan can see the way he desperately hopes, yearns. He wonders if the shine in his eyes means that he feels the same. That he also wants. He is stuck on fantasies, on wishes, on hopes and memories when Evan seems to find his bravery first.
"A-Are you free on Saturday?"
He wonders if he's still dreaming.
"Saturday?"
"I, uh," Evan looks down at the colorful wrapper his hands for a second, inhaling sharply, anxious, determined, before looking back up. "I want us to talk. I w-want us to try again."
It's cards on a table. Bravery.
Come on, Kinard.
"I-I'm free," Tommy nods. Watches the smile bloom on Evan's lips, mesmerized. Like a sunrise above the sea, several feet in the sky. "I'm free on Saturday."
And Evan presses a kiss to his cheek, steals his breath away. "Thank you for the ride, Tommy," It's soft, cheeks pink. "Thank you for being here for me, for us."
I love you.
Too early.
"I did it for you." It's what comes out instead.
But Evan smiles, sun-like. "I would do the same for you," He nods. "I haven't yet, thankfully, I haven't needed to, but I will, that's a promise."
His mouth opens and closes like a fish's, surprised by the sentiment, by the strength of Evan's voice. He didn't know that was something that he should expect. "O-Okay."
"Okay."
Evan is still smiling. Tommy wants to feel that smile against his.
They should talk first. "See you Saturday."
It's the right thing to say. Evan opens the door to the truck but his smile doesn't dim, not even a little. "See you Saturday, Tommy."
He doesn't drive away until the door closes behind Evan, giving him the tiniest glimpse into his new house. Maybe he'll be able to see it soon, get a proper tour. He doesn't drive away until Evan parts the curtains on his window and smiles, surprised, happy, and waves.
Tommy feels his cheeks burning as he waves back. He drives away then.
Me? Falling in love with a prickly Dalish OC I was supposed to kill off two chapters ago but accidentally gave her plot armor? Hi yes hello it’s me I’m the problem it’s me
Anyway, Jowan might have just gained a new ally in his journey to Kirkwall with Fenris 😘
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Roger leaned his head against the window, watching the scenery blur as they sped past. He had no idea where they were at this point, and didn’t care to find out. Once Crystal had bundled him into the car like precious cargo Roger had checked out mentally, letting Crystal make the major decisions. It had been easy enough, letting himself be dragged into the flat Crystal and Ratty shared, watching with disinterest as Crystal threw clothes into a bag, ranting the whole time about how he had known it was a terrible idea; that they never listen to him when he’s right; how he’s going to give John and Miami and Freddie and Brian and that bitch of a doctor a piece of his mind when he sees them next. Roger didn’t have the energy to ask when that would be. From the size of Crystal’s luggage, it probably wouldn’t be for a while.
chapter 8: the taylor's honeymoon is finally, officially, live
girl the one person i want to tell every detail of what i’m writing is also the one person who is going to care enough to read this so i like Want to keep things a surprise . i’m in hell
Summary: The eve of their departure for Nicodranas, Essek goes to Caleb, bloodstained and panicked.
Confessions come out, of different kinds.
Written for @the-kaedageist, beta by @mllekurtz !
Read here on Ao3
They are departing for Nicodranas in the morning. Caleb stares at the ceiling of his bedroom in the Xhorhaus, and marvels at how things are changing, how things will continue to change. Nott will get her body back again. (Veth, her name is Veth the Brave, he mustn’t forget.) Yasha has returned to them. Caleb himself is making leaps and bounds in his study of dunamancy. He has used it to create a brand new spell, albeit with the help of his friends. (The control and manipulation of time itself is perhaps not such a pipe dream as he once thought, if they will help. Or perhaps he must get stronger yet.)
This is what Caleb muses, one hand absent-mindedly petting Frumpkin, when there is the shumf of a teleport taking root, and Essek falls into the room. Caleb sits up in bed immediately, dislodging Frumpkin, and Caleb doesn’t stop to shush or comfort his familiar’s yeowl of complaint because Essek is disheveled, Essek is bleeding.
“What has happened?” he asks, reaching out. “Are you injured? I’ll call for Jester—no, for Caduceus—”
“Don’t, please,” Essek says weakly, and Caleb can see now that while he is bloodstricken, Caleb can see very few visible wounds. A bruised face, a few scratches. No, the Shadowhand has appeared drenched in the blood of strangers.
“I merely came to say—” Essek’s face scrunches as if he had eaten a lemon. “No, that’s not right. I needed to tell you— ah, this is difficult. This was a mistake, I’m sorry.”
“Peace, friend,” Caleb urges. “Come sit, tell me what happened.”
When he reaches out for Essek’s hand, to his great surprise, he is allowed to take it, and he leads Essek over to his desk.
“Thank you,” Essek says weakly. “I’m sorry, I think I’m going into shock. There were— I had— I was, you might say, victim of… an attack, in my towers.”
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Caleb asks immediately, before his mind catches up. “Who attacked you?”
“Ah. I believe they were Scourgers.” Essek avoids his gaze, and then seeks it out as Caleb startles and starts to lock up. “Ah, please don’t worry. You are safe.”
“That is not my concern”, Caleb says. “That they would risk an attack on a high-standing member of the Dynasty, mere days before the peace talks…” His mind is racing. It races, in particular, to a theory that Caleb had been holding close to his chest, and had recently set aside as paranoia. Please, no, he thinks. “Have you informed your superiors?”
“Yes, I have.” He is lying. “I am… I am scared, my friend.” Essek curls in on himself. “I am going to be taking, ah… you might say a leave of absence, for a while. I wanted to come see you, before…”
Suspicion is roiling in Caleb’s stomach, forever a friend of anxiety and fear. He can’t tell which is strongest.
“Will I see you again?” he asks. His voice is even, he hopes.
“I hope so,” Essek says, and he looks Caleb in the eye, hesitates, and reaches out to take his hand. “You have been… all of you… I never had friends before, you know. I’m so very glad that I got the chance— to teach you. To know you.”
He smiles, and there is blood in the crease of his cheek. There’s a beat, a moment where Caleb finds he is holding his breath, and it all escapes him at once in a gust of air when Essek presses a kiss to his knuckles. “I wish I could have gotten to know you better,” he whispers, wistful.
“You make it sound like you’ll die as soon as you walk out the door,” Caleb says carefully. “Like you and I will never get the chance to know each other.”
Essek smiles again, but his face goes slack, eyes wide, as Caleb reaches out with his free hand to wipe the blood from the single dimple that Caleb recently discovered exists.
“You had something,” he says, gesturing. Essek blinks, and then he looks at Caleb’s mouth.
Caleb’s mouth is, incidentally, dry.
“Can I…” Essek leans in slightly. He swallows. “Caleb Widogast, may I…?”
One breath, two breaths between them, and Caleb nods. Essek closes the distance and there are lips on his. It is… sweet. Chaste. When Essek pulls back, Caleb wets his lips. “Who are you scared of offending?” he asks. Essek startles, brow quirked, and Caleb huffs a laugh to himself. “Try this,” he offers, a little sarcastic, a little teasing, as he reaches out to clasp the back of Essek’s neck and reel him in for another kiss: a proper one, deep and searching. He delights in flicking his tongue over Essek’s sharp eyeteeth, in learning the shape of his nose as they press closer, in the bereft noise that Essek makes when he pulls back that almost sounds like an angry mrrp that Frumpkin would make.
Caleb wants to kiss Essek again, he realises.
Caleb might not ever kiss Essek again, he realises.
Essek seems to be going through the exact same thought journey, a violet blush high on his cheekbones. He licks his lips and coughs. “Thank you,” he says formally, as if he were not still soaked in blood, as if they had not just swapped spit.
“My pleasure,” Caleb responds. Then: “Don’t go.”
Essek shakes his head. “I’m not safe. You aren’t safe.”
“You are a dangerous man, and so am I. You killed them, yes? The Scourgers.”
“Some of them.” Essek looks conflicted. Caleb wishes he could have seen it, that powerful dunamancy in motion.
“It will take them a while to send more. We have a little time.”
A shudder. “I would like to spend it with you,” he confesses. “I merely fear that it is… unwise.” His hand comes up to cup Caleb’s ear, his cheek. His fingers are elegant, shorter than Caleb’s—his entire hand is small, Essek is small when he is not floating—and cold against his skin. Caleb shivers, and when Essek makes to pull away in apology he covers that hand with his own.
They stand like that for a moment, breaths intermingling, and then Essek slumps forward, letting their foreheads touch. “Caleb Widogast,” he says. “While I may be a specialist in matters of time, I fear that I don’t know a way out of this one. For want of a better solution…” He swallows. “May I stay the night?”
Caleb kisses him again.
“That’s a yes, right?” Essek asks when they separate.
“Foolish man,” Caleb laughs. “Yes, it’s a yes, now come here.” He sits on Essek’s lap, and his desk chair lets out a groan of protest. The Shadowhand makes no such complaints, and instead fists his hands in Caleb’s nightshirt.
“I must be in a state,” Essek says, apologetic.
“We’ll both be, by the end of this.” He links his hands behind Essek’s neck, pulls him close and leans in to kiss across a sculpted cheekbone, down jaw and neck and throat. “I hope you don’t mind that it’s been a while for me,” he murmurs.
“I bet I’ve been longer,” Essek says, breathless.
“Fifteen years,” Caleb challenges.
“Try fifty.” Essek smirks, but his cheeks are flushed and his eyes wary.
“You win.” Caleb rises a little to press their foreheads together. “Let’s remedy that for both of us, then.”
Essek settles his hands on Caleb’s waist, squeezing firmly, and his fingers slip underneath the loose cotton of his house clothes, seeking skin. He traces up Caleb’s knobby spine, seeking out each new vertebra as he plants kisses to the hollow of his throat.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says between presses of his lips. “I’m sure there are some differences between humans and elves, but you might have to guide me—I’m assuming your ears are no more sensitive than the rest of you?”
“Meaning yours are?” Caleb grins wickedly, reaching out to trace a pointed edge and watching Essek’s face scrunch up.
“Yes,” he answers. “But I was asking after you, Caleb Widogast.”
“What you’re doing now is perfect.” With Essek occupied with sucking bruises on his collarbone, Caleb decides to up the ante, and rocks his hips—he has to scrabble for purchase with his knees against the chair, but he deeply enjoys the throaty sound Essek makes.
“None of that,” he says reproachfully. “You’ll have us both on the floor for your mischief.”
Caleb waggles his eyebrows. Essek raises his own primly, and they both crack a grin, huffing laughs.
“Perhaps we might move things to your bed, if you are so eager,” Essek offers, hand playing across the drawstring collar of Caleb’s shirt.
“Yeah, well, it’s such a long walk…” Caleb looks to the bed, a mere few feet away, with wistful eyes.
Essek sighs and mutters something under his breath in Undercommon, and Caleb flails when Essek stands up, holding Caleb up firmly with his hands on his rear. His arms end up thrown around Essek’s neck, and they float like that to the bed, where Essek drops him down and then crawls over him.
“So this is that dangerous potentiality of dunamancy I have heard so much about,” Caleb teases, and he’s taken aback at the sheer fondness in Essek’s eyes, the wet shine there.
“I adore you,” he says, and Caleb doesn’t know what to say to that. I could love you would be suitably romantic in turn. I fear you are the traitor we seek would rather ruin the moment, he feels. You entrance me so much that I am here, vulnerable and wanting, despite the weight of my crimes and yours, if I am right about you is altogether too wordy. In the face of all these things he cannot say he merely pulls Essek down for another kiss, and hopes that his passion says what his words cannot.
Essek pulls back with his eyes still full of emotion, but he is smiling now. “Perhaps we should disrobe,” he suggests.
“This must be why they call you a prodigy.”
Essek tugs at Caleb’s sleepshirt; the gaping collar makes his work easy, as does Caleb’s eagerness to raise his arms. “Do you ever stop joking?” he asks, a little flustered as he goes to unfasten the neck of his own robes. Caleb helps, unclasping cloak and jacket, hands seeking out the fine pearl buttons that decorate even what seems to be a comfortable house-shirt. His retort vanishes as he peels away layer after layer, finding yet more undershirts each time.
“Do you even have skin?” he asks, baffled.
“Hush,” Essek shushes him, face burning. “Foolish man.”
Caleb makes a victorious noise when he finally, finally strikes gold and feels the smooth pane of Essek’s chest. “Let me see,” he whispers, tugging the last, diaphanous vest away so he can better look at Essek’s long neck, slender torso, the wispy fine hairs gathered under his arms and on his chest and belly.
“I thought elves were hairless,” he remarks, leaning down to press a kiss into that thatch. He realises, immediately after, that he has pressed it over Essek’s heart, can feel it rabbit-quick under his lips, and panics. Too much, too much. He kisses lower, takes a nipple into his mouth, pretends that was his goal the entire time.
“When we are children, maybe— ah,” Essek gasps. He cups Caleb’s head with his hands, tracing the contours of his face lovingly, fingers lingering over the edges of his ears. Caleb smirks against a violet pectoral before coming back up to kiss at Essek’s neck.
Essek cradles the back of his head and does his best to turn his head, pressing faint kisses to wherever he can reach, mostly peppering them into Caleb’s hair. His other hand returns to Caleb’s spine, fingers seeking out skin hungrily. He lingers over every scar, traces over where Caleb is still slender over his ribcage. When Caleb takes skin between his teeth, Essek reaches down to pinch his backside warningly.
“Mind yourself, young man,” he whispers.
“Okay,” Caleb groans. “I don’t think that had the effect you were hoping for.”
Essek lifts an eyebrow and slides his hand over Caleb’s hip, going to ghost over where he is half-hard in his trousers. “Pinching does it for you?” he asks, incredulous.
“Not quite...” Caleb leans back into the pillows so he can tug his fly open and give them both a little more room to work with. He can see that Essek is in a similar state, and the sight is striking: Essek, wanting, in Caleb’s bedroom. There are streaks of rust on his face, still, on his hands. Caleb takes them both and pulls Essek down into another searing kiss, because it is easier than reckoning with the fact that he would like to stay and flirt like this forever; that he would like to keep Essek in his bed forever.
Essek is slow to pull back—in fact, he keeps ducking back in for more kisses, he holds on to Caleb’s lower lip like he hopes to take it home with him. Caleb gets a little drunk on it, a little dizzy, finds that he chases after him every time, and he makes a noise of upset when Essek draws back onto his knees to pull Caleb out of his trousers. His pettiness is only soothed away when Essek takes him in hand and begins to stroke, leaning down to press their foreheads together. Caleb refuses to close his eyes, even with the proximity, wants to take every second of this in so he can replay it in his memory.
“What do you want?” Essek murmurs, eyes burning into his, mouth a mere inch away from Caleb’s own.
Caleb arches up, reaches up to lock his hands behind Essek’s neck. “You,” he says dumbly.
Essek smiles, his eyes crinkling and shining. “Be more specific,” he says, and Caleb hones in once again on his dimple. He may have started the war between their two nations, and he has his hand on Caleb’s cock, and he has a dimple.
“Fuck me?” Caleb asks.
Essek startles and slows in surprise. They both do, in fact—Caleb hadn’t meant to say that. It isn’t wise, not with the things left unsaid between them, not with secrecy hanging as it does, not when there is much to be done on the morrow and Caleb needs to be in good form to go to Nicodranas. But right now, wisdom is losing out to desire, is losing out to longing, is losing out to want. Caleb wants, so badly. Wants to feel Essek in him, wants to see him tremble apart, wants to see his face open and wanting.
“Oh,” Essek breathes out, his eyes wide and so, so dark. He dives back in for a searing kiss, abandoning Caleb’s hardness to cup his face with both hands, something wet and all-consuming, and now his cheek and beard are slightly sticky. A lean dark thigh slips between Caleb’s own, and they rock together until Essek finally pants, “Oil?”
“What, do you not know the cantrip?” Caleb asks, blinking.
“No, I do not know ‘the cantrip’,” Essek sounds flustered. “Don’t you have,” he gestures with a hand, “a sex drawer?”
Caleb grins. He swallows a laugh only barely, lifts a single finger to say, “I feel like I need to see this drawer at some point.”
Essek nips at that finger sullenly.
“I’m sure I have something that’ll suit, let me get my component pouch.”
“Your component pouch!? What do you do when you— Do you not touch yourself?” Essek is balanced on his elbows above him, their waists still touching, their legs still intertwined, and he is looking at Caleb with wide eyes, as if he were some kind of alien.
“Of course I do,” Caleb laughs. “And I use the cantrip.” He takes Essek’s hand in his own and murmurs an incantation, twitching his fingers in a somatic gesture that coats them, and Essek’s hand, in oil. Essek blinks at this development, bringing their joined hands close to his face so he can smell the unscented oil, his tongue darting out to taste it.
“Huh,” he says. “There may be some merit to Empire magics, after all.”
“Yeah, now get to work, hot boy.” Caleb draws their hands down to rest between his legs and leans back into the pillows.
Essek nods and gives Caleb a soft smile, somehow not at all at odds with the circles his fingers trace around his rim. “I truly never imagined,” he whispers, and presses their foreheads together once more, their noses bumping. “What a gift you are, Caleb Widogast.”
Caleb doesn’t answer beyond a sharp intake of breath, because Essek takes that moment to push a slender fingertip inside. It’s altogether difficult to focus, because Essek’s free hand is still stroking Caleb’s cock, and everytime he looks at it he’s overwhelmed by the aesthetics of it, dark violet on ruddy peach, all of it glistening. There’s something calculating in Essek’s face during his thorough exploration, eyes hungry as they scan over Caleb’s body, as if he is a particularly intriguing equation to unravel. The attention has Caleb gasping, but for all that Essek is being gentle in his touch, Caleb is tense, the both of them struggling.
“Relax,” Essek murmurs against his cheek. Caleb huffs, and Essek plants a kiss at the corner of his mouth. “I know, I know. Easier said than done.” The look he gives Caleb is wry. “What can I do to help you?” he lets go of Caleb’s cock to rub soothingly up and down his thigh. “Should I talk you through it? Use my mouth? Tell me, dear.”
Caleb shivers. The endearment doesn’t hurt, but what can he say? I want you so bad I can barely fucking see, but I don’t trust you?
“Get me out of my head,” he gasps. Taps his own temple. “It acts up at the worst of times, I’m sure you know. As to how—dealer’s choice.” He reaches out to touch Essek’s lower lip. “Either. Or. Both.”
Essek takes his thumb into his mouth and hollows his cheeks around it with a promise in his eyes that takes Caleb’s legs out from under him. “As you wish, young man,” he says, and the spark of mischief in his face shows that he understood exactly what Caleb meant earlier. “Let’s try this again.” He pulls his fingers out entirely to bring one hand up to stroke at Caleb’s collarbone and chest, and with his other tugs one of Caleb’s legs up and around his waist to create a delicious friction when they rock against one another. Caleb lets his head fall back and his eyes flutter shut as Essek traces spirals through the hair on his chest to scratch a smooth, blunted fingernail over his peaked nipple. Essek speaks against his ear the whole while, a low tone that sends waves of heat coursing through Caleb, even more so for how Essek is clearly not unaffected—for all that he tries to project an air of suaveness, he stutters when the grind is especially good, he loses his train of thought when Caleb moans.
“Gorgeous,” Essek is saying, “you’re s-so gorgeous for me. Gorgeous tout court—I don’t even know the words in Common anymore.” He laughs, a breathy thing that is far sweeter than it has any right being, especially for how the words shoot straight to his dick.
“Not an issue,” he groans, voice two pitches higher than he’d like. Essek grins, and Caleb can feel the shape of it against his cheek.
“Ah? Ça te plaît, alors?” He teases little sentences of Undercommon between kisses. “Hhah, si ça te plaisait autant, t’aurais pu apprendre la langue, le temps que vous étiez là. Ma vie aurait été net-nettement plus facile.”
“Fuck, your mouth.”
“Tu veux que je te parles ou que je te suces?” He noses at Caleb’s cheek. “Hmm? You want me to speak? Or suck?” His Common is decidedly worse for the frequent switching, his accent all over the place, and Caleb could die like this, he thinks.
“Suck me?” he begs. “Try and stretch me again, come on, I need you in me yesterday.”
“Give us that pretty spell again, then.”
Caleb reaches blindly to link their hands and casts the cantrip—he casts it twice for good measure, and then chokes a laugh when Essek swears as his hands are suddenly overflowing with oil. “Ah, fuck, I’ll presti- I’ll clean it later.” He presses a messy kiss to Caleb’s chest, to his navel, to the shock of curls above his cock, and then he’s kneeling between Caleb’s legs as his fingers trace a familiar path below. Caleb looks, and looks, and looks, drinking in the sight. Essek smiles at him, cheek dimpling, smear of blood not entirely wiped away in the corner of his grin, before he presses a kiss to the crown of Caleb’s length and takes it in his mouth. There is no fluff about it, his gestures straightforward, taking in hand what he can’t take in his throat, and it takes a moment of concentrating for Caleb to realise that, ah, yes, that’s a finger moving in and out of him with much more ease than before.
The last person he did this for was Eadwulf, he realises as Essek slips him a second. He tries to swallow and finds that it’s altogether difficult, and wouldn’t this be a stupid moment to cry? Caleb reaches down, not sure what he’s reaching for, and he finds it when Essek drops everything to clasp his hand. He’s sure that nothing has ever been so reassuring as that oil-slick hand in his, at least until Essek pulls off to say “You’re doing so well, dear one, so well.” He scissors his fingers apart inside him and Caleb gasps. “Can you take a little more?” He brings their joined hands to his mouth and showers kisses over Caleb’s knuckles as if they were precious, despite them looking so ugly and square next to Essek’s noble, manicured hands.
Caleb nods, and Essek draws his hand away to push back in with three fingers. “Marvelous,” Essek says. “Parfait. Perfect for me.” He sucks a bruise into the meat of Caleb’s thigh, near the crease where thigh meets ass, and then pulls away with a strange expression. Caleb wants to ask, and then he sees Essek not-so-gracefully spit a curly red hair out of his mouth and then brush his lips against his bare shoulder.
“Sorry?” Caleb chuckles with what breath he has left in him, which is to say, not much.
“Don’t be.” Essek’s face is burning hot, as if somehow all the sweet nothings and baring of skin and meetings of flesh have been fine, but it’s the indignity of catching a pubic hair in his teeth that embarasses him. “Occupational hazard,” he offers with a grin and a curl of his fingers that has Caleb jack-knifing in the bed.
“Hhah, enough,” he grits. “Come here.” Essek plants one last kiss on the tip of his cock before drawing his fingers out and clambering up to meet him in an embrace.
“Like this?” Essek asks, reaching up past where Caleb lays to snag a small decorative pillow that Jester had made for each of them. Essek blinks at the embroidered penises on it before deciding not to ask. “I admit that I’d like to look at you when we make love, but if you prefer something else, tell me.” He presses a kiss behind Caleb’s ear, which is good and well as it gives time for Caleb to blush crimson at his phrasing. Is it an error of translation, he wonders, or something else? A declaration of feelings? Or do his noble sensibilities disallow him from saying anything as crude as when we fuck?
“This is good,” he croaks. Essek slides Jester’s little throw pillow under the arc of Caleb’s back and they both take a second to settle it before Essek pushes Caleb’s thighs open even wider.
“Are you ready?” he murmurs, and when Caleb gives an impatient nod he huffs a laugh and takes himself in hand to press in. Caleb gasps at the first breach, and then gives Essek a dirty look and a wiggle when the other freezes, “Keep going, go on, go on.”
Essek does continue, to his merit, but it’s a painstakingly slow slide, the moment stretching around them like toffee, every feeling magnified, every sensation tripled. Caleb looks up at his face, the sweat dripping down his hairline towards his lovely hooked nose, the slick and spit still shining on his lips, and wonders if this is some dunamantic effect or merely speaks to the power that Essek holds over him. Either way, the moment is heady as Essek begins to roll his hips, and Caleb lets out a long moan that Essek echoes. It takes a few strokes, each one going deeper, until Caleb can feel Essek’s hips against his ass and a fullness that he hasn’t felt in years. It takes his breath away, leaves him panting messily against Essek’s mouth.
“Alright?” Essek groans, his lovely brow furrowed, his lip thick where he is biting down on it. Caleb wants, he wants, all thoughts of betrayal and treason and war gone from his head, replaced instead by roaring desire and brightly burning affection.
He hitches his legs up to cross his ankles behind Essek’s back and they both gasp at the change in angle. He takes Essek’s mouth with his own, bites down to hear Essek’s breath catch. “Come on, Essek,” he moans.
“Fuck me,” he means to repeat.
“Make love to me,” he says instead.
Essek nods furiously, blinking wetness away, and takes Caleb’s face in his hands for one more dizzying kiss as he begins to finally, finally fuck into him with sharp thrusts of his hips. It punches the air out of Caleb, and he reaches up with one hand to brace against the wooden headboard of the bed, the other curling into Essek’s hair to press their foreheads as close as they can without knocking into one another. It’s hot and wet where they breathe one another’s air, pressing lips messily against lips, short kisses that are more attempts to silence their sounds than anything else.
“You’re good at this,” Caleb gasps, “So— fuck! There, stay there,” he begs when Essek finds an angle that sets Caleb's synapses on fire.
“Anything,” Essek chokes. “For you, anything—you’re so good, Caleb. Perfect, lovely, parfait, mine,” he groans, each one increasingly desperate; his voice breaks on the word mine, and so does Caleb, jerking in Essek’s arms and finishing between them in a sudden rush. “Oh, fuck,” Essek cries, and pulls out to take himself in hand. Caleb surges up to kiss him as he strokes his cock until he spills over Caleb’s belly.
Time stretches again, both men breathing heavily as they come down, Caleb looking at the mixed fluids on his stomach with a red face. He draws two fingers through the mess and sucks on them idly, and Essek wheezes as if he’s been stabbed and then falls on top of him, pressing furious pecks against every part of Caleb’s face that he can reach as if compelled. Caleb dirties the digits again and holds them to Essek’s mouth, who wrinkles his nose adorably.
“Come on.” Caleb pokes his cheek with his pinky finger until Essek sullenly pokes his tongue out and licks his fingers clean. He makes a face afterward that Caleb can’t help but laugh at, and once he starts he finds that he cannot stop.
“It isn’t funny,” Essek complains, but a smile blooms on his face as well, and he rolls over to Caleb’s side and lays there contently.
“I suppose I should thank you,” he says as Caleb is still coming down from his stitches. “That was… there are no words.”
“Don’t thank me,” Caleb whispers, all of a sudden much more solemn. It’s frustrating: he would have liked the moment to stretch out longer, to last infinitely. Now that his mind is free of the haze of need, doubt starts to trickle back in, and he doesn’t want to doubt, doesn’t want to mistrust this man who held him so sweetly, who took him apart so well.
“No, I must.” Essek wipes his hand on the coverlet and reaches out to cup Caleb’s cheek gently, so gently. “You have no idea… Caleb Widogast, you have been a catalyst in my life. Your friendship, your care, your brilliance. Your desire…” His thumb pets ever so lightly against the rasp of Caleb’s beard. “I was a different man before I met you, and that is a fact. You have helped me realise what it is that I need to do—there are wrongs that I need to right.”
Caleb doesn’t know what his face is doing. That sounds like a confession—a confession of so many things. He lets out a long, stuttering breath. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and that scares me,” he says. Essek makes a wounded sound and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. It’s somehow just as overwhelming as his cock had been, grinding against his prostate. “Promise me, promise me that…”
“Yes?”
“Promise me that you mean well,” Caleb says. “That you won’t hurt us… that you won’t hurt yourself. That you’ll be safe.”
Essek gives him a sweet smile. It’s heartbreaking.
“I do mean well,” he says, and presses a kiss to Caleb’s forehead. “And the last thing I want is for you and your friends to be hurt. I can promise you that.”
“That’s not good enough,” Caleb insists.
“It’s all I can offer.”
“Then promise me that we will meet again, as allies still. As friends still.”
Essek looks at him with wide eyes. “Is that all?” he asks. Both of their eyes are gleaming with tears.
“No, it’s not all,” Caleb breathes. “Never just that. You are so many things, Essek. My teacher and colleague. The Shadowhand. My friend.” He looks Essek in the eye, takes his hand. His voice is even when he continues. “A traitor. My lover and my love.”
Essek flinches, but does not break eye contact. He does not deny it. Of course he doesn’t. The one time Caleb wanted to be wrong about something...
“I am trying,” he says, still stroking Caleb’s cheek, still holding Caleb’s hand. His hands are shaking. “Caleb, my dear. My love. I am cutting them out, now that the peace talks are happening. If it means having assassins on my tail for the rest of my days, so be it, but I must do this.” Tears finally spill down his cheeks, and he dashes them away impatiently before Caleb can wipe them himself.
“Would you have told me?” Caleb asks.
“That I care for you? I have wanted to do nothing more. I would have invited you to my room the other night, had Beauregard not tagged along. That I have been working with such unscrupulous people… I do not want you to think less of me, for all that I deserve it. I would have, I think. I hope. Once I managed to cut ties permanently.”
Caleb nods, and wipes at his own eyes absent-mindedly. “We should probably clean up,” he says.
Essek nods and picks up one of his seven thousand undershirts, sacrificing it to the cause. The silk feels slippery on Caleb’s skin, and he shudders as Essek diligently wipes his belly, his cock, his rim, before tossing it aside and cleaning himself with much less finesse: a wave of a hand and a prestidigitation do the trick. He looks at the rest of his clothes and hesitates.
“Stay,” Caleb entreats. “Don’t leave me alone after all this.” There’s a desperation to his words that is deeply honest—Caleb doesn’t know what path his thoughts would take if he were left alone, but he knows himself well enough to guess that it would be a dark one. Better to keep Essek close. There is absolutely no ulterior motive at play here.
Essek hesitates. “I don’t want to put you in danger,” he says. “Don’t think I’m making excuses—I want nothing more than to be here with you, but I was already targeted once tonight.”
“And you will not be targeted again,” Caleb says with a confidence he doesn’t quite possess. “Trust me. I know how they work. If their first strike failed, they will not return so swiftly.”
“Honestly,” Essek lets out a humourless chuckle. “I’m not even sure it was meant to be one. I returned from the Bastion early to find them in my laboratory, rifling through my things. I was… perhaps you might call me trigger happy.”
“Even more reason to expect no repercussions tonight.” Had Essek meant to keep the Assembly for allies, this might even be the kind of incident that could be brushed over as a mistake. Caleb can see a handler twisting it to be proof of Essek’s insecurities, reason to keep him on a tighter leash or perhaps taken out of the picture completely. Either way, it will come in the following days, not tonight.
Essek searches his face for a long moment, open and vulnerable and lovely. He doesn’t respond verbally, but he does collapse back into the mattress with a soft sigh and curls an arm around Caleb’s naked shoulders.
“I don’t suppose you have a nightshirt to lend me?” he asks.
“What, isn’t this good?” Caleb gives his bare form an admiring look.
“I don’t sleep, Caleb,” Essek reminds him. He begins tracing glyphs into the skin of Caleb’s arm. “I will stay until you wake, but we have at least four hours difference in our patterns of rest. I’d… prefer not to be nude for it.”
“You could wear my shirt,” Caleb jerks his head in the direction of the floor, and Essek sniffs once before going to fetch it and shrug it on. The visual is… deeply satisfying, and when he burrows back into Caleb’s side there’s the feel of very warm, worn, familiar cotton against his skin. It’s almost as enticing as Essek’s nudity had been, even if Caleb had never tied the collar so tightly. Essek tugs the sheet and quilt over them, too, and it’s altogether very cozy, very domestic. It’s almost laughable: a would-be Scourger and a traitor in bed together. Caleb finds himself content, though, somehow, dozing off in Essek’s embrace. He licks his thumb and reaches out to wipe the last smear of blood on Essek’s cheek away, finally, and Essek lets him. It’s very easy to drift with Essek still tracing symbols into the sensitive skin of his inner elbow, with the weight of him nearby, the coverlet draping them in warmth. He turns over to kiss him, once, twice, thrice, until it is too difficult to aim them correctly.
“I’m so glad you came to me,” he whispers. He can hear Essek swallow.
“As am I, more than you know. Rest, Caleb. My dear. My love. Rest now.”
Caleb shuts his eyes, face and chest burning at such a blatant confession, and allows himself to drift off in the arms of a man who started a war; a man who worked with Caleb’s greatest foes; a man that Caleb cares for deeply.
He wakes several times during the night. For all his idealism, he is not good at sharing sleeping quarters with those he is unfamiliar with, and Essek is not so familiar as all that. Each time he jerks awake, Essek is there: curling a strand of Caleb’s hair around a finger with his eyes wide and blank in trance; in the midst of a staring contest in the dark with Frumpkin; sitting up in bed and scribbling in his spellbook. Each time, Essek turns to look at him and gives him a trembling smile that Caleb can barely make out in the darkness. “Go back to sleep,” he would whisper, and Caleb would roll over and do just that, until finally his internal clock informs him that it is past seven and time to get up.
He sits up in bed and props his head on Essek’s shoulder, where he is seemingly selecting his spells for the day. Essek smiles and shuts his spellbook, turns to press a sweet, short kiss to his lips; Caleb was a vagrant far too long to be held up by something like morning breath, but Essek wrinkles his nose apologetically when he pulls back.
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning,” Caleb replies. They watch one another; it’s a little awkward, but not in a bad way. “Where do we go from here?”
“I received a few messages while you slept,” Essek admits. “I need to go to Nicodranas to speak to the Martinet.” Caleb carefully masks his reaction; to think that the corruption goes that high… but of course it does. Essek clearly sees something in his face, because he rushes to continue: “I promise you, I plan to end things.”
“I believe you,” Caleb says. “We are heading as well, once we all get up. We would have gone directly, after helping Caduceus’ family, but I needed to collect components for Veth’s spell.”
Essek perks up. “Ah, have you solved the problem that was halting the spell’s functioning?”
“Yeah. Jester is a frightening woman.”
“You will have to tell me the story some time.” Essek squeezes Caleb’s hand. “I am happy for all of you, so much. I know that this is something Nott—ah, Veth—has been waiting for.”
Caleb means to reply, but he’s certain there’s an expression along the lines of speak of the devil, because there’s a rap at his door and a shrill voice calling through it. “Cay-cay,” Nott yells through the wood. “We want to know if you’re up yet, and if Essek is staying for breakfast.”
The both of them fall silent, each rapidly flushing, head to toe.
“Yeah,” Beauregard calls also, “You were both, like, super loud last night.”
“You could have been louder!” Oh, good, Jester is there too. “Some of us wanted to hear it.”
“Ignore them,” Nott shrieks. “They’re being weird. It was fine, it was very fine. You’re the only one who sleeps on the ground floor. But are you coming for breakfast? Are you still in there?” She knocks again. “Caleb?”
Caleb looks at Essek with wide eyes. “I am so sorry,” he mouths.
Essek has a panicked deer expression on his face, and buries his face in his hands. “Thank you, Veth,” he calls.
Jester and Beau both start speaking over one another, extremely loudly, right outside the door.
Caleb shoots Frumpkin a dirty look. “You could have warned us, you know,” he says. Frumpkin looks at him and rolls over, showing his belly in a blatant trap.
“Yeah, we’re coming out,” Caleb says eventually. “Get the fuck out of here though, we’ll join you at the table, raus.”
Nott starts shooing Jester and Beau away loudly, and he can hear a thwap that might be her resorting to physical violence to do so. Essek is still shaking. Caleb draps himself around him and presses a kiss to his temple.
“Sorry if you meant to keep this on the low,” he murmurs.
“Please don’t tell them,” Essek gasps into his hands. “I will— I will speak to them, after the peace talks, but please.”
Caleb thinks on it. “I cannot wait too long to tell them, Essek, you know this.”
“Just a few days.”
Caleb sighs and nods. My, what a mess. What a day. “I suppose we should get up, then. Caduceus and Fjord can be trusted to be normal about us, at least. Yasha too, I suspect.”
Essek seems to calm a little at being reminded that there is an us. They both rise and wash and dress, Essek in the clothes he appeared in last night, albeit prestidigitated back into pristine conditions and a few undershirts short. They pause at the door to the study. Crossing the threshold seems as if it will make this entire unreal experience real, Caleb thinks, and Essek must be sharing the thought.
Essek leans up onto his tip-toes to press their foreheads together.
“It will be fine,” he whispers, as if speaking to himself. “Breakfast with our friends, and then off to Nicodranas, and I’ll tell the Cerberus Assembly to go fuck themselves. What could go wrong?”
Caleb bumps their noses together and cups Essek’s cheek. “That’s the spirit,” he says. “Come, now, let’s go face the firing squad. This will make speaking to Ludinus look like a vacation in comparison.”
“That’s not helpful,” Essek laughs, and Caleb grins.
Caleb links their hands, and they share a vulnerable smile, and they push through the door to go face their friends, and an interrogation, and breakfast. It is only the start of a long day that promises to be even longer, but Caleb has faith that things will only go slightly wrong. He isn’t so naive as to think things will go perfectly: he’s run with the Mighty Nein long enough to know that they never do. But this feels like it might be just the right kind of imperfect for things to work out alright in the end.
"You told me you wanted to protect me." Lena breaks the silence. "You also told me you were selfish. Which one is it?"
Kara stares out into the city, thumb tracing the top of her mug in silent, anxious circles. Her chest aches with vulnerability, something she never really allowed herself to show in front of Lena, not with the secret hanging over them like a shadow, forcing her to choose words carefully as to not reveal herself. Self-preservation is no longer an option.
"Both," she admits.
(Or, Kara and Lena finally talk about the secret. Set before Kara goes to the Phantom Zone.)
https://archiveofourown.org/works/35705731
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
tempests of dust by @scrunchyharry
30797 words. no archives warnings apply. explicit.
art by @neon--diamonds
written for the @onedirectionbigbang
Louis lived an ordinary life, albeit in an extraordinary place. His family, alongside many others, were mandated to maintain the fortress of Bourbon-l’Archambault, one of the many castles belonging to the crown of France. It was thankless work, but it was a roof over their heads and a quiet, steady life. For all that he knew, the Crown had forgotten Bourbon-l’Archambault even existed, which suited him quite well.
That was until the Dauphin, Prince Harry, came to stay for a summer and decided that he would experience the life of a peasant, for his own personal growth, without any regards to how it would affect others. After a summer spent together, the thought of parting ways was too much to bear and they struck a deal: Louis would pretend to be a duke at the court of Versailles for a season: if after three months, he was miserable, Harry would let him return to his former life without making a fuss.
