thinking about thems. like mother, like son. (or, the same day, thirty-ish years apart.)
“I’m going to blame the blow to your head for you coming here like this,” Pyara says to the Assassin lying back in her lap. “What were you thinking?” Arbaaz blinks his eyes open—hazy but able to focus on her—and smiles. The smear of blood on his cheek doesn’t help matters.
“I was thinking,” he answers, “that it would be a shame to go to my death without laying eyes on you one last time.” He reaches up to cup her face. Her cheeks warm, her heart flutters, and she is still very upset with him for falling through her window and bleeding on her bedroom’s nicest rug, so she’s not going to let any of that show.
Pyara huffs. “You’re a fool, but you’ll stay a living fool.” She clasps his hand as it begins to wander, his fingers clumsily tracing down the line of her jaw. It’s warm, and she presses to find his pulse. He’d looked worse than his injuries actually were. She still finds the steady rhythm comforting. Arbaaz tilts his head in her lap, his smile fading a little.
“Did I scare you?” he says, softer. She turns her face into his palm and kisses it.
“Yes.” She guides his hand back down to rest. Arbaaz brings it to his chest, folding it closed over his heart, over a dark stain that stands out with terrifying starkness against his robes. Not his blood, he’d insisted, unlike all the rest which had been, too bright and too fresh. She’s not thinking yet about how she’ll have to have her own things hidden and cleaned later.
For now, she runs her fingers through his hair. “I’ll punish you later,” she murmurs. Arbaaz’s grin rises again.
“Go easy on me, my love,” he says, in a tone of voice that suggests he really doesn’t want her to. She leans over him.
“Oh, Assassin? And why should I spare you?” He shifts, one of his knees curling. He gazes up at her affectionately. There are many people who look at her as if she’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen. Arbaaz is the only man brave enough to come close enough to touch, to love her more for every new thing he learns that makes her less an object to admire and more the person he wants to know.
“Because if you’re too harsh with me, I’ll have no energy left later to earn your forgiveness.” He turns his head to nuzzle against her thigh. Pyara notices his hand creeping to the end of her dress and does absolutely nothing to stop it as he slides it up her leg. It’s not a tease but a promise.
“And you claimed you were dying.”
“It’s a miracle.” Pyara laughs, curving further over him to press haphazard kisses against his lips and chin. Arbaaz reaches up in invitation, curling fingers in her hair.
Her Assassin. Her love. Her Arbaaz. He’ll be safe, as long as she can keep him so.
——-
“Evie. Evie!” Evie does, finally, stop. Jayadeep watches her pant heavily. Blood runs slick down the side of her face. “Let me look, please.” He lowers his voice again now that he’s gotten her attention (He doesn’t blame her. A fight is hard to leave, even if it’s already ended and the danger is gone.) and takes a cautious step near her. Her grip on her sword is shaking-tight.
Evie doesn’t startle when he touches her shoulder. She’s grown used to him in the aftermath. A shudder rolls over her, releasing her muscles which were wound to kill moments ago, as though he’s given her permission. Jayadeep goes to remove her cowl, to see the damage more clearly.
“I’m fine,” Evie tell him, as she loses blood. It’s a cut parallel to her hairline, thin across the right side of her brow. Blood beads in her eyelashes and gets in her eye when she blinks.
“Hold still,” he says. He wipes up some of the mess, enough to make sure there’s no other cuts.
“Henry, it’s a head wound. It’ll bleed worse than it is,” she insists as he cradles her jaw and turns her to expose the wound. He holds pressure to the cut with the blood-stained cloth he’s cleaned her with. “It barely hurts.”
Barely, she says. Not doesn’t. Barely.
A fact he’s learned about Evie Frye since meeting her for the first time: she cannot lie to save her life.
So, no, he doesn’t even believe that it barely hurts. She keeps suppressing her winces.
“You don’t have to do this,” she says, quietly.
“I want to,” he says, without thinking, and when he realizes what he’s said, thinks he would also choose to sink into the floor, if that were an option. Still, he can’t move now, not until the bleeding has stemmed, so he swallows his embarrassment and tries to focus on anything else: the way her jaw shifts under his fingers, the sound of her breath easing down to a gentler rhythm, how her eyes shut and leave her expression vulnerable under his care. The minutes seem to stretch for hours.
Carefully, he lets up. When she doesn’t start bleeding heavily again, he checks the wound. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches.” He doesn’t have an excuse anymore, and reluctantly, he drops his hand from her face.
Evie’s eyes open, and for a moment, she looks confused. He nearly- But she turns away. “Thank you.”
“You would do the same for me,” he hears himself say, though he’s having a hard time thinking of anything but the way her fingers brush along the spot he’d held—quickly, guiltily, restrained by her other hand to keep from lingering.
“You’re better at avoiding injury than me. You won’t get hurt.” She shakes her head, then grimaces.
“Do you need a minute-”
“No.” Though it comes out sharp, it’s not anger in her voice. If he didn’t know better, he’d call it fear. “We don’t have time.”
