Who's This Handsome Cunt?

Your whole body is aching. Hell, at this point you feel like more like a bruise than a body. The hot water beats down on your head and shoulders, but it isn’t quite enough to relieve the tense pain scrawled in sloppy handwriting across your muscles. Eventually you acknowledge that your sorry state isn’t going to change any time soon and you drag yourself out of the shower.

Staring at yourself critically in the foggy mirror, even through the haze you can see the splotch of plum purple across your ribs, the torn skin of your left shoulder. A stupid mistake. The Deviant shouldn't have been able to touch you, let alone do this.

There was a reason you hadn’t asked Ajak to heal you. Such a dumb misstep didn’t really deserve a reward. Besides, if you’d asked her Druig would have noticed. They all would have. Standing amidst the scraggily trees, the Deviant corpses nearby, with the rain pouring down from a sky that seemed too grey and tired to manage it, you just hadn’t felt like dealing with the swell of emotion that would come if they knew you were hurt. You didn’t want to worry them, or feel their pity, or disapproval. You didn’t want to deal with any of it, actually.

The thought has your power kicking up, a thin current of electricity scouring across your skin like it could wipe away the anxiety. It’s a reassuring sensation, the energy skittering over your aching flesh, a feeling instead of the numbness that’s engulfed you. But it’s also childish. Immature to need to reach out for reassurance, and at your age. Several thousand years and you still haven’t really grown up.

You scowl, abruptly cutting off the electric current, and turn away from your battered reflection, snagging a towel off the rack as you do.

It's one of those crappy hotel towels that might be repelling the water instead of absorbing it, but you wrap it around yourself anyways in the vague hopes it'll do the job at a later date. Exiting the small bathroom leads you to an equally small room, with the usual – and by now familiar – assortment of mildly ugly brownish-gold duvets, a mismatched chair or two, chipped paint and several insistently bland paintings on the walls.  

The bed isn't comfortable, but you still collapse on it with a blissful sigh, too tempted to resist the chance to lie down. Just for a second. It isn’t like anyone is in the room, anyway.

You lie there, towel wrapped around your torso, staring up at the ceiling, and try not to exist. A futile experiment for an Eternal. There's a horrendous headache imploding behind your eyes, and you think it's kinda unfair Eternals have to deal with those at all, on top of everything else. At least lying down feels (mostly) good on your strained muscles.

Your wounds are still throbbing, but a rest and a day or two will see them healed well enough. The shower has gone some of the way and your supernatural powers will do the rest. Headache proof, no, but at least you recover quickly.

Another sigh, and you tilt your head back, eyes closing. This has been one hell of a road trip. Sprite said it'd be fun – and it has been, sometimes – but getting your ass handed to you this morning by a Deviant that sort of looked like a Yeti crossed with a T-Rex had soured that. You’re just so fucking tired. Tired of strangers, of fighting, of moving, of all of it. You've always been the type to get homesick, which is funny given that you've never had a home. Not a permanent one. The whole never-aging thing tended to get HOAs foaming at the mouth.

Druig's joke, said with a wry smile as you'd packed up the apartment you shared several months ago, ready to chase down the hint of Deviants that Makkari had found in the north. Druig had said it to make you feel better about leaving, and even now you smile wearily, picturing his invitingly ironic expression.

Not a home, that man, but a place to find comfort all the same. At least if you had to travel to the ass-end of nowhere, he could be by your side the whole way.  

You're in some place called Dawson City now. Druig snorted when you drove into the small town that was assuredly not a city, and you concurred. Seemed like the only people who lived here – or would live here, ever – were as far from city-slickers as a bear was from a Deviant.

Was that why the nest of Deviants you'd wiped out this morning had been so fierce? They needed to be that tough to even have a hope of snacking on the folks up here in the Yukon?

A laugh bubbles in your throat but doesn't escape the fatigue sinking thick and languorous through your body. Today has just been – a lot. So much. Just like so many of your days, these last couple of... how long has this been plaguing you? Just years? Decades, now?

In a couple of seconds, you're gonna have to get up, update the maps, figure out where to head next. You and the other Eternals are doing a sweep of the entire Yukon, seeing where you’d missed a monster or five. Druig and the rest will be back soon from their supply run. It'll be good to have a few suggestions ready when they return to the hotel. It’s just Druig and you in this room, but you’ll all gather in Ajak’s room and talk shop around slices of pizza, or maybe a fancy assortment of frozen microwave dinners.

Gil is a great cook, but even he hadn't felt like trying to make meal magic in the grubby hotel. It's fine. You're all used to quick food, anyways. Of course, Kingo is gonna moan and groan like it's poison, but that's fine. You're all used to that, too.

Having some possible places and routes marked out ahead of time will be helpful to get everyone on track. It's the least you can do, after skipping out on the supply run. Druig had looked at you closely when you'd dipped, claiming a headache, and you'd just focused on projecting your tired vibes. It wasn't that hard. You were almost exhausted enough to drown out the guilt, the dejection, without even trying.

Druig probably didn't pick up anything. Or at least not much. Otherwise, he would have stayed. He'd offered to, but you'd squashed that with a brusqueness that might have offended someone who hadn't known you for millennia. Actually, it had slid off him, and he’d pressed you more about it, but eventually you’d managed to convince him to go.   

His concern is just another thing to feel guilty about, but you're just so tired. Too tired to let it cling to you for long. This isn’t new, not by a long shot, but it’s gotten so much worse since leaving for this latest trip. Some days it’s all you can do to get up, let alone plan, or help, or fight. You need to do something about it, but you’re so goddamn exhausted. Besides, you’re an Eternal. None of the others need – anything, to keep going. Not rest, or meds, or to talk. You shouldn’t either.

You don’t want to think about this anymore. Besides, you need to look at the maps. Plan a route. Do something useful.

It’s the least you can do.

You'll do it soon, too. In a couple minutes. The bed is miraculously getting more comfortable, though, sucking you into sleep. A long day. A hard day. You’ll just rest for a bit and then get up. In a couple of minutes...

---

Some time later, there’s a soft whir at the door as it unlocks. When Druig pushes his way into the hotel room, hands loaded down with bags, he only takes a few shuffling steps inside and then pauses, brow furrowing. Almost unwilling, a smile curls the corner of his mouth, and he shakes his head.

You were pretty fucking cute for someone passed out cold in a raggedy towel and nothin’ else.

He takes a few minutes to put the supplies they’d grabbed into some semblance of order, ready to be crammed into the backpacks they’ve got stowed away in their two rental trucks. There’re a few advantages to not taking the Domo – like feeling less like alien interloper overlords, for one – but convenient space isn’t really one of them.

Or more comfortable beds. Druig is surprised you managed to knock out like that, given this hotel’s got mattresses like concrete blocks. You must be really tired. Given the day everyone’s had, he supposes he doesn’t blame you. Besides, maybe the headache really took it out of you.

Once everything is in a semblance of order, he moves closer to you, not quite aware of how much his face has softened. His eyes are settled on your quiet if somewhat dopey expression, good to see after the days (months, years, decades) of stress that've built up in drawn lines over your forehead, a tight smile across your lips.

He knows you want to quit. Throw in the towel – or maybe just sleep in it. Hell, he'd half expected you to refuse when Ajak contacted you both months ago, ordering everyone together again. Another mission. Another group of Deviants to destroy. Another apartment you had just made perfect, with a second-hand couch you were ridiculously proud of and some blinds that almost complemented the wall paint. Another job you loved.

Another goodbye.

It's good you're sleeping. Druig's not even sure if you slept last night, or the night before. Certainly you'd still been sitting up and reading when he'd fallen asleep both nights.

After a moment of hesitation, he reaches out with his power. Carefully – tenderly – he feels along your consciousness, not even fully certain what he's looking for. Not details – he can't get those from other Eternals, can't get through the walls. It's more like standing outside a room with light spilling through the cracks in the door.

It's a light he loves, all the same. Reveres, almost. Maybe it's because he can't see through the door. It's not something Druig thinks about much, anymore. What he does think about is the colour, the vibrancy, the warmth of that light.

Your presence, ever since getting that call from Ajak, has... dimmed. You drag yourself through the motions, and there are flashes of brilliance, amusement, affection – hell, annoyance, even anger. But mostly, you've just been so flat. That’s something you’ve dealt with before, but now it seems to be... He didn’t know. Overwhelming you. Worse than it’s ever been. He doesn’t know why, or how, but it’s there. Impossible to deny.

It pains him to see you like this, aches in a way he didn't expect. A heart-hurt lodged in his chest that he can't get rid of.  

It's not destined to leave tonight. There's not much for him to pick up from your aura. It's just – You're still so tired, he can tell that even from his outside vantage. Even asleep, you're so tired.

His eyes had fluttered closed while he focused, but they slide open now, an aggravated sigh slipping from his lips. How can he help you? Ajak said it isn't something she can heal when he grudgingly approached her about it. (At the risk of his life, given you would have killed him if you found out.) If the healer can't do anything, what can he do? His power isn't – it's not for healing.

With a grimace, Druig shakes his head. Maybe this really is the last of the Deviants. Maybe this time – unlike in Tenochtitlan, unlike in Nagano, unlike in Oymyakon – they'll really be done. The gods know that you and him could use a break. A permanent one, to give you time to recover, whatever that means.

He doesn't want to think about what that means. It's too complicated a question. Besides, they've all been through this too many times. He doesn't know if he'll ever actually believe the Deviants are truly gone. Given the look on your face when you'd heard what Makkari had found in her world travels, nearly seven decades after the last "eradication," Druig's pretty sure you won't ever believe it. Not fully. You're probably gonna live the rest of eternity waiting for another call to arms.

The thought disturbs him more deeply than he knows what to do with, a jagged lance of unease burrowing into his brain. Another shake of his head, more impatient this time, and Druig shoves the idea away. Almost defiant.

You'll get better. He'll make sure of it.

To that end... There are a couple of hangers and an extra blanket in the otherwise bare closet, and he takes the thick material out. Getting you under the covers without waking you up is impossible, so this'll have to do.

The blanket bundled in his arms, Druig hesitates again, though this time it's from affection and not worry. You really do look fucking adorable with your face pressed into the pillow, damp hair straggling across your face, the towel perilously close to falling off completely. In another mood, the sight would have set something burning in his stomach and lower, but as it is, it just tightens his throat. Protectiveness, regret... love.

Except... as he settles the blanket gently over your sleeping form, you shift, turn to your other side, and the cover slips slightly off. His eyes reluctantly move from the amusing picture of your face scrunched into the pillow, and Druig’s gaze catches something he didn’t notice at first. Something on your shoulder. He studies it for a moment, his mouth thinning.

Anger and hurt and fear laps at him, a low tide. Why wouldn't you tell him about this? By now the wound – it looks like a bite that mangled a nice chunk of flesh – is sealed over, but it's still an ugly, enflamed patch in your otherwise smooth shoulder, blood-curdling in how close it is to your neck. The armour helps, but it’s not perfect, and the Deviant must have got a real good grip. It looks painful, even now, and he doesn't like to imagine how much it had hurt when it happened. A stupid pain. A useless pain, when Ajak could have healed it so easily.

So why hadn't you told him?

Druig already knows the answer, even as he soundlessly mouths the question.  

You'd been slow today. Blunt, but true. He'd only half seen it, his attention bent on corralling the hunters the Deviants had been trying to eat to a safer area. One Deviant had approached you from the side as you directed your lightning into crackling spears that drove back another monster threatening Kingo. Druig thought you'd turned, seen the Deviant approaching, and yet when it leaped at you, you – didn't move. Not fast enough.

That’s been a theme, these past few months. A theme he finds so hard to swallow, when you’ve always been the most agile of the Eternals, with the obvious exception of their speedster.

Maybe that's why, when Makkari blew it off you with one of her sonic booms, and you'd sprung to your feet quick enough, Druig accepted you were fine. That you'd channeled enough electricity into its jaws to seize them up and stop it from snapping at you. Because your slip up couldn’t have lasted long enough to really let it get it’s teeth in you.  

Or maybe he's just trying to give himself an excuse, like a fucking coward. He should have asked, pressed, refused to lay off when he could feel how off you were. Are. Of course you wouldn't tell him, or anyone. When have you ever been able to admit a mistake without it all but killing you? And it's only gotten worse with the weight that’s been dragging you down.  

Something... something has to change. Truth be told, Druig isn’t used to dealing with one of his fellows sinking. That’s usually him, with all the shit with the humans and right and wrong hanging around like a sign that points in every direction but straight. But you’re – If Druig believed in gods, believed in them in a way that made them worth worshipping, he’d be praying for help now. For a way to hold you up, or show you how to stand on your own. Anything, anything. Because something has to change.

In your sleep you murmur and twist, pressing your face harder into the pillow as a shadow of something he can’t name crosses your expression. The tightness moves from his throat into his chest, a painful squeeze. His hand hovers for a moment, indecision a paralyzing poison locking his muscles in place. He’s scared to touch you. Scared of waking you up, yeah, but scared that – that he’s the reason for all of this. That he’s an infection, spreading his own cynical view of the world to you, and maybe that’s why you’re so low now. Thousands of years together would rub off on anyone, right?

He can’t reach into your mind to find out what’s hurting you, and maybe that’s the worst part of it all. There isn’t a simple answer in front of him – or any answer – and it’s killing him.

Something has to change.

---

Waking up is all fog and aching. You’re wrapped in blurriness and warmth, a muddle that has you longing to just drift away again. But there’s a nagging feeling stirring in the nest of lethargy, a pricking at the back of your brain that increases as your eyes slowly open. It’s not quite dark, in the... the hotel room. Where you and the rest of the Eternals are staying. Your mind gropes for each fact, finding them only tentatively.

With a low groan, you start to stretch, only to cut yourself short as your body remembers what it takes your memory several more seconds to recall. Right. The whole getting bitten and tossed around by a nightmare monster thing. Your breath catches, and you try again, testing out the pain level. Not so bad. Worse in your shoulder than your ribs.

“A little sore?”

The unexpected (though not unfamiliar) voice has you gasping, and you jolt up into a seated position, electricity automatically sparking along your skin before you snap it off. Your motion makes the blanket covering you fall off and you realize three things simultaneously as it does. One, you’re naked. More concerning, you must have fallen asleep and totally failed to do... hell, anything productive for your family. And maybe worst of all, Druig is on the bed next to you, almost at the very edge of the mattress, but with the low, orange and pink-tinted light slipping through the window, you can tell his eyes are on you. On your broken body.

Instinctively you grab at the blanket, heave it up to hide what he probably already saw. Definitely saw, as your brain keeps catching up with reality and you realize the blanket you’re clutching must have been put on after you fell asleep. “What time is it?” you ask to avoid his question, your voice a croak. Clogged with a sudden surge of emotion at the thought of the tender gesture.

“Around 5 in the morning,” he replies.

You suck in a breath in shock, feeling like the information punched the air out of your lungs. It was – the light was – You’d thought it was the sunset, not the sunrise! How could you have slept so long? The panicked guilt surges, and you move to get to your feet as if there’s anything useful you can do now, the rough towel that had fallen off you rubbing uncomfortably underneath your body

“Stall a sec,” Druig says, and there’s something strange about his voice. It’s too soft, without the sardonic bite you’re used to. As he continues, the note doesn't change. "You don't have to get ready or nothing like that. We're not headin’ out today."

Still you're poised to get up, sick with a shame mired in the sleep-addled fog that's wrapped like cotton around your head. "Not heading out?" you repeat stupidly, which would normally provoke some kind of teasing, but Druig just shakes his head in confirmation. "Why...?"

"Gil found out they've got somethin' called the Sourtoe cocktail at the saloon. Whiskey and a toe. You drink it and get to be part of some club or somethin'. Saloon doesn't open until the Friday, though, so he begged Ajak to stay for today."

You stare at him, trying to find a trace of joking on his face. He seems to be totally serious. Part of you wondering if this is still a dream, you say, "A toe? We're staying for a toe?"

"A toe drink," Druig corrects. "Besides, Makkari mentioned she'd like to visit that Jack London cabin or museum or whatever." His expression turns contemplative. "'Tween you and me, I think she wants to nab one of his journals. Like she's not got enough crap cluttering up her room on the Domo as is."

"And Ajak is okay with this? And Ikaris?" It's the only objection your brain can put forward, although it's a valid one. Those two aren't entirely the types to allow distractions.

"Sersi persuaded Ike. She wants to talk to some of the people here, maybe fix some of their houses when they aren't looking. You know how she is. And Ajak..." He looks away from you. "Ajak agreed we could all use some R&R. Not like those Deviants went down easy yesterday."

Your shoulder twinges when you shift uncomfortably, and he looks up at the motion. Druig hesitates, and then asks, "How are you, anyways?"

Pasting on a flaky smile is easier than speaking the lie, but you manage both. "I'm good. After sleeping for like 12 hours, I'd better be, hey?" You don't feel like you slept that long. Or maybe you do. Maybe that's the reason for the lassitude weighing down your limbs and everything else, too.

You don't like lying to Druig. To any of your family, but him especially. Not least because he sees through it so often. After several millennia together, he seems to know when you're talking bullshit, even if he can't read your mind.

His head tilts as he considers that. If he knows you, you know him, too, and you can tell by the way his mouth is pulling down at the corner that he doesn't believe you. That knowledge has your stomach tightening, more shame and frustration. You’ve talked to him about how you’re feeling before. Or more specifically, he’s pried admissions from you, from time to time. It’s just that neither of you know what to do with the information. It’s not like there’s an Eternals therapy hotline.  

Besides, you don't want to worry him, or disappoint him, and you're fine. You're fine. There's no reason for him to be worrying.

And even if you're not fine, there's nothing he can do about it, so what's the point of getting him involved?

"Really," you insist into the long pause, hoping he'll just leave it alone. "Guess my headache just took me out. If it's not Deviants it's something else, right?" Your laugh is a weak thing that trails off quickly.

That irritates him; his eyebrows draw down, lips thinning even further. His voice isn't harsh when he replies, though. Just strained. "I saw your shoulder last night. Your headache grow teeth when you weren't looking?"

Of course he saw. Of course he won't leave it alone. "It was nothing. Just a scrape."

"Yeah? Then it must be gone by now, huh?"

You glare and don't drop the blanket, a mixture of annoyance and guilt surging in your gut. And something deeper. Heavier. Something like despair, but with less of a name.

When you don't respond, the blanket clutched protectively around your shoulders, he exhales. "Love..." Druig starts softly, wavers. "I know y'won't let Ajak look at it. I guess there's no point in asking?"

Biting your lip makes pain bloom across your mouth, which is better to focus on than the pain laced through his voice. A quick shake of your head because you can't think of anything to say.

Druig leans towards you, reaches out. You stiffen, half expecting him to try to snag the blanket away, but he just puts his hand on your leg like he can't stand not having the contact. "What about begging?" he asks, low and fervent as his fingers stroke lightly along your leg, over the covers. "Would that do it?"

"I’m fi–" The words catch in your throat, and you have to force them out. “It's fine, Druig. I don't wanna bother Ajak for something so small."

"She wouldn't mind."

You know that's true, and yet... It's pathetic, but you can't face Ajak. What if she knows there's something wrong with you? What if it's something she can sense? How can you tell your leader, the woman you look up to in so many ways, that after thousands of years you want an end? That you're too weak to go on forever?

She'll understand. Of course she will; she's Ajak. But that understanding, that acceptance of your weakness, that's almost worse than contempt.

"No, Druig." Your voice comes as a brittle snap, almost cracking, and you force yourself to smile and lighten the tone. "It's ugly as hell but it'll heal quickly." Please leave it alone.

In the washed out lighting, it's hard for even your enhanced eyesight to be sure, but his eyes seem red when they meet yours. It occurs to you to wonder if he's been awake all this time, watching over you... agonizing over you, wearing himself thin for something he shouldn’t have to care about. Please, Druig, you find yourself thinking, so violently it's almost desperation, just leave it alone.

And you ignore the smaller, shakier voice whimpering something along the lines of help.

Maybe you think it hard enough, maybe it really does emanate from you – or maybe Druig just knows. Either way, after a moment, his hand tightens on your leg, and he nods once. Nods again, confirming it to himself. "Okay," he murmurs. "If you're sure."

A quick, jerky bob of your head, and his grip relaxes, once again back to soothing as he smooths over the cover. "Mmkay. You wanna try to go back to sleep for a couple hours? I can grab your sleeping stuff."

Getting changed means letting him see your shoulder – or asking him to look away, which, given how long you've been fucking, would just be weird – so you say quickly, "No, that's okay. I'm – this is comfortable." By this time you're not really tired, not in the way that calls for more sleep, but you don't want to say no yet again. Worst come to worst you'll just lie there until 7 or something.

For the first time, a hint of the familiar sardonic note enters his voice. "You wanna sleep in the towel? Comfy."

Responding to the provoking tone, you reply archly, "Who said I was gonna put on the towel?"

He laughs, a low sound that burns away some of the fog in your stomach. "Fair enough. Who'm I to argue with the likes of that?"

When Druig leans over, you close your eyes and let him kiss you. In this, at least, in the taste and touch of him, there's a little relief. A little life where everything else feels so dead. You're so drained you don't feel up to deepening the kiss, to threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer, but you savour the comfort and connection that this brings. If only for a moment.

He makes to pull away, pauses, and then returns like he can't quite bear to break off. Hand moving up to find your waist under the blanket, Druig holds you as he murmurs against your lips, "I love you. Y'know that?"

"I know," you respond unevenly, fighting back the leaden tears prickling in your eyes. "I love you so goddamn much, too."

It's so true.

So why isn't it enough to fill the hollow emptiness?

Finally you draw back from him, and slowly, reluctantly, he lets you go. "Get some more sleep, love. You'll feel better."

"Mmhm."

Going a little against your word, you wrap the towel back around yourself as you lie down under the blanket, and Druig joins you. Under the same blanket, in his boxers, but keeping his hands to himself. It's not like sleeping in the nude is unheard of for either of you, but today – today you need a little shield. Even if it's damp and, now that you're not on the verge of passing out, pretty damn uncomfortable.

Maybe a sad, wet towel is exactly what you deserve.

There’s a part of you that knows how silly and pitiful your wallowing is, but it’s not a strong enough presence to knock you out of it. You just curl up, your back to Druig, eyes closed but sleep far from your mind. He’s so close, but he’s so far away from you. How can you build that bridge when everything is splintering inside you?

Your thoughts keep circling from one bleak thing to another. Your failure with the Deviant, falling asleep when you shouldn’t have, the fact that Deviants still exist, the fact that Deviants will always exist and there’s nothing you can do to get rid of them or stop this incessant cycle of fight and kill and rest and fight again. There’s nothing you can do. Everything is so fucking miserable and you don’t want to be here anymore...

You couldn’t have said how long you lay in the semi-dark, sleepless and hopeless. It went on unending, just like your life. On and on and–

His hand is a heavy weight on your hip that anchors your spiralling thoughts. “Can’t sleep?” Druig whispers, and of course he knew you were awake. The gratitude swells and meets the dull despair darkening your insides and it's impossible to say which one is stronger. Maybe your reply is the answer, as you desperately try to keep a tight hold on the gratitude amidst an impulse to brush him off. "I guess. Sorry if I'm keeping you up."

"It's fine. I couldn't fall asleep, anyways."

That sends a sharp pang through your chest, knowing well enough why he can't sleep, and your eyes open. "Sorry," you repeat softly.

He slips his hand over your hip and further, lightly shoving up the towel until his palm is spread wide against your stomach and the touch makes your breath spill out. "S'okay," he murmurs as he hugs you one-handed, and the warmth of his bare chest against your back is another spark filling up the emptiness.

Arm wrapped around you, he asks, "Wanna talk about it?"

You stiffen in his embrace automatically, accidentally. This has been a conversation between the two of you before, one you've fought and twisted and even snapped too hard to get out of. You can't explain it – you can hardly bear to acknowledge it – and having another Eternal, a man with far more reason than you to crumble, trying to be understanding and find a solution when there isn't one is something you can't accept. "No," you say, your voice hoarse with the weight of that answer.

There's a moment of silence as Druig struggles to find a response, a way forward. There's tension in the arms holding you. You cringe internally, fighting resentment that he feels the need to press, an anger that clashes with the piteous gratitude that he's still asking.

Eventually Druig's arms tighten, drawing you closer to him, and you can feel how deliberately he lightens his tone. "Okay." He kisses your ear, a gentle press. "If you can't sleep, how about we do somethin’ else?" is his quiet but oh-so-blatant suggestion.

You stir in his embrace, emotions clashing in the pit of your gut. A flare of affection and something hotter, but over it all the suffocating mantle of your fatigue. And guilt. Always, always the guilt.

You're not enough for yourself, so how can you possibly be enough for anyone else?

"Druig, I'm sorry but I'm not sure..." Before you can find words to express the bewildering, pathetic lack of energy, your companion eases away the stagnant pause.

"Not about me today, love. I'm not asking you for anythin'. Just wanna help."

Even as he speaks, Druig draws his hand up your stomach, under the towel, a tingling trail as his fingers barely skim your skin. The touch remains a graze of contact that he doesn't deepen, just traces delicate, aimless patterns over your ribs, your sternum, your breasts. Waiting for you.

Your eyes have screwed shut, and you're so torn. You feel stretched tight between two desires, so painfully thin that his fingers might pass through you at any moment. Your depression, heavy as a black hole, dragging you to the center of exhaustion. And then your longing – aching – for a reason, a moment, a second in eternity to feel good.

Druig ducks his head and kisses your neck where it meets your shoulder. "Come back to me, yeah?" he whispers, and the plea is so imploring and so, so lost. As lost as you feel.

Your voice is broken when you reply. "I don't know how."

You can feel his breath, gently expelled against your skin in a sigh. Then his fingers are moving, finding one of your nipples and caressing it, just hard enough to send a prickle of pleasure through your chest, through everything else.

"Focus on this," he instructs, a low command that swirls through your head, for all the world like telepathy. "Just this, love."

"I–"

"Shh. Just this." Druig kisses your neck again, higher, right below your ear this time, and he rolls the sensitive bud of your nipple between his adept fingers as you exhale shakily.

He knows you so well. Even when everything else is adrift and there's nothing you can find in the sea of black, his touch is an island in the midst of drowning. Something to cling to as the world washes away. You open your eyes against the darkness inside, letting in the bare morning light, trying to make yourself relax, to just – be. Just this.

Cupping your breast now, gently massaging, inspiring a soft bloom of enjoyment that makes you exhale again. "There's a good girl,” Druig hums. “Remember this?”

A line of kisses down your neck, across your shoulder, brushing over the tattoo on your shoulder blade. You do remember, vividly, like each sweet press is a breadcrumb in the forest, leading you through the dark trees to a place that’s almost home. Instinctively you tilt your head back, letting yourself rest against his strong chest, and Druig knows it for the encouragement it is. He pauses, takes his hand away from your breast to tug at the towel still wrapped around your torso. "Mind if I take this off?"

Rather than replying, you scrabble at the towel yourself, yanking it off and then writhing to get it out from under you. It's thrown into a heap on the floor, and Druig is quick to throw back the blanket, leaving it rumpled at the end of the mattress as he pulls you back against his chest.

Part of you doesn't know what you're doing. You're well enough aware that this isn't going to solve anything. It's pointless. The fact that Druig wants to help you – desperately, you can tell, from the pressure of his hands, the timbre of his voice – is an ache that's too complicated to put a name to, settled at the base of your throat and making it harder to breathe.

At the same time... it feels so good when he drags his fingers over your stomach and then lower, dipping down to caress the insides of your thighs with languid focus. It's not a blaze, some all-encompassing desire made of sweat and heat and urgency. You've had that with Druig, so many times, but this is softer, not as demanding. It's less of a chase and more of a stroll in the sun, no destination in mind. Warm and safe and comforting.

And somehow still not enough.

That's a wrenching thought that has frustration lancing through your muscles, tightening them into bundles of aggravation. Druig feels it; he must, because he's suddenly pulling away from your back.

Regret cascades down your cold spine, regret that you always have to make it more difficult than it should be. Why can't you just take what you’re given? Just accept it? Why does this have to be so hard?

Before those questions can turn into something with teeth, Druig is leaning over you, and you shift to lie flat on your back and look up at his shadowed face. Natural as breathing, he moves so that he’s on his knees at your side, all the while watching you. He takes his time, searching your expression with eyes that are almost too intense in their passion. Those same beautiful blues aren't slicked over with gold, so he's not trying to read you, at least not deeply. But all the same, you shift uncomfortably, suddenly afraid. Druig doesn't really need his telepathy to decipher people, sometimes, and he certainly doesn’t need it just to feel someone’s general mood.  

One side of you hopes he can pick something up, some way out that you can't find in yourself. An answer, you're praying for an answer, but what if all he sees is – nothing? What if you're really as empty as you feel?

Druig reaches out, cups your jaw with almost unbearable gentleness. As his thumb strokes along your cheek, his intent look doesn't ease. "You gotta let go of it," he says finally. When your jaw tenses, ready with a retort, he smiles, just a bare twist of his lips. "I know, I know. Easier said, huh? But love... Trust me on this. Just now, right now, let go."

The tears are back, stinging in your eyes. “Help me?” you ask, hating how weak you are but knowing all the same that if there’s anyone on the planet you can turn to without fear, it’s Druig.

And you’re right. Druig’s smile warms, his grip on your face becomes just a little firmer, and he urges your chin up, ducking to press a long, slow kiss into your neck. "I can feel you, love," he whispers, and you shiver at that prospect. With the sheer intimacy of it. “I know you’re tired. And that’s okay. You can be tired today, tomorrow. S’okay. We’ll get through it.”

You don’t know if you believe that, but there’s the whisper of his mouth ghosting along your jaw, just skimming your lips before he pulls up, and you can drown your disbelief in that feeling. If his touch wasn’t here to ground you right now, you’d – you’d be falling to fucking pieces. Or at least smaller pieces than you’ve already broken in to. But he is here, so soothing as he feels down your side, too gentle to provoke pain even in your bruised flesh. His fingers once again slip between your thighs, other hand still caressing your face, and the reverent look in his eyes...

You don’t know if you can get through this, but that look promises a time when you’re not broken, but whole.  

And his touch, too, promises fullness, as if the emptiness inside you is just a dream to be forgotten on the morrow. His fingers brush your folds, and your legs fall open wider, welcoming the sensation. “Beautiful,” Druig all but sings, and his fingers are a counterpart to his lilting accent as they ease inside your cunt and inspire a breathy gasp.

He dips down, mouths along your collarbone, to the crook of your neck. Slower now, tenderly pressing kisses to the outside of your wound, not enough to inspire pain, only fondness. Then he goes lower still, finding one nipple and swirling his tongue around it in a heady wash of warmth. And all the while his hand is a fervent disciple to your need, thumb circling your clit, fingers working with languid concentration to draw out more gasps. Over it all, a steady stream of murmurs breathed against your skin, the words oxygen to your suffocating heart. “You feel so good, my love. That’s a good girl. Just relax... Christ, fuck, you’re so lovely.”

The build of pleasure is slow, your depressed body and mind resistant to the call of buoyant oblivion, but Druig is patient. He has all the time in the world, after all. Steadily, then, he works you over, touching you in the ways you like best, heedless of anything so mortal as the clock ticking on. His patience is rewarded with the wetness between your legs, by your moans, by the way your hips begin to buck in slow, indolent rolls into his hand. Heat builds in your core, in that cold void, not hot enough to burn, but secure as a hearth fire all the same.  

Your power becomes restless, like a muscle aching to be stretched, and gingerly you let it loose, just a low trickle. Druig sucks in a breath when it arcs between him and you, but there’s no pain on his face, and you know from past experience that the sensation is a pleasant one as long as you keep it muted. That’s not a challenge anymore, and the buzz of electricity along your skin is an added sensation, putting more into a vessel that’s nearing capacity.

“Druig,” you whimper when he slips three fingers inside, the stretch an ache that sets your already humming pulse to a higher pace. “I want – I want–” The pleasure is a cloud you’re grateful to sink into, but it’s stealing your words, leaving you to meet his piercing blue gaze with pleading need.

His touch relaxes, but only for a moment. “I know,” Druig murmurs, and the pressure he’s applying to your clit increases, making your whole body tense with the edge you’re hovering over. He pumps into you a little deeper, a little faster, and the waves tingle over your body, your eyes heavy with the need to close. You keep them open, though, fixed on Druig. You know he loves watching you come undone under his hands, and today his expression is even more attentive than usual, adjusting his tempo and depth to every spasm across your face and every cry you make.

“Just a little more, love,” is his appeasing response to your increasingly urgent whines, and he isn’t wrong. Just a little more, of his fingers curling in the wet warmth of your cunt, of his thumb against your clit, of his other hand twisting the sensitive bud of your breast. Just a little more, floating over the verge in weightless bliss, and with Druig against you, the loneliness and heaviness retreating to somewhere far away. Just a little more...

Another crook of the fingers that know you so well, and you gasp, your core tightening, thighs clamping around his hand. Your orgasm dances over your skin, a series of tingling, light waves that are just as gentle as his touch. The center of you is filled to the brim, and it’s like the pleasure is overfilling, sending little ripples outwards. Druig slows but doesn’t stop, prolonging the swells of warm electricity, making you writhe and pant, and you’re not too far gone to deliberately bask in the realization of his promise, to revel in a moment when your lungs are full and the tiredness is translated into contentment.

He hasn’t stopped watching you, and as the orgasm fades and you sag, your legs falling open, eyelids fluttering, Druig sighs. “So fuckin’ beautiful.” It’s impossible to doubt those words when they’re said in such an awed voice, and the reverential, reluctant way he draws his fingers from your cunt just reinforces that.

Breathless with the airy pleasure in your chest, you say, “Tangled hair and all, huh?” Easy to make that joke; your appearance isn’t one of the things that Druig has let you have any insecurity about over the years.

With a snort, he cleans his hand off on the bedding before running it through the truly frightening snarl your unbrushed hair has become. “Gives you a certain je ne sais quoi, sure.” He butchers the French purposefully, making you laugh, and then his eyes become more serious as they scan over you. You can see the question on the tip of his tongue, and you don’t want to answer it.

Instead you reach up with both hands, catch him with arms around his shoulders, and bring him to you. Your tongue parts his lips, and he hums against your mouth, even that vibration sending a warm spark of pleasure through your nerves.

But though the invitation is there in your embrace, Druig doesn't collapse against you. He breaks the kiss after a moment, stays hovering above you, that same intense consideration in his eyes. Even with all the relaxed gratification spread through your muscles, you go rigid, waiting to brush away the concern, smile away the questions.

He surprises you, though you shouldn't be surprised that your lover can pivot around your prickles after so long together. "Still so tense," Druig comments, dragging a thumb down your hard jaw.

You flush, taken aback when you'd been expecting a question. When you start to look away, he clicks his tongue reprovingly. "Not on you, love. Just means I gotta do a better job, huh?"

Your mouth draws up, but the smile you're trying to put on misses the latch and falls away. "Might be too much for you." A joke, but a warning, too. No matter how good Druig can make you feel in a moment, you're starting to believe it doesn't matter. That you're always going to go back to that dark place. It's happening already.

"Ye of little faith," drawls the man leaned over you, and though he smirks as he says it, you can see a mix of sorrow and determination in the heavy furrow of his eyebrows.

You know Druig, and once the other Eternal decides to walk a road, he doesn’t alter his path easily. Not with the decision to leave Tenochtitlan and you for the humans. Not with rejoining the group, when that nest of Deviants was found more than two hundred years ago. And not now. You’ve learned of Druig’s relentlessness, but you’ve yet to find a way to change his mind once he’s made it.

With his usual lithe poise, still smirking, Druig moves to kneel between your legs, hands resting on the jut of your hips. "Ready to become a believer?" he asks. Challenges, chin high and gaze evaluating.

"Druig..."

When his fingers move to trace along your stomach and then drop lower with silky grace, you're still sensitive from before, and your head falls back, breath halting in your lungs. Fighting to get your oxygen back, you repeat more firmly, "Druig."

His hand stills, and Druig looks at you earnestly. "Say you've had enough today and I'll stop. You know that."  

That makes your breath explode out, and you couldn’t have said if it was from frustration or affection. "I know. And I – fuck, I don't want you to stop." The gods knew that to be true, but– "I just..." It's almost physically painful to confess, but his hands are on your skin, drawing you out. "I don't want to disappoint you."

"Ah, love," he says, and your heart almost breaks with the sheer adoration in the words. "You could never disappoint me."  

Then he's bending to press kisses against your hips, the inside of your thighs, just a touch of teeth in the contact, just enough to make your muscles tremble, your toes curling with anticipation for what's to come. He's decided to do this, no matter if it works or not – and you can't keep resisting.

Your fingers curl in his hair, more for the grounding than for control. But as Druig keeps his lips everywhere but the pulsing of your cunt, you tighten your grip, feeling the scrape of his scalp beneath your demanding fingers. His laugh slides out, just the right shade of taunting to have your heart slamming into your ribs, a new wave of desire pitching over the rim of your control. A moan rips out of you, and he laughs again, huskier this time.

Thankfully, he also takes your cue. Mouth finding your cunt, Druig tongues your dripping folds, his arms wrapping around your legs and holding them open when the sharp stimulation makes them tighten, threatening to close. "Christ," Druig rasps, the vibration of his voice another pleasure added to the mix. "You taste so good, love." The way he sucks on your clit makes you believe him, if the work his tongue is doing didn't already.  

"So good," he groans into your pussy, and your breath is somewhere outside your body, certainly not in your lungs. Druig pulls away for a moment to press a few more kisses into your thighs, and the sight is almost enough to make you come right there. Hair messy and sweat-darkened against his forehead, face flushed, and lips stained with your pre-cum, he looks so fucking good that you can't control another moan that rises out of you.

And you're glad you didn't control it, as Druig ruts into the bed at the sound, an eager bid for friction against his groin.

He curses roughly, returns to your cunt, tongue thick and greedy as it shoves into you. One of his hands abandons your leg, slips inside his boxers, and it's your turn to laugh, a breathless exhale.

The laugh turns into a grunt, because Druig's thumb is rubbing your clit while his mouth works elsewhere. He's still touching himself with his other hand, groaning at the taste and sound of you, and the sight combined with his expert tongue turns your nerves into livewires.

It's a broad, sizzling pleasure, deeper in your core than the first time, so deep it feels it might actually be reaching somewhere that matters.

"Druig," you gasp, falter, fighting for the words. "I want you now, now – inside me, please. Please!"

That wasn't the plan, not his plan, anyways, but you don't care, your cunt throbbing to be filled with him. And he's flexible in more ways than one, as he shoves down his boxers at your pleading, kisses your cunt one last time with a tenderness that only sets the aching to a heavier level. Then he's moved himself over you, eyes on your face, drinking in your glazed expression before crushing your mouths together.

A moment later, Druig is entering you, not quite so gentle now, his cock thick and exactly right in how it stretches your cunt out. You arch up into him, relishing the contact, the way his sweat and scent and presence washes over you. He kisses your strangled moans out of your mouth, his tongue swiping across your teeth and stealing the sounds.

In his slow, deep thrusts, in the way he slides so easily into your center, in the way your bodies fit together, there’s another promise fulfilled. Because – with Druig inside you, with his head dropped and lips pressed against your collarbone, with the horrible hollowness filled – you find yourself believing. Only for this moment, this fraction of eternity, but you believe. That this is enough. That with Druig, you can find an answer to the emptiness. That gravity can’t lay a claim to you forever.

Only for this moment, and this moment is enough.

"More," you huff, hands on the small of his back, urging him on. "More, Druig, I want you, I want you!" All of him, filling up the space inside of you, and he does exactly as you ask, strokes going to the hilt of his cock, stretching you out until it feels like the filaments of your body are about to shatter.

You come before him, a combustion in your core that's denser, hotter than your first orgasm. It spills across your muscles like fire over oil, greedily consuming every piece of you. Nails digging into his back, hard enough to leave marks, you cry out, hips rolling to keep the sparks jolting through your body. Sparks literal and figurative, as your power flickers across your skin in volatile lines of light and heat that fuel rather than dispel your pleasure.

The electricity leaps into Druig and amps him up, too, his panting becoming harsher, pupils blown, hands grinding into the bed sheets and all but ripping them off the mattress as he balances himself.

His thrusts become erratic, jarring your hips as you rise up to meet him, welcoming the impact. "Christ, Christ, you're just–"

With a choked groan, Druig comes, spilling himself into you in a gush of warmth and liquid. He bucks several more times, amplifying the thrill in your belly, and you're both so wet there's almost no friction, just the slick slide of his cock against your walls.

When at last his arms spasm and he collapses on top of you, you're both quivering, breath and bodies spent. The current you're generating fizzes and dies, the sudden absence of the lightning more than made up for by the feel of his flushed skin against your own. As is his tendency, he buries his face into the crook of your neck, panting, one hand resting on your chest, feeling your heartbeat under his palm. In turn you run your hand through his hair, stroking the messy strands away from his forehead as you try to catch your breath.

Eventually, as the trembling subsides, he makes to pull out, and you grab his shoulders to keep him still. His questioning eyes find yours, and there's been too much emotion today, early as it is, for you to be embarrassed. "Stay inside me?" you ask quietly. "Just for a bit?"

The cool blue of his gaze softens, and he nods. "I could manage that."

You both twist so that you're lying a little more easily, legs intertwined, heat sultry between you where your bodies are touching - which is almost everywhere. It's not all that comfortable, except it is, because even with Druig soft, barely inside you, there's a sense of presence in the void of your chest, a shade of peace in the silence. With him so close, his limbs draped over you, it's like something besides gravity is weighing you down. Something more solid than your overwhelming sadness.

Holding his hand, you trace the familiar terrain of his knuckles, your thumb brushing over their rough peaks and valleys. After a moment, Druig changes the grip, brings up your clasped hands and kisses your fingers, one at a time.

The morning light spills like honey across his face, and Druig doesn't say anything. He knows you too well. You've known each other for so long, now.

"Druig?" Your lover hums a reply, eyes fixed on you. "I can't talk about it now. But maybe..." Maybe when this trip is finished. Maybe when all the Deviants are dead. Maybe when this is all over and the years have passed and you can find your courage.

Druig fills in your blanks, like he's done for a millennia. "Whenever you're ready," he says, softly, fervently. Another promise. "I'll be here."

Felix's fingers tap along his thigh, almost like they're composing some kind of symphony or figuring out Morse code, but when Oliver glances his way, the man's eyes are on his own textbook. For a second Oliver really can't tell if it's purposeful, but then Felix can't hold it in and a pleased curve at the corner of his mouth gives up the game. It's a breezy little smirk that makes Ollie want to lean over and kiss him.

Or maybe smack him upside the head. This exam is important.

A compromise of sorts, catching the long, elegant fingers and stilling them. Felix makes a half-hearted attempt to escape, shifting in the chair that's jammed close enough that they can share the one-person desk, but when Oliver lightly tightens his grip, he gives up. Leaving his hand in Oliver's, resting together on Oliver's thigh.

For a few minutes that solves the problem. With the warmth of Felix's skin against his palm, Oliver can mostly go back to concentrating on The Second Coming by Yeats and artists' and scholars' discussions of societal collapse.

On a Wednesday afternoon, Felix's room is quiet, no people booking it up and down the dorm halls outside. The sunlight is drifting lazily through the window, and it's hot but not the unbearable temperatures of last week. The books strewn haphazardly over Felix's bed, desk and the floor speak to the several hours they've already put in to studying.

Just a few more – or more like ten – and Oliver might actually be ready for the exam tomorrow.

If he isn't booked for murder some time today, that is.

The eraser – one of those cutesy pink things in the vague shape of a bunny – comes hopping across his textbook, blocking the words. When Ollie glances up with mingled frustration and amusement, its mover is grinning unrepentantly, the afternoon sun spilling over his face like honey. In that golden light his features are blurred, softened, but still so achingly familiar. It's totally unfair that Oliver's breath catches in his throat at the brilliance of Felix's smile; how the hell is he supposed to scold him if he can barely breathe?

"You wanna hop over to the dining hall for a break?" Felix asks, and he's kinda trying to be clever but mostly he sounds like a hopeful kid.

A second of focus brings his breath somewhat under control, and Oliver sighs. "Aw, Felix, we gotta keep on. Dinner's not for..." He checks the clock and can barely keep from wincing. "We got a couple hours yet."

"Mate, we've been at this for hours," Felix complains, the lolly making a popping sound as he pulls it out of his mouth. "I can't read any more shit about urns or albatrosses or bloody abbeys, I really can't."

It’s a little unfortunate that Felix is probably close to telling the truth. Whereas Oliver can concentrate on things for hours at a time, powering through feverish cram sessions to get some measure of a handle on his studies, the man next to him isn’t like that. Not even when he wants to be, and he doesn’t want to be very often. Even during this session, where Oliver knows Felix has been genuinely trying, he’s still been messing around on and off. Playing on his Nintendo DS, making rubber band slingshots, texting with friends, drawing scribbles up and down the pages of his notes. Probably been through like ten lollypops at this point.

Felix can probably get away with it, but Ollie can’t. He needs this mark to keep his scholarship.

“Just an hour more, okay? We can piss off and do something else in a bit.”

With a loud groan, Felix throws his head back, glares up at the ceiling. He stays in that position, sulking and avoiding eye contact. Oliver would be more concerned, more guilty, but he knows his boyfriend isn’t seriously annoyed. If he was, he would have yanked his hand away, maybe flipped his textbook closed and flung himself on his bed in a fit of pique. In a few minutes he’ll relax, find something to do, and Ollie can get this done.

Unless the thing that Felix chooses to do is stare at him. Which is exactly what he does.

Oliver becomes aware of the weight of his gaze after a few moments. It makes his skin prickle in a thrilling way, just a little bit abashed, just a little bit elated. He risks a glance and sure enough, Felix is watching him with those rich brown eyes, the lollypop idle in his hand as he chews on his lip. There's something provoking about the look, but Oliver can't address it right now, he can't.

Though he shifts his eyes back to his textbook, Oliver isn't really seeing the words. The same sentence passes through his head five or six times without comment, and still Felix doesn't stop staring.

He shouldn't encourage the man, but – "What?"

"What?" Felix replies, innocence saturating his deep baritone. When Oliver exhales sharply, Felix makes a vague gesture with the lolly, like he's conducting the annoyance away.

"I like the way you look when you're studying, Ollie. You're so focused, and you get this little scrunch, right..." He reaches out, trails his thumb over the skin between Oliver's eyebrows, almost like he's smoothing out the strain there. "It's cute."

The scowl Oliver adopts feels very put on. "It'll be less cute when I kill you."

Felix laughs, the sound rolling out easy and luxurious. He thumbs at the spot on Oliver's forehead, and Oliver realizes he's scrunching there again. "See? Cute."

"Felix..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, mate. Studying." And with a roll of his eyes that isn't too mocking, Felix takes his hand away, turns back to his own textbook.

And for another thirty minutes or so, there's peace.

Oliver does his best to focus. He really does. But in truth, and it's actually not Felix's fault, he's finding it hard. Yeah, he can concentrate for a long time, but this is going on their sixth hour with just a break for scarfed snacks shoved somewhere in there. His head is starting to ache, eyes sore, and the lines of text blur frustratingly from his reaching mind. The feeling that he's not understanding the content makes his stress spike, which in turn makes it harder to focus, which –

Felix gets up from the chair next to Ollie. Oliver assumes his boyfriend is hitting the bathroom or maybe caving to another session of distraction, and in the midst of his frustration and stress he’s aware of where Felix is but not what he’s doing. However, a moment later and Felix's tall form is almost draped over Oliver from behind, bent practically double to engulf him in a hug within the chair. He presses a light kiss to Oliver's ear before mumbling, "Come on, mate. It's time for a break, yeah?"

"I've gotta –"

"It's gonna be here when you get back, Ollie. Look, I know you're smarter than me, but it's kinda dumb to keep pushing yourself like this. I've heard you sigh like ten times now. A break will help."

Hands tense on the desk, not able to take as much comfort in Felix's embrace as he should, Oliver mutters, "It's this damn poem. 'A vision out of Spiritus Mundi'? What the hell is that? I mean, the rest is fine, but that –"

"Which poem is it?" Felix interrupts, not letting him go into a spiralling rant. "One of Blake's?"

"No, The Second Coming. Yeats."

Low and reverberating, Felix's scoff rumbles from his chest and through Ollie's back, right to his heart. "You know enough about second comings already, Ollie. And three times, too."

Despite himself, Oliver has to laugh at that. Low and tired and fading out too quickly, but he laughs. "Guess we should both be experts."

"Now you're catching on, mate. Now..." Felix's arms tighten, so secure around Oliver's shoulders. "You're going to stop ignoring your expert boyfriend, and we're going to get something to eat. We'll relax and then I swear – I swear – you'll have enough time to study later."

It's not something new, but Oliver feels a flicker of resentment at Felix's confidence. Of course Felix – with his connections, his name, his wealth, his everything – can speak so easily about "enough time". He'll have enough time to do anything for his entire life and if he doesn't he'll just buy it or get someone to lend it to him. But Oliver isn’t so lucky. He has to do well on this exam, and the next, and the next, and –

"Ollie," Felix pleads, sincere and lively, his breath warm on Oliver's skin. His big hands reach out to grab Oliver's textbook, half threatening to close the hefty tome, but he doesn't go all the way. Felix waits, his chest pressed to Oliver's back, and Oliver can feel the vibrating impatience in the other man. But he waits.

Inexplicably, the sun has oriented itself to one flower in particular, maybe just as much as the flower has oriented itself to the sun’s brilliant glow. And Oliver might not have money or influence or enough hours of sleep to be getting on with, but he has Felix. Even in the midst of looming exams and assignments and the muggy slog of exhaustion, having Felix makes everything feel so much lighter. Brighter.

With a low sigh, a releasing of the tension and the frustration, Oliver tilts his head back to rest against Felix’s shoulder. “You’re such a brat.”

A chuckle that rolls easily to Oliver’s ears. “Venetia would agree.” Felix takes Oliver’s relaxation for the permission it is and flips the textbook shut. Then he’s nuzzling into the crook of Oliver’s neck, several quick, tender kisses that scour the fatigue away. At least a little.

Under his hands, the grainy wood of the railing offers a firm support, and Druig automatically tightens his grip, adjusting his stance as the ship rolls over the next small swell. It’s all the help he needs to keep his balance, and his mind isn’t on the stabilizing act; it’s on the early morning horizon, a swath of dark ocean and orange-red streaked skies. His eyes probe the distance, looking to catch sight of what he’s been waiting to see since the sun began rising.

Kinda idiotic, really. Standing here, waiting. She’ll get here when she gets here.

But nonetheless, Druig keeps up his vigil, if only to see her that much sooner.

Around him, the crew are bustling, and their chatter sweeps over him. None talk to him directly – actually, they avoid the area he’s claimed like it’s got the Black Death – but he doesn’t blame them. Usually, it takes at least a couple of years for the humans to develop any level of comfort with Druig in their midst, and these people have known him all of two weeks. The whole thing with the pirates who’d tried to attack the vessel several days ago probably hadn’t done much for their relaxation levels, either.  

Don’t interfere, that’s the rule, but Druig needs this ship, and the men to crew it. He couldn’t have it sunk or captured. Besides, he thinks having the pirates cut down their stupid flag and then throw all their weapons overboard made enough of a point. It was kinder than his first thought, which had been to make them jump overboard and then leave them there.

Maybe they’d realized that was a possibility. Either way, when he released them from his power, they’d limped away quick enough.

He and Makkari aren’t hugely concerned about the Portuguese sailors knowing they’re... well, what they are. But they hadn’t told them when they took passage, because if they had, one of two things would have happened. They would have been denied passage and had to seek another ship, or Druig would have had to take control of them and force them onto the open seas. And what a nasty voyage that would have been, driving home the very reason he hates himself.

Thus, a little lie. Interest in researching the flora and fauna of a remote chain of islands off the coast of South Africa. An impulsive noble fancying himself a scholar, recently made rich by the passing of his not dearly departed da. Makkari, his trustworthy and competent assistant. Druig had ignored the thoughts that floated in the sailors’ minds when they looked at her, like scum at the top of a pond. If he judged humans for every reprehensible thought they had, his life would be a helluva lot less complicated. He woulda been able to drop the question of what they deserve the first day he set foot on the planet.

Besides, it was strange, a woman of her stature – not to mention her obvious confidence – travelling so freely with a noble. Even when she isn’t moving at her natural speed, Makkari shines, and they aren’t used to seeing it. So Druig forgives them the thoughts... and tries not to glare too much. He’s failed at several points, but he tries. That’s the best anyone can do. The sailors chalked the scowling to him being a stuck up eccentric, probably from one of those “damn universities.”

After the little spat with the pirates, that story is out the window. If he could have hidden his part in it, Druig might have, but the glowing eyes gave the game away. Too late to take back now.

The crew hadn’t asked him about it. Several had crossed themselves when it happened, going cross-eyed trying to watch the pirates and Druig at the same time, and the captain had spat and then loudly harangued everyone back to work. Funny thing about sailors. They were some of the most superstitious lot he’d ever met, but they were also stolidly practical. Don’t look a gift Eternal in the mouth and all that.

It probably helped that he and Makkari had paid a king’s ransom for this particular voyage. Literally. He’s pretty sure one of the gold statues they’d traded had been involved in the ransom of a king, somewhere down the line.

At least it meant Makkari could move without reservations. Next to mind control, what’s super speed? After that encounter, she’d started zipping around when the mood took her, and if the watchman in the crow’s nest nearly had a heart attack the first time he found her suddenly beside him, eagerly scanning the horizon, well, no real harm done.  

He liked watching her interact with them after that first reveal. Makkari has a marvelous ability to engage with people just as they are, and her earnest curiosity about the working of the ship won them over. Before long, the more friendly of the crew were picking up simple signs, greeting her each morning and jabbering away about the topsail or whatever. The fact that they thought she was a benign spirit of some sort – or at the very least, lucky – was undoubtedly responsible for the thawing.

It entertained him, how quickly they warmed to her. Started thinking of her as – not quite human, but no devil, neither. They haven’t made that decision about him, but Druig’s felt them when Makkari shoves him to get his attention, or flicks him in the forehead for a particularly asinine comment, or encourages him to put on a juggling display for the sailors’ distraction during one of the frequent lulls in activity. They wanna believe if the nymph in their midst can treat him so casually, he can’t be that bad. Funniest thing is, he’s got no clue if Makkari realizes what she’s doing.

‘Course... It’s what she’s always done. Made him be. He drowns in what he isn’t, and she goes ahead and pulls him out of that. Hell, that’s probably what this whole trip is about. Deviants they missed last they were in Africa? Nah. If Druig were a betting man – and he isn’t, except the days he is – he’d say this was all about pulling him out of his slump. Reminding him of the good. The speed show Makkari puts on for the sailors is just part of that. Making the humans participate in his rehabilitation.

He snorts at the thought. It’s probably not a real generous idea.

Besides, showing her power was good preparation for when Makkari stepped onto the rail two days ago, her red tunic vibrant in the sun. She’d signed goodbye to Druig, waved cheerfully at the startled crew... and then jumped.

The ripple of panic and genuine fear for her safety that swept across many of the men and had them crowding to the railing endeared them to Druig. That, and amused him. After all, Makkari was already gone, a barely discernable plume in the distance.  

Yeah, most likely this is an excuse. After all, Makkari could scout for the Deviants herself. Hell, she's doing that now. She'd talked about communicating with the natives for information, making sure they didn't attack, but that’s a weak excuse. The islands aren't large; in this case, she probably doesn't need help from the humans to find the Deviants, so why even bother with them? Or him? What was the point of bringing him along when it made the trip so much longer? 

His family think they're subtle. It amuses Druig, in a way. Touches him, when it isn't annoying him. Makkari, Ajak, Sersi. He's pretty sure they're the ringleaders. He can't read his fellow Eternals in the same way as he can read humans, not without them willingly and deliberately opening up, but there are still things to pick up. And besides, the evaluating glances, the huddled conversations that broke up when he was near, the carefully optimistic and uplifting words... He didn't need to be psychic to know they were worried about him.

It’s been... bad, these last few decades. Sometimes Druig finds himself submerged in the humans. Drifting. Drifting and sinking. Some of his fellows think he’s worse this time because the Aztec practice human sacrifice, but that’s not it. Not really. What’s the difference between tearing out someone’s heart or leaving their stomach empty until they die? Or hanging them, stabbing them, letting pestilence gurgle their last breaths into oblivion?  It’s just a sliding scale of time, in the big picture.

The fear of the victims, the needless cruelty of the deaths, that doesn’t change. The things that Druig can’t reconcile – his purpose, his power – it’s all there, parading outside his head and demanding access.

The only difference is that Druig is getting tired of it. Tired and – something worse. Angry. Bitter. He feels it as a coiled, seething tension, a call to an action that he can’t commit. It makes him irritable. More likely to snap at the other Eternals. They see it, and it worries them.

It hadn't come as much of a surprise when Makkari approached him with tales of monsters off the coast of South Africa. They could have packed up the Domo and flown over to investigate, but Makkari had argued the Mexica needed protection from the rather alarming amount of Deviants that had gathered in the area. He’d pointed out only some of them needed to go, and she’d dismissed it with a casual airiness that assured him there was a reason it was just the two of them going.

So. A vacation of sorts. Just him and Makkari, for the last four or so months. They’d caught a ride with a Spanish galleon that he’d... coaxed... to actually find the right path to the continent of the Mexica. That path had been assiduously scrubbed from their minds once they were on board, superimposed by a story that he and Makkari had been there all along. It’d actually been quite difficult, and certainly toed the edge of Ajak’s rule of no interference, but technically nothing had changed for the Spanish sailors except a couple weeks of lost rations, and they’d left some coins in the hold that would pay for it.  

Honest only to himself, he’d enjoyed it. Not manipulating the humans, exactly, but the challenge of it. So often all he’s called to do is take over them directly, make them drop spears or swords, guns or slings. That’s easy. Pathetically easy. It’d been a good reminder that humans aren’t just clay, soft and yielding into any shape. That it takes effort to bend their minds and wills if he wants something more subtle or complex.

And, honest only to himself (but Makkari knows anyways), he’s enjoyed this whole trip. Landing in Cádiz, they’d done... regular things. No training. No fighting. No agonizing about grand morals. Makkari wouldn’t let him. She dragged him to a couple of landmarks in Spain: a cathedral, a mosque, some fancy gardens. He didn’t enjoy them as much as he enjoyed watching her look them over. The way her face lit up, the wonder and joy, even after all these years, it made something stir in his chest. A flicker of fire that’s been dwindling to ashes.

Druig can’t look at the humans’ accomplishments without thinking of their atrocities, but Makkari is different. She’s more – generous. Accepting. She can take the good with the bad and not balance the two on a scale to find out which is heavier. Makkari looks at their beautiful architecture and heartrending literature and fascinating creations, and she sees their potential. It’s a wonderful kind of vision.

Of course, she’s never been in a human’s head; she hasn’t felt the sweat and blood and pain that’s gone into most everything the humans have ever built.

There’s no point in wondering what she would be if she had his power. Druig is an idiot at times, but not that big of one. It only took him around two millennium to stop asking that particular question.

So he accepts her wonder like the antidote it is, and he drinks it in eagerly, greedily, and when she turns the smile on him it doesn’t heal the guilt, or the pain, or the anger, but it soothes it. Makes it somewhere close to bearable.    

That brings his mind back to the task at hand, and he resumes looking out. Two days, she’d said, and here they are. Two days, and no Makkari.

It isn’t that she has a particularly good grasp of time. Actually, next to Sersi, she’s probably the worst when it comes to keeping strict appointments. Who can blame her? Time is difficult enough for the rest of them, with months running through their fingers and years passing in flashes that blur together. He imagines that for Makkari, grappling with time as it tries to insist she match its slower pace makes it that much harder.  

But still, her mission shouldn’t take long – he’d actually half expected her last night. Besides, what mission? A mission of keeping up pretenses, probably kicking around the island – or hell, in India – just to make him think she actually looked for the Deviants.

The hours pass with no sign of her, and Druig is... uneasy. It doesn’t help that the sailors themselves are restless, casting dark looks at the skies and muttering amongst themselves. Their unease laps at him, a different kind of tide, and he has to steady himself against the swells of emotion. No point in letting them influence how he’s feeling, but it’s hard. It’s always been hard. The sentiments spill into him like drops of blood billowing through water. Thinning, certainly, but impossible to keep from spreading, and before too long Druig is red with their anxiety. He keeps up his watch, fingers increasingly tight on the rails.

At a little after noon the captain approaches, wringing his black hat in his hand. He’s a big man, all weathered hide and thick, salt-speckled beard, but it feels like he’s trying to squash himself into something smaller. Not possible, but he’s having a good go at it.

“Uh, sir? Druig? Sir Druig?” The man strings the titles together tentatively, nervous as a cat on water, and Druig plays with the idea of letting him sweat more. But that would be taking out his own disquiet on the faultless human. Not fair. Even if it would be funny.

“Druig is fine, captain Martym.” His Portuguese sounds rough, stilted, but it gets the job done, and that at least hasn’t been an issue.  

A bobbed head, the cap still being strangled between fingers. “Alright. Druig. Master Druig, I–”

“Just Druig, captain.” Necessary? No, but Makkari will literally kill herself laughing if she hears anyone refer to him as master, and she might just tell everyone else, too. He doesn’t need that particular title hanging around for some five or six obnoxious centuries. Knowing Sprite – or maybe Kingo – it could even hit a millennium.

“Uh, right. Druig.” If he’d looked nervous before, it’s a wonder the poor man isn’t tearing his hat to pieces now. “I’m not wanting to be interrupting your, uh, research,” and Druig is faintly impressed the captain is still clinging to that particular lie, “but I’ve a question.”

At first Druig doesn’t reply, eyes still on the sea, except then it becomes obvious Martym is definitely not going to continue without some sort of benediction. Biting back a sigh, he turns to face his companion. “I’m not goin’ anywhere, captain, so y’might as well ask.”

"Well, Druig, sir, you'n be having an idea of when the lass– err, lady might be returning? If she, uh, plans to return?"

He very deliberately does not correct that title. Both because as far as Druig's concerned it's accurate, and also the look on Makkari's face the first time she sees the captain call her lady will be priceless.

With a slight shrug and a glance over his shoulder – more ocean, and not much else – Druig replies, "She was 'sposed to be here a couple hours ago. If you wanted to place bets, I say she gets here today." Though his voice is light, Druig can feel the tension in his tightly crossed arms, and he quells an urge to look over his shoulder again.

There are surely a hundred reasons Makkari could have been delayed this long. It's just that Druig can't think of any that sound particularly convincing right now.

He shakes his head, a small rebuff of the worry. Makkari is strong. She can handle... whatever is keeping her.

Admittedly more to keep himself distracted than because he cares, Druig asks the captain, "Why? The crew pinin' away for my assistant?"

Martym winces, twisting his cap harder. If that's possible. Is it because his crew loves what could be an angel or a devil, by his religion? Druig rarely delves into individual minds in regular conversation; the toll he has to pay isn't worth travelling that road. And so, he tends to let impressions just come to him. What he's getting from the captain now doesn't answer nothing.

Anxiety, a slip of awe and a lot of fear. Nothing unexpected when facing an Eternal.

"Well, y'see, you've actually hit the nail on the head. Sir. Druig. The crew was hoping – actually, mayhap it's true to say expecting – that the lady would be back afore the storm."

"Storm?" he asks as he turns his eyes to the overcast sky. Druig doesn't know why he bothers. Meteorology has never been a strong suit with him, and one cloud looks much the same as another. No doubt Gilgamesh or Thena would be nodding along wisely at this point, but Druig is damned if he can spot any signal in the dark, patchy blue above.

The captain shifts, can't quite keep the surprise out of his voice. "Ye can't feel it?"

"Feelin’ the weather s’not really my talent," Druig replies dryly, and Martym flushes.

"Right. Course. Well – we' uns don't rightly call the weather, neither, but there's a storm coming. Most like later today."

"Hmm. And what’s it got to do with my assistant?"

Scratching at his beard as if he'd like to tear it off, Martym replies, "Meaning no offense if she ain't, none at all, but the lads... Well, they've gone and taken it in their heads she's lucky. They're saying the ship'll sail smooth through the storm if she were back."

"It probably would," Druig mutters, and means it. She’s already grasped how the ship works, and could probably sail it herself through just about anything, push came to shove. (This confident opinion coming from a man who could name three types of knots and tie two of them on a good day. He doesn’t share Makkari’s nautical fascination, but he sure does trust she’s as good a sailor as anything else.)

The temptation to check again looms, he fights it... and once again looks over his shoulder. You'd think six thousand years would give a person self-control, but...

Empty ocean. Where was she?

The captain is staring at him expectantly and Druig doesn't really know what to tell him. "I'm assumin' she got caught up in what she was doing," he finally says.

"Research?" the captain asks, tentatively, and Druig laughs.

"Something like that."

Even more hesitantly, his companion asks, "And this research is... good?"

Druig assumes tracking down a nightmare creature or two that's rumored to be plaguing a group of islanders would be considered a good deed, but he also assumes the captain would turn the ship around right away if he learned they were sailing straight towards it. Actually, not assumes. He's felt the man's love for this vessel. Martym would sacrifice his own newborn before he sacrificed the ship, probably.

"Good enough," is what he eventually says. "Me and Makkari, we're lookin’ for interesting creatures." To eradicate them. If they actually exist. He has his suspicions about that. "We heard there might be a few on the islands we're sailing to."

"And if yer right?"

If Makkari's insistence on scouting these islands pays off and there are actually Deviants lurking about, he’ll first be real surprised. Then she’ll make him apologize for not believing her – though really, Makkari isn’t giving him much reason to believe. After that’s all made up, she'll go off and grab at least some of the other Eternals from where they're setting up in the south lands, so far from here. They’ll come back on the Domo, leaving the rest to hold down the fort in Tenochtitlan.

The Mexica people who welcomed them there a few years back seemed... Well, friendly isn't the right word. Not with the sacrifices and the war games they played. But receptive to messengers they took to be from their gods. It was an easy enough narrative to let play out, if it meant the humans agreed to build bigger walls.

Druig is reasonably certain he won't come back to find his fellows driven out by angry and disillusioned humans. Sersi is good at building relations with their hosts. Sprite, too, and Kingo and Gilgamesh. They aren’t all shut-ins.

The captain is still waiting, so Druig says, “Just like we said when we took on. We’ll be on the islands for a while, maybe long as a couple weeks. You’ll just be anchored offshore. We’ll let you know if you’re needed, sooner or later.”

“And if’n we’re not needed, we’ll just be... leaving you.”

A sharp nod. “We’ll have our own way off the islands.”

There’s a flurry of questions sitting behind that sun-browned face, but Martym seems to have swallowed as much of the impossible as he can stomach in one session. “Right,” he says, and then repeats, “Right,” like it hadn’t quite caught reality the first time. “Well, you and the lady be speaking or whatnot, we’d, uh... She’s welcome back aboard, is all I’m wanting to say.”

Druig could have laughed at that, except what’s so ridiculous about expecting the supernatural to be able to speak with each other across long distances? “She’ll be here quick as she can. I can promise you that.”

The captain nods gratefully and retreats. It’s not until he’s several steps away that he sweeps his hat back on his head, more than a little worse for wear. The crew’s been doing their best to listen in while pretending they aren’t, and Martym bellows at them to get back to it. Maybe out of respect for the risk he took in approaching the myth in their midst, the men jump and get to pretending to work with alacrity. At least for a bit.      

Druig tunes it out, as best as he can. The sea’s getting choppier, darker, and as above, so below, ‘cause the clouds are starting a dark little number, too. Could that be keeping Makkari? Some storm she’s having to travel through? It doesn’t make sense. Sure, it might add seconds to her trek, minutes at most as she detours around large waves and the like, but it shouldn’t be an actual delay. Hell, she loves running through storms, least on land. She’s told him that herself. He’s pretty sure that can’t be it.

It begins to rain a short while after. And a shorter while after that it begins to pour. Sort of a sudden dump from the heavens. Druig listens to the cursing of the sailors as they batten down the foodstuffs in the hold, the sound far away and scattered by the growing wind. It's driving the rain and it hits the ship in gusts. Not yet a howl, but getting there.

A good thing Phastos isn't here. The way the ship is tilting, he'd probably be spewing his guts right now. Druig suffers no such issues, but he can see a time, somewhere ahead of now, where keeping his balance on the heaving deck will become a challenge.

And still Druig waits, and watches, keeping only absentmindedly out of the way of the sailors. By now, he can't pretend to himself that this is normal.

Could Makkari... Could there actually be Deviants on the islands? Could the rumours Makkari had picked up be true? She hadn't really thought so, for all that she refused to drop the sham as they travelled. The very fact that they took the slow, circuitous route proved that she didn’t believe it. If she'd actually thought humans were being killed by Deviants, she would have done something about it at her speed, not his. So would the rest of the Eternals, if they’d believed it when they sent him and Makkari off.

But rumours have their sources. He'd assumed that source was some squealing boar or maybe... he didn't know. A lion? Something big that somehow got from the mainland of South Africa to the chain of islands?

And if there were Deviants, what would Makkari have done? Not fought them. Right?

"Christ and damnation," he curses, the words drowned by the rain. His stomach is doing something uncomfortable – trying to kill itself, apparently – and he'll be lucky if he doesn't have a bunch of splinters through his fingers, the way he's been clutching at the railing.

Makkari is strong. So strong. But there's a reason so many of them were sent to Earth, and the reason ain’t for the delightful company. It's ‘cause one on one, Deviants are hard to kill. In packs, they're a nightmare waiting to rip an Eternal to shreds.

Makkari knows that. Of course she does. She's just as smart as she is strong.

...So where is she? Where the hell–

The ship heaves itself over a swell, and a crack of lightning rips across the sky. The momentary glow illuminates something far away that only his enhanced eyesight could catch. A glimpse of red, there and then sucked back into black. Red where no red should be.

His stomach stops trying to squeeze itself into nothing and instead leaps up his throat. Without really thinking about it, Druig know it’s Makkari. You just can’t live with someone thousands of years and not know who they are. Besides, as automatic as breathing, seconds after, he’s reaching out with his power.

It’s not the same as feeling the humans, not nearly. The humans are as obvious as sunshine on a sunny day, easy to see as grains of sand on a beach, if just about as hard to keep individual track of. Hell, keeping them and their bloody blatant emotions away is the trick, not searching them out. His companions aren’t like that. It’s not easy to sense them. But all the same, they’ve all got a feel, unique as a fingerprint.

Makkari is like wind rippling through sun-dappled grass. Can’t see it, but you can feel its passing. Catch it as a fresh sound just at the edge of hearing. Pleasant, lively, distant–

And currently drenched.

Druig jumps onto the rail, keeps his balance as he cups his hands around his mouth. “Makkari!” he bellows, loud as he can. At the same time, he stamps his foot into the wood of the rail, a heavy crack sounding as he partially breaks the thick bar. If she can catch the vibrations, it might help her zero in on the ship. His eyes strain for a sight, but without the lightning, there’s no–

Like his thought called it from the sky, a jagged flash, and he sees her again. A little closer. But not nearly as close as she should be. Why in the hell is she moving so slow?

He waits for another clash of light and sound, another moment of clarity. It comes, too slow, and yes, she's definitely moving closer, but there's something so wrong here. Makkari doesn't move like that. It's an awkward, stilted gait, and in the brief second he has before the lightning snaps away, Druig realizes she's actually falling into the water. Floundering in it, almost, like she can't get enough speed to actually stay on top of the surface. Or at least not for long enough to keep herself up.

Another flash of light, another grotesque mockery of how gracefully Makkari moves. There’s something wrong. There is something so fucking wrong.

There’s a sharp keening, either in his head or his ears or his imagination, and it takes Druig several more heartbeats to realize it’s actually Makkari. Not a sound, a thought. No, not a thought. A feeling, found by his reaching mind. Fear, pain, panic, desperation. Strong enough to press through the usual wall that’s between him and the rest of the Eternals. Something he’s never heard from Makkari in six thousand years.

Before any idea actually comes to his mind, Druig is jumping. It’s automatic, a reflex. Makkari, afraid. Druig, jumping.

And is that enough?

Was it enough? Was agreeing to try to leave this town that was crushing him into something small and shattered enough?

He looked at you, and his expression was already closed, still. Ready to accept a rejection. You wouldn’t be surprised if there was an acerbic joke behind his lips, burning through his tongue and set to be spit out. Yet... he was so gentle, even now, as he cradled your face, waiting for an answer. And he’d asked. He’d made up his mind to try to step outside of what he was. And as he took that step, he’d asked you to be there.

Could you demand anything more than that?

Things... fell away, then. Like walls folding, leaving just you and him. No enclosed spaces, as if even the car didn't exist. You and him, unconstrained. You couldn’t ask for more than that.      

You settled your hands on the outside of his own, lightly pulled them away from your cheeks without letting him go. As he curled his fingers around your hands in mute appeal, you nodded. Nodded again before finding your voice. "Yeah," you whispered. "Yeah, that's – it's enough, Dympna."

You'd only been peripherally aware of how rigid his expression was, and that awareness came to the front as the tightness eased, the hardness of his jaw relaxing, and he started breathing again.

He drew your hands to his mouth, brushed his lips against your knuckles and paused there, head bowed over your fingers, eyes closed. "Fuck," muttered Dympna, and it could have been a prayer. Nothing more or less than that. Then his eyes were open again, their blue depths as raw as winter rain when they swept over you. “Thank you. Just – thanks. I don’t...”

In a surge of convulsive energy, he pressed his mouth against your hands again before he let go. With a suddenness that made your breath jolt, he caught you by the back of the neck, drew you to him. Your lips met – collided – and it was rusty need that made you pant. Dympna groaned against your mouth, a broken sound, and his palm slipped back to your thigh, grinding into you like he needed the grounding. The sweet, grainy taste of beer flooded your senses when he split your lips with his tongue and you shut your eyes against the sheer, overwhelming relief of finally touching him again.

His grip was sure, confident, and he slid his hand from the back of your neck to your jaw, tilting your chin up. You submitted, eagerly baring your throat, and his lips found your pulse. His teeth, too, a scrape of feather-light pain that had you gasping in encouragement. Dympna responded to the sound, leaned forward to suck harder on your neck, and he –

Hissed, the willow-thin noise of discomfort quickly stifled against your skin. But you pulled back, just a little, from the pleasant ache of his mouth on you. “What is it?” you demanded. “Are you–”

Two and two came together, and your eyes fell back to his side. This time, when you reached over to snag his shirt, Dympna didn’t stop you. Silver fabric bunched under your grasp, and pulling it up revealed a familiar pale canvas, scattered with freckles. A gorgeous picture of smooth muscles, well-defined abs, a happy trail dipping down to disappear beneath his pants.  

One hand automatically found the lone freckle on his hip, just peeking above his jeans, and it was sort of an in joke to thumb the spot like you were trying to wipe it away. His lips quirked up at the move, and the familiarity sank into your muscles, comforting in how automatic it was. But your mind wasn’t really on that, your gaze instead focused on the square gauze taped to his side. White, not stained with any blood coming through. June probably did know what she was doing when she said it wasn’t major.

Nonetheless, the worry in your gut was a visceral thing. “How much does it hurt?” you asked, tearing your eyes away from the white patch, only to fall back to contemplating it.

“Not hardly,” replied Dympna. “It’s just the angle I’m at, caught it a bit.”

He leaned back towards you, and you avoided him, only somewhat playfully. “You sure you’re in a shape to be doing anything?”

It was hard not to laugh at the outraged disgust that crossed his face. “What am I, an old man?” He caught your hand, still resting on his hip, and slid it down to press against his crotch. Even through the jeans, you could feel how hard his dick was, just from the shift. “Only shape I’m in now, darlin’,” he said thickly, “is to be doin’ you.”

This time you did laugh, even as heat coiled in your stomach and then lower. You let his shirt drop and in the same moment stroked against the outline of his cock, eliciting another hiss, this one a lot less pained. He arched half off the car seat, grinding himself into your palm, and you met the need on his face with your tongue in your cheek. “I dunno, D. Seems like you need some recovery time.”

“Had fuckin’ weeks of that already,” was his sharp retort.

In response you cocked your head. “You telling me you haven’t had a go of it in weeks? Maybe you are getting old.”

This game was another familiar one, and the man across from you took it up easily. His breath flooded out, and he let go of you, shoving open the car door. Dympna’s voice all but seethed when he replied. “Get outta the car. We’re gonna find out.”

Before you could reply, he'd swung himself from the car. A loud bang announced him rapping the top of the vehicle, and he ordered, "C'mon now, darlin'. Out."

It felt like stepping off a ship that'd been recently through a storm. Walking onto dry land, yeah, solid and firm, but you'd adjusted yourself to stride a different way and now you were staggering on ground that should have been stable. You wanted what he was offering – God, you wanted it, your body tingling with need – but the past few weeks were fresher in your mind, and you hesitated.

He ducked to look through the window, equal parts impatient and goading. "Keep in here too much longer, and I'm gonna think you're the old one. Or were weeks of playin' hard to get not long enough for ya?"

He was such an asshole. You were smiling as you thought it, your emotions jostled from their arrested state by the easy prods of his biting humour.

"Just waiting to see if you passed out when you stood. Blood loss, y'know?" you replied, and then you shouldered open the door and clambered out of the car.

Of course, Dympna didn't come to you. He waited, slouched against the vehicle so hard he was all but hanging off it. When you got to him, though, his hands were hungry, clutching your waist and pulling you closer. This kiss was – different. Less frantic, more deliberate. An exploration. A rediscovery. Your lips prickled with the heat of him, with remembering just how good he felt pressed against you.

With a breathy sigh, you broke the kiss, ducked your head to press your face against his collarbone. An inhale brought in his scent, beer and weed mixed cloyingly with his citrus and cedar cologne. The smell grounded you, set your feet firm, as if maybe the world really was as steady as it felt with his arms wrapped around you.

Showing a surprising amount of restraint, Dympna let you remain there for several seconds before shifting, gently easing you away. He began to walk, pulling you along with one arm still hooked around your waist. "C'mon now," he said, glancing at you sidelong. “If I pass out before we fuck around, I’m gonna be pissed.” His grip tightened at the words, and his smile was all snark and desire, a knife that cut through the just-barely lingering sense of awkwardness. Not awkwardness. Trepidation, maybe, for the future that was far from solved.

Dympna didn’t seem to want to deal with it. He’d decided to kill tomorrow for the sake of today. Refused to look at it. That didn't surprise you. Dympna wasn't one to let the future spoil the moment. You were, but with his demanding presence taking up space next to you, you could let it go for a time. Tomorrow was such a long way away, and today was in the palms of his hands, the twist of his lips, the burning between you.

A low creak rattled out when Dympna shoved aside the metal that served as the train's door, and the dark interior of the car beckoned.

His gesture just short of haughty, Dympna flicked his hand out. "After you."

You quipped, "Age before beauty," and he snorted. Without argument he stepped in before you, though despite the joke you were close on his heels.

The train car was the same as ever. You couldn't even tell if he'd been in it since your argument. An old mattress, complete with couch cushions and blankets, formed something of a bed, crammed into the far corner. He'd rigged up a couple lights, hanging from nails driven into the flaky metal walls, and after a second of fiddling Dympna turned them on, throwing everything into a patchy glow. The graffiti was the same, and the rust, and the little art designs you’d thrown up here and there, trying to make the place a little less ugly.

The light sharpened his face when he turned back to you. Or maybe that was something else entirely.

Against expectations, he didn't head for the makeshift bed, but rather sprawled on one of the few seats available on the train, a rickety thing that you still insisted was better than sitting on the floor all the time. His legs spread wide, one arm slung over the back of the seat, Dympna considered you with his head cocked. "You ready to pay what you owe me?" he asked, and his voice was all gravel, rubbing you exactly the right way. 

Which didn't mean you wanted to give in right away. "Don't remember owing you anything," you said, tilting your head in deliberate mockery. 

Dympna didn't smile, but you hadn't expected him to. Instead, he leaned forward a little. "Forgetting a debt don't mean it's paid, darlin'. You know that true." 

"Maybe," you admitted. "But maybe you need to get me remembering. What is it I owe you?" 

It was no surprise that he picked up the hint. Dympna took his time taking his shirt off. First, a leisurely stretch of his arms in the air, and then he caught his shirt at the back and pulled it over his head. The unhurried motion let you admire his biceps, thick with the sinew he'd put on in the last year or so, and you could feel your stomach tightening in response, throat dry with appreciation.

When his head came clear of the shirt, his blond bangs were mussed, sticking out all over the place. He took his time with that, too, running his fingers through them even as he tossed the shirt to the side.

More posturing, and you'd be a liar if you said you didn't enjoy it.

Even when you'd first moved here and were bussing tables at the local diner, he'd caught your eye when he and the girls came in for a late, hungover meal. And damn but the years had made you fonder. The slender hips, his broad chest, the sinewy muscles of his shoulders, the tattoos that played across his skin. Even in the low light, the man lounging in front of you felt vital with potential. And in his eyes, in the way they drifted over your form, there was the promise of pleasure, too. Keen, provoking pleasure.

Gesturing at his side, at the bandage that was the only thing marring the expanse of his freckled skin, he lifted an eyebrow. Slow and sardonic. "This bringin' up any memories?"

You stepped between his spread legs, settled your hands at his waist before dragging your fingers up his sides, over each rib, feeling every little shift Dympna made under the touch. He was warm and solid under you, and when you got to the bandage you paused, just let your hands enjoy the sensation of his flushed presence. Long enough to having him stirring more, with a restlessness that soon grew to impatience.

A moment before he said something – you could feel his lungs expand under your hands with an exasperated breath – you stated idly, "I remember, a little. Something about you getting stabbed for a dumb reason, wasn't it?"

"I wouldn't call starin' at a sight like you dumb," Dympna disagreed, just a small bite to the words.

The snicker you couldn't contain was probably a bad – or good – idea, and he stiffened.  "If it gets you shanked? I think there's a time and a place, D."

"You've gotten real mouthy since you been gone," Dympna observed, his lips a laconic slash, and you blinked.

"You think so? What are you gonna do about it?"

God, you loved this. Even loved how much you'd forgotten you loved it, like you'd been afraid of remembering just what you were going to lose. This gave you so much joy, this – pushing at him, getting him riled up, watching the fervent contemplation slide across his face as he sucked his lower lip and schemed how to meet your challenge.

After a pensive pause: "On your knees, darlin'."

It was your turn to hesitate, wondering if you wanted to push more, but then his fingers were wrapped around your wrists, his cool eyes flashing a warning. "That'd be now."

The look caught your breath warm and jagged in your lungs, and it was the compulsion of his dark voice that had you folding to your knees between Dympna's legs. The floor of the train car wasn't comfortable – and if you hadn't been sassy, he'd probably have let you grab a cushion from the bed – but the view more than made up for that.

Too firmly to resist, Dympna pulled your hands from where they were still resting on his sides, set them in your lap. "No touching, darlin'," he warned, mouth quirked in an infuriatingly cocky expression. Not a horribly painful punishment for your backtalk, as far as that went.

Except it kinda was.  

Already restless, the order made you more so, and you had to press your palms flat on your thighs to quell the need to reach out again. Dympna's smile became wider as he watched you squirm, and he cupped your cheek, thumb tracing your lips.

He murmured, "Let's put this to better use, yeah?" and waited for you to nod before separating your lips with his finger.  

You didn't need to be told what to do, just sucked on his thumb, swept your tongue around it, and he hummed; not quite a moan, but the hoarse sound spilled through you in little tremors of satisfaction.

The knowledge of the noise he would be making, soon enough, just strengthened the tense waves rippling through your core.

Withdrawing his finger but leaving it lingering on your mouth, Dympna kept up the pressure on your bottom lip as he gazed at you, his own mouth a little open, breath coming faster now. With his other hand, he started scrabbling at his jeans to unbutton them. Automatically – and impatiently – you made to help him, but his loud scoff had you freezing in place before guiltily returning your hands to your lap.

"Darlin', y'really have been gone for too fuckin' long," the man muttered, and it was meant to be a rebuke, but it sounded more like a confession.

Soon enough – but not soon enough at all – he unzipped his pants, yanked them a little down with a roughness that showed you weren’t the only one eager to start.

Dympna pulled out his cock, stroked himself carelessly. Your eyes fell to the sight of his dick, already stiffening under his deft grasp, and an ache that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with hunger built at the back of your jaw. Again, his fingers swept over himself, and he watched you watch several more loose strokes before exhaling.

"Ya want it bad?" he asked, more of a taunt than a question, but you answered with a jerky nod anyways because you did. The taste of him on your tongue, the strain of taking him, his hand guiding you, the sounds he would make. All of it, you wanted all of it so badly.

You had been here a hundred times before, but in this moment, right now, the want was ripping through your stomach, zipping across your nerves, prickles of lightning under your skin. And it was new. Here was the stretch you'd longed for, the freedom from cramped despair, the heat of the only man you loved burning away what didn't matter.

"Is that all?" His quiet voice plunged through your skin, thick and rousing. "Doesn't seem like you want it that much."

Holding out was possible. You could make some smartass comment in return. But collapsing into his control, letting him dominate the minutes and the moments as they simmered between you, it was too much to resist after all the uncertainty of the past weeks.

You whispered around his thumb on your lip, through a throat tight with heat. "I want it."

His scalding blue gaze was hidden for a moment as he closed his eyes, head falling back. Enjoying the sound of your voice as his fingers stroked his cock. "A little more, darlin'. Convince me."

A familiar mix of eagerness, desperation, the sharp edge of challenge. "Please, Dympna," you whimpered, louder now. "I want you so bad. To make you feel good. Please let me, please, I–” Voice washed out in the need. I want, I want, I want.    

His eyes slid open as your words faded, focusing on your pleading face, and suddenly he groaned. "Ah, Christ, you're so much. Y'know that? Just too fuckin' much. C'mere." His hand accompanied his words, sliding from your lip to the back of your head and guiding you towards him. Without hesitation you leaned forward and the salt-slick taste of his leaking cock met your tongue. Your shuddering breath spilled over Dympna, making him tense.

On another night you’d take your sweet time. Kiss the soft sweep of his thighs, his stomach, his hips, leave little marks with your teeth and your lips. You would lick little strips along his cock, have him trembling and moaning and cursing your slow pace. Today, though, the urgency had claws sunk into your skin, and you’d long forgotten the meaning of restraint. He fit in your mouth, barely, a thrilling twinge to take him so deep already, and you greedily swiped your tongue along the bottom of his dick. Dympna’s hand, still wrapped around his cock, meant you couldn’t go much further so you sucked on his head and relished the taut groan that rose in response.

There was a music to his mumbling, a slow and steady stream of lewd language with only one person at its center.

“So fuckin’ good, just for me. Just for me, huh, darlin’? You take it so good, so good, just a slut for me, just for–” When Dympna’s words stuttered, his hips lifted off the seat and he let go of himself and bucked further into your mouth. You took it easily, breathing through your nose. The broken sound of his panting filled your ears and you hummed around his length, making him moan.

The hand that had previously been guiding you was now curled in your hair, and the light prickle of pain as Dympna tugged at your scalp sent a pleasant skittering down your spine. Responding to the touch, you bobbed further down his cock, cheeks hollow as you sucked him off. Your hands rose to grab him, seeking the steady feeling of his hips before you hesitated, remembering the rule.

“Go on,” Dympna rasped, and he was watching you take his cock with dazed attention, eyes flickering closed with each move you made, only to snap open again like he couldn’t bear to miss a moment. It was the only benediction you needed, and your fingers settled against the stark comfort of his hipbones, the warmth combined with every other sensation provoking a stifled whine from your lips. His other hand skimmed across your jaw before settling at the junction of your neck and shoulder. Almost a caress. “Good. That’s right, darlin’, that– Just like that, yeah? With your fuckin’ dirty mouth, you’re–”

Another break in his voice, and he actually cried out this time as you took him deeper, his fingers stiffening, digging into you now. The sound was an overload, flooding your core, spilling out, and you were getting wet yourself, could feel it between your thighs.

A few more steady bobs, drawing out more groans, and then you tightened your grip on his waist, a signal that he reacted to immediately. His hand at the back of your head urged you harder towards him, and his cock hit the back of your throat. Your eyes flooded with tears, but you took it, just like he liked – just like you liked – and swallowed on the urge to gag.

Even that, your throat tightening around him, tore out another symphony of sounds, and his groans mixed with the wet noise of him fucking into your mouth, with your own grunts. It built, a thick layer of heat and sound and sensation, until you were shaking with the pleasure of getting him so, so undone.

In a cracked voice, he moaned, “Fuck, darlin’, fuck, I’m–” You didn’t tap his skin, the signal to get off, and so a few more thrusts later he came down your throat. You swallowed it all, the taste of him slick and heavy as it coated your tongue. So too, you took every errant thrust as he lost control and jacked into your mouth with abandon, eyes now closed, blond hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, ecstasy twisting his handsome features into wild release.

Your blood was singing. All because of you, because of you, you could do this to him, wreck him in the best way possible, you could do that for him and because of him and it was all you wanted–

His breath so hoarse it was ragged, Dympna relaxed his hold on your hair, and you pulled off him with a wet pop, throat sore, lips tingling. A long line of cum and saliva stretched from your swollen lips to his cock, broken when he swept his thumb over your mouth, admiring the mess there. “Beautiful,” Dympna commented, dragging out the syllables, and you all but glowed under the simple word.

With the proof of his pleasure still staining your lips, the truth of his admiration saturated your self, set everything off in deep shades of security. He bent closer and you rose up on your knees and kissed him hard, letting him have a taste of his own cum. His breath rushed out and he broke away, to roughly kiss a path along your jaw and then higher. “Love,” murmured Dympna, mouth hot against your ear, “that was just about too good.”

Your own voice rasping, throat raw in the best way possible, you replied, “Couldn’t leave a debt unpaid, right?”

“Mmhm.” A lengthy pause, basking in each other’s presence, and then Dympna’s hands were hooking under your elbows, urging you up as he rose to his feet. Your knees gave a belated warning that they were a little abused, and as they half gave out, you stumbled into him. He caught you effortlessly, a grin on his face.

“Looks like I’m not the old one.”

Pressed against his chest, catching your balance, you sniffed. “You kneel on this shit,” your foot made a hollow clang when you stamped on the floor, “and tell me you don’t feel a little sore getting up.” Wasn’t likely to happen; Dympna didn’t go down on you very often, and when he did, it wasn’t on his knees. It was fine because you preferred it that way. Although... “A cushion woulda been nice.”

He was still grinning, and not particularly repentant said, “Sorry, darlin’, sorry. I’ll make it up to ya.”

“Yeah? How?” The demand slipped from you with sharp anticipation, eyes alight as you watched him consider the question.

“Well, to start...” The bed was behind you, and he started to back you up slowly, step by step, hands loosely draped on your shoulders to keep you from falling. You followed the pressure until the mattress was knocking into the back of your legs. With his usual impertinence, Dympna plucked at the fabric of your shirt. “Hardly gonna be needing this, huh?” There was no need to respond to the redundant question; he was already easing the shirt up, his fingers hot and quick as they shoved the material higher. You were eager yourself, happy to lift your arms and let him rip the stifling cloth away.

Dympna didn’t stop there, either, hands dipping lower, stripping the rest of the clothing from your body. You stepped out of it, kicked it away, stood naked and somehow still so comfortable under the admiring scrutiny of his crystal-clear eyes.  

Sometimes it got cold as a freezer in the train car, but tonight, totally bared, the air felt good against your flushed skin. What felt even better was his mouth, sucking on your collarbone, hard, hard enough to draw a little moan from you. He halted at the sound, nosed against your neck and inhaled deeply. “Ah, love,” he began, broke off. After a moment, face still buried in the crook of your neck, Dympna mumbled, “Missed you. Missed you so fuckin’ much.”

Another ache, this one far from the physical craving of the rest of your body. Dympna wasn’t a sappy man. For him to say it in words, it meant – he meant it. Meant it too much to keep inside, meant it so much it had to spill out of him in those words, branded into your skin. “Yeah,” you said softly. “Yeah. Me too.”

When Dympna pulled back, his gaze wasn’t, for once, searching. It looked like he’d found exactly what he’d been hunting for.

You kissed again, messy and passionate, your hands tangling in his hair. His hands ran along your sides, the fingertips of one hand finding your chest, the other hand hooking your waist to pull you closer. Warmth blossomed under his deft touch, and the hollow hunger grew as Dympna pinched your nipple, only relenting the squeeze when you exhaled shakily against his lips. Then his fingertips turned idle, rolling the sensitive nub between thumb and forefinger even as he nipped at your lip. An exchange of sharp sensation, and all of it had you curling to the tips of your toes, pushing against him with a wordless, throaty moan for more.

“You like that?” Back to sardonic, and you could tell Dympna was eager to get by the “moment”. He pinned you harder to his body with a hand on the small of your back, ground his groin against you even as his teeth found your throat. The rough scrape of his jeans against your bare front was another peak to crash over, another height of need to hit. His fingers once again played across the tender skin of your chest, and it made your breath catch.

You whined, squirmed in his grasp. “Come on, Dympna,” was your panting plea. “You know, you know I like it.”

“A little louder, darlin’. Didn’t quite catch you.”

Not able to glare, not with the wild arousal pulsing through your veins, you met his amused blue eyes with a look that teetered on helpless. “I like it,” you said louder but still strained. His hand dropped from your nipple and slipped to the jut of your hip, a light caress. And then he was between your thighs, fingers moving with supple ease as he stroked across your throbbing heat. You gasped, whole body going rigid.

“Just a little louder,” he murmured, not relaxing his grip, refusing to let you buck against him like you wanted to.

“Please, Dympna, please, I can’t with this teasing shit today. I really can’t.” You could barely get the sounds out, each one jarring through the delirious tension in your jaw.

“Oh?” The man pulled back, ran his tongue over his lower lip even as he smiled. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

And suddenly you were falling. You had enough time for an embarrassing cross between a gasp and a shriek before your back hit the mattress. Dympna’s shove had been abrupt but controlled, placing you in the exact middle of the cushioned ground, and it didn’t hurt anything at all. Nothing but your ego, and that was drowning under the heated tar of your desire, anyways.      

The jolt was still firmly in your stomach, mingling with the arousal until they were inseparable, and you said, half accusing, half playful, “If I hit my head and died, you know your DNA would be all over the place.”

“Oh, aye, and what would the Gardai do with it? Useless cunts,” Dympna snorted, and then he was dropping onto the mattress next to you. Not over you, not straddling you like you’d wanted and hoped for, but propped up on an elbow, one hand leisurely touring the expanse of your body even as his eyes did the same. It was rival parts frustrating and exhilarating to feel him exploring you like this, like he wanted to remember every dip and peak of your form. All you wanted to do was forget the last few weeks.  

Before impatience could do more than bite, though, he touched you between your thighs again, fingers moving against your dripping length exactly the way you liked it. You arched your back, pressing into those knowing points of pleasure with a desperation that was almost equal to the overwhelming fire raging through your lungs.

When you cried out, his voice came, a heavy chuckle twined through his tone. “I love that sound, darlin’. Let’s see if I can’t make you do it again, huh? Look at me.”

You’d automatically thrown your head back into the mattress with the toe-curling throb of pleasure, but at his command turned back to him, meeting the intensity of his gaze. “There ya go. Good. You’re so good for me, love.” There was no escaping that expanse of blue, no hiding from his husky voice, from the way it swamped you with the need to hear it again, to hear more, to feel more, and more, and more.

In hardly any time at all, he had you twisting, tensing and sagging with each stroke, little gasps and moans escaping. Your hands scrabbled at the thin sheets on the mattress, searching for purchase that wouldn’t come amid the tides of warmth. Words plunged from your lips, barely discernable, whimpering pleas and gratitude, all of it mixed together, and he watched you fall apart at the tips of his fingers with a slight, satisfied smirk gracing the corners of his mouth. The next time a wave of heat blossomed through your core, you couldn’t help it; you jerked your eyes shut against the unbearably good surge, and his hand immediately stilled, lifted away a bit as he clicked his tongue. He left you quivering, thrusting your hips in search of the missing pressure.

“Nah, love. Eyes open. C’mon, look at me.” Another whine, but you forced them open, fell on the chiseled cut of his jaws before you managed to drag your eyes back up to his. His smile softened as you did, and he all but purred. “Mmm, just like that. Y’can’t look away, darlin’. I wanna see it. See you fuckin’ go to pieces.” Even as he spoke, Dympna started again, rejuvenating the molten sparks.

His touch tore you apart.

You came with a hoarse cry, your body seizing up, every atom of existence teetering on the edge of white oblivion for glorious seconds. Lungs constricted, muscles quivering, your core throbbing in the deep, intimate way that your own fingers couldn’t produce. Dympna’s face was a focal point in the sea of sensation as everything else wiped away, and there was just the pleasure and him and you, and it was enough, it was enough, it was so much more than enough.

Catching your breath was like inhaling flames, everything sizzling with heat and sweat. Your skin was sticky with it, your hair damp and dishevelled. The rumpled sheets were wet with your release, and so were his fingers, too, when he touched your cheek, a gentle caress. “God, you’re such a sight,” sighed Dympna, and you turned your head and kissed his palm, small favour for what he’d just given you.  

“You’re so good, D,” you whispered against his hand, and he sighed again, stroked his hand through your hair without reply. A moment later he pulled you closer to him, the contact sending stinging refrains of belated gratification through you. He held you against his chest, quiet and reflective, for several moments, and you laid in his arms, content to just – exist. He’d done that for you, again. Pushed the future to somewhere safe and far away, and now you could just breathe.  

You loved him so much.

Eventually Dympna stirred, mumbled wordlessly to himself before pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Don’t be goin’ away from me again, huh?” he said, and though there was a teasing note in the question, his eyes were more solemn when they met yours.

You ghosted a hand over his shoulder, traced down his spine, ended curling your fingers through one of the belt hooks of the jeans he still had on. You gave it a light tug. “Keep doing something like this,” you replied, trying to match the lighter tone, “and you won’t have to worry about nothing.” It wasn’t a lie. Not even a half truth. He was willing to try – he was trying. Maybe, if that was the case, neither of you had to worry.

Dympna rocked against you, a slow, lazy motion, and gave up the somber cast of his mouth. He was so fucking beautiful when he smirked like that. “Oh, I’m gonna keep at it so,” he promised, low and fervent. “We got all night for me to prove it, darlin’.”

Stretching in his arms, relishing in the freedom of the movement, you subsided with a suggestive grin. “We’ve got a little bit more than just all night.”