don't we all adore secrets?

Daud wakes to the Diplomat’s hair tickling his nose. He’s a little sore, which isn’t surprising. 

They’re still asleep, breathing slow and even, and he shifts, creating distance between them. Their bodies must have drifted closer as they slept.

With their back to him, he can see the tattoos that decorate their skin from their shoulder on down. He traces them with a finger, following the curve of their spine, his hand finally curling around their hip.

They stir. He holds them down. “Stay there,” he says quietly. “Just a while longer. Tell me about these.”

The sun does not shine into the Diplomat’s room– for all Daud knows, it might still be night. Their glowing eye is hidden from him.

“What does this one mean?” he asks, touching the outlines of the rib cage twined with branches.

There are worse ways to wake up than to Daud’s calloused fingers running down their spine. They shiver when his touch turns too gentle, tickles across their skin, and they stifle a smile that feels too soft on their face against the pillow.

“I haven’t looked at those in a long time,” they say. “They’re messages, from my days as a courier. Warnings and information about enemy nations, mostly.”

They can’t turn their head to look at him without moving, but they manage to roll onto their stomach without dislodging his hand. “I don’t know which one you’re pointing at. Describe it to me?”

The Outsider accepts the glass passively– he’s not sure what the drink is, or why it’s pink, but it looks pleasant enough– but doesn’t move to take any of the food. After the initial exuberance of discovery, he’s discovered that he doesn’t usually care for food and the textures that come with it.

They’re looking awfully pleased with themselves, in a way that sets him none too at ease. He watches them over the brim of his glass, as they smile like a cat in the milk, and takes a sip.

It’s sweet and sharp. Not unlike the impression he’s getting of this conversation.

The corners of his mouth turn in a smile. “Here I am.” Another small swallow. His head is turned towards them, steady, as his eyes flick across the garden, taking in the full effect of their preparations. “What did you have a mind to discuss?”

If the Diplomat is offended that he’s not eating, they don’t show it. They help themself to a small plate of sliced fruit and a plastic fork, and watch the Outsider with a little smile as they spear and devour an apple slice.

“The last time we spoke,” they say slowly, choosing their words with care, "You made some interesting comments about gods. I’d like to hear you expand on the subject. I want to know what you think makes a true god.”

“You wound me, Diplomat!” He laughs, all good-natured and…jovial. 

“Your romantic side would be wasted on me, I’m afraid. I’m much too scatterbrained to remember a moment…especially if we were to involve drink. Speaking of which, I do need to return to my room for a moment. I’m not so far gone as to have a bottle of Greyfields with me at all times. I’m sure we can reconvene in a…oh, lets say, a half hour or so.” 

He’s already wheeling away before they can protest, which for the Contrarian, is  a minor miracle unto itself. 

“I’m sure you can find a suitable venue! I’ll be waiting for your correspondence,” he calls over his shoulder as he wheels into the crowd, around a corner, and out of sight. 

It is, perhaps, a testament to the Contrarian’s character that he can actually surprise them. Or at least a testament to his audacity and capacity for brazen rudeness. They consider leaving - simply going about their day and ignoring whatever tedious game the Mayor has in mind. There’s no winning with him, either way - whether they play along or scorn him, he’ll find a way to count it a win. They might as well just do whatever they want.

In the end, what they want, they decide, is simply to drink a suitably spiteful amount of the Mayor’s wine and ignore whatever unfortunate prattle comes out of his mouth.

The location they send him happens to be the rooftop garden on his very own floor. They don’t normally take the elevator to the gardens, but it does stop at them, and they don’t particularly want to run into him until their preparations are complete: a small table, roughly at the correct height for the Contrarian’s wheeled chair; a chair for themself; a plate of cheese and fruit.

“February?” he asks, catching their fingers between his. “What does that mean?”

He’s distracted by their attentions to his hands and the glimmer of suggestion in their eye. Thankfully, there are no other carts in their line of sight up here– no one to see him tug them forward for a quick kiss.

“You’re younger than me,” he says as he settles back in the seat. His face feels warm. “I was born in 1795.” It doesn’t surprise him– not after his conversation with Raiden. “What year is it now? Where you were from.”

They sigh softly against his lips, pleasantly surprised by his boldness. They squeeze his hand when he pulls away, a smile lingering in the corners of their lips at the hint of a bashful expression on his face.

“Truly?” they say. “It’s 1896. We just missed your one-hundredth birthday.”

They lean against the window as if to look out, but their gaze remains on Daud. They ponder, idly, climbing into his lap and kissing him until his ever-furrowed brow smooths and his expression turns open and vulnerable - but the cart doesn’t seem steady enough to handle such an upheaval of its delicate balance. Pity.

“February is the second month of the Gregorian calendar,” they say, instead. “I can’t say I know its exact meaning. We... inherited it from a now dead empire. My knowledge of their language is rudimentary at best.”

“You’re far too modest,” Delilah says wryly. “You’re an utterly fascinating subject. The things I could do with a face like yours… It would be a thrilling painting.” She smiles. “Consider it. I can give you my contact information, if you should decide you want to sit for a proper painting.”

She shuts her book then, and she leans back, a glint slipping into her eyes as she arches a brow elegantly.

“Or, of course… For any other reason at all, I am always in reach, for such a lovely individual.”

"My,” the Diplomat murmurs, artfully bashful, “How can I say no when you say such pretty words?”

Their eye meets Delilah’s, then glides down, lingering on her full lips. “I will consider it. It would be terribly unfair not to give you the chance to... convince me.”

“City with a big river in the middle.  Lots of badly guarded cargo ships going up and down, begging to get raided.”  Lizzy blew out some smoke, then took in another drag off of the cigarette.  “I’ll hit the sea occasionally, but there’s just more money on the river.”

The sharp-toothed pirate smirked at the proposition.  Lizzy thought she was being forward.  She weighed it over in her head for a few seconds before realizing the exertion would tire her out.  And she sure did have a lot of pent-up energy left to work out.  What the hell, why not?

“Well, if we’re so close I don’t see why not.  As long as you think you’ll be able to handle me…”  Lizzy gestured up towards the stairs leading into Lampadias Suites.  “…after you.”

The Diplomat stifles a laugh against their hand.

“Oh, I think I'm up to the task.” 

They put out their cigarette and push off the fence, giving Lizzy a sly glance over their shoulder as they lead the way.

Their room on the first floor is dark, and the single gas light they turn on hardly dispels the gloom, but they seem satisfied with it as they turn to Lizzy. With a shameless smirk, they crowd her against the door until it clicks quietly shut behind her.

In the absence of sunlight, the Diplomat’s eye seems to shine. It’s difficult to look away.

“Hope I haven’t given you reason to,” Daud says gruffly. He drains half the glass and sets it on the bedside table. “Can’t imagine what kind of convincing I’d need to do.”

Truthfully, he’s afraid of how obvious it is: the way he looks at them, the way he turns toward them, how his touch becomes gentle with them. They must know what effect they have.

He reaches out to cup their face, thumb stroking the scar that stretches over their cheekbone. “You offered to show me the rest,” he says. “So show me.”

The Diplomat’s smile blooms slow, and wide, and warm, and they tilt into his hand even as their arms reach for him. Their eyes glitter hungrily, like they’re trying to decide what part of him to devour first.

One hand settles on his jaw and tilts his head down with easy authority, letting them press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth (still so stern and unsmiling, even in this).

It’s easy, moving to straddle Daud’s lap, pulling him in for a kiss, then another, relishing the warmth of his body against theirs. He’s so pliant under their direction, willing to move where they want him, it almost makes them worry just how far he’d let them push. They’re not well known for their restraint; they don’t want him to let them hurt him.

An unbearable fondness settles in their chest like a weight.

Their touch is very gentle when they take his hands and guide them to the top button of their button-up, but their breath is hot against his skin, voice low and dark like a promise.

The Outsider knows that he is being handled, wrapped in satin and pocketed like a stolen gemstone. It ought to concern him. He’s seen enough unfortunate ends to see one coming. But by the same token, he knows that by the time you see it, it’s too late.

Well, that would be true.

But he’d like to see where this is going. He doesn’t resist their amiable, persistent tug at his arm, or their cheery orders, and sits placidly on the blanket they indicate.

“Go ahead,” he says, glancing around the garden the Diplomat has brought him to. It’s beautiful. Serene, even. From eight stories up, the quiet is a veil separating them from the world below. “What’s the occasion?”

“Does there need to be an occasion?” They place a cup in his hand and pour him a generous drink. “I enjoyed our last conversation tremendously; I’ve thought frequently of seeking you out for the pleasure of a repeat, but there always seemed to be some new distraction to occupy my time until now.”

They nudge the basket in the Outsider’s direction in an unspoken invitation. They’re apparently not planning to personally serve him a plate.