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adhduck · 3 years

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Oh Well, I Guess We’re Gonna Pretend

AO3

(Major spoilers for rqg 207)

Wilde is at a party with all his loved ones, and everything in his life is finally falling into place.

He’s also unconscious on the floor of the world’s last safehouse, and something is coming for him.

“Come on, Oscar, dance with us.”

Wilde blinks, realizes Hamid is standing in front of him with his hand outstretched; probably a symbolic gesture, considering he’d be hard-pressed to pull someone double his height.

Smiling, Wilde sets his half-empty champagne flute on the table. “Of course. Care to join, Zolf?”

Zolf, who’s slouching in the next seat with his long, worn coat tucked around him in a fabulous display of I am not a party person, scoffs fondly. “Absolutely not. ‘Sides, it’s yer party, Wilde, not mine.”

“It’s our party,” Wilde says with mock offense, putting a hand on his chest. “Didn’t you hear my toast?”

“Half of it, maybe.”

Wilde rolls his eyes, but relents and squeezes Zolf’s shoulder; presses down a smile when Zolf catches his hand for a second and pats it. “I’ll get you to have fun one day, Zolf, mark my words.” He’s rewarded with a gruff little mumble, and then Hamid tugs on his coattail to pull him away.

[Cel is still reeling from the shock of electricity when they see it. It’s large, with a body that could be humanoid if not for the oversized head, how its body seems not to take up space but distort it. If not for the six-foot swords it has instead of arms.

Instinct kicking in, Cel pulls two bombs from their pockets and throws them in rapid succession. Even with their hands trembling a little – they always do, the first few moments of combat – Cel know each one is perfectly weighted and near perfectly aimed.

The creature doesn’t even flinch.

It only takes a moment to process what that means – limited bombs, a 5% chance of hitting at best, almost a third of their own health taken in one hit – before Cel abandons the idea of attacking and reaches instead for Hamid. He’s desperately light, clothes singed and hissing; as Cel pulls him to their chest, he curls instinctively into the touch.

“Hang on, little buddy,” they whisper, trying fiercely to sound sure. “You just keep dreaming for now; I’ll keep you safe.”

They just need to get him through the door.]

There are a few people dancing, but the clear stars are Azu and Kiko—partly due to Azu’s shimmering, lightly glowing pink gown, but mostly because of the dance itself. It’s a bright, lively partner dance Wilde hasn’t seen before, where they pull in and out of each other’s embrace with twirls and dips and lots of laughter. It looks equally exhausting and exhilarating.

Azu notices him mid-spin and brightens immediately, waving him over. “Kiko, you mind if I show Wilde the ropes?”

Kiko grins and gracefully steps back, half-bowing in the process. “Yeah, sure. Long as I can watch.”

So Azu works Wilde through the steps, out of sync with the music at first to get them right, then faster as he gains confidence, and soon they, too, are spinning and laughing. “You,” Wilde says when they pause to catch their breath, adjusting the frill around his neck, “are an excellent dance partner, Azu.”

Azu preens a little. “Oh, thank you! Though I doubt I’ve got much competition, knowing Zolf.”

Chuckling, Wilde glances at the man in question to find him looking back, chin in hand and a fond smile tugging at his mouth—for a moment, at least, before he darts his eyes away with flushing cheeks. Wilde’s heart sings.

[Azu looks sharply between her friends – half of them unconscious, all of them wounded – and the advancing creature. It seems completely unconcerned by the weapons being pulled as it wades into the fray, dodging a heavy swing from Zolf without even acknowledging him. The swords protruding from its shoulders are almost as long as she is tall.

We can’t win this, Azu realizes. Not while it’s this strong. Pressing a hand to her chest, where her pendant rests safely beneath the armor, she calls to her goddess with words of love and protection and rage. The divine energy builds in her chest, bringing the dull glow of her armor to a bright shine; she throws her hand outwards, flinging the energy with it in all directions, and there—at last, the creature hesitates. It stops as suddenly as if caught in a rockslide, making a noise halfway between a groan of pain and the grinding of stuck gears, and Azu starts to feel hopeful.

Then, it raises its blade.]

Azu catches the movement and smiles conspiratorially. “You know, there are gardens out back that are much quieter than in here.”

”Ah, but you forget,” Wilde replies, putting on his best performer voice. “That just guarantees Sasha will be there, hidden amongst the foliage, waiting to strike.”

Giggling a little, Azu says, “The worst you’ll get from her is some rumors about you and Zolf that are actually true.”

Wilde gasps in (mostly) faux horror. “Don’t even say that.”

Azu laughs for real now, a full and surprised thing, and pushes his shoulder lightly. “Go spend time with him, the party will survive without you a while.” Wilde pouts a little at that, and she tips her head toward Hamid; he’s dancing with complete abandon a few feet away, wings half-unfurled and arms raised high in the air as he spins. Already, a few people have been pulled into his orbit, letting their awkward shuffling loosen into something more inelegant, more natural. “We’ve got it covered. Now go, before you start having deadlines again.”

“To be fair, we have an entire holiday between now and then,” Wilde argues—a bit superfluously, considering he’s already moving away.

Zolf greets Wilde’s approach by sitting up in his chair, eyebrows furrowed and hands raised defensively. “If you try to get me to dance, Wilde, I swear to gods—”

“Already learned my lesson with that one, darling.” Zolf’s ears go a little pink, and Wilde is powerless against the urge to lean into it. “Of course, there are plenty of dances we haven’t tried together—”

“Oh, sod off,” Zolf says, kicking Wilde lightly in the shin; his ears are red, though, so he’s already lost the fight.

[Augusta makes no noise as she’s stabbed through the heart; dead before the pain had a chance to wake her. It’s a mercy, perhaps, but one Cel refuses to let happen to anyone else.

The creature shifts, pulling back its bloodied weapon with Hamid as the clear target, and Cel lunges towards the door, clutching Hamid fiercely against them—and is stopped cold as the creature pierces right through Hamid’s chest.

Like Augusta, Hamid doesn’t cry out when he’s stabbed. He doesn’t move, either; not even when the blade is yanked back out with just force it nearly tugs him from Cel’s arms. Panting, they gather him back against their chest, whatever miniscule safety that might entail, and feel for a pulse. It’s there, thank gods, but only just. He might only have seconds left, and there’s nothing they can do.

At the corner of Hamid’s mouth, Cel can see a smile – the kind he might give during the opening toast of a party, now just the shadow of some wonderful dream – and they do not cry, because what fucking good would that do?]

Just to seal the deal, Wilde drops to his knees in front of Zolf’s chair, bringing them almost eye to eye, and flashes his shiniest grin as he teases, “Don’t worry, I know you love it.” He allows a few seconds for Zolf to huff and pointedly not answer, feeling his chest radiate with warmth, then adds, “Anyway, want to get out of here?”

Zolf’s eyebrows raise, then quickly furrow. “What’re you- that was an awful transition line, ya know. Unless you’re tryna seduce me or somethin’, in which case, why.”

“I’m always trying to seduce you, Zolf, it just never works,” Wilde replies easily. “That’s why I enjoy it so much. And anyway, that’s not what I was asking about. There’s apparently a garden out back, and I thought you might want to take a walk with me.”

“Ain’t you got allergies?”

“It’ll be quiet out there. Poetic.”

Zolf considers for a second, looking Wilde over with a slowly forming smile he’s definitely not conscious of, and for a moment there’s nothing else Wilde wants more than this: kneeling in front of the man he loves, basking in his quiet attention, knowing there’s exciting work ahead and time enough to rest before it comes.

[Zolf spins around, ready to level another attack – he hasn’t hit the thing yet, but maybe if he aims a little lower, forces it to turn for him instead – when he sees the blade sliding out of Hamid’s chest. No. Absolutely not. Without checking it’s clear, he rushes forward, dropping the glaive to his side and redirecting that power into the tips of his fingers. He licks his thumb, presses it firmly to Hamid’s forehead, and, with a low note of please humming in the back of his chest, mutters words of hope and determination into the staticky air.

The wound heals almost immediately, closing like a budding flower in reverse to leave a raised, slightly jagged line of scar tissue; the only proof of how close Hamid was to death. His wings flutter, trying to unfurl in the confines of Cel’s arms, and for a moment, he stirs. Zolf and Cel both breathe out in relief, but by the time he opens his eyes, the poison overcomes him again, and he curls back into Cel’s chest with a contented sound, asleep and completely unaware of the danger around him.

Not exactly what I had in mind, Zolf thinks, but there’s no sharpness to it. The poison in the air was strong enough to knock out people twice Hamid’s size, so he can’t imagine how strong it must be on him. And besides: this might not be a fight where all of them – any of them – get out alive. Can he really blame Hamid for wanting to dream instead?]

“All right, Wilde,” Zolf says at last. “Let’s go for a walk.”

The gardens aren’t particularly large, but they use the space well—bright flowers lining the walkway, bushes and trees bunched together to create the illusion of depth and privacy. Beneath the largest tree, there’s a clear spot where the light filters through like sparkles and the roots breach the soil in just the right way to make a sort of alcove.

It’s exactly the sort of place Wilde would’ve yearned to write poetry in as a teenager, so of course he tugs Zolf over to sit down.

“Thought this was a walk,” Zolf says, eyebrows raised, but makes no argument when Wilde lays down with his head in Zolf’s lap. His fingers quickly find their way into Wilde’s hair, untangling it little by little, and Wilde can’t stop himself from pushing into the touch with a little hum. Thankfully, Zolf just chuckles, scratching lightly at Wilde’s scalp for a moment before continuing.

There’s silence for a few moments, and Wilde idly searches for a pun he can use to fill it; it’s difficult to focus, though, when Zolf is gathering his hair into sections for a braid, those careful fingers brushing occasionally against his temple, his neck, his jaw.

Finally, what Wilde settles for is: “I hope we’re actually allowed out here. I’d hate to go home early because Grizzop took a swing at me again.”

Zolf snorts. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve always wished I had seen that in person.”

“Some partner you are,” Wilde grumbles, trying not to melt when Zolf tucks a few shorter strands of hair behind his ear. “S’posed to defend me, not join the enemy.”

[Zolf does a rapid once-over of Cel to make sure they’re not injured as well. They’re panting and wide-eyed and definitely only not in shock because there’s not time for it, but seem physically all right, which is about as much as he can hope for right now.

He glances to the door of the lab, where Ada and Skraak also seem to be managing okay—and, importantly, where there’s clean air and a door between them and the monster. Grabbing Cel’s arm, Zolf injects as much authority in his voice as he can and orders, “Get in there, close the door, be safe.”

Without waiting for a reply, he sets his glaive on fire and turns back to the fight. They might not all make it out of here – always a risk, in this line of work – but he’ll still do his damndest to make sure at least some of them do.]

There’s no response, save for a suppressed smile and the continuous back-and-forth motion of Zolf’s steady hands. Wilde basks in it for a moment, getting to lay quietly in the grass without even his allergies interrupting them. It brings to mind when he was a child, rolling down muddy hills with his sister and seeing how long the world tiled after they reached the bottom, dazed and laughing.

“She would have loved this party,” he says, brushing a hand through the barely damp grass at his hip. “Isola, I mean.”

“You could’ve brought her, you know,” Zolf replies. “I could’ve- I dunno, watched her, or somethin’. Not like I was doing much anyway.”

Wilde laughs. “She would be terrified of you.”

[Moving has already proven dangerous, so Cel shifts Hamid in their arms and throws him through the door; once he’s safely inside, they swallow their alchemical allocation and pull a previously untouched potion from their jacket. Dragon’s breath—the one they’d been so excited to get after seeing a glimpse of Hamid’s power; the one they’d chattered back and forth about days or maybe months ago, excited to see when Cel might try it out.

“Not leaving you,” Cel says firmly to Zolf’s back, and chugs the potion. Lightning crackles in their body once again, except this time, it feels powerful instead of painful. This time, Cel is going to be helpful instead of helpless. Whatever it takes.]

Zolf snorts. “Oh, so that’s why I haven’t met her yet.”

“Yes, I’m just absolutely terrified you’ll smite her with all your holy rage,” Wilde deadpans, twisting obediently when Zolf taps the side of his head. “Or gods forbid, convert her to hope.”

“Oi,” Zolf says, tugging lightly on Wilde’s hair. “That hope has saved your arse twenty times by now.”

[Azu catches sight of Hamid breathing and nearly crumples with relief. He’s not dead, she didn’t kill him, she might not have to lose someone else—but there’s not time for that, not yet. They have to destroy this thing first, before it hurts anyone else.

She swings her axe as hard as she can, a scream building in her throat as it moans through the air, and – miraculously – it connects. There’s a satisfying thunk, a sharp note of pain; but as she goes to hit it again, it seems not just to dodge, but actively unform and reform around her axe. Learning. Adapting.

In the second it takes for Azu to regain her footing, the monster sinks one of its blades into Sumutnyerl’s chest. The air seems to freeze for a moment, but the strike is lower than it intended, in the stomach rather than the heart, so maybe it isn’t fatal, but Azu doesn’t know. She just doesn’t know.]

Humming noncommittally, Wilde turns his head to look at Zolf, and when he sees the concentration in Zolf’s summer sky eyes, he’s pierced all over again with the force of how much he loves this man—and how much he, in return, is loved. Gods, Zolf is smiling the way he only ever does for a Campbell, and he’s braiding Wilde’s hair as if it’s the most important work his hands have been tasked with, and he looks so utterly, brilliantly happy that Wilde can hardly stand it.

“You alive in there?” Zolf says, tapping him lightly on the cheek.

[There is only one person left unharmed, the horror of the situation made almost a farce by Wilde’s oversized neck ruff and glittering cape. Almost, but not quite, because when the creature turns – body shifting in and out of focus, sword-like arms dripping with the blood of every other being in this corridor – it turns for him.]

Wilde smiles, catching Zolf’s hand before he can pull away. “Yeah,” he murmurs, stupidly fond with it, and rests his lips against Zolf’s knuckles. Zolf’s breath hitches, staring with undisguised awe and quickly reddening cheeks, and Wilde can’t even look at him, he’s so happy. He ducks his head, pushing it against their joined hands; feels Zolf’s warm callouses all the way into his bones. “Thanks to you.”

[There is only one person left.]

“Wilde,” Zolf breathes; a prayer, a promise. Lips press clumsily to his hair, brush his temple as they soak in each other’s presence. “You saved me, too, ya know. So- so many times. I need you, yeah? And I- it- gods, I’m horrible at this, but I just, you’re

[Zolf sees it, this time, when Wilde dies. Sees the sword pierce his chest – right in the heart, a perfect shot – and yank back out with almost careless indifference before the creature turns and does the same thing to Sumutnyerl.

Even dead, Wilde manages to look artistic. His ridiculous cape is flung out beneath him, one arm draped above his head, the barest trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. He’d been this way after the crash, too, impaled almost a foot off the ground with his limbs dangling and chin flung up to the sky; the perfect semblance of a martyr being raised into heaven. Had he been unconscious then, too? Zolf thinks. Or did he feel the spike go all the way through his chest before he succumbed from the pain?

Doesn’t matter. Zolf had time to mourn when he saved Wilde then; he doesn’t have time now.

Skraak and Ada both attack, but Zolf doesn’t know if the hits land, refuses to process anything that isn’t Wilde and the mere seconds left before he’s gone for good. He throws himself forward, landing hard on his knees beside Wilde’s head, and starts to pray. The magic builds like strong drink in his throat, and he clumsily wipes the blood from Wilde’s mouth as the spell reaches its peak—and is nearly knocked over as the monster deals a crushing blow to his temple.

His vision goes briefly white, blood already dripping down his cheek and jaw, and the magic begins to fizzle away, but he refuses, he refuses. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Zolf presses a hand firmly to the desecration of Wilde’s chest, cradles his cheek with the other. He’s still warm with hope, and Zolf channels that into his prayer, pressing their foreheads together in a way that might’ve been painful, had Wilde been awake to feel it.

Please, he begs the power inside him; begs anyone who’ll listen. Please. Let this be enough to bring him back to me.

The magic bubbles inside Zolf once more, sparkling and bright and warm, and there’s no way to know, really, if it’s enough. It doesn’t matter, of course, because he doesn’t need to know. Because when he presses his mouth to Wilde’s, stroking his cheek and breathing every last ounce of that vital energy into his body, Zolf has hope.

And there, where Zolf’s fingers curl tenderly against Wilde’s neck, new and weak but steady all the same—a pulse.]

The first thing Wilde registers is breath on his face, warmth in his throat—then pain, all over his body but especially in his chest, gods, what happened? He opens his eyes, hoping to regain his bearings; Zolf is there, face mere inches away from his own, which is a nice start.

Realizing he’s awake, Zolf pulls away, fingertips brushing against Wilde’s cheek as he goes. His other hand is pressed firmly to Wilde’s chest, and there’s blood running freely from a wound at his temple. He looks about to cry.

If Wilde didn’t feel unmoored before, he certainly does now. “Zolf- wh- what-”

In lieu of an answer, Zolf pulls Wilde to his feet. There are flashes of movement to the side, none of which Wilde is capable of processing yet; Zolf grabs his arm, which is easier. He looks resolved, in that urgent way he used to get just before leaving on solo missions; Wilde has just enough time to be scared about that before Zolf pulls him close and says, “Get the others out and be safe.”

Wilde opens his mouth in question, but Zolf’s already shoving him away. He stumbles backwards a few steps, more out of shock than actual force, before losing his balance and landing hard on his elbows just inside the lab. His neck snaps back a little, making his vision swim, but he blinks hard to clear it and now, now, he sees it all. The creature. The dead. The ones left standing.

For just a moment, Wilde catches sight of Zolf’s face before he turns away. His eyes nearly glow, lips parted around gritted teeth, and there is rage in his features like Wilde has never seen before. Then he raises his burning glaive, this idiotic man that Wilde loves so unbearably much, and growls, “Right. It’s yer turn now.”

#this fic and i did hand-to-hand combat for NEARLY TWO WEEKS before i bested it #please appreciate it in my honor #rqg #rusty quill gaming #zoscar #rqg wilde #rqg oscar wilde #lolomg #cel sidebottom #rqg azu #hamid saleh haroun al tahan #zolf smith #rqg 207 #rqg fic #zoscar fic #rqg fanfiction #zoscar fanfiction

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adhduck · 2 years

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AT LAST, AFTER TWO MONTHS, I HAVE CONQUERED IT. Chapter 4 of But I Can Hope How This Will End is finally finished, and besties...I really thought it was gonna be happier sdjfkldk. But! Yearning! Lots of yearning! Literally like 9k of it oh my god how did this chapter get so long

AO3

CW: canon-typical blue vein talk/anxiety; blood mention; quarantine; slightly graphic medical examination and first aid (including needles/stitches); non-sexual nudity; alcohol consumption (for medical purposes)

And With Time For the Wounds We Can't

Zolf watches Wilde for a few minutes, monitoring the rise and fall of his chest, before deciding he’s stable enough to be left alone while Zolf cleans up, preferably before someone shows up at the inn and starts asking about a crime scene.

He cleans the trail of blood Wilde left first, thinking about how helpful it would be to have Prestidigitation right now, and washes off the knife, then sets it with Carter’s collection before he can start to wonder whose blood was on it.

Once that’s done, he rummages through Wilde’s closet until he finds some clothes Wilde can take on and off easily but won’t be too heartbroken about getting bloodied. They aren’t the most fashionable, but don’t seem to clash at least, so hopefully Wilde won’t mind.

Zolf drops them by the door and goes to make food, at which point he remembers he was halfway into that very task when Wilde got back. Thank the gods nothing caught on fire. As the soup gets up to a boil, he slices into a new loaf of bread, then debates whether to add some vegetables on the side before deciding it’ll be too overwhelming.

It's as he’s ladling the soup into a bowl that Barnes returns with supplies. Carter fills him in, so at least Zolf doesn’t have to relive it all quite yet, but Barnes still gives him that damned look when he walks in. The one that says, I know you’re the one who’s hurting most, even if you won’t acknowledge it.

So bloody what if Zolf acknowledges his hurt or not? He doesn’t need a…a Conversation about it. He just needs to fix it.

Barnes is the one who takes Wilde the change of clothes and food; a small part of Zolf protests that he should be the one taking care of Wilde, but he pushes it down. They all care about Wilde, not just him; and besides, the others haven’t even seen him yet.

When Barnes returns, though, he seems a little on edge, and so does Carter when he goes to check on Wilde a couple hours later. Zolf can’t tell if it’s the usual blue vein anxiety, and they both claim Wilde’s wounds don’t seem any worse, so when he goes to bring Wilde dinner and do the first check, he’s understandably nervous.

He finds Wilde is sitting at the edge of the cot, legs stretched out in front of him and gaze set determinedly on his hands. It might just be the lighting, but he seems to be shaking slightly.

Zolf swallows. “Uh, hey. Brought you dinner.” He pushes the bowl through, and Wilde pulls it towards the cot with a foot. The bowl from earlier is still there, too, barely touched. He doesn’t look up.

“How are your injuries?” Zolf tries next, hoping that’s objective enough to not scare him off.

“Same as this morning,” Wilde says; he’s clearly trying to move his mouth as little as possible, which garbles his words a little, but Zolf pretends he doesn’t notice.

“Better than being worse, I s’pose. Are you….” He hesitates, but damn it, haven’t they made it this far? “How are you?”

“Just told you, didn’t I?”

“You know what I meant.” Wilde offers only a shrug, and Zolf sighs. One more try, and then he’ll stop pressing. “Wilde. Look at me.”

It takes a moment, but Wilde finally relents and meets Zolf’s gaze. He’s got the same look he has during interrogations, aloof and assured, which would be more convincing if he didn’t also have fresh tear tracks down his cheeks.

“What is it?” Zolf asks, shuffling to sit on the floor instead of hovering awkwardly above him.

Wilde bristles. “Tensions are always high in quarantine, you know that.”

Not like this. Not you. “You—if it’s your face, it’ll be fine. I’ll patch you up properly soon as you’re out.”

“If I get out.”

He’s right, but Zolf still has to fight the urge to argue about it. “The meeting, then? We’ll figure somethin’ out, you know that.”

Wilde shifts, drops his gaze somewhere to the left. “I know.”

Zolf shouldn’t ask. He absolutely should not ask. “What happened there?”

There it is—Wilde flinches, which pulls at his makeshift bandaging and makes him wince, too. “I told you, it went wrong. Shouldn’t be hard to guess from there.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t help us know where to go from here. Were you ambushed? Did you talk at all before it happened? Was it the Douglas guy who did it, or someone else? When—”

“Zolf.”

It’s incredibly quiet, for how much pleading Wilde fits into the word, and Zolf pulls up short. “I just- they could’ve followed you, or poisoned you, or—” Realizing he’s starting to blabber, Zolf stops and tries again. “Okay, uh, how about this: do you think we’re safe for now?”

“You shouldn’t trust what I say, you know.”

“Wilde.”

A sigh. “Yes, I think we should all be safe for now. Or, well, safe as we ever are.”

“All right. All right, good. Then—then the rest of it doesn’t matter right now, yeah? We don’t gotta talk about it.”

Wilde closes his eyes tightly, pressing his lips together just as they start to tremble. For a moment, it seems he might say something, but he just nods and pulls himself up, leaning heavily on the cot as he starts to undress.

Ah, yes. This part.

Zolf’s never quite understood the way some people look at bodies; how he’s supposed to translate muscle and skin and veins into hunger. Different bodies can be interesting, yes, and nice to look at, to touch. But they rarely spark something in him, no matter what level of dress or undress.

So when Wilde presents himself for inspection, Zolf doesn’t feel a sudden rush of desire or a building warmth in his gut like the hero in a Campbell might. Mostly what he feels is worried, eyes catching on the jut of Wilde’s ribs and how his knees are already beginning to tremble. There’s also, weirdly, a little relief—not just because Wilde’s skin is mercifully clear of veins so far, but because of how he stands so unafraid before Zolf, so uncaring. Like this invasion isn’t an invasion at all.

“You’re good,” Zolf says after Wilde turns around. “Do you need anything else from me? More blankets? Somethin’ to read?”

Wilde shakes his head, reaching for the shirt. “Not ready for a Campbell yet, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

It wasn’t, mostly, but Zolf rolls his eyes as if he’s been caught, knowing it might make Wilde smile. (It doesn’t, but just barely. Zolf counts it as progress.) “All right. I’ll see you in the morning then, yeah? Get some sleep. And- and eat, too, if you can manage it. It’ll help.”

“All right, Zolf.”

The lie is obvious, but Zolf lets it be and stands to leave; at the same time, Wilde drops onto the cot, bringing them almost eye to eye. Their gazes hold for one moment, then two, and maybe it’s the worry pressing against Zolf’s chest, or the hope pushing just as fiercely, but for a moment, Zolf is completely overcome with the desire to hold Wilde’s hand.

It’s just a moment, of course, and he can’t. But the wanting – that urgent, useless wanting – doesn’t ease when Zolf turns away and climbs out of the cellar. Doesn’t even ease when he gets into bed, weathered and raw and confused.

If he’s infected, and he dies, Zolf thinks—stops, forces himself to be honest. If I have to kill him. What am I supposed to do with this then?

He’s awake for hours afterwards, and even then, sleep takes him before he finds an answer.

For a procedure designed to last a week every time, quarantines never go at the same pace. Zolf’s first one felt like a lifetime, being unused to so much time forced to be still, and with the memory of Mr. Ceiling’s tunnels far too fresh in his mind. Now, it’s not too bad as long as he stays occupied, so he reads as much as possible and does puzzles when his brain can’t handle any more content.

When Carter’s in there, it tends to go fast, if only because everyone takes turns keeping him occupied so he doesn’t give into the temptation to escape out of boredom. Barnes is best when there’s someone else there, and worst when he comes back directly after a fight—can’t quite shake it off, which makes him seem not himself, which in turn leaves everyone on edge. During those weeks, only Carter goes to see him, and Zolf can hardly rest until the week’s over.

Wilde has quarantined the least of everyone, and always as a precaution rather than genuine worry of infection, so the background thrum of anxiety has been able to stay just that: background. So to say this week goes slowly is…well, for lack of a more poetic phrase, it feels like saying the ocean is big.

For one thing, Wilde can’t even get the semblance of physical rest quarantine usually offers. He has to stitch up his own face the second day, which is absolutely brutal and yields less than ideal results, and they realize immediately afterward his bandages will have to be undone and redone every day for the checks to be accurate. He also can’t eat most foods with the stitches, so Zolf makes separate meals for him three times a day only to retrieve them a few hours later, hardly touched.

None of that is what makes the quarantine so long, though. Zolf would prefer that, to just be sleep-deprived and overworked and incredibly bored by the paperwork he has to do in Wilde’s absence, but no, it’s long because – gods help him – Zolf misses Wilde. Misses him in the kitchen when no one saunters in just to be a nuisance; misses him in the hallway after dark when there’s no work to drag him away from or late-night drinks to lure him towards; misses him when he’s right goddamn in front of him. It’s long because now he knows it’s not just trust he feels when he thinks of Wilde, not just care, but want.

“Gods,” Zolf mutters, trying to focus back on wrapping the anakyu maki. Him, Zolf Smith, wanting. It’s not exactly something he’s built for; no room for want in all the disasters he’s found himself in over the years. There’s just what he needs, and what needs to be done. The closest he’s had is hope, but they’re not quite the same either: hope is something to work for, a goal for everyone to benefit from. Wanting feels…too close. Like clothes tailored for his height but not his size.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter right now, because there are hours of work to be done between now and seeing Wilde next, so what Zolf really wants is to focus.

Once he’s finished wrapping the sushi, Zolf plates them on the counter with some wasabi, soy sauce, and ginger and yells for Barnes and Carter to eat. His own portions he takes to Wilde’s study; he has some files to look over, and there’s no way he’ll be able to stay awake unless he’s also eating.

With Wilde’s hesitant permission, Zolf has gathered all the paperwork and notes related to the disastrous mission to review. Thus far, they’ve all been incredibly boring, which has caused Zolf’s reading-for-pleasure brain to go at an absolutely glacial pace. There are pages and pages of notes that could be summarized to “this was a dead end,” and so much bureaucratic nonsense built in even now, at the end of the world.

If it weren’t for Wilde asking Zolf to look over it all ‘just in case,’ he’d probably have given up long ago. As it is, he decides to make it easier on himself by temporarily skipping to the stuff he finds most important, even if it’s out of order. There’s a small part of him that feels like he’s intruding by looking through Wilde’s saved communications from Mr. Douglas, like he’s a teenager rummaging through love notes, but he knows that’s not what’s happening. This is for a mission, and besides, Wilde wouldn’t have put anything in with the files he didn’t want found. Certainly wouldn’t have given Zolf access to them.

He skims until he finds the intel Douglas offered and cross-references it with Wilde’s notes and research. It all checks out, which bothers him for a reason he can’t quite place, and quickly decides is better left alone. The letter then moves into a final paragraph of typical polite nonsense, and Zolf is ready to go on to the next thing, but his eye catches on the last line.

I know it may be hard to trust me, with everything happening, but I promise you won’t regret it. And won’t it be nice to see each other again, Oscar?

“Again?” Zolf says, already reaching for the next letter without thinking of how this is perhaps verging into intrusion territory. It starts off with some drivel – received your last correspondence, glad you agreed, sending this post haste, blah blah blah – and then there, tucked in Douglas’ response about where to stage the meeting:

If all goes as well as I hope, you could always plan on your journey being a day longer. There are lots of lovely inns we can hole up in for a night, get to know each other again. You’ve been so lonely, I’m sure, in the midst of this touchless scourge—

Zolf slams the paper on the desk, feeling vaguely ill. Well, shit. Does he need to be worried about this, about Wilde having some sort of past with this man and never mentioning it? Should he dig further in case their relationship has compromised more than this one lead? The idea makes bowline knots of his stomach, but it might be necessary; better to pry than risk the whole mission. And Wilde didn’t tell him he couldn’t read this—though, to be fair, if Wilde had told Zolf not to read something, that would’ve sparked all sorts of suspicion bells. Still under quarantine, and all that.

That reminder makes Zolf’s chest feel a few ounces too heavy, so he decides this dilemma can wait until tomorrow and goes to find Barnes and Carter. They’re not in the kitchen – the food is all eaten, half-rinsed plates stacked in the sink – or either of their rooms, which leaves the makeshift training room.

As expected, Zolf hears the light clink of metal as he approaches the door, the huffs of adrenaline-labored breathing. He slips inside, sees they’re in the middle of a one-on-one, and leans against the door to watch.

Barnes and Carter are easily the most interesting combo for training: opposite fighting styles, badly hidden competitive streaks, and a deep knowledge of each other’s tricks. Barnes’ blows are heavy, but his feet are light; years of living on a boat have made him balanced, ready to shift at any moment. He doesn’t let his anger or frustration make him careless, either, at least not in training.

Carter, on the other hand, is…unpredictable. He has magic, but loves to make his opponents forget it, relying mostly on his knives. Since he’s usually up against either a sword or a glaive, this means lots of distractions – aborted lunges, constant movement, sometimes even just standing and taunting – but against Barnes, who knows him better than maybe anyone, he has to get more creative.

Barnes attempts a clean thrust as Carter considers; the other man dodges to one side, landing heavily on his right leg, and hisses in a rarely voiced moment of pain. He broke his leg last mission, Zolf remembers, didn’t have enough magic to get it fixed until he made it home. Spent a week leaning on his left leg too hard until that started acting up too, then spent a rather miserable week not allowed to run or train.

Unsurprisingly, Barnes also remembers that, and for half a second, it shows: his gaze flicks over Carter in a flash, looking not for weak points but a sign they should tap out. Carter seems fine, though—or at least, the way he hooks an ankle around Barnes’ and knocks him flat on his back makes Zolf think so.

Carter brings a knee to Barnes’ chest, blunted knife tapping lightly against his throat. Zolf can’t see it, but he knows the man is grinning like mad. “Gotcha.”

Barnes huffs but makes no move to push Carter off. “Menace. ‘S a low blow to make me worry for no reason like that.” He frowns. “Unless—?”

“No, all good,” Carter assures him, getting to his feet and helping the other man follow. “Sorry, though. To make you worry.”

“Just for a second,” he says, cupping the back of Carter’s neck good-naturedly. “And it’s a good tactic, anyway. Found a weak point.”

Carter touches Barnes’ raised arm, very lightly, and Zolf decides he should probably insert himself now. “Mind if I go next?”

Neither one flinches at his voice; probably noticed he was there, then, or maybe they’re just talented at their jobs. “Course not,” Carter says. “I’ll step back this round, give Barnes a chance to prove himself again.”

“Oh, sod off,” Barnes says, nothing but affection in his voice; Carter grins and strides off with the high shoulders of someone who’s won a game with very few stakes and quite a few rewards.

(Zolf’s stomach clenches.)

Sparring with Barnes requires most of Zolf’s focus, and he settles into the rhythm gratefully. Against a man who’s both lighter on his feet and more trained with his weapon of choice, Zolf’s only real advantage is that Barnes has to change the angle of his swings to account for Zolf’s height. They’re both aware of this, though, which means Zolf needs to use some misdirection himself.

“How’s the paperwork going?” Barnes asks, parrying away Zolf’s opening strike. Either he’s not been training long or it hasn’t been particularly tiring, because he’s quick as ever.

“Fine,” Zolf mutters. Barnes does an experimental feint, testing the waters, and Zolf pushes the blade to the side, careful not to leave an opening. “Boring, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Zolf swings for Barnes’ knees, forcing the man to jump backward with a slightly awkward parry, but he’s already recovered before Zolf can take advantage of the moment. “Also annoying.”

“No wonder Wilde’s in charge of it,” Carter says from the sidelines; Zolf and Barnes both huff a fond breath of agreement.

They trade a few more blows, easing into a steady back and forth. Zolf keeps Barnes at bay with his longer weapon – mostly, at least; the bastard’s been spending too much time with Carter, getting sneaky – and Barnes waits patiently for every opening. Being defensive fighters, they spend a good few minutes without any taps when they normally would’ve had two or three by now. Probably time to speed it up a bit, then.

Zolf lunges forward before he can overthink it, aiming for Barnes’ dominant side; even through the slight surprise, Barnes goes to parry instinctively, and Zolf changes direction to get him in the stomach, just above where his shirt is buttoned at the navel. There’s a small wince – it won’t cut him, but it’s still an impact – and then Barnes relaxes out of fighting stance.

“Really need some armor there, Barnes,” Zolf comments, rolling his shoulders with a wince of his own. He’s not actually old, just white-haired, but sometimes his body doesn’t act like it.

Carter boos lightly from the side, and Barnes rolls his eyes. “Hasn’t killed me yet, but I see your point.”

They get into a rhythm after that; sometimes with Barnes winning, sometimes Zolf. Carter cuts in occasionally, but mostly seems content to watch as he practices his knife handling—and to objectify them both, apparently, considering the teasing little whoops he gives when Zolf takes off his shirt, or when a glancing blow pulls at Barnes’ collar and exposes a shoulder.

The side commentary should probably be annoying – would’ve been, a year ago – but Zolf enjoys the light teasing, the easy mood they manage despite the lingering…everything.

It’s not hard to tell, either, that Carter’s trying to fill the ever-present gap they all feel with the sort of jokes that make Zolf’s ears go hot. He doesn’t quite manage it – who could ever take up as much space in a room as Wilde? – but Zolf appreciates the effort anyway. Even if it makes him wonder if Sasha would like Carter now, or if Hamid would try out a physical weapon for the sake of more social time. If he’ll get a chance to ask Wilde if he wonders about things like that, too, whispered under the protection of dim lamplight and a bottle pressed quickly, carefully, against his mouth.

Day four is always the hardest day for quarantine checks, in Zolf’s experience. Far enough along to start expecting signs of infection to appear, but too far from the end to feel any sense of relief if none are visible.

Should be too far from the end to feel hope, either, but, well. He’s gotta feel something, and he’s not ready for despair.

“Hey, Wilde,” he says, ducking in with food in hand. Wilde’s facing the opposite direction, shirt lying at his hip; Zolf sees the muscles in his neck and shoulder blades tighten at the greeting, then release.

There’s another moment of silence before Wilde turns, broken leg stretched out awkwardly as he shifts at the cot’s edge. His face – or what’s visible of it, anyway – is perfectly devoid of emotion. “Mr. Smith.”

Zolf hasn’t slept nearly enough to deal with this right now. “Oh, fuck off.”

There’s no witty retort to that, just an awkward silence where Zolf’s waiting for one, so he pushes the plate through before he can get too swallowed up in it, focusing on the gentle clatter of ceramic against stone. “You eat any of what I brought you last time?”

Sighing, Wilde reaches with his foot to push a bowl from the side of the cot into view. The only indication it may have been touched at all is a dirty spoon balancing atop it, a line of soup spilling over the side. Zolf looks between it and Wilde’s face, that raised chin and those high, proud shoulders; knows there’s something like shame tucked behind that armor.

None of it is surprising, but that doesn’t stop the wave of emotions from cresting and crashing in his chest: he wants to get angry, and he wants to make it better, and he wants to leave, and he wants to not see his friend’s ribs pressing against his skin anymore, and—and he wants, and it’s fucking exhausting, so he tries to focus on something easier.

“Gonna start not doing your paperwork,” he says, pulling new bandages from a coat pocket and sliding them through as well, “if you don’t finish my work.”

Wilde scowls. “Don’t joke, Zolf, that paperwork might be extremely time-sensitive.”

Gods, the things this man says sometimes. “And you eating isn’t?”

Wilde blinks, realizing his mistake, and goes to scrub a hand across his face before he remembers he can’t. “The paperwork is- never mind. Anyway, it’s not as if I’m…spiting you, or something, by not finishing meals.” Zolf raises his eyebrows a little, and Wilde adds, “I’m not! Honestly, one would think you’d trust me with that much by now.”

Zolf, not being trained in hiding his emotions, winces at the mention of trust. “I don’t think you…I mean, it’s not like I think…gods, never mind, it’s fine. I mean, it’s not, like, you’ve gotta bloody eat and stuff, but I’m not…I’m not mad at you, or somethin’. Well. Not much, anyway, just- yeah.”

That gets a tug at the corner of Wilde’s mouth. “Quarantine just isn’t very appetizing a time, I’m afraid.”

“You’re not good at eating outside of it, either,” Zolf points out. He tries to keep his tone light, just the same harmless prodding they do all the time, but it comes out sounding like a scoff, and he watches a shutter go down over Wilde’s eyes. Dammit.

“I’m not sure there’s an ‘outside’ of quarantine anymore,” Wilde says, gaze drifting to the side. “Not since we came to Japan. The cell, the inn, the village—it’s all the same. Just waiting for the week to end.”

Zolf really doesn’t like the way Wilde says end. “I mean, the inn’s a lot less shite than the cell, so that’s a difference. And I can actually treat your injuries properly once you’re out.”

“If,” Wilde reminds him, and gets to his feet. “Well. Time to test it, I suppose.”

He takes off his trousers and bandages with little ceremony, so Zolf does the check with the same lack of show. No signs of infection yet; he lets the hope rise momentarily into his throat, then swallows it back down with a reminder they’re only halfway through.

And even if the week ends with a heavy sigh of relief, he can’t help but wonder if he’ll really get Wilde back. There’s something…cold about him, something very far away despite the fact they’re maybe ten feet apart. It doesn’t feel like the infection, but it scares the hell out of Zolf anyway.

“I,” he starts, without really meaning to. Wilde pauses from where he was starting to rewrap his leg; it’s swollen, clearly needs better medical attention than what it’s getting. “I know we’re waiting to debrief until the end.”

The next pass around Wilde’s knee is definitely a bit too tight. “Yes. We are.”

“And that’s smart, I’m not- it’s the right call. But….” Zolf swallows. He hadn’t actually meant to bring this topic up, but he’s in it now. “I read the letters.”

Wilde flicks his gaze up, and if they hadn’t been spending practically every day together for months, Zolf would think it was casual interest that flashed across his features. “That is what I asked you to do, yes.”

“Well- I ain’t read all of them yet. Most of your paperwork is bloody boring.” He gives half a second for Wilde to snort, but there’s only silence. “I- you know what I’m talking about here, Wilde.”

With his leg fully wrapped, Wilde is forced to look Zolf in the eye, and to his credit, he does so with very little hesitation. “I thought you agreed debriefing was best saved for after.”

“It is, this isn’t—I’m not asking for a- a report or somethin’. I just…. You don’t have to tell me, I wouldn’t force you even if I knew how the hell to do that. But he- you knew him. Cared about him, from what I can tell.”

There’s that familiar tic in Wilde’s jaw. “I did.”

“So why didn’t you tell us about it? I would’ve thought you would be all for, I dunno, keeping our bias out of things.”

“It didn’t seem relevant,” Wilde tries, but gives in as soon as Zolf starts glaring. “I made a mistake, all right? I thought I could trust him, and I let my emotions get involved in the work, and I’m paying for it. I know it’s hard to believe, me not being perfect, but even the greatest must fall.”

“That’s not—” Zolf sighs. “I’m not tryna accuse you of somethin’, this isn’t a trial, I just- it was just weird, for you. Usually you’re the one wanting all the- oh, I don’t know exactly how it goes, but you know, the checks and the proof. This one was different. And I- I trust you, right, you got good instincts most of the time, so if he’s different, there’s gotta be a reason, and I just—”

He loses track of his words then, mostly because he’s not sure he actually does care why Wilde didn’t tell them, or if it matters. Gods know he’s let people down because of his own baggage. He just…this seems to matter to Wilde, and so it matters to Zolf, too. But he never knows how to go about it the right way. Whenever he tries, he ends up either not making sense or making it worse.

Still, he doesn’t wanna let that stop him from trying at all, so he swallows hard and tries again. “I just—”

“Bosie.”

Zolf blinks, thrown. “What?”

“That’s what I called him. Bosie.” Wilde inspects the surgical wrap in his hands as carefully as if it were a shard of glass. The weak lighting glances off his torn cheek, leaves the rest of his face in shadow. “You would’ve hated me even more, you know, if you knew me when I loved him. Like I was with Bertie, but irredeemably genuine about it.”

There’s a pause, so long Zolf wonders if he should cut in, but he doesn’t know what the hell to say anyway, so it’s just quiet for a while before Wilde breathes in, long and heavy, and says, “I killed him. When he attacked me. He’s dead.”

“…Oh.”

Wilde laughs, short and pained and halfway to a breathy sob before he wrangles it in. “Indeed.”

“Wilde, I- d’you—”

“I think I’ll manage the rest of the bandaging without guidance,” Wilde interrupts, his voice abruptly casual. “If I muck it up, I’m sure you’ll tell me in the morning.”

“I—yeah. I’ll do that.” Zolf hesitates; clearly this is his sign to get the hell out, but it’s harder than it should be to leave. “I’ll see you then?”

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Wilde deadpans, spreading his arms wide.

“Yeah,” Zolf says, trying not to wonder too much about the hint of a smile on Wilde’s face. He’s been doing far too much wondering lately. “Yeah. See you then.”

The usual protocol is to have a different person do the checks each day – better to have more than one set of eyes on the situation, especially when those eyes are decidedly biased about what they want to see or not see – which means Barnes and Carter are in charge of the next two days. They’re both terse when Zolf asks how Wilde is; apparently the man’s even stiffer with them than he is with Zolf. Which makes some sense, he supposes, considering he’s never taken Wilde’s shit. He’s had more experience prying the bastard open.

Still, Zolf goes down the cellar steps at midnight on the final day with his heartbeat in his throat. If the veins decide to show up now, he is going to…well, have another crisis of faith, probably. What comes next, gods, he really is something.

Wilde is visibly nervous when Zolf comes in, which ruins any hope he had of seeming casual about the whole thing. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

For something so important, this check feels like any other. Zolf traces the curve of Wilde’s neck, his sinewy arms, the jut of his ribs, his hair-covered legs – sees nothing amiss, tells him to turn – and now the broad expanse of his shoulders, the dip in his spine, the tension in his thighs down through his calves.

“You’re good,” Zolf breathes, already fumbling for the cell key.

Wilde hides his face behind long, shaking fingers as a broken little laugh escapes him. “Fuck.”

Zolf unlocks the door, managing to catch himself before he goes inside and his legs go dead. “You should probably put some clothes on.”

There’s a hint of a smirk at the corner of Wilde’s mouth, and fine, Zolf’s heart does a little bit of a flop at that visible bit of Wilde-ness, whatever. “Not enjoying the show?”

“I know the people at the bar won’t.”

Wilde huffs, clearly not agreeing with that assessment, but redresses anyway, a bit rushed with his eagerness to get out of the cell.

Once he’s clear, Wilde lets out a long, satisfied breath as if the air is different, even though he’s had the cuffs on this whole time. Zolf sucks in a breath of his own, feeling way too much clambering around in his chest. “Let’s get you to the baths, yeah?”

Wilde narrows his eyes, clearly torn between another undressing joke and interrogating Zolf on why he thinks Wilde needs a bath so badly. Zolf just smirks and guides one of Wilde’s arms over his shoulder, wrapping his own arm across Wilde’s waist and securing it at his hip.

Getting up the stairs is slow, but not nearly as bad as the going down had been, so Zolf counts his blessings. When they get to the living area, Carter is pacing anxious circles around where Barnes is sitting on the couch, taut as a drawn bowstring; once they see Wilde, both of them visibly relax.

“Good to see you both,” Wilde says, just a little hesitant.

“Good to see ya,” Carter echoes. He comes up to touch Wilde’s shoulder, offering one of those bright, impish grins of his, then turns and heads off. Barnes just nods, smiling, and follows.

“Always to the point, those two,” Wilde murmurs.

“Yeah,” Zolf agrees, “’s why I can stand them most of the time.”

Wilde pinches his shoulder. “Don’t think I didn’t catch that implication.”

Zolf just shrugs innocently, letting the beard hide his smirk, and leads on.

The bath’s already prepared; Zolf had filled it with near-boiling water just before he went down for the check, so it wouldn’t get cold too quickly. Wilde eases into the seat beside the tub, unbuttoning his shirt with a grumble about how he just put it on, while Zolf hovers awkwardly a few feet away.

“Your leg should be fine submerged,” he says, “though you might need help getting in. ‘S not good to get that gash wet, though, especially when the water’s going to get dirty.”

“Really aiming for a weak point with the hygiene today, Mr. Smith,” Wilde says idly, muscles dancing as he pushes the shirt off his shoulders. “Can I wash my hair still?”

“Yeah, if you’re careful. I- I could help, if you needed, but I thought you might—er, I just know I like to have a bit of time, after quarantines. Get settled in by myself.”

Wilde nods with a faint smile. “Some alone time might be nice, odd as that may sound.”

“Yeah. Okay, good. I still gotta do a proper medical check on you afterwards, though, so when you’re done just—holler, or somethin’? I’ll be outside.”

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, course. Um, then I guess I’ll just—oh, wait, you need to get in first.”

Wilde snorts, a little bit unfashionable with it, and says, “That would be a helpful step, yes.”

He finishes undressing, then allows Zolf to pick him up – a bit like when this whole mess started, except instead of a blanket there is quite a lot of skin – and get him over the edge until he can steady himself with his arms and good leg. Slowly, Wilde sinks into the water; he’s forced to sit with most of his chest out of the water, since the tub isn’t very long and he can’t bend one of his legs, but he still sighs a little in relief, tipping his head against the copper edge.

Zolf backs quietly away, letting the image of Wilde close-eyed and content reassure him as he goes to find a new pair of clothes and a Campbell to pass the time.

He settles on Passions of the Sun, dragging a chair a few feet away from the door and opening to a random dog-ear. It’s the scene where Jennifer follows Richard into the (frankly ludicrously sized) bath, because of course it is. Zolf skips to the scene by the fire instead, grateful no one can see his blush.

Twenty pages later, Wilde calls him back in (he almost doesn’t hear it at first, actually; the plot’s just getting into an interesting turn). He finds Wilde reclining with his eyes closed, damp hair clinging to his jaw and adjusted so his feet rest on the bath’s edge and his chest is nearly submerged. The murky water laps gently over his shoulders as he shifted, humming something indiscernible.

“Go all right?” Zolf asks, which is a stupid question, but it’s already out of his mouth, so.

“Didn’t drown, if that’s what you’re asking,” Wilde says, opening one eye to watch Zolf’s approach. “Figured you would be a bit put out if you didn’t get to be the one to do it.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Zolf snorts as he grabs a towel, “and besides, I wouldn’t’ve done it in water this dirty. I had standards.”

“Had,” Wilde echoes. He pulls himself back up to a sitting position, then frowns. “I’ll admit I forgot about the ‘getting out of the bath’ part of this operation.”

Honestly, so had Zolf, but it’s not too bad; they mostly just do what they did before, but in reverse and much more slippery. Zolf’s front is halfway drenched by the time he gets Wilde into the chair with a towel, which he expected, but he still grumbles a bit about it on principle. (The eye roll Wilde gives when he does is a bonus, though.)

Once Wilde’s dried enough to not be uncomfortable, Zolf says, “Okay, need to do the medical stuff now. You all right if I touch you—and no, not like that.” Wilde raises an eyebrow, still ready to make some vaguely lewd comment, and he adds threateningly, “There’s plenty of clean water I could get to drown you in.”

Wilde sighs dramatically. “Fine, fine. Do as you must.”

In the six or so months they’ve been working together, Zolf has never done a medical check-up on Wilde. He’s rarely in the sort of physical danger that requires one, and is far too skittish to corner without a reason greater than “because I want to make sure you’re not secretly dying, you stubborn git.” Which means, now that he’s got the chance, Zolf is going to be thorough.

The cut is his biggest concern, of course, so he checks that out first. The stitches Wilde did must not have been tied off properly, because they’re not actually holding the wound together, just sitting there as the skin inflames around them. Zolf winces; he’ll likely have to redo them, and this time with greater risk of infection. He holds Wilde’s face still with one hand as he gently prods at the skin around the wound, feeling for any pain or abnormalities, and thankfully finds none.

“I’ll have to do the stitches again,” he says, mostly managing to sound clinical instead of apologetic. “Might have some infection starting, too, I’ll have to keep an eye on it.”

Wilde makes a noncommittal hum in response, the sound buzzing slightly in the tips of Zolf’s fingers. He tilts Wilde’s head a little to check his eye dilation; his pupils are a little larger than he’d expect, but not to the point of worry.

Zolf feels Wilde swallow against his fingers, and he realizes rather belatedly how this must all look—Wilde, naked save for a towel across his lap and the cuffs on his ankles, and Zolf, looking right into his eyes as he holds his chin. It makes Zolf’s throat feel as if he’s taken a long swig of whiskey right from the bottle; he swallows hard against it, releasing his grip and leaning a few inches back into safer territory.

Once he feels a little steadier, he checks Wilde’s lymph nodes, mostly just as a formality – Wilde’s voice is the one thing he always takes care of – and does a quick glance over his chest and stomach for any new issues. The shallow cut on his ribcage is mostly healed, though he traces over it just to make sure there isn’t any lingering pain, as are the other few scrapes Wilde gathered on his way home.

“Anything hurt, other than the obvious?” Zolf asks, tapping lightly on Wilde’s stomach and listening carefully for any odd noises. His skin is warm, the gentle rise and fall with his breaths almost soothing, like when Zolf used to sit on the shore to watch the tide.

Wilde huffs against Zolf’s prodding. “I’m fine.”

Most likely a lie, but he’s at least not in immediate danger, so Zolf lets it be and moves on to Wilde’s leg. A gentle prodding shows that while the bone definitely fractured, it didn’t break apart, which is a major relief; the inn lacks the sort of specialist tools he would need to fix something like that. The area is swollen, too, but the swelling itself doesn’t seem to be extra painful, so Zolf won’t need to drain it for now. He grips the back of Wilde’s calf gently to test the range of motion—not much, considering Wilde winces the moment he goes more than an inch in any direction, but that was expected.

“All right, that’s the looking part,” Zolf says, leaning back. “Do you want me to do the healing bit magically, or would you rather keep the cuffs on?”

Wilde considers for a moment, fiddling with a corner of the towel. “We can’t be sure our location won’t be compromised if they can cast on me again.”

Zolf nods; he’d expected that answer. “Would you rather be in here, then, or your room?”

“Oh, here is fine, I don’t really care.”

“All right.” Zolf hands Wilde his shirt and sorts through his perhaps excess of medical supplies. They don’t have enough plaster or time for a cast, so he just rewraps the leg and makes a temporary splint, taking down measurements to create a better one soon. Once that’s done, he supports Wilde’s weight as he gets into his pants and trousers – loose-fitting, for obvious reasons – and sits him back down for the stitches.

“Now this,” Zolf says, brandishing a bottle, “is actually for drinking this time around. Just a bit, though, to ease the pain. Don’t want you to get sick.”

Wilde grins and takes the bottle from Zolf without asking, downing a healthy swig before offering it back. “I’m assuming you aren’t having any?”

“Not if you want this to go well,” Zolf says, waving him off. “Ready?”

Wilde nods, already looking a little distant; he’s always been a bit of a lightweight, with how little he eats. Zolf turns Wilde’s head slightly to get a better angle and cleans the area with an alcohol-soaked rag – Wilde hisses, but doesn’t flinch away – before starting the slow process of cutting away the old stitches and pulling them free. Then he has to clean the area all over again, checking if the skin can handle more trauma right now, and decides it can.

“Okay, proper stitching bit now. You need a break?” Wilde takes another long swig of alcohol and closes his eyes, which he supposes is answer enough. “Right then.”

He threads the catgut into the needle, clamps that with his forceps, and brings the point up to Wilde’s cheek. He wishes he could hold Wilde’s hand for this, or at least his face, but he needs both hands, so he just breathes in and out, slowly, and begins.

It’s not as brutal as when Wilde did it, but with the skin already raw and inflamed, it’s not as painless as Zolf hoped either. Wilde shakes a little with the effort to keep his face still, keeping both hands fisted in his shirt and holding his breath each time the needle is about to pass through. The alcohol is kicking in, at least, and Zolf's hands are steady, so it seems they might manage all right.

Which is part of why it’s surprising, when the first tear rolls down Wilde’s cheek. Zolf brushes it quickly away before it can get into the wound, dutifully ignoring how Wilde’s closed eyes flutter with the nearness; as he’s tying off the next stitch, he has to wipe away two more, one on each cheek. There’s no indication from Wilde the process is getting more painful, but the air around them is becoming thick enough to choke on, and Zolf doesn’t know how to ask, or if Wilde wants him to. So he takes a leaf from Wilde’s own book and starts filling the air with noise.

“There’s a scene in one of the Campbell books,” he says, “where they do something like this.” Wilde’s eyebrows lift, just enough for Zolf to know he’s listening, and he continues, “Not the worst portrayal I’ve seen, medically speaking, but it’s clearly just the lead-up to the, ya know, the rest of the scene, which. I guess Campbell’s never gotten non-magical sutures, because there’s nothing particularly…sexy, or whatever, about that.”

“I bet I could make getting stitches sexy,” Wilde murmurs at a break in the rhythm, and Zolf snorts.

“Well, I hate to hurt your ego-” Wilde rolls his eyes- “but you’re not managing that right now.”

“That’s because you haven’t gotten to my mouth.”

To be fair, Zolf’s brain tells him unhelpfully, there’s a bit of a precedent for that. He’s only sort of thought about kissing Wilde since that first time—it tends to get jumbled up with the other thoughts, of holding Wilde until he falls asleep, or making him laugh over breakfast, or waiting impatiently next to him while he finally reads When Passions Collide. But Zolf does think about it, and he'd really rather not be thinking about it right now, when Wilde is about six inches away, so he swallows and says “You’re not gonna enjoy when I get to your mouth" and continues on.

Stitching the corner of Wilde’s lip is indeed as painful and unsexy as the rest of it, and when Zolf finishes the last stitch above his chin and leans back to check his work, he sees not a figure of desire but a very, very tired man. Wilde’s not even trying to hide it, or at least not doing a great job of it (Zolf doesn’t know which worries him more), but at least the stitching seems okay—not too pretty, but it should hold. Gods know he doesn’t want either of them to go through this again.

“That’s everything,” Zolf says at last. “You’re, er, all good to go.”

With a burst of energy Zolf was not expecting, Wilde claps his hands together and stands; he wobbles a bit, but steadies himself before Zolf can offer support. “Back to work, then.”

The only reason Zolf’s eyes don’t roll into the back of his head is because they physically can’t. “No, you’re going to rest.”

Wilde frowns. “You’re aware I just rested for a full week, correct?”

“That’s not—” Zolf starts, then sighs heavily, rubbing a hand across his face. This man. “It’s practically the middle of the night, and you’re injured. Just go to bed, and we can go over stuff in the morning.”

“I need to look back over my notes then, make sure—”

“Wilde. I managed to pick you up, and I can hold you down, too. Go to bed.”

Wilde blinks, something oddly vulnerable and searching in his eyes, before that familiar smirk appears—or tries to, anyway. It goes a bit crooked with the stitches, making Wilde wince a little, but he presses on. “Is that an offer?”

The benefit of a long beard, Zolf has learned, is it hides things like a flush crawling up one’s neck. “Fuck off.”

“Okay, is that—” Zolf swats Wilde’s arm, and he relents, hands raised defensively. “All right, all right. I can tell when I’m being told no.”

“Can you?” Zolf asks, and Wilde swats him back lightly. “All right, come on, we don’t have a cane your size yet, so you’re gonna need to use me until we get one.”

With a long, put-upon sigh, Wilde allows himself to be drawn back against Zolf’s side, and they get him down the hall to his room. The moment he’s within range of his bed, Wilde flops onto it without undressing, face scrunching inelegantly as he yawns.

Deciding it would be a bit much to tell Wilde to at least get under the covers, Zolf rubs his hands together and says, “Er, so. Good night.”

“Mmhmm,” Wilde responds, already half asleep by the look of it. He moves his hands to his stomach, long fingers twitching as if following an inner rhythm, and somehow that’s what makes Zolf remember Wilde almost died a week ago—could’ve died by Zolf’s own hand, if they’d been less lucky.

It feels important, that Wilde knows how relieved Zolf is to be lucky. That he’s glad Wilde’s back, and not just to get out of doing some paperwork, but because he wants Wilde around. Needs it, maybe.

“I, uh,” Zolf starts, but his throat closes up on him. He swallows, opens his mouth to try again, and realizes Wilde’s breathing has evened out, lips parted slightly and head tilted to one side. Asleep.

“And you wanted to stay up,” Zolf mutters, unable to stop his huff from melting into a stupid, fond little smile no matter how dangerous that little bit of honesty feels. He grabs the blanket from the chair, tucking Wilde in carefully like he’s done a few times by now, and shifts the pillow slightly for better support. A lock of hair falls over the stitches with the movement, and he brushes it behind Wilde’s ear; he doesn’t stir, but he does seem to lean into it, a barely-there movement for a barely-there touch. It makes Zolf feel like he’s underwater, but in a good way, he thinks.

He allows himself another moment to simmer in that feeling, warmth curling in his chest just to the left of where he feels the pull his magic, before he blows out the light and goes to get some rest of his own, closing the door quietly behind him.

It’s not until lunch the next day that it happens. At breakfast, Wilde is largely his normal self, apart from the fact he came down to join them at all. He doesn’t eat much, but he does manage to make a pun about porridge that makes Zolf’s ears burn, and he waits for everyone to finish eating before he jumps into mission debrief, and Zolf is feeling genuinely hopeful about it all.

(Wilde does admit he agreed to meet Douglas in part because he already knew him, though he doesn’t say how well. Zolf doesn’t clarify.)

Zolf brings lunch to Wilde’s office a few hours later, hoping it will inspire him to eat if he doesn’t have to leave his work, and also wanting to double-check measurements so he can get started on a better splint. He cracks open the door to find Wilde, as expected, elbow-deep in notes and papers, flicking back and forth between them the way Zolf imagines a mad scientist might if they were on the verge of a breakthrough.

That makes him think a little too much about Paris, so he clears his throat and says, “Hey, brought you food.”

Wilde barely glances up from his work. “Not hungry.”

“Wasn’t an offer,” Zolf responds immediately, walking up to the desk. There’s no open space to set the plate, so he starts to shift a pile of papers over, and Wilde practically growls at him.

“Didn’t I just say I wasn’t hungry?” he snaps.

Zolf blinks, taken aback by the sudden burst of anger. “And didn’t I just say this wasn’t a choice?”

Wilde sighs, long and annoyed. “Listen, I have a lot to catch up on, I don’t have time to take a break right now.”

Zolf frowns. “’S not a break, Wilde, it’s eating.”

“I’m not a child, Mr. Smith, I can take bloody well care of myself,” he says, finally turning to look Zolf in the eye.

He looks…infinitely worse than he did at breakfast, somehow, despite none of his physical features changing. It’s that damned wall again, Zolf realizes, back up like he hasn’t seen since they fled the infection in London, and his stomach rolls over with worry.

“Part of my job is literally to take care of you, Wilde,” he says, trying not to let the rising frustration and worry leak into his voice.

“Well, it’s unnecessary,” Wilde retorts, “and I’d appreciate it if you did quite literally anything else right now.”

Okay, that saps up Zolf’s patience right quick. “What the fuck’s up with you right now?”

Wilde gives him the sort of glare that could probably win awards, in another life. “What is ‘up’ is that I am trying to get back on track with work that could quite literally be the difference between saving the world and ending it, and you’re wanting to…to play bloody doctor-patient.”

“Again,” Zolf says, voice rising, “that’s literally my job.”

“Your job is to save the world.”

“And you’re not part of the world?”

“That’s completely beside the point. We have to think much bigger picture than individual people—”

“The world is individual people—”

“—and, quite frankly, Mr. Smith, you need to realize that you can’t save everyone.”

That one…that one hits like the crumbled roof of a tunnel, pinning Zolf to the ground before he’s even processed the fall. The thing is, he already knows he can't save everyone. He's known it since that first and only night in Prague; since Sasha's illness and the fall of Mr. Ceiling; since he came out from the rubble and Feryn didn't. But for Wilde to say it now, after Zolf spent a week terrified he was going to lose someone else, after they've spent all this time pushing forward on the notion they can at least save everyone they can? To say it when Zolf still stupidly, furiously wants to hold him?

Belatedly, Zolf realizes that he’s breathing too hard, that his hands are clenched to the point of pain; that Wilde is watching him like he’s waiting for the eruption.

It's possible that’s what Wilde is hoping for, actually, and gods, part of Zolf wants to give into it. But no matter how angry he is, he still cares, and no matter how much Wilde hates it, Zolf knows him. Which means he knows this is just another way for Wilde to protect himself, and that underneath the bluster and the dismissal and the cruelty, Wilde is scared. Not that Zolf is going to hit him, or that he’s said the thing that will ruin the team forever. He’s just fucking scared.

It's difficult, to make a breath go in and out evenly, but Zolf forces it anyway. He pushes aside some papers before Wilde can stop him, setting the plate down with the sort of finality that says there will be consequences for moving it again.

“I’ll be back with dinner,” he says, and starts to walk out, but pauses at the door. “And Wilde?”

Wilde doesn’t look up, but Zolf can see his jaw clench. Stubborn bastard, he thinks. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. “What, Mr. Smith?”

“Fuck you.”

He closes the door before he can see Wilde’s expression, but he can hear Wilde as he curses under his breath. He can’t make out the words, but he swears it sounds – and Zolf might just be going soft here – a little bit fond.

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