#dahl.doc

“Can you believe the nerve of some of those guys?” It was all rather dramatic, the way Claude stormed into the room, sitting at his desk with a huff of indignation. The door behind him was left wide open for a moment, warm Almyran air drifting into the rather large office, before a shadow seemed to follow in, and close the door with a click.

“They certainly are intent on playing the long con, your majesty.” Hubert slowly slipped his hand off of the doorknob, returning it to behind his back as he almost glided through the room to the same desk the king now sat at, in all his usual grace and silence.

“And they all think I'm too stupid to see it- honestly, sometimes it's like I never left Fódlan.” The exhaustion in his voice seeped through like leaks in a well-loved piece of pottery, cracked and splintered but still beautiful nonetheless. He ran his hand down his face as he leaned back into his chair, fingers parting to watch the way his guest settled into a seat in front of his desk, almost getting lost in the way he practically sunk into the plush cushions, and though the Marquis was the picture of controlling one's emotions, it was subtle movements and gestures that told Claude that his frustrations with his court were being met in kind, in the slight grimace and the twitch of a hand ready to strike at nothing like a viper in a cage. And that was something that, despite the exhaustion the meeting with his ministers had left him with, Claude couldn’t help but smile from behind his hand. 

This had hardly been the initial plan. A visit by the Imperial Minister across the border was a rarity indeed, and while Hubert had come to Almyra for a more important reason than niceties- the solidification of policies for alliance proposed by the emperor, relayed through her most trusted dog, who had done so without question or complaint- Claude had intended to leave business mostly at the door. Edelgard had sent word ahead of her Marquis’ arrival to the border, so, while unusual, the arrival of the king to collect his guest himself hadn't been too much of a surprise, and had passed with little fanfare, and minimal conversation above the expected jovial barbs and digs he'd come to expect from Hubert. Claude had been hoping to steal him away, for a time, before they had to get on with business, but almost as soon as he'd arrived back to the palace, he had been accosted with a surprise summon by a few of the nobles and richer merchants residing within the areas surrounding the capital. And though apologetic, he had been dismissed by Hubert, who had chosen to go along to the meeting, regardless of whether it concerned the personal affairs of his country and his emperor. So he, too, had borne witness to the disaster such a meeting had been- men with money and power that had made them too thick-headed and stubborn to take no for an answer when they couldn't have more of either of those things. It's a mirror of years spent wrangling the alliance, just long enough to survive a siege on Derdriu, but not long enough to finally bring together nobles of conflicting wants and needs. 

Not that he exactly mourned such a thing, now- losing the Alliance had been a blow to his pride, at the time, fleeing across the border to Almyra with nothing but a wyvern and the heavy weight of regret, but it had led to something far closer to what he’d always wanted. Taking the throne of Almyra had been a struggle, but once he had, Edelgard had been more than willing to start an allyship, putting her in contact with her most trusted Marquis when she was unavailable, still trying to piece her own country back together as a young ruler after five years of struggling and fighting to get there. They were alike, in that regard, and perhaps Claude was thankful for it- and thankful for her minister, though it had taken a while to get that far, beyond the beginnings of stony and stiff correspondence. Over time, however, that had melted away, giving into something almost… playful, if Claude could read the tone right. They rarely spoke candidly, but when they did, it was hidden away in codes and puzzles, to keep their personal conversations away from prying eyes- talks of themselves, of their thoughts and feelings on the present, of past regrets and hopes for the future. Things the king had found riveting, that had kept him coming back and pressing for more, and things that the usually cagey Marquis had offered up willingly, multiple times over, and over the months their letters had gone back and forth, penned almost as soon as one was received, despite their busy work lives.

But then there was the curious shift that their more recent communications had taken. It was a subtle change, one Claude had to double-take when he’d first seen it, a few months before. But, if the king knew one thing about the man he was speaking with, far more casually than ought to be allowed for the two of them, it was that Hubert never did things by accident. The flourishes of his usually steady hand, each word perfectly twisted and catered to invoke an image in the mind of its recipient, but in such a way that it was perhaps in a haze; you could even go so far as to call such things thinly veiled flirtations, if it was even possible for such a thing to come from Hubert to begin with. Looking at him, straight-faced and thin-lipped with eyes like a viper, you wouldn’t think he had it in him. But as Claude looked still at Hubert through his fingers, he considered this again, watching the Marquis sit and wait for command, or for their own meeting to finally progress forward. Maybe there could be something there, if he was willing to try and look for it. 

He thought back to a letter, he had received earlier in the month, still watching Hubert sit as straight as a board- It’s been rather odd, missing your voice when I long thought it to be a nuisance. My trip to Almyra shall be one I am most certainly looking forward to. I hope your witticism will be well worth the trip across the border, your majesty, for it’s been difficult to find things to entertain myself with as of late. 

Claude brought his hand down his face and rested it against the desk, avoiding staring more openly at his guest as he reached over to thumb through some papers to his left, enough to catch Hubert’s attention at a glance.

“Well, enough about my woes. Let’s do what you came here to do, shall we?”

He was regarded for a moment with something close to curiosity, but eventually, he was given Hubert’s full attention with a curt nod.

Their meeting thereafter continued as normal- well, normal for the two of them, perhaps. All biting wit and scathing remarks, a back and forth more refreshing than the early morning breeze taken in in silence, and better for Claude’s keen mind than a meeting room with noblemen who thought themselves too smart to hide their true intentions. It was never in hostility, however- the snake’s tongue was not spitting venom in his direction, and multiple times had he caught Hubert smirking through exchanges at his expense over trade dealings between their two countries. Maybe that had something to do with the wine that had been shared between them at some point, a fine imported bottle from vineyards at the border, maybe acquired just for the occasion- Claude would never say- and two glasses from the highest shelf, expertly crafted and perfectly weighted in one’s hand. Or maybe he just appreciated the company- it certainly seemed that way, with prolonged glances that were caught over the course of the first hour, with a touch of something in those citrine eyes that seemed to stare deep into Claude’s soul, making him bare. It hadn’t always been like that, surely- at least, not in this way, something softer around the edges, not looking for hostility but perhaps the opposite. Claude can’t remember anything more than a glower coming from the man from across the hall during their days at the academy, when Hubert would shadow Edelgard in an almost more literal sense, observing and assessing everything and anyone that crossed their path, years before their plans had been set into motion. Of course, he’d considered a young future duke and wildcard player a threat then. What a failed assessment that turned out to be.

Claude went to reach over again to his left, to take hold of yet another contract or sheet of paper, or whatever else he could find to avoid the look of something so unguarded, watching as Hubert went to do the same and seemed to slow as their fingers brushed along the top of the pile of documents. The moment stretched into silence, and as the gloved hand pulled away with an apology, Claude’s chased it, and held it in his own, to feel the weight of it. His eyes moved across the desk, once again meeting his eyes that seemed so cautiously wanting. The letter came to mind again, talks of missing his voice and his mannerisms, but not his touch. How could you miss something you hadn’t ever had before. The king paused, to brush his thumb across Hubert’s knuckles, delighting in the way his eyes darted down to see it happen with a slow swallow that made his throat bob. So he hadn’t been imagining things. This hadn’t just been a meeting to further solidify an alliance- though, surely, that’s what they would be doing regardless- but there had been something of a selfish motive, as well. For as smart as Hubert was, courting was far from his strong suit. He gave the hand he held a final squeeze before rising to his feet, struggling to keep a hold of the thing while still looking graceful as he made his way around the desk, to take a seat against it, directly in front of Hubert.

He tried not to take too much pleasure in the way Hubert never took his eyes off of him as he moved, positioning himself to sit almost looming over him. He tried even further still to not notice the way this only seemed to excite the mage, in the slightest of ways. Both things failed.

He found himself moving his free hand to Hubert's face, forefinger and thumb gently gripping at his chin and forcing him to look up at Claude, purposefully sitting far too close in front of him on the desk. Claude's eyes narrowed just slightly, a smirk pulling at his lips and a twinkle of something in those soft, green eyes that could pull one into oblivion if he so willed it.

“...Have I done something to amuse, Your Majesty?” Hubert’s voice was quieter than he meant for it to be, a secret for the two of them, gentle and reverent, only seeming to delight Claude further. He'd caught on to the realisation, and instead of pulling back, he pushed himself further into it, wanting and perhaps hoping.

“Nothing in particular,” was his coy reply, moving his fingers to tilt Hubert’s head just so as he leaned in a little closer, almost as a reminder of their positions. “But it wouldn't hurt to hear my name, for once. You came all the way here to see me, after all. I would have thought I was more than a king to you.”

The mage swallowed, with a soft exhale like a prayer. “I couldn't bear the disrespect.”

“Even if I asked?”

Hubert stared up at Claude still, at the way the sunset from the office window framed his face like a halo, like something holy, a metaphor dripping in irony, from a man who spat on the corpse of the goddess to one who ruled a nation untouched by her corrupted gaze. He swallowed, lost in evergreen eyes and the curl of a smile, both biting and fond all the same. “And are you?”

He swept his thumb along the mage’s bottom lip in contemplation, gently tugging at it as he replied, barely above a whisper, “I am.”

There was a beat of silence, and for a moment, Claude thought that he had gone too far with his advances. That he'd scared the Adrestian attack dog back into his doghouse, but it was cut by the low baritone of Hubert's voice again, still quiet, still reverent.

“Perhaps later, then,” His hand finally moved from where it had been paralysed on his lap, fingers curling around the king’s wrist, but not daring to pull him away. Only wanting to hold on. Only wanting to have him. “I'm sure my hesitancy to speak can be forgiven by a kind soul such as yourself, my liege.”

A momentary twang of disappointment reverberated through Claude, as he hung over his guest, but even despite that, his smile somehow grew even moreso, into a satisfied and contented grin. “Oh, you are such a tease, Marquis.”

“Moreso than you, still holding me here, dancing around the point I'm sure you've reached by now, from the way you run your victory lap?”

Claude shrugged at him, tilting his head back the other way in assessment. "I don't know. What is it that you think I've found? Enlighten me."

His esteemed guest seemed too enchanted to tear his eyes away, even beyond the slow blink reminiscent of a contented cat, like he wanted to be here. What an odd thought- Hubert wanting anything other than the position he currently held, at the side of his emperor, for his greater future. Maybe he'd done some growing, across the border, in their time apart. That, he could investigate with time. If that time was allowed to him, as well as his voice, now that Hubert had fallen silent again.

"Come now, Hubert," Claude closed the distance further, leaning in closer, speaking softer, and for a moment he was sure the other man would try to squirm out of his grip and flee. But he didn't move. "What have I found?"

Another beat. But it did not last long. A whisper, from a man who otherwise wouldn't hesitate. "...My heart. I do not know how and when you took it, but I-"

He was cut off rather promptly, by lips pressed against his own to stop him from speaking further. And Claude could feel the tension in his body melting out of him in almost an instance, accepting the kiss so readily, as if he'd been waiting lifetimes for such a thing.

It was a precious and inexperienced thing, but the mage seemed to follow Claude’s lead to stop himself from fumbling and making a fool of himself. They broke off shortly after it had begun, and the king took notice of the way Hubert seemed to try and follow his lips for a moment, chasing after the kiss again before stopping himself, and allowing himself to get lost in the grin staring back at him, glowing like the sunset that had begun to streak through wide windows at his back. 

“So…” Keeping the secret between them, Claude’s voice remained low, as he leaned forward to knock his forehead against Hubert’s, and remain there. “How was that? Was that reason enough to get what I asked for?”

“Perhaps,” And the response was breathless, wanting and devout, in sweet irony. Hubert licked his lips, as if chasing after the last taste of Claude he had, before he spoke again, “I shall do as you ask… Khalid.”

The events of the past month had sent the workings of both the Officers Academy and the monastery that ran it into chaos.

The end of the Verdant Rain Moon found the members of the Black Eagle house, representatives of the Empire of Adrestia, assisting House Gautier in returning its Hero’s Relic after it had been stolen by one of their own. Well, former own, as the Margrave had disowned his eldest son some time ago and, by some indescribable miracle, the man had grown bitter. Especially toward his younger brother, who now resided among the ranks of those outside his holy kingdom, after having transferred houses in the months before. Sylvain Jose Gautier, for what it was worth, had faced Miklan with his head held high, adamant that he was not as useless as the aggressive but equally as irritating man had insinuated. This, however, could not stop the horror that followed. A former noble turned into a beast, a crestless man trying to play in the grounds of gods, so to speak- the lance had turned Miklan into far bigger of a threat than he originally posed, and though he was taken out quickly, they still suffered some heavy damage. Including Sylvain himself, who had taken a heavy hit from the beast his brother became- a bite, even.

Or at least, that’s what Hubert had been told. Being commanded by Edelgard to watch their back line for invading bandits trying to aid their leader, he hadn’t been within view to witness such a thing himself. He’d only heard about it later from Linhardt and Mercedes, who the professor had asked for earlier in the months- and their consensus was that it was a bad wound. One that had to be treated medically, and not just by the white magic they had on hand, one that they said had left him silent (a miracle) and convulsing (terribly unfortunate). He was, of course, more than alive when they had returned to the monastery, but this was where the trouble had started.

No one had seen him in over three weeks.

It would be excusable if Sylvain had the courtesy to inform them, but both Edelgard and Byleth had been worried about his condition and the time he had taken to grieve, and their pleas had gone unanswered. The both of them had made the decision to continue to give him space, but Hubert himself had little patience to wait. He disliked not having all the pieces on the board, and Sylvain, in all his ability to irritate and demean, was a wildcard he could not leave unsupervised and unaccounted for. Even worse, now that the next disaster had been decided as soon as the class returned from that particular ordeal- the younger sister of the Archbishop’s right hand was currently missing, with no trace as to where she had gone, and needless to say, Seteth was in something of a frantic state trying to find her. Lady Rhea herself had assigned Byleth, and by extension her students, to the cause of finding the young girl, but through all the chaos, students and teachers alike were all pointing fingers at one another. Hubert, of course, was aware of the identity of Flayn’s captors, though their reasons eluded him, much to his frustration. He could hardly trust these fiends he and his lady had aligned themselves with, at least for the time, but their hands were thoroughly tied. Their mission to rescue the girl would be unsuccessful if they were unable to devise a plan to cover for themselves in the eyes of the church- and even less successful if they were a man down. 

The mage's boots echoed as he ascended the hall of the noble’s dormitory, the one or two students lingering around giving him more than enough room to pass by as he reached the room at the very end in a swift amount of time from his own, staring up at the double doors, pausing for a moment to assess and to listen. There were no noises coming from behind it, unlike in the months before when there would be far too much, from voices most certainly not belonging to the man who was supposed to be occupying it, alone. He grimaced at the thought, raising a fist to the door as he gritted his teeth in a low growl of dissatisfaction. 

Hubert knocked with assurance, though it wasn’t particularly hard- simply firm, clear in which door he was knocking upon, in case Sylvain were to think otherwise. A long moment followed that, as Hubert waited for a response, be that an explanation or simply a confirmation he was alive. There was nothing. 

“Gautier. I know you’re in there, ignoring me is futile.” If he attempted, the door could easily be picked, and Hubert would let himself in to drag the man out here himself to answer for his absences.

And it seemed the attempt was, in fact, being made. Hubert scowled.

“You have failed to show up to lectures for weeks. Both our professor and Lady Edelgard have been asking for you, and you have continued to ignore them both.” What happened at the tower, as far as he had heard, was a tragedy- literally, in the way the beast that he was told was Sylvain’s brother roared in a way that bounced off of the walls. There was a pang of sympathy, but nothing more, crushed as quickly as it had manifested, as he reached for the doorknob. “If you don’t answer for yourself, I’ll be forced to enter. Do not make me ask again-”

When the door suddenly opened in front of him, Hubert was caught off guard. But the sight in front of him made that twofold. Sylvain was a ghost of the man he once not weeks before. Still broad and well-built, holding his pride in his chest in an almost literal sense, but everything else looked awful. Wide-eyed, pale, a tremor in his hands as he held the door open, perhaps even the kind that wracked through his body and made it difficult to stand. He was unwell. Was this the effect of grief? 

“There.” He looked terrible, and sounded as much as well, quiet and rasping. Like a man starved. “I’m alive. You happy now? You gonna go tell Edelgard I’m not dying on her doorstep, bringing shame to her house?”

Hubert scoffed. “You certainly look to be dying. Have you been eating?”

Hesitation. Never in his time at the academy had he ever seen Sylvain hesitate. “…Been trying. It’s hard to keep it down.”

“Have you caught something?”

“Probably? It was- it was raining pretty heavy, so-”

“This isn’t just a simple cold.”

“Let me believe it for a second, ‘Bertie. I’m too pretty to die.”

The mage rolled his eyes at the dramatics, even if he could sense there was more truth to the words than Sylvain cared to admit. He was among their best and brightest, as much as he tried to play otherwise- the first to pass an advanced exam in their house, training to be a cavalier, though he put that down to luck and experience over his own exceptionality. To lose such an asset would be a blow to the house. Hubert kept his hands behind his back, and he peered into the room around Sylvain’s side. It was mostly clean, except for old clothes and plates on the floor, and the way his bed hadn’t been made, likely because he had been laying in it in the hours and days before the disturbance, too sick to move. A hum of consideration escaped him, before he sat up straight again. “Very well. Let me in.”

“What?”

The element of surprise was the only reason that Hubert was able to overpower, in this scenario, and he would not kill himself otherwise- if Sylvain truly wanted to keep him out, or in one place, he would have no trouble doing so. But despite this, he entered the room with ease, inspecting it further now that he was inside, the only response being the sound of the door clicking closed behind him.

The mess was more obvious now, but hardly could be considered abhorrent behaviour. It was still relatively neat, surprisingly so- though, considering the number of women Sylvain smuggled in here for his recreational activities, it should not be that much of a surprise- and could be excused by his need to grieve, if not this mysterious illness that had befallen him. Hubert inspected for a few moments more, running a gloved finger along the counter towards the back of the room, before turning at the sound of the bed creaking. A glance told him that the redhead could not stand any longer, exhaling a breath of exertion and gripping at the sheets to keep himself steady and upright, still pale, still shaking. The mage stood to his full height again, turning fully to watch the way Sylvain rolled his neck, and tried to settle as he looked anywhere else other than his uninvited guest, but it only seemed like he was making himself more restless in the process. It was then that Hubert spotted them, a small and precise set of puncture marks, hidden beneath the collar of Sylvain’s shirt, once wrapped in bandages but now were mostly healed. It was a small, but curious observation- enough to make Hubert step forward, and take a hold of the bottom of his chin between a two-finger vice grip, pulling his head up to observe.

There was a muffled noise of protest from Sylvain as he registered what was happening, perhaps a little slower than he should have (delayed reaction time, to add to his list of symptoms), but Hubert was able to catch the way the pupils of his eyes blew up at the proximity, in the same way the cats of the monastery did when they went about hunting odd mice and fish around the place, before he pulled himself away, rubbing at his cheeks and his face with an annoyed grumble, “Woah, hey, hands off, big guy, I’m not interested in whatever manhandling you’re offering.”

He, mercifully, chose to ignore such prodding. “This isn’t a sickness.”

“Huh?”

“It is some sort of affliction, certainly, but seems more akin to a curse than something naturally occurring.”

Sylvain narrowed his eyes, watching the man in front of him stand back up to his full height again.

“…This was not my doing, if that was your first thought.”

His suspicion lessened slightly, as he leaned back where he sat. It was enough to get Hubert to roll his eyes in response, folding his arms across his chest- hardly a defensive gesture, though it could come across as such to the untrained eye. He’d been accused of far worse. A matter such as this did not bother him.

“Now, if you’re quite done, can you think of anyone that would want to do this to you?”

Sylvain laughed, short and loud, perhaps even bitter. “You want that in alphabetical order, or in order of relevance?”

Again, there was a hum, as he listened to the empty chuckle slowly dissolve into a sigh, as the redhead looked again to the door. Hubert watched his throat bob as he stared off in contemplation, eyes falling again to the start of the injuries left by his brother the previous month. It seemed far less than what one would expect from a bite at the hands of a beast. How curious.

Leaning forward again, Hubert moved his hand to fiddle with the collar of Sylvain’s shirt- enough to get him to look back with the start of some confused address, before his mouth was covered with an open palm, and he continued to pull down the collar of his shirt as much as he was able. He had been told the bite was bloody, and had left Sylvain utterly indisposed. In fact, he had seen the aftermath of the thing on the floor, red pooling where the body of the fallen cavalier had once been, pulled off of his horse like an animal’s chew toy. But this was hardly that. It wasn’t a mauling mark, or even something venomous- just a row of puncture marks along his neck and the back of his shoulder, extending to where he could not see with the shirt in the way. Hubert pressed his fingers into the underside of his jaw, harsh but hardly a jab, though it still got a hiss out of Sylvain- more akin to an angry animal than anything like a reaction of pain. He was irritated, not hurt, and that was perhaps the strangest thing. He turned the cavalier’s head some more, giving him a better view of the wound from this angle, the hissing only getting worse in reaction, but he didn’t pay it any mind- Hubert simply continued inspecting, pinching at the flesh and squeezing, with little there other than these strange indents, despite there needing to be more, from how large the beast was, and how thoroughly it had grabbed on. 

He was stopped suddenly by a flare of pain in his palm, which had held Sylvain’s mouth to move his head, and quickly snatched his hand away, checking it with a scowl and a scathing comment of childishness at the tip of his tongue. But Hubert paused, amid these musings, as blood began to pool on the surface of his gloved hand, slowly staining the silk from two evenly spaced puncture marks. Mouth hanging open with no sound falling from it, the mage looked up, slowly, at Sylvain, who seemed to be just as surprised at the mark he’d left behind, seeming to sniff before swallowing and moving his face away, barely masking the glint of sharp teeth underneath.

It all made far too much sense, now. The strange bite marks, the symptoms, all pointing to one thing. Though the origins of the black beasts that came from corruption at the hands of the crest stones was under-researched (more than likely due to the lack of subjects both alive and willing), linking them to those of vampiric origin hardly seemed like an extraordinary leap in logic. Whatever attack Miklan had landed on Sylvain could have corrupted his blood, only sparing his life because of the crest he loathed so much. Of course, this was only a theory as to his current state. Further assessment had to be made to confirm if he had even been turned at all, because this could well be a classic case of jumping to a conclusion and assuming the worst before his feet hit the ground.

“You’re a vampire.”

“What?”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

“No, no, I heard, you, I just-” Sylvain seemed to be panicking, another odd emotion that Hubert had never seen out of him. He swallowed, trying to turn forward again, but it seemed he could not stop himself from looking at the blood that was still pooling under Hubert’s glove- even covering his mouth and his nose with something of a grimacing sound.

“You can smell it, can’t you? The blood?” As he spoke, he removed his glove, observing the way that Sylvain could not help but stare at the blackened hand corrupted by dark magic, even out of the corner of his eye. As he moved it closer as a test, the redhead almost craned his neck away in retaliation. With his other thumb, Hubert wiped the blood away and onto the front of his pants, inspecting the wound underneath. Evenly spaced bite marks, though they were slowly starting to seal, most likely due to the lack of time they had pierced the skin. He held his hand up, to show the man the thing he seemed so afraid of was gone, and he seemed to lose his tension even slightly, even if he still kept himself recoiled as he moved his hand away to support himself with a hefty swallow.

“So… what? I’m some kind of blood-sucking freak?”

Hubert hummed. “If that's what you want to consider yourself, then yes.”

He watched the way Sylvain tightened his fists around the sheets underneath him like they were a lifeline then, some sort of anchor to keep him grounded in the moment as his mind began to wander to other things, eyes trying to look anywhere but the mage assessing him in silence. This wasn’t the uncomfortable sort of squirming he’d grown used to from other students when he would observe them, the kind where people would try and get away from him in subtle ways, preferring to hide rather than face him. No, this carried a different energy. Sylvain was not avoiding looking at him because he was unnerved- this felt more like he was ashamed. Ashamed of the revelation, one that was still distressing him, clearly, but he still needed to eat- and now that he knew what he could eat, the thought could not escape him. And that in itself, strangely enough, was revelation enough to get Hubert to move.

He swiftly turned away from the bed to undo the front of his uniform, removing the jacket and gently folding it over the back of the chair beside the desk in a clean, efficient motion. Usually, he would sooner have another student dead than to have them see him strip a layer, especially Sylvain, who no doubt would have had a wry comment on the edge of his tongue if not for his current state. But times were desperate and the possibilities for the outcome were enticing. If the Gautier boy was, in fact, turning into a vampire, that could either be a bane to the kingdom for Faerghus that he would return to, a weed to be rooted out and, thus, a bane to the Empire to rid its enemy of their future Margrave… or, perhaps, if they could convince the man to turn from his homeland, to control him, to have such strength on their side would put them at an advantage regardless. And that was simply the first reason- the second, even despite himself, was a curiosity Hubert felt growing, at the prospect of something of legend being close enough to study, to feel. When would he get this opportunity again? As loath as he was to spend time in a room with Sylvain, perhaps his frail state of health that came from his turning would make the experience tolerable.

Hubert turned after smoothing out his uniform jacket to the best of his ability, tugging on his gloves to keep them on and rolling up a sleeve of his shirt, exposing the darkened, magic-stained skin underneath- blackened like wood left to roast on the fire too long, becoming charcoal and ash. This was hardly the full extent of the damage from years of using dark magic, but he wasn’t going to be quick to expose all of that. Especially not under Sylvain’s gaze, whose attention by now has been fully caught. Though he did not squirm underneath it, Hubert certainly disliked it, and very slowly raised an eyebrow. “...What?”

“Ha- eugh- nothing, I just- I thought you said I was a vampire? Not a succubus. Stripping isn’t going to do much, big guy.”

The glare he gives is mostly involuntary, in reaction to the juvenile comment that he really should have expected. It seemed that even if Sylvain was at death’s door, he would still be an annoyance- his simple compliance was too much to hope for. “If you’re well enough to make jokes, I can leave you to control your urges yourself.”

“No- no, hey, let’s not be hasty now.” The panic ran through him swiftly, it seemed, and it put him back in his place just as quick, despite his agonising over the choice moments before. It left him to sit as still as he could manage with the tremors of hunger and weakness that still ran through him, Hubert gave a self-satisfied hum at the silence that followed, finishing cuffing his shirt as he stopped just in front of the bed where the future Margrave still sat, like a sheepish, scolded dog. His weakened disposition was hardly the confidence he would want to exude, now or in the future.

In a slow movement, like coaxing a beast, Hubert held out his arm to Sylvain, who slowly moved his head to stare at it in confusion. He answered the question of what it was for before he even got to open his mouth to ask. “Eat.”

“...What? Hubert, I’m not going to-” “I will not command it again, Gautier. You will die without blood. Slowly, and painfully, hidden away in here because you cannot bear to be in the sun to prey upon the female populace as you’re so used to in your ordinary, pathetic life.” He leans down slowly to meet the deep brown eyes that stared back at him, suddenly coming into focus at what he assumed to be his smell- it was assumed vampires had heightened senses, and judging from the way he saw the redhead’s pupils blow up from the new sensations, he could only guess that to be a correct assumption. “Eat.”

Again, there was hesitancy in the eyes that began flicking away from Hubert’s face down to his wrist, to the floor and back again. But just before he was able to scoff and retract his offer, Sylvain slowly took a hold of his forearm with one hand, pulling down the silk glove slightly with the other, to better expose the veins underneath. His mouth hung open for a moment, tongue slowly running between his teeth, and now Hubert could see the elongated fangs his classmate had acquired in his transformation from human to superhuman in more than just a glint, as if a trick of the light, razor-sharp and dangerous, but very, very real.

He didn’t think about the way his mouth went dry at the sight, and instead grew frustrated at how long it was taking. “Well?”

“Hold on, I’m…” Sylvain didn’t look up, swallowing and pressing his thumb into his wrist, inspecting the veins, even as his hands still shook- perhaps even more so now, at the prospect of a meal being dangled in front of him like a morsel of prey on a silver platter. 

It took a moment to realise what he was doing- desperately and stupidly trying to find the right spot to puncture with his teeth, without killing him. Hubert clicked his tongue at the fumbling display, rolling his shoulders from the way he was bending down, as it was beginning to cause an ache in his neck and irritation in his temples from the time wasted here, that could be spent anywhere else. Sylvain could survive another day without food- Hubert could have found anyone to give to the man, rather than offering himself. Intimidate some poor student, perhaps even take out an enemy in one fell swoop, give them to an inexperienced vampire for his first meal, and more than likely his first kill. But he didn’t. He had offered his hand and so, regrettably, he would see it through. Taking his free hand, Hubert wrapped it in the other man’s hair in a tight fist (a noise came out of him at the notion, something of surprise and perhaps even pleasure, but he, wisely, chose to ignore it) before he pushed his head forward towards the offered wrist, lining Sylvain up perfectly with where he needed to be as he himself lowered to one knee to save his aching back. Hubert knew about the lethal places to bleed from, and the safe places for shallower cuts, meant for torture rather than a swift end. The latter, of course, was the intention of his direction, where he now held the man. So long as Sylvain showed some restraint, for once, he would be alright. There was a moment of consideration at such a thought, and after that, the mage kept his fist in his hair, grip looser but still firm. “There. Now stop stalling, or I swear, I will leave you here to starve.”

The eyes that darted up to him for a moment were far different then from the ones Sylvain had been giving him previously. Whereas before they carried reluctance, now, it seemed, that hunger had truly claimed him. Hubert watched his pupils dilate, almost swallowing the warm brown of them in a void of black, looking away again as he began to feel hot breath against the inside of his wrist, almost panting before there was a surge of fire and pain at the ball of his thumb, fangs sinking deep into the flesh. He’d felt worse pain. So he did not flinch, nor did he look away- he simply employed the empirical method, and began to observe. 

It was a curious sort of feeling, as the blood came out of him in slivers. While there was the sensation of sucking, what came more than anything was the wet feeling of Sylvain’s tongue lapping up whatever escaped thereafter like a hungry mutt on the streets of Enbarr. Amid the feast were quiet growls of satisfaction, almost yips in their pitch and length, and insistent pulling of the mage’s arm further into his mouth, as if he could swallow it whole, wanting and greedy. It should have been a disgusting display, especially from a man who takes and takes without restraint as much as Sylvain, but somehow, Hubert could not help but to not feel that way. There is pity, even, in the way he observed such an act from a starving man. Pity that a man like Sylvain had been given such a life- forced upon him as most everything else had been, a fact he was careful not to speak about. Hubert had heard it, though- overheard it, more like, from the shadows, never involved directly in conversation but always listening. He’d heard the redhead arguing with his fellow Faerghans when he’d decided to change houses- that swordsman had called him a coward, with vitriol but no malice, only hurt, and the Galatea girl was just as hurt by the gesture, but kinder in her pleas. Surprisingly, this did not make Sylvain fold to their whims and change his mind. He’d remained with the Black Eagles, and the next month, he’d confronted his brother. And now…

And now, here he was. Feasting on the blood of another like a beast.

Hubert watched some of his blood dribble down his wrist before Sylvain was able to catch it, droplets hitting the man’s leg, but he didn’t seem to care. He carried on eating, carried on taking, only concerning himself with that and that alone, tunnel-visioned like an animal amidst a hunt. He was still growling all the while, still gripping onto Hubert’s arm like a lifeline, somehow getting more desperate to eat even when the food was right in front of him. It made sense, of course- it had been weeks since the tower, and between grieving and the corruption setting in, he hadn’t had a chance to eat what would keep him alive. Meals from the dining hall wouldn’t sustain him any longer, a fact he didn’t know until minutes before. And, despite the way he was being fed upon, the mage still felt he had control- control enough to tug on Sylvain’s hair, to remind him to pace himself, which he seemed receptive to, pulling back again with that same little noise as before, if a little weaker as he continued on. Perhaps he would need to curb such a commanding habit, if this Faerghan harlot was enjoying it- then again, he was behaving for the moment, so why did it matter? Just another way to remain in command of the situation.

There was a sudden wave of faintness that overcame him as he continued to look at Sylvain, wavering where he knelt, enough to where he had to close his eyes and actively think about swallowing away the dryness of his mouth. His eyes were slow to open again, hearing his own breath and the beating of his heart as he looked up from the floor to the boots directly in front of him as he remained on one knee, the fire still burning in his wrist. 

“Gautier.” Hubert’s voice was far weaker than he liked, as he shook his head and attempted to sit up despite his rapidly approaching vertigo. He gritted his teeth, and tried again. “Gautier, that’s enough.”

It seemed the pleas- no, the demands, because Hubert never pleaded- fell on deaf ears, and the devouring of his arm only grew more frequent.

There was a nauseous pit in his chest now. The mage tightened his grip still in Sylvain’s hair. “Sylvain. Enough.”

Those hunter’s eyes met him again, unrecognisable as the man that once was Sylvain, nose wrinkling in a deep growl so different from the noises of satisfaction in the minutes before. No, these were ones of possessiveness and food aggression- of a starved creature not ready to let go of its prey, not yet full and thus not yet satisfied. He had no intention of stopping now that he had what he wanted- if there was no forceful end to it now, Hubert would be dead from blood loss within minutes. 

The mage felt the pain in his jaw from how it clenched in frustration, trying to keep himself conscious, as he used all of his rapidly draining strength to pull the other man back by the hair, unlatching his fangs from the inside of his wrist and spraying loose bits of blood over the both of them and the sheets underneath. Hubert fell on his backside as he moved away, pushing himself away with his feet a few times before clutching onto his wrist to keep himself from losing any more blood. He could hear his heart in his ears as he tried to calm down, and gather the strength to stand. 

But in that moment, foolishly letting his attention grow lax, there was a key detail that he seemed to forget. He was trapped in a room with Sylvain- no, the vampire that Sylvain had become. One that was hungry, and desperate, and above all, still not done. Hubert did not hear the beast rise to its feet, only the feeling of a knee against his stomach as it pinned him to the floor, and the hot air and spit that hit his face as his shoulders were pinned in turn. There was a noise of what could only be described as a snarl that forced him to look up at the face that met him. His own heartbeat grew faster still, thumping against his chest as this animal drew closer to his neck, teeth bared. This little experiment- one that should have never been conducted, he realised now, far too late- had gone beyond the realm of danger, and rapidly into one that could mean his end, if he didn’t act on his instincts to defend himself right now.

He cared not to apologise in his head for turning his magic against a potential ally, after struggling under the hefty weight of the man on top of him, as Hubert curled his hands into the flesh of Sylvain’s side and felt the surge of mire pulse through his veins, powerful enough that the brute paused in his trajectory of attack towards his throat, as if to consider what was happening-

The scream of pain released was animalistic, pitched and yowling as he pulled back, hands hovering on the burns in his bloodied uniform, bubbling against his exposed skin in a sickly, disgustingly infected purple. It was enough of a release in weight to get Hubert to sit up and push himself away yet again, his back hitting the drawers of the desk, handles digging into the flesh. His chest heaved with exhaustion, vision blacking as he stared forward at the beast, wincing and holding onto its side- his side, as despite the way the blood stained his face and his shirt, the warm brown of his eyes were visible again, and the way his nose wrinkled was from the pain, rather than the hunger. Sylvain had returned. And he was reaping what his impulses had sewn.

There was the thick smell of sulphur in the air as the spell still burned and singed at the skin, but for a moment, things seemed calm, as if in the eye of the storm. The mage wasn’t stupid enough to believe the danger had passed- though whatever bloodlust had taken a hold of Sylvain was now gone, it didn’t mean that he wouldn’t be angry in his own right from an attack. And it didn’t take any modicum of vampiric strength to assess that to be a threat- he saw it now, in the chest of the cavalier that still rose and fell with heavy breaths of exertion, blood-stained shirt leaving very little to the imagination. He was strong in his own right, built for brute force with the width of his shoulders and his arms carrying most of it. Though he could say with experience now what it felt to have the weight of the other man on top of him, with how the wind had been taken out of his chest by the power of the other man’s legs alone. Hubert looked to Sylvain for a few minutes more, before shooting his eyes down to the floor after making the realisation that his observation was not, in fact, for his own self-preservation and caution, and cursing himself for falling victim to certain thoughts just as easily as everyone else.

“…Ow, fuck, ‘Bertie. You could have killed me.” The laugh is breathless, but it cut through the air enough to get Hubert to look up in a snap, just as quickly as he had torn it away, back at the face that doesn’t meet him. Still clutching his side, still hurting, it seemed that was all Sylvain could focus on. Good.

“That was my intent. You were going to kill me first.” It’s a simple statement, and yet still, there’s a noise of offence, as he glances up again.

The brown of his eyes is still there. “No, I wasn’t-”

“You were.”

A beat of silence. “…Not on purpose.”

“I know.” A normal person would go to reassure him, to tell a person to not feel bad about their mistake, but Hubert keeps his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to coddle Sylvain, much like he wasn’t going to bicker back and forth about the intent of his attack. He was out of control, in the moment, and this would be a lesson to not do that through negative reinforcement. Hopefully.

There was another round of silence, but this time noticeably calmer. The storm had well and truly passed now. Sylvain sat up as he leaned back against the bed, hissing and muttering to himself as he fixed his slouched stance so as to not cause damage to himself further with his posture. He certainly seemed a lot more sombre now, than a few minutes before, hungry and snarling. “…Look, Hubert-”

“Don’t bother.” Whatever excuse Sylvain was about to give was cut off with a bite, something as acidic as the spell that had started to settle in, its damage already being done. Hubert glowered from across the room, still trying to steady himself as best he could to stumble and find some assistance- but for now, he remained seated, back pressed to the desk to keep himself upright, despite the tension in his shoulders that wouldn't lessen with time. “I do not want your apologies. I simply should never have let you do this. You’re too inexperienced.”

“Ha. That’s the first time I’ve heard that complaint.”

“Gautier.”

“Okay, okay. Bad timing.” He fell into silence after that, glancing down at the hand at his side that had still dug into the acid-burned flesh and sinew, slowly lifting it with a quick inhale through his teeth at the stinging pain and the bits that came away on his fingers. From what Hubert could see, the wound was already starting to heal, exposed muscle burned away being hidden as the skin stitched itself together again, and from what he heard- a laugh, disbelieving and breathless, if not a little bit unsettled at the display- it seemed Sylvain had not expected such an outcome.

“Are you really so clueless about things such as this that you didn’t know about your near-invulnerability?”

“Certainly didn’t feel invulnerable, that hurt like hell.” He was still laughing, even now, finally looking back up again to meet Hubert’s face as he slowly raised an eyebrow. His teeth were still stained red. “Wow, guess I really am a blood-sucking freak, huh?”

There is an indecent scoff at the comment before Hubert can stop himself. “That’s what made you realise? Not the fever-like symptoms, or your salacious eating manners, or the bloodlust?”

The redhead shrugged, making sure to keep a smile that, intentionally or not, bared those fangs that were sunk into the other man’s arm not minutes before. There was a flash of something in his eyes for a moment, but it was gone again before Hubert could truly discern it to be guilt.

After that, they did not speak more on what just occurred, or simply much at all. Sylvain stood up again, not bothering to remove his bloody and marred shirt, handing Hubert a half-empty glass of water that stood nearby the bedside- stale, but still drinkable. He did, however, get to work removing his bedsheets, tossing them off into a corner with the rest of his laundry (or around where other items had been thrown, as they were scattered most everywhere in an attempt to get to the corner) before crouching down and replacing them with clean ones again. Hubert did not bother to help him. He did not have the energy, nor the desire to be close to him, and so he took instead to watching the width of his shoulders as he worked, drinking until the glass was empty again. He was not bleeding as profusely now, but the wound still hurt, pinpricks in the wrist burning as he removed his bloody hand, and tried to grip the corner of the desk behind himself to pull himself up, apparently making such a noise of effort that caused the redhead to turn, pillow case still in hand.

“Oh, shit, do you need-”

“Do not touch me.”

The command was simple enough to work, forceful enough to keep the dog in his place, looking the mage up and down for a moment, before turning back to work with a quieter, “You got it, big guy.”

It was a simple affair to rise, then, and cross the room again as he had done to enter. The door had not been locked, and for a moment, Hubert thought about what would have happened if he had realised that, during the attack- if he had tried to run down the hall. Would the beast have followed, released from his cage? Would he have killed someone, had to be put down? Hubert ran his tongue along the back of his teeth, contemplating the reality of having saved Sylvain’s life without intending, before turning the handle and pulling the door inward to exit.

Though he stopped again at the threshold, half in and half out, turning back in for a moment to add, as a final closer.

“This will not leave this room. Your secret, or my weakness. Are we clear?”

Sylvain turned again, from laying the fresh blanket down across fresh sheets, where now the only sign of anything off was the amount of blood- Hubert’s blood, that still covered his body and his clothes. There was a moment of consideration, before a slow nod, as Sylvain began licking away some of the blood that still lingered in one corner of his mouth, despite it being practically all over the bottom of his face.

The body slept soundly across his chest, back rising and falling with gentle snores, face obscured in a mop of dirty, unkempt blonde that he twirled between his fingers as he observed. It was a curious sort of observation, not unlike watching a rat in a cage, but there wasn’t a hypothesis to it- because there was no meaning behind it. It simply was, and Hubert would let it be, taking comfort in the weight encompassing him and the soft feeling of breath against his bare skin. One of his hands, as decrepit and stained by dark magic as the other, was held down and claimed by his sleeping companion in a firm grip under the blankets, the other now slowly moving out of the grip of hair he had given himself, fingers trailing lightly along the other man’s spine in a delicate feather touch, as far as he could reach, before moving his hand back in the opposite direction, slowly, watching for any reactions or signs of stirring. There were none. Hubert continued.

The night before had been long and arduous, taxing and resulting in far too many casualties. Those Who Slither In The Dark were becoming craftier, now that their numbers were starting to thin out, meaning that ambushes and outlandish manoeuvres were plenty. This mission had been particularly strenuous, with losses on their side counting up rapidly. Still, among the battlefield, he had remained standing- thanks in no small part to the man now fast asleep and half crushing him under the weight of the world he carried. Dimitri fought as though he would give his dying breath for the cause, which was a curious thought for sure, considering where they had once stood- on opposite sides of the conflict, and of history. Now, they lay in the same bed, barely undressed and still covered in grime and blood from the fight they had endured.

Somewhere between the capture of Fhirdiad and the establishment of a United Fódlan under the ever-watchful rule of Lady Edelgard, the decision to not kill the former King of Faerghus had been made. He was to be kept under lock and chain, with his crest suppressed by wards and seals underneath the castle of Enbarr- imprisoned, questioned and tortured before his eventual execution in the streets. Hubert had been assigned to such a task, and had seen it through to almost perfection. In getting the man to come to heel, perhaps he had broken him too much; the once ferocious, snarling beast instead watching him, with one (only one; his other eye had been injured before his capture, and neglected until it became infected and almost rotted out of his skull entirely) glimmering blue eye underneath swathes of golden hair, like the moon amidst the treeline, other scars and blemishes across Dimitri’s skin like the stars in the otherwise blank expanse, just as his expression was. Blank, unfeeling, but still somehow wanting. Like the moon, his eyes illuminated that- a desire, a need. It hadn’t been until months ago that Hubert figured out just what that need had been. 

He had never been uncomfortable with the idea of losing a prisoner before. When the well of information had dried up, it was time to end the farce- Hubert did not consider himself to be overtly cruel, especially to those who didn’t deserve it, nameless and rankless soldiers and those on the wrong side of history being the majority of them. The Imperial army had taken capture of more than a few enemy soldiers in their time, to analyse movements and strategies, and once they had what they wanted, he had given them mercy. Direct enemies to Her Majesty, however, did not get that same mercy. Their treatment was, well, torturous, long and taxing until they were begging for an end. Hubert liked to hear them beg. But Dimitri never gave him that. All he gave him anger, and rage, until all that was left was a husk with a faraway stare, like he wasn’t even looking at him but off into some alternate future where the war had been his to win, or into what he hoped would be his fate- the darkness of the other side. It was then that the marquis made a realisation, to make use of what otherwise would be a waste of resources in the dungeons, and to capitalise on what had always been Dimitri’s best qualities- his strength, his ruthlessness. His loyalty. All it would take was a little more twisting in the right direction, to steer him away from the lost cause of a fallen Kingdom, and towards the Empire. Perhaps, more selfishly, towards House Vestra alone. 

So then came a new plan, one in direct opposition to what had originally been proposed. The plan was risky, terribly risky and perhaps even stupid, but it was one he had more than a modicum of faith in, and one he held on a tight leash- if the dog bit at his master, as diseased and mauled as he was, he would simply be put down. A kamikaze soldier sent out to fight Those Who Slither In The Dark alongside Hubert and the rest of his agents. Dimitri, however, had been surprisingly well-behaved- a hulking phantom in the Vestra estate, stalking through halls and standing in doorways, scaring the poor staff half to death with a forlorn stare. He had never turned his strength on these parties, however. They had been spared from his ire, or lack thereof, as he did little more than… stand, and watch from a distance, like a beast far outside a human society. Which is exactly what he was, for the time. Dimitri had never been told who he was killing- he had simply been commanded. And, just as he’d expected, the dog obeyed his master without question. 

Dimitri fought, and killed with something akin to joy (a joyless sort of joy, the light lost from his eyes but his grin splitting his face in two with a cackle and a war cry), but he was far from tender, or even receptive to any sort of touch- not that he was ever due the kindness, being the prisoner that he was, but even still, an attempt was made. It had taken months upon months to get the hound to stop flinching or shaking at a hand near him, long enough attempt to brush his hair before a majority of it had to be cut away entirely to salvage it, the rest of it matted and stained with his own blood that he had been rolling in, sleeping on the stone floor of the dungeons- or, more than likely, not sleeping, but simply waiting to die. It took even longer for the beast to allow himself to be handled through hand feeding, an action that Hubert had undertaken the training for himself. Like the crunching of bones, and the screams of the damned and the dying, he remembered the moment all too well, like a flash of lightning in the depth of a stormy night. He remembered way he’d pressed a grape to Dimitri’s lips, sitting in the study on either side of the disorganised desk, full of contracts and letters and declarations that Hubert could not get to before he had done this simple action. He remembered the way he’d watched as the beast had accepted the gift, tongue wrapping around the small fruit before biting down, eye never leaving Hubert the entire time- a fragment of moonlight still illuminated with a feeling. He remembered the way he could almost see his reflection in the brightness of the blue, as he pulled his hand away, watching greedy lips being licked, as if asking for more. As if affirming that Dimitri was his to command.

He remembered realising that was what the moon was lighting the way to. Dimitri was his.

Perhaps indulging in this was unwise of him. Aside from it being nothing short of coercion, the manipulation of a toy he hadn't grown bored of yet, Hubert knew this was a compromise to his position in this future that he and the rest of the Strike Force had fought so hard for- the same future that they had fought against Dimitri for, through the wind and the rain and the dead of night. And yet, despite this, the beast that had once stood against them was somehow satiated, fast asleep against the only thing he seemed to care about anymore, breath coming out hot against Hubert’s chest where he comfortably slumbered, one hand cushioning his face against the bony surface he had taken and the other still intertwined with one of the mage’s he’d claimed as his bed, both hands weathered and scarred from years upon years of lance work. Always fighting. Hubert looked down to the hand he held onto, carefully lifting it up from beneath their covers just enough to watch himself brush his thumb along Dimitri’s knuckles, feeling the way one of them popped out just wrong from when his hand had been broken and not healed correctly. He remembered that incident well; the crunch under his boot still echoed in the dungeons, sometimes. The screams, too, and the snarls of threats through gritted teeth. The crest of Blaiddyd, as minor as it may have been, had made Dimitri a hard man to break. But he soon fell silent. And that silence had almost been disconcerting, replacing the hatred and the anger that ran in the blood of the fallen king with complacency. Acceptance of his death. Hubert squeezed his hand at the thought, when he first knew Dimitri had been ready to die down the depths of the dungeons, either by the Marquis’ hand or even his own, somehow. But he was still here. 

As if rattled by too loud thinking, there was a gentle stirring just below him, a groan that snapped Hubert out of his thoughts, and his once idle free hand went to run through the rivers of gold pooling across his chest.

“Shh, down boy, it’s alright.” Like consoling a dog, he was gentle, watching the head lift and look up at him, chin resting where the cheek once had been. The moon was in Dimitri’s eyes again. Yearning, wanting. “You fought well last night, my pet. You deserve a reward.”

There was a slow blink in return, the half-asleep mind of a broken soldier struggling to catch up with the words being spoken to him, as if waiting for an order, or command, even now, as exhausted as he was. There was still blood stained on his cheek, right underneath the eyepatch he still wore to hide the ugly scar the war had given him. 

Hubert couldn’t help but chuckle, something low and rumbling, and dangerously tender, moving his hand from within the other man’s hair to cup his at his cheek, his thumb rubbing at the dried blood until it flaked away underneath his grip. It was difficult to not take note of just how quickly the weight shifted to lean against his palm. “Rest, Dimitri. I will not ask again.”

At the issue of a command, like the dog he was, Dimitri looked up at his master more intensely, as if trying the memorise his features, before exhaling a held breath as he again came to rest on Hubert’s chest. The hand that had once been his cushion moved under the blankets to place itself on Hubert’s hipbone, fingering curling in ever so slightly as if to signal possession, but he, however, did not move in response. Once again, the mage began twirling golden hair between his fingers as he watched the dog settle down again, taking note of all the dirt and blood still in the locks that had only just started to grow back. The hound should be bathed and cleaned as soon as possible- by the master’s hand, of course, for the hand that feeds does not risk being bitten. After that, perhaps he could invest in a hair tie- the same blue of the old tattered cloak the man refused to part with, perhaps? Or a deep red, like the colours of the empire, and the blood Dimitri so joyously shed in the name of House Vestra? Hubert smiled at the thought, flashing teeth to no one as he brushed away some golden locks to kiss at Dimitri’s forehead, feather-light and gentle.

Ethan played with his hands. Like, a lot.

It wasn’t the first thing Heisenberg noticed about him, but it was certainly one of his more prominent traits. He rubbed his wrists as if they were aching, cracked his knuckles along the deep purple bruises that went down to the bone, pressed his thumb into his palm and up between his middle and ring finger of a non-bandaged hand and across a scar that was already starting to heal. Was it to try and restrain himself from another half-panicked half-angry rant, or simply just to check they were still there? 

Ethan took the deal. He still didn’t know why. When he was sat in that chair, inches away from a pit with death, the father looked like death of a different kind - dead man walking, was the phrase that came to mind - and talked like it, too, voice tired and strained but still pushing the words out from the back of his throat with a ferocity and hatred that wasn’t unexpected, but still hurt, if only a little. There were bags under his eyes, his body shook as if it was about to shut itself down like a faulty machine. And when Heisenberg hung him over that pit as a threat, he almost let go without intending it, bringing his other arm up to grip onto the man’s coat with the three fingers he still had left. It probably would have been easier, to let him fall then and there, have his army deal with him… but things would never have been that simple. Ethan Winters simply didn’t… die. So when he huffed out an exhausted ‘fine’, Heisenberg had pulled him to his feet, and shut the hatch behind him.

And now, here they were. Nowhere near friends, but somewhat closer to allies. They’d gone back and forth with a plan, at opposing forces for a majority of it - Ethan was a good father, and Heisenberg cursed him for that fact. Ethan didn’t want to use his daughter as a weapon, and Heisenberg had called him stupid. Ethan said he wasn’t going to die so easily, and, despite another insult on the tip of his tongue, Heisenberg believed him. So they’d agree that whatever the kid was, she was a last resort first and foremost. So it was just the two of them, and a mindless metal army. Things were still in their favor, but it was going to be a bit more difficult without the kid. Whatever kept Ethan on his side, though. 

That fidgeting was getting annoying, though.

The man glanced over, watching the way Ethan started to shake his bandaged hand, as if it had gone numb from the wrist, before moving to rub the back of it in rhythmic motions with no beat. Had he not been doing this for the past half an hour as they sat in silence, it would have been almost charming. “Are you nervous, Winters?”

“What?” He raised his head, pausing the coaxing of phantom pains to give the man a look - though he tried to remain neutral, there was something behind the eyes that had never left him since he’d arrived, since that very first trial. Fear. “I- fuck, I mean, yes? I guess that’s the word, other than ‘terrified and sick to my stomach that I’ll never see my child again’-”

“-which you will, by the way.”

“Gee, thanks, guy who’s tried to kill me a handful of times.”

“Only twice, really. Would have been more if you were a little stupider.” Heisenberg corrected him pointedly, smiling at the glare that was thrown his way, as he propped his feet up on the work table just in front of him, knocking things away with heavy boots. Ethan was fun to mess with, but wasn’t to be underestimated - a few wrong buttons pushed, and he’d be on the right side of a shotgun, again. Loyalty to a deal flew in the face of fatherly love, and of family. 

The glare persisted for a moment, before the man spoke again, firm. “You’re insane.”

“And so are you, for humouring me.”

He paused, eyes flickering away for a moment before he conceded to the point. “Yeah, maybe.”

There was a moment of silence between them, before Heisenberg kicked his feet down again, pushing the work table away with a heavy clatter, enough to make the man in front of him flinch. He leaned forward a little. “What will it take to get you to trust me?”

Ethan scoffed. “A fucking miracle.”

A smile played on his lips at that. “Oh? Well, I can work with that.”

He looked confused for a moment, before yanking his hand back as Heisenberg reached to grab his bandaged hand. “What- no, get fucked, you’ve already done enough!”

“And I’m going to fix it, you big baby. Hand it over.”

“Fix it?! I’m not one of your machines.”

“I’ve got a prosthetics mold, asshole.”

That made him stop. The arm he was holding protectively to his chest with a good hand fell slightly, looking down.

“We can’t have you killing Miranda in 20 different pieces, can we?” Heisenberg continued, carefully watching the consideration wash over his face. “It’ll be easy, almost painless, and then as soon as we’re done, we’re gonna send that bitch to boom town and get your girl back.”

There were a couple more moments of silence, before Ethan sighed a tired sigh, and gave his hand to the man with a huff.

Though his hands were rough and calloused from decades of factory work, Heisenberg’s touch was gentle as his fingers moved up the bandages, trying to find an end to them to unwrap his hand. He didn’t look back up, but he knew the man was staring at him, eyes burning into him, watching for any sense of betrayal of trust. There wouldn’t be any of course - sure, he was a monster made in Miranda’s design, but he wasn’t going to conform to the role fully. He found the pin with a quiet ‘ah’ escaping him, and pulled it out, placing it on the side with one hand and taking hold of Ethan’s wrist with the other. The blood had dried, for the most part. But the wound was still fresh, both in body and mind - he could tell that much from the way he tensed at his touch against the skin.

“Relax,” And for once, Heisenberg’s voice was quiet, though still firm - less of a reassurance, and more of a command, out of habit. “I’m not gonna take another bite. That’s not my job.”

Ethan huffed out a half-hearted laugh though his nose. “Right. Leave that to your fairytale army.”

He bent the man’s good fingers into his hands, turning his wrist to face the palm upwards, though he didn't look up, even still. “You sure do hold grudges well.”

“Yeah, just a bit.” His voice was dripping with sarcasm. A familiar sound. “It’s kept me alive for this long, and I won’t stop now.”

A quiet hum escaped him. Couldn’t argue with that. “I suppose telling you I’m always good with my business partners won’t help things?”

“Not at all.”

“Ha, thought so. It was worth a try.” 

Ethan clicked his tongue as he shook his head and looked away, trying not to wince with the way fresh wounds were being played with, seeming to flinch every so often. He was a brave one, and a man of many strengths, but he was still only human.

(He didn’t seem to notice when Heisenberg removed his wedding ring, and left it on the side of the work bench without a word.)

They continued in silence, aside from the occasional whistle of a long forgotten tune or mutter from Heisenberg as he worked, or when he would tell Ethan to stop either bouncing his leg or playing with his other hand (flicking each intact finger out from under his thumb, in rapid succession). While the damage was severe, and the skin had already begun to repair - impressive, yes, but also curious - it wasn’t so much so that he couldn’t interrupt the process. Letting his hand fall, he pushed his chair back with a terrible screech against the metal floor, moving to stand and grab the mold left to cool from the back of the workbench.

It was then he heard a laugh. “You were saving those?”

“Hm?” He looked up as he popped out two lifeless appendages, the gesture somehow both rough and soft. “Maybe. Just something to hang over your head if you were stupid enough to turn me down.”

Despite himself, Ethan chuckled - though it certainly wasn’t a relaxed laugh, it was certainly the most amused he’d been since he got there (he tried not to make note of that). “Ah. Yes, the be-all-and-end-all of the deal, two fingers.”

Heisenberg scoffed, holding the fingers tight in one fist, as he moved to grab the chair and turn it backwards, sitting on it as such as he gestured. “Hand, smartass.”

He still smirked, shaking his head as he, surprisingly, did as he was told, handing over a now unbandaged three-fingered hand for him to hold by the wrist. He did not flinch as it was held, this time.

It was a surprisingly easy process, though he did yelp and curse as the metal dug into flesh and threatened to touch bone. And as Ethan spewed off another profanity, he paused at the way his hand bent in a gesture - how all five fingers bent in a gesture. Looking down, he stared, watching the way the two missing fingers moved in turn with each finger like a wave of movement.

“What the…” He trailed off, turning his hand over, as if to check there weren't any strings making the damn things move. But no, no strings attached, not in the literal sense.

There was a sudden tingle down to his bones, with the way the fingers had connected with his nerves, a gentle surge of electricity forcing his hand to move upwards as he watched in mild horror, eyes refocusing on the man behind his hand, as Heisenberg puppeteered it with dancing fingers and a sly smile. Of course it wasn’t made out of a polymer composite - less durable, for one, and he wouldn’t be able to mess with Ethan that way. He wore his scowl well as the man that had once been his enemy simply grinned winder, continuing to lift his hand before holding it in place, moving his own to interlock their fingers and pull him closer.

“And how’s this for fine craftsmanship, hm?”

“Asshole.” was the singular response he received, in a half-hearted growl.

That was enough to make Heisenberg laugh, short and loud, before he tugged at Ethan to make him trip where he stood, ignoring the way he quietly cursed as he inspected his work. Metal used to create and nurture, rather than destroy… Well, they’d be using them to destroy Miranda, but that bitch never counted for anything, so she wasn’t taken into account as part of those calculations.

The man tried to pull his hand away, but that tingle persisted, making his fingers curl tightly it’s Heisenberg’s hand to keep him in place while he continued to inspect his handiwork. It was dark metal, lightweight and durable, decorated with delicate golden motifs like the barrel of an old pepperbox from westerns he remembered vaguely from a time before the village. He muttered to himself, “Absolutely stunning, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, great, continue gloating, stroke your ego some more,” Ethan was still trying to pull his hand away, enough to make the other man grab his wrist firmly.

“Knock it off,” His voice reverted to that gruff, dangerous growl he was known for at this point, looking up finally from over his glasses. “You’ll tear the nerves again. And then this’ll be worth less than shit.”

“Then let go of me.” There wasn’t a moment of hesitation to match the tone - he wasn’t easily intimidated anymore, after everything he’d been through. 

Heisenberg stared. The tingling stopped, and Ethan’s hand fell suddenly, so suddenly that he felt the need to catch it and stare at it in disbelief.

He flexed his fingers, watching the way they moved before he gave a breathless laugh and met the man’s eyes again, as he simply gave a modest shrug. 

Ethan was messing with his hands again, but with eyes full of wonder rather than ones struck with fear. Fingers ran along the ridges where joints would be, a thumbnail scratching along the back of the prosthetic, gentle touches where the metal welded with the skin. And all the while, he was just… shaking his head and laughing to himself, in disbelief, as Heisenberg leaned back, resting his arm over the back of the chair he sat on.

“What’s so funny, Winters?” He asked, despite thinking he already knew the answer (he didn’t).

The man flexed his fingers a few more times, before he swallowed. “I… I don’t know. I guess I just… never expected to get them back, from you of all people. It’s nice… to not be killed on sight, I mean. So, uh… thanks.”

It was the way that he looked up that caught him off guard - that look in his eyes had changed again, to match the warmth of his words, despite how tired he was. He tried, and failed, not to stare for a moment too long, before he coughed with a fist covering his hands and fixed his posture. “Well! Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, why don’t we put those fingers to good use, hm?”

“…Right. Yeah, right.” It was almost as if he’d forgotten why they were here, caught up in the euphoria of being able to use his appendages again, by some miracle. 

There was a beat of silence again, before Heisenberg stood up, pushing his chair back with a horrific screech of metal against a metal floor, before extending a hand down.

Ethan looked up, raising an eyebrow, before taking the hand offered to him with a newly fixed one, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, but not letting go quite yet. “I still don’t trust you.”

As they passed through mostly empty halls, with Heisenberg giving a makeshift tour of the facility, it was a wonder that Ethan didn’t choose to change his mind.

It was like watching a child present his science fair project, with enthusiasm and gusto that almost would have been touching, if not for the monstrosities he was presenting. The soldiers - Soldats, Heisenberg had told him, more accurately, though the distinction made little to no difference - had all been human, once, and now they were barely so, Frankenstiened together with old machinery powered by their mechanical hearts. Did robot monsters dream of revolution? ...Did they have any other choice? He tried not to let the thought bother him too much, but among the sounds of pumps and pistons operating the factory, that wasn’t too hard - the noise rattled his bones too much to make anything but that his concern. 

Heisenberg stopped them at some point, near an elevator that he soon called for, leaving Ethan to wander somewhat closer to the edge of the walkway proceeding ahead of them. It was a long, deadly fall below, but across him was a view of the entire factory. An open, hellish space of disorganised chaos, conveyor belts of Soldats ascending to the top, where they would lie dormant and waiting for attack en masse, not another soul in sight amongst the mess of metal.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” The lord’s voice was enough to make Ethan jump with a quiet gasp. He did not flinch - he kept his hands in his pockets, looking at him over his sunglasses with a tilt of his head and a small smirk, before turning to the expanse that stretched before them. “I’ve been planning this for years, right under her nose. And she doesn’t know a damn thing.”

He swallowed, looking the man up and down, before following where he was now watching. “That’s, uh… well, that’s one way to put it, I guess.”

“...Having doubts?”

“If I said yes, would you push me off of this balcony?”

“Probably.”

“Alright then, no. I’m not.”

That got a laugh out of him, at the very least - one that seemed… almost genuinely entertained, and not a mocking one. Heisenberg leaned a shoulder against the wall nearby where he stood, crossing one leg over the other as he responded, with a touch of playful sarcasm, “Now that fills me with confidence.”

“Well, you and I both.”

They stared off in silence for a few moments, at the way the factory moved around them, as if they weren’t there. A revolution right in the face of the enemy… It was enough to make Ethan wonder just how long he was willing to wait for a miracle - how long would he have bided his time, if Rose had not been taken? Just how long was he willing to wait?

Before he could ask, however, the man cut the silence short. “How old is she?”

“What- who?”

“The kid, obviously. Sh’was tiny, so… didn’t think she was much older than newborn.”

Rose… Ethan swallowed, shifting the way he was standing against the edge. He shouldn’t be here, having pleasant conversation - or, as pleasant as you could get, with someone like Heisenberg. He should be out there, saving her. They both should. In the rush of everything, the father hadn’t had time to process just how badly his perfect family had been torn to pieces - until now, when he responded in a voice that was slightly strained,  “...Six months.”

“Christ. Miranda really didn’t waste time pouncing on her, huh?”

“Yeah… yeah.” His thumb pressed into his palm, along where metal met flesh, listening to the way the joints bent over the white noise of the factory in motion below them for miles. “She, uh… she liked the sun. And singing, god, she loved singing. Real good, too.”

“Ha, findin’ talent young… runs in the family?”

“God, no. Not from me, anyway. Mia… well, she is- ...was. She was alright. But that was more… more than enough.” His brow furrowed, before he closed his eyes with a sigh. “Why do you care, anyway?”

There was a hum of consideration for a moment, before the Lord replied (for a moment, Ethan swore he heard the uncertainty in his voice), “Maybe I wanna know what a happy family looks like.”

That was enough to make Ethan look up again, but by that point, any sense of doubt had been pushed back, and Heisenberg now stood strong, just as the elevator arrived. He gestured with a hand and a giddy, almost unnerving grin across his face, telling the man he ‘had a surprise’ in the basement. 

Now, if that wasn’t a statement of betrayal, then Ethan didn’t know what was. 

As he entered, standing beside the lord who seemed to be bouncing on his heels in anticipation, he reached into the inside of his coat (tattered, sticky from blood but, still, wearable, somehow) for his pistol, hoping the other man didn’t notice the way he tensed up. Better to be safe than sorry.

And for the most part, it seemed the other man was oblivious - he carried on his rambles about his revolution like it was nothing, almost more excited to have someone to confide in over the actual plan itself. It was… odd, because while it seemed obvious that someone so foreboding and intimidating would have no friends, even among his family, but he still seemed to retain some childish glee in him, despite the gravity of what he was explaining. Ethan watched the way he smiled, fanged teeth exposed behind scarred and chapped lips, and the way that he talked with his hands waving around, every so often looking back to make sure his companion was still following along, which he was. Barely. A part of him was almost sure that it would be the end of him if not, but the other was.., fascinated. Heisenberg certainly wasn’t like his siblings. 

The elevator soon stopped with a slight grumble and a shake, opening its mouth to a dark hallway, too dark to see anything beyond two feet in front of them. Before the man could ask if there was a light, his wrist was already grabbed, and he was being dragged forward into the abyss. Blaring lights illuminated the way as they walked by, with Heisenberg’s heavy footfalls almost in a marching stride masking the way Ethan stumbled along behind him, struggling to keep up. 

“Where are we going?” He asked, almost exasperated, tripping over his own feet momentarily before standing up to his full height, skipping a few steps as the other man had already taken them.

“You’ll see, you’ll see.” Uncharacteristically joyful, even for a sadistic man like himself, Heisenberg continued to almost skip through the hallways, turning so often that Ethan had lost track of where they were. Maybe that was the intention.

He was so dizzy and being carried by the momentum that when they did stop, he ended up crashing into the lord’s back, and stumbling with a grumble as he opened the door.

“You know,” he was practically purring as he spoke - low, and dangerous. “Not just anyone gets to see this sort of thing. Remember that, Ethan.”

“Are you… threatening me?”

“We’ll see.” Heisenberg shrugged, and the heavy door swung open, being held in place for Ethan to step through. “Ladies first.”

“Kiss my ass.” He replied quickly, trying to straighten himself as he stepped through, as if to mask the uncertainty and tenseness he held in his core, for… whatever was waiting for him in there.

And then he saw it. And while he wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find in that room (one large, but barren, like an enclosure, or even a cell), but it wasn’t… this.

It was a terrifying thing, with at least two feet on him in height, and two of him - period - in width. Body of an aeroplane engine, and a propeller to match on what should have been its face, with legs apparently strong enough to carry the mass of weight placed upon it but no arms that he could see. It grumbled like an animal, an engine playing as its voicebox, as it turned and growled at the sound of approaching footsteps, enough to make Ethan take a few precautionary steps away.

“Relax, Winters,” he seemed almost amused by the fear, before he held up a hand to the creature that could not see him, voice dropping to be harsher as he addressed it with the authority of a commander. “Down, boy. It’s me.”

The creature seemed… apparently receptive to his tone, enough for its growling to die down. It simply stood in place at the back of the room, emitting a low purr instead. Was it happy to see - ‘see’ - its master, or simply to have some company at all?

The man turned to Ethan with a grin, beckoning with a hand that it was safe to follow. And Ethan, clearly not being proficient in making smart decisions, did so hesitantly, getting closer to the thing, until he stood a few feet from the motionless propeller.

“And this bad boy,” The man slapped the side of the mechanical monstrosity, its engine whirring as either a sign of pleasure or disgruntlement, Ethan couldn’t tell. “Was what was gonna tear you apart if you didn't rub two brain cells together. Wasn’t what I wanted but, hey, makes a pretty good guard dog.”

He looked between Heisenberg and the creature, who seemed to idly move a little under its own weight, like any real person would. It was still purring. It was alive. “...Christ, you really are insane.”

“Sanity ain’t got a place in Miranda’s family, Ethan. You’ve realised that by now, right?”

Opening his mouth to say something, he paused, before making the probably smart decision to close it again, swallowing.

The Lord gave the creature another hefty pat, enough to push himself away again, hands moving into the pockets of his coat. “Sturm. It’s a force of nature, the name seemed fitting. C’mon, give ‘im a pet.”

“What?”

He grinned. “Oh come on, Ethan. It hasn’t killed you yet. Besides, it’s part of the tour experience. Welcome to the petting zoo, partner.”

This was just a game, and Ethan knew it. But he’d already made his choice to play, in exchange for his life. 

He reached his hand out gingerly, seeming to move his body back as he did so, as if to put distance between it and the fingers on the other hand he thought he was about to lose to match the others. The feeling of warm metal against his palm made him flinch, but as the head seemed to almost nudge at him, he found himself glancing back, as the Sturm continued to press its face against his palm for a pet or two. Ethan raised an eyebrow. “...What the fuck?”

“I told you. It’s not smart enough to be upset. I bet it’s almost as scared of you as you are of it.” Heisenberg leaned against a nearby wall, folding his arms across his chest as he watched the man turn to face the creature, looking up at it.

His mouth hung open slightly as he moved to bring up his other hand, running it along the ridges of the engine on its other side, listening to the way the monster purred under his touch, still nudging him for more. There wasn’t any soft fur for him to scratch at, just a hard surface of metal with a mechanical heart underneath to keep it alive. As he tapped it, he seemed to smile to himself at the light melody of his prosthetic fingers against the chassis. “Is he fighting with us?”

That seemed to make the man laugh. “‘He’? Christ, getting attached to the creatures in the zoo now, are we?”

“Well, is he?” He looked over, seeming undeterred, even when the Sturm nudged him so hard he stumbled a little, even laughing at his enthusiasm - laughing, in a way that was airy and free.

Heisenberg swallowed, glancing between Ethan and the monster, before looking down at his feet and kicking his heel against the floor. “...I suppose. Doubt he’ll be much use, though.”

“I dunno. Have you ever seen a big, scary, loud dog? Bark doesn’t have to be as bad as the bite.” 

“I… can’t say I have.”

“Seen a scary dog?”

Heisenberg blinked behind his glasses, almost thinking to himself before he spoke again. “Seen… a dog.”

He scoffed momentarily. “The Lycans don’t count for shit, then?”

“They were people once, Ethan. Not that it matters now. ‘Specially with those fuckers that walk on all fours.”

That made Ethan pause, the bemused smile on his face falling, as he looked over at the lord. “…Do you even know what a real dog is?”

“Wh- yes, I know what a ‘real dog’ is, asshole.”

And at that, he seemed to try and suppress a laugh, though the snorting was more than enough to indicate his amusement.

“For a man who was shitting himself at the sight of that thing, you sure got mighty comfortable.”

“...Right. Kinda fucked up, huh? I’m a little too used to things being out to get me, by now.” He gave a quiet huff, though the rest of a sigh remained in a ball in his chest, as he gave the Sturm a final pat and put his hands in his pockets.

They soon left the creature to its own devices, and continued back upstairs, with Ethan walking by Heisenberg’s side, rather than getting dragged behind. Now, surprisingly, it was Ethan that was starting to fill the silence with words that didn’t mean much of anything - asking for details of a plan that had been years in the making, suggesting things that had already been agonised over thrice at least. It was interesting, to watch him work, to watch again the way his hands moved through the air, as if casting some arcane spell to somehow magic his daughter back into his arm from four pieces to one. Almost endearing, in a way, to know just how fragile this desperate father was, and how easy it was to break him. Almost made Heisenberg a little soft, to want to protect him. Almost, he told himself. He wouldn’t - no, never.

As they passed back through the workshop, Heisenberg found his eyes falling on the wedding ring, still left discarded on the worktop. It was barely recognisable, stained with dark blood and wear, but the shape was unmistakable. He looked up, watching Ethan continue to walk, still talking (the conversation soon turned to the offshoot of thoughts from a new parent with love worth twice his weight) up until he realised the air beside him was cold and lonely, and he turned behind him.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. I just got bored of your mundane ramblings.”

“Ha, you and Rose both.”

“Don’t compare me to an infant.” He scoffed, fiddling with a hand that had now found its way into his coat pocket, as he almost marched behind Ethan again, leaving the worktop before him now bare with the ring he had snatched up, for safekeeping.

The elevator ride up was quiet, tension rising with the altitude, suffocating and unsettling. This was it, the final firefight. They both knew the stakes; make or break for them, for Rose, and for whoever else came afterwards. To be frank, and selfish, Heisenberg didn’t give a damn about what came after, if they failed. They’d be dead and gone, and while some part of him believed that Miranda would just stay put with her simple need for a freaky super baby wearing her daughter’s face, it would surely be too good to be true. At some point, he would have said he didn’t give a damn about Ethan, or Rose - only cared for what they could give him. He glanced to his side, to Ethan, watching the way he flexed his hands, moved to hold the prosthesis, press his thumb against where cold metal met scarred skin, swallowing down anxieties that would never leave him. He watched the man feel eyes on him, and glance over, a tired gaze of dull grey meeting him, and then Ethan smiled. Soft, unsure, but he smiled still. Heisenberg looked away.

No, he didn’t care for what happened afterwards. But only if Ethan wasn’t there to see it.

Rain hit them as soon as the doors slowly pulled out onto the open field. It was hard, heavy, clouds hanging overhead, covering the last of the setting sun in a blanket of melancholy. The perfect setting for the end of it all, he supposed. Heisenberg quickly beckoned over to the fence, to a gate off to the side, where they’d sneak away into the belly of Miranda’s lair, all while a metal army tore the last of her splendour apart topside. His hands were jittery with a sense of excitement as his boots sunk into the muddy grass below his feet-

“Ethan,” the voice was not familiar to him, but Heisenberg knew it meant something to Ethan - what, with the way he’d stopped talking, stopped walking. The lord took a glance behind him, watching the way the grip on his shotgun had tightened, and his teeth were gritted so tightly that his face was shaking.

“Mia-” He went to respond, turning around at a chuckle from behind. At a woman, soaked to the skin in her nightclothes, standing a short distance away. Ethan hesitated, before raising his gun. “Miranda.”

“Poor, poor Ethan,” she continued to coo, stepping forward as he tried to step away from her. “So lost and alone without wife and child, you turn to the common dog to get your friendship. Loss twists the mind something awful, does it not?”

He stepped back, back to Heisenberg’s side, enough for him to grab onto the back of his coat with an iron grip, and keep him in place. This wasn’t Mia. Though she wore the same kind face, he knew better. They both knew better.

But she only continued to laugh, and laugh, before being covered by the thick, molded tendrils that sprouted from the ground around them. Her laughter did not cease.

Heisenberg kept a hold on Ethan’s coat. “Don’t be stupid,” he grimaced, feeling the way he was beginning to tug at the grip to get free.

The laughter sounded more like a raven’s call now, a screeching cackle that dissipated through the air as the rain still hit them from a sky where heaven was open, and opening further still - colder, faster and harder than before.

The Mother soon showed herself again, emerging from behind a root with a bejewelled, clawed hand, sinking into the rotten flesh, dark blood dripping down her wrist and into her sleeve. “Your child… she truly is special, isn’t she?”

The tugging stopped for a moment, as again, Ethan’s hands curled further around his gun, and he swallowed, speaking with a throat still somehow dry. “She’s… she’s everything to me.”

“And mine to me.” That softness was gone now, sharp and harsh, as she ripped out a chunk of mold from the structure she had conjured, crumbling it between her fingers. “Rose has power that you couldn’t possibly understand. You didn’t understand Eveline, after all. But when do you ever understand anything, Ethan Winters?”

“Fuck you!”

“Ethan,” Heisenberg hissed again, barely able to stop him as he lurched forward again, the back of his coat slick with the rain. Perhaps it really was true, the way that parents' strength was unmatched when faced with a child in danger.

“She has my goddamned daughter, let me go.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed, you fucking idiot-”

That shrill laughter began again, and when they both looked back up again, Miranda was gone, with nothing but feathers where she once stood, sinking to the floor in the rain. And that was enough for Ethan to free himself from his charge.

He stumbled forward with his own force, spinning around and looking between every crack in the mold that surrounded them now. Shotgun pumped, he flexed his fingers against the barrel, against the trigger, paranoid eyes darting around. “Miranda-”

“Ethan-”

“Miranda, where the fuck are you, you crazy bitch-”

“Ethan.”

Those tired eyes shot back towards him, a fierceness in his gaze like a fire that had been burning for days, with no sign of stopping. This was the fight that had taken down the rest of his family, now tenfold. Anger and resentment. “What.”

The lord stopped for a moment, trying not to let Ethan's harshness get under his skin too much, his own quiet temper starting to bubble. “She has us right where she wants us, we need to go.”

“Fuck that.”

“Do you want to save the damn kid, or not?”

“My daughter,” He corrected. 

“Whatever!”

“No, not whatever!”

“Remember she’s still in jars, jackass. Miranda is the only one who can put her back together. We need to go. Unless you want to keep the poor bastard in an urn on your fireplace once you get out of here.”

That seemed to be enough to make Ethan pause, and consider, that tension back before finally, he lowered his gun slightly, losing that harshness in his figure but never the fire in his face, even with the sigh that escaped him. “...Right. Fuck, I just-”

“Justify it later. Just go.”

He nodded with that, taking a step forward-

-with a gargle in his throat, and a trail of blood falling from his mouth.

Heisenberg froze, watching the way Miranda seemed to appear from nowhere, reaching into his chest from behind so boldly, the way Ethan seemed to crumble around her claws as he looked down, powerless to stop her as she lifted him from the floor.

“Poor, clueless Ethan Winters. Even turning my family against me did not help you.” She mused, taking a moment to watch him twitch like a dying fly before pulling his heart out of his chest. Miranda looked at it for a moment, not even glancing as he started to collapse to his knees in the rain-soaked earth. She watched the way it continued to beat with futility in her hand, almost panicking to itself, lips curling beneath the mask she wore with disgust at a reaction so... human. “Your power is impressive, but your intelligence is not. Perhaps I overestimated you.”

But even then, it seemed that Ethan did not want to die, despite knowing that he would - he still tried to speak, to reach out and grab her to pull her down with him with what dwindling strength remained, but instead, simply tipped over, leaving scratch marks in the dirt where he dragged himself along.

And then, all was still, as the rain hit the open field behind the factory with ferocity.

Miranda observed the heart in her claws, squeezing it to prompt it to stop, but it did not. An amused hum escaped her, as she muttered to herself. “You really are an interesting specimen. I would have loved to study you more, but alas…”

Dark eyes glanced up now, to the one person left standing of two. She took a moment to look up at him at down - at the tenseness in his form, at the way he held his weapon with both hands, almost protectively, closed fists shaking with silent fury.

And yet, she still dared to smile at him, a fake warmness attempting to hide the coldness in her eyes as she turned and faced him fully, opening her arms, as if welcoming an embrace. She did not falter as he took a few steps back, the venom with which she spoke just as poisonous as it would have been otherwise. “Karl-”

“Don’t.” Despite the way he gritted his teeth to stop his voice from shaking, he was still… no, he would never admit he was afraid of her. He wasn’t scared of anything. Least of all her.

She tightened her grip around Ethan’s heart. 

He tried not to lurch forward and snatch it from her, like a petulant child.

“My darling son,” Her words were cutting, sarcasm masked as flattery, but they both knew better than to consider it at face value. “I understand you’re upset, that you cannot play commander anymore with your little friend-”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Don’t you dare interrupt me again, boy.” Her softened facade broke then, her tone growing curt and tired of this back and forth. She had Heisenberg’s world in her hand - they both knew that, all too well. “You think me a fool? To not know what you’ve been messing with, up here?”

Breathing in through his nose, and out through the mouth, he tried his best to stop himself from snapping at her further, for fear of two lives, now. No, he wasn’t scared - not for himself. But for Ethan, or for his corpse and beating heart? He was terrified.

“I have given you everything, and this is how you repay me? Did you forget from whence you came?”

He had vague memories of first receiving his ‘gift’ from the mother - but they came in between the hot flashes of pain, white and searing, blinding him to almost everything else, and wiping his mind clear of everything before. He had a real family, once. Maybe that’s why he was so desperate to protect Ethan’s now.

“Did you forget?” She repeated, each syllable spoken with a purposeful, grim intent through gritted teeth.

He kept his mouth shut. It was hard, so incredibly hard, to do the right thing and not say a word. Anything she didn’t like to hear would spell the end for them.

But even that seemed to irritate the woman. Hand outstretched to him, claws digging into the muscle she held (as it seemed to beat with panic in her grip), she opened her mouth to speak, and-

It happened so fast, it was almost like a blur. The hot air hit his back hard enough to make him stumble forward and spin around, watching the building behind him go up in flames. Behind glasses reflecting the flames dancing across the dark sky stretched out above them, his eyes widened in a mix of disbelief and horror. His entire army, everything he’d been building, waiting for and sitting on - gone, in a flash, far too big for a woman of even Miranda’s standing to orchestrate. No… this was far too forward. Still, Heisenberg turned to her, half expecting a grin from hell’s worst demons to be worn upon her face, but instead found that he only wanted to frame her expression of equal shock, if only for a second, before he saw the way her hands had fallen slightly, the way her grip around the heart had loosened, and loose blood dripped from vessels onto the wet ground in front of her. He glanced down at her feet, where Ethan still lay motionless in a pool of his own blood.

He had to make a choice.

And with the sound of his heart in his ears, as if to remind him he still had one, that choice was made. His feet hit the mud, hard, as he quickly rushed forward and snatched the heart from Miranda’s grasp, holding it close enough to his chest as he turned away so that she couldn’t grab it back without a struggle, like a selfish child with a toy that he didn’t want anyone else to play with. Between his fingers, he could feel that constant pulse, as heavy boots tripped over moulded, rotten tendrils that whipped angrily at his ankles as they tried to grab and restrain him. And the man moved as agile as he could over and between them, almost as if he was dancing to the rhythm of the heart he now held so close. Heisenberg was sure he’d had this dream before - fleeing from the grips of mother dearest, to somewhere better, rejected from a family he didn’t want, with all the shame and feeling and freedom to match. But dreams could never match the reality, where his chest felt hollow and it was hard to breathe, where his clothes stuck to his skin with heavy rainfall and the manic ramblings and laughter of Mother Miranda followed him like a haunting echo.

It must have been a sight to behold - the once lord Heisenberg, running from his own factory, reduced to nothing more than dancing flames and the smell of burning, decaying flesh and metal. It was almost beautiful, in its glow. Almost.

Heisenberg stopped running, finally, slowly coming to a halt in the middle of the courtyard, turning to look behind him at the sight of everything he’d built up burning to a crisp, his world for decades now nothing more than ashes and dust. His breathing was heavy, frenzied eyes looking around him to see how far he’d run - not far, it seemed, from the gates adorned with feathers, bones and crests of ghosts surrounding him from either side. Was there anyone in the village? No… if Moreau or himself hadn't gotten to them, then Alcina certainly would have. Donna took care of the children. In biding his time, it seemed he’d screwed himself over - no one was around to help. 

The reality was hitting him now. He had Ethan’s heart in his hands. It was still beating, somehow - clinging to life, barely, but it certainly was clinging. That shouldn’t be happening, he was smart enough to know that, but that didn’t matter now. He was almost thankful, in fact, that Ethan was still too stubborn to die. He clutched it to his chest, almost protectively, staining the shirt with the man’s blood, but he didn’t care. The plan had changed - it wasn’t just about stopping Miranda anymore. Somewhere along the line, things had gotten blurry, and there had been a second objective - keep Rose, and Ethan, safe. And he’d failed that.

The sound of someone clearing their throat spooked him enough to make him jump in his skin, like a frightened child. Heisenberg spun around on his heels, finally taking notice of the cart that was hard to miss, adorned with goods and a sweet smell, with a large, friendly face at its helm. He didn’t relax.

“Lord Heisenberg?” The Duke was surprised to see him, though seemingly not off-put by an appearance that looked way worse than it actually was. 

“I, uh… yeah, yeah, it’s me.” He swallowed, taking a few steps closer to the cart, the adrenaline starting to die down now and the pain kicking in. 

The man leaned down a little as Heisenberg got closer, the look of concern only making the lord feel worse - he never seemed to lose that smile he had, so the fact his face had fallen? Only showed him just how grim things had gotten. The man’s voice was quieter as he spoke again, “You seem a little worse for wear, my friend.”

“Ha! Just a… just a bit, bud.”

“And what of Mr Winters? I had last seen him heading to your abode, is he-”

“I-I don’t… look, I don’t know, it’s all gone to shit, a-and I…” Again, he swallowed, realising just how upset he was. Because while killing Miranda was out of the cards now… fuck - fuck, he was in tatters at the thought of losing that stupid man. He futilely held up his hands - one in surrender, and the other still holding (not gripping it, for fear he may stop it) Ethan’s heart, his blood staining his hands and his shirt and… everything. As if he’d killed the man himself - he may as well have done, for leading him there, to her, right where she wanted him.

“Slow down, it’s alright,” The Duke remained softened, even in the face of something he should have been unnerved by, at the very least. Beckoning for the man to come closer with a large hand, he waited for the lord to ponder, before he hesitantly complied, only to pull away the hand that held the heart as soon as it was reached for. “I wish for his safety as much as you, my friend.”

He grimaced. 

“I would not hurt my best customer, my lord.” Despite the formalities, it seemed his tone had softened with some sentimentality. Or maybe it was a farce. 

But Heisenberg didn’t exactly have any friends here. So he growled, and slowly held his hand up again, passing Ethan’s heart to the merchant, watching the way it looked so small in his hands.

And true to his word, The Duke was delicate, shielding it from the rain with his free hand, seeming amazed at the way it still clung to life, even now - though it was getting weaker, cold and tired. To himself, he began to muse, “Remarkable. Simply remarkable, Mr Winters.”

Staying quiet, he started to kick his feet back and forth against the snow that was washing away in the rain, sludge forming on the tips of his boots as he waited for anything else - some good news, he dared to hope. He shouldn’t have, but he did anyway. If anything was going to give that to him, it had to be Ethan, the man who refused to die.

There was at least something, as over his glasses he watched the other man reach back into his cart, fumbling among his merchandise for a moment, before clicking his tongue and grabbing a hold of something among his wears. “Ah, Lord Heisenberg?”

He stood to attention far too fast. “Yeah? Yeah?”

“Would you mind opening this for me?” The Duke reached down, handing Heisenberg a small glass jar, not unlike the ones that Miranda’s cadou had been stored in. “Just to keep the poor thing warm. Quickly, if you’d please.”

For a moment, he seemed dumbfounded, before it caught up with him and he nodded, pulling off a glove with his mouth and holding it between his teeth as he unscrewed the lid, pulling it off and holding it up again for The Duke to place the muscle in the glass container. Once it was sealed again, Heisenberg held it up to look at it, catching his reflection in the glass. A sad one.

“That should keep it intact, for now, until we find where the rest of him is.”

Lost at the back of the factory that was still in flames. He swallowed, and kept his eyes on the jar. At the tired eyes that stared back up at him behind dark glasses.

The silence seemed to be more than enough of an answer for the merchant, who gave a heavy sigh. “Very well. I’ll see to it he’s brought back here.”

That made him look back up again, rather quickly, moving to finally take his glove out of his mouth and hold it in a tight grip to let himself speak, almost hopeful. “You’re getting him?”

“But of course. What good is a father’s heart to his daughter without her father?”

Rose… Rose, fuck-

“Calm yourself, my lord.” Almost sensing his growing panic beginning to rise once more, The Duke took to soothing the man, not unlike a caregiver to their child. “Your plans of revolution will come to fruition yet.”

And with that final reassurance, he watched the businessman begin to pack up his station, at a moderate pace. Heisenberg tapped his fingers against the glass, listening to the way Ethan’s heart beat back in response to the call of the rhythm.

“Hold on.”

The Duke stopped, watching the lord put down the jar and quickly move his coat - his tattered, greasy, now bloodstained coat -  before reaching up almost gingerly, up to the merchant, waving it after a moment as a signal to take it. 

“For when you find him.” He hesitated for a moment, before quickly shrugging. “…I dunno. He seemed cold.”

The Duke stared for a moment, before he finally smiled again, offering the man some comfort as he accepted the gesture, and pulled the coat onto his lap. “I assure you, Lord Heisenberg, that I will make every attempt to recover Ethan for you.”

“Heh, don’t get my hopes up, now.” He ran his free arm under his nose to wipe away the snot that had gathered from his threatening tears, before shoving his hand into his pocket. As if he wasn’t hopeful enough already.

“It’s all part of our first-class customer service.” There wasn’t a beat missed as he spoke again, returning to a more jovial disposition, with some newfound determination. 

“You want some help packin’ up?”

“Well, if you’d be so kind.”

The gentle sound of the radio was enough to not make the room sound so deafening in its silence, raindrops hitting the window like tears from the clouds, as if knowing the day to the date, and mourning on her behalf. The song was a lighthearted one, one about running away to the big city - an older one, from more than many years ago, somehow still prevalent on the radio stations that she tended to be drawn towards. Was it because this music was a comfort to her? Her father always cared a lot for songs like those, and he would whisk herself and her mother around the living room while some lovelorn fool sang about a Caroline or an Eileen. 

  Loba was gentle in the way she did her makeup, having mastered her technique in the past few years - her philosophy had always been to not get caught, but if she were to be, she had to look her best. She closed one eye, gently placing a synthetic eyelash over the smokey eye makeup she’d carefully painted on already, pulling away and staring at herself in the vanity mirror in her room, and hand running through one of the shorter braids, the ends of her hair no longer stark red and now simply a subdued blonde. Her eyes fell on a small polaroid in the corner of the vanity, moving to run two fingers of the faces of the two adults - a suited man and a smiling woman - staring at the young child with a wide smile and a small tooth gap. The thief smiled a little, at the way the girl was so oblivious to her future, her happiness at that moment forever caught, to be cherished and longed for. She stared for a moment or two more, hand pulling away to catch a glance of the two parents by the girl’s shoulders, just as happy as she, before she stood to her feet, grabbing the leather-gloved form the edge of the desk before she opened the door, and began heading out of the dropship, passing by the kitchen and listening to the clicking of her boots against the floor-

  “You’re awake early.”

She jumped at the sudden voice, shooting a glare over to the table in the dropship’s kitchen, where a pair of eyes stared back at her from over the back of a laptop. “For god's sake, Crypto, make yourself known. Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry.” He almost looked sheepish for a moment, pulling down his laptop screen so she could see his face, the clear bags under his eyes from behind his glasses and the weak smile he gave. “You’re looking very… monotone.”

Loba hummed, doing a little half-hearted spin. “I have places to be. Quite in demand, don’t you know?”

“Hm. Visiting death, are we?”

“I guess you could say that.”

He frowned at her for a moment, brow furrowing before he closed the lid of his laptop and stood to his feet.

“What are you doing?”

“Grabbing my coat.”

“What- no, you’re not coming with me.”

He didn’t respond, shoving his hands into his pockets as he made his way back to his room.

“Crypto!” The thief called out to him, but again he didn’t respond, not even so much with a turn. And though she gave an exasperated sigh and folded her arms across her chest, she didn’t try to leave him behind in this momentary blindspot. Deep down, she was almost glad for the company. Especially his.

  The hacker soon returned, now donning a fuzzy black coat, somewhat more professional and warmer than his normal attire, though still jarring to see him in something that wasn’t white or green… though, hints of his usual accent still came through, in the formal shirt and tie he still wore underneath. Hands were shoved into his pockets, clearly fiddling with the cube he always carried with him, more for comfort than out of function. Crypto shot her a small nod as she turned to look at him, quickening his pace a little to join her at her side. “So-”

Before he could finish, he was cut off as she ran a hand down his chest, feeling the soft material of his coat under her fingertips with a soft expression. It wasn’t often they shared moments like this - the two were discrete about their relationship, especially since their mission had led to both… complications and rifts in the group, but also new bonds being formed, including their own. Interactions between the two were kept strictly professional when eyes were on them… but now Loba fixed his coat collar, a sad smile on her face, perhaps getting a bit closer than what she would have normally. But it was the early morning, and the open kitchen was silent. It was just them. What did they have to hide?

Crypto’s smile was weak, and embarrassed, perhaps still not used to the shift between professionalism and PDA. His voice cracked a little as he continued with his train of thought. “S-so, where are we going?”

Loba pulled her hands away from him, tucking her arm into his with a solemn nod, as if to hype herself up. “The closest thing I remember being a home to me. ...To Olympus.”

  The ride was quiet, but they both were tense. Loba knew that Crypto never liked crowds, not much - it was bad enough that a handful of the legends knew who he really was, but being so visible was a threat, even if these people had never heard of Taejoon Park before. She reached a hand over to him without looking to make it obvious, feeling for his hand to hold onto for comfort, as she knew the way his eyes fell on her and his face softened in a way that only she knew. The thief gave him a glance, and a small smile, running a thumb over the back of his knuckles, to comfort him, but also perhaps to comfort herself, as through the window the overview of the city so foggy in her memories became clearer. It was so different, and yet... not at all. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but it kept coming back, enough to make it hard for her to breathe as they left the landing zone and headed down a familiar road, being dropped off at the front of an extravagant building, where pedestrians entered through lavish double doors. She exited the taxi they had shared, a hand holding onto the door for a moment before she quietly shut it.

“Damn rain,” she grumbled, though it was certainly half-hearted, pulling out her cane and extending it to lean against it, in the way she usually did, her other hand over her eyes to avoid damage to her makeup.

Behind her, the taxi started up again, driving away as the hacker now joined her at her side, hands in his pockets. He hummed. 

“What?”

“You haven’t told me everything about yourself. If I knew any better, I would make a joke that this was your second home… the gaudiness is fitting. But…” He looked over to her, and the way she stared back at him.

Loba swallowed. “Yes, well I… the loss of my family to that… demon… meant I have lost my home, my heritage. I have no grave to return my good wishes to, so I…” With her cane, she gestured towards the building in front of them - to the restaurant where all but one little girl had lost her life over twenty years before.

  There was a long, drawn-out silence, the only sound being the sound of rain that his the pavement leading up to the glowing restaurant doors. 

“I feel my papa would have liked you.”

“Hm?” He glanced down to her, how the rain fell down the sides of her face and how the gloomy sunlight cast a dark shadow over her eyes.

“He would have liked you. From… what I remember, anyway. He was a kind man, a family man. ...Yes, he would have liked you.” Her voice quivered as she repeated herself.

“...Loba, I-”

“-And mama would have too. Oh, the things she would say, I can almost hear them, in a distant sort of way. ‘Mi yerno es un ángel.’, I think is the phrase she’d say… I-I’m sure she would call us married already, she was a housewife type despite her… her profession-”

“Loba.”

The thief’s mouth hung open in her rambles, before she looked up to Crypto, still standing in the rain with his hands in his pockets, hair flat against his face. The shadow over her eyes fell now, mascara running down her cheeks as she wiped the nose with the back of her hand in an uncharacteristically sloppy way. “...Am I doing them wrong, Park? Have I done bad by them?”

He didn’t know what to say. He’d never had this issue before, not for himself - what was done with him was done, and he had no one to mourn… no parents, and no sister. He quickly swallowed before he could ride down that thought path. Reaching a hand out of his pocket, he took hers and gently squeezed. “You… are an amazing woman. They know that, surely, from where they reside. Regardless of what you have done, or will do, you are still theirs. Be proud.”

That’s when her face, that had tried so hard to remain like stone despite her tears, wrinkled, and her grip on his hand grew tighter with a squeeze, before she burst into sobs and practically threw herself onto him, burying her face into his shoulder, as if to hide her dignity, her hands moving to claw onto his back and hold it as if he would leave her at a moments notice.

  He didn’t move, unsure if she would shatter in his arms like fragile glasswork, so perfect and delicate as she shook in the cold and the pressure of containing herself, but soon Crypto held her back, and brought her close, the warmth still foreign to him, even after all the times that had done this behind closed doors. No… it was never like this. Loba was strong, she held her cards close to her chest, and only let herself be vulnerable when she knew she had nothing to lose - and to her, she still had everything to lose. Losing her legacy, her revenge on the simulacrum that took her life away from her. The hacker held her close, holding the back of her head with a hand, quietly shushing her muffled sobs as he ran a hand through her hair, now knotted and wavy with the rain.

“Te amo,” she whispered into his neck, before pulling away and looking up to him, smiling despite herself as she wiped her eye, now red, though not like her usual makeup attire, with the back of her finger, smiling despite herself as she moved a hand to brush at his shoulder.  “Sorry about the makeup all over your coat.”

At the end of every season, officials held a big formal event to celebrate the achievements of the legends, and to flaunt how much money they had. Crypto never really cared for it; too loud, too many variables to consider, too high of a risk for him to get caught. But somehow, every time, he was roped into it. And somehow, he surely couldn’t imagine why, he always hated it.

  It was Rampart this time. The newest legend was all too excited, blinded by the lights and the flashy formalities that came with her golden card into the games, up to her neck in the wealth but seeming to never lose her… less-than-grateful charm that he almost enjoyed, if not for her pushiness to get him involved in the antics. But he would humour her. He’d humoured Mirage when he got here, then Wattson the season after, and then finally Loba, the newest legend before the younger Brit had arrived, who offered her hand to dance with him in one corner of the ballroom that night, despite everything that had happened that caused a strain between a once-tight group. (He should have blamed her, he should, but he took her hand and danced with her that night, and to say that he had fallen for her charms - not the charms of Loba, the thief, but Loba Andrade, the woman who had cared to check on him after the ghost was no longer broken - was an understated fact.)

  But, as always, things soon took a turn for the worst, even more so than before. Rampart and Mirage had begun arguing over something or other, Octane had caused chaos in the bathrooms (he didn’t even want to know about that), there was a commotion with the reporters that had arrived for an exclusive scoop that he hadn’t managed to catch, and all the while he had remained in one corner, a glass of wine in hand, and unlike any party before, no one had dragged him to dance. ...Well, no one like before, anyways, when he was just as isolated. Crypto stole a glance around - where was the thief anyway? He was sure he’d seen her earlier that night, arriving arm and arm with the rest of the female legends, absolutely stealing the show with her glamour and charm. But now, among the atmosphere of tension and animosity as the cracks and strains had begun to show between business partners - no, between friends - she’d disappeared into the night, as was in her job description.

“Ah, Mr. Kim?” An unfamiliar voice snapped him out of his search, if only momentarily, as he looked down to the rather short, bespeckled man, in a tatty denim jacket and a hastily put-on tie, wielding a notebook. “Apologies, I’m sure you’re enjoying yourself here… on your own… but I wanted to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind.”

And of course, he too wasn’t immune to harassment by the press. He was disappointed, but not in the least bit surprised.

The questions were just as invasive as he expected, though the reporter was nervous and stuttering over his words, staring down at his notebook in surprise at some of the things coming out of his mouth from a script, so there was some sympathy there. He was just trying to get by, working the grift, as it were - had he still had his old life, Crypto would have inclined to offer more sympathy in solidarity, but this was just pathetic.

He eventually had to excuse himself, getting more and more paranoid as the kid pressed on, quickly apologising before weaving his way through the crowd, where people got too close and for a moment he caught his breath as he felt them almost grab at him - but surely he was just imagining things, imagining his nightmares. Right? ...Right?

  The hacker pushed open the door with one hand, dragging his hand down his face as he did. He needed air, needed space. The hacker loosened the tie around his neck, no longer used to wearing them day in and day out as he had done before, in what seemed like a life so distant to him now, popping a button before heading to the balcony, a tall figure already standing there catching his eye.

Loba was pretty in any lighting, but the moonlight seemed to make her look almost divine, the light catching off of the many crystals that littered her dark red dress, lighting up the velvet as it pooled around her feet, like the blood she spilled and shed so often in the arena that she had made her home, but in a way that was… befitting of her grace. 

He didn’t say anything to her, watching her take a slow drink from her flute of champagne, staining the glass with the maroon lipstick she wore so well, dark hair cascading down her shoulders.

In fact, it was she that saw him, and spoke, and he knew the smile that played at her lips as she sparked a conversation. “Too much?”

“Ya.”

“Need a drink?”

“Please.”

Loba chuckled, handing over her half empty flute for him to take a sip out of, the fingers brushing as the glass was exchanged. She folded her arms against the railing. “Though I must say, the look suits you. Very dashing.”

He almost choked as he drank, quickly pulling the glass away from his lips and covering his mouth with the side of his fist, patting his chest with it to force the champagne down, only making her laugh a little more - it was like music, that laugh of hers, though she took far too much pleasure in embarrassing him, even when they were alone. Crypto quickly passed the glass back, which she took delicately in her hand.

  “...It was the reporters,” Loba told him, after a few beats of silence, the two of them listened to the sounds of the night, and the quiet muffled noises of the party just behind them. 

He glanced at her, thinking back to the commotion in the room. So that’s where she’d been. “You too?”

“They had the… the gaul to ask about my parents, and my relationship with that… demonio. The way he claws his way under my skin, and the way they just… eat it up, everything he’s done to me, for years, the calatorals and the nightmare. I just…” She huffed, holding her flute of champagne and twirling it a few times, lips curling a little as she scoffed. “Odio este lugar.”

He paused, watching as she tilted her head back, how her soft lips took the wine in from the glass in a single drink before bringing it back down again. He leaned in closer to her, and lowered his voice. “Daleun delo gaja.”

Loba paused, and looked over to him, and for a moment, she seemed grateful.“...Sí.”

Crypto tried his best to hold back his sigh of relief, as she looked up to him, her face softening as she put her now empty wine glass on the side of the balcony, and held her hand out to him. Her nails were perfect, rings and her signature bracelet sparkling in the moonlight of the outside, and her skin was soft as he gently took her hand, gently running a thumb over her knuckles. And, after glancing at the many glass doors of the party on the inside, he dared to kiss the back of her hand, to which she chuckled.

“My, so old fashioned.”

“Nothing wrong with the classics.” He looked up to her through his eyelashes, finding himself almost smirking at the banter as he stood up again, never letting go of her hand, though feeling it flip in his light grip to hold onto his in return.

  They shared a silent moment of serenity on the balcony together, peace from the expectations of the masses and the responsibilities on their shoulders as Apex Legends, as Loba moved in to rest her head against his shoulder, gently swaying as she took hold of his other hand. Crypto soon obliged, smiling to himself a little as they shared a solitary dance in the back of the moonlight and stars.

Crypto left the party first - no one would object to that, seeing him head out of the front door to catch a taxi back to the dropship. No one had seen Loba leave, but they didn’t pay it much mind - the girl had her buttons pushed, she needed her space. The cover they provided was perfect, as they met again in a park somewhat close but still far enough away from the gala that no one would find them, sitting side by side on a lonely bench, highlighted by a moonbeam. How poetic.

The thief twirled her keys around her finger for a moment, before sticking it into the cork guarding the top of the bottle of wine they were about to share, popping it open and pouring it into the plastic, disposable cup Crypto held, before pouring her own, and putting the bottle down on the floor beside her feet, ready for another top-up. “How romantic.”

“Isn’t it just?” He held his cup up to her in a toast, to which she accepted, the two of them giggling a little at the anticlimactic clunk of plastic before taking a drink.

They shared the silence for a moment, before Loba rested her head against his shoulder again, as she had done at the party, putting her free hand against his leg, smirking to himself as he tensed a little, though her expression soon softened as he did, resting his head against hers. She closed her eyes. “One day, I’ll be able to tell the world just how great of a man Taejoon Park is.”

“And what will you do?”

“I’ll scream it at the top of my lungs, at every chance I get.”

“We can only dream.” He moved his head to take a drink without spilling it on his shirt, sighing in an almost resigned way, before he resumed his position. “I’m tired of hiding.”

“I know, amor. I know.” Loba patted her hand against his leg, feeling her take hold of it and pull it off, interlocking her fingers between the gaps in hers. She moved her head to look at him, the moonlight casting a shadow over his tired eyes. Balancing the plastic cup of wine against the edge of the bench, the thief moved her hand to hold his face, gentle in the way she cupped his cheek as she moved in to share a soft kiss. And, perhaps pushed by the alcohol in his system, he didn’t bother to hesitate in case anyone was watching, returning the kiss and even smiling between pauses to catch his breath, face littered with lipstick kisses by the time they were done.

“You can sit down, you know that, right?”

The voice from the kitchen made Octavio look up from his shoes, kicking at the linoleum of the apartment’s entrance. He’d been standing there since Elliott had let him in a few minutes before, before he’d left to go make them drinks. “Uh, sí, just… waiting for you.”

“You, the Octane? Waiting? Thought hell’d freeze over before that happened.”

Though the legend scowled momentarily, hearing his boyfriend chuckle to himself from a distance was enough for him to relax the shoulders he didn’t know he was tensing, pulling his hands out of the pockets of his jacket to wring his hands. So he was a little nervous, sure. And he wasn’t coping well with it, yeah. But it was Elliott - just Elliott, not charming funny guy Mirage - and him here… though even that seemed like it was going to be a little too much.

 Like a lost and bewildered dog, he wandered into the living room, putting his bag down by the side of the sofa tossing his leather jacket across the back of it, fiddling with his gloves as he looked around. He’d been in this front room many times before, especially since they’d gotten together, though more often than not it had just been a segway to go out on a date, or further into the apartment, either option leading to a great time… but not tonight. Elliott wanted to stay in, do something cute (‘like normal couples do’ he’d said, as if they were anything close to normal), and had suggested watching a movie together. “You have a lot of those.” he’d chipped in, but he didn’t even know the half of it. 

 For a long time, Octavio had wasted his money on any old earth horror movie he could find. He had enough of it, seeing how as soon as he burned a hole in his pocket he earned back almost twice as much, but it made him happy - almost as happy as risking his life. He was sure Ajay was happy with the alternative, though impulsive spending was hardly an improvement. But for Octavio, the rush of happiness that came with another order or just watching the same movie over and over again was what he always needed, a tie over until the game the next day, or the stunt live on stream in the afternoon. 

 Maybe that’s why he was so wound up - he was baring his heart out here, and that wasn’t something he liked to do. He was the kind of guy to keep his cards close to his chest, and locked behind threads of chains, and the persona of a man who didn’t care what people thought of him, but still had no interests outside of what he did. And though, yes, the adrenaline rush and the cheer of the crowds was enough for him… movies like these kept him company on lonely nights with a nanny he didn’t care for, when his father had his nose too deep in work or another set of divorce papers.

 “Uh, knock knock, comin’ through.”

Octavio looked up, only just realising how badly he was chewing at his fingers as he saw Elliott struggling into the room, two drinks in hand and a bowl under his arm. “Oh, shit- sorry, didn’t hear you askin’ for help.”

“You’re fine, babe, but thanks.” He gave a small smile of relief as the runner took the bowl from him, only for that to turn into a light scowl as he watched him scoop a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “C’mon, at least save it.”

“S’good.”

“Too hot?”

Octavio didn’t reply, only slightly winced and turned away to put the bowl on the coffee table, and that was enough for the trickster to soften again, joining him on the loveseat (fitting, for a date night) as he slid the soda over to Octavio’s side, and kept the coffee for himself.

“So, you wanted to be in charge of picking, right?”

“Uh, heh… yeah.” He twiddled his thumbs a little, before reaching over the side of the arm to grab his backpack, self-branded and decorated with merchandise of himself and his fellow legends, zipping it open and showing the contents, almost entirely packed with old DVDs.

“Oh, uh… woah.”

“I… couldn’t decide.”

“Yeah, clearly.” Elliott chuckled a little, looking up at Octavio’s slight frown, which really didn’t sit right on his face. “N-not that that’s bad, it’s just very… fitting, for you. Well, let’s see ‘em and then come to a decm- decrom- ...we can pick together.”

 He did as he was told, slowly giving a basic synopsis of each movie he found, recalling odd details and memories he associated with each one, almost forgetting that when it came to these things, he always revealed his full hand and heart in his excitement.

“Oh, this one is a three-parter, kinda like Saw in that it got criticised a lot for being ‘torture porn’ - it’s not… actually porn, it’s just a term for movies with a lot of graphic violence - b-but the endorsement of the first one from this director dude really carried it to cult status with some people. Oh, this one’s a Wes Craven classic- he did, uh-”

“Uhhhh, Elm Street, and Scream, yeah?”

“Sí, sí! This one kinda flopped, though. I still think it’s neat. Little boring sometimes.” He shuffled in his seat a little, carrying on digging through his bag. “Ah, this is a good one! Aliens in the school faculty tryin’ to kill everyone. Oh, oh, and this one’s got alien’s too, but it’s like… British, so there’s that - think it was important back then, ‘cos of stereotypes and- ah, shit, I brought Saw 6 but not Saw 7, I didn’t bring ‘em all ‘cos the first one is boring-”

“Tav, Tav, relax, buddy. Catch a breath.” Elliott laughed, watching Octavio’s expression shift to one of embarrassment as he deflated a little, movies still in his hands, leg bouncing.

“...Sorry, mi amor, you probably don’t-”

“Hey, of course I care. C’mere.” He wrapped his arms around the runner before he could finish, leaning in to pepper his cheek with kisses, making the man giggle a little, though still somewhat sheepish from his unhinged ramblings. “You’re so cute when you get excited, you know that, right?”

“You remind me every day, amigo.”

“I better. Just look at you.” Giving Octavio a playful cheek pinch, Elliott only laughed when the gesture was returned in kind by a soft shove. “Listen, we have all the time in the world. Just you and me tonight, remember? Pick your favourite, and let’s go from there, for as long as we can go. Sound good?”

Octavio slowly nodded, leaning into his boyfriend’s touch, the tension in his body relaxing a little at the comfort, sifting through the rest of the DVDs that he could barely fit into his backpack before he pulled one out from the back, a small grin on his face, showing the pumpkin on the cover to Elliott. “This one?”

“Gotta love the classics. You know where the player is.”

He practically shot off the sofa, almost dragging Elliott with him with the force as he launched himself towards the TV cabinet, pulling open the glass door where the old DVD player sat and prying open the case, barely able to contain himself as he put the disc inside and watched the machine eat it up. He’d seen this movie thousands of times before, he practically knew it by heart at this point, and his impression of the final girl was top-notch, but somehow, he knew watching it with Elliott would be so much better.