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The contract is meant to be beneath their skill level.
Viago only accepts it because the client asked for the poison connoisseur by name instead of allowing the contract to be delegated. Walking away would read as defiance. Angel knows their leash is tighter now - Viago as Third Talon, and himself as his Consigliere. The mark needs to be dead by the end of this contract, so they sneak out from the party, and go in focused, sharp, tight as an unit.
Angel is reminded of how thrilling it is to fight side by side with a deadly Crow, and he thrives in every step beside Viago. The giddiness surprises him. It has been a long time since he was assigned a contract like this. They cut their way through the mansion, rooms full of moving targets for their daggers. By the time they reach the mark, their rhythm is seamless.
Then, the target is finally dead on the ground. Angel slit his throat with practiced finesse, ending his life in a single, swift motion - they found no resistance, weirdly enough. Angel remains close to the body while Viago lingers nearby, rifling through the desk for anything worth taking.
They don't expect that the lack of resistance means a trap.
It hits Angel first, sudden and violent. A crushing pain blooms in his chest, sharp enough to steal his breath and force him back a step. He tries to push through it, to pass it off as adrenaline, but when Viago turns and extends a document toward him, Angel’s hand closes on empty air as he stumbles forward.
"Angel. Talk to me," Viago orders, already moving. He is at Angel’s side in an instant, fingers finding the artery at his neck with practiced precision.
"Chest pain," Angel murmurs tightly, gasping for air. "Getting harder. To breathe. What's… what's happening?"
"The body must've released a toxin when the blood came into contact with air, you were closer to the body. It's affecting you harder."
Viago drags him out of the room, one hand clamped over Angel’s mouth to keep him from breathing in more of the poison. Angel goes with him on unsteady feet, fingers digging into his own chest as the pain swells into something crushing, a pressure that turns each breath shallow and wrong. His vision blurs, the corridor smearing at the edges for a heartbeat too long.
The Third Talon presses something cold into his palm. A vial, purple-tinted, metallic: an antidote. Angel recognizes it instantly, yet he refuses to take it - Viago should be the priority, the poison will reach his bloodstream soon, and maybe hit harder. It goes unsaid that his devotion to his Talon, and foremost his lover, is bigger than his own survival instincts. He bats the vial away as he manages, breathless, "You first."
"Don’t be an idiot," Viago snaps, his voice tight and controlled, already too sharp to be safe. "Who do you think will make the second antidote for me when we reach the carriage?"
"I don’t even… know what antidote it is."
"I’ll guide you through it."
Angel downs the antidote slowly, forcing it past the burn in his throat, his hands shaking as the poison loosens its grip. By the time they reach the door that leads back to the party, most of the symptoms have faded, though the weakness still lingers. He shrugs out of his blood-soaked jacket and drops it aside before starting down the stairs with Viago close behind him.
He barely makes it halfway before Viago stumbles.
Angel turns at once, catching his arm just as Viago gags once, sharply, then clamps his mouth shut. They are close enough to the crowd now that heads turn. Eyes linger.
Angel’s smile comes easily, polished and practiced, as he moves fully into Viago’s space, steadying him and waving off the attention with a soft laugh. He tells them Viago has had too much to drink.
Leaning in close, Angel lowers his voice. "We need to go. Now. The poison is already working on you."
He does not wait for an answer, pulling Viago with him through the crowd before the stares can sharpen into suspicion. Viago is visibly fighting with everything he has not to succumb to the poison’s effects. He is the kind of man who keeps every situation under control; Angel has seen him endure worse, crafting his own compounds in the safety of his laboratory. So when, at the entrance hall, Viago breaks away and rushes for a corner to vomit, Angel’s worry turns sharp and immediate.
"I knew you should have taken the antidote first," Angel murmurs, pulling Viago along toward the carriage.
"This… is nothing," Viago insists, though the words catch halfway out. His breath stutters. He turns abruptly, coughing into his handkerchief, shoulders hitching as he fights to keep it quiet. He folds the cloth quickly, instinctive, like he can hide the evidence by sheer habit.
Angel catches the movement anyway.
Dark blood has already soaked through the white fabric.
"Not that the situation isn’t obvious, but you really can’t hide this from me. Don’t even try," Angel says, breathless now, the worry sharp in his voice.
"I can still speak. Worry when I can’t," Viago shoots back, already wrenching the carriage door open and climbing inside.
Angel groans and follows him in, slamming the door shut behind them. He immediately drags Viago’s kit from beneath the seat and starts the work without wasting another second.
For a brief, dangerous moment, it feels like they are back in Viago’s laboratory. Angel moves on instinct, following each instruction without question, their rhythm flawless, familiar.
"Three drops. Slow," Viago guides him. Angel does exactly that. His hands are steady, his breathing is not. Viago’s fingers twitch. The vial rattles once against the glass.
"I’ve got it," Angel says, already stepping in, taking over before it can slip. He does not look up, he can't afford to slow down.
There is a sharp intake of breath behind him.
"My vision’s blurring," Viago says. "My chest… it hurts. Like yours."
Angel’s stomach tightens, but he does not let it show. "Breathe. Look at me. Stay with me."
The retching comes without warning. Viago barely manages to lean out the carriage window before he vomits, violent and relentless, the sound tearing through the night. Angel freezes for half a second, then forces himself to keep working.
"I’m sorry," Viago says hoarsely when it stops, as if this is something he needs to apologize for.
Angel glances up despite himself when the coughing comes back harder. The handkerchief in Viago’s hand is no longer just stained. The blood is darker now, thicker. It clings.
"Viago," Angel says, sharp now. "Sit back."
He does not make it.
Viago’s knees buckle, his body pitching sideways. Angel lunges, catching him awkwardly, the impact knocking the breath from both of them. Viago is dead weight in his arms, shaking hard, breath shallow and uneven against Angel’s shoulder.
"Hey," Angel breathes, panic breaking through despite his effort to contain it. "No. Don’t you dare. Stay with me."
When he looks at the man's pale face, Viago’s lips have turned blue. His eyes struggle to focus, fluttering, slipping away from Angel’s face no matter how hard Angel tries to keep them there.
Desperately, his eyes go to the antidote, waiting for it to be ready. The antidote finishes reacting with a soft change in color, fizzling with a couple of bubbles. Angel snatches the vial up, hands trembling now, fear burning hot in his chest.
"I’ve got it," he whispers, voice breaking. "I’ve got you. Stay with me."
Angel tips the vial to Viago’s mouth, holding him close, trying to press some warmth back into him through the thin layers of their clothes. Antidotes are finicky things. Every body reacts differently, and even when they are crafted perfectly, there is no telling how long they will take to work.
His eyes burn as he stares at Viago’s face, vision blurring as a full minute passes with Viago still shaking in his arms. Angel’s breath comes too fast, too shallow. He feels stupid. Viago is a Talon. A fucking Talon. People would kill Angel outright if Viago died on a contract under his watch - he is supposed to protect him at all costs.
Then Viago goes terrifyingly still.
Angel freezes. He waits for the rise of Viago’s chest. It does not come.
"No," Angel whispers, panic tearing loose in his throat. He presses his forehead to Viago’s, hand splayed over his chest, counting, begging, willing a breath that refuses to happen.
And then Viago coughs.
It is small, wet, unmistakably alive. His chest jerks under Angel’s palm. His eyes flutter open.
Ocean-blue and focused, they find Angel immediately.
Angel has never been so glad to be seen.
"What was it you said to me?" Angel murmurs, a laugh breaking and folding into a sob. He brushes his thumb over Viago’s cheek, as if grounding himself. "Don’t get yourself killed, or I’ll come after you in the Fade myself."
His breath stutters. "Don’t make me go into the Fade, alright?"
Viago exhales, the sound thin and unsteady. His eyes flutter, struggling to stay open. "Can’t… make… any promises," he manages, voice barely there.
Angel shakes his head sharply, panic bleeding through. "I’m serious. I can’t-" His voice breaks, and he swallows hard before forcing the words out. "Why did you give me the antidote? You could’ve crafted one for me."
Viago’s fingers twitch weakly against Angel’s sleeve, as if reaching for him. He draws in a shallow breath, each word costing him. "If I die… you’d keep going. After a while."
Angel lets out a sound that is halfway between a sob and a protest. "That’s not-"
"If I lost you," Viago continues, cutting in softly, his gaze finally finding Angel’s, unwavering despite everything, "I would’ve never survived."
Angel presses his forehead to Viago’s, eyes squeezed shut, breath shaking. "Don’t ever say that," he whispers fiercely. "Not like it’s an option."
"I’d do it again," Viago murmurs, his voice thin but certain. "I trust you. Isn’t this what… we’re working on? Trusting each… other?"
Angel sucks in a breath so sharp it almost hurts. His jaw tightens, words coming out rough and unfiltered. "I thought I was going to lose you. Shut up."
Viago lets out a weak, breathless laugh, the sound barely there. "I’m still here."
Angel opens his eyes then, meeting his gaze, his grip firming as resolve settles in. "And I intend to keep it that way."
The young elf makes the promise without hesitation, as if it is easy. He does not yet realize how much it will demand of him.