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Hair tied up behind him fully. Not how he usually wears it, but better than loose when he knows what he's getting into. Shirt tossed off to the side before they began. A slight sheen of sweat covers his chest from exertion. Knuckles wrapped.
Tarquin wipes the small trickle of blood with the back of his hand from where it's dripping a slow trail from his nostril down into his mouth. Spits out the taste of copper. Fucker probably broke his nose. Wouldn't be the first time, but that doesn't make it hurt any less in the moment. Arms up.
They're not done here.
"What happened?" Ashur's voice has a note of slight alarm and concern when Tarquin arrives at the shop the next day, a small limp in his step. Tarquin shrugs him off and makes for the desk of unread reports.
"I'm fine. Rough night."
He chooses one at random and begins to scan it. It concerns a significant increase in foot traffic at Magister Galo Varialus's estate, particularly after the introduction of Dorian's new proposal aimed to ensure humane treatment and monitoring of slaves.
While it would take significant planning, support, and follow through to rid the nation of slavery entirely—support they did not currently have—the proposed measures would make it easier to identify when slaves mysteriously went "missing." An easier proposal to pass.
Everyone knew "missing" slaves were tied deeply to blood magic, and despite their underground work, hardly any Magisters would risk being seen openly supporting it. It seemed Magister Varialus had been working to finish something before the new measures go through.
Tarquin slides the report to Ashur, who ignores it in favor of continuing to examine Tarquin's condition.
"You should have contacted us," Ashur responds without looking at the papers. "The Shadow Dragons are a team. If the Venatori are up to something, we deserve to know. Besides, it's unsafe to engage them alone. You should know that."
Tarquin barks out a laugh. How many times had he said the same to Ashur, only to have it echoed back to him now?
"I was mugged." The lie slips easily from his lips, shutting down any further questions from Ashur. With his face covered it's difficult to tell, but Tarquin has spent the last couple of years learning to read Ashur despite the barrier. From the shift in fabric, Tarquin can see the tension in his jaw, his displeasure in the situation.
"Let me heal you." Ashur reaches for Tarquin's face, near his now crooked nose. Tarquin jolts back reflexively. "Quin…"
"Fine, yeah, whatever. Go ahead and fix it." Like you always do. A sharp momentary pain as bone and cartilage shift back into place, then warmth and a dull ache, then gone altogether.
Two sharp left jabs, one big swing to the side with the right. The first two are expected, blocked easily. A distraction for the third. Knuckles connect with the side of the other man's jaw, and Tarquin swears he can hear something crack under his fist.
A decent man might give his opponent time to recover and catch his breath. Tarquin has never believed himself to be a decent man. Leave that for the Magisters and their fancy duels. The street fights and army leave no space for hesitation. You hesitate in Seheron, and you find yourself bleeding out in the jungle from a gash a qunari reaver decided to gift you with. Better to keep moving. You don't let an advantage slip away once you have it.
Tarquin's knee comes up quick, colliding with the other man's gut and leaving him doubled over in pain. Another hit and his opponent falls, a heavy thud as his body hits the ground. There's a commotion from the crowd around him. He can't quite tell if it's excitement or frustration at his win.
It doesn't matter. He's grabbing his winnings and stopping off at the bar for a drink before heading home. Maybe, if he's lucky, he can pull a quick fuck while he's there.
"You have a black eye," Ashur observes when Tarquin sees him next. The swelling has gone down some since it first happened, but Tarquin's sure his left eye must be an ugly purple color by now. He's choosing to ignore the heavy ache on that side of his face.
"Tripped. Caught my face on the corner edge of a table. Reflexes aren't quite as good as my army days."
Ashur narrows his eyes but Tarquin doesn't respond, waiting for the challenge to come. It doesn't. After a minute he sighs instead.
"At least let me heal you."
"You always do."
He's used to watching his back. Keeping one eye ahead of him and the other glancing over his shoulder. It's one of the first things he teaches new recruits, right after how to hold a sword without stabbing yourself by accident. It makes it all the easier to spot the ghost of someone in his periphery. A shift in movement when he rounds a corner, the flutter of fabric out of the corner of his eye.
Tarquin slips a dagger into his hands and rounds onto a different street at the next intersection, then ducks into the shadows of a nearby doorway. Footsteps pad on the cobbles—whoever it is, they're trying to be stealthy. As they pass, Tarquin charges, grappling with muscles and fabric until he's got the figure pinned between him and the wall. The thin edge of the knife presses against the other man's throat. To his credit, he remains calm under the blade, no tell-tale bob of the throat to convey panic or surprise.
"Tarquin," The deep voice is even and calm, as if he had been expecting this turn of events.
"Why are you following me, Viper?" Tarquin spits out as the anger starts begins to burn hot through him.
"You seem to have suffered several injuries of late. I was merely ensuring your safety. We wouldn't want you to be mugged again."
"Fuck off." Tarquin lowers the blade and pushes away from him. "Keep your nose out of my business, yeah? Told you before, I'm fine."
Tarquin points at him with the blade. They both know the action is hollow. He may rough Ashur up a little bit, but the knife is merely a prop this time. Ashur is hardly a blood mage ready to kidnap and sacrifice him for power and glory.
"Better not let me catch you doing this again," Tarquin mutters under his breath. "If you do, I won't be the one needing healing."
"I don't intend to."
Tarquin gives him a rough shove before leaving for a nearby bar. He throws back the offered drink and orders another. After a little bit he can feel the buzz of it just under his skin. Fuck him. The urge to go to the ring anyway is strong, to get out some of his frustration on whatever poor sod he's matched up against. But after catching Ashur once, Tarquin doesn't trust him not to follow. And like hell he's having the inevitable conversation Ashur's going to want about his self destructive habits. Instead, Tarquin throws back another drink before heading home empty handed.
"When are you going to do something about Varialus?"
The Viper starts just slightly at Tarquin's appearance. Tarquin can't help but feel a little pleased at himself for that, getting one over on Ash. He recovers quickly, though.
"One of our scouts reports that there is a ritual he is planning during the next full moon. That gives us a week. We could strike now, but it would do more in the long run to find out where he's moving people and who else is involved. If we're looking, we should be able to find the location. As for the who, only the ritual itself will reveal that."
Tarquin sucks in a breath through his teeth. A week is a long time. Anything could happen in a week.
"You sure?"
"They'll need fresh blood for the ritual. The slaves they are moving might be a bit battered, but they won't sacrifice them before then. This way, we can see who he's working with. A chance to get rid of more Venatori on the streets and in the Magisterium."
"It's risky. To catch more, we would need a bigger force ourselves. The dragons work best as a small strike team. Do we even have the recruits for this?"
Tarquin bends over the table to observe their plans. There's no telling how many Magisters or Venatori would be involved. They'll have to pool their resources. But if the Viper were to lead a distraction team while Tarquin takes a stealth group to free people… It could work, at least in theory. Provided the location allowed for a multi-pronged approach. With luck, it would. They definitely didn't have the forces for an full-out assault.
"We can handle it," the Viper assures him. A slight pause. "I noticed you missed your usual weekly mugging."
Tarquin feels the heat rise to his face, though it's more anger than embarrassment. Ashur cares, but he likes to pick. He can't just let things lie, not when it's something he feels matters. And he feels everything matters.
In other circumstances, it's something Tarquin likes about him. Everything matters. Everyone. Despite his lofty employment, Ashur cares about everyone, from his fellow Magisters to their hidden away slaves, cares about them deeply and personally. Despite the various gruff personas he puts on, he is soft under it all. Tarquin just wishes he cared a little less, specifically about Tarquin's personal habits.
"Shut it. I know you worry, but I don't need you trailing me home at night. I'm not some damsel in distress."
Instead, Tarquin nods back to what they had been planning on the table. "Do you really think it's worth it?"
"If we can save them and cut off the source of the problem? It's worth the risk."
The barman at the Snake's Nest keeps a lot of secrets. A nod to her as you enter and an order of a shot "in the Fereldan style" and she'll wave you into a backroom to "inspect the stock." Down the stairs, you'll find a favorite pastime of the less favored, right behind complaining about the Altus bastards in charge. Order it "on the rocks" and she'll introduce you to the book-keep, tell her you want in. Within an hour you'll be wiping the sweat off your brow and trying not to let your ribs get kicked in.
Tarquin won't say it's healthy. In fact, he's sure if Ashur and Mae knew, all they would do is fret and try and talk him out of it and say "Quin" in that condescending, pitying way of theirs. But it gets out the frustration of being a cog in the machine that only wants you dead. His cut of the winnings is nothing to scoff at either. It's a way to blow off steam, and if he wants to avoid living in the Templar barracks or on the street, he has rent to pay.
Tarquin blows a stray hair out of his face as he circles his opponent. A thick pink scar runs down the other mans right cheek, jaggedly stretching from his hairline to the corner of his mouth. Tarquin is pretty sure he saw him working the docks before. Built like a book case, the man is tall and strong, but not necessarily light on his feet.
The bigger man swings out and Tarquin ducks, following it up with a quick jab of his own. The crowd around them shifts, and out of the corner of his eye Tarquin recognizes something. A familiar person or shape?
His opponent makes to move, snapping Tarquin's attention back to the here and now before he can register what it was.
The man grabs for him and Tarquin dodges again. As he comes up from between the guy's arms he catches sight of the figure in the crowd—broad, dark skin, and bright eyes, the lower half of his face obscured by a piece of fabric.
That fucking prick.
Tarquin's face is flung sideways as a blow connects, pain erupting in the right side of his cheek. Another meaty fist forces his bottom jaw up, his top jaw unmoving, the inside of his lip mashing as it catches between his teeth. Blood wells in his mouth and his eyes water from the blow to his face.
Force it back down. Focus on the here. One opponent at a time. He can murder Ashur after.
He pulls it back in, but it's a near thing. As the dock hand falls and Tarquin struggles to catch his breath, the group around him shifts to clap him on the back and settle up with the bookie. Tarquin absentmindedly shakes someone's hand who has just won a couple gold off the match. When he looks back, finally freed from their grip, the Viper has vanished.
"Oi!" Tarquin pushes through the flock of people to follow the figure. "Where d'you think you're off to?"
The Viper pauses, giving Tarquin a moment to catch up. He's dressed casually in just a plain shirt and trousers, a dust colored cloth tied over his mouth. An attempt at normalcy, at blending in. Not the Viper or Divine or even Ashur really, just another of the average people in Dock Town, barely eking out a living and trying to find some fun some where it lasts. Still, his stance is tall and rigid, his eyes calculating and the kind of bright blue green that's almost impossible to find without the curating of bloodlines that the upper crust likes so much. If you aren't looking, sure, he might fit in. But if you're alert, if you know what you're searching for, if you're Tarquin, he sticks out like a dragon in a burrow of nugs.
"You almost lost me that match you know. Would've had me knocked out bleeding on the floor. Mind telling me why you followed me here? Again?"
"You were injured. Twice. Is it so terrible for me to want to ensure your safety?"
Tarquin huffs a sigh and tries to push Ashur's reasoning out of his head. It doesn't matter that Ashur's logic makes sense. It doesn't matter that they're friends, or that Tarquin occasionally looks at Ashur and wonders if that's all that they are, if there is something more bubbling under the surface. It doesn't matter that Tarquin would break into the bloody Argent Spire and risk arrest if Ashur were to show up with an unexplained limp. What matters is that Ashur is here, now, after Tarquin explicitly told him not to.
"My personal well-being would be a lot safer if you weren't on the sidelines distracting me from a fight."
"Why do you do this? If you're low on funds, I could always—"
Tarquin scoffs. "Knew you wouldn't get it. It's called a fucking hobby. Like you jumping across rooftops."
Ashur's brow furrows as he tries to process things. "You… enjoy this? Getting beat up every night?"
Tarquin pushes back the hair falling loose from his bun with a deep sigh.
"I told you that you wouldn't understand. It's good. Gets out some of the anger. From work, from the Shadows, from this city. Gives me a target when you're acting like a bastard so I don't punch you right in the face." Tarquin glances away, then back at Ashur's puzzled face. His brow is still creased as he tries to understand.
In other situations, Tarquin might find it endearing. Not in this one.
"Look, you figured it out. Congratulations. Hope you're happy. Now, I'm going to go settle up, and when I come back, you're going to be gone. Understood?"
Ashur holds his gaze for a long minute before giving him a sharp nod.
"Understood. I will see you back at the shop."
It takes some time to find the bookie. She digs in a bag on her belt for a couple of coin as she congratulates his win. Tarquin nods to her as his tongue runs along the swell at the inside of his lower lip, the taste of blood in the wound on his tongue.
As he turns back, something glints brightly at the edge of his vision. Tarquin focuses for a moment, trying to zero in on what he saw. There. Gold necklace and several rings on his fingers. Richer than he usually sees on the people around here. An Altus. He can't quite make it out at this distance, but there's some kind of engraving on one of the rings, likely a family crest or emblem. Someone claps an arm around the rich boy and leads him off. Tarquin's eyes trail them as they enter a door off to the side that up until now he had assumed to be some kind of storage.
"If you're up for another round, I can always write your name in."
Tarquin's attention snaps back to the woman in front of him. He smiles, attempts to look like he's joking or being casual, despite the back of his brain buzzing.
The rich don't frequent here. The Snake's Nest isn't one of the fancier bars in the area, and even among the Soparati the matches that happen below aren't wide spread. That man was here for something.
"Maybe next time," Tarquin replies with a chuckle, forcing his tone to stay easy and light. "I think I'm sore enough from that last one."
He slips between the people with little effort, navigating himself until he is in front of the storeroom. Looking around to ensure people are preoccupied, he presses an ear to the wood. There's some chatter or mumblings, but it's faint, likely distant. Slowly, he cracks open the door.
The hinges creak slightly as the door opens, faint but there all the same. Tarquin freezes as the voices slow, then continue again in a hushed whisper. The room beyond is dim, a distant candle illuminating boxes and a couple of elongated silhouettes on the nearby wall. As the voices continue, Tarquin creeps closer into the room.
There's a scent of something earthy and fruity. Tarquin coughs and sputters as a fine dust hits him, stinging slightly in his eyes and burning the back of his throat.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He staggers back, trying to get a glimpse of someone around him, but the shadows of the room meld together to hide his assailant.
Gotta get back. Ashur can't be far. He just left. If Tarquin can make it out—
Tarquin teeters back toward the door, trying to make for the main room. The colors blend slightly at the edges, a drawing washing away in the rain. What was he—? Viper. Got to find Ashur.
The reason is becoming fuzzy, but the thought remains clear. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, fighting back whatever powder Tarquin has inhaled. If he can find Ashur, things will be okay. He can figure the rest out from there.
He takes a few stumbling steps, the ground swaying beneath his feet. It's not supposed to do that. Is it supposed to do that? Shift under him as he walks, like stumbling across a sand dune? Feels like it's cheating. Focus. Tarquin fights through a haze of thoughts to latch onto something coherent. Who was he searching—?
Before he can grasp it, the world pitches suddenly, ground coming up to meet him with a rough thunk.
A distant rumbling echoes through Tarquin's ears, starting him awake. His head lies cold and damp on the stone of an open cavern, a slow dripping of water on his forehead, earthy and musty and wet. He groans as he sits up. A stabbing pain spiders out from the center of his forehead, another one echoing it at the base of his skull.
Memories are fuzzy as he tries to right himself. There's a heaviness around his ankle, and a slight clanking noise draws his attention to a chain attaching one of his legs to a vast cavern wall.
Around the room are several other figures, about two dozen in total, huddling in small clumps. To his left are a couple of younger people, two elves, roughly age 10 and 15 by the looks of them.
As his eyes adjust to the dark and take in the surroundings, Tarquin rubs a hand to his splitting head and tries to piece things together.
The Snake's Nest. He remembers dimly his match there, finding Ashur in the crowd. Something else, after. A dark room with voices. And he breathed something in. A powder. A drug of some sort, to make him sleep.
Several figures enter the cavernous area as Tarquin tries to get his bearings. The gray and red robes they wear are familiar. Hoods cover most of their faces, but in the middle one or two are left bare. Galo Varialus stands in the center, arms raised.
One mystery solved, Tarquin supposes. He would feel better about the situation if he weren't in the middle of what's to come next.
One of the hooded Venatori comes over to inspect Tarquin.
"Your rat is awake."
"It doesn't matter now," Varialus replies, not even bothering with a glance in his direction. "We don't seem to have another option. It appears our time frame needs adjusting. We complete this, now."
The Magister takes up position in the center of the room as the rest spread out in a circle around him. He begins chanting, the room beginning to glow dimly red as sickles and daggers advance on the captives.
The one that had been already inspecting Tarquin raises his own weapon, before slicing it down in a quick motion.
Tarquin smothers his cry of pain as blood quickly begins to gather on his arm.
"Fuck you," Tarquin spits out.
Through the slice in his sleeve Tarquin can see the blood well up, spreading out in a reddish brown stain. The Venatori continue, moving toward the kid next to him, and Tarquin moves closer, to do something, leg pulling at the chain.
If Tarquin dies here, that's his due. That was what he signed up for when he joined the Shadow Dragons. Between the military, the Templars, and the Shadows, it's a wonder he even made it this far. And while it's a cursed lot to have to be a child in all this, better a shitty future than no future at all.
Tarquin spits at the Venatori as he turns away, the wet glob catching him on the cheek.
Impulsive. Stupid, half his brain says. They are all dying here anyway, child and adult alike. Is it really worth it to catch his death a little faster?
There's a loud splitting crack, and lightning arcs dazzlingly bright through the cavern, blinding them all for a few infinite seconds. Tarquin ducks his head away at the brightness. A clashing noise meets his ears. When he's finally able to blink back the colorful spots in his vision, Tarquin catches a glimpse of the Viper, of Ashur, reliable, steady, safe. Reinforcements surround him, leaping into the fray and engaging the Venatori.
The cavern shakes with the force of a magical explosion, raining detritus down around them. Tarquin ducks his head the best that he can and tries to shield the younger kid from debris. Grabbing a chunk about the size of his hand, flat with a slight jagged point at the end, he hits it against the chain. A large clang resounds off it and rattles his still-foggy brain. There's a slight divot in the chain from the impact, but otherwise it remains unaffected.
"Quin!" The relief in the Viper's voice is tangible, a tension that has been released despite the chaos surrounding them. A centurion charges him, and Ashur puts up a shield at the last second. There's a crackle of energy from Ashur's outstretched hand. The warrior's pushed back and fumbles to keep his own shield in place. An opening there. Ashur ignores it in favor for running to Tarquin.
"How long has it been?" Tarquin asks.
"A couple of days," the Viper replies, freezing the chain on Tarquin's leg. Tarquin tries not to wince as the ice brushes sharp and cold against his ankle. "When you failed to arrive at the shop the next day, I assumed you were still upset about our interaction. But when you still didn't show, and I heard word you hadn't been to the archives either, I grew concerned of something bigger."
Tarquin gives the chain a good whack, and it shatters.
"Thought you were waiting to move until the full moon," Tarquin prompts. The Viper glances away, presumably watching the battle. Tarquin could swear his cheeks are flushed. "What's the plan?"
"Freeing the others should be priority. Since we moved early, the Venatori weren't prepared for their ritual. They don't have their full forces here on-site. The others should be able to handle them while we free the people here."
"You're going to be their main target, running around in that getup. That's the problem, being a symbol. I could get them while you run distractions."
The Viper ducks under a blast. With a sideways glance, he shoots back an icy beam. His attention is back on Tarquin before it can even connect.
"You'll need ice magic to break it. We'll manage. Together."
Tarquin nods. Ashur helps him to his feet and they begin to move, dodging spells as they creep along the outer wall of the room. Tarquin nods the people they help off to the side, the off-shoot that Ashur came through.
An executioner flits into view behind Ashur as they move for a group near the back of the room. A silver sickle swipes down. Tarquin tugs at Ashur's cloak, pulling him just out of reach. He moves between Ashur and the Venatori and reaches for his sword. Nothing. His hand comes up empty. A moment too late, Tarquin remembers leaving his weapon at the Snake's Nest, storing it until after his match.
The second blade sweeps down at him, ripping through the fabric of his tunic and skin and flesh. Blood wells at the gash, dark red seeping into the cloth.
"Quin!"
"'m fine!"
Tarquin presses his left hand over the wound and swings out with his right. His fist connects with the Venatori's chin and staggers him back for a split second. Tarquin prepares another blow for his recovery, but before he can throw the punch, a blue-white beam shoots over his shoulder. Ashur runs closer to him, the executioner frozen in a sheet of ice.
"Are you okay? If we need to, I can heal you."
Tarquin holds his hand firm against the split in his skin. His chest heaves from the exertion. Focus. Stay calm.
Apply pressure. An Antaam cannon in the distance. Shouts of Qunari and a clanging of weaponry. Both hands, bloody, pressed down firm on the concave ribs of his commander.
No. He shakes his head sharply.
Now. Four slaves still to be freed in front of them. Around them, several of the Venatori have fallen. The Shadows seem to be holding their own, closing in on Varialus. They are almost there.
"I'll be fine." Tarquin winces as he shifts down to kneel near the slaves on the floor. "Freeze the chain."
Ashur waves his hand and a layer of ice forms around the metal. Just as he had done for himself, Tarquin brings the sharp rock down on it. The split is not as clean, but after a few tries, the metal fractures.
Together, they help the last of the captives to their feet and shepherd them toward the tunnel leading out. Marisa meets them near the exit and guides the former slaves to safety. Quillon dodges between attacks to check on a few fallen Shadow Dragons.
Varialus remains standing, a large red barrier surrounding him, the rest of the recruits closing in.
The Viper calls down another blast of lighting, splintering forward and colliding with Varialus's barrier. Ashur throws up a quick barrier of his own as Varialus's explodes, fragments of energy ricocheting out with a force like a canon blast.
Tarquin flies backward, head knocking hard against the stone.
It takes him a minute of lying there before Tarquin's worked up the effort to right himself. The room is spinning as he does. Ashur stands in the middle with Varialus. Flashes of light flit between them. The heat of fire. Tarquin's eyes fall closed as he staggers forward to help. His legs feel like treading water as he tries to make them work. The noise around him has died down. Was that good? Tarquin stumbles but keeps moving.
"Tarquin?"
He starts to sway slightly, and then something solid is there, forcing him up. Tarquin blinks back the fog forming in front of his eyes.
"Good. Fine," his tongue is heavy in his mouth. Slow. He tries to force it to move. "Varialus?"
"Gone."
Tarquin nods once. The force of it sends blood rushing forward, disorienting and jarring in his head. He blinks once, slow and delayed as his eyelids try to reopen.
"I-" Blackness clouds his vision. Tarquin slides forward, the sturdy arms of the Viper catching him before he hits the floor.
Tarquin claws himself through the haze to blink open his eyes. His own heartbeat pounds loud in his ears, thrumming in a way that has every pulse feeling like the beating of a drum, extending from his chest to his legs to the tips of his fingers. As his eyes finally adjust to the light and he takes in his surroundings, Tarquin recognizes the familiar underground barracks of the Shop. Several of the beds surrounding him are occupied, but none of the others appear to be awake.
The beds directly next to him are blissfully free, giving him a little bit of space. A chair has been pulled to the side of his bunk, though it sits empty at the moment.
A mumbling draws Tarquin's attention. He sits up, ears straining to catch snippets of the conversation. Something sharp and stabbing pokes at the back of his skull. Tarquin winces, letting out an involuntary groan. The conversation freezes instantly as both of the speakers turn to look at him.
"Quin." Ashur moves to Tarquin's side, standing awkwardly in front of the chair next to him.
"Got everyone out?"
Ashur nods. "Some injuries, but nothing we can't handle. Quillon was able to patch you and some of the others up, though you'll likely need some time to recover fully."
"Surprised you didn't heal me yourself."
The statement hangs like a weight in the air between them. Ashur sighs heavily. Tarquin catches a glimpse of something, a shared glance between him and Quillon, before Quillon nods and turns for the door. Ashur sits down next to Tarquin, pulling the mask off his face as he does. With the remaining few sleeping, it leaves the pair relatively alone.
"I wanted to, you know. After facing Varialus, though, I was low on mana. Quillon and Marisa had to stop me before I passed out." There's just beat of silence before Ashur continues, quieter than before. "You were in rough shape. I almost did it, regardless."
Tarquin crosses his arms and chews at the bottom of his lip as he considers this. Finally, he huffs out a breath.
"You don't have to keep watching me like this. I'm not some child. I can mind myself."
"It's been weeks since I've seen you without a bloody nose or a black eye. I can't help but think you do need some watching."
"Why? Why bother?"
Tarquin's question is sharp and pointed, curt and all angles, but he just can't understand why Ashur is always there, stopping him from getting hurt, healing him, putting Tarquin first even before himself.
"I had hoped that would be obvious. Is it so hard to think that I care for you?" Ashur's eyes remain downcast, thumb playing at the mask in his hands.
"Horseshit. You care about the cause, and you're right. It comes first. Nobody cares about the pathetic little soldier-man down at the archives, the one who doesn't know what to do with himself anymore."
And it's true. Nobody cares. Not for him. His mother had told him to sort himself when he came home with scraped knees and bloody noses. His father had barely noticed when he left home and shipped off. Nobody had seemed to care when he left the army, and he's sure as shit nobody had minded when he was shunted off to the archive either.
So why should Ashur care? Why should the Viper care about a couple of bumps and bruises?
"Quin—" Ashur's voice sounds thin, like it's about to break, and that's not fair, sounding so damn tender like that. Ashur reaches to hold Tarquin's hand in his own. A lump begins to form in Tarquin's throat.
"Look," Ashur continues, "you don't have to care for me in return. But I can't understand being as reckless as you have been. Nor do I want to see you hurt."
"Makes me feel good, I suppose. I dunno. Alive. Gets the anger of this place out. Same reason you run around on rooftops, I guess. Look, I—hmph. I won't promise to stop. But if it bothers you that much, I'll try to reel it in a bit."
There's a moment's pause, then a chuckle. Tarquin ducks his head a little bit before glancing back at Ashur. "Can't believe we've been dancing around each other like this for so long."
"You too?" Ashur asks.
"Yeah. C'mon then."
Ashur's mouth is hesitant when his lips brush against Tarquin's, like he's still not sure that Tarquin wants this. Tarquin stretches up and forward, meeting Ashur halfway and killing any lingering doubts. The movement is quick and just a little too far, pulling at the wound in his chest.
A stabbing ache fills him, and Tarquin winces slightly. The slice the Venatori gave him has healed over, but just barely. Too much and it'll easily reopen.
Ashur must notice Tarquin's grimace, because he's pulling away gently. Tarquin barely resists the urge to chase his lips as he goes.
Tarquin brings a hand to his own face, thumb rubbing lightly against his mouth with a small grin.
"Might have to wait to do more," he says, a bit regretfully.
Ashur smiles back, ducking his head a little shyly before putting the mask back on.
"I think I can handle that. Rest for me."
Tarquin gives an exaggerated sigh as he settles back into the bed.
"If you insist, Your Holiness."