#derogatory language

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"Sparring?" Navarre glanced up sharply from the letter he was penning.

"It's been so long since I last saw you train, my lord. You were a master of the blade. Do you remember our duels when we were young?" Inigo smiled. Though he was supposed to be guarding Navarre's study, he leaned against the wall casually, watching the young lord's actions with interest. The only indication that he was on duty was the sword strapped to his waist.

"Of course. My father took it upon himself to punish you for daring to challenge his heir so brazenly. In retrospect, you were looking for an excuse to spend time with me instead of training, weren't you?"

"You are as sharp as your own blade, my lord. I admit it... I was far more impudent than your father feared."

"I do wonder how you turned out to be such an insolent slave. Have I been a poor master?"

"Nay. You have long since earned my loyalty without need for this collar." The knight lightly touched the spell-infused collar that demanded utter obedience to his master. "Rather than controlling my body, you have taken control of my heart."

Navarre set his quill down with a soft tsk. "I should not have taught you to read. You wax poetic in a way that does not befit a knight addressing his lord."

"Hm? Are you pretending you dislike it now? Cute."

"...You said you wanted to spar." The young lord beckoned Inigo closer. "You lost to me frequently back then. Do you miss that feeling?"

The tall knight leaned over Navarre's desk, a smile playing on his lips. "...Perhaps."

"Ill-mannered as always. Then I'll make this a learning opportunity."

Suddenly, Navarre was drawing a lethal penstroke across Inigo's throat with his silver-sheathed quill, black ink dripping down the knight's skin like droplets of blood. Inigo gasped, staring as it stained the frilled neckline of his white shirt.

"You've lost." Navarre grabbed the taller man's collar, pushing his unfinished letter out of the way before pinning Inigo to the desk in a single move. "Kneel."

The knight weakly slid from the desk into a kneeling position, bowing his head as Navarre rose from his seat and drew near.

"'Dog Knight.' They gave you this title because you're a subservient mutt, always following me without question. You're ill-behaved, rabid, and violent, yet you tuck tail at a mere word from me. And the real reason for your title... Everyone knows you're a slave. No matter how loose your leash is, you're still a collared mongrel."

Navarre hooked a finger into Inigo's collar, tugging it carelessly. The knight bit his lip and shivered - the magically conductive material was malleable to the owner of the spell, but unyielding to all others. The sensation of magic thrumming so close to Inigo's throat made his breath catch and stutter.

"Really. The most feared knight in the northern territories, reduced to a shivering, panting mess with a few words?" The young lord bent down, pulling Inigo's collar to force eye contact.

The knight suddenly surged forward, hungrily seeking a kiss, but Navarre was faster.

"Stay down." The command seared through Inigo's consciousness, burning into his neck, and the knight whimpered as he sank back onto his haunches. "You think a mutt has the right to lick his master's face?"

"N-No, my lord."

"And yet you try anyways? Your insolence truly knows no bounds."

"My lord, may I ask a question...?"

"Speak."

"When will we spar?"

Navarre stared, then ground his foot into the tent in Inigo's trousers. "It seems you've already raised your sword against me."

The knight sucked in a sharp breath through gritted teeth, groaning in pain. "I-I didn't mean... n-not like this... nngh, my lord, f-forgive me, it hurts..."

"I cannot even discipline you without you becoming like this. Are you truly so far gone that something like this excites you?"

"M-My lord is handsome and fair, even when he is being— cruel."

"You've lost two duels thus far. Do you know what happens next?"

Inigo struggled to speak, sweat beading on his brow as pain radiated from his groin. "W-We had a rule that— That the loser of a best of three— ugh... would have to fulfill a w-wish..."

"Correct. You challenged me to a sparring session, and have lost twice already. As punishment, you must fulfill a wish for me." Navarre finally lifted his foot, and the knight shuddered, shielding his tender genitals from further abuse.

"My lord, these... were not fair duels."

"Is it fair when you play tug-of-war with your dog?"

The knight suddenly stiffened. Sensing an opening, Navarre leaned down, whispering in Inigo's ear. "Have I wounded your honor? You've been fighting my battles for all these years, yet I won't face you in single combat. You sound so desperate to see me in action. How did you call me before? Oh... 'Cute.'"

"...My lord..." This time, when Inigo met Navarre's eyes, his gaze was no longer meek and subservient. A primal light had kindled in his eyes, and he lifted his chin. "If your dog is strong enough, he may yank you off your feet."

The young lord's face finally split in a smile. "You are right. Sir Inigo... My wish is for you to duel me in the courtyard after dinner. Hold nothing back."

Before he can even take into account what he sees, he's already throwing the punch with one hand. The other is under his pillow, closed around the handle of the knife.

His fist clocks Vincent Shield right over his left eye, sending him stumbling backwards into a small dresser, his arms pinwheeling, but he just slams back-first into it and then hits the ground. "Shit!"

It's his voice that brings Jameson back to reality. Wide-eyed, he sits up in bed with the knife brandished in one hand, the other aching with the aftermath of the hit. "... Vince?"

"Mmmf. Yeah." Vince's face is white, his cheek already turning bright red where Jameson's fist connected. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and he looks... terrified... of Jameson.

There's a necklace Allyn likes to wear but forgot on their last visit. It fell off the dresser and it currently lays draped over Vince's head like some kind of weird tiara, the pendant resting over his forehead.

Vince's voice shakes when he speaks. "You don't pull your punches, huh?"

Jameson's whole chest is cold. He swallows, hard, thinking of how Jake had fallen with a knife in him, the look on his face when Jameson had come back to himself and realized what he'd done. His heart stops - maybe beats slightly out of time - and he hitches a trembling inhale that feels like it whistles down his throat but stops somewhere before his lungs. "Oh fuck," He whispers. "Oh fuck. I'm sorry, oh shit-... fuck, Vince, shit-"

Vince's eyes go to the knife, but he doesn't move to run or even to get up. He just stays sitting right where he is. His hands are shaking, just a little. Jameson is reminded that that Owen Grant asshole used to knock Vince around, too.

Still.

The millionaire movie star inexplicably getting sober in Nat's house manages a smile. Slightly appeasing, a little bit scared. "You, uh... you good?"

"... no. No, I'm not. I'm not. Shit. Fuck! I could have stabbed you!"

"Didn't, though. Could you... put the, uh, the knife down, please?" Vince takes a deep breath, and then another. With every moment, he looks calmer - and Jameson feels increasing guilt edged with panic.

"Uh. Fuck. Yes. Yes, yeah, of course-" He slips the knife back under his pillow, and closes his eyes against the tears that threaten there.

"Besides," Vince says, groaning a little, "This one's probably my fault." He rubs at the back of his neck, picking the necklace out of his hair and setting it down on the floor beside him. "I'm the dumbass who woke a sleeping rescue without, like, calling from the doorway or something first. That was dumb. Damn it, Nat talked to me about this!"

Jameson feels... so much worse. Nat had to warn Vince about him? Of course she did. Because he's already stabbed somebody once. He almost hurt Nat, too, when he thought she was Robert. He could do it again, at any time. Any moment now. To anyone. His heart skips again and he coughs, it feels like the weird flip goes right up his throat. "She-... she did? About me?"

"What? No, not you specifically. When I first started coming around, like... a decade ago. She told me not to wake anyone up like this. Jesus, I'm an idiot."

Jameson is still trying to catch up to the waking world, and his legs are trying to drag him back down into the ache. He fights to stay present, here and now. "Why... why did you wake me up?"

"Uh. Well. Seems stupid now but..." Vince gestures over at the side table beside Jameson's bed. "I got you some coffee."

"You... what?"

"You wanted to go out for coffee, but then when I came by earlier it sounded like you were having a rough time, so I thought... you know. I'd bring some back. For you."

Jameson looks over, and sure enough - there's a thermos there, and when he leans down, he can smell the rich coffee aroma wafting up and out. "... I am such an asshole."

Vince considers that. "Sometimes."

"I yelled at you this morning."

"You did, yes."

"I told you to fuck off."

"A couple of times."

"Then I punched you in the fucking face when you brought me coffee-"

"No, you punched me in the face because I put my hand on you when you were in a dead sleep, knowing that people putting hands on you when you didn't ask for it is like half the reason you live here now." Vince smiles, and it's smaller and more tired than his magazine-photoshoot smile, but it's far more sincere. Jameson likes it more. "I'm sorry, Jameson. I didn't mean to scare you. God, I want a drink so bad right now. I was trying to drink coffee instead. Got stuck in kind of a cycle thinking about-... you know, Owen, this morning, and I thought coffee would help, but really what I want is a drink, you know?

"Yeah, I kind of do, except for me it's usually that I want a really good deep dicking-"

"Aaaaaand the sweet moment of bonding is gone." Vince turns a little red and gets to his feet, carefully, using the dresser for balance. He leans over to pick up the necklace and put it back where it was before. "Please never say the words 'deep dicking' in front of me again."

"What, you never want that?"

Vince closes his eyes, but he's still smiling, and so is Jameson. Some of the tension is gone, and some of the guilt and anger twisting inside of him goes with it. "Jameson-... Some days, there is literally nothing else I want in the whole world than to let someone in my bed again. But the idea of anyone touching me like Owen did makes me feel like cutting all my skin off."

"... oh. I've never felt like that. Even after Brute and Robert, I still like fucking. I guess that's the whole... like, natural slut thing-"

"I swear to God, you sound like Kauri used to sometimes, when I'd overhear him when I came by."

"I mean, we were both the same Designation-"

"... you know what, drink your coffee. I'm going to go put ice on my eye."

Jameson is struck every time by how utterly normal Vince looks, until he puts on the Vincent Shield Face, changes his posture, morphs into Celebrity Actor Millionaire Man. But you'd never know that, looking at this tired-looking man in his late forties just wishing life would stop throwing punches.

"Vince, I really am sorry."

Vince shrugs. "Me, too. But hey - I look more rugged and manly this way, right?" He disappears out the door, and Jameson shifts to get himself braced against the headboard and his pillows, one leg twitching with nerve pain, but at least the other has calmed down to the usual dull ache he can handle.

He picks up his coffee and takes a sip. It's still hot like it's freshly made, and he exhales slowly, closing his eyes.

How long will it take to stop being ready to throw a punch when someone wakes him up after he falls asleep alone?

What if it never stops?

What if he throws a punch at Allyn?