Archive of Our Own ^beta

Normally faint footsteps rebound off of the tiles that lead up to the Chapel’s crossing and reverberate off the vaulted ceilings. They echo in Reynauld’s mind like morning hymns. The faintest clinks of metal buckles draw forth Reynauld from the smoky haze of his prayers. For only a moment, he permits himself the indulgence of listening to the other man’s breathing. 

Dismas grows impatient with his musings. 

“Junia says you aren’t eating.” 

“The vicar should mind her own matters.” Reynauld’s voice is scratchy and faint, even to his own ears. He hasn’t spoken much since returning from the Warrens, save for the confessions he begs off of the Abbot when the other isn't too busy. 

“You are in her Church, you are her matter.” Blessed be, he has missed the scratch of the other's voice. He's missed--

“‘Tis not her abbey; the Abbot would be quite put out to hear her call it such.” 

“Feh , you know that is not my meaning, nor her’s.” Despite Dismas’ scorn, Reynauld hears the familiar hiss of a match being struck. He watches from beneath the visor of his helm as another votive candle is lit. Dismas does not kneel. Reynauld is half certain that Dismas has never found it in himself to kneel, not to the Light, nor a Lord, nor Fate itself. Even so, he does settle. His knees crack, belying his age, but he still huffs out a sigh as he leans against the limited free space of the kneeler not taken up by Reynauld’s legs. The warmth of his body seeps through the unguarded fabric of Reynauld's leggings quickly. Reynauld forces his attention back to the candles, even as he feels the other's weight. 

Reynauld can almost hear the clucking of the few active Sisters, should they to see Dismas on the ground so near to their holy altar. “Do not grow too comfortable, the Abbot will--”

“Hang the Abbot.” The words are tired and biting. Not too long ago, they would have enraged Reynauld. The Abbot is a good man, after all, a patient soul. He listens to Reynauld and comforts as he can. He is undeserving of such scorn. Now, however, Reynauld feels only sharp fondness curling in his chest, warm and uplifting, before it's quickly dampened. He does not deserve Dismas' concern.

A chill creeps in.

Dread rises. Suddenly, the golden light of the candles remind him too much of a faded yellow coat. He has to blink to force himself to focus. They are safe. The Hamlet is safe.

Dismas takes his silence in stride, ploughing ever onward. “Why are you not leaving, Holy-Man?”

Reynauld sighs. He had only just waved away the Heir’s own half-hearted queries about his future plans, yet word has already begun to spread. He has missed the others, but he doesn't… he is not certain that he can bring himself to speak on what brought him to the Chapel's sanctuary. Especially to Dismas. Not yet.  “I thought we were discussing the matter of my eating?”

“Why aren’t you leaving and why aren’t you eating?”

“Dismas--” tiredness begins to overtake him. Junia had warned about over-exerting himself with well-wishers.

“I will force you to the Sanitarium.” Dismas says, and the words are stern.

“You would not be able to move me.” The joke is a worn, old thing that he only half means. He feels Dismas shift to look at him. He can feel his scowl. 

“I will get that once-king to drag you if I must, Holy-Man.” Another bout of silence falls. Another huff arises from Dismas. His patience is wearing thin. “Why are you doing this, Reynauld?” 

The use of his given name makes him stir. The leather of his gloves groans as he tightens his hands. He cannot bring himself to answer directly. Not yet. Please, not yet, Dismas. “Is the Clown alright?” The other’s shrieking laughter, interspersed with sobs, still rings in his ears in the later hours of the night. 

Dismas grunts. “Sarmenti?” He phrases it like a question, as if there were any other jesters in the town. He takes the other’s silence as confirmation. “Well enough. He’s talking again. Saw him drinking the other night. ‘Taken to following the Leper King around like a pup. Ya got any idea as to what that's about?” There is a weight to that sentence, beneath the curiosity. He knows, Reynauld realizes now, or at least--

But then why make him speak of it? Why press? Who made Dismas come here? Ah, but he already said that it was Junia. Junia with her soft voice. Junia with her tear-stained face, sending out bolt after bolt of holy light, imploring and pleading for wound after wound to heal even though they all knew that it wasn’t enough.

Reynauld feels his heart begin to pound. His mouth is dry and he chokes to swallow. Blue flashes of eyeless sockets pound against his eyelids. The screaming of the dead-not-dead echo in his ears. He remembers the beckoning of so many voices and the slashes of daggers wrought by familiar strikes. The scars of his wounds-- the cuts that the ghost of the man resting against him struck-- ache. “Did I not do enough?” The words are thick as they come out of his mouth. 

“What?”

“I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I hear the bones grinding. Yet, it lingers. Yet, I can hear the screams even now. Yet, you are brought to me to ask why I have yet to return to the fold. Does one of them think --” he cannot bring himself to finish. His throat tightens around the words. Which of them looks upon him now with barely restrained ire? Who has forsaken him? He is trying, how can they not see as much?

Dismas clicks his tongue. When Reynauld turns to look at him, his features are tight with something akin to guilt. “You must eat, Crusader.” 

Ah, so they have returned to titles. “I hold no appetite, thief.” 

“I can make the Leper order you.” 

“That king is not my king. I have no king.”

“I can alert the Heir.”

“Do you think I have not already spoken with the Heir, you slip of a shade?" Reynauld cannot help the fondness in his voice, "Who do you think slipped coins to the Mother Superior for my upkeep?” 

Dismas sucks in a breath, centering himself and growing all the more stubborn for it. “You said it yourself, this--” he gestures to the soot-stained walls of the Cathedral with its glowing candles, “isn’t helping you. You need something else.” 

“I need only to devote myself to the Light once more.”   

Dismas grows quiet for a moment, before he changes tact, “You should come with me.” 

“Where?” Reynauld is exhausted. His patience wanes, and he knows the other well enough to be cagey. 

Dismas gives a shrug, “The tavern, to see if a pint will fix you. The brothel, to see if a warm body will.” He says the words so easily that they throw Reynauld for a loop.

“I admit to you that I have strayed from the Light and you suggest I fuck a whore?” Shock makes the words blunt. 

Dismas turns to look at him, grey eyes glinting gold in the candlelight. “You admitted no such thing to me.” 

“Well, I have now.” 

“The Vestal takes comfort in the warmth of their beds.” That secret is admitted easily, as if everyone in the town knows. As if Reynauld hasn’t heard her crying softly over thoughts of soft skin and rose-water smiles in the confessionals.

“Sister Junia is weak.” He doesn’t mean to be unkind. Junia is one of the softest of them, with nightmares that hound her even on the sun-soaked days. The Mother Superior should treat her more gently. Dismas knows that Reynauld cares for her, for all of them who find comfort in the Church’s walls. Even so, Dismas bristles.   

“She does her best. She seeks only alternatives to ease her mind.” 

“I--” I do not blame her. I, too, attempt to protect her. Spare me your ire, friend. The words stick in Reynauld’s throat. He clears it. “I would find no comfort in the women there.” 

There is another pause and Dismas frowns. This scowl appears to be more thoughtful in nature, as though Reynauld just granted him a secret. Perhaps in a way, Reynauld has. Dismas' eyes glance around the Church, flicking up the apse and down the nave like boiling quicksilver. They are alone, free of the cloistered Sisters and mortal eyes, save for the Light that glints from the candles. When Dismas speaks, his voice is low. “They… do not only have women there, Reynauld.”

If he were in a better mood, Reynauld would have laughed. Instead, the words needle him. How does the other not understand? How does Dismas, sharp and paranoid as he is, not understand that Reynauld would find no comfort in the arms of a stranger? That there is no salvation to be found in the bartering of flesh and affection for coin? How can one so protective of Junia not understand the reason why she prays for the Light’s absolution, when she comes back into the holy fold still smelling of cheap perfumes?

Reynauld shifts from his kneeling, grunting as blood returns to his feet. His body aches. Perhaps he had been praying for too long. He looks down at the former highwayman, still seated on the tiled floor. “I had a wife. I can fuck a woman.” 

“ Drek , then what the fuck is the issue, Holy-Man?” 

“That you think that I would find comfort in the bartering of flesh for coins!” 

Dismas’s scowl deepens, shifting to anger. He rises to his feet. “There is no shame in it.” There is a defensiveness there, though damn it all if Reynauld is able discern if it is wielded for the sake of the workers or for Dismas’s own vices. He continues, “The Light doesn’t say you have to be celibate, Reynauld.” Again, he uses Reynauld's name . It is as though Dismas is attempting to coax him to something. It feels like temptation . Woeful be the Darkness, if it is foul and cunning enough to come to Reynauld as Dismas.

“LEAVE ME TO MY PRAYERS!” The words are bellowed, rebounding off of the glass and stone like the ringing of the church’s bell. The moment that they leave his throat, Reynauld regrets them. They will surely draw the Abbot forth from his work. Even worse, as the sounds echo, Reynauld watches as Dismas takes a step back. He sees the tightness come over his brow. He knows that sharp expression. Fear. It rises and falls quickly, but that doesn’t change the fact that it was there. Guilt bites at his chest. 

Dismas clicks his tongue. His expression shifts into a twisted and nasty thing. Hurt darkens the creases around his eyes. Reynauld wishes that he could soothe them, could press a thumb between the other’s brow and press away the lines. He wishes he could rip himself open, show the other his pains and wants and twisted veins and have the other understand. 

Alas, he cannot even move. 

Dismas steps back, spinning on his heels.  “Fine. See what good your prayers will do. If you don’t eat, I will have the damned king drag you to the Sanitarium. I’ll force food down your throat myself. Who ever heard of a man that would not eat?”

I killed you. The words are there, but they stick in his throat. They choke him, even as the other walks away. I bled you, over and over and over again, and when I was done I found your head in a bag and I--

His chest tightens. He remembers how Baldwin’s fingers--typically, the other is so recalcitrant to touch, given the corruptive nature of his affliction-- had to tighten on his shoulder to force his attention back to the present. Back to the sobbing Sarmenti and the faltering Junia. What sort of bulwark is Reynauld against the Dark, that he can’t even still the thoughts in his mind? There is so much that he wants to say to Dismas. Yet, he can’t. 

He wants to try to say anything, but he can’t. 

So he lets the other leave. 

-0-0-0-0-

It is just his luck that, when he comes down from his bedchambers the next morning for dawn’s service, the Leper King waits for him. Even a few months ago, the other had sequestered himself in a decrepit house on the outskirts of town. ‘To keep the Hamlet safe,’ he had said, by way of justification. Junia hadn’t stood for it. ‘The flock of us faithful shan’t be separated!’ she had argued. As such, it was not long before Paracelsus was brewing concoctions to combat the brunt of Baldwin’s condition and Reynauld was tasked with badgering the Mother Superior to permit the once-king a sequestered apartment within the Abbey’s fold.

Reynauld would not complain. The Leper King was good, quiet, company, who permitted him the time he needed to think.

A bandaged hand rises before Reynauld can even think to bow-- while the other may not be his king, he was still a king, which has to mean something in Reynauld's battle-soaked mind. If Reynauld was any less of a man, he would have thought the other to be smiling beneath his mask.

“Good morrow, Sir Knight.” The muffled words are soft from beneath Baldwin’s mask. It is now gold-plated and newly renovated. Reynauld’s own sword remains chipped. His breast-plate remains dented. 

“May the Light shine bright upon you, your Majesty.” The title is an impulse, ingrained into Reynauld’s very being due to years of practice. The huff of breath that it receives is small, and Reynauld knows now that Baldwin is smiling. Neither of them hold their respective titles anymore, but there is comfort in their familiarity. Together, they begin to walk to the nave. Time does not pass in silence, however.

“I heard that you are quarrelling with your thief, Sir Knight.”    

“Not mine.” The words are immediately summoned, though Reynauld can see the other’s confusion. He remembers how Baldwin had to summon him back from the mists of insanity. He remembers how he had to shuffle him away from that damned blood-soaked bag. How is he to tell the other that Dismas and he are but brothers in their journey for redemption when he, himself, forgot the Light and acted more the part of a grieving lover? He clears his throat, “And not a thief.” 

“Ah,” is all he is granted as a response. 

Reynauld’s gloved fingers twitch for his holy icon, a nervous habit of his youth that he has never managed to rid himself of. He either holds it, or his hands go wandering to pick up other baubles.

Reynauld does not want to lose the once-King’s comforting company. He has been lonely these past few days. It's interesting that it took Dismas coming and then leaving for him to realize just how much. Reynauld speaks, “I heard that you have adopted a clown-shaped pup.”

“Hm,” that could be a chuckle, Reynauld supposes. “Sarmenti has been settling, thank the Light. He may play for us, in one of these sermons.” 

That drew forth a snort, “Over the Mother Superior’s festering corpse.” 

Another rattling hum of a chuckle, “The Light accepts all into its embrace.” Were it anyone else, Reynauld would greet that statement with the solemn severity it deserves. Unfortunately, over the past few months, he’s come to realize that the Leper King has a discreetly boyish sense of humour. The former royal would likely take far too much glee in the old bat of a matron being afflicted with the sight of bright crimson garments and the twinkling of bells. So, he gives the comment all that it deserves and snorts.

“Does Jingles even know any hymns?” The nickname draws forth a laugh and then a rattling cough. It is a joke amongst the veterans of the Hamlet, back from when the damnable Jester had refused to even give out his name. 

“Loosen your tongue, Sir Reynauld, no wonder your--hm, Dismas, was it? Yes, no wonder he is cross with you.” That sentence and the King’s own faltering make Reynauld stop short and look to the larger man. Baldwin just gives a small cough and continues. “Sarmenti has been asking to learn. Some hymns.” 

“Dismas is cross with me?” 

“You yelled at him, according to the Abbot. No man likes to be chided.”  

“I did not chide --”

“I would have thought you to be gentler with him, given our last fight with that fiend.” And there it is, too gentle to be an accusation but levelled at him like a marksman’s musket all the same. Blue light and socket-less eyes flash in Reynauld’s mind.

“I--” What is he supposed to say to such a thing? How is he supposed to speak of that last encounter, when it ended with him cradling the head of a not-dead-man, deaf to the world around him, fighting back hopelessness and tears?

The Leper stares at him. Were he a healthy man, with no affliction of the skin, he may have placed a hand on Reynauld’s shoulder. The years of his illness have conditioned him to remain still, however. “If you would permit my words, I pray that you will find it in yourself to speak to him. He was quite concerned when he came to me.” 

“What did you tell him?” The words are sharp, dragged out of Reynauld’s tightening chest. 

“Precious little, other than to grant you peace. Your affliction is not mine to speak of.”  Those words are quick, as if the other is desperate to abate his worries. As if the once-king knows them too well. It still hurts. 'Affliction'. The word burns, even if it is true. At least it is only Baldwin, kind and wise Baldwin, who knows the severity of his trespasses.

 Baldwin pauses, permitting Reynauld to relax, before continuing. “But… it would do you well to speak of it to him.” 

Reynauld barks out a laugh. “You call our closeness an affliction, yet now you request a confession? Which is it, your Majesty?” 

There is a grunt. “You have a habit of twisting words when you wish to be obtuse, Sir Reynauld. It becomes neither of us.” Baldwin takes care to gentle his tone. “Far be it from me to judge matters of affection. I am but a mortal, no longer even a king. When I spoke of affliction, I meant only the doubts and fears that manifested and still bite at your mind.” He pauses, looking toward where they both know the southern transept rests. Where the confessionals are erected. 

“Affection? You use such sweet words for sin.” Reynauld feels the sting of his father’s whip upon his back. He has to force himself to breathe. He has finally spoken the words aloud, and they weren’t even whispered in the safety of a confessional booth. Damn his cowardice. 

“I pray that the Holy Light will forgive a dying man a little blasphemy, and even so…” There is a tilt of Baldwin’s masked head, “I remember no scriptures decrying the evils of what you desire.” 

“Lust--” 

“Lust does not make one weep and cradle a decapitated head like a babe.” Baldwin’s sharpness returns with a vengeance, even as his voice remains a whisper. What sway, he would have had, when he was still young and hale King.  Reynauld looks away, feeling chastised. “If you wish to scour the scriptures for justifications of your guilt, I am certain that Sister Junia would join you. You would make quite the pair in that regard.”  

Silence follows. It is all Reynauld can do to not feel the part of a child, chastised by an iresome Father. His own father had never been so soft. Baldwin eventually finds it in himself to speak once more. “I am tired, Sir Reynauld, forgive me. It is only that I would see my friends happy, before I pass. Perhaps the enemies of my youth corrupted me, but I see precious little sin in love."

Reynauld winces. He hates when the other speaks so candidly of the progression of his affliction. While the Doctor’s tinctures have managed to contain the brunt of the disease’s communicability, the blight continues to bring ruin to the other’s flesh. "You make it sound so simple, your Majesty."

"Is it not?"

"He does not feel as I do." Dismas still holds to fraternity. Dismas, despite his failings, deviancy, and vices, has not yet looked to corrupt their companionship. 

"Even if he rebuffs you, he seems the sort to keep such matters quiet." 

"Until he grows biting and angry." 

"Even if he doesn't rebuff you, he may comment when angered. He is also the sort to lash out.”

“You compliment him with one breath and deride him the next.” 

“That is because I do not like him. I find his manner biting and his humor dreadful. Even so, he cared enough for you to broach these halls looking to collect you, so I am endeavoring to still my tongue. Now,” The Leper’s mask shifts to face the direction of the nave once more, “Shall we go? It would not do to be late to service.” 

-0-0-0-0-

The Cove is an absolute shithole of a place, filled with loathsome cultists and bubbling fish-folk. Blades designed to cut and pierce skitter across scales with far too much regularity. The cold waters cling to weapons and armor, leaving the lot of them shivering for days after delving into the cavernous depths. Reynauld hates it. They all hate it.

As it is, they are all huddled together, trying desperately to conserve what little warmth they can as the fire sputters and spits in the humid air. The closeness does little. Frost has begun to cling at the mold-slick walls with the coming of winter. Reynauld’s fingers are clumsy with cold as he attempts to finish the knot of the bandages on Paracelsus’ head, to the doctor’s irritation. The poor thing had suffered a smarting head wound from some clawed fiend and, like most times she is injured, is being an absolute menace regarding treatment.

“Blast it, you’re not helping! Foolish man, weren’t you ever taught the basics field medicine in that fucking desert?! Or were you too busy savaging women and children even for that?!” Paracelsus’ voice is shrill and grating as she jerks away from him. In her haste, she completely ruins the wrapping of bandages that he had nearly completed. Reynauld grits his teeth. It wouldn’t do to yell at her. Less than a week since he pulled himself out of the damn chapel at the Heir’s pleading, and already he just wishes that he had never left its candles and hymns. All that he can do is thank the Light--somewhat guilty-- that their doctor was the only one to have suffered major injuries and he has been able to keep his wits. If it was Dismas--no. No. Those thoughts won’t do. All that they lead to is ghostly apparitions and haunting thoughts of a head in a bag. Reynauld shakes his head. He is content to be quiet, but then the damndable woman decides to pull out a fucking syringe from her bag with trembling fingers. 

Before he can even react, Dismas is on her, spitting vitriol with all the heat that their fire lacks, “Ah, Para, you absolute bloody genius ! Pull your wounds and stuff a blighted needle in your vein with hands like that! Just fucking bleed yourself out before the cold and fish do you in, eh ? A fool-proof strategy ! Give me that, damn you! ”

No matter how Paracelsus struggles, Dismas’ fingers are quicker. The metal of the contraption flashes in the golden light of the dying fire and then Dismas is skidding away, his prize clutched tightly in his gloved hands. That only sets the medic off even more.  

“You twice-bit, flea-addled cur! You bumbling half-wit, always doing what he wants without a thought in your head! Always so desperately hunting for a scrap of misplaced affection! Give it back! I know better than him! I know better than all of you !” Her chest heaves with the words and Reynauld watches as her breath rattles. She’s overwhelmed. She’s in pain. It is almost as if she thinks she is in front of those men who derided her life’s work, rather than the men and women that she has fought, bled, and healed beside for months now. 

Dismas reels and, for a moment, Reynauld is half-certain that he will lunge at the woman. Audrey, it seems, knows. Dismas is caught by an artful hand. The former noblewoman drags him away to the opposing corner of the firepit; her words are a careful whisper that Reynauld only just hears. “It’s not worth it, sweetling. ‘Tis fine. ‘Tis fine. You know she doesn’t mean it.” 

The growl that she receives in response is in a tongue that Reynauld can’t decipher. If Audrey knows what is said, she makes no comment. Instead, she just shifts to look over at Reynauld with too-sharp eyes. There is something accusatory in the curl of her reddened lips. Reynauld ignores her. It isn’t his fault that Paracelsus is deciding to act the part of a child and throw a tantrum. Instead, he devotes himself to better matters and coaxes Paracelsus back into a sitting position. 

Reynauld hates the Cove.

None of them speak as they climb into their bedrolls. Paracelsus mercifully keeps to herself, her vitriol quieting to whimpers as she beds down at Reynauld’s direction. Dismas doesn’t even glance toward either of them.  Reynauld is half of a mind that her words would just be another instance added to the mountain erected between him and another man. Then, however, he awakes to the soft shuffling of soft-soled boots in the dead of night.

“Is all alright?” He doesn’t open his eyes. He trusts Dismas’ bells enough to alert them if they are actually approached by fiend or fish. 

“Hush,” Dismas’ voice is scratchy and so very tired . The sound is levied as a whisper. Reynauld is struck with the maudlin memory of how his wife used to smile and pitch her voice just so as to not wake their son. “Rest your eyes, Crusader.” 

He has to fight that command, “The same can be said to you, thief.” 

There is a huff, “I will find no peace here.” 

That makes Reynauld shift. His eyes open to reveal Dismas sitting opposite his bedding, poking half-heartedly at the dying embers. “Too cold?” 

There is a half-shrug. “In a manner.” Those words hold a parchedness, a rawness, that Reynauld is unable to discern. Probably a night terror, then. Reynauld wishes he knew a way to comfort the other. Alas, he has no booze, no cards, and no safe topics of conversation. He is once more reminded of all the words left unspoken between them. Reynauld hadn’t alerted the other when the Heir called upon them to travel together. Dismas still hasn’t commented on how Reynauld only just left the Chapel after close to two weeks of penance. 

No apologies have been granted, from either side. 

Reynauld is, suddenly, selfishly, tired of it all. “I apologize,” he says, “for the incident in the Chapel.” 

He is met with biting silence. Reynauld has to swallow around the rock of shame that lodges in his throat. He hears the soft scraping of boots once more and when he looks up, Dismas is crouching beside him. The repentant highwayman stares down, flintlock eyes flashing.

“When I spoke of the brothel--I only meant--I only wanted-- I would not have…” The words grind together before stopping completely. Dismas grits his teeth.  His brow is furrowed. He looks almost… lost.  Without letting himself think, Reynauld reaches up to press the thumb of his left hand into the worry lines. He feels the way that the other’s breath stutters. He watches Dismas shift. Dismas doesn’t step away, however. He just continues to stare down at Reynauld, gnawing at his bottom lip, the way he does when he’s low on coin and desperate to gamble.

Be gentler with him. The advice of a dying man rings in Reynauld’s ears.  Reynauld rubs the pad of his thumb just once over the sun-tanned lines, before dragging it across the arch of the other’s scarred eyebrow. He has to swallow as he watches Dismas’ eyes flutter closed. He opens his mouth, only to find that words fail him. 

But when have words ever helped the two of them?

Reynauld feels his other hand rise, coming up to shift the blankets. It falls to Dismas’ side, not quite pulling rather than let the other man settle into its weight. The touch holds a question. An offer. Dismas looks almost pained. 

“Reynauld--” the call is weak, or maybe just soft, given the two women sleeping near them. Reynauld pulls, just once, on the side of Dismas’ coat. 

He forces words to come. They are not what he means, but they hold truth regardless. “It will not do to have you freeze, Dismas. Share with me?” 

There is something fragile in how Dismas has to set his shoulders. Reynauld hates it, even if he cannot summon the courage to identify it. He tugs again. This time, Dismas falls.

-0-0-0-0-

The coming of winter has always ingrained habits in Reynauld. The bright light of the sun in the winter morning forced his eyes open when he was but a lad, rousing him before his father. He learned to toy with his holy symbol during the frigid morning sermons to keep his hands from wandering. It appeared that he was not alone in developing such patterns. 

Dismas coming to share his bed is sporadic, at first. It started slow-- once a week, if that. It started with nights where the snow and sleet pounded on the windows of the Hamlet and everyone was miserable and griping at the chill. Reynauld would awaken to Dismas shifting in the shadows of his room, tense and shivering as his breath took to frost. Dismas would come all the way from the communal barracks to the Abbey. 

No words would be spoken, but Reynauld would lift the blankets. Dismas would shuck his boots and coat. The other would come crawling in, toes kindred to icicles against the backs of Reynauld’s knees. Come morning’s light, Dismas would be gone. 

They didn’t speak of it, even as one night a week became two, and two became four. Reynauld said nothing, even when he awoke to Dismas reeking of booze, or worse, cheap perfume and cheaper soap.  By half-way through winter, it dawned on Reynauld that Dismas was arriving close to every night that the two of them were in the Hamlet together. That he was starting to have a harder time falling asleep without the other’s soft breathing. He didn’t say anything then either, he just reached over to where Dismas rested, warm beneath the blankets and furs, and pulled the former thief closer. He took quiet joy in the way the other man muttered something under his breath and burrowed closer. After all, Dismas would always be gone come dawn. 

-0-0-0-0-

The Weald grows thick with the coming of spring; its vines and shadows strengthen and twist upon themselves, making even well-known paths nearly untraversable. Twice now, Reynauld has almost tripped in the midst of battle because some demandable plant or animal deems to lunge at him from the tree-line. He collects himself, shifting to the right so that Dismas has the space to rush forward with his flashing knives. Red blood blooms in the gouges left by the other’s quick strikes. Arterial blood sprays. Dismas’ cultist grips at her neck, no longer able to cry out to her dark god, and crumples to the ground shortly after. Blood leaks like a shadow from beneath her.

With that opening, Reynauld regains his balance. He returns to position, granting the other man a nod of thanks, and strikes out to relieve the suffering of some poor blighted animal. The wolf’s dying yelp rebounds through the Weald, scattering birds and breaking through the ubiquitous buzz of insects. As Reyauld catches his breath, Dismas passes him a skin blessedly filled with watered wine. Reynauld watches him. Looks like they both evaded major injury. He thanks the Light for small blessings. 

Their fingers brush and Reynauld feels Dismas stop short. He feels him still. Something undecipherable, almost hungry, passes over the roguish man’s features. Such looks have been happening more and more, of late. Reynauld is the first to break away, lifting his visor, and moving to drink. The acidic wine-water burns as it goes down.

Dismas clears his throat. “Think we’re good, nah? Cleared away the muck from the tree-lines, should make our little princeling be able to sit still for another few weeks yet.” 

“Haven’t found the Shrieker.” They had only been sent out to cull the crowds and hunt for potential nest locations. But Reynauld’s skin itches. He is still making up for lost time, time that had been spent in his own mind, filling his lungs with prayer and candle smoke. He needs to prove himself still worthy. His redemption depends on his strength. His conviction. He needs to keep going.

“Bah,” the ex-con grunts, “ Calm yourself. We’ll get ‘em in time, Holy-Man. Focus on the good. Hamlet’s safe.” There is a gruffness to his comfort, but it is twined around earnestness. Dismas’ hand comes to his side. Reynauld feels his mouth go slightly dry. He wants… something. More . Every touch that the other is willing to grant him.

Reynauld isn’t enough of a fool to not recognize carnal desire for what it is. He would have thought that sharing a bed with the other would have dampened… some of this. Alas, the opposite appears true. He wants to touch, to brush, to horde . Ah, Reynauld has always been the selfish sort when it comes to his loves.

Reynauld sighs, takes another sip of wine, hands back the skin, and turns his attention to the girls, who appear to be arguing. He is just in time for Junia to look at him, wide-eyed and desperate to be right. He immediately shifts to look at her directly. Dismas moves away to search through the cultist’s remains. Reynauld is hit with an instinctive nervousness as he measures the weight of his bags. They do not carry too much, Reynauld is assuaged, the Creature in Yellow shall not--

“Aren’t I right, Sir Reynauld?” 

Ah, Reynauld looks down to the animal entrails of his kill, and then back up to where Junia is aggressively pouting, hands on her hips the way that he has seen the Mother Superior do when she sees a dry spot on the mopped floors. 

“What?” 

Thankfully, Junia appears to take no offence at his lack of attention. “That a woman may lie with a woman and have it not be considered sin, for there is no penetration. ‘Tis only when she lies with a man out of marriage that she hast disgraced herself.” 

Reynauld looks back at the guts on the ground and sees Dismas chortling out of the corner of his eye. How did the vestal and the former noble even arrive at such a topic? He looks at the two women. He takes in the way Audrey is grinning, and the way that Junia has splotches of colour high on her cheeks. Ah, Junia is in one of her moods again.

Junia is a blessing. A warm ray of light that Reynauld feels no fault in clinging to on dark days. But Junia is also young , opinionated, and absolutely fucking batshit when it comes to matters of the flesh. 

So, here they go. They are going to make asses out of themselves discussing the finer points of sex and love in front of a former highwayman and a potentially  practicing  grave robber, because Junia has a point she thinks she needs to prove given that she sins in Brothels and finds girls pretty. Somewhere in the sky above them all, the Light is laughing at Reynauld.

Reynauld scans the surrounding woodlands, half-hoping for some fungal infested plant to come shambling to life and try to kill them all. Nothing comes to save him. “There is nothing in the scripture that denotes as much.” 

Ha!” Junia looks far too proud of herself, before she turns her gaze back to Audrey. “He agrees with me.” 

“Ah yes, the man who has not fucked in years agrees with you on matters of sex, congratulations, Sister.” Audrey’s voice is as dry as a desert.

Dismas starts laughing and pulls out a pipe. Reynauld managed to convince him, long ago, that he should only alight on the way home, after the path is clearer. He comes up to bump shoulders with Reynauld. Reynauld watches as the other’s lips encircle the stem of the wooden piece. He watches as smoke curls from the other’s mouth. Reynauld has to ball his fingers to keep from taking the offending instrument and giving it a pull. An arm comes up and pulls him down to the Highwayman’s level. Dismas’ breath smells of sweet tobacco. Reynauld feels something in his chest stir, hungry and wanting. Light above, he needs space to pray . “She has you wrapped around her little pinky, Holy-Man.” Dismas says with a grin.

“She knows that we both know that the coveting of another is decried.” 

“Ah, but the text specifically says--” 

That shouldn’t grind him. It really shouldn’t. He knows that it is a joke. Yet the words still prod at a raw nerve. It isn’t the other’s fault--in fact, it's more Reynauld’s than anyone else’s. It is Reynauld who wants. Dismas does not know. But even so, the other knows that Reynauld is a coin’s flip from retreating into the Chapel once more. He knows the weakness of the other’s will. Reynauld has told him of it. He knows of his faith, desperation, and fears. Dismas knows, and yet, he teases. 

“I will not have you blaspheme the word of the Light on such matters, harlot.”

“Oh ho! ‘Harlot’, he calls me!” Dismas’ eyes take up a sharp light as he steps away. Almost instantly, Reynauld feels bereft without his touch. “Tell, me, oh knowledgeable Crusader, how many whores does one have to fuck before they themselves are considered one?”  Dismas is edging toward an argument. They have not even been out for more than two days. This won’t do. Can they not speak nicely to the other unless they are exhausted and softened by sleep? Reynauld feels his chest tighten. His suffering is his fault, regardless. Time to return the conversation back to form.

He sighs. Thankfully, there is an easy way out of this mire. “Sister Junia!” She snaps to attention. “Pray, what do you think the scriptures say of fingers? Art such considered penetration?” Thankfully, that is all that is needed to send Audrey spiralling again as Junia starts to sputter. When Reynauld looks over, an incredulous grin is etching its way past Dismas’ handkerchief and pulling at the laugh lines of his eyes. He is beautiful in the speckled sunlight of the trees. 

“Sir Reynauld!” Junia sounds absolutely scandalized. Poor girl, he shouldn’t be making her the butt of the joke. “We both know that they would!” Oh, Junia , sometimes she makes it too easy. 

He huffs, sheathing his sword. He used to hear his men in the desert speak in such ways. Easy comradery. Gentle ribbing. He had never partaken. He had considered himself above it all. Look at him now. “The girls' mouths must get tired, if all they can do is lick.”

Audrey and Dismas start howling, as Junia breaks formation to jog up to him, pulling at his arm in distress. “SIR REYANULD!” Reynauld ignores her, going to light a torch. 

“I once heard of an abbey where all the nuns went about, conversing like cats.” Dismas attempts desperately to catch his breath, though the laughter in his voice has the quality to it that Reynauld knows would lead to nothing good for poor Junia. Audrey is already huffing. 

“Bet they got real good at grooming.” Audrey says.

“Imagine all the cream they got, eh, Sister?” Dismas’s smile sharpens to a grin as he looks back at Junia.

The moment that Junia catches on, her face goes beet red.  Birds fly at her cry of mortification. “Sir Reynauld--” her cry is a whine, “They are teasing me.” 

Audrey winks at her. Junia blushes even deeper. At one point, Reynauld would have bristled and rushed to her defense. Now, he just pats at her shoulder with all the sympathy he can manage.

“Vagabonds of their ilk tend to do such things, dear Sister Junia.” 

“Well, make your bandit stop!” 

Reynauld is weak. He doesn’t correct the possessive. “As if I, a mere mortal, could control a force like Dismas. Straighten your back, Sister. Walk with the dignity he and his compatriot lack.” 

Dismas huffs and puffs his smoke, unperturbed. Audrey’s eyes sharpen, however, as she turns to watch him. Reynauld reaches over and snags Dismas’ pipe to take a pull. The grin that he receives in response is as brilliant as the sun. Reynauld stays silent, as Junia’s whining quiets to pouting, and even as Dismas wraps an arm back around his armored shoulders. 

Reynauld feels himself relax into the ex-con’s touch. Perhaps the other is no longer angered with him. Perhaps they will have a good day. Perhaps they will all be fine. Reynauld breathes out smoke, and shifts his gaze back to the group. “Formations, men. Keep alert. Let’s get home.” 

They begin their march to the Hamlet. 

-0-0-0-0-

Everything goes to hell. Of course it does. The moment that the Heir deems that they are strong enough to send out two groups at once, everything falls apart. William and Fergus are the only reason that Reynauld and Audrey are dragged from the Weald alive. Even Missandei limps heavily. Surprisingly--maybe worryingly-- Reynauld’s near brush with death at the hands of a blighted giant didn’t phase him all that much. He aches and his fingers itch to grab, catch, and take, but his mind remains… clear. He hates it, if only because not being in his own head, worrying about his own damnable skin, means that he has the capacity to worry about others. One other in particular. 

The Heir had started sending him out with Dismas more often than not. To be separated after so many joint runs makes Reynauld’s skin itch. Not knowing makes his thoughts darken. 

They are nearing the Hamlet with its soft beds and faint glowing lights when Audrey grabs for him. At first, Reynauld assumes it is to steady herself. She had taken a troll swipe to the chest, after all. While Missandei is an accomplished field medic, natural healing methods aren’t able to hold a candle to Junia’s miracles and blessings. Audrey’s hand doesn’t let go, however. Her eyes narrow. Her lips thin, in a manner not completely due to pain. Reynauld lilts toward her, providing an arm for the former noblewoman. Her expression softens ever so slightly, before her suspicious frown returns with a vengeance. 

“You… I have a bone to pick with you, darling.” 

“Milady, how may I--” 

“Uh huh, listen here, sweet-thing. You aren’t going to save his soul or anything like that by gracing him with your righteous cock. You know that, right?”

All Reynauld can do is blink. Surely, he misheard. Surely, he is concussed. “What.” He pitches his voice low, glancing toward William, who is thankfully distracted by his hound.

Audrey smiles and her pretty voice pitches down to become a hiss. At least she exercises some caution. “You aren’t subtle. More importantly, he’s not.”

“Subtly? We are not--” 

Audrey’s eyes flash and genuine anger bites at her sharp features. “You will not hide him like some low-class mistress, Crusader. He is worth more than that.” 

Reynauld feels as though they are speaking two conversations. Even so, that comment bites at him. “I know his worth.” The words come out as a growl.

“No, you don’t.” How is it that she sounds so self-righteously certain? Reynauld would be offended if he weren’t so concerned that he and the thief, that he and Dismas were attracting attenti- 

“I know how folks like yours and mine tend to treat men like him. I’ll tell you now, I won’t stand for it.” 

How dare she? “You. Know. Nothing.” Dismas is his harbor, his port in the storm. It is all that he can do to provide the other a kindred place to rest. To accuse them of debauchery and sin where there is none is vile. It is cruel beyond measure, when Reynauld has been good and virtuous despite waking some mornings to warmth and want-- how dare she? “I haven’t touched him, Audrey .” He spits her given name at her, with all grinding familiarity that he knows they have both been brought up to hate when it comes from those unworthy. 

She lets out a noise kindred to a roiling tea kettle. “He goes to your bed every damned night, don’t lie --” 

“That is where we sleep. ‘ Tis companionship. ” 

The graverobber stops, something in her expression faltering. If there is something that the lot of them can understand, it is that sometimes sleep can come easier when others are close by. Many of them still sleep in the communal barracks for that very reason. Her expression softens and for that, Reynauld grants her a secret. “It keeps the terrors at bay. For both of us, I think.” 

Stained lips--oh, how the noble Lady clings to the trappings of her past; they are kindred souls in that-- part. The former noblewoman stares at him for a moment. She halts in her tracks, before Reynauld’s arm guides her forward. When she next speaks, her voice is scarcely a strained whisper. “You do know he beds men, correct, Crusader?” 

Reynauld raises an eyebrow toward her, forgetting for a moment that he still wears his helm. She seems so genuine in that moment that he takes pity on her. “Indeed, I do.” 

“And you are amenable to that? You don’t find it shameful?” Audrey feels along her hat’s brim, the closest she permits herself to fidgeting. They both know she won’t apologise for her past words. 

“Everyone is allowed their vices.” Reynauld remembers Baldwin’s words and, despite feeling his stomach swoop, continues, “And there are precious few verses decrying love, regardless of its forms.” 

Audrey goggles at him for a moment before starting to cackle. “ Love? Oh, Reynauld-- sweetling--” 

“Eh, Audrey, leave the poor lad alone.” Blessed be William, Reynauld’s personal saviour, because Reynauld is trying and he isn't sure that his composure can withstand Audrey's ridicule. He is aware that what Dismas gets from their arrangement is only physical, but he still has his scraps of pride.

“Yeah, yeah, one moment, luv,” She waves him away, continuing to trail after Reynauld like the banshee she is. When he manages to convince himself to spare a glance down at her, she is watching him with an uncharacteristically soft expression. “Just… eh… treat him gentle-like, yeah? He’s been bruised before, Crusader, but he’s trying. And,” Heaven and earth, did she just wink ? “If your companionship shifts, let me know if I can give ya any pointers, alright? I get the feeling it’s been a good while for ya . ” 

He sputters. She pats him on the arm, all condescension and class, before skipping away toward the tavern. 

Reynauld goes to his room, because if there was anything he missed doing in that Light-forsaken forest, it was actually sleeping. He collapses upon his bed the moment that he gets the chain and pieces of plate-- the ones that aren’t damaged past the need of repair-- up upon his armour stand. Light above, times like these, he longs for the aid of a squire. Of a second pair of knowing hands to make the work go twice as fast. He wants--

Ah, but Dismas’ group has yet to return. 

Reynauld curls up, his hands grasping for the smaller of the two pillows, the one that Dismas tends to favor, and feels his eyes drift closed. 

-*-*-*-*-

Reynauld is awoken by the door slamming open. He startles to alertness, his right hand clutching blindly for his sword. Then, his eyes adjust to the darkness. Then, his ears hear the ragged breaths of the man standing in the doorway. “Dismas?” 

The former thief jerks at the name, staggering forward like a puppet on strings. Metal scents the air. The faint traces of one-white bandages catch on the light of the moon as it bleeds from the window. His mouth opens and something garbled, a sob if summoned forth from a lesser man, escapes his chest.

Reynauld is on his feet before he can even think. His body screams in protest at the fast movement, the muscles of his bruised ribs pulling. He reaches for the thinner man, regardless.

“Reynauld--” The call of his name is a halting, broken thing. By the Light , Dismas should be in the Sanitarium, not in his apartments. Reynauld has never seen the other like this. Normally, Dismas is too quick--too agile-- to let anything hurt him so. Flecks of dried blood come down from his hairline, his bangs are stiff with sweat and gore, claw or bite marks rend holes in his jacket, and he hobbles on his left side. His right arm comes up to grip at Reynauld’s arm, tight and warning, but his left arm stays hanging in what looks to be a sling. 

“Where are the others, Dismas?” 

“On the move, we must stay on the move--” Panic lilts in the other man’s voice, even as his eyes dart about the room. He takes in the shadows, his hand never once leaving Reynauld’s arm. 

“Shh, shh, you are home. The hamlet is safe.” 

“Nowhere is safe. Reynauld, Reynauld--” 

“I am here, I am here. Where are the others?” 

“Too slow. One is-- the rest, though, they are… coming. Coming? Behind me?” There is a hitch to those words, as if Dismas himself isn’t sure. If Reynauld listens to the wind, he thinks he can hear the church bells ringing, denoting the other group’s return. He turns his attention back to Dismas, who is watching him with suspicious and wild eyes. 

“What happened, Dismas?” 

“No.” The word is snapped, biting and cold, and for a moment, it seems as though Dismas returns to himself. Then his breath catches in his throat, rattling. He shifts them both, as though to squirrel them away in the dark shadows of the room. “Please, no. Quiet. Traitor in our midst. They knew how to startle us--how to--” 

“What? Traitor? Who betrayed you, Dismas?” The words send ice through his veins. 

“Beast and shadows. She loves him more than us fair weather friends, Rey. Your blade, your sword… take--” 

“Shh,” Reynauld whispers, hoping to quiet and calm him, hoping to get some sense out of madness. He lowers them to sit on the ground near the nightstand, where Dismas seems most sure of himself. He settles, letting the other squirm and shudder in his arms. 

It is not the first time that someone has broken from the stress of a mission, not even close. It won’t be the last. Despite the Heir’s insistence that they take care of themselves, first and foremost, the evils that they fight… they can be too much. Reynauld remembers his own hopelessness, crouching over Not-Dismas’s decapitated head. He clutches Dismas tighter, releasing him only when he hears the other grunt in something akin to pain. Even as his hold relaxes, Dismas chases him. “Wait, no, Reynauld--”

“I have you.” He whispers, brushing fingers through sweat-stained hair. The Ruins were cruel to the other, this run. He already sees where bruises are beginning to form. His fingers skate over cuts. He feels the other start to shake into relaxation, muscle by muscle. He continues to talk. “I have you. I can take care of this. Relax. I can run you a bath. Get you cleaned. You can sleep, don--”

A knock comes to the door and Dismas goes tense, silent, and still. All progress is lost. A knife appears, gripped in his hand. Reynauld stands. 

Dismas grabs for him, silent and furious, but his left side can’t support the lunge. He crumples, kneeling. Reynauld falters in his tracks, immediately sinking to the ground beside the ex-con.   

“Crusader?” Paracelsus. Thank the Light. “Crusader, is he with you?” 

“Aye.” Reynauld calls, trying not to ignore the guilt that he feels when Dismas goes tense and wild beside him. Reynauld hears the woman sigh, the strain in her voice fading as panic settles to worry. 

“May I come in?” she queries, still not opening the door. 

Reynauld looks at Dismas, who looks akin to a man on a gallows. “Monster’s protector. Traitor. Who has paid her? Who has she spoke to?” The words are scarcely muttered. Reynauld presses a kiss to the other’s head. In his state, Dismas doesn’t even appear to notice.

Reynauld trusts Para. She could have let him die ten-times over. Surely, there must be something amiss. “... He shan't enjoy it, if you do.” 

“As if I have ever been stopped from doing something by people finding it distasteful.” Paracelsus huffs and the door cracks open. Dismas, despite his pain, is ready to slink back. Reynauld places a hand on the scruff of his neck and presses down on the tension. Despite everything, Dismas' shoulders go lax.

A beaked mask pokes through the light spilling forth from the hallway. “Ah, Dismas. There you are. You were supposed to come with me to the Sanitarium.”

“Hang yourself, witch.” The words are snapped, just a shade off from Dismas’ normal tone. Paracelsus levels him with what could be a glare if her gaze wasn’t obscured by the mask. 

She looks around the room. Reynauld can almost feel her distaste before he hears the click of her tongue. “I cannot treat you as effectively here. May Reynauld take you to the Sanitarium? You will bleed on his sheets.” There is a momentary pause before Paracelsus huffs, “Please?” 

Dismas doesn’t even dignify her attempt at politeness with a response. When another shadow takes over the door’s light, he shuffles back. His breathing goes ragged. Reynauld has never seen the other so truly panicked. 

Reynauld scarcely knows the scarred man who peaks his head in. He was a relative newcomer to the town, an oddity garbed in chains, who only rarely entered the local amenities. Even so, the guilt that lingers on his face renders everything a just bit more clear. Maybe there had been something in Dismas’ ramblings. 

Reynauld cannot help the surge of protectiveness and distrust that comes over him. He shifts to block the other’s view of Dismas and chances a glance to where his sword is. “What did you do?” He keeps his voice level. It would not do to shout and draw more attention to Dismas’ state. If this man is a traitor, the world will know soon enough.

“I-I--” The man falters. He appears contrite. Worried. Reynauld may have pitied him had Dismas’ lone good hand not come up to grab at Reynauld’s shirt, pulling weakly, as if to draw the other way. 

“Monster’s what he is. Beast in flesh. T-took down--bit the Necromancer clean in half. ‘Screamed. Screamed like…” Dismas’ attention trails away, even as he still shutters and mutters beneath his breath.

Paracelsus blusters, even as the man flinches as if struck. “He’s no monster! We had it perfectly under control! It would have gone swimmingly, if only we hadn’t--”

“You’ll send us to our deaths at his claws, woman!” Dismas’ words drip with anger and fear.

“Para.” At Reynauld’s call, she falters. Her masked gaze flits from Reynauld, to Dismas, and back to the man. She squares her shoulders. The man whimpers something that Reynauld isn’t able to hear, but he can decipher the pain and oncoming hopelessness. He knows it well.

“I had a p lan . It would have been fine. We just… we were surprised before we could rest. Bigby had nothing to do with it! It was the Necromancer. We had planned it all out, and then we had to scrap it! 

“ Para --” This time, Reynauld let his voice sharpen, if only slightly. Paracelsus wilts. Reynauld hears the newcomer retreat. Paracelsus looks almost torn as he goes, as if she wants to call him back but knows it to be a lost cause. She looks back at them both.

“He asked me to help him, Reynauld. I could have helped him.” Ah, and there was the crux of the matter. Paracelsus with her desperations to prove herself right and her demons wrong. 

“It's a matter to be discussed later. What of Dismas?” At the call of his name, the man flinches. Reynauld has to fight to keep from reaching for him. 

Paracelsus straightens, everything falling back into orderly, compartmentalized, place. There is only the smallest of throat clears before she speaks in her custom tones. “I need to treat him at the Sanitarium.” 

“Are any of his injuries particularly worrying?” 

There is a pause. “Look at him, Reynauld.” 

“I do not think he will go willingly with you. In his current state, your beast is Darkness incarnate and you are a traitor to our lot. Nor am I certain if picking him up and forcibly dragging him to the place that he ran away from is a good plan of action.” 

“He didn’t run from the Sanitarium, he ran to you.” And, oh, if that didn’t make Reynauld ache. 

“Let me see if I can calm him. I’ll bring him if not?” 

Paracelsus ponders that for a moment, before eventually nodding. She reaches into her bag, pulling out a brown glass vial. “An opium-derivative. If you mix a few drops of it with some water or just a bit of ale, it should be able to get him to rest.” 

“Will he dream?” Both of them know the dangers of night terrors. He is met with silence and pursed lips. He knows the answer. He nods. “I will see what I can do. I will bring him to you in the morn, Para, if not sooner.” Without even waiting for a response, he shuts the door.

In the darkness, he and Dismas are alone once more. “Dismas,” he calls, “May I light a candle?” 

“They will see us.” 

“I need to see you. You are hurt.” 

“Nothing that hasn’t been bled before. Hide, hide--” that single hand pushes at Reynauld’s side, as if trying to get them to move. Reynauld grabs for it, keeping his touch gentle so that Dismas hopefully knows that he can break it. 

“Shh, Shh, I have you. The Hamlet is safe. My room is safe. I won’t let anyone harm you. I would never harm you. You know that, Dismas, correct?” Reynauld tries to keep his voice gentle. He tries not to think of ghosts, yellow coats, and blue light. He tries not to linger on thoughts of heads in bags.

“Safe?” Unlike before, where the other man’s words were biting, the question he raises is hesitant. It is almost as if he is trying to believe Reynauld. 

Reynauld nods. “No one has ever attacked us here. Even if they did, I would fight them.”  Reynauld grabs for the cloth that hangs near the washbin, wincing as it pulls his side. He sends up a prayer of thanks to whatever housemaid the Heir pays to fetch them enough water for washing when they return from journeys. He brushes at Dismas’s hairline, clicking his tongue as the cloth comes away browned on the first rub and then pink with fresh blood on the second. “My Dismas,” he cannot help the way that his breath hitches, “Why didn’t you let Para heal you?” 

There is a grunt and a hiss. Throughout the motions, Dismas had been tense and quiet. Now, he attempts to rouse himself enough to form words. “N-No time.” he whispers. He shuffles closer to Reynauld’s side, “Not safe. She’s--the Beast's. But I’m… yours?” 

Reynauld feels his breath stutter. He said too much. For a handful of heartbeats, he just sets to checking bandages and cleaning poorly healing wounds. Dismas’s skin twitches beneath his touch like that of a spooked yearling. “Reynauld?” The intonation of his name is strained. 

“I am here.” 

“Where are they? Why are they stalling? W-When will they come?” 

“I don’t know who you mean, Dismas. We are safe in the Hamlet.” Reynauld reaches up to bring the water basin down to them. He feels Dismas shiver beneath his touch as he shuffles the smaller man out of his blood-stained and ruined coat, leaving only his equally ruined undershirt. 

More words come, this time in the other’s mother tongue. Dismas lets out a shuddering sigh and closes his eyes. When they reopen, he looks to Reynauld, pleading. “Don’t let them take me. Don’t let them. I-I’ll--” 

He swallows, and Reynauld realizes that Dismas is trying, desperately, to fight some part of himself. HIs pride, perhaps? He is trying to force himself to keep talking. “I-I’ll be good. Good for you. Only you. Whatever you want. Anything you want. What do you want? Do you want me?” Oh, how Reynauld hates how those words are frayed. How they are only a step north of begging. It makes him almost believe that Dismas wants , when logically, he knows that this is bartering . 

Darkness is a wiley and crafty thing. Sin comes with a gentle touch. 

He permits himself the luxury of cradling Dismas's angled cheeks. He prays that it will bring the other peace. He feels the way that the other leans into his palm, desperately seeking connection and warmth like a beggar to a feast. 

"Shh, shh, you are already good to me. Don’t speak like this. Please. You are already good. Just relax. Be calm." He watches as Dismas' eyes close. He watches the way that his breath stutters. He tries not to be greedy. 

Dismas leans in.

The kiss is a soft thing, reeking of iron from where Dismas bit through his lip. But Dismas’ calloused fingers are soft as they grasp the collar of Reynauld's shirt. Reynauld’s world stills. How can there be more, when there is this? The shudders that course along Dismas’ spine still as Reynauld lets one of his hands brush up to cup the back of his head. That is it, just relax, Dismas… 

A desperate tongue laps at the corners of Reynauld’s lips, like a sinner begging for absolution at a church’s doors. How is Reynauld supposed to rebuff such a plea? How is he supposed to stay stalwart against such petitions when they come from Dismas? He shifts the other, ignoring the pain in his side and the ache of his knees, so that Dismas balances in his lap. A whine comes from the smaller man, half-choked. Teeth clink. It’s been years since Reynauld has done this.

Everything goes soft, filled only by the slide of tongue and the gentle brush of fingers. Reynauld traces his thumb back and forth against the divot of Dismas’ left temple, contenting the blood surging through his veins with the feel of soft skin and hair. 

Oh how he wants, he burns, he needs--

The kiss breaks and, with it, Reynauld breathes. The world spins. Dismas whines and shifts to nip at Reynauld’s neck. Day old stubble scratches at the soft skin beneath his beard. Reynauld can feel the heat of the other, hard and wanting, press against his stomach.

It could be so easy.

 Dismas’ fingers--still only one hand, Light above, he’s still injured-- grasp for the hem of Reynauld’s leggings. They brush against the coarse hair that starts there. 

It could be so, so easy. 

What is he doing?

Reynauld regains himself. He keeps his fingers gentle as he grabs for Dismas’ hand. He pushes them apart, desperate to put space between them. Dismas looks up, blinking like an owl exposed to dawn’s light. His pupils are so, so big. Reynauld burns for him. Reynauld loves him. Reynauld… can’t. "No, Dismas, no." 

The man's face cracks open, as if Reynauld has stuck him. Pain is bare. Reynauld has hurt him, despite everything he promised. Reynauld feels like a beast. But this, this is not--not like this. This cannot be done like this.

"I know that I am not a lithe and pretty thing." Dismas' voice is thick. Reynauld did this to him. Reynauld wants to be sick. "Tell me what I must do. I want to stay. How do I stay? How do you want me? I'll be your wife, your cur-- hit me, beat me. Please, Reynauld, I can take it, anything you want. Just-- Let me stay with you. I'll be good." The words are insanity, jumbled messes of things that fall from Dismas' lips. What was Reynauld thinking? How much of a villain must he be to permit himself this, with the other in this state? What a blaggard. What a cad. Even so, he cannot bring himself to break the other’s hold as he clings, reaching for Reynauld's touch. 

"Just let me stay.” Dismas breathes. His voice hitches again, wild and fearful once more, “Don't let them come." 

"You're good. You’re good, my Dismas, you’re--"

Dismas buries himself deeper into Reynauld's chest, fingers white-knuckled on his shirt. "Yours," he whimpers the word like there is something desperate to it. Like it's something he wants. "Yours, yours, however you want, just let me stay."

“Shh, shh, my darling,” there is another hitch to Dismas’ breath at the slip of the endearment, “Please, let us just sleep for now. I’ll protect you.” 

He who already hurt him. He who already killed him. The lies fall so easily, even as Reynauld spirals.

“Danger lurks.” The other whispers. “Come for me. They’ll come for you . I can't--” 

“I’ll stay awake. I’ll hold them off. Just rest, my Dismas. You must sleep. Regain yourself. Just… let’s away to bed.” 

The other sways, swallows, and continues to cling. Even so, he lets Reynauld raise him from his kneel, lets him carry him to bed, and curls beneath the blankets. “Away, away, from the touch of flame.” He whispers, gesturing to the window. 

“I shall watch the road, just sleep.” 

“The road, one day, the road must end…” The words are mumbled, sleep drunk, before at last, Dismas goes quiet.

In that silence, Reynauld weeps. 

-*-*-*-*-

The morning finds an exhausted Reynauld in Paracelsus’s work area within the Sanitarium. Dismas had hobbled to the building with only minor fussing, the vast amount of his delirium having abated with an unbroken night’s rest. He did not speak of the kiss. Reynauld, ever the coward, could not bring himself to press the issue. 

Dismas’ wounds are grave. He was immediately taken away and submitted for at least a week’s stay on the worried Heir’s coin. Reynauld, on the other hand, was shoved off on to Paracelsus for triage. The former disciple of medicine appears unbothered by such assignments, content to poke and prod at the bruising around his ribs. Reynauld’s fingers itch. He wants to take something. He wants to confess at the Chapel. He wants to go to Dismas’ side and plead for undeserved forgiveness. He can do nothing but wait while the medic holds his shirt hostage. Reynauld pushes away his tiredness and consigns himself to be a bother. 

“So, this beast of yours.” His words are gravelly from the long night’s disuse. He feels Paracelsus tense beside him. 

“Not a beast. His name is Bigby.” 

“Is he dangerous?” 

“No! You heed the ramblings of a mad man too much!” The words are muffled from beneath her hood, but her distress is evident. “I told you I had a plan! I’ve made concoctions. They help, just like with the Leper King. They help him think , even when… even when he’s changed! He is always in control. Like I said it would have gone fine , if only I could have just explained it to them in a reasonable and logical manner.” 

“Is Junia alright?” 

There is a shudder, and Paracelsus appears to grow uncertain. “She is here. In the Sanitarium. She took the stress worse than Dismas did. Thankfully, she didn’t run.” 

“Worse than--Para, you could have killed someone!” 

“Had he not transformed, we would have all died! We were surprised ! Dismas was in front !”  That makes him reel. His blood boils. He wants to strike, to hurt. He wants to bring her down to his level.

“Fair good the monster did him.” 

“He would be dead.” She presses into his side with a hair’s too much pressure and he has to suck in a breath. Anger clouds his mind. 

“Head in the clouds, unable to even fucking move his arm. He is left-handed! How is he to shoot, Paracelsus?!” 

“At least he’s here!” 

“You were reckless!” 

“I wanted to give Bigby a chance!” 

“You wanted to prove yourself! 

“Can I not want both, Reynauld?!” Her voice breaks on his name and she steps away. He can hear the wavering of her breathing from beneath her mask. 

They are both quiet for a time. Paracelsus makes no comment on the clenching and unclenching of Reynauld’s fingers. Reynauld stays silent regarding her occasional sniffle. Eventually, as she begins to wrap his side, the Doctor speaks. “If you’re to blame anyone for Dismas' arm, you may as well blame me. I am no Vestal.” The words are flat, almost at her normal cadence, but there is a strain to them. She blames herself, Reynauld supposes. “For what it is worth to you, I am sorry he is hurt. I took no joy in seeing him like that either.” 

Reynauld lets out a huff of a sigh. He should not take his ire out on her, one of the few who attempts to mend the broken bones of their town. Despite her faults, she tries to heal the lot of them, even those who stray from the Light’s embrace. 

“Hush now, Para. It was unbecoming of me to say.”

“‘Twas not entirely unwarranted.” 

They content themselves with quiet again for a time, as Paracelsus winds wrap after wrap of bandage around Reynauld’s torso. Eventually, she speaks. 

“He's devout, you know? Bigby. Like you. Like the Vestal. Despite what has been wrought upon him. He still prays at dawn and dusk. Each day.” she swallows, “Why do you all still hold faith, despite the harm that has been wrought upon you and others? I cannot comprehend it.” Reynauld knows she speaks of Junia’s tormentor, of the innocents who died by his blade in the name of the Light's will, and, perhaps, of this newcomer’s own nebulous wounds. She doesn’t know how Baldwin and he shield Junia from any flagellants that grace the Abbey with their presence. She does not even know how he, himself, evades the penance halls. Nay, those terrible truths are kept only amongst their flock of faithful. Even so, she sounds so righteously angry. 

“The Light is good, even if the mortal hands that wield it are fallible.” The words are as close to blasphemy as he permits himself to speak. He feels the sting of his Father’s whip upon his back. 

“‘Tis foolish. To love a thing that has hurt you so.” Simple Paracelsus, always so certain that she is right. Direct Paracelsus, who views those who aim to harm her people as lesser and bestial, only worthy of her experimentation. She would have made a good zealot, in another life. He isn’t sure if that thought is a compliment.

“It is what we have left.” he says finally, “Hope in the coming of the Dawn.”

She fidgets. “He--Bigby holds to your hope. When he thinks I cannot hear him.”

Reynauld sighs. Another lost and cursed soul collects in the hamlet. “What… What is that you want of me?”

“Let him pray in town. It does not have to be at service nor where anyone may see him. But it would grant him comfort. It could help soothe him and... the beast within him.” 

Reynauld feels his heart pull. Dear Para, so fiercely protective of them all. Perhaps his prior statement is misguided. Rather than a warrior, Paracelsus would make a good Vestal. The Light would have to grant her its soothing miracles, if only she could summon the belief. He clears his throat. “I do not have control over who is permitted entry to the Chapel. Bring your request to the Abbot.” 

There is a snort, still thick from their row. “As if that man would heed my request. Were it to come from you, however--” 

She isn’t wrong. She rarely is. But the Abbot and his griping isn’t what Reynauld concerns himself with most. “Junia hides herself in the Chapel. You will need to speak with her. Apologize to her.”  

There is a huffed sigh, as Paracelsus knots the bandages and steps away. “I will do so. When she is cognizant. But you will bring the request to the Abbot’s attention?” 

“The Light shines on us all,” Its brightness is bequeathed even to villains who seek solace in the corruption of a terrified and desperate man. Of someone they claim to love. Reynauld forces himself to swallow. “Even sinners and monsters. Give me a few days. And my shirt.” 

-0-0-0-0-

Reynauld goes to the Chapel. Reynauld is afflicted with the jingling of bells only a bell’s peel after he starts to pray. At first, he attempts to ignore the encroaching entreloper. He does not like the jester. He has never much cared for him and after the debacle with the Man in Yellow, he has done his best to be near him as little as possible. Even so, all are welcome into the Chapel, especially those who--according to the once-king-- are beginning to turn to the Light. Unfortunately, Sarmenti then begins to play a flute. Then he keeps playing, even as theroving Sisters begin to whisper. Reynauld feels his teeth grind. “Play another chord, Clown, and I will break it.” 

A tinny note arches in defiance at his threat. Reynauld’s nerves fray. He rises from his kneel to glower down at the man splayed across the front most pew. Sarmenti cocks his head up and meets his glare. Despite the cover of the mask, Reynauld can hear the smile when he speaks. “‘Tis his Majesty’s. Surely you would not break such a cherished memento--one of the few from his time before?” 

“Then I will throw you out the Chapel steps, flute and all.” He takes a step forward and the jester rises daintily to his feet. 

“I wait for Baldwin. Would one such as yourself truly begrudge him company?”

“One such as myself?” 

“Besides, I practise a hymn!” His question is completely ignored. Instead, there is a chuckle, one that sounds too close to those that still occasionally haunt Reynauld’s night terrors: high-pitched and interspersed with fits of tears. 

“That is no hymn that I have heard.” 

“Alas, you are poorly travelled yet.” 

Reynauld feels his hands clinch to fists. “Go find the King. He should be in his rooms. Leave the crossing and me to my prayers.”

“Hmm,” the jester hums, shifting from foot to foot. Reynauld hates him. “Drawn tighter than my lute string. You seek absolution. Why?” 

Reynauld feels anger cloud this mind. His hands clench and relax to keep from being raised into fists. “Go find the King. Leave me, Clown.” 

There is a sharp click of Sarmenti’s tongue. “‘Tis funny how you call me ‘clown’ when your own performance is so lack-lustre. Tell me, do you even believe that the holy words of your prayers will absolve you, Crusader, when you cannot even focus upon them?” 

“You dare--”

“Sarmenti,” Baldwin’s voice rings out over them both, “There is no need for antagonism.”

“Your Majesty!” Sarmenti crows the title with enough affection for Reynauld to almost consider it genuine, “I was awaiting you.” 

“Truely?” the words are rasped. “It looked to me as though you were attempting to bait one of my good friends into a fight on hallowed grounds.”

“Ah, but you know that I hate deception in all its forms, self-deception most so!” Reynauld feels the need to bluster at that, but Baldwin raises an apologetic hand. 

“Sarmenti,” the lack of title and undercurrent of affection are not lost on Reynauld. He turns his gaze away from the pair, “I feel faint today. I know we discussed a walk around the town’s perimeter earlier. Could you settle for a game of chess in my apartment, instead?” 

“Were you not just in your rooms, My Majesty?” The words are almost teasing and Reynauld hates the jester. 

“My fingers lack the dexterity to arrange the pieces properly during setup, I am afraid. I will be but a moment.” 

There is a jingle of bells as the clown tilts to and fro, as if actually considering the argument, before he gives a nod and spins away. Reynauld and Baldwin are left alone, then. Even so, the Leper King waits for a moment before speaking. “Guilt hangs upon you like a funerary shroud, Sir Reynauld. May I be of assistance?” 

“You and the Clown--”

“He is a good soul.” I have grown to care for him. The words left unspoken are clear in the Light’s abode.

“Your disease--” What will become of him when you die, then? 

“I know, Reynauld. I am not immune to the vice of selfishness. But that is not what we are discussing. Why are you here?” 

Reynauld bristles, “Is this not my place as well as yours?”

“Nay, nay, ‘tis all of ours. But I know you well enough to decipher the difference between your morning prayers and your prayers of penance. You may not cry like Sister Junia, but you carry yourself like a soldier to the executioner’s block.” 

“You are no confessor, your Majesty.” 

“I am not. I am your friend,” so much kindness laces those words, “and there are some matters better shared between friends than with the Abbot or Mother Superior.”

“The Abbot is an absolver for the Light, the Mother Superior is his left hand.” 

“The Abbot is a man. A good man. But a busy one. He can barely spare the time between his musing on the Light’s grace to listen to the confessions of lost and wounded souls. The Mother Superior, on the other hand, is a shrew, Light forgive my tongue, who would see us all lashed for her own enjoyment. I would not see you be treated as Junia is when she deems to confess.” Baldwin’s words are blunt. Reynauld feels his breath leave his chest. 

“Your Majesty--” He had never heard the other speak so caustically. 

“Come,” the word is not a request; it is the command of a man who was once a King, “Light a candle for us both and sit with me.” 

Reynauld feels his feet move before he even thinks to stop himself. There is the hiss of a matchstick and two votive candles come to life. Baldwin lets out a tired huff of a breath as he moves to sit on one the pews. Reynauld takes comfort in habit and kneels before the votive stand. He gives one glance around the sacred bounds of the Chapel. None of the Sisters are about. Blessed be the Light for small miracles. 

“What ails you, Reynauld?” The words are not a request for confession. His given name, without a title, is levelled freely. Reynauld knows that if he raised the point, the once-king would shift back to their traditional naming scheme. Instead, the familiarity prods at him. It slides beneath his skin and settles there like a warm weight. The other has long held the right to use his name as he pleases. He has to breathe out a sigh and laces his hands together tight to keep his voice level. “I betrayed him.” I betrayed myself. I betrayed the Light’s guidance.  

“You did no such thing.” How odd it is that the other appears so certain, so stalwart in his faith for Reynauld’s morals. How painful it will be to prove him wrong. How did Baldwin even know what Reynauld was speaking of?

“He kissed me, in his delirium. He thought to trade himself for safety.”

Silence. He hears the metallic clinking of Baldwin’s armor that denotes the other's shifting. “And? What did you do?”

“I--” 

“You pushed him away?”

“Of course, but--” 

“Then you did your duty.” 

“I--” I took advantage. Reynauld cannot force his voice to bring those words to life. “What I want---what I desire… I should not.”

“Why?” 

“I do not just hold love for him. Not just the desire for closeness and fraternity. It is as we spoke before.” Lust aches . Reynaud hates it, yet it eats at him. “I would bind him to me. The heat that arose from what he said. I felt the pull of Darkness and sin, yet I wanted --”

“Reynauld,” the call of his name is sharp, “I do not know how to make this clear for either you nor Junia. Desire is natural. ‘Tis mentioned in the scripture we all find sanctuary in. ‘I am my beloved’s, and his desire is for me.’” Baldwin pauses, before continuing. “We are but men. We are allowed to want. ‘Tis human, my friend.”

“Is that what you tell yourself, your Majesty?” In his anger, Reynauld aims the words to hurt.

Baldwin shrugs them away, “My disease tempers my desires. I cannot touch without fear. But, by the Light’s mercy, you do not suffer my limitations.” 

Reynauld feels dreadful. “He wanted safety and I took what he offered. He wasn’t in his mind . I hurt him, even after I promised him I would not.” 

“ That is a harm done to your thief, not the Light. Levy your apologies at his feet, rather than that of the sepulchre. Have you spoken to him?" 

“He is sequestered in the Sanitarium for at least a week yet.” 

“Are you permitted entry to visit?”

“I--I did not deem it to be wise.” 

“You are not the sort to tend to cowardice, Reynauld. Go visit him, after your prayers.” 

“I--” the once-King watches him as he thinks, “I am afraid, Baldwin. I am afraid of what I have ruined.” 

The Leper’s demeanor gentles, “You have done wrong. To be afraid is understandable. But, perhaps, you have not yet destroyed what it is you hold dear. Just go, Reynauld. Have faith and go.” 

Reynauld slumps his shoulders and bows his head. 

-0-0-0-0-

Great care has been taken to ensure that the Sanitarium actually looks to be a place of respite and healing. Paracelsus and the Heir spent countless nights and pounds of gold to ensure that all floors were functioning and well-lit. Reynauld’s boot rebound off of the tiles as one of the nurses directs him to the room where Dismas has been sequestered.  

He still hears Paracelsus’s words ringing in his ears. “I’ll let you in--only you-- because I think seeing you could help put him at ease. Do not make me regret that decision, Crusader. And do not consider this a favor for getting out of asking after what we discussed previously.” 

He had waved away her concerns. If anything, it only puts him more in her debt. Now, outside of the door to the other’s apartments, doubt begins to creep in. He pushes past the barrier anyway. 

Dismas startles in his bed. His jaw immediately clenches in pain as his hand instinctively reaches for a knife that isn’t there. He relaxes, almost despite himself, when he sees who it is. His wide eyes drift half-shut once more. His gaze is clear, and Reynauld sends up a prayer of thanks to the Light. “Hail, Holy-Man,” he croaks. 

“Dismas,” Dismas shifts at the call of his given name. Reynauld makes his way to his side, helping the other up with one hand. With the other, he realigns the pillows into a more suitable sitting position. He tries to ignore the way that the other’s breath stutters. He takes selfish comfort in being permitted to feel the knobs of Dismas’ spine. Perhaps… touch isn’t best between them, at this moment. Reynauld steps away. “How do you feel?” 

“Shit.” Dismas says, “Do ya have any booze?”

“Only one of Para’s tinctures, I am afraid, my friend.” Reynauld watches the way that the other’s scarred features shift into a scowl. Dread settles in his gut. Perhaps, given his trespasses, he should also not be so careless in denoting affection.  Reynauld clasps his fingers together behind his back to stave off the itch to take anything loose from the nightstands or shelves. 

“I’d rather take the pain over that hallucinogenic swill.” Dismas shifts again, this time squirming to the left so that the right side of the small straw pallet is free. Reynauld watches him, trying to decipher his intentions. There are no other chairs in the simple room, isolated though it is. Only a nightstand, a wash-bin, and a chest at the end of the bed. 

Dismas levels him with a stare that is almost sharp enough to be a glare. He looks almost pained as he bites at his bottom lip--the one he damn near chewed through, Reynauld realizes with a wince-- and pats his free hand atop the starched sheets. 

Reynauld is taken aback. “Dismas…” All of his uncertainty tangles in his chest. The other isn’t the sort to ask for things that he doesn’t want, but the near-pained scrunching of his eyes and the way that he had pleaded the other night are enough to send Reynauld spiraling into doubt. He does not think he can handle a continuation of before. He is not strong enough. He wants…

Dismas’ features twist and his hand drops. “It’s,” the word grinds on his tongue, “I--the sheets are thread-bare. I miss our be--I’m cold .” The sentences and thoughts are jerky, but the white clothes he wears do look light, especially given his too-thin form. He inhales, as if to bite back his pride, “Please.”

Reynauld would grant him the world if he could, should the other just ask. He sits, curling at the head of the bed in an attempt to take as little of the room as possible. Dismas, uncharacteristically hesitant, slides down the pillows to better rest his weight against Reynauld’s thigh. 

Reynauld swallows before slowly, carefully, bringing a hand up to card through the other’s newly washed hair. With each stolen touch, he feels a bit more wretched. 

“Dismas--” 

“Is that all you can say, Crusader?” Dismas’ tone bites, even as he nuzzles into the weight of Reynauld’s palm. 

“I am sorry.” Reynauld’s voice breaks on the apology. “My Dismas, I am so sorry.” 

“Eh?” Panic colors Dismas’ face as he immediately sits up, only to grimace and falter at the pain that the sharp movement brings him. “Eh, Reynauld, no, no--” 

“I have betrayed your trust and our fraternal bond--”

Another stricken squawk, “I don’t--what in the gods’ green earth are you talking about, man?! Reynauld, look at me--” Oh, but Reynauld is a coward. He cannot lower his head, even as Dismas tugs at his gambeson.

“I took advantage of you at your lowest point--” 

“Oh, for Light’s sake--”

“When you were most afraid and vulnerable--”

“ Feh , let me speak , damn you--”

“I--”

“REYNAULD!” The angered shout rebounds off of the stone walls. Glass shatters against the tiles outside, as one of the nurses of the adjoining rooms startles. Dismas glares up at Reynauld, eyes flashing, despite his tiredness and the cuts that mar his skin. He sneers, an ugly and sharp thing, “Do not place words in my mouth. You are speaking drek . Start over. Why are you apologizing, fool?” 

D-Did Dismas not remember? Was his mind so addled that last night was naught but shadows? “I--last night. Dismas, I…” 

“I remember climbing on your lap and begging for your affections like a damned harlot.” 

“No--” 

“No, you don’t, I am not done . I remember clinging to and kissing you. I remember your heat and--” Dismas pauses, visibility steeling himself, “I remember you pushing me away. If anyone is to apologize, Crusader, it should be me .” 

“You weren’t in your right mind, my Dismas.” 

There is a shudder and Dismas’ eyes flash at Reynauld’s use of the possessive. “Don’t--” he growls the word, “do not call me that.” 

Reynauld feels wretched. “Sorry,” he whispers and, despite it all, still strokes at Dismas’ hair. 

Dismas closes his eyes, leans against him, and continues, “I’ve wanted you since before you brought me to your bed, Reynauld. But it has been made abundantly obvious that you do not feel the same. I have made my peace with it. Just do not… tease me.”  There is heartbreak in those words. Dismas looks so very tired. 

Reynauld blinks. Hope is a fragile thing that blossoms in his chest. “I want you, Dismas.” The words are raw in his throat. 

Dismas reels, “I have never known you to be cruel, Crusader!” He spits the words, all fire and vitriol, even as he seems to grow smaller. Even as he doesn’t move away. Reynauld hates that, even if he is angry and biting, Dismas lets Reynauld do what he pleases. 

As hot as it burns, Dismas’ anger begins to snuff itself out. "I don’t know your game. What are you aiming for? You obviously don’t want me. You said--" The words come slow and stumbling, like Dismas is having a hard time forcing them to coalesce in his mind. 

"I want you." Reynauld tries to emphasize the words. He cradles them with his tongue in the hopes that, with enough meaning, Dismas may believe him. Dismas remains defiant. His anger returns in fits. He attempts to move. Reynauld lets the other shift away, lets the slighter man push him, lets him grab him by the arm, and shake him with his one good hand. 

"Then why haven’t you done anything, eh? I'm right here. I’ve been here. I'm doing what you wanted! I've been sleeping beside you, like a fucking wife! I've been following your lead! But you don’t ask me! You never asked me. You never even touched me.” Dismas’ eyes flash like daggers and Reynauld will likely never forgive himself for the pain that he sees in them. Even now, he cannot stop hurting him. “I came to you. So many times. After getting drunk, after getting fucked, just so you would ask me to stop. So that you would do something. Anything. Yet, you never did." Insecurity bleeds from the bed-ridden man. Reynauld wants to touch, to do something, to fix this mess. 

"I didn't know what to ask." 

Reynauld can only watch as Dismas scours his features, searching for something, anything, to grasp for. "You said no." The words are soft, almost pained. 

"You were out of your mind , Dismas."

“ I was in it enough to know where safety lay! I was in it enough to know what I wanted!” 

“ I didn’t know !” Light above, Para is never going to let him visit anyone in the Sanitarium again. Dismas is tense and spitting like a cornered cat. 

“Prove it.” He hisses, biting and defiant to the last, and Reynauld hates and loves that stubbornness in equal measure. Reynauld grabs for the other’s good arm and pulls.

Dismas comes willingly enough, though his gaze is still sharp and his mouth still sneering. Reynauld sighs, bringing his free hand up to brush dark bangs out of the others eyes. He presses his thumb into Dismas’ worry lines, like he had so many moons ago. “May I?” he whispers. 

“May you what?” Dismas snaps, though this time it is mostly bluster. When Reynauld brings his hand down so that his thumb rests against the pad of the other’s bottom lip, he feels Dismas’ breath hitch. 

“May I, my Dismas?” 

Dismas gives a small tremble. “Ah, come now, that ain’t fair.”

Reynauld just continued to stare down at him, “May I, before Paracelsus comes to remove me?” 

“I-I--” Dismas actively stutters, a rare occurrence that Reynauld would adore if not for his current state, “Godsdamnit all, Holy-Man, yes .” 

Reynauld kisses him.

Dismas kisses like a drowned man cresting for air from beneath a wave. He kisses Reynauld like it is the last time he will be allowed to do so-- as though Reynauld will be stolen away. Reynauld doesn’t know how to calm him. Perhaps he should not have mentioned Paracelsus coming by to kick him out.  

“Shh,” he attempts to soothe, the sounds nearly lost in the slide of the other’s open mouth, “Shh, my Dismas, I have you.” 

Light above, the other’s touch burns. Reynauld briefly wonders if this what stepping into the Light’s embrace feels like, before he has to shake himself of the blasphemy. Instead, he tries to memorize the texture of the other’s scarred lips as they shift against his own. A current of desperation runs through him--that familiar temptation to grab and hold and take-- even as he attempts to calm the other. He swallows, brushing back bangs from in front of dark eyes and bequeathing small pecks to the corners of Dismas’ mouth that make Dismas huff. Reynauld fights the urge to bite when he feels Dismas’ hand shift its grip from his shirt to the skin of his neck.

“Rey--'' There is a choked gasp of poorly bit-back pain as bodies draw close and catch Dismas’ injured arm. 

Oh, that won’t do. Reynauld grunts and, very carefully, wraps an arm around the other’s waist. His other arm comes around the backs of Dismas’ thighs and he lifts the smaller man into his lap. The movement pulls at his ribs, but he cannot bring himself to care. Dismas hisses out his surprise at the shift in position. Reynauld can only nuzzle him. Dismas rushes to reconnect their lips. When Reynauld opens his eyes, he notes the flush of red taking to the ex-con’s cheeks and ears. 

Reynauld smiles, breaking away to move up and press a kiss against the heated tip of Dismas’ ear. The poorly-stifled groan he gets in response is enlightening. “The fuck --are you so strong for, Holy-Man?” The words are huffed, with Dismas’ breath catching on the curse. “Light above, you could push me down-- hold me down-- m-make me--” he stifles a broken, pitched whine that leaves Reynauld reeling. Reynauld never expected the other to be able to make such a sound.

Reynauld bites, scratching the lobe of the other’s ear gently with the point of his incisor. Dismas chokes. Reynauld chuckles. “Sensitive?” He queries, moving to press butterfly kisses against the column of the other’s neck. The hand not steadying the other comes up to  toy with the cotton hem of Dismas’ shirt and rub patterns into his right hip bone.

Oh, truly, they should not be doing this here. Para's going to kill him.

“You--” Dismas near growls, “Are a fucking tease.” He lets out another aborted gasp as Reynauld’s lips trail a line down his throat and his hand shifts upward to splay against his ribs. “You are lucky that I’m injured and c-can’t-- ah-- ” Another lovely keen comes as Reynauld shifts his hand down from the other’s hip to press at the bulge that was starting to stir in his slacks. 

“Slow, Dismas. We should slow ourselves.” 

“Bold words coming from the man who just grabbed at my cock!”

“Shh,” Reynauld felt the other shiver as his breath crested down his neck at the noise, “You don’t want to alert the nurses, do you, Dismas?”

“ Hgh--no. No. I want you to hold me down and fuck me. Grind into me until I can’t even walk . Until I feel you for a week. Do you know how fucking atrocious it is to sleep next to you, feeling your damn horse cock in the middle of the night, and being unable to fucking do anything to it? Haven’t had the money for a good fuck in two weeks. 'Rubbed myself raw thinking of you, Reynauld, gods--" Dismas spits the words, akin to when he is angry, but the way that he trembles belies his embarrassment and desperation. 

Reynauld laughs, unable to hide his delight. 

“Such filthy words, Dismas. So cruel . You make me want so much of you, when you know we can’t--”

“We can -- don’t say we can’t--” Dismas’ shoulders tense. He shifts himself up, pressing ever closer to Reynauld, his dark eyes almost fearfully searching Reynauld’s mien. Reynauld supposes, somewhat guiltily, that his worry makes sense. Be it his vows or his trepidations, Reynauld has not made it easy for the other to think he can desire him. For so long, the other has suffered in silence.

He pauses to kiss the man, aiming to keep it chaste and gentle. Dismas seems to have other plans, however, licking at the seam of Reynauld’s mouth. Reynauld permits the sweetness, trying to chase away doubt with his tongue. He moves his hand to twine it into Dismas’ shorn hair and pulls to get a better angle. He is rewarded with another whine that alights a fire deep in his gut. He wants . By the Light, the other is so vocal . He shifts away, to Dismas’ disappointment, only to bury his face against the other’s shivering neck so that he could talk without distractions.  “I meant only that you are injured. You can scarcely stand, much less walk. You are already most of the way to what you wanted, even without my help, my Dismas.” Reynauld nips at the other’s clavicle and is awarded yet another whine at the possessiveness. He wonders, with a heady, sinking feeling, how hard it would be to get the other to beg.

“I can take it. Reynauld--” 

“I doubt Para would like it if we continued this much further.” 

“Her fault for letting you in here. Your fault for doing this to me now. ”

“Shh,” 

“ Don’t ‘shh’ me, put your damned hand back to my--'' Reynauld reconnects their lips, chances a glance back to the closed door of the patient room, and decides to tempt fate. Dismas gasps into his mouth as he feels the other’s fingers bury themselves beneath the loose pants of his medical garb to wrap around his cock. The faintest touch of wetness greets Reynauld’s touch, belying Dismas’ eagerness. Reynauld gives the other’s prick a single firm pump, taking in the other’s feel and length. Despite Dismas’ interest, there is precious little slide in the motion.  He shouldn’t feel as giddy as he does at the way that the other has to choke on a gasp. 

“May I--”

“Ask me that stupid fucking question one more time and I will bite your tongue off.” Dismas spits the words. Reynauld huffs, shifts his grip to slide down the other’s shaft, and then presses the tip of his thumb against the exposed head. He draws small circles, gentle but increasing in pressure with every swipe. He remembers clearly how it used to drive him mad when his wife--

No, time to think of that now, not when Dismas begins panting above him. “Is that anyway to talk to the man holding your dick in his hand, my Dismas?” He whispers. The words are awkward: Reynauld has precious little experience with the cruder talks of love-making, but he tries, pitching his voice low and giving the smaller man’s prick another few, slow, pumps. 

"R-Reynauld… you, you--" Dismas lets out the rattling breath of a dying man. “If I am dreaming, please don’t wake me.” He mumbles, shimmying his hips so that the white cotton of the Sanitarium leggings fall further down, exposing Reynauld’s hand and length of his cock to the air. Dismas leans forward, resting his forehead on Reynauld’s shoulder. He breathes for a moment, in time with Reynauld’s stroking, before he lets out another whine. “Faster…” 

The fire in Reynauld's veins lights only more at that hitched request. He never used to feel the desire to be cruel or coy, but that heady desperation… it clouds his mind. He wants more, and they don’t have time. 

He speeds his movement, pressing kisses into the crown of the other’s hair as Dismas shifts and shudders. All the while, he can barely stop the words from spilling out his mouth. “So vocal for me, my Dismas, I never expected--so lovely--to think you have been hiding this…” 

“Gods, shut your yap, Holy-Man. I-I--” Dismas’ redness only deepens, “It’s been too long, ‘s all. I-I can’t--” A full body shiver runs through him, starting at the base of his spine. 

“Beautiful.” Reynauld's thumb presses at the head of the other’s cock again, gliding in the wetness that now trails freely down the other’s shaft. 

“ Hrugh-- Reynauld, please--”

Reynauld presses a kiss into Dismas’ hair. Light , he begs pretty. “ Quiet, be quiet, my Dismas,”

“Easy for you to say, you aren’t listening to you-- hah-- you aren’t listening to yourself talk, you--” Reynauld silences him with another twist of his hand. He shifts Dismas’ head up and kisses him again, speeding his movements even more as Dismas keens. More liquid moves past Reynauld’s thumb to drip down Dismas’ shaft. Dismas is achingly hard and can only pant into Reynauld’s mouth. 

“And you cannot hear your sounds, Dismas. What a blessing. What a curse.” Reynauld tilts the other’s chin up, layering kiss after kiss to the soft skin there. It is only when he finds the other’s pulse-point and feels the stuttering of the other’s heartbeat beneath his lips, that he opens his mouth and sucks . Dismas’ hips jerk. That single hand grabs desperately to Reynauld’s hair. 

“Rey… Rey--” The other sounds desperate and the shifting of his hips bely the cause. 

Reynauld pulls away just enough to speak, still letting the softness of his lips and the sharpness of his teeth brush against the other’s skin. “Let go, my Dismas. I have you, my darling.” 

Given his vocality, Dismas is surprisingly quiet as he falls apart. He whines, burying his face into Reynauld’s shoulder as his entire body shudders. Reynauld continues to stroke at him, shielding their clothes as much as he can from the spread of the other’s spend. He only stops when Dismas’ hips falter and the other’s shivers turn to shakes as oversensitivity sets in. 

“ Light above,” Dismas says, gasping out the words on choked breath, before nuzzling into Reynauld’s neck. His breath sends chills down Reynauld’s spine.

"Do not take the Light’s name in vain." Reynauld's chastisement is mitigated by the kisses he presses to Dismas' temple. He pulls his hand away from the other’s pants, trying to evade touching the other’s cock as he settles. He looks down at, grimaces, and brings his hand up to his mouth. It wouldn’t do to dirty the sheets, if Dismas is to stay in them. The soft smell of salt pervades the air. 

“W-Wait, Holy-Man--” Dismas pulls away and his entire face goes an uneasy, splotchy red. His voice is hoarse as he attempts to catch his breath. He looks  scandalized. Reynauld almost wants to laugh.

“‘Tis fine, Dismas, worry not. It won’t do to use the blankets.”

Dismas lets out the wounded sound of a dying man before grabbing at Reynauld’s fingers. “I-I haven’t even been able to return the favor--wait, I--just--I--let me?” 

At Reynauld’s nod, Dismas, in all his glory, licks up the length of his palm. Reynauld feels his eyes widen at the other’s tongue sucks as his dirtied fingers, one-by-one, cleaning them with closed eyes. It is as if Dismas actually likes the taste. 

Reynauld is suddenly, frustratingly, aware of just how hard he is beneath his jerkin. He pulls his now wet fingers away from the soft heat of the other’s mouth. He has to swallow as Dismas follows him. Grey eyes flutter open before Dismas’ attention, too, is drawn to the press of the hard cock beneath him. His brow furrows and he looks up to Reynauld. “I… can you--could you steady me? There should be oil somewhere around--”

“You are injured , my Dismas.”

The former highwayman scowls, his softened features hardening to their typical mien. “But you haven’t--”

“This was not about me. Also, there is no oil.” 

“I want --” Dismas cuts himself off. Instead, he just stares at Reynauld, and his expression sours. “Is this another of your righteous acts ?”

Reynauld frowns, confused. “What?” 

“Come in here,” the roguish man gives a vague wave of his hand, “a-and, I don’t know, ameliorate me. Refuse to take anything for yourself.” 

“I wanted to clear the air between us.”

“And I want you.”

“You can barely stand, Dismas. You can’t even lift your left ha--”

“Bah! ‘S in a sling. I could move it if I needed to.” 

“You don--”

“Don’t need hands for fucking when you have strength like yours.” The words are a purr. 

A part of Reynauld wants to laugh at this situation.  “Dismas, I refuse to chance you hurting yourself further simply to sate me.”

“Damn Para and her beast. Where is Junia?” The grouse is enough to force a chuckle from Reynauld. 

“In here alongside you. According to our good doctor, she took the shock even worse than you.” Reynauld shifts and nearly moans when his prick grinds against Dismas’ warm weight. He brushes back Dismas’ bangs to do something with his hands and is rewarded with a huff. “B-Besides, would you truly wish to broach why you are asking for miracles from her?”

“I--” Annoyance beats out the uncertainty on the other’s features, and Dismas' shoulders loosen. Reynauld feels the weight that had been settling in his gut lessen alongside them. “I am… not of a mind to be selfish to you, Reynauld.” 

“Dismas .” The smaller man refuses to meet his gaze on his own. Reynauld forces his chin up with the crook of his finger. “My Dismas, you are hurt. I do not expect for you to be in fighting form for at least a week, given what Para has told me. Can’t you be selfish for a lone week? When you are released, we can do whatever you desire. However you want. In a proper bed.” He means the words as a concession. He is, perhaps, too painstakingly honest with them, given how Dismas flushes and looks away. Want, after all, is not the only thing Reynauld feels, even though it is all Dismas has currently mentioned.  

“Don’t patronize me, Holy-Man.” The words are grumbled, even as Dismas shifts in Reynauld’s hold to lean against him once more, chest-to-chest

Grey eyes flick up to Reynauld, then to the still-closed door, and then to the floor beside the bed. Dismas huffs. His nose scrunches in that way that it does when he is trap-searching. “I can kneel.” The words are muttered, and by the Light, they make Reynauld’s will crumble . 

Dismas appears to scent his shaking resolve like a hound after a fox. He grants Reynauld a too-sharp grin that Reynauld is inordinately fond of. “And my mouth’s working just fine.” 

Reynauld bites back on a groan. He swallows, watching the other settle in his lap. He tries desperately not to focus on the other’s aforementioned mouth. “Dismas…” 

“Do you seriously think you can leave this room looking like that, Holy-Man? With a stiffy of that size bound in your trousers?” Dismas’ smile only gets wider. “I’ve a plan. May I have a hand down?” 

“Your side , Dismas.”

“Bah, it’s fine.” Dismas stops short and doubt creeps in. “Unless, ah, you don’t want to?” 

Why do the words sound so uneasy? How can the other not see the mess that he is making of Reynauld’s patience and resoluteness. “Light,” Reynauld whispers, and it's so choked it might very well be a prayer. “I want it more than anything, Dismas, but--”

“Then let me do something for you, Holy-Man.” Dismas is already crawling off of Reynauld’s lap. There is a small grimace of pain that he tries to hide, even as he leans heavily on the other man to support. Eventually, however, he settles on the floor. “Come’re.” He gestures, and it's all Reynauld can do to follow. Reynauld is forever weak against Dismas.

Reynauld is hit by the weight of Dismas' gaze as the other loosens the ties of Reynauld’s pants.  Desperation and eagerness war beneath the other’s mask of confidence. Dismas isn’t the sort to kneel. He has never kneeled, not in a church’s crossing, not to a lord. Yet, here he is, injured, bruised, and content to be cradled by Reynauld’s knees. Here he is, staring up at Reynauld like an acolyte. 

Reynauld chokes as calloused fingers lift his member from his leggings and braies. Dismas breaths a small sigh against the heated flesh, running his lips along the length of it. His eyes flutter half closed. “‘Tis been a while,” he mutters, sending goosebumps up the length of Reynauld’s back, “You’ll have to forgive me if it takes me a moment to accommodate you.” 

“Acc--” Reynauld’s incredulous question is shut down immediately by the press of Dismas’ lips to the tip of his cock. The touch is almost gentle, akin to a kiss. Reynauld feels Dismas’ fingers trace the length of his pulsing vein. He lets out a shuddering breath before the other’s mouth opens and he swallows around him. 

“Oh divine embrace--” 

The heat is immense. The tightness is near overwhelming. Reynauld whines, and cannot help but bury one of his hands in Dismas’ hair. He fists his hand in the short locks tightly, flexing his fingers in a manner that pulls . In response, he feels the other’s teeth graze gently against the lower skin of his cock. 

Dismas moans, tilting his head toward Reynauld’s grip, and the vibrations send Reynauld reeling . His hips jerk, fucking the length of his cock down the back of Dismas’ throat in a single motion. Dismas gags and his throat tightens. He swallows, making Reynauld keen. Reynauld immediately relinquishes his hold on the other’s hair, tracing the shell of Dismas’ ear with his fingers in apology. He tries, desperately, to keep his touch feather light. “Sorry, sorry, my Dismas.”

Dismas comes up, choking. Tears wet at the corner of his eyes. Reynauld has to fight down the guilt. Dismas glances up at him, and then away, his cheeks reddening once more. He doesn’t appear angry, instead looking almost embarrassed.

“Right--” his voice is rough, “Right. ‘Too eager. Let me try again?” 

“Dismas--” Reynauld moves to cradle the other’s jaw, dragging his thumb down so that the pink of the other’s mouth flashes. His throat goes dry. “I won’t see you harmed.”

“No, no,” Dismas shakes his head, sniffing and clearing his throat, “I want it. Just--been a while. No reason to do it with the gals or gents in the brothel. Just… put your hands back in my hair. Please?”

Reynauld can only nod dumbly, his fingers twining back into shortened curls. Who is he to deny such a request? If such is what Dismas wants, who is Reynauld to combat him? At the feeling, Dismas grants him a softened, almost dreamy smile, before his eyes focus on the task before him. He licks along the underside of Reynauld’s cock, with soft kitten-like presses of his tongue, before his lips open once more. 

Dismas is slower this time, more careful of his limits.  His wet tongue writhes against the underside of Reynauld’s length, warm, wet, and welcoming, as his right hand presses gentle caresses into the skin of Reynauld’s base. Every so often, as Dismas moves his head, there is the gentlest scratch of teeth against sensitive skin. Reynauld would consider it an honest mistake, if other's eyes didn't keep opening and flicking up to his face each time it happened. Reynauld can only watch  in amazement as Dismas shifts back and forth, occasionally nudging his mouth further down his length. He watches as more and more of his cock disappears into that warm and welcoming heat. He lets out a soft moan as he feels the tip of his prick hit the back of Dismas’ throat hand and then go further. Dismas lets out a soft breath of air from his nose, before blinking up at him with wet eyes. 

“Oh, my Dismas, look at you,” His left hand moves to cradle Dismas’ cheek. Reynauld’s world tilts slightly off its axis as he feels the weight of himself against the other’s jaw. He traces the stretched outline of Dismas’ bottom lip. “Look at you, all stretched wide. So perfect.” 

Dismas lets out another huff, nuzzling into the coarse hairs at Reynauld's base. Reynauld’s attention splits, half focused on the heat and half on the way that Dismas so casually leans into his touch. His stomach knots at the movement, and he pets at Dismas' hair in an attempt to distract him from any discomfort. Dismas shudders before shaking his head. His hand comes up to cover Reynauld’s own, before pressing in a silent request. Reynauld inhales before carefully, gently, moving his grip to the back of the other’s head. He pushes forward, and Dismas goes willingly. It only takes a fair few swipes of Dismas’ throat down to the base of his prick, before Reynauld feels the tautness in his very toes. 

“Dismas,” Gray eyes, dark with want, look up at Reynauld’s call. Light above, Reynauld loves him. “My Dismas, I-- I am going--” 

He feels the other shift on the balls of his feet, as if steeling himself, before he feels that calloused hand fall from his hand to roll at his sack and gently squeeze. Reynauld shudders. Dismas’s eyes glint with an unspoken smile, before he hums. The world goes white. Reynauld feels the other’s throat contract and his hips jerk again despite himself. 

When the fuzziness of his mind gives way, Reynauld finds Dismas crouched and coughing once more. Trails of white glint around the edges of his lips. Reynauld swallows. “Dismas, are you--” 

“‘M fine.” Dismas grunts, sounding winded, “I am fine. 'Just not as easy as it used to be. Help me up, if you would?” 

Reynauld immediately grabs for him. Gently, carefully, he lifts the smaller man back into his lap and helps him settle there. Dismas gives another small cough as Reynauld curls his arms around his shoulders. He feels Dismas relax against him, breaking out softly against his neck. The ex-con’s features are soft, uncharacteristically devoid of their normal hard lines and wrinkles. Reynauld presses a kiss to the other’s temple. Dismas responds by reaching up and connecting their lips. Reynauld permits the touch, opening his mouth at the first brush of the other’s tongue. Dismas curls closer, as if hoping to sink into Reynauld’s hold. Reynauld tastes the faintest traces of salt as Dismas deepens the kiss. The barest hints of himself. He cannot help the small groan that rumbles from his chest. 

“Heh,” Dismas gives a small, contented chuckle as he pulls away. It is another noise that Reynauld has never heard from the other man. He finds himself hoping to treasure it. He hopes to hear it again. Again and again and again, for years yet. He wonders how long they will be permitted, how long their Light can stave off the Dark.

Reynauld scratches at the other’s nape with gentle movements, content to soothe himself with the feel of the other’s skin. He delights in the warm beneath his fingertips.

“I can hear ya thinking from over here, Holy-Man.” The words are sleepy. 

“You are always so warm. ” 

“So ya invited me to your bed to be a space heater, eh?” The quiet words are barely muttered. A grey eye cracks open to look at him

“Nay, your feet are icicles.” That receives a snort. 

“Then why then, eh?” 

“Shh,” He whispers, shifting so that he can lower the other back down to the straw pallet. Dismas blinks and watches him, his eyes half lidded. “You know why, my Dismas.” 

“Oh, I do?” 

“Don’t you?” 

“Perhaps I wish to hear you say it, Holy-Man.” 

Reynauld thinks for a moment. He knows that there are certain things, words that cannot be spoken yet between them. Words that still need to be unburied from the mountain that rests between them. He cannot bring himself to mention the other’s desperation, or his own fear of tomorrow. He cannot mention love, yellow coats, or glowing blue light. But he can mention their joint path to redemption. He can mention hope. “You are a light in the Dark. I would be lost without you.” 

Dismas sighs, closing his eyes. Reynauld feels him nod against his thigh. They are quiet for a moment, before Reynauld looks back to the closed door that he is sure going to open at any moment. Dismas catches his glance.

“Will you be going then?” 

Reynauld cannot help but lean down and press another kiss to the other’s lips. “Para will have my hide if I don’t leave soon.” 

He is met with another chuckle, as Dismas shifts his face to nuzzle back against his thigh. “She will likely already have your hide regardless, Rey.” He blinks up at Reynauld, his single visible eye flashing in the dim light of the cloudy afternoon sky as it spills from the barred window. Dismas gives the smallest of crooked smiles, and continues. “The sheets are awful, and the draft off the harbour is shite. ‘Thought the winter was leaving us.” 

Reynauld breathes in.  He feels Dismas reach out. Bandaged and quick fingers twine around his own. “Would you like me to stay, my Dismas?” 

Scarred lips press the faintest of kisses to his knuckles. “I would like ya to stay, Reynauld, if only ‘til I sleep.” 

Reynauld swallows around the knot in his throat. “I can do that,” He whispers. “I can wait out the evening with you.”