Hey another @nutsandvoltsweek fic too short for ao3. I’ll rewrite it someday, but for now, have the raw.
Sorry, I robbed you all of more domestic to focus on Tyrian’s prosthesis today.
“It’s heavy.”
“You’ll get used to that.”
It really isn’t heavy. Not moreso than his natural tail had been, anyway. But he chooses to complain about the weight, rather than the part that really bothers him: the sound. He’s not used to the clicking yet. He’s used to his tail moving silently. And he hasn’t been able to get that damned little chamber to fill with venom, no matter how he concentrates on it.
But of course, he’s too irritated to get right to the point of the issue.
“Why bother if it’s just for the aesthetics?”
“For the last time, it is not aesthetic. It functions. You’re just not producing venom as quickly right now. Likely due to the recovery process and stress of losing a limb: the endocrine system simply doesn’t recover from amputation quite as easily as the bulk of a physical body can. And continued stress can, and will, hinder your recovery.”
Tyrian grumbles, his tail flicking behind him in irritation as he perches on a chair across from the doctor’s desk. “What could I possibly have to be stressed about?”
“Apparently, your tail being too heavy,” Arthur shrugs, very focused on the work he has in front of him. “Or more likely the psychological aftermath of a traumatic, non-surgical amputation.”
The scorpion growls, but thumps down properly, heavily, into the chair. “Your bedside manner is atrocious.”
“I don’t seem to recall you saying that when I was actually at your bedside tending to your infected amputation site. Pulling pine needles and other such debris out of it before I could even think of capping it.” Arthur looks up finally. “What don’t you really like about it?”
Tyrian wilts a little under that intense green gaze. “… it clicks.”
“… I beg your pardon?”
“It clicks!” Tyrian growls, flicking it so the doctor can hear. “It’s not supposed to click.”
Arthur sighs. “… is that all?”
“Is that all?! What if your fingers clicked?! It’d drive you mad!”
“Yes, because we need to worry about you losing your mind over a bit of clicking.” Arthur pushes back from his desk and stands, straightening his vest and moving around the desk to Tyrian, in order to pick up his tail and examine it. “… even if I thinned out the edges of the plates, it would only reduce the sound, not eliminate it. But of course at the cost of the current amount of protection on what’s left of your natural tail. It would, though, also make it a little lighter.”
“… fine.”
“I’ll even see what I can do for a hormone therapy to jumpstart your venom production again.”
Tyrian perks up a little at that, sighing as Arthur reaches to unclasp the plates of his prosthetic tail, carefully pulling it off. He pulls his remaining natural one around to hold onto, scowling at the capped end. “I hate this.”
“I know you do.”
“She’s getting irritated with us,” he informs the doctor. “She wanted me back in the field ages ago. I don’t need my venom to do as our Lady asks.”
“No, but it’s helpful. And until you start producing it naturally again, I don’t consider you fully recovered.”
“That sounds like an excuse to keep me here,” he grins. “With you.”
“Of course I’d prefer to observe my patient’s recovery as closely as I can.”
“Ugh! Do you have a romantic bone in your body?” Tyrian spits, frustrated, as his tail flicks in irritation. “Or do those ‘I adore yous’ only come into play when you’ve got your d--”
“Must you be vulgar?”
“You know…” Tyrian frowns, then quickly grins, seizing the doctor around the waist with his tail, though he doesn’t pull him in. “I didn’t hear a ‘no’~”
“There wasn’t meant to be one.”
“Aw. I’m touched.” He giggles, finally yanks the doctor away from his work when he’s sure that doing so won’t make him drop the new tail. “If you do a good job, I might reward you~”
“I always do my job well, Tyrian. You’d do well to remember that.”
I went “modern au that counts solely because they’re engaged and you get them smooching a little bit”
One hand reaches blindly over to shut off the phone alarm, and the doctor yawns as he sits up, extricating himself from the tangled mess of limbs that his fiancé had trapped him in during the night. The other man flops bonelessly back to the mattress, still dead asleep, and the conscious one chuckles a little bit at the sight.
First task of the morning: shower. Better to do it at four- blessed -thirty when no one else in the house is even close to waking up. He can take his time. Which he absolutely does: finally wandering out of the master bath only a mere forty-five minutes later and straight into his closet to get dressed. By the time that’s all said and done, the clock says he’s still got nearly an hour before he has to wake his daughter for school.
He’s very careful to hold onto the small string of bells hanging from the handle as he opens the door, so as not to wake the man still in bed. The bells are a safety measure, in case his daughter’s dog needs to find them during the night. Every lockable door in the house has the bells on the handle, so that if they’re locked, the dog pulling on the handle will make enough noise to either wake them, or attract their attention otherwise.
He wanders downstairs, the cat’s undoubtedly already waiting for him to feed her. His other little princess, really. After the most demanding member of the family has been fed, he digs a lunchbox (there’s a few of them for school lunches) out of the cabinet they’re stored in, in order to start packing his daughter’s lunch.
He decides on sandwiches for her. A couple of little ones, mint jelly on white bread, crusts cut off after the sandwich is built. A couple of carrots or cucumber slices cut into flowers and butterflies are placed on top of each small sandwich before they’re tucked into their little plastic container and into the lunchbox. A second container is packed in with celery sticks, a few grapes cut on the bias and held together with the smallest piece of dried pasta in order to turn them into tiny little hearts, and a third with some balled watermelon, a couple of strawberries cut into hearts, and a few apple slices cut to resemble little rabbits. The whole thing is packed in with a juice box before he closes up the lunchbox and sets it on the counter next to his own bag.
By the time he’s done all that and cleaned up the kitchen, the clock on the stove -- and the light starting to creep in through the kitchen windows -- says that the younger members of the family need to be roused.
He gives his cat a lazy scratch as he passes by the half-wall she’s perched on, and makes his way back upstairs. The first door on the upper level of the house is always left slightly ajar, another safety measure, in case of an emergency during the night, but it also makes it far easier to open it quietly.
“Darling?” he calls quietly as he opens the door, peering inside the room. The dog raises his head from his bed beneath the window, and rises immediately, shaking his fur out before he rather dutifully crosses the room to sit beside the sleeping child’s bed. The doctor calls out again before stepping into the bedroom and turning on the lamp beside her bed. “Penny?”
The lamp light finally seems to wake her, and sleepy green eyes blink open to peer up at her father. “Mmn… g’morning…”
“Good morning, dearest. It’s time to get ready for school.”
“Okay…” She yawns and sits up, rubbing her eyes. “… am I late?”
“Not at all, sweetheart. Come down for breakfast when you’re ready. Don’t forget your school bag.” He turns and leaves the room as he hears her get up, and makes the executive decision to go see if he can prod his fiancé out of bed. It should be an easy enough task, so long as he promises breakfast.
The light’s streaming in through the bedroom window now, though he knows that the light won’t be waking Tyrian up by any means. Tyrian’s just where he left him, boneless and limp in the sheets. His hair is a bit of a mess, sleep loosening it from its braid but not unbraiding it entirely. The doctor laughs a little bit, and leans in to give him a kiss, shaking his shoulder a little bit in order to wake him, though Tyrian just grumbles at him and pulls the covers up over his head.
“Wake up, darling.” Arthur laughs, settles down on the edge of the side of the bed and lifting the blanket up to peer under it at his fiancé. “Are you going to come see your daughter off to school, darling? She’ll be so terribly upset if her Daddy doesn’t come downstairs to have breakfast with us before school.”
“That’s terrible. You’re terrible.”
“Am I terrible for telling you the truth? Come on, I’m making eggs.”
“Eggs?”
“We need to go grocery shopping. So yes. Eggs.”
“… omelettes?”
“I think that can be arranged.”
“Oh fine.” Tyrian oozes out from his nest to give the doctor a kiss, wrapping his arms around his neck to keep him from getting up before he’s finished with him. “I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I’ll be waiting, dearest.”
“You’d better be waiting with an omelette.”
“Of course, darling.”
Once Tyrian releases him in order to get up and slither into the bathroom, Arthur returns downstairs to fix breakfast. Omelettes for himself and Tyrian, scrambled eggs for Penny. He’s just gotten the plates on the table, poured his tea and Tyrian’s coffee, and set Penny’s water on the table, when Penny and Cricket come downstairs, Penny dressed for school, carrying her backpack and Cricket’s harness, Cricket trotting behind her.
“That was quick,” the doctor chuckles, patting his daughter’s head as she passes to let Cricket outside to run around and do what he needs to do before his harness goes on for the day. “Now, you remember that you have a doctor’s appointment today? I’ll be picking you up around eleven-thirty.”
“I remember.”
“Ask your afternoon teachers to email you any work they’d like you to do.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good girl. Feed Cricket and start on your breakfast. I’ll let him back in.”
“Okay…”
By the time Penny’s fed Cricket and started on her eggs, Tyrian finally makes his appearance, dropping a kiss on Penny’s head as he slides into his chair at the table, greeting her and the doctor before digging into his food. Cricket digs in as well when he finally ambles through the kitchen and reaches his bowl. The four of them eat in relative quiet, and when they’re finished, the dishes are loaded into the dishwasher.
“It’s time to go, Penny,” Arthur informs her as she secures Cricket’s harness. He picks up his own bag, and watches her snatch her backpack from the chair it had been placed on. “Don’t forget your appointment.”
“I won’t!”
“Good.”
Penny shuffles over to the other man in the room, wrapping her arms around him tightly. “Bye, Daddy! I’ll see you later!”
“You too, baby girl,” Tyrian laughs. He’s given a kiss by Arthur as the doctor walks by, snatching his keys from the counter, and laughs louder. “And I’ll see you later too.”
“You certainly will.”
“Home in time for dinner?”
“We should be. Penny has an appointment at twelve-thirty, we should be home before four, unless she’s suddenly developed lupus or a previously-undiscovered parasite.”
“Oh don’t even joke.”
“Call your mother when you have a moment, by the way, she sent me an email saying she’s found a caterer but couldn’t remember what we wanted to do with all that.”
“You know I have all day.” He frowns: Arthur’s the one who keeps track of all their schedules, not only does he know for a fact that Tyrian doesn’t go into the shop at all on Thursdays, but he knows for a fact that Tyrian has absolutely nothing else to do that day. “It’s your wedding too, why didn’t you answer her?”
“To give you an excuse to talk to your mother.”
Tyrian laughs, and the doctor is given another, less-quick kiss before he, Penny, and Cricket vanish out the door.
I’m posting today’s @nutsandvoltsweek fic at 1:30AM when I have to be up at 6:15AM end me. But I’m travelling, and wanted alllll day for this to get reactions, so! Have this.
Angst is my favorite : D And I want to note that I had this idea first when I received the prompt list, before the v7 finale. Which explains the premise.
crossposted on ao3!
He’s not sure how long he’s been running through the shin-deep snow, the smell of Ironwood’s pet’s blood still fresh in his mind (and in his nose, really, the blood itself is still drying on his hands -- what he hasn’t already licked off of them, anyhow!), and the adrenaline still rushing through his veins, but he sees the rendez-vous in the distance. He’s nearly there!
( copper and fear and death and the unhinged despair of ironwood’s little bird! the sweetness of his anguished scream still ringing in his ears! he had almost sworn that he could still feel his own poison coursing through qrow branwen’s liquor-thinned blood! )
The rendez-vous point is a Schnee stockyard. Raw dust is stored here on its way to be processed, but it isn’t a mine. There’s plenty of structures and stacks of crates containing carefully-packed, raw dust to cover behind, and there’s of course vehicles to steal or hide in, even a few unlocked buildings! It’s perfect! A bit of a gift from Jacques Schnee himself , allegedly.
( spineless sniveling insect that he is )
Tyrian had joked, when Arthur had told him about their meeting place, that they should perhaps consider sending Mr. Schnee a lovely thank-you card for his generosity. Arthur hadn’t laughed, not really. That was fine, he’d just gone to sleep on the sofa instead after that. And taken the comforter with him, of course.
Speaking of comforters…
( too cold )
He’s cold . It’s freezing out here. Well, he really should’ve worn his coat, but it just got in the way sometimes while he was hunting. Or it was just something to be grabbed and manipulated against him: no thank you. And besides, he won’t be out here much longer, he’s sure of it. He rounds a corner, ducking into a cluster of loaded crates in varyingly-sized stacks. It’s good enough cover from the wind, and he’s got a rather good view of the empty space around him.
But Arthur’s tracking signal hasn’t shown up on his scroll’s radar yet. He’s not on the property.
( he’s coming )
No problem, he’ll just wait for him, that’s fine. And, of course, maybe he’ll do a little bragging about being the first one to the rendez-vous point when the good doctor finally shows up: he finds it funny that for once he’s early and Arthur’s late to something. It’s never a bad time to brag! Especially not when their plans are going so well !
( he’s not coming )
Of course he’s coming. Don’t be absurd.
“Oh dear doctor~” the hunter chimes into the wind, or, rather, into his comm. line, once he brings his scroll up and opens the line for use. He lounges across the top of a crate after brushing a good half a foot of snow from the top of it, letting his tail dangle off the side and looking not unlike a teenager on the phone with a school friend, or a little crush . “Did you let me get here first? I’m touched ! How sweet of you!”
Dead air from the other end of the line.
“… helloooo~?”
Nothing.
Seconds pass. Minutes. More minutes than he feels should pass without at least a check-in of some kind.
( he’s coming )
Tyrian frowns briefly, but decides on a different approach. He drizzles a pout over his next words, idly twisting a loose lock of brown hair around one clawed finger as he calls out over the communication line again. “Hmm~ This is so rude. You know, I haven’t eaten any apples today, doctor, why are you staying away from me~?”
Not even a groan. That’s fine, his partner is probably just still busy with Amity: he’s sure it’s quite a project if the good doctor can’t even check in with him.
( he’ll be here soon )
And so, he waits. Stays spread out on top of the crate while he does, turning over onto his stomach and letting his feet kick back and forth a little in the air behind him. It’s getting steadily lighter, he notices now. The sun’s rising. Well, it’s fitting that this new dawn will bring with it a world where Ironwood’s losing friends and chess pieces and sanity , he’s sure, at an alarming rate, anyway. How long has he been sitting here?
( too long )
“Rrrrrrrgh... where are you?” Tyrian finally growls as he leaps up into a predatory crouch on top of his crate, tail whipping back and forth in irritation behind him as he spits, frustrated, into his earpiece. “If we’re late She’ll be furious .”
Still nothing.
( he’s coming )
The hunter sighs, but then giggles a little to himself as he drops back down to sit on the very edge of the crate. Amity must be putting up quite a fight ! Or maybe there was still security at the tower, and Ironwood had tricked them. Perhaps left a few measly soldiers there to slow Arthur down, oh maybe his other attack dogs . After all, Qrow Branwen and his little friend had been a surprise when he’d shown up to take out Robyn Hill.
( no, it can’t be the other little mongrels, he definitely saw them in mantle )
Oh, but it’s fine. It’s fine! This is just fine! Arthur can handle himself! He can certainly handle a few of Ironwood’s little toys ! He’s done it before! There’s nothing to worry about!
He’s not sure how long he continues to sit there, kicking his feet above the snowy ground and flicking his tail and brushing off snow and waiting for the doctor to answer, before the sky dims again, not as if it’s been a full day already, but as if it’s… blocked. Tyrian looks up in slight confusion, before gold eyes pop wide at the shadow above. He can’t really make it out clearly, of course, but the familiar, heavy, intoxicating sense of death and destruction and despair that the shadow brings, why, it can only be…
( G O D D E S S )
“… oh, She’s here! I see Her!” Tyrian cheers giddily into his earpiece, regarding the massive shadow. He cackles into the arctic air as he hops down off of his crate and looks in wonder up at the sky.
( B L E S S E D )
He crumples in the snow, overwhelmed with the sight, hitting his knees hard against the layer of either ice or permafrost beneath it, letting his aura flicker out briefly in his emotional state. He can feel himself starting to weep, feels the tears of pure, unbridled joy running down his cheeks as he regards, as best he can with limited vision, the breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly beautiful sight above him. “… oh, She’s glorious! ”
( glorious! positively magnificent! indescribable and unrivaled in sheer, suffocating, overwhelming beauty! atlas is unworthy to witness Her! they should be grateful that She permits it! ironwood should be thankful to die by Her hand! )
But even despite his own laughter, despite the tears he feels freezing to his face in the arctic air, the wind howling in his ears and the distant cries of his Queen’s creatures high above the tundra, high above even the floating city, he notices one thing.
( “little deathstalker” )
He still can’t hear his partner’s voice. Surely he can see this from Amity. He must be able to see this, mustn’t he?
“… Arthur?”
( he’s not coming )
But… there’s been nothing on the other end of the line. Nothing at all. No quiet, amused chuckling. No hissed curses for him to shut up, I’m trying to concentrate . No distress calls, or emergency signals. There’s… been nothing.
Not a word.
( he’s not coming )
“… do you hear me?”
Tyrian’s laughter finally quiets down, and his smile starts to fall as the realization hits him, hard and cold like the arctic air. He’s heard nothing . Gotten no texts, no calls…
( he’s not coming )
Something isn’t right with this. He has a bad feeling. He never has bad feelings, but this is a bad feeling. He should be overjoyed! He should be positively euphoric in the presence of their Goddess.
But where is
( smiling over a cup of tea, watching the doctor work tirelessly on his new tail, staying perfectly still as the doctor fits metal plates over brown chitin, peering feverishly up at his caretaker while his body fights a horrid infection, whispered promises and sweet words and lingering kisses exchanged in the blood red glow of dawn at the castle… )
“… Arthur?”
( hands and tongues and nails and teeth drawn over every part of his body -- and of his partner’s, bites and marks dark against his own skin and even darker against the doctor’s, Hazel looking away from them like he doesn’t notice and Cinder curling her lip in unacknowledged disgust …)
The tears keep flowing, but he doesn’t know if they’re for joy or sorrow now. Nor is he really certain whether he’s actually addressing the other end of the communication line anymore.
( not coming not coming not coming not coming not coming not )
Hey @nutsandvoltsweek you’re not getting a full fic today because I like snapshots. So have 500 words.
Courthouse weddings still count as weddings. Also modern au so I could include Penny and Cricket, since people liked him so much : )
“I still think Cricket should count,” Penny’s voice informs the doctor from just beyond his line of sight. “He’s got a job.”
“That doesn’t determine whether he qualifies to be a witness, darling. Cricket, while he is a very smart dog, is still a dog. He can’t hold a pen.” Arthur glances toward Penny as he fixes his shirt sleeves. She hasn’t brought this up all day, but the fact that it’s come up since the first time they’d spoken about it worries him a little. “You’re not jealous of Hazel coming, are you?”
“No.” There’s no telltale hiccup after the statement, such a strange psychological “glitch,” but a useful one nonetheless, and he nods before Penny continues speaking. “I’m not old enough. It has to be a grown-up.”
“That’s right, dear.” He turns fully to face Penny, giving her a bright smile as he takes a knee in front of her and reaches to smooth down the shoulders of her dress and fix its collar and the ruffles on either side of the buttons. “But you and Cricket being here is just as important as your grandmother and Hazel being here.”
“I know.”
“I know you do. Such a smart girl.”
Penny smiles at the praise, and hugs him tightly. “I’m happy for you and Daddy.”
“Thank you, darling. We’re happy too. This has been such a long time coming.” He hugs her back, not quite as tightly, but still securely. After a minute or so, he hears Tyrian’s telltale giggling from behind him, but doesn’t glance up at him. Penny hasn’t let go: he’s legally not allowed to let go of her to turn around. “Speaking of which.”
“We just came to make sure you didn’t get cold feet,” Tyrian informs him. “We’re still waiting on Hazel.”
“Traffic has been a nightmare this week, with all that construction,” Tyrian’s mother explains, resting her hand on her son’s shoulder to peer at her granddaughter. “Oh, Penny, don’t you look lovely.”
“Thank you. Daddy braided my hair,” Penny beams politely, finally breaking the hug. She points to the light green collar around Cricket’s neck, just barely visible under his black fur. “Cricket and I match.”
“You certainly do.”
“I think Arthur was more excited to help Penny find a dress than he was to pick out what he was going to wear,” Tyrian giggles.
“Penny is eight. She didn’t exactly have anything appropriate just hiding in the back of her closet like you did,” Arthur corrects, brushing himself off a little as he straightens. “And I seem to recall you being more preoccupied with her hair than your own.”
Tyrian just giggles, reaching into his pocket for his phone when it, presumably, buzzes. His mother peers at the screen over his shoulder, and nods as she reads the incoming text. “Hazel’s just parked. He’ll be inside in five minutes.”
“Good.” The doctor smiles a bit, leans over to give his fiancé -- they’ll be husbands in no more than an hour, as soon as they meet up with Hazel and the couple before them is finished -- a quick peck. “I apologize that it’s not exactly the flashy wedding you were hoping for, dearest. And our photographer, while both good with a cell phone camera and also profoundly adorable, isn’t exactly a professional.”
“We’ll have time for all that later.”
“Mmhm. Plenty of time. Forever, as a matter of fact.”
Despite ao3′s best efforts, I’ve answered the call of the “waltzing together” prompt for day two of @nutsandvoltsweek. This wasn't the original idea for this fic, but what I wanted was far more aesthetic and action-oriented than I thought I could do in twenty-four hours. I’m still happy with this, though.
crossposted on ao3, despite the archive’s efforts to the contrary. Please forgive my horrifically cliche title.
Atlesian socialites just adore their dramatic choices in themes for gatherings, and their tastes undoubtedly had spread down to Mantle, as this display at a ballroom in a hotel that had existed since long before the city floating above them quite clearly proves. Citizens of all classes, mingling together in the cavernous room, the event held by the representative from Mantle to the Atlas council: as a way to “ease tensions” stemming from the closure of the kingdom’s borders and the embargo on dust putting pressure on Schnee, pressure that trickled down to its workers.
The idea had been simple: all were welcome, regardless of class, race, occupation. Wear your finest. Conceal your identity with a mask, there is to be no identification at a glance, so there will be no pressure to or not to speak to someone. The idea, of course, is on the surface not terrible, in fact some might even call it a good one. But those people would be sadly mistaken.
It’s laughable, really, that someone could think that a few hours of drinking and dancing could ever be enough to make these pitiful creatures forget the drudgery and depression of their daily lives. And the masks . It would have been comical if it wasn’t so, so painfully cliche.
Though, really, those just made their job here so much easier.
The good doctor leans rather heavily on the wrought-iron railing, green eyes tracing over the truly voluptuous scene of the gathering below, exposed by holes in his mask doubling as eye sockets in the skull of a vulture. Appropriate, considering his current position: perched above the masses and peering down. The base of the mask is bone white, fading into a short, realistic beak, though the intricate gold overlay looks more like a human skull than that of a bird. But it had been the duality that had drawn him to it. Granted, the long black and hood are sorely lacking in originality, but he isn’t exactly here to show off.
“Now, where did you get off to?” he sighs, scanning the ballroom below from his vantage point on the balcony, before he spots Tyrian lurking at the bottom of the stairs. His partner has always looked ravishing in red, whatever form the color’s presence has taken on his body, and while the doctor didn’t exactly question the very long, very red coat’s practicality for hiding stains, he had worried that it would be a tad too flashy for their purposes. Though, it does make him easy to find. “There you are.”
Oh, doctor … Tyrian giggles in his earpiece, and Arthur nods when he sees him glancing around. The councilman’s on the dance floor. Perhaps you should come down here so that we can… go say hello .
Arthur hums, but straightens from where he’s been leaned over the railing and smooths down his clothing before making his way down the staircase. He catches Tyrian around the waist as he passes him, pulling him around and in front of him, settling one hand on Tyrian’s waist and seizing his hand with the other. “If you insist.”
“ Dramatic ,” Tyrian coos, following the other’s lead and resting his free hand on the doctor’s shoulder. His eyes glitter dangerously purple in the sockets of his own skull mask, intricate gold filigree-inspired design over burgundy, dotted all over with tiny red dust crystals -- almost like blood oozing up from the pores of a face -- and edged around the pointed teeth and eye sockets with delicate red trim, still like blood. Part of the gold filigree is actually rose gold, and the rose gold patch takes the shape of a scorpion spreading along his right cheek, with its tail curling up around the eye socket. “You know, doctor, I never did learn to waltz .”
“You’re a quick learner,” Arthur replies easily. “You’ll figure it out.”
Despite his insistence that he didn’t know how to waltz, Tyrian is nothing short of graceful as they sweep into the fray, the pair of them turning around and around with the rest of the dancers as they make their way closer to their target. Every so often, when they brush too close to another pair, he feels a shift against his torso as the end of Tyrian’s tail flexes and flicks, catching hands and wrists and any expanse of skin that he can find. Nicks in the skin just innocuous enough not to betray the poison coursing through their bloodstream.
They keep it up, Tyrian striking at random before they twist away from their unknowing victims, for longer than the hunter thought he’d be allowed to before Arthur’s nails digging into his hand stops him.
“The councilman is behind you on the right side,” the doctor murmurs. Tyrian’s tail may be well-hidden, the majority of the length wrapped around his waist, but there’s not much hiding it when he strikes. “We can’t be striking at random and risk him noticing.”
Tyrian hums. “Can you get me in front of him?”
“Not yet. But…” He spins them a little more aggressively than probably necessary, and gives Tyrian a look at their target over his shoulder. “We’ll only have one shot. Do you see a target?”
“He’s kept his whole neck exposed. I could just…” Arthur turns them again, and Tyrian actually growls. “Excuse me!”
“Can’t risk him seeing you.”
“I think you just like throwing me around.”
“I think you’re projecting.” Another spin, with far more flourish. “He’s just behind you. Take your shot.”
Tyrian beams brightly, and his tail whips out behind him. The councilman’s partner screeches loudly, and the pair scatters as the crowd does, recoiling back away from the scene. They’ve separated and successfully gotten lost in the horrified crowd before the councilman’s body even hits the floor. They make their runs for an exit as the crowd starts to, and their paths cross again at a staff entrance in the far corner of the room, ignored by panicking attendees making their own desperate runs for main doors. Arthur shoulders the door open and yanks Tyrian rather roughly through it behind him, slamming it shut and latching it with the bar meant to prevent guests from wandering into a staff stairwell as the hunter pulls open the door to what used to be an electrical access panel, but was now just a small door to a very convenient void in the wall where they’d stashed changes of clothes.
“The others should start dropping soon,” Tyrian giggles, pulling his red coat off and letting it fall to the floor, exposing his too-open yellow dress shirt and less-than-perfectly tailored black pants before he pulls his usual brown coat on. “With all that adrenaline , I think most of them won’t make it out of the room.”
“Good.” Arthur drops his own coat on top of Tyrian’s discarded one, and rolls up the sleeves of his fittingly-sanguine purple dress shirt. He shrugs off his charcoal vest with its black paisley print and flips it inside out to the solid black of the other wearable side, fastening the second set of gold buttons very quickly before withdrawing his own black jacket from the void in the wall. “None of them are going to last more than a few days anyway.”
“Mmm!” Tyrian laughs as he wraps his tail around Arthur’s waist and yanks him closer in order to better reach his face. He pushes the doctor’s mask up a little, just enough to be out of the way, and crushes their lips together, digging his nails into Arthur’s neck as he does. When the hunter pulls away, he catches Arthur’s lower lip in his teeth for a moment before he lets go. “I think we’d better hurry back home. I don’t know how much longer I can stand looking at you dressed so nicely~ I might just ravish you in the alley outside, instead of waiting for you to get it up enough to have your way with me .”
“Your preferences would disturb any other man,” the doctor points out, reaching up to pull his mask entirely off of his face now that Tyrian’s tongue is no longer down his throat. He doesn’t add that he knows Tyrian isn’t that stupid: it’d be pointless to keep talking when their clock is ticking like this.
“Oh I know !” The snickering that escapes Tyrian is wonderfully chaotic, as if he’s just had the most wicked of ideas, and he licks his lips as he removes his own mask to reveal his gold eyes dangerously dark, with his pupils blown wide. “I suppose I’m just lucky that I’m stuck with you ~”
“Those are your words, not mine.” Arthur hears the door behind them rattling, someone’s trying to get in. “Take the rooftops, I’ll make my way through the kitchens.”
“I’ll try not to have too much fun without you.” Tyrian grins, vaulting up over a slightly higher railing and out of sight, leaving the doctor to withdraw a vial of burn dust and tip it over their discarded coats, a flex of his aura igniting the clothing into a blaze too large to be jumped through before he takes off down the stairs.
