#zocsar

“You’re going to want this,” Wilde plonked down a glass of whiskey on the table as he sat in the chair next to Zolf’s.

Zolf looked up from the report he’d been writing. In a show of good faith, they’d been sending their information to Curie’s people. Not that they had that much to share; making any inroads on the Shoin institute was proving impossible, finding who was hexing Wilde was proving impossible, finding a way to get a team to Svalbard was proving… anyway.

Wilde looked like he’d just seen a ghost. Zolf curled his fingers around the glass and waited for whatever bomb was about to drop.

Wilde was holding a piece of paper scrawled with his own shorthand, probably a noted Sending. He held it up and half-offered it to Zolf before dropping it on the table where it immediately slipped off. He jumped up and went to pour himself a drink before picking up the paper and sitting down again.

For someone who was generally unflappable, this all looked quite flapped. Zolf picked up his own whiskey and raised an eyebrow as Wilde picked up the note, reading it over again.

“For godsake, would you spit it out?” Zolf said gruffly. Wilde’s agitation was contagious.

Wilde took a deep breath. “Hamid’s back,” he said quickly, as though racing it would make it land easier.

Wilde was right. Zolf did need the whiskey. He picked up his glass blankly, taking a huge mouthful and letting his thoughts narrow to nothing but the pleasant burn on his tongue. The emotional purgatory he’d been stuck in for the last eighteen months had almost become comforting, familiar. This threat of having to leave it, to hope again… it was too much.

“According to who?” he finally managed.

“He’s with Curie and Einstein at the moment, along with Azu.” Wilde’s voice was still quick and tight.

Zolf frowned at the notable absences. “What about the others?”

“Curie didn’t mention them. Just that the two of them returned from Rome, with the hostages.” He ran his hands through his hair, already unruly from repetition of the action.

Hope threatened to overwhelm Zolf, to come crashing like a wave through all the careful barriers he had constructed. He looked to Wilde, who was staring wide-eyed at the note, reading it over and over.

“I don’t know,” Wilde’s hand came up to cover his mouth, thumb compulsively running over his scarred cheek. “It’s been… it’s been too long.” The certainty that the others were dead had calcified over the last year, and cracking into that seemed an impossible task.

Hope was harder than grief.

He grimaced at the thought and pulled his hand away from his scar. “It’s not them,” he said firmly. “It’s not them, Zolf, it’s been too long! It’s just another fucking trap.” He picked up the note and tried to shred it with hands that shook.

Whatever wave that was about to come crashing over Zolf suddenly didn’t seem important anymore. He felt it wash through and around him as he put his glass down. He leant forward to cover one of Wilde’s hands with his own, squeezing gently until it stilled.

Wilde didn’t look at him, because if he did, if he was forced to look into Zolf's eyes, as the dwarf held Wilde’s hand in his, on top of everything else, he might expire. “It can’t be,” he whispered. “We’d be fools to believe it.”

Zolf slid out of his chair, coming down to his knees in front of the seated Wilde and slipped both of his hands under and into Wilde’s. He kept his gaze lowered, and his eyebrows twitched in surprise, as though only just realising what he’d done, where his hands had travelled of their own accord. With a curious tenderness, Zolf rubbed his thumbs over the backs of Wilde’s knuckles.

Wilde took a shaky breath, letter momentarily forgotten. Zolf only ever touched him like this when it felt like the world was falling apart.

“Aye, we’d be fools,” Zolf agreed softly. “But there’s a chance. We’ll be careful, but it’s alright to be fools for a chance.” Wilde hadn’t taken his eyes off their joined hands, resting on his thighs.

For so long they had both told each other, and themselves, it was simply nice not to be in it alone. But Wilde knew that it wouldn’t feel like this to be touched by just anyone, to have just anyone grounding him in warm palms and a gentle rub of thumbs. He knew that even Zolf felt the same horrible, dawning hope. Only Zolf really understood why Wilde was shaking and pulling his own hair at the idea that perhaps all wasn’t lost, after all.

The slide of Zolf’s thumbs was almost hypnotic, and Wilde allowed himself to drift. He let go of the news that was poised to turn their world upside down again, let his focus narrow down to the sensation. Floating up from the drift was fear, the panicked moment of looking into the eyes of someone you loved, and seeing they weren’t in there. The image of Bosie’s kind eyes shot with blue, suddenly replaced by Hamid’s, the idea of it happening again... it all slowly washed away, until there was only the feeling of Zolf’s hands beneath his. Wilde let it all disappear. It had to disappear.

He looked up. Zolf hadn’t raised his eyes, and for the briefest moment Wilde considered asking Zolf why he only touched Wilde just as he was about to break into pieces. But Wilde didn’t know if Zolf would have an answer, or if Wilde could handle the answer he might be given. What if Zolf still thought him weak, in need of bolstering when times got tough?

Wilde wouldn’t be able to cope with that, so he stayed his questions and calmed his breathing. “Alright.” Zolf let his hands still at the sound of Wilde’s clear voice. “We can give them a chance.”

Zolf looked up. “Aren’t you lookin’ forward to the chance to use that silly trapdoor, finally?”

Wilde felt a smile twitch to life on his lips. “I told you it would come in handy!” He smirked and squeezed Zolf’s hands. Zolf let go and came to stand, looking sheepish, as though only just realising what he’d done. Wilde felt the word stay rise on his lips, but didn’t let it break the surface.

“Zolf… thank you,” he said instead. That felt safer. That felt possible. He watched Zolf as he returned to his chair and gave a half shrug, brushing off the thanks.

“S’alright. I get it.” And he did. Like no one else possibly could.

Wilde ducked his head to hide the blush in his cheeks, and as he did Zolf’s comforting phrase bubbled back up in his mind. It’s alright to be fools for a chance.

***

The inn was far less quiet with the squadron of kobolds around.

After reading the letter from Sasha, Zolf had disappeared even more thoroughly than usual. When Zolf had one of his introspective spells, Wilde knew better than to chase after him. It never led anywhere good. Besides, after Wilde’s first solo quarantine, Zolf had been zealous in protecting Wilde’s privacy. It felt like an apology for the violations forced on them both. Wilde merely thought it good manners to return the favour.

This felt… different, however. At some point self-exclusion became punishment, and Wilde knew that all too well.

He found Zolf easily enough. One of his favourite haunts was a nearby cliffside clearing. It wasn’t exactly picturesque, but you could hear the ocean waves crashing down below, and on a clear day the horizon was visible through the gaps in the trees.

Wilde stuck his head into the small clearing, taking as much as he could see in the moonlight. Zolf was seated on the ground, leaning against a jagged piece of granite.

“Come ta scold me for breaking quarantine, Wilde?” Zolf said blearily. It was too dim for Wilde to be able to see the wine bottles on the ground, but he could hear them in Zolf’s voice.

“That depends. Did you see anyone on your way up here?” Wilde asked mildly, still half in the bushes.

Zolf considered the simple question at length. “No one ‘til you.”

“Then it seems the quarantine is still in effect.” Wilde finished pulling himself through from the game path. Zolf had cleared the way somewhat, but he hadn’t needed the extra head room that Wilde did; there were twigs in his hair.

Wilde came close enough to properly see Zolf’s outline in the moonlight, but not so close as to intrude. He could still turn and head straight back down the path. He waited for Zolf to tell him to do so.

Through a haze of grief and booze, Zolf considered this interloper on his self-imposed exile. The news of Sasha and Grizzop had stripped him back to raw, frayed edges, exposed parts that he had always felt would be better left unseen. And yet. This was Wilde. For some reason it didn’t feel so dangerous to let the man see him like this.

So Zolf offered Wilde his half-drunk bottle of wine. Wilde accepted with a ceremonious bow of his head, as though he were being handed a crystal piece of stemware, not a cheap bottle of grog. He leant over to ineffectually brush the scraggly grass with the other hand, as if to clean it, and sat down next to Zolf, letting their knees touch together companionably.

Wilde necked a few good mouthfuls of the wine straight from the bottle. It was… not good. One might even go so far as to say it was bad. He used to be the kind of person to get worked up about that sort of thing.

Wilde didn’t ask if Zolf wanted to talk about it. He simply handed the bottle back when he’d drunk his fill. They both looked forward, out to the gap in the trees where the ocean gently roared in the darkness. Wilde couldn’t see very much, and Zolf was several sheets to the wind, but together they managed to pass the back and forth, hands sometimes brushing.

Zolf realised as they finished off the bottle that he was glad Wilde was there. Every other time that he’d felt like this, all of his instincts screamed at him to go through it alone. This was new.

Zolf pulled another bottle from his coat. He pulled the cork, lifted it and said hoarsely. “To Sasha.” He took his swig and handed it blindly to Wilde. He wished he could think of something apt to say. He wished he could feel anything but the weight of Sasha’s heart in his hands.

Wilde took the bottle, and a deep breath. “To Sasha Racket. We were all richer for having known you, our enemies infinitely poorer.” He hesitated, then added, “And to Grizzop drik acht Amsterdam. You were a deeply caring man, who improved the lives of many in your short years.” He thought of Grizzop. He thought of the darkness behind his eyes after his collapse, and the whirlwind of recovery that the goblin doggedly pushed him through. “May your hunt in the next life be long, thrilling and bountiful.”

He took a drink.

When the second bottle was through, Wilde stood, a touch unsteadily.

“Now, I know you would be happy enough to sleep out here and awake without even a hangover,” he began, “But I am heading back inside. I would suggest you come with me, so that you don’t roll off a cliff in the middle of the night. It would be a terrible shame and for all you’re a pain in the rump, I would miss you.”

“Ye’d miss me cooking, more like.” Zolf said with a touch of a smile in his voice. “S'alright, you don’t need ta hassle me. I’ll come down.”

Wilde offered Zolf his hand. Zolf’s legs were a technological marvel, but they weren’t a flawless tool, and getting up from the ground was one action they didn’t handle well. Zolf clasped Wilde’s hand in his. Wilde braced his feet wide and pulled, leveraging just enough to compensate for the less-than-standard amount of bend in Zolf’s “knees”.

Despite their inebriated state, they’d done it a hundred times before and it went off without a hitch, though Zolf held onto Wilde’s hand a little longer than he usually would, swaying slightly. It felt steadying to hold Wilde’s hand in his as the world tilted viciously around him. For some reason, holding onto Wilde’s hand made him feel like perhaps the world wasn’t ending after all. He considered this feeling, prodding it and turning it over through the safe distance of being extremely sloshed.

Wilde considered making a snide comment, but he was having his own careful considerations of the feelings of a warm and substantial hand enveloping his. He took a rare opportunity to keep his mouth shut and simply squeezed Zolf’s hand.

They let go of each other to head down the trail single file, though Wilde kept a hand on Zolf’s shoulder; he couldn’t see properly once the trees were hiding the moon, and every second step Zolf took threatened to veer him off into the underbrush. His head was spinning like a plate on a stick. As they came out of the trees and into the inn’s yard proper, it was unclear which one of them was holding up the other.

After Wilde’s quarantine he’d kept his hands to himself for a long while. Even after calling a team meeting and divulging his past, there had still been a careful distance. As he stumbled again and Wilde’s hand steadied his elbow, Zolf was grateful that some of their ease was returning, even if they had to get wasted to return there.

Wilde walked with Zolf all the way to his room, which had a western-style bed against the wall. Zolf stumbled in and flopped down on the bed immediately; even by dwarf standards he had drunk an impressive amount.

“D’you want a hand with your legs?” Wilde asked amiably.

“Nah, s’fine. I’ll just sleep in ‘em.”

Wilde’s face scrunched, in a most unselfconscious way, as he considered that. Another complaint Zolf often had was that lengthy wear of the legs made his thighs sore, and the last thing Zolf needed right now was a physical ailment to go with his heartache. “Are you sure? Or are you just being crotchety out of habit?” Not up to his usual standard of witty repartee, but he was drunk and unfiltered.

Zolf lifted his head and glared. He was too drunk to have a good comeback. “Tha’s uncalled for,” he slurred.

“I just don’t want to have to listen to you complaining about being sore tomorrow!” Wilde pointed out, not unreasonably. Goddamnit Zolf. Just… let me help you. Let someone else be the useful one for a change.

Zolf held onto his glare a moment longer, then let his head flop back. He groaned argumentatively but waved one hand. Go on then.

Wilde nodded graciously, and yanked off the boot closest to him, then placed one knee on the bed to reach over for the other.

He wasn’t quite sure where it all went wrong. He was pulling the boot, leaning, one foot still balanced on the floor, then suddenly he wasn’t. He pitched forward, losing contact with the floor, and found himself lying diagonally across Zolf’s broad chest.

He managed to catch himself at the last second, so at the very least he hadn’t body-slammed the poor drunk dwarf, but both men made slightly winded noises of surprise.

“I- oop- I'm so sorry, I’ll just-” Oscar went to get his hands underneath him on either side of Zolf and push back, when he suddenly felt Zolf’s arms wrapping around him, folding Wilde into his chest. Another surprised and now slightly confused noise popped out of Wilde’s mouth.

Oh. It was a hug. He was being hugged. He stopped trying to press himself up and instead let his chest lie against Zolf’s, head swimming from the sudden tumble.

When was the last time he’d been properly held?

Zolf wasn’t in his right mind, and Wilde didn’t want to take advantage of that. But as he lay there, fitting strangely well on Zolf’s roomy chest, Wilde felt a tension he didn’t know he’d been holding start to melt away. He wiggled ever-so-slightly to lay his head on Zolf’s shoulder, face turned away.

Zolf’s arms settled from a squeeze to just resting across Wilde’s back, one broad hand resting between shoulder blades, the other almost reaching Wilde’s lower back. Wilde’s heart felt full in his chest, his whole body warm on wine and contact. Some part of him had wanted this, and badly. He quieted the questions in his mind, letting his confusion dissipate into the drunken haze.

“Y’alright, Wilde?” Zolf’s voice was soft. “After… the kobolds. That can’t ‘ave been a pleasant.”

Wilde sucked in a sharp breath. He had been trying not to think about the midnight ambush. He’d been reading in his office, so used to the inn being a place of safety, his office a sanctuary, that he hadn’t even heard them enter the building. (In his defense, they were very sneaky.) He’d been trying not to remember the onslaught of fear and confusion as he was overwhelmed with scaled skin, clawed hands trussing him up with cold efficiency.

The reflexive I’m fine nearly popped out his mouth, but that didn’t seem right. Not in this moment. Not drunk and comfortable with Zolf’s arms around him.

“It was horrible,” he heard himself say. “Not that I even had the chance to get a spell off, they were so fast, but gods I miss my magic.” He trailed off and rubbed his nose against the fabric covering Zolf’s shoulder. “If you hadn’t come back up when you did- I didn’t know what they were saying, what they wanted, or how long they were going to keep me- I-” He felt a waver threatening in his voice and stopped before it broke properly. The hand between his shoulder blades gripped and released, staying heavy and soothing against him. Wilde sighed his gratitude.

Time passed as Wilde breathed, letting his eyes droop and the memory dissipate. It was harder to hang onto fear from the safety of Zolf’s embrace. He lay there for long enough, listening to Zolf’s steady breathing, to think that perhaps he should say something else.

“I- thank you, Zolf.” He murmured into Zolf’s shoulder.

Zolf didn’t reply.

Wilde shifted again to look at Zolf's face, so near his own, and promptly realised that his eyes were closed, fast asleep. Wilde huffed out a small laugh. What a mess the two of them were becoming. Like something out of a romance novel.