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Your bodies are unbearably close like this. You have to fight to keep your legs pressed together, despite seeing how clearly he wants to step between them.

He leans closer, breath fanning over the side of your neck as he grins against your ear. “You must think that this is a game.”

You can’t help yourself, your body shudders with a gasp. Griffin huffs with amusement, mischief gleaming in his half lidded eyes.

“Not at all,” You say, voice shaky. “I’m taking this lesson very seriously, sir.”

“You’ll need to do more than that,” Griffin says lowly, voice rumbling in his deepest octave. It sends delightful chills up your spine. “This is a hands on lesson.”

His fingertips meet your hips, and your breathing quickens. You don’t know what you’re doing. Griffin is violent and untamable, he belongs to no one and has always escaped like smoke between your fingers every time you squeezed him too tight.

But god do you want him.

He’s happy to let you take from him, just this once.

Your mouths finally collide, and it is difficult to focus on kissing him properly when his hands paw at your waist and begin raising your shirt over your head.

You feel delirious and lightheaded as Griffin eagerly guides you towards his rickety cot, which groans worryingly under your combined weight. But he’s finally gotten between your legs, kicking them open wider to make a space for himself there.

Your back rests against his cot as he hovers over you, and you catch the apprehension flickering over his face. You reach upwards, linking your hands around his neck and tangling your fingers into the long strands of his hair.

Griffin has always hesitated at the last moment every time you stray too close to ‘dangerous’ territory. You suspect he has some underlying guilt about your positions, about how he’s meant to be your guide. Your mentor.

He brought you into Hermes and taught you everything you know about being a pain in Babel’s side. You’re not certain when your relationship evolved into this odd dynamic; but every time he doubts himself and begins to back away, you have to be the one to reel him back in.

“Your instructions, sir?” You ask, peering up at him with curious eyes.

Griffin falters, blinking at your wide eyed expression and then cursing to himself. “You have to know what that does to me.”

You don’t. You aren’t even sure what he’s talking about. His infatuation with you has never made much sense in your head, and sometimes you feel like you’re still waiting for the rug to be pulled out under you. But you want him so helplessly that you constantly find yourself willing to forgive him for his indecision.

“If you can’t handle making the decisions tonight, I can lead,” You say, puffing your chest and hardening your gaze to appear more authoritative.

Griffin barks a laugh, shifting up further onto the cot and between your legs until your thighs rest atop his own as your hips meet. He’s hard inside his trousers, you can feel it against where heat is building within you.

You’re startled by the intimacy the moment shares, Griffin’s hands drifting up and down your bare sides as you both make eye contact. You can’t remember the last time you spent so long looking into his eyes.

Before you get the opportunity to say something you’ll regret, you reach down to unbutton your pants, using Griffin’s help to shimmy out of them until you’re left in only your under garments.

Griffin makes an appreciative sound at the sight, raking his eyes along the contours of your body. Suddenly embarrassed under the attention, you try to drag him down so that you might kiss him again, but he resists.

You think that this is it, this is the moment he’ll pull away completely like he always does and then disappears for days on end to collect himself. This is, admittedly, the furthest the two of you have ever gotten. Best to count your blessings.

To your shock, Griffin grabs hold of your chin, his grip so tight you squirm in his grasp. This time, when your eyes meet, you are reminded of why you were so nervous in the first place.

There is something hungry, something primal about the way he’s looking at you. It sends your heart beating erratically within your ribs, like a thumping, terrified rabbit. You are caught between fear and desire.

You do not know this man as well as you should. Certainly not well enough for what he wants to do to you, what you want him to do to you.

Just as you accept that Griffin’s hold will leave blooming bruises on your face, he lets go. You take a shuddering breath, still looking into his eyes as he leans away from you, looming over your frame.

He surprises you, slipping off the cot, but not to leave. His coat has been long since forgotten, and now he takes the liberty of freeing himself from his simple buttoned shirt.

You try not to be too obvious about your staring, but Griffin catches you admiring the sharp lines of his abdomen anyway and grins. Handsome and crooked.

“You can touch in a minute,” He teases, huffing a laugh at how you flush red and turn your face away from him.

Griffin is by no means a frail man. He is thin, far thinner than anyone really should be. Hermes life is like that, it robs you of every little pleasure, testing your limits. It makes him no less attractive in your eyes.

You can see the outlines of his ribs, the way his lightly toned stomach meets the protruding edges of his hipbones. How his lean limbs still hold the distinct curves of muscles desperately trying to grow. If Griffin could just get in good meals, it’s easy to believe he would be quite fit.

He has to be, with all his running and lifting and fighting. Anthony likes to say the Hermes has strategists, not soldiers, but Griffin might as well be military trained.

Griffin surprises you again by kneeling before the cot, bringing his palms up to caress your ankles that hang near the edge. He’s giving you that smile, that dooming, calculating smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes, and it makes you frigid all over again.

The man before you is not one for affection. You’re not sure he would be, even if he knew how to. You’re practically yanked towards him, biting back a yelp as your legs are maneuvered onto his shoulders.

It isn’t until the freak—he’s a freak—has his nose bumping against your clit through your panties that you get a handle on yourself and try to run away.

“W-wait—!” You flush, one of your hands flying to push at the crown of his head.

Griffin listens, letting you move his force his head back and shrugging your legs from his shoulders to look at you expectantly.

It’s an embarrassing position to be in, even though he is the one kneeling. You are practically laid bare for him, legs spread and eyes wide with uncertain desire.

You swallow loudly as you try to gather your bearings. “You don’t- you shouldn’t—“ You stumble, “You don’t have to do that. It’s…” You’re fumbling desperately for the right words to help him understand how flustered it makes you feel.

Griffin raises a thick brow, then smirks. “But I want to.” He says, cupping the undersides of your knees to place them back on his shoulders. “And I don’t very well enjoy being told what to do. If your only objection is embarrassment, you’ll get over that soon enough.”

Any other protests you might have die on your tongue as Griffin places his lips against the inside of your thigh, parting them to nip and kiss his way closer to where you need him most.

Your hand is still resting on the top of his head, and you’re grateful for it. It makes you feel just a smidge more in control; fingers laced in his dark brown hair, which threatens to fall over his eyes and block his view of you.

And he is certainly looking at you.

You’ve never been this exposed to him before. Naked, breathless, and so very vulnerable. Since the moment you met him, you had to place your trust in Griffin.

But trusting him with your body, with your intimacy, is different than trusting him to teach you how to shoot or to keep your secrets.

When his lips finally meet the juncture between your pelvis and thighs, you jolt in his grasp. He nips, clearly in search of more reactions, and you reward him with a yelp that brings blood rushing to your cheeks.

Griffin’s face is so close. You aren’t sure how you’re going to be able to look at him during meetings and not think of the way he looks between your legs.

It’s tempting to try and close him in, to tighten your thighs against the sides of his face and force him to focus on where you can feel your pussy pulsing. Griffin likes to punish though, and he has no patience for disobedience. You aren’t certain you’re ready for whatever punishments he’ll give you in this setting.

You are forced to watch as he finally, finally licks a thick stripe up the length of your clothed cunt. Your thighs twitch, breathing coming to a halt as Griffin maintains steely eye contact the entire time.

Griffin does it again, again and again. Tracing the outline of your entrance to your clit with his tongue. He keeps going until the fabric of your pretty panties are soaked through.

It’s too much to handle. You lay back and stare at the ceiling, unable to keep your eyes on him any longer.

This, apparently, is a mistake.

Pulling away from you, Griffin makes a low sound that sets your nerves back on alarm. Your hand falls from his head as he moves out of reach, and you use the free appendage to prop yourself up.

“What—“ You start, but freeze up when his fingers meet your hips and slip below your panties to pull them off your legs.

There's a string of arousal connecting you to the fabric, darkening your face with shame. Griffin watches it snap with rapt interest, only setting your garment aside when it does.

Then, his eyes are back on you.

Griffin stills, staring at where you’re leaking from his eager ministrations. You nearly reach out to hit him, or yell at him to remind him that all his staring is going to drive you crazy. You aren’t sure you can handle being pinned down so intently by his attention.

But then a sudden thought occurs to you, from the way his lip twitches with that contemplative look he gets whenever he’s unsure.

Griffin doesn’t know what to do.

You try to imagine Griffin doing this with someone else —ignoring how the thought makes your heart spike with anxiety— and realize you can’t. He’s too proud and paranoid to trust someone like that. The fact you’re even doing this with him right now speaks volumes.

His knowledge probably comes from all his reading and adventures into the more unsavory parts of England (who knows what he has witnessed).

You decide to have mercy and throw Griffin a bone, even if you can feel the heat burning on your face.

“Griffin,” You say, and his eyes snap up to you. You spread your legs wider, angling your hips at him and lowering your gaze. “Are you going to keep touching me?”

Griffin’s eyes go wide as saucer plates. If he didn’t know what to do before, now he really isn’t sure how to proceed. He breaks out of his stupor and inhales sharply, closing his eyes for a moment to collect himself.

“Patience,” Griffin soothes, sounding more put together than he is. When his eyes open again, there’s a hunger within them. “Let me enjoy this.”

You’re not sure what part of this he’s supposed to enjoy. What benefit does he get from pleasing you?

The thought dies as he gets back in position, with your legs placed on either of his bare, scarred shoulders. Griffin’s hands rest upon the insides of your legs, keeping them parted wide for his convenience. His thumbs come down to rub circles on the crux of your thighs before pulling apart your lips.

You make an embarrassed sound, which Griffin shushes before placing an open-mouth kiss on your twitching entrance. Warm, wet lips moving over you in sensual sucks. He groans at the taste of you, pressing close until the stubble of his face brushes the inside of your thighs.

“Griffin—“ You whimper, not sounding like yourself. Not sounding like the tough little apprentice you try to convince him you are.

He’s watching you again, trying to gauge your reactions. Griffin is a smart man, it doesn’t take him long to figure out that you enjoy the caress of his tongue, or the feeling of his lips wrapped around your clit.

True to his word, Griffin’s ministrations quickly throw any embarrassment you might have had out the window.

Your eyes are half-lidded and hazy, your breathes coming out in heavy puffs of air.

“You’re good at this,” You say, despite yourself, because it is true. Regardless of whether he has experience or not.

Griffin pulls away just long enough for you to catch sight of his bruising lips. He’s smirking again. “Just good?”

He leans forward again and presses his tongue to your entrance until it slips inside, lapping easily through your wetness. His nose is bumping your clit, sending a jolt through your body as he strokes your insides with long, slow licks.

Your head tilts back and you have to bite your lip to hold back a high moan. “You feel amazing. So good, Griffin—“

“That right?” Griffin practically purrs at the praise, lips humming against you as his tongue slips in and out. If you had half a clearer mind, you might exploit the obvious weakness, but you don’t, and so you can only whimper your agreements.

Griffin eats at you like he’s been starved his whole life. Maybe he has, at least for as long as he’s been with Hermes. It’s depraved and dirty, messy and unrhythmic. It’s a new form of torture, pushing you to the brink of insanity.

You can peek your slick clinging to the edges of his mouth, coating the top of his tongue. You must be the only thing he can taste right now, the only thing he can think about. His fingers press into the softness of your thighs, grounding you snug against him even as you squirm in his grasp.

Griffin glances up at you, watching the way your face scrunches with pleasure.

“Your fingers, please,” You beg, whine, your breath stuttering out as you make pleading eyes down at him.

“You like that word a lot,” Griffin says roughly, something dark coying at the edge of his tone. “Please.” He repeats it, hot and nearly as desperate as you had, mocking you.

For a moment you worry he isn’t going to comply with your demand. He rarely caves to your whims anyhow, firm in his decision not to spoil you rotten, now would be no different. But to your immense relief, his right hand departs from your thigh so he can stroke your clenching entrance with a fingertip.

His first finger practically glides in, and he doesn’t even have to try to fit the second. It wasn’t until this very moment that you fully acknowledged how long Griffin’s fingers are. They’re thin and calloused, certainly not delicate as they prod around inside you.

He finds your cervix with ease, and—based on the curious raise of his brow— he inspects it carefully, tracing the shape of it. You shudder, your hips instinctively angling to try and get him to rub just a bit below—

Griffin notices your desperation and pulls his fingers back in a slight curling motion, right across that sweet spot inside you. An unintentional move, for certain; just as unintentional as the choked, sob of a moan you let out is.

Within seconds Griffin is curling his fingers over the spot repeatedly, tongue still ghosting over your heat and lapping up everything you have to give him. He rests his cheek against your left thigh, letting you roll your hips against his ministrations as you whimper and plead nonsense to him.

The whole time, he watches you. He watches you come undone, watches as your breathing becomes panting, watches the way you try to fight desperately to maintain some semblance of self control.

His thumbs presses to your clit, again curious of your reaction. Griffin’s eyes light up mischievously at the way your grinding becomes more desperate and erratic.

“Feels that good, huh?” Griffin teases, murmuring over the sounds of your heavy breathing.

“Mmph,” You mumble your agreement, hazy. “Feels so good. You’re so g-good!”

Griffin coos, bringing your aching clit back between his lips to roll it under his tongue in scalding circles that have your mind sputtering.

“Fuck—! Griffin- Griffin, please,” You gasp, one of your hands shooting down to tangle in his messy hair.

“Please what?” Griffin asks, parting from you. He doesn’t swat away your hand like you expect him to. “You speak how many languages? Use your words.”

“More, I want more,” You manage, voice fussy and mewling as your thighs jerk.

“Don’t get greedy,” Griffin scolds, grunting, but the pressure of his fingers inside you increases, speeding up and rubbing against the spongy spot with vigor. Your walls flutter around his touch.

The lewd, wet sounds of your sex is not lost on you. You’ll be plenty embarrassed later at just how easily Griffin manages to make you aroused. The man isn’t even fully naked, yet he has you in the literal palm of his hand.

Tension coils within you, warm and electrifying. You’re approaching your climax, and fast. Griffin must be able to tell too, because he’s growing sloppy, more desperate.

He seals his lips around your swollen clit and sucks. Your back arches straight off the bed as your mouth drops open, keening loudly. His fingers are still curling and circling your insides, pressing against that sweet spot he just won’t stop abusing.

Your hips begin to rut against his face, your legs jolt and twitch, and your mewling increases in pitch and frequency. Griffin makes a soft, pleased sound against you, the vibrations only furthering your ecstasy.

Griffin doesn’t stop even when you spill over the edge, legs trembling around his face and fingers pulling tightly at his hair. If anything, he presses against you harder, letting you ride against his face and through your climax.

It’s only when the glide of his tongue over your clit becomes too much that you try pushing at his face. He relents, easing his fingers from your sopping core, a thin strand connecting him to it that he deftly licks and sucks away.

The sight nearly convinces you to pull him back in, but your arms are tired from being propped up for so long, and your mind is blearily foggy.

You breathe heavy like that for a minute, sprawled out on Griffin’s cot and blissed from his mouth and fingers alone. It’s heavenly, it’s damning. At this moment, it’s all you’ve ever needed.

When the pulsing between your legs finally soothes some you drag a hand down your face and sit up, ready for more. Ready to give Griffin something better in return.

But he’s already found his shirt and is buttoning it back up again. You startle, confusion and heartache washing away the fog in your mind.

“Griffin?” You ask tentatively.

He nods in your direction, urging you to speak, but not directly looking at you. He continues buttoning his shirt.

“At least let me return the favor.” You stand, panic mounting. You feel weak-kneed and wobbly. Was he really about to leave, after all that? He is still hard in his breeches. Surely it’s not over?

Griffin stiffens as you manage to reach him, your deft fingers wrapping around the edges of his belt and tugging pitifully downwards.

Cupping the side of your face, Griffin studies the helpless desperation in your eyes. He sighs and shakes his head. “Next time, perhaps.” His thumb strokes over the curve of your cheek. “Today’s lesson was enough. Think carefully about what you learned.”

You frown. “Next time?”

Griffin’s eyes lighten with mirth. “Next time,” He parrots, ruffling the hair at the top of your head playfully.

“Then next time, you’ll let me do something about this?” You ask, and without warning cup the outline of his hard length through the fabric of his pants.

Griffin curses, and takes hold of your wrist, face turning red. “We’ll see if you’ve earned it by then.” He clears his throat, managing to get your grip away from him.

You’re still not satisfied. “And right now? You’re not leaving, are you?”

“No, we’re leaving,” Griffin says matter-of-factly. “Get on with it, find your boots. We’ve got things to do.”

You try hard not to let your relief show, rolling your eyes light-heartedly and stalking off to start getting dressed too. “Where to?”

Griffin pulls his coat off the back of his desk chair, shrugging it on. “You let me worry about that. I’ll show you the way.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look, yanking on your socks. “And you’re sure you don’t want to take care of that before we go out into public?”

“I can handle myself fine, thank you,” Griffin turns to hide his hard-on from you, yanking his long coat further over himself for extra protection. “I’m older, I know what I’m doing. Don’t embarrass me.”

You snort. “Oh no, I don’t think you need any help from me with that.”

It’s as good of a day as any, with clear skies and breezy weather. There’s still a residual chill from the melting winter that seeps into the depths of your bones, which only heightens as you crawl through the cramped dirt tunnel to Griffin’s hideout.

In his absence, you’ve made a home for yourself in it. However, living in the space Griffin occupies for the majority of his time in Oxford is… strange.

It’s less strange when Anthony visits, and you two ponder about what Griffin does with his time in the tiny room. But when it gets dark, and it’s just you and the space Griffin doesn’t fill, you feel unusually melancholic.

The tiny window, if you can even call it that, in the wall peers up at a lone star in the sky. The room is dark and cold and so very isolating, with nothing but hundreds of reminders of a man whose life you find yourself understanding less and less as you grow older.

Today, hopefully, the moonlight will feel more like a gift than a reminder of how many nights Griffin has been away.

Even during the day, a candle is needed to see clearly in Griffin’s room. You have one burning at the corner of the desk you hurriedly scribble a note out on.

‘Étoilé and I will wait for you at The White Hart, tonight. Wear your birthday suit!’

You finish the note off by drawing at least ten hearts around your words—specifically because you know it annoys him—then seal it shut with some wax from the candle. You quickly blow the flame out, and scurry away from his evil lair in a fit of giggles.

Étoilé is already neck deep in a stack of books when you slip into the old library. He doesn’t notice you at first, too busy sorting through the newest editions some other Babel scholar must’ve snuck out for the Hermes collection.

“Hello handsome,” You greet, leaning against one of the tall bookshelves.

Anthony’s shoulders jump, but he’s quick to recover. “Good afternoon, I was just beginning to wonder when you’d get bored of skulking,” he answers mildly.

“I haven’t been skulking,” You say, defensively, “I’ve been very busy, I’ll have you know.”

“Oh?” Anthony closes the book in his hand sharply, casting a glance at you over his shoulder. “With what? And plotting on Playfair’s demise doesn’t count.”

“It does count, thank you very much.” You grin. “One of these days he’s going to wake up to the plagues and pestilence upon him, all thanks to my endless prayers for his downfall and— wait, no, you’ve distracted me.”

Anthony is hardly listening, still sorting through the different books before him and moving through the library to place them among Hermes’s growing collection. You trail after him.

“I’m not here to discuss the legitimacy of my plan to cause Playfair’s undoing, I’m here to tell you we’ve got a date tonight.” You step on your tip-toes to peer over Anthony’s shoulder and see what he’s looking at. “Lua is coming home.”

Anthony spins around, raising his brows at you with a knowing look. “You really think he’s coming home tonight?”

“Of course!” You say cheerfully. “And even if not, when was the last time you and I spent some quality time together?”

“Just the other night,” Anthony replies smoothly, walking away again and forcing you to follow. “But if you’re talking about quality time that puts a hole in my wallet, then not since Griffin left.”

“Exactly!” You say, pointedly ignoring his insult at your material status. “Let's go do something nice. If Griffin makes it, great. If not, then you and I get to enjoy something normal for once.”

Anthony eyes your warily. “Your idea of nice is burnt kitchen food from an establishment that should’ve been shut down by health quality inspectors a decade ago.”

“Okay.” You halt, crossing your arms. “At least I won’t make you change into anything fancy. Can you do this small favor for me, just this once?”

Anthony sighs, dragging over a stool and stepping upon it to slot one of the books into a higher shelf. “It’s not a favor, and it’s not a chore. I’ll happily go to dinner with you. Just don’t get your hopes too high about Griffin. We have no idea when he’s going to turn up.”

You smile, sneaking up behind him and wrapping your arms around his legs, resting your cheek against his thigh and peering up at him through your lashes and blinking playfully. “You’re so sweet. What would I do without you?”

“Don’t get cheeky with me,” Anthony chuckles, pushing your face away with gentle fingers before hopping down from the stool. His eyes gleam with mirth as he grins at you. “We both know you would find a way to send Playfair into the fourth ring of hell in my absence.”

You two make your way stealthily through the busy streets of Oxford and towards the less crowded area of Iffley. It’s a long, but rewarding walk. The plants are returning to their pre-winter glory, and you run into enough kittens and other new animals on your journey to sufficiently improve your mood.

The White Hart is one of the only places any Hermes operative can afford a meal, even if it isn’t decent. It's grimy and attracts the wrong crowd, but the portions are spectacular and you’ve never met a waiter who asks you a question beyond your meal choice.

You and Anthony pick a table by the window, sliding into your chairs and ordering your first round of drinks. Anthony is, as always, splendid company. Time flies until the oil lamps have to be lit and a pesky cricket starts to chirp from a distant corner. You hardly notice over the delight of debating William Jones’s approach to Sanskrit; in which Anthony has rather scathing opinions about William’s The Third Anniversary Discourse, and you delightfully take every opportunity to slander Sterling’s name in association.

To his credit, Anthony refrains diligently from participating in your defamation campaign against his colleague. That is until you mention the trip they took to Macau, in which Sterling managed to lose nearly 50 pence of their combined allowance.

It finally occurs to you just how late it’s gotten when you begin to lose sight of your original argument, and dissolve into taking turns comparing Sterling to increasingly hideous insects. You wistfully remark that Griffin would be upset he’s missing such a wonderful occasion, only to realize that it’s well past the hour he promised to meet you.

“I suppose we ought to head home,” Anthony says with forced cheer.

The tavern is nearly empty, and it won’t be long before the barmaids start pestering you to pack up. You hadn’t bothered ordering anything besides ale, since you didn’t want to risk the food getting cold by the time Griffin arrived.

“Just another round,” You insist anyway, motioning to the staff behind the bar for two more drinks.

As if on cue, the door to the tavern swings open, nearly slamming into the wall beside it as heavy boots trudge in. You spin around to see what the commotion is about and your breath catches in your throat as you make direct eye contact with Griffin.

He’s thinner than the last time you saw him, if that was even possible. His hair has gotten longer, just past his ears in a way that frames his face almost charmingly, with messy stubble lining the edges of his jaw.

There has always been a rugged, edgy appeal to Griffin. However, this new look highlights his most masculine traits so well you nearly neglect the fact he clearly hasn’t bathed in ages.

You swallow thickly, forcing down an evil grin.

He looks very good.

You beckon him over, beaming brightly. Griffin straightens his coat, eyes darting away to assess the rest of the patronage at the tavern, then saunters his way to your table.

He has a strange limp to his walk that nearly falters your excitement, but you try not to let it show. You have no intention of scaring Griffin off with your fretting.

“The situation has gotten worse,” He says before you can even take a chance at properly greeting him. “The factories in Canton are bursting with news of conflict on the horizon.”

Griffin has been in Calcutta, of all places, but word spreads fast in the East. You are not surprised to hear it, and even less surprised by the injuries you can vaguely spot hiding under Griffin’s attire. Getting that information must’ve cost him.

He halts before the table, looking much worse for wear up close. He’s panting slightly too, like he ran here directly after reading your note.

“Sit down, first,” You say patiently, “Anthony and I dressed up for this, at least indulge us.”

Griffin raises a brow at Anthony. “You dressed up for cheap beer and beef hash?”

“Do I look dressed up to you?” Anthony gestures to his uniform robes, which he hasn’t managed to change out of after his shift at Babel.

“Griffin, sit,” You insist, refusing to rise to the bait, “Please.”

The air becomes charged with something electric. Griffin’s eyes spark a flinty resolve that almost convinces you he’ll stand there the whole night simply to prove a point.

Luckily, his travels have worn him down. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, releasing a heavy sigh as he slinks into the chair beside you.

You beam, patting his thigh. “Great, order whatever you want, my treat!”

“When was the last time you cleared the spiderwebs from your wallet?” Anthony asks from across the table, smiling pleasantly even when you whip your head around to glare at him murderously.

“When was the last time you used that Babel stipend to treat me to something nice?” You fire back.

Anthony shrugs. “Touché.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Griffin says suddenly. He has one hand pinched at the bridge of his nose and the other clenched on the table.

You can’t decide how much of your sudden overwhelming attraction to him is attributed to the time you spent apart, or the fact that he really is that alluring.

Regardless, the gruff, annoyed tone Griffin takes with you has your stomach doing flips.

“We need to be discussing what we’re going to do about—“ Griffin pauses, looks over each of his shoulders suspiciously, then continues, “About Jardine and Matheson. I’ve been keeping a close eye on my father and his friends. Things are going to boil over in Canton soon.”

You had hoped that maybe the weight of his travels would tire Griffin out, that he might opt to relax a bit with you and Anthony, and allow himself to be swept into a lure of simplicity just for the night. But Griffin does not know how to slow down when he’s in a mood like this.

“You truly think there will be a war?” Anthony asks, voice hushed.

“There’s only so much Commissioner Lin can do,” Griffin sighs, leaning forward on his elbows.

Griffin has been anxious about the mounting war between China and Britain for quite some time now. If he’s finally found the evidence he’s been looking for, there will be no stopping his riveted focused frenzy about it. He’ll likely have plans to dismantle warships and gun-houses by the morning if left unchecked.

You resign yourself to the position of lurking. Anthony and Griffin exchange quick, sharp information about the growing conflict in Canton between the factories and Commissioner Lin. They argue about different approaches to the hostilities, with Anthony doing a splendid job at steering Griffin away from various suicide mission schemes.

In the meantime, you flag down a hostess to order three plates of whatever’s cheapest, and a drink for Griffin. It isn’t until she returns with your food that you realize your terribly grave mistake.

Griffin and Anthony pause as their meals are set before them. They give you expectant looks when the hostess holds out her hand for money, as it was you who invited them out.

You pat your pockets and feel your heart sink. Chuckling nervously, you check your other pockets in a hurried motion. Anthony’s eye twitches, and Griffin gives a heavy, drawn out sigh before pulling a few pence from his pockets and handing it over to the woman.

This was another facet of Griffin you missed while he was gone. He has a very particular habit of providing. Not overbearingly, or insistently, but taking a clear role in your wellbeing, simply because that’s how he is. Even if he acts like it’s being tortured out of him, you know Griffin finds pride in being the shoulder you and Anthony lean on for necessities.

You stuff a piece of potato in your face before you can finish your thoughts on how good of a provider Griffin is, swallowing thickly.

Griffin squints at you. “What are you smirking about over there?”

“I’m not smirking,” You say, smirking.

Griffin gives you that long, hard, suffering look that you know means he isn’t in the mood for your trouble, but it only makes you grin wider.

“Something tells me you’re not taking this war on China seriously,” Griffin says. His jaw clenches, and you sense a sudden shift in his disposition.

“I am taking it seriously.” You spear a potato with your fork. “Just as seriously as you're taking this date.”

“The tides of the world are about to shift, once Great Britannia gets her hands on—“

“On all the silver in China, we’re royally fucked. I know.”

“You don’t!” Griffin exclaims, heatedly.

Anthony sets his drink down harshly, but it doesn’t stop Griffin from bristling at you.

“I’m taking this situation with Commissioner Lin as seriously as I can, but there isn’t anything we can do until it reaches parliament. We’re not going to be able to sway public opinion on a war we have no proof is happening,” You defend, though there’s no bite to your words. “We know war is coming, but the common folk don’t, and even if they do they have no reason to care.”

You know it’s in your best interest to let him blow off steam about this, to let it be water under the bridge and let him have his way.

“Then talk about that. We need ideas. We need to be forward about this. We don’t have time for dinner dates and pleasantries,” Griffin seethes, and you know he doesn’t mean it. Not truly at least. “We need to be preparing for a war.”

“And I’m guessing your solution is still Operation Divine Fury?” You ask, voice dripping with condescension.

“We are not getting into this.” Anthony leans over the table to tap your plate. “You both need to eat something and calm dow—“

“It’s better than anything you two have come up with in the last year.” Griffin is cutting into his potatoes frustratedly, and spooning them into his mouth just as angrily. You know better than to laugh at the display though. “We’re running out of time and options.”

“You just want an excuse to unleash on Babel, admit it,” You decide to stir the pot anyway, mostly because Griffin’s anger is doing funny things to your stomach. You step on his toes beneath the table, and he jerks away.

”Oh like you wouldn’t love to point a gun at Playfair—“

You dissolve into chaos. Absolute chaos. It’s a game of who can find the more creative insult. Thankfully, you’ve known each other long enough to discern that it is exactly that, a game. It’s also a way for Griffin to unwind after two months of isolation and political stress (and god knows what else he’s been up to).

This time, it’s Anthony who takes the backseat, eating his food calmly despite your raising voices. He waits patiently for you two to wear yourselves out, running a finger over the rim of his cup in slow circles.

You make eye contact with him just as Griffin calls you a “Cuss Know-Nothing”, and you catch the exact moment his mask of indifference cracks into surprised amusement.

“You traitor!” You screech, kicking his leg under the table as he fails to hide his laughter.

You can’t help yourself, you start to laugh with him; even Griffin’s irritation melts at the sight of you and Anthony struggling to catch your breath from guffawing at each other.

“Alright, alright.” Griffin slaps the table once, then twice to catch your attention. “Enough. You two are embarrassing me.”

“You hypocrite—“

“Excuse me?”

And that’s how the night goes.

You and Anthony breaking into periodic boisterous cackling at each other’s expense, and Griffin pretending like he doesn’t know you to avoid association (even though he’ll happily steal food off your plate when you aren’t looking).

It isn’t long before the staff decide they’ve had enough of your group's perversity, and send you out onto the street stumbling over one another.

None of you are drunk, but you all sway as you hold onto one another down the street, doubling over with loud cackles and attempts at knocking each other down.

You link hands with Anthony as you both throw an arm over Griffin’s frame, squeezing him between you. He still needs a bath, and clearly someone needs to force him to sit down long enough to stitch his wounds, but his warmth is magnetic as you all huddle together against the late spring evening breeze.

“Your place?” You ask hopefully, peering at Griffin under the oil lamp lights on the street.

“Not my place.” Griffin shakes his head. “My cot will crumble if we breathe on it wrong.”

You do not mention you repaired his cot for him. Instead, you take the opportunity to drag him and Anthony back to your own residence, a place they often (desperately) avoid.

An evening at your tiny countryside cottage typically leads to laughter and poking sides, which evolves into lingering touches and long looks, which eventually ends with you all sprawled out in one large bed and a warm breakfast shared in the morning.

This, of course, is very dangerous. It treads on a path none of you know the way through. It is an indulgence in something none of you are certain you should have the privilege to enjoy in such positions as your own.

But you’ve always been a risk taker, you’ve always marched into uncharted territory for the adventure. Griffin’s paranoid, insecure fear and Anthony’s cautious, reserved apprehension will not deter you from dragging them through the wild with you.

And that is exactly how you end up tucked against Griffin’s side in your creaky bed, changed into freshly washed pajamas and cozied up under the covers.

It took some convincing to get Griffin to let you repair his many cuts; he grumbled and sulked the whole time, avoiding your gaze. He only came out of his stupor when you nearly bit his biceps in a playfully attempt to make him laugh.

Anthony chuckles as he blows out the last candle in your room, slipping beneath the covers with you and trapping Griffin in on his other side.

“You must think you’re clever,” Griffin murmurs against the top of your head as you reach over and lace a hand with Anthony.

“Poor Griffin,” You sigh dramatically, tucking your face into the crook of his neck and cuddling up to his side tighter, mindful of his wounds. “What will he do with so much success and love in his life?”

Griffin does not stop you from cozying up against his thin form, even when you throw a leg over him and coil it with one of his own. He does, however, bring a warning hand to the back of your neck.

Just as his cold fingers begin to press into the soft skin of your nape, Anthony grumbles. “I need to be awake in five hours, save the quarreling for the morning.”

“Won’t you have time to spare before you go?” You ask, thankful for the distraction. You catch Anthony’s eye in the dark and wink at him.

Anthony hesitates, lips twitching like he’s caught between wanting to shy away and teasing you back.

“Alright, that's enough from you,” Griffin huffs, tucking your face deeper against his neck. You smile against his skin, giggling. “Go to sleep, you’re clearly deprived.”

“Yes, I’m deprived of something for certain.” You slip your hand from Anthony’s to draw circles upon Griffin’s collar bones, dipping beneath the fabric before running over the top to stray further down suggestively.

Griffin’s hand leaves your throat to yank the pillow out from under your head, then promptly smothers your face with it, even as you squeal and slap his arms.

“I suppose I could be awake in four hours,” Anthony says thoughtfully over your graceless squawking.

Griffin gives Anthony a reproachful stare. “No wonder this one got so spoiled in my absence. You indulge everything.”

“I indulge myself,” Anthony says gently. “You should too.”

You manage to poke your head out from under the pillow, even as Griffin pushes it to your face harder. “You’re outnumbered, now you have no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Griffin removes the pillow from your face, and sits up. You tense at the mischievous glint in his eye, shallowing thickly. “And I’m choosing violence.”

He brings the pillow down over you in sudden, quick succession, laughing mercilessly as you push yourself away from him and fall off the bed with a thump.

Anthony, your hero, takes his own pillow and thwacks Griffin in the back of the head. They begin to scruff on top of your mattress, and you take the opportunity to rub the ache at your tailbone, groaning loudly.

“That was so unfair!” You fume, standing up and yanking a pillow of your own. It's with Anthony’s help that you get him on the run, backed up against the headboard. Griffin does not stand a chance to defend himself against you and Anthony, and so he takes the strikes to his head and chest with loud protest, despite starting the conflict himself.

Griffin doesn’t stop struggling until Anthony manages to get his hips pinned under his own, and you have his wrists pulled over his head. The only sound left is everyone’s heavy breathing, small chuckles mixed in until your position becomes apparent and Griffin clears his throat loudly.

“You win. Let up.” He shifts, wrists straining against your hold.

Even in the dark, you can see the impish grin on Anthony’s face. “I’ve changed my mind. Why wait until morning?”

“Anthony!” You gasp, cackling with delighted surprise. “You’re supposed to be the voice of reason.”

“I have been,” Anthony defends, “For two months, I think I’m owed a reward.”

“Do you?” Griffin asks, taking up that same low, gruff tone from the tavern that fills your chest with butterflies. “Seems like you’ve both become spoiled in my absence.”

“Maybe don’t leave for so long next time.” You lean close to Griffin’s ear, grinning maniacally at the way his breath catches and he turns his face fractionally away from you.

“Tempting offer,” Griffin concedes, inhaling sharply as Anthony’s hands find the collar to his borrowed sleepwear.

“Sounds like you still need to be convinced,” Anthony says mildly.

“I’m open to negotiation.” Griffin shifts his hips beneath Anthony’s in a slow, deliberate movement.

When you both arrived in Liverpool freezing to your toes, it was in good spirits. Your trip had gone well, and even your fellow Hermes operatives (who you rendezvoused with the night before your robbery was to take place) commented on it. You had to smother a grin when you and Griffin shared a knowing look.

You were responsible for keeping a watch out for dock guards. The ship you and your little crew of criminals were raiding was heavily protected, and slipping past the defenses had not been easy. Naturally, getting in and out, you had to be sneaky.

And you needed to be quick.

That, had been Griffin’s most stressed point. Once he lit his bombs, you all would only have minutes to escape or be caught in the destruction.

The plan was to go in pairs, breaking into the boat’s belly and taking as much silver as one could muster. With you keeping watch and alerting whoever was below deck that someone was coming. Once one pair was done, the next would enter the boat and leave just as stealthily.

It was meant to decrease the risk factor.

But Leon never made it out.

Each person left the ship with one crate of silver, making this Hermes’s greatest feat to date. Leon was the last to go under the deck and was supposed to be the last one up, accompanied by Griffin. But neither reemerged.

You waited, hiding in the shadows, but they never came back up. All you could do was continue to keep watch, staring at the dock guards pacing the wooden length of the artificial shore. You were certain the anxiety was going to send you into cardiac arrest just as Griffin finally reappeared.

Except, he wasn’t on the boat.

It was unmistakably him. His black coat fluttered around him as he dodged into one of the alleyways back on the streets. He’d already made it back safe. He must’ve gotten past without you noticing.

Which means he must’ve lit the explosives minutes ago.

You only had enough time to leap from the boat and roll over the wooden dock, scrambling to your feet hopelessly. The ship exploded in a great spectacle of red and orange fire, blasting your eardrums and blinding you.

You hardly remember how you managed to get to safety, only that the last few minutes have been the most painful of your life.

There’s a strange pressure in your stomach that’s making it hard to straighten your back, but you don’t dare look down, in fear of what injury you might find there. All you can do is pray your adrenaline will keep you sane enough to get to safety.

Instead, you brace yourself against the wall of the building to your right and shuffle further into the alleyway you think you saw Griffin enter earlier.

Sure enough, at the end of the path, Griffin stands, peaking out around the corner and checking to see if the coast is clear for his escape. The militia will be on the scene soon, neither of you will want to be here when that happens.

You’re so relieved to see him that you crumble down to the floor, sliding down the stone wall and biting back a quiet sob.

“Griffin,” You call, a little desperately.

His head instantly snaps over to you, and you see the exact moment he realizes you’re injured. Badly.

Griffin is at your side within seconds, practically falling over himself to slide down to his knees and yank you closer by your sides. There is no time for embarrassment, no time to think about how nice it feels to be within his embrace as he lifts you to your feet. He throws your arm over his shoulder to support your weight and strides you both down the alleyway as quickly as you can manage.

Your vision swims for half the journey, barely picking your feet up off the ground as Griffin does most of the heavy lifting. You think he might be cursing, or calling you names, but the ringing in your ears hasn’t completely faded.

“Le—Leon- He didn’t make it?” You manage, feeling breathless.

Griffin’s grip on your side tightens. You watch his lips move, you try to make out the syllables you know he’s saying. “If he isn’t with you, then no.”

Your heart sinks, but you keep your face passive. It would’ve been a miracle if no one died during this mission. One dead and one injured is a record for Hermes, at least for a robbery this big.

At the end of the alleyway, Griffin looks in both directions, like he’s searching for something. The road ahead is empty thanks to the late hour, but you’re certain people will be flooding the streets any moment now to see what all the commotion is about.

Griffin seems to realize this too, and begins swearing again. He forces you both back into the narrow alleyway, and then into a nearly nonexistent gap between two buildings. There’s not a chance he can carry you back to the safe house, he’s too thin and brittle, and you’re basically deadweight.

He helps you lower down to the dirty, moist, cobblestone floor, face scrunched with concentration.

As you bring your hands to your stomach, where you felt that strange pressure before, you notice how badly you’re trembling. Your body must be in an awful lot of pain, and you fill with dread as you realize your adrenaline is going to start wearing off soon.

That's when you spot the large, sharp, wooden spike caught in your abdomen. There’s blood soaking your shirt and the wood, dying everything a deep red color that sends a chill down your spine.

“Shit—Griffin-” You whimper, and Griffin’s eyes snap down to the wood stuck in you, damp and dripping with red blood.

“Fuck. Fuck, what the hell happened out there?” Griffin asks, grimacing. His hands hover over the wood, he’s shaking almost as bad as you are. “I told you to get off the boat the second I was up.”

You have never known Griffin to be a healer. In fact, as much as you adore him, you would never want him in charge of your stitches. But you have no choice except to rely on him now, and a little part of you dies at the thought.

His hands are indelicate as they tug the fabric away from your wound, and he glances between the red of your shirt and the roots of your hair, where you suspect there is another gash dripping in your blood.

“Sorry, ‘m sorry,” You say, breaths becoming short and quick.

Griffin gives you a sideways look, before ripping your shirt further off to expose the wood and fire underneath. He tries, and fails, to push your face away so you won’t see the grotesque scene.

You both sit in a tense silence, a heavy sense of doom settling in your bones. The wood is stuck, and it’s stuck deep. Your heart is racing like a tiny bird thrumming between your ribs trying to break free.

Even around the wound, tiny splinters decorate your skin and threaten to infect you. The sight of your body split in such a violent state feels unreal, and you are suddenly grateful that your veins are pumping with adrenaline to withstand the pain.

“No point in apologizing now. This is punishment enough,” Griffin says gruffly, finally breaking the looming stillness between you. He looks frozen in place, uncertain of how to proceed. Neither of you are equipped with the skill set necessary to save you from something this severe. He knows it. You both know it.

“Well,” You start, sounding entirely defeated. Your voice shakes like a leaf. “It didn’t hit anything important. I’d be dead by now if that was the case.”

This time when Griffin forces you to face away, you let him, allowing your head to lull against his touch. He pulls back after a hesitant moment, then drags his hands down his face in a scrubbing motion, groaning.

“We can’t leave this in,” Griffin says, rolling up his sleeves.

“If you pull it out, I’m going to start gushing like a fountain,” You huff, still breathing like you just ran a marathon. “Do you have anything to close the wound?”

“You’re going to bleed out at this rate anyway, we’re running the risk of it ripping something vital open,” Griffin says, frustrated. “Damnit, I’m not a medic.”

You fight the urge to slap his hand away as it closes around the wood, instead relaxing your weight against the wall and resigning yourself to an early death. “I hope Anthony speaks at my funeral. I wonder if Playfair will throw a party to celebrate.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be the optimist between us?” He asks, though you know it’s meant to be a distraction. “At least try to hold out.”

“Have you heard the word contumacious?” You say, ignoring him. “It comes from the Latin roots con and tumere. It means to be stubbornly disobedient to authority.”

“That right?” Griffin says, goading you on. He holds down the top of your stomach with one hand and inhales deeply.

You keep talking, even as his grip tightens on the wood and you feel your skin tug around the wood. There’s a rippling sensation, like electricity running under your skin as you try to refrain from tensing up, your voice is catching and stumbling as your anxiety peaks. “Yep. Reminded me of yo— fuck!”

Griffin yanks half the wood out in a single, harsh pull, but the sensation of it dragging against your insides and the space left behind has your mind spinning.

He slaps his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming any louder. The last thing you need right now is for militia to find you, rationally you know this, but it becomes increasingly difficult to stay rational as blood spills over every inch of your abdomen.

“You need to be quiet,” He says between his teeth, though you hardly hear him over how you're hyperventilating into his hand.

Pulling his palm away to give you room to breathe, he takes another deep breath and then —with absolutely no warning— rips the wood from you clean.

He slaps his hand over your mouth again.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. Somehow you feel both warm and cold. The feeling of your blood running over your skin is like a gentle summer rain, but your wound might as well have been touched by the Arctic.

Griffin spends that time attempting to apply pressure and stop the bleeding with ripped fabric from his sleeves and whatever bandages he already has on. Nothing works. It’s entirely futile against the rush of blood pooling out of you.

You feel delirious, lightheaded, and suddenly very entertained. You giggle.

Griffin shoots you an alarmed side-eye.

“Griffin,” You say between gasps for air and cackles.

“Don’t start,” He warns, perhaps a little scared.

“Too late,” You giggle evilly. “That ship has sailed.”

Griffin gives you an incredulous look. “We’re not doing this.”

“No?” You ask, grinning in a way that must be very concerning. “Oar what?”

Griffin’s expression hardens, and you’re certain you’ve done it now.

You laugh louder anyway. “I’ve got a sinking feeling about this.”

He digs a finger into your wound and you nearly black out again.

“Take this seriously,” He hisses, and you resist the urge to weep because you know it would only make him angrier.

“I'm coping,” You hiss back, writhing under him. He lets up after a few more seconds, satisfied with your punishment.

“You can cope later. Right now I need you to think.” Griffin straightens out, but keeps his hands over your cut. “You’re supposed to be medically inclined.”

“The wood was holding the blood in place. Like a scab would. Rip off the scab, you’re gonna bleed,” You explain. “Hence.” You gesture to the red covering Griffin's hands. “The blood.”

“I know that,” Griffin’s nostrils flare with a thinly contained outburst. “I’m asking you, what do we do now?”

“Do you have a thread and a needle?”

“No.”

”A lighter?”

“…No?”

“Guess I’ll die then.” You shrug.

You see Griffin move to dig his fingers in the wound again for your petulance and start flailing like a fish out of water. He only manages to get you to stop when he holds down either side of your hips with his knees.

“There has to be something else,” Griffin insists, like Christ himself will appear and save you from damnation. Briefly, you wonder if that’s how Griffin approaches most of his injuries. “I’m not just leaving you here to bleed out.”

“I didn’t realize you cared so much,” You say humorously, a little strangled. Just to break the tension of your steadily approaching death.

“Of course I care,” Griffin snaps back, heatedly, “isn’t it obvious?”

You both freeze.

The nerve of this man.

“I guess so,” You manage, blinking slowly as black dots begin to dance in your vision. “I hadn’t noticed at all. You do care about me.”

Griffin scoffs. “How many times have I covered your bill?”

Point taken.

Still, the audacity he has to hold that over your head even as you're bleeding out in his arms.

“Guess you’ll be glad to be rid of the hole in your wallet,” You say dryly, deliberately ignoring the very obvious confession he just made.

Griffin, probably against his better judgement, is not so eager to move on. “Don’t put words in my mouth. I'll fix the hole in my wallet as many times as it takes for it to stop bleeding dry.”

“Ha,” You say. “Ha ha.”

Your shirt is in tatters around the leaking opening that you try very hard not to look at. Griffin takes the liberty of ripping the bottom half off and shoving it over the wound to try and soak up some of your blood. You do not protest.

It’s only when he starts to press down on it do your hands shoot up and wrap around his wrists, a hissing sound escaping your lips.

“Don’t be a baby,” He tuts. He takes your hands and links them with his own, pressing them down against the wound so you can feel your shirt grow more damp.

“This isn’t helping anything.” You wince. “Seriously we can’t just sit here and wait for the bleeding to stop, I can feel my lifespan shortening.”

Griffin retracts a hand, digging for something in one of the inner pockets of his coat. He pulls out a thin, delicate silver bar that gleams under the moonlight.

“We’ll try this,” He says, with as much confidence as you think he can muster.

You see the match-pair inscribed on its shining surface and audibly gulp. On one side, “修” , Xiū, to fix. Or at least that’s what Griffin told you it means. On the other, “Heal”. This is the silver bar Griffin has been tweaking for the past few weeks.

It’s a prototype at best and a pipe dream at worst. You know he hasn’t had the opportunity to test it, which is probably why he’s waited until the last moment to use it.

But you’re fresh out of any other options, and with how numb your limbs are starting to feel, you doubt you could run away even if you tried.

Griffin hesitates as he holds the bar to your stomach. You see a flash of uncertainty in his eyes and swallow thickly.

Even if the match-pair can save you, there’s no guarantee the bar will respond to Griffin. They’ve always been finicky with him, especially when he needs them most.

“I’ve only got so much blood I can lose,” You say, kicking one of your legs to snap him back to attention. “I'm not getting any younger.”

Griffin huffs, giving you a weak grin as he breathes deeply. “Would it kill you to have good manners and say please?”

”Don’t you lecture me on my deathbed about manners,” You grin back, tasting something metallic on your tongue. “I’m dying anyway, I’ll go out how I want.”

“You’re not going to die,” Griffin drops his gaze the silver bar, gathering his courage and finally speaking the match-pair.

Nothing happens.

Your eyes droop, lashes fluttering.

Griffin hesitates again, then repeats the match-pair, stronger each time. He keeps repeating it until the words stop sounding like strength and start sounding like a prayer. His hands are locked with your own, pushing down on the wound as the remnants of your shirt soak up everything it can.

You don’t have the heart to tell him the pressure is making it hard to breathe. You’re not sure it even matters at this point.

You try focusing on something else, try looking up at the night sky or listening to the sound of footsteps somewhere beyond the tiny crook Griffin has tucked you both in. But your attention keeps coming back to him, back to the little details of him you finally get to see up close.

You’ve never noticed until now how much longer his hands are than your own. His palms and knuckles are littered with thick calluses you don’t recognize. When you manage to tear your gaze away from where your fingers interlace, you see the expression he’s making.

You feel sick.

You expected his face to be scrunched with anger, for him to be glaring at you.

Instead, his chin nearly quivers, and his face is taut with mounting grief. There’s a look in his eyes as he stares down at your blood-soaked shirt, one that you’ve never seen before. You’re breathless, finally taking in things about him you’ve neglected for years.

He never had stubble when you were students. His brows have gotten thicker. He’s painfully thinner. Scars decorate every little crook you can spot on his skin.

Most of all, he looks so exhausted, so much older than before.

You want to trace the worry lines of his face, but when you go to lift your hand, he clamps it down tighter.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Griffin fumes, sensing your gaze.

You don’t answer him.

“Please. I can’t get through this when you’re looking at me with pity, even at the end,” He says, weaker now. It shocks you enough that you lose your grip on his fingers.

“I’ve never pitied your Griffin,” You say, just as softly.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not pity.”

Griffin isn’t brave enough to answer. His teeth dig deep into the skin of his bottom lip, drawing blood. He’s still not looking at you.

“Griffin, I lov—“

“I know, goddamnit!” Griffin shouts, “I know you do.”

You find it hard to speak, even though you want to answer him. Your head is so heavy, it nearly pounds as it aches, and your vision is dizzying; but still, you continue to search Griffin’s face as emotions take him whole.

“You don’t get to say that now. Not at the end. Not when it doesn’t matter anymore.” Griffin is shaking, there’s so much pain on his face, but you can’t spot a single scratch on him.

“I love you,” You say it anyway. You say it because even if he’s right, and it is for nothing, even if he never loves you back, you want him to hear it. To know it, undeniably.

He won’t say it back. You know he won’t, even if he might feel the same. Griffin has always been too stubborn, too proud. He can never accept any type of sympathy or adornment from people. He’s too scared of what it will do to him.

Considering you’re about to die in an incredibly traumatic way before his eyes, you don’t blame him.

“You’re unbelievable,” He scoffs, voice cracking. “You’re going to be embarrassed later that you said that.”

Your hands slip away from his, covered in your warm blood. They drape at your sides uselessly.

“I hope so,” You agree. Later sounds nice.

He’s hunched over you, hands clutching the silver bar so tight in his grasp that his knuckles turn white. No amount of pressure will stop the bleeding. His knees cage you in, on either side of your hips as he nearly straddles you.

When did he get so close?

The match-pair falls from Griffin’s lips so many times that he starts to mispronounce it, and you tug at his sleeve weakly to make him stop, staining his coat with your blood. He continues anyway, now more desperate.

“Griffin, you’re going to have to leave me,” Your voice is barely above a whisper. Everything is so unbearably heavy and cold. You’ve never felt so desolate in your life.

You smile. You’re certain this is the cruelest thing you’ve ever done to him.

Griffin’s anger reaches its peak, and finally cracks, giving way to fear. Giving way to the scared boy you’ve always suspected lived underneath.

“You weren’t supposed to get hurt,” Griffin’s voice is thick and deep in his throat. “I can’t do this again.”

Your smile falls, and you are very quiet.

You know what he means. You know you can’t absolve him of the guilt. You know your death is probably going to make it worse.

You know there is nothing you can do.

“Better that they find me, and not you,” You try to soothe, but your whispered voice sounds panicky, even to your own ears.

Not for the first time, you see Griffin cry.

It never fails to remove you from reality though. The sight is so unusual and shocking, little tears streaming down his cheeks that are normally stretched to accommodate his wolfish smile. A red rim lines his eyes that so often gleam with mirth as he teases you. His lips tremble like he’s fighting back a sob, as if he’s certain it will doom him.

You really, really wish you could hold him right now. Or maybe you wish to be held in your final moments.

It’s the strangest feeling. You aren’t disappointed that the bar won’t work for him, that his Chinese is failing him at the worst possible moment. You can’t imagine holding it against him, can’t imagine feeling bitter. You can’t even bring yourself to hope anymore.

All you feel is an overwhelming urge to bury your face in the crook of his neck and close your eyes.

You’ve seen him brush off the deaths of so many of your friends. You’ve seen him shoulder through it with nothing more than a “These things happen. They knew what they were signing up for.” , and never speak of them again. You’ve seen him swallow down an inhuman amount of grief for his closest friends and mentors.

Part of you always wondered how he would react to Anthony or you dying. Part of you always suspected it would be the same, and he would move past your death with practiced indifference. Part of you always withered at the thought of being so insignificant.

He hasn’t cried since Evie, and the implication wrecks you, body and soul.

He holds the bar to your wound, where the warmth is leaving your body and everything is an awful, dreadful red color. He repeats the words like a prayer, desperate and furious.

“Griffin,” You plead. “Leave, please.”

Griffin finally looks up at your face, and you realize you must be crying too, from the way your eyes are becoming bleary. You're both breathing heavily, but you are certain you forget how to when his forehead presses against your own.

He’s so close. His breath fans over your face, and you can feel the shudders of his body against your own. It’s the strangest thing, how you nearly expect him to kiss you. You want to close the distance, to be selfish and take it from him; but somehow, the feeling of his skin against your own, and the look in his eyes so focused on you is infinitely more intimate.

One final time, he speaks the match pair, “Xiū.” then “Heal.”

The bar hums to life.

You both gasp and look down at it, at where your skin begins to manifest a spider web-like design as it stretches to fix the hole in you.

Instantly, pain shoots through you like a bullet.

Your back curves as you try to curl around it, jaw dropping open and vision blacking out. You scream silently, then begin heaving in sobs as the ache overwhelms you. It’s so hot, everything is on fire, and your wound is a pit of lava.

Griffin nearly drops the bar trying to pull away your arms as you go to wrap them around yourself. All your muscles tense and you nearly vibrate as you swallow down a loud cry of anguish as another wave of pain washes over you.

And then it fades.

Everything fades.

Your senses start shutting down, and you go slack in Griffin’s arms. Your relief is immense, nearly euphoric on the comedown.

Griffin’s calling your name, his hands on your shoulders shaking you vehemently. His face is so blurry in your vision, and you think you feel one of his tears hit your face as he leans over you.

Those black dots in your vision expand until there’s nothing left except the swimming in your mind and ringing in your ears.

You think, dully, that this is a terrible way to go.

.

.

.

When you wake, it’s in a soft bed.

The room faintly smells of mildew, and there’s water damage on the ceiling’s edges, but you feel unbelievably cozy tucked under your bed sheets.

You stir, and the sound of a quill hitting the floor brings your attention to your side.

Griffin sits at a small wooden desk, a few glowing candles decorating its surface and dimly illuminating the room. His face is tight, but his eyes are wide and hopeful as they meet your own.

“Gr—griff-“ You cough, your throat unbearably dry.

Griffin’s chair scrapes the floor with a terrible screech as he hurries to stand. He snatches a cup from off the desk and briskly makes for your side.

You sit up in time to receive the drink from him, holding it in both your hands as you swallow down the water from inside. It isn’t until the last drop is gone that you finally hand it back.

“Griffin,” You manage, this time without coughing.

The man stands rigidly, studying you with a small furrow between his brows. He blinks a few times, then smirks. “Figures my name would be the first thing you say when you wake up.”

You reach out and hit him as hard as you can muster, making him laugh and swat back at your hand just as playfully.

“What the fuck?” You say, bringing a hand to your head and dragging it down to your nape. “Where the hell am I?”

“Somewhere safe,” Griffin answers vaguely. “I’ll tell you more about it once the others are back. Right now, you should focus on changing your dressing.”

“My dressing?” You parrot, raising a brow. “What does—“

Your memory catches up to you, and you clamp your mouth shut. Griffin’s lips pull into a firm line, eyes darting down to where you were injured, like he can see the wound through your clothing. He steps away to set the cup down.

Right, you almost died.

Taking a moment to absorb your surroundings and current situation, you realize you’re not dressed in the same outfit you were when Griffin used the bar on you. There’s a familiar tightness of bandages around your midriff, and you trace the outline of them with your thumb. Someone must have dressed your wounds and changed your clothes for you.

You shudder.

Griffin pops open a wooden box upon the dresser opposite your bed, riffling around in it until he pulls out a spool of fresh bandages made from torn fabric. “I’m down a few shirts thanks to you.”

“Ah, I didn’t know you even owned a few shirts,” You say with mock pleasantry.

Griffin barks a laugh, pulling at the end of the wound fabric in his hands. “You’re welcome, brat.”

He stops just beside you, and you realize after a tense moment that he intends to change your bandages for you. You’re caught between feeling alarmed and flattered, because the mere idea of Griffin changing someone’s bandages for them is simply outrageous. He just isn’t that type of man.

How are you supposed to tell him you don’t think your heart will survive something so intimate?

“I’ll be fine.” You catch his wrist, then try taking the bandages from his hand. “I can manage myself perfectly well.”

“You savage.” Griffin pushes against your grasp, his brow twitching. “Let me change your bandages at least.”

You gawk at him, uncertain if you heard him right. This is the same man who will practically hiss like a cat when someone tries tending him. “Griffin Lovell, you have the be the biggest fucking hypocrite in the world.”

Griffin bristles, shoulders rising. He yanks the bandages out of your reach, straightening them out again and then holding them up at you like a weapon. “I’m trying to help you, stop being difficult.”

“Is that a threat?” You scoff, but you can’t fight the grin off your face.

Griffin grins back. “Only if you struggle.”

Now you really can’t fight away your smirk, because you know you have him when you say: “Are you really so determined to see me shirtless?”

He practically throws the bandages in your lap as he recoils away from you, ears burning scarlet.

“You’re shameless,” Griffin fumes. He backs away several steps, and his hands twitch awkwardly in the air before he settles on crossing his arms and huffing with his nose turned up.

Your heart rate relaxes minimally, but you can feel a warmth on your own cheeks.

You laugh at the display. “And you’re so easy.”

Griffin glares daggers at you, nose scrunched despite the charming pink hue on his cheeks.

It's odd. This whole situation is unbearably odd. Griffin refuses to do things he doesn’t want to, not unless it’s meeting some end. He hardly even acknowledges people or events he finds unworthy. Griffin has always made his disdain for doting known, almost bitterly, if you’re being honest.

You can’t wrap your head around why he is so insistent on this. What end is he trying to reach by helping you?

“Don’t be a prude,” You sigh, but your shoulders release a tension you hadn’t known they were holding. “If you wanted it so badly, all you had to do was ask.”

“No, I think I’m quite alright,” Griffin now fully faces away from you, determined to block out your nonsense. “You said it yourself, you can manage on your own.”

“Please don’t make me beg,” You say jokingly, lifting your shirt over your head and laying it down beside you. “You won’t like me when I beg.”

“Quite the contrary,” Griffin retorts, “You could use a lesson in humility, dear.”

You glare at his back, knowing he only uses that term of endearment when he’s mocking you. Shaking your head, you begin to unravel the used bandages on your midriff but startle at what you find.

“Holy shit,” You whisper, and Griffin, ever the nosey devil, instantly whips around.

“Holy shit,” He echoes.

There isn’t even a scar on your stomach, just smooth skin and everything else exactly as you remember it. You run a hand over yourself, just to make sure you aren’t imagining it, then repeat the motion to be extra sure.

“It didn’t look like this the last time you changed them?” You ask, glancing up at Griffin.

“I haven’t been the one changing them,” Griffin admits. “Anthony insisted on being the one to do it.”

Your eyes widen and you smile giddily. “Anthony’s here?”

Griffin finally snaps to his senses and clears his throat, turning back around to give you some decency. It hardly matters now, since he’s seen everything there is to marvel at, but you let him pretend to be a gentleman anyway.

“He arrived the night you were injured. Said he tried catching up to us on time but he didn’t make it,” Griffin explains. “Miraculous timing for you though. He insisted on being at your bedside. He’ll be upset you woke up without him here.”

“I’ll be sure to thank him whenever he comes around,” You say fondly. “He’s quite the miracle worker.”

“You could be thanking me, too,” Griffin huffs, and you laugh.

“Thank you, oh generous one,” You say dramatically, laughing again at how he groans. “My knight in shining armor, who rescued me in my darkest hour with his magical powers and carried me to safety. I’ll never be able to pay off my debt to you.”

“I wouldn’t have needed to if you had done as you were told,” Griffin retorts, unamused. “Why did Leon never come up?”

You stop laughing, the reminder of Leon’s death like a bucket of ice being dropped over you. “I don’t know,” You say honestly. “I didn’t even see you come up. He must’ve still been on the boat when it…”

Griffin doesn’t answer, just nods stiffly. Despite all his faults, he understands when to stop pushing a topic.

“Anyways, I’m glad everyone else is alright, and that I’m somehow unharmed despite being a kabob for an hour,” You redirect, pulling your shirt back over your head. “That bar is brilliant.”

“It’s certainly not perfect,” Griffin murmurs, peering at you over his shoulder.

You catch his gaze, furrowing your brows. “What do you mean? My scar is gone, no one would even suspect I was injured in the first place.”

“It exhausted your energy,” Griffin says, spinning around to face you. “You were out so long no one could be certain you’d wake up.”

He leans against the desk behind him as you process his words, the cogs in your mind turning.

That made sense, the body needs rest to heal. Even Evie’s Triacle bar hadn’t been as successful at healing as the one Griffin made, and even then, people reported feeling fatigued after using it.

It did make you wonder about the nature of the bars, since clearly, this implies that they aren’t just creating matter out of thin air. Their powers need an energy source that complies with the laws of nature.

Dragging a hand down your face, you file away the information for another time.

“How long was I asleep for?” You ask.

“Five days,” Griffin answers plainly.

Startled, you throw your feet over the side of the bed, pushing yourself onto weak legs that shake like a newborn deer.

How could you sleep for so long? What happened during that time? Why in the world hasn’t Griffin left for Oxford yet? Anthony had to watch you and change your bandages for five days? You can’t just stay here, you need to leave— to get ready and keep moving-

Your mind spirals with both the rush of information and the force of your movements.

Instantly, Griffin is at your side, one hand wrapped around your bicep and the other thrown in front of you to catch you as you stumble.

“Stay. Lay down,” He commands, and you listen.

You feel very much like a scolded puppy, lowering your head and shifting back onto the bed apprehensively.

“We can’t stay here forever,” You say miserably. “At the very least, you need to head back to Oxford and respond to your correspondents. They’ll be waiting on your letter.”

It’s your turn to avoid Griffin’s gaze, even as he sighs.

“I can reach them fine from here. Liverpool is as good of a base as any, even if it’s crawling with government mutts.” Griffin waves a hand dismissively. “You still need time to recover.”

“So you’re staying with me?” You ask, trying to keep the hopeful lilt from your tone. “Until I recover?”

Griffin doesn’t answer you, and you still don’t meet his eyes, favoring the loose threads of your cover sheet.

“You’re smarter than that. Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to,” Griffin eventually says, leaving your bedside and making for the door of your room. It seems this is all the emotional confrontation he can manage for today.

“I’m injured, have some sympathy,” You whine after him.

He halts, hand wrapped around the doorknob. “Good to know you’re well enough to get on my nerves again.”

“I’m well enough to ask one more stupid question,” You say, finally meeting Griffin’s eyes as he turns to give you an expectant look.

“Well?” He says, hand still curled around the doorknob.

“Well, I wanted to know if it was true,” You swallow, suddenly nervous. “What you said before?”

Griffin’s brow furrows. “You’re going to have to be more specif—“

“You care for me,” You interrupt.

Griffin goes rigid.

His eyes are locked with yours, his gaze feeling like a growing storm that threatens to pull you under waves of terror. You can hardly see him breathing.

“That is a stupid question,” He concedes, turning away from you and pulling the door open. “Didn’t your tutors ever teach you to stay away from rhetorics?”

You smile, giddy. Even if he won’t admit it out loud, and this is as close to a confession as you will ever get; he’s right. You do know the answer.

He healed you. He carried you to safety. He stayed by your side for five days, with no idea when you’d wake. He’s promised to continue staying at your side until you can both return to Oxford together.

It’s the strangest pattern of behaviors Griffin has ever displayed.

The Griffin you know would’ve run away. Would’ve left you to lick your own wounds. It's not that he is oblivious to others' pain, he just doesn’t have the time. Or maybe he just never cared enough. Maybe he’s never realized that paying attention to these things is caring.

You realize just a moment too late that his trying to change your bandages was perhaps his attempt at crossing the bridge between you two. Maybe he wanted to show he cared.

Griffin steps through the door frame, but it doesn’t feel like he’s running away this time. This time, you know he’ll come back. This time, you know you’ll be waiting for him, and maybe this time you’ll let him in.

The door closes behind him, though you catch the familiar curve of his lips just before it does and it nearly sends you into a fit of giggles.

You flop back onto the bed, head hitting your pillow as you refrain from rolling around and kicking your feet excitedly.

There is a small part of you that will grieve having Griffin as your friend. But a much larger, much more delighted part of you thrums with excitement for whatever future you get to build with him as your lover.

Your lover.

“I need an ally, not a nanny,” He says, and through one of the holes in his pockets you can see his balled up fist.

“Then consider me the Patroclus to your Achilles.” You mock salute, grinning even wider at how his nostrils flare.

“I don’t see you taking any spears for me.”

“Nonsense, I would gladly fight the gods and go to war for you.” A beat passes. “You’ve seen me take on Anthony when he’s irate for your sake, is that not close enough?”

It's true, Anthony and angry don’t really belong in the same sentence, but Anthony tends to have similar feelings about Griffin being unsupervised with gunpowder.

To his credit, Griffin’s expression smooths, though you can tell he’s not pleased, simply tired of your nonsense.

“A drink then,” You try again, determined to keep his fingers from freezing off. If he won’t take your help, at least the alcohol will warm him up. “It’ll hold you over until we get to the lodge. We’re not in any rush.”

Griffin fixes you with a scrutinizing look, eyes darting over your features as he searches for any trace of mischief or patronizing.

“You’ll get the bill,” Griffin finally concedes. He’s walking again before you can gloat, leaving you to scurry after his brisk pace.

You smile, a skip to your step. “When do I not?”

It doesn’t take long to find a pub, tucked tightly between a brothel and a poorly stocked convenience store. It smells of grime and something sticky, with too many scurrying shadows resembling rodents in the corners, but no one acknowledges you both as you enter and that is the best you could ask for.

Griffin slips into the farthest empty table of the bar within a few quick strides, pushing out the chair opposite of him with a stretched leg. You gladly take a seat, knees brushing with his under the table.

“We’ve still got a five hour walk,” You sigh, elbows resting on the tabletop to support the weight of your head in your hands. “Maybe we should get something to eat too.”

Griffin raises a brow, lips quirked up knowingly. “With what allowance?”

You slap your pockets confidently, only to realize they are a lot more empty than you remembered. You laugh nervously. “We’ll grab something to eat at the lodge then.”

Your stomach loudly disagrees, and Griffin shakes his head with a low huff of amusement.

You’re a third of the way between Birmingham and Liverpool, and a week ahead of a shipment that is supposed to be coming in containing enough silver to feed an army.

Well, if the letters from Griffin’s correspondents are correct at least.

He’s always vague about the details, and even more secretive about his letter’s recipients. Duo missions like this one are dangerous for that reason.

Griffin likes being in control, likes knowing. He has a hard time relinquishing that advantage, even when it would benefit you both. Even though you’re supposed to be partners.

You like him so much that you let him lead you blind.

Unfortunately, the danger is a very large part of Griffin’s allure and thrill. With him, the not-knowing and mortal peril is enough to keep you distracted from the much more frightening aspect of your relationship.

“Don’t drink,” Griffin warns, frowning at how you study the menu posted over the bar. “You’re already bundled like you're preparing for a Baltic winter, and I’m not babysitting a drunk the rest of the way to Newcastle.”

“I’m hardly a lightweight, take it easy,” You wave him off, smiling at the barmaid when she catches your eye. “Besides, I’m paying.”

Griffin gives you an incredulous look.

You make a gesture with your hand, signaling for two drinks and the barmaid nods. Turning back to Griffin, you return his cynical expression with a curl of your lips.

“At least one of us needs to have a good time.”

“I’ll have a good time in Liverpool when we blast those British ships out of the water,” Griffin says gruffly, foot tapping the floor. The pub is loud, loud enough that you almost don’t hear him; thankfully so too.

“I’m sure you will. I know how hard you’ve been working on those little explosives of yours,” You say, a little morosely. You certainly aren’t jealous of bombs for hogging all his attention, because that would be ridiculous.

“Don’t patronize me,” Griffin bristles. “They’re not little. We’re not going to want to be anywhere near them when they go off.”

“I know, you’ve given me the safety drill at least forty times now, grandpa,” You say, rolling your eyes.

Griffin is right though, he’s getting better at making more destructive weapons and match pairs. He has a real knack for handling gunpowder and all things deadly, picking and patching himself up every time he makes an error.

You're convinced the only reason he refuses to replace his second skin of a coat is because it holds practically a warehouse of weapons in his intricate inner pocket system he’s sewn in.

No, that you sewed in for him. He came to you one night with pricked fingers and an exasperated expression, needle and thread in hand. He hadn’t even needed to ask, you just took the coat from him and told him to retrieve it in the morning.

You stayed up all night sewing a second layer into the coat, hiding the seams of the pockets inside, allowing for better insulation and a sturdier structure. Griffin was very quiet when you’d given the coat back, and practically avoided you for weeks afterwards.

You don’t take it personally.

You also try not to take it personally that he hasn’t come to you to fix any of the tears or tiny holes in his coat since.

A strained silence falls over the both of you. Griffin watches the other bar patrons carefully, no doubt making note of their conversations and pocketing what little information he can gather. Part of you wishes Anthony was here to cheerfully smooth over whatever tension has been so clearly bubbling between you and Griffin.

Your relationship with him is clearly hurtling towards… something. These past few months have felt like you both have been in a dance that only you and him know the steps to. It’s like riding tidal waves of great highs, where you both laugh and argue and delight in one another’s presence; and immense lows, where Griffin pushes you as far away as he can and disappears like smoke between your fingers—or refuses to answer any questions you have for him, only providing you as much as he deems personally necessary.

The lows are typically caused by your stubborn attempts at getting him to be more vulnerable, though. God forbid you try to get him to eat a little more, or stay in one place long enough to have a full night's rest. What an unforgivable sin it is to want to see him cared for; warm, soft, and happy.

He pushes, you pull.

“Liverpool is going to be colder,” You finally break the silence, turning away from Griffin to avoid his frustrated stare and flag down your waiter.

“We aren’t going to be in Liverpool long,” Griffin says, still glowering even as his drink is set before him.

“Liverpool is going to be cold and wet,” You insist anyway.

“I’ll be fine.”

“You really think I need two scarves and extra socks to stay warm?”

“You were the one who insisted on bringing them,” Griffin drawls, skirting around your attempts with practiced ignorance.

Despite how often he comes to you for help, Griffin hates being cared for. Or well, you suspect it has less to do with hate, and more to do with uncertainty. You’re not sure anyone has ever cared for Griffin, at least anyone he can remember. Knowing how to give and take is a difficult skill that Griffin has made very clear he has no intention of learning.

He simply takes and you let him. Because one of these days you’re hoping he’ll take what he really needs.

The same awkward silence from before settles over you both again, except this time you’re peeved. You sip at your drink leisurely, listening in on other conversations to try and distract yourself from how Griffin is currently burning holes through your skull with his stare.

It's not like you don’t understand where he’s coming from. He’s made it abundantly clear he can take care of himself. You yourself have fought tooth and nail to prove the same to your colleagues.

But you don’t understand why he has to fight you, too.

“I saw you with your little brother,” You cave impulsively, because you can’t stand being in silence with Griffin when he’s so clearly using it as a way to punish you.

“Oh? So you’re following me now?” Griffin does not raise to your bait, instead flipping it on you with an air of nonchalance. “Didn’t take you for the type.”

“No, not like that,” You scramble to find the right words, flushing a little at the ears from how pleased Griffin seems to have caught you off guard. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice me, you were walking through Kennington. I thought I was seeing double.”

”And?” Griffin asks, tilting his head and crossing his arms. “What did you think?”

“I think you both have the same hair and facial structure, but that’s about where your similarities end,” You say, being intentionally vague.

“Perceptive,” Griffin laughs, “What gave it away?”

“He follows you like a lost puppy.” You smile despite yourself. “He hasn’t got a clue in the world.”

“You were like that once too,” Griffin points out. “You loved Babel almost as much as he does.”

“Hardly,” You object, smile falling. “It wasn't Babel I was in love with.”

For some reason, this sentence seems to put Griffin on edge. “Then what was it? Certainly not the galas, we could hardly get you to show up to them.”

“My stipend,” You sigh dreamily.

Griffin rolls his eyes with an exaggerated motion.

“I’d give anything to be paid for learning again. I miss when I used to be able to blow half my budget out on sweets and drinks. I didn’t know how good I had it,” You plow on, bemoaning your youth.

“Yes, that’s how they get you, buffets and crisp new clothes, a cozy apartment and a filthy income, it really keeps you distracted,” Griffin sneered, and you can tell that you have set him off.

Part of you understands that this argument is useless. Griffin already knows everything you have to say—this topic has been practically beaten to death—yet it’s still one of his favorites.

Maybe he likes seeing you get frustrated. Maybe it’s revenge for how uncomfortable you make him with your attempts at coddling. Whatever the case, you’re determined to not let him win.

You force your limbs to relax despite how on edge his tone makes you.

“I’m assuming your brother is neck deep in it, too,” You say carefully, trying to redirect his ire.

“Of course,“ Griffin replies brusquely. “He especially loves living in both worlds. Helping Hermes seems to be more of an adventure than a reality to him.”

“He's going to get hurt,” You realize aloud, watching as Griffin’s nostrils flare at the suggestion. “He hasn’t got a clue how much danger he’s in.”

“Perhaps,” Griffin admits, and it sends a chill down your spine.

You quickly shove the thought of Griffin’s insecurities being taken out on his younger brother in such an indirect, and almost cruel way, out of your mind. You try very, very hard not to think of the wide eyed, giddy look on Robin’s face when he spoke with his brother so eagerly. You have to trust that Griffin wouldn't be so indifferent to leave him like that to the wolves.

“He’s not the only one,” You resign yourself to having the more difficult conversation with Griffin, because clearly, speaking about his brother is going to get you nowhere. “Seems like this whole country is asleep.”

Griffin regards you thoughtfully, before nodding in agreement. “It’s a miracle at that, with how many slip-ups parliament makes, it’s through sheer economic dependency that this country maintains itself.”

“It’s through parliament’s exploitation that this country is up and running. The wealthy like acting as though they’re so above the common person that they hardly realize they need them for their daily lives to function,” You say, grateful that Griffin dropped the topic of his brother so easily.

“And the colonization of practically every surrounding country and their people for monetary gain, but sure— let’s discuss how the average British citizen is playing an active role in that.” This is Griffin’s favorite point of argument. You know he loves talking about it, loves getting heated over it, and loves rehashing it at every opportunity you allow him.

“I think the radicals and recent strikers would disagree with you, but be my guest,” You make a sweeping gesture with your hand, as if giving the floor to Griffin.

“They’re relying on human selfishness. Relying on the average person’s desire to live a complicit, easy life. It’s the same selfishness that they then use to exploit those people.” Griffin’s hand moves in quick, open gestures, his tone bordering on lofty.

“I don’t think wanting to live is selfish,” You counter, pulling your gloves from your hands and laying them flat on the table. “I think they’re spinning the common person in circles with entertainment and commodities until they’re so dizzy they don’t realize how far down they’ve been pushed. It’s hard to worry about how small the bubble of wealth is, when your biggest concern is whether or not you’re going to make it home after a day of work.”

Griffin laughs. “Excusing the willful negligence of Britain’s violent oppression makes you just as much of a bystander. What happens when it’s the common person who is the oppressor? What happens when it isn’t about wealth, but instead, imagined racial superiority?”

You untwist one of your scarves from your neck, sighing, “These people do not understand that what they’re living in isn’t normal because they have never known anything else, and their government certainly isn’t going to promote their education if it means they’ll rise against them— and you know they would—“ You cut the growing argument you can already see Griffin building at your words. “Only the wealthy can afford education and that’s why they don’t care about the violence of their empire, because they are the direct beneficiaries of it.”

Griffin chews harshly at his chapped lips, ripping at the dead skin until it bleeds. His gaze is focused intently on the figures entering the bar, his foot hitting the ground in quick tapping motions.

“Britain needs a culture shock. An average working person is more empathetic than you might imagine. I know they’re cruel and I know you’ve seen more of it than I probably ever will, but the point still stands that we need their help,” You lean over the table to reach a hand out, pushing one of the longer strands of hair from Griffin's face. It's a little wet from the snowfall outside, which has now melted, matting it to his head.

Distantly, you think of cutting it for him, and wonder what kind of devil deal you would have to make for him to agree to that.

It's your turn to grin at his off guard expression, how he flinches away and glances between the crinkles at the corners of your eyes and your fingertips. You pull your hand back into your lap. “At least, that’s why I’m doing this. I think the common folk are smarter than we give them credit for. This empire, this world— it doesn’t change until they do. Until they call for change.”

“You’re living in a fantasy world where you imagine these people are going to wake up and realize all their wrongdoings. They won’t. They are cruel creatures. Being uneducated doesn’t stop them from following in parliament's footsteps, I know you’ve seen it,” Griffin says, scooting his chair further from the table and taking his drink with him. He is looking anywhere but you.

“Well, that too,” You concede, “I’d like to find a way to get them to direct all that violence towards the people they’re truly mad at. It’d be nice to see it happen in my lifetime.”

Griffin barks a laugh. “Good luck.”

Taking a swing of your large pint, you swallow the golden ale of your cup until it’s halfway gone. Setting the cup down, you lean forward until your forehead hits the table with a thud, fingers still clutching the handle of your drink. With the taste of the liquor still simmering on your tongue, you find the confidence to criticize him openly. “You have no faith in humanity.”

“I have no faith in racist Brits with superiority complexes that stem from misguided preconceptions set by their government,” Griffin reiterates, “One that is playing them all for fools.”

“Exactly, they’re playing them for fools. That's why we have to do something about it.” You lift your head to take another drink, then clink it back down. “How many more stealth missions is it going to take before we start getting our point across?”

“As many as it takes.” You can feel Griffin trying to tug your drink from your hand.

“As many as it takes until it kills us,” You grumble cynically, laying your cheek on the table to peer up at Griffin as he finally manages to take your ale away from you.

Griffin is very silent, and very still. He’s watching you with an expression you can’t discern. His eyes are like two dark clouds, storming with volatile emotion and the briefest flicker of forlorning. It stirs the same somber feeling in your gut that you get when it rains.

With a blink it’s gone, back to his meticulously crafted mask of indifference.

You exhale until your whole body is slack, forcing yourself to look away from him.

“No, get up. You’ve had enough time to rest. I want to arrive before sundown.” Griffin moves to stand, pushing both your drinks to the furthest edge of the table from you.

You catch one of his feet between your ankles before he can fully retreat, linking them together to trap him. He yanks his foot, but you press your legs together tighter, grinning at the annoyed look he gives you.

“Do you enjoy being difficult?” He asks, eyes flinty.

“Only when you look at me like that,” You tease, lifting your head to blink at him through your lashes.

Griffin practically rips himself from you, forcefully pulling his foot from your grasp in a way that leaves your ankles stinging. He stands very abruptly, enough so that several other bar-goers peer over to see what the commotion is about.

Scooping up your gloves and scarf, Griffin takes them in one hand and slaps some pence on the table with the other. Nevermind how he insisted that you be the one to pay.

You’re hoisted up to your feet by your wrist, and then practically yanked all the way out of the pub. You trip over your feet, a mixture of alarmed and uncoordinated, only managing to balance yourself when Griffin stops near an alleyway down the street.

He faces you with a sour expression, the muscles of his jaw clenched tight. You very much wish you had listened to his advice, because you can already feel your head starting to grow fuzzy. It was a lot warmer in the pub, and being back outside with all the snow and ice isn’t doing your senses much good.

Griffin loops the scarf you took off earlier around your neck, wrapping it tight and yanking. You stumble slightly, reaching out to support your balance on the building wall beside you.

“Griff—“ Your voice is muffled as Griffin shoves your gloves in your face, holding them there even as you freeze up with momentary confusion.

He only lets go when you bring your hands up to cup his own, fingers brushing against his and the knitted fabric of your ratty gloves. Part of you wants to be upset with him for making a scene at the pub, to say something smart like you always do and start another argument. You have half a mind to scold him for being so careless with your things and dragging you like a doll.

You don’t say any of that. Through the fabric on your face, you say, “Thank you.”

Griffin takes a step back, eyes darting elsewhere as he gives you a stiff nod. “You can thank me by keeping up, I’m serious about not babysitting.”

It must be the alcohol, perhaps the cold, or maybe even your imagination that has you seeing a reddish tint at the tips of his ears.

He's running away again, his coat flourishing like crow wings behind him as he practically power walks off. His lean, haggard form strides quickly, halfway down the street before he notices you aren’t following.

“Are you deaf?” He asks, though there’s no bite to it.

Your heartbeat is loud, and your face feels unusually flushed. You blink at him several times before coming back to reality and scrubbing a hand over your face to clear your mind. That was weird.

“Sorry, I think hearing your voice all the time finally did my ears in,” You apologize once you catch up, mindful of where you step to avoid where the road is iciest. “Only so much abuse they can take.”

Griffin elbows you, perhaps a little harder than necessary, and you chuckle as you pull on your gloves. You mean to return the gesture in the same playful way he had done it, but when you go to shove Griffin, you seem to forget that he is a lot lighter than he looks.

Perhaps if he had taken your endless droning about eating three full meals a day, he wouldn’t have fallen over so easily.

Griffin slips, the worn soles of his boots sliding against the slick, icy cobblestone. You’re barely a snort into laughing at his desperation when one of his hands manages to find purchase at your wool scarf, yanking you down with him.

You screech, making a mad attempt to scamper away, but it’s no use. Griffin’s shoulder collides with your nose. Your knee knocks against his thigh. There’s a brief moment where you consider pulling his hair just to piss him off further. Instead, you both push against each other helplessly to stay standing. The descent is ridiculous and humiliating, with you both landing on your asses in a spectacular heap; cold, wet, and bruised. But you’re still laughing, slapping at Griffin’s bicep to try and get him to release your poor stretched scarf.

It’s nearly impossible to breathe, and even harder to care about the strange looks you're both getting. Griffin looks somewhere between wanting to murder you and wanting to die himself.

But when you finally manage to calm your giggle-fit and meet his eyes properly, Griffin is no longer red in the ears with shame.

For the briefest moment, something tender crosses Griffin’s face, so soft and vulnerable that your breath catches in your throat.

It’s gone in an instant, but the sight of it is burned so deeply in your memory that you’re certain it is the only thing you’ll be able to think about as you toss and turn before you sleep.

It’s only then that you realize you’re practically laying on top of him, limbs tangled in a dramatic display. You flush, scrambling all over again to give him space. When you finally manage to make it back to your feet, you offer Griffin a hand, but he waves you off.

“I think you’ve helped enough,” He grumbles. His feet are more stable under him this time, and he takes care to not flail around the same way you had. “I distinctly remember telling you not to drink for this exact reason.”

You can’t help yourself. You’re giggling again, even as Griffin fixes you with an exasperated glare. Part of you acknowledges that this, surely, is where you apologize for embarrassing him; but you can’t find it in yourself to feel sorry for him.

Guessing from the twitch of Griffin’s lips that he is trying to smother, he isn’t really bothered by the new bruises you’ve given him either.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Thank you, I’m brushing up my act for when the circus comes around.”

“As if anyone would pay to see your sorry face,” Griffin snarks.

You’re determined to crawl under his skin, live in the dirt under his nails, and grow from the roots of his hair. You shove him again, and his brief expression of panic fills you with vindicated satisfaction.

“Asshole,” You smirk.

“Cheeky shit,” Griffin grins back, wolf-like and all teeth.

Maybe he’s finally ready to let you.

You both break into fit of laughter, with Griffin keeping his to a low chortle. You kick his shin, dodging out of the way when he shouts and tries kicking back at you.

It's like you’re kids again, racing through the streets of Oxford without a clue where your future will take you besides a cushy position among other honored academics. Hopeful, bright, and so wonderfully oblivious.

After a few minutes of chasing each other through the back alleys of Stafford, you find yourselves at the edge of town. You're huffing, and Griffin manages to catch up, knocking the back of your head playfully as he strolls past you.

From over the top of his shoulder, you can see the way his cheek curves, rounding up with what you know to be his crooked boyish smile, that he hides the best he can from the world.