Chapter Text
. an opening
Flamebringer is sitting in a transport vehicle on its way back to the Rhodes Island landship after a particularly difficult mission. It’s cramped and dark, and he’s exhausted to the point of dozing off. “…If you’re sleepy, why don’t I lend you my lap?” A voice next to him whispers, and even without looking he knows W is staring at him in the half-light, eyes laughing quietly.
By now, he’s used to having his guard up around W. Nothing good ever comes from her smile, and he’s learned long ago not to fall for her capricious games. Talking with her feels a bit like disarming a bomb, risky and tedious, and above all an activity where her skill and experience severely dwarfs his. Even so, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it, just a little. Mercenaries tell lies as a greeting, and W is an old friend. Flamebringer would reply, but even his voice is curled up in the back of his throat, aching to rest.
The transport rattles as it moves along, and he’s so, so tired.
W lets out a soft hum of surprise when he drops sideways into her lap. Two minutes, he relents to himself, maybe less. As he closes his eyes, W’s fingers idly trail down the side of his face. Her touch is… careful. Gentle, almost, as she strokes the clusters of infection along his jawline and spreads her palm flat against his exposed neck. Flamebringer waits, expecting her grip to tighten or for her fingertips to be replaced with the icy point of a knife, but it never comes. The moment stretches, and fatigue tugs at every fiber of his being. Just before he drifts off to sleep, he thinks he hears W singing under her breath, an old song in Kazdel’s language.