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“Soooooo,” Marisa says, sidling up to Ashur as he’s tidying up reports before he leaves for the evening. “Would you like to grab a bite at the Cobbled Swan? With me?”
Ashur does not freeze. He’s fended off dozens of this variety of invitation over the years, though usually in a more formal setting, and usually much less casually phrased.
“I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged,” he lies.
“With paperwork?” Marisa asks, raising her brow.
“Ah—” Ashur says, because usually the young women and occasionally men who flirt with him at formal court functions understand these cues and back off respectfully.
“Paperwork can’t be more interesting than dinner and a show,” Marisa says, dropping her head to look at him just so through her lashes. If Ashur were a different man…
But he’s not, and he’s not interested. He fumbles for a lie that will work on her, outside of the carefully curated scripts he has for the different aspects of his life.
At least here, he has options that he doesn’t in his other life.
“Or I heard Cida is playing at the Lamplighter tonight,” Marisa continues, oblivious. “Her music is very… compelling.”
“I’m sure her show is lovely,” Ashur says, as if he hadn’t caught a show with Tarquin just the week before when they were staking out a suspected slaver.
“I think you’d enjoy it if you came,” Marisa says, stepping a little too close.
On the far end of the room something catches his eye, and he looks over to see Tarquin in the middle of an angry, animated lecture to one of the youngest Shadows. He’s really worked himself up over something, and Ashur feels a wave of fondness wash over him. He watches for a moment, distracted from the conversation, as Tarquin knocks the Shadow’s feet out from under him, sending him staggering into the wall, then helps him stand straight and shifts him into a more stable stance for combat. One of his tutorials on basic combat and surviving attacks, then, Ashur thinks with a small smile.
“Oh,” says Marisa, jarring him back to attention. “I’d heard rumors… but I didn’t think… you should have just said you were taken!”
“Taken?” Ashur asks, bemused.
“You and… you know,” she says meaningfully, and she too glances at Tarquin, and oh. Oh.
It’s a bit embarrassing that his own foolish feelings have been so obvious that other Shadows have noticed them. Surely the mask ought to offer more protection for his private emotions than that? But… he does find his gaze drifting to Tarquin more often than not. He catches himself finding excuses for their fingers to brush when he gives Tarquin the reports to organize and archive. He touches Tarquin casually given the slightest of reasons, and savors the warmth that infuses him when he does.
Ashur looks down meaningfully, hoping she will take this piece of misdirection and run with it.
“Well, I won’t tell a soul,” Marisa says, in the tone of someone about to run off and inform several people of the latest gossip.
“I appreciate that,” Ashur says gravely in return.
Marisa sneaks another look over her shoulder at Tarquin, who has somehow acquired the young Shadow’s dagger and is waving it around as if to demonstrate poor form. Ashur chuckles quietly.
“Well, good luck with that then, and uh… thanks for trying to turn me down nicely,” she says, and bobs an awkward nod before she leaves. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”
***
The next time it happens is less easily pushed away.
“Hello, Viper,” Caelia says, sitting on the table next to him and crossing her legs demurely at the knee. It pulls the hemline of her dress up higher, a trick Ashur’s sister told him about years ago.
“Caelia,” he returns the greeting as cooly as he can without being impolite. He hasn’t been unaware of her glances, and he simply isn’t interested, and he’d rather eavesdrop on Tarquin and Dorian’s debate about what influences non-mages to join the Venatori than talk to her.
“I’m about to head out for the night,” she says.
“Have a good evening,” he responds.
“Would you like to walk me home?” she counters, undaunted.
“I have business here,” Ashur says. Tarquin is getting louder, something about ‘most of them are slaves’ and—
“I don’t live far,” Caelia says, and Ashur loses the thread of the argument on the other side of the room again.
“If you’re concerned for your safety, I’m sure Bren would be willing to see you get home safe,” Ashur says. Caelia pouts. Ashur detests pouting.
“I’m not asking Bren,” she drawls.
“I’m not available to walk you home,” Ashur says, because in his limited experience, it’s best to be very clear with the pushy ones.
“—I’ll give you fucking ‘limited perspective’—” drifts over from the corner where the argument is ongoing.
Caelia scoffs, evidently catching the drift in his attention.
“What do you see in him?” she asks, confirming his suspicion that Marisa had indeed spread the gossip. He had been optimistic it would keep more of the young hopefuls away, if he was honest with himself—perhaps overly so.
In any case, what doesn’t he see in Tarquin?
To be sure, Tarquin is foul-tempered on a good day, but Ashur enjoys his blistering sarcasm and open, blunt-natured speech. He likes the way Tarquin takes the younger Shadows under his gruff wing, particularly the ungifted ones, the way he is unflappable in the face of angry magisters howling for his blood. Ashur likes the way Tarquin dresses carefully in the best of what he can afford, the way he takes the time to wind braids in his hair even though he has no one to show off for, the way Tarquin’s hair curls just so at the nape of his neck, where his skin begs for a kiss…
But Ashur is getting lost in his thoughts, and that is a foolish thing to do with Caelia still right there.
“Ugh,” she says. “You really are gone on him. I thought Marisa was just trying to cull the competition, but the way your eyes go all sort of gooey…”
Ashur is really not meant to be this easy to read. He sighs heavily.
“If you wouldn’t mind keeping it to yourself…” he says, hoping that that will encourage her to spread the gossip far and wide. The more people who think he’s off the market here, the better. He has enough would-be paramours in his other life, thanks just the same.
“Whatever,” Caelia says, and she slips off the table and strides out of the room, all haughty, damaged pride. Ashur doesn’t watch her go, too busy listening to Tarquin recite statistics of how many non-mage Venatori they’d fought had turned out to be enslaved people, often egged on with blood magic. He’s in terribly deep, and he doesn’t regret a bit of it.
***
Quillon catches up with him leading a group of rescued slaves out of the catacombs after a very long and very tiring afternoon evading Minrathous’ templars. Ashur always tries to make time for the Shadows, but sometimes he wishes he had it in him to be a little more distant as Quillon flags him down.
“Can I help you, Quillon?” he asks politely.
“I’ve been thinking, and I’ve got an idea for another route we could research in the catacombs. Might be safer than the two we’re using now.”
“That’s good news. Please let me know what you find,” Ashur says, already dreaming of a quick nap on one of the cots upstairs.
“Well, the thing is… the information I need is in the Magisterium’s archives,” Quillon says, strangely hesitant.
“Tarquin has privileges to the unclassified documents buildings there. See if he can retrieve them for you.”
“I was… sort of hoping you’d maybe help me get them myself?” Quillon says, more a question than a statement.
Ashur frowns behind his mask, puzzled.
“I don’t see the point in risking a break-in if Tarquin can get what you need,” he says.
“I, uh, don’t want to bother him. It wouldn’t be difficult, they’re in one of the less secure buildings!”
“Less secure doesn’t mean not secure,” Ashur says, still puzzling over this. Quillon has been with them for too long for this to be a setup, unless—
“Quillon, if they’ve got a hostage or are holding something over your head…”
“What?” Quillon sounds genuinely startled. “Who would—oh! No, it’s not, I’m not trying to set you up. I just thought, um, maybe we could… do something together. For the cause!”
“For the cause?” Ashur asks, though he’s afraid he’s catching on now.
“Yeah, you know,” Quillon shifts awkwardly. “Do something together.”
“Together?” Ashur echoes again, and fights back the urge to sigh. The thought of that cot calls to him, but he must find a polite way to let Quillon know he’s not interested first, since the rumors don’t seem to have reached him.
Luckily, he thinks wearily, he already has one on hand.
“I’m not available for… that sort of thing,” he says carefully. “There’s someone else I, uh, already work with.”
Quillon takes the hint, at least, so Ashur isn’t forced to outright lie. He does, after all, often work directly with Tarquin.
“Ask Tarquin about the records,” he says, too tired to try and work out whether that part of Quillon’s story was fabricated or not.
“I— um, yeah, I’ll do that,” Quillon says. Ashur nods at him and makes his way upstairs to claim at least a few hours of sleep before he must make his way through the city, back to his lonely manor.
***
Hector is leaning against the wall when Ashur arrives at the shop, but he rolls up to a standing position as the door slides closed behind him.
“Hector,” Ashur greets.
“I hear you’re off the market,” Hector says, turning so that he’s walking beside Ashur.
“That’s right,” Ashur lies easily. He’s become so used to this fiction over the past months that he sometimes has to stop himself from reaching for Tarquin’s hand or running his fingers through all that dark hair.
“That’s a shame,” Hector continues, “If I’d known you were into men, I’d have offered a long time ago.”
“I’m flattered,” Ashur says wryly, and keeps walking.
Hector keeps walking, too.
“Offer’s still open, if things don’t work out,” he says. They turn into the main room and Ashur’s eyes immediately scan the room, searching out the sight of Tarquin’s familiar figure.
“I hope that that won’t be necessary,” Ashur says absently.
“But if it comes up,” Hector says meaningfully, and claps Ashur on the shoulder, “you know where to find me.”
“Hm,” Ashur says, as he at last catches sight of Tarquin. Tarquin looks up and catches sight of them standing just inside the room, Hector close by Ashur’s side and his hand on his shoulder. Quickly, stupidly, Ashur shrugs it off.
“He’s possessive, huh?” Hector teases. “I confess, that wouldn’t have been my guess.”
“No, it’s—” Ashur says, but Tarquin is making his way over, and Ashur thinks his stupid—affection—for Tarquin is bad enough without it being embarrassingly obvious to the man in question.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Hector says, a smirk in his voice, and he walks back out into the pawn shop.
“What was that about?” Tarquin asks, peering after Hector.
“Nothing of note,” Ashur says, in as light a tone as he can manage. “Did you need something?”
“Yeah, there’s word about a big slave galley out of Alam planning to sell in the markets here. Thought we might get word to the Lords of Fortune…”
“Send word,” Ashur agrees. “If they can’t make it in time, we’ll deal with it once the ship makes land. I won’t see that slave market reopened if I can help it.”
“The guard presence won’t be such a joke this time,” Tarquin warns him, but there’s a fierce little smile on his lips at the thought of a fight.
Under his mask, Ashur can feel his lips echoing the smile.
“Let them,” he says, and claps Tarquin warmly on the shoulder because he’s not allowed to kiss him on the cheek, where the edge of his beard meets soft pale skin.
***
It’s getting to be a problem, this lie Ashur seems to have trapped himself in. He knows how to lie, how to put on personas, so well that no one would ever guess the story he’s built isn’t real. The problem is that, in so doing, he often traps himself in the lie.
And, Maker bless and keep him, he wants this lie to be a truth in a way he’s never wanted anything before.
He wants to bask in the sound of Tarquin’s laughter, deep and smoky and uttered without smiling. He wants to be free to hold him, to walk him home at the end of the evening, to fall into bed beside him and touch and touch and touch…
He derails that train of thought before it can become too much, and instead focuses on the young woman approaching him. She’s one of the newer Shadows, only recently entrusted with the location of the pawn shop, and he can’t recall her name. He’ll have to bluff, he thinks with a sigh. He prefers to know their names so that he doesn’t forget how important each and every one of them is.
“Um, V—Viper?” she asks, stuttering a little on the words.
“Yes?” he prompts politely.
“Um, what kind of, um, food do you like? I was thinking about getting something from the stalls and I could, um, bring something back for you?”
“Oh—” Ashur says, because more than a month has gone by without anyone making a pass at him, and he assumed the gossip was well and truly disseminated. And as flirtations go, this one is mild and relatively innocent.
Still, better to stop such things before they start.
“Thank you, but I already ate,” he says, hoping he strikes the right tone to indicate that he is saying no to more than just the food.
“O—oh, of course—”
Footsteps round the corner, stomping a little, and a familiar voice huffs out, “You did not eat, I know for a fact you came straight here from the— from your day job, because I left right after you did,” Tarquin says, and pulls his coin purse from its hiding place in his tunic. He withdraws a few coins and gives them to the girl.
“Get him something from that kebab place ‘round the corner, he needs the vegetables.”
“Quin—”
“You shut up,” Tarquin snaps.
“Oh, um, would you like something as well, Ser Tarquin?” she asks hesitantly.
“Just Tarquin, and if you’re asking, I’ll take a wrap myself.”
He hands her a few more coins, which she palms with flushed cheeks.
“Thanks,” Tarquin says, and she scurries away to fetch food. Tarquin looks after her, and then turns to Ashur with a crooked little grin tilting his lips.
“Been awhile since you got one of those, hasn’t it?” he asks. Ashur grimaces.
“I don’t ask for it—”
“I know, I know,” Tarquin says, and there’s laughter in his voice. Ashur feels his heart lift in response. There are few things he finds delight in as much as a sense that he has brought Tarquin some little joy.
Before he can think about it, he’s reaching out to straighten Tarquin’s collar, which has flipped in on itself in the ocean breeze on the walk over. He doesn’t catch himself until it’s too late, and so he blesses his mask for hiding his blush and pretends he meant to do it all along, patting it once it’s settled into place.
Tarquin only raises his brow, the little smile still hovering around his lips.
Ashur has to look away.
“You shouldn’t send the children on errands for us,” he says, a little gruffly. “It’s an abuse of power.”
“Sure, like you don’t live in a manor filled to the brim with servants who wait on your every whim,” Tarquin says, rolling his eyes and turning away.
“That’s precisely why—”
“She offered, and if she doesn’t have anything better to do than fetch food from the market, I do,” Tarquin says. The laughter in his voice is gone, and something strikes hollow in Ashur’s chest at having chased it away.
Tarquin picks up the first of several sacks of correspondence and reports and begins to sort it on the table. Ashur realizes, after almost a minute, that he is simply standing there and staring.
He turns and walks abruptly away. He can… ask Lorelei about the refugees and food supplies and… well, he can find something to do with himself besides watch Tarquin and pine, surely.
***
It was all going to fall apart eventually, Ashur realizes in hindsight. The problem with controlling rumors is that you can’t control them. Oh, he’d known someone would say something to Tarquin sooner or later, but he’d assumed Tarquin would dismiss it as the usual idle gossip, maybe tease Ashur about it once or twice and let it be.
He wishes it had come up almost any time other than a stakeout of a suspected venatori cell who may be murdering slaves for blood magic rituals, though.
“So I hear we’re fucking,” Tarquin says casually as they peer over the edge of a roof.
“Hush,” Ashur says, hoping he can at least put off his inevitable mortification for another evening.
“Nothing’s happening down there,” Tarquin says, “Intel was bad or someone’d’ve shown up by now. I want to hear more about this gossip I’ve been hearing.”
“What makes you think I know anything about it?” Ashur all but growls in his embarrassed irritation.
“Lorelei tells you everything, for one,” Tarquin says, and there’s laughter in his voice again, and Ashur feels his mood lighten even if he’s the one being laughed at, “and for another, I overheard Hector saying you’d told him yourself.”
“Hector is exaggerating,” Ashur says. It’s not a lie, strictly speaking—he only confirmed he was taken, not by whom—but even Ashur has to acknowledge that he’s splitting hairs. By the disbelieving scoff Tarquin releases, he agrees.
“I don’t mind if you’ve been using my name to keep off the baby Shadows,” Tarquin says. “What I want to know is, why did you pick me?”
Ashur does not have a lie, or any sort of script, prepared for this, nothing but the truth. The truth is, fortunately in this case, relatively innocent.
“Marisa made some assumptions. I let her believe what she wanted,” he says quietly.
“Hm. Well it’s better than because I’m a miserable old sod who doesn’t have anything else going on,” Tarquin says, and he nudges Ashur’s shoulder with his own.
“You’re not miserable or particularly old,” Ashur argues without thinking.
“Thanks for thinking that,” Tarquin says, and this time he actually chuckles beneath his breath. Ashur wants to turn and kiss the breath from his lungs at the sound of it.
“I’m surprised it worked,” Tarquin continues, conversationally, after some time passes. “I dunno why anyone would believe you would go for the likes of me.”
“Why not?” Ashur asks, offended on Tarquin’s behalf.
“You know why not,” Tarquin says, and his tone is still light, but there’s something dark to his words.
“I don’t,” Ashur insists, and against his better judgement he turns to face the man beside him. Tarquin’s face is barely lit by dim moonlight, highlighting the sharp line of his cheekbones and his browbone, shining in his black hair. He is, in a word, beautiful.
“Anyone would want to be with you,” Ashur says, and he can hear his own voice, almost breathless with emotion. He sounds foolish and he can’t even regret it, because he cannot bear the thought of Tarquin thinking he is not worthy of everything the world has to offer.
Tarquin turns to look at him, brows drawn down so that there’s a little crease between them. His eyes are unfocused, as if he’s thinking too hard about something.
“You don’t have to say shit to make me feel better, you know,” Tarquin says, his voice a little rough.
Ashur should— he shouldn’t— he—
He is going to say something he will doubtless regret, but he cannot allow this line of thought to go on.
“Marisa assumed because she saw the way I look at you,” he admits into the quiet of the night. “They all did. Even with the mask it’s obvious to them that I… care about you.”
Tarquin’s eyes focus abruptly, reflecting in the glare of a magelit sign across the way.
Ashur takes a deep, calming breath and forces himself to continue.
“I don’t say this because I expect reciprocation on your part, or anything, really. I just… needed you to know that if you would have me, I would be yours.”
“Oh,” says Tarquin, and there’s a world of meaning in his voice, if only Ashur could make it out. He turns away instead, bracing his heart for the blow it’s about to sustain.
“Why me?” Tarquin asks, instead of the rejection Ashur was expecting.
Ashur looks out over the streets below as he answers, “Because you’re… you. You care, even with all the beatings your life has given you. You try to make things better even when you don’t really believe they can be, because it’s important to you to try. You protect what you care about, and even what you don’t, when it’s worth protecting. And… when you smile, my heart feels lighter.”
Tarquin makes a little sound like he’s been punched, and Ashur turns back to face him. Tarquin’s face… Ashur has never seen that expression on his face before, wide-eyed and slightly frenetic.
“I apologize if my affections are unwelcome,” Ashur finishes. “I won’t speak of them again.”
That, at least, seems to snap Tarquin back to himself.
“What the fuck— give a man a minute to think, for fuck’s sake. You can’t just say shit like that!”
So Ashur stills, and waits for the blow to fall.
“Do you know how crazy you’ve driven me these past few years, throwing yourself into danger every time I looked away for a second, behaving as if your life doesn’t matter?” Tarquin demands.
“You’re just as bad,” Ashur says, stung.
“Only because I’m always trying to save your stupid ass! That’s not the point! The point is, you can’t die, because you’re the one who makes me think the world can be better.”
Tarquin stops then, breathing a little heavily in the quiet of the early morning hours.
It’s Ashur’s turn to utter a quiet, “Oh.”
He doesn’t want to read too much into those words, hardly dares to reach for the hope curling within him…
“Come here, you stupid idiot,” Tarquin says, and then he’s hooking one hand around Ashur’s neck and unfastening the mask with the other and pulling him closer and—
And then they’re kissing, Tarquin’s lips chapped and warm and familiar like a dream of home.
Oh.
Oh, he thinks again as Tarquin parts the seam of his lips effortlessly and licks into his mouth, fingers digging into the skin of Ashur’s neck, too tight for comfort but somehow so, so wonderful.
“I love you,” he says without quite meaning to, the moment Tarquin pulls away. Tarquin sighs and leans into Ashur’s shoulder.
“Yeah, me too,” he says.
Ashur can’t help but chuckle at that, still giddy with hope, and Tarquin squeezes his neck tightly in response.
“I love you too,” Tarquin all but growls.
This time Ashur sighs, a happy sound, and bends so that his head falls onto Tarquin’s shoulder in return.
“I didn’t dare hope,” Ashur admits into the skin of Tarquin’s throat.
“That’s because you’re fucking stupid,” Tarquin says.
“As if you’re any better,” Ashur says, because he hasn’t forgotten what Tarquin said, about not being good enough for him.
“Yeah, alright,” Tarquin sighs, and Ashur closes his eyes.
In the distance, the sun rises.
***
“Hey, Viper,” Claudius says, sidling up to Ashur’s position by the fire in a very particular way.
“Claudius,” Ashur greets politely. Tarquin, petting the shop’s stray dog nearby, looks up and smirks at him. He shakes his head minutely in return.
“There’s a tourney at the Proving Grounds tomorrow and I managed to snag seats. Everyone’s always on about how you need to relax more—maybe you’d like to come with me?”
“He’s spoken for,” Tarquin says with a little grin, before Ashur can get a word out. “Scram, kid.”
Ashur tries not to chuckle as Claudius flushes a vivid shade of pink.
“Perhaps Hector would enjoy the tourney,” Ashur suggests, trying to sound gentle instead of amused.
“Uh, yeah, I’ll just uh—” Claudius says, before turning and walking away very quickly.
“You could have been kinder about it,” he tells Tarquin mildly once Claudius is gone.
“Nah. Everyone knows we’re a thing. Either he’s shit at gathering intel and we should drop him, or he was being a fucker and we should also drop him.”
“You can’t demand I kick everyone who flirts with me out of the Shadows,” Ashur says, smiling.
“You won’t do it. Doesn’t mean I can’t make demands,” Tarquin says back, but the quirk of his lips tells Ashur he’s—mostly—teasing. He gives the dog one last head rub and stands, hand going to the hilt of his sword in a way that always draws Ashur’s eye.
Tarquin catches that, too.
“Wanna walk me home? Might have some research for you there,” Tarquin says, his smirk widening.
“I have a letter to write first,” Ashur warns.
“I’ll wait,” Tarquin says.
“Then I’ll walk you home,” Ashur says, and sneaks an arm around Tarquin’s waist while nobody is watching.
“Oh, get a room, you two,” Mae says, disgruntled from the table where she’s managing her correspondence, and at that Ashur does laugh, loud and clear.