Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Do you have eyes on the target?”

The Melusine’s voice, soft and indignant, crackled in his ear again, Wriothesley fighting back the urge to growl as he shifted his sight slightly. His response had been a negative only a minute ago and that certainly hadn’t changed in the intervening seconds, otherwise he would have said as much. Patience, he counseled himself, nursing Sigewinne’s good intentions and his own hangover both.

“No. Remind me of his alternative path?” There came a soft sigh in response and the faint sound of shuffling papers.

“Right wing of the atrium - if he hasn’t finished his tumbler of whiskey yet he’ll head to the little accountant’s room to relieve himself before heading back to his office. Really, given how often he goes he should probably get that checked ou-”

“Sigewinne. Focus.”

“Ah! Sorry,” came the slightly chagrined response before she continued as if she had never gone off on a tangent, “From there he’ll return to the office for approximately thirty-eight minutes but it may be as few as twenty-four. That will be your window. And remember, they ordered the ‘’Up Close and Personal’ special!”

“Affirmative,” he responded, unconsciously rolling his shoulders and grimacing at the pop that hadn’t been there a week ago. Surely it had nothing to do with the tumble he’d taken off the second story roof of that warehouse, though the alternative of it being his age catching up with him was less preferable by far. He’d poke Sige about it later after the job was done - he had more pressing matters.

A stiff breeze had begun to pick up, carrying the scent of ozone and impending storm with it as it swept through the City of Fontaine. If he was lucky the storm would hit right as he completed his job, helping to cover his tracks as rain blurred the sky into the streets and lights refracted like stolen stars in the numerous puddles that would inevitably disguise the bounty of potholes that littered the streets. With dusk creeping fingers of twilight between the skyscrapers the streetlights were humming to life, Electro bulbs neon and bright in the haze that had settled across the city.

It was as good a time as any.

“Duke out. Next contact in forty-five,” he announced into his radio, waiting just long enough before turning it off to hear Sigewinne’s chipper ‘Happy hunting!’ to crackle through. He didn’t bother suppressing his wry smile at the Melusine’s contagious joy, for who was there to see him at this time in the evening, holed up for the past few hours on a neighboring rooftop as he had been?

He took a moment to ceremoniously check his gear, testing the integrity of tactical straps that held an assortment of weapons and tools. He had foregone his larger pack in favor of a much smaller one full of only the necessities, aiming to keep this job as short as possible. Outside of his rifle, strapped to his back, and a pistol at his side he was sporting a few knives in various locations, some hidden and not, his garb otherwise tactical and kept to the essentials only. It may have all been well-used but it was also well-maintained, done in plain blacks and grays that meant business.

Satisfied he turned his attention back to the scene at hand. Now was not the time to dawdle, the clock ticking as the distant light in the atrium flickered to light and a faint, smudged form hurriedly shuffled across the open floor of gleaming marble inlaid with a truly gauche quantity of gold and brass. The Lebouff & Gillian Enterprises was a truly ostentatious affair, home to multiple parties that had pooled together their resources which, while negligible on their own, were certainly nothing to scoff at when one considered the lump sum. It was certainly something, he conceded, less of an eyesore than some of the other buildings within the City even if it was still far outside of his personal tastes.

It was that same group (or at least a large majority of them) that had also contributed directly to the bounty on the head of the man Wriothesley was currently targeting. Antoine Darvill was a weasely little accountant of a man, overpriced suits hanging poorly off his scraggly shoulders, a pair of round spectacles constantly on the verge of slipping off the tip of his beakish nose. A recent analysis of the funds of the conglomerate had revealed that a not insignificant portion of money had been disappearing for the past six years and every trail had led back to the equivalent of human vermin scuttling to the loo before him.

“Gotcha,” Wriothesley grunted with satisfaction, strapping his rifle onto his back. It wasn’t often that he took particular pleasure in some of his duties but the fact that Darvill had been skimming funds not from building management or the pocket’s of those who could do without a few extra dollars but from charity accounts meant for the local orphanage had rankled him for a myriad of reasons. If anything the hitman was more surprised that the companies cared enough about those funds to do anything about it, the uncharitable (and realistic) part of Wriothesley’s mind figuring they likely feared that corruption would inevitably spread to other “more important” accounts.

He took off at a decent clip, intent on slipping into the accountant's office just after he left for the bathroom to give himself enough time to get comfortable for the hit. The building wasn’t new construction so much as it was an extensive renovation but that had left some fairly significant aspects of the original facade that had been kept for aesthetic reasons only. One such feature was a rickety old set of fire stairs, spindly metal clinging desperately to the brick preface of the building for dear life. He only hoped that it was up to minimum fire code otherwise things were going to get…exciting.

His light jog surged to a flat out run as the side of the building fast approached, wrought iron fire escape swimming into view. It wasn’t a particularly short jump but one he knew he could make from experience, the real challenge not in getting enough air but tucking and rolling on landing to avoid making an unarchonly ruckus. He sucked in a sharp breath as the first drops of rain began to flick against his face, right foot catching the mortar lip of the roof as he launched himself into the air.

The street flashed beneath him, a dozen floors down where vehicles sped past, the citizens of Fontaine eager to get home before the storm hit with true force. For a moment he hung there, suspended, as adrenaline surged in his veins, and then the next he was hitting the rough metal surface and rolling, ladder rattling and a couple sets of screws screeching in protest at his unexpected weight.

Thankfully they held as he rolled to a halt, settling on his haunches as his head tilted to listen for the sounds of awareness from within the building. He held his pose to the count of ten but the only sounds he heard was the standard thrum of city life - car wheels squealing on pavement, distant honking, and haggard yells from down below as the rain began to fall in full force.

Good.

The clock was ticking and he had no intention of wasting more time than he had to, dropping down one floor, then another, far quieter than his initial landing had been even if the fire escape groaned in soft reluctance. He vowed silently to not mention this to Sigewinne, knowing full well that she would scold him for one too many slices of cake while force feeding him a terrible concoction that she called a shake and others called a violation of the Geneva convention.

Darvill’s office butted up against that very metal death contraption, a pile of ashes on the windowsill indicating to Wriothesley that the accountant likely had a naughty habit that went against building rules as well. Thankfully it also meant that the window was both functional and thankfully unlocked, a sideways peek revealing that the plush office was indeed emptied of its standard occupant.

Wriothesley couldn’t help the smirk that slid across his lips. This was turning out to be a slice of cake.

The window lifted with barely a whisper, the humid breeze that accompanied Wriothesley inside ruffling a set of documents on the wide mahogany desk. He levered himself silently over the sill, careful not to disturb the pile of ashes that sat there as the rain began to fall with a true fervor behind him. The trip home would be a wet one but well worth the payday and inconvenience. Thankfully he hadn’t gotten the chance to become soaked yet himself lest he leave sopping bootprints in the overly plush carpet.

The office was deathly quiet as he slid the window shut behind him, the distant sounds of the city almost immediately muted. That Darvill had been siphoning funds was plain as day at a glance, no accountant he knew capable of affording such a level of opulence. Aside from the massive desk, undoubtedly handcarved of rich mahogany, even the bookshelves seem to display a similar level of craftsmanship. Handwrought antique lanterns hunt on the walls, illuminating an overflowing array of books on the shelves whose spines bore the passage of time more than Wriothesley himself. A few large paintings that he knew for a fact were originals and far above his pay grade hung on the sparse open slivers of wall space, delicate swoops of color kept well preserved behind fine panes of glass. The heavy grandfather clock in the corner ticked and tocked monotonously away, its face strangely weathered compared to the rest of the over large study.

The whole space reeked of poorly spent wealth, Wriothesley’s nose wrinkling in disdain as he crept slowly forward, gaze sweeping around the space for any signs of trouble. Dimly lit though the office may have been he couldn’t see anything amiss, his attention instead focusing on the fraction of the door visible around the edge of one of the bookcases, continuing to inch towards it, all of his senses on high alert for any signs of danger or disruption.

It was only as the door swam fully into his line of sight and he drew abreast with the butting edge of the bookcase did the faint hint of petrichor and the rising tide meet his nostrils, keen sense of smell picking up that dreaded, familiar scent.

He couldn’t cut a break, could he?

Wriothesley froze, listening for the faintest rustle of movement, unease prickling along the back of his neck until the fine hairs stood on end. Nothing else in the massive office so much as breathed, though, instead leaving the hitman with the lingering scent that had him briefly contemplating cutting the contract short. Either his clients had called for reinforcements (unlikely) or a higher bidder had also called out a hit, the implications of which churned his gut considerably.

Conflicting contracts were the name of the game but, of course, it had to be him.

Just his luck.

His hand drifted to his side, fingers brushing against the well-worn and sticker-covered radio that hung from a loop of his belt, briefly contemplating apprising Sigewinne of the situation before deciding against it. He could already hear her voice in his head, anxiously advising him against continuing even if the promised payout would be enough to pay off a significant portion of the debt they (he) had accrued.

There was also the undeniable temptation to one-up a certain someone as well, that perhaps more motivating than even the promise of cold hard cash.

“Shit,” he cursed, hand instead shifting to the grip of his pistol, mind already made up.
Long footsteps swiftly ate up the distance to the door, Wriothesley quietly praising building maintenance as the door swung open whisper-quiet. The gleaming hallway of the building stretched before him, incandescent bulbs sterile where they flickered above swaths of white marble. Carved busts of founders flanked either side of the hallway, nearly every single one visages of old men with serious expressions on their uncomfortably smooth features, their dead eyes practically following the hitman as he began to creep down the hall, keeping his breathing slow and steady as his ears strained for the faintest pinprick of sound.

Ignoring the disappointed stares that followed his patient progress he moved as quickly as he dared to the bathroom down the wending maze of hallways, gaze flicking cautiously to every alcove he passed, evaluating every locked door that slid past his field of view. Nothing so much as stirred, much to his mounting worry, as the tension building in his muscles and chest stretched taut until he felt as though he might snap at the squeak of the mouse.

He knew his foe was playing with him, stringing him along while he waited for the opportune moment, the perfect chokepoint, the easy kill.

The closer he grew to the sharp edge of the corner the more he was sure his adversary was waiting just out of sight, biding his time, the inevitably of the fact gnawing anxious holes along the edges of Wriothesley’s psyche.

And if he was to be doing so why couldn’t Wriothesley play along?

His cautious mien dropped in a heartbeat, shoulders rolling back as he straightened from a crouch to stride around the corner, attitude as blase as one could afford given how worry and anxiety rankled in the pit of his stomach. Sure enough, there he was, gaze rising to meet his fellow contractor’s, something sharp and feral behind those lilac eyes before they immediately softened.

Almost as if Wriothesley wasn’t a threat.

Few could pull off the casual nonchalance that his adversary embodied, let alone so easily. Even from a distance Wriothesley recognized the imposing figure leaning against the far pillar, a clean silhouette in a flawlessly cut suit that probably cost more than Wriothesley’s apartment, the blue so dark it was nearly black, inlaid with an ornate jacquard, cufflinks gleaming with mother-of-pearl and gold. Even his tie somehow looked expensive, knotted perfectly about the pale column of the Sovereign’s throat.

“Duke.”

The low, resonant voice was perfectly audible even from a distance as those amethyst eyes took in Wriothesley in his entirety, expression unreadable as his fellow assassin casually adjusted the cuff of his right wrist, even the small motion impossibly refined and downright aristocratic. Though he may not have looked it, Wriothesley was sure that the Sovereign was packing (perhaps in more ways than one) given their previous encounters and the direction those had gone, the easy smile on the hitman’s face remaining in place only due to strict practice.

“What a pleasant surprise,” Wriothesley replied to the very unpleasant surprise

He was well aware that the smile tugging at the corners of his lips showed off far too much of his eye teeth and failed to reach his eyes. While he wasn’t a stranger to being one-upped by others in their profession, the fact that this impossibly handsome assassin did so seemingly without effort every single time was beginning to grate on his nerves.

It certainly didn’t help that he did so while being undeniably beautiful to boot, the faintest curl of embarrassment coiling in Wriothesley’s gut when he remembered his drunken confession to Clorinde just a fortnight ago around the attractive nature of a certain professional assassin who kept mucking up his jobs. She had refused to let that one die and he could practically see the mischievous smile on Clorinde’s face already as she would inevitably poke and prod, taking a mile from the inch he had given.

“Now now, Duke,” the Sovereign intoned, pushing slightly off the wall he had been leaning against to bring himself fully upright, “lies are unbefitting of one such as yourself.”

“I’m sure you only have my best interests at heart,” Wriothesley retorted with a disparaging grunt, daring to let his gaze slip past the Sovereign and towards the door of the restroom that Darvill had undoubtedly vanished into some six minutes ago. He highly doubted an assassin as reputable as the Sovereign would stick around the scene of a crime which could only mean one thing.

“Not going to take him out while he has his pants down? Quite literally, I’m guessing,” Wriothesley wheedled, allowing his expression to slip into a smirk as he mentally calculated the distance between himself, the Sovereign, and the door.

“Please, I’m not as uncouth as one of your ilk,” the Sovereign sniffed, the downward turn of those perfect lips indicating that he took perhaps at least some offense to the implication that he would off a target in the bathroom.

“Very noble of you” Wriothesley snarked, purposefully not thinking about the number of targets he had zeroed out in just such locations. Sometimes one had to make do with what they were given, especially when circumstances weren’t in one’s favor.

Bathrooms also had the added bonus of often having only one exit.

He shifted slightly, attempting to keep the movement as nonchalant as possible as he rocked forward onto the balls of his feet, whole body coiled tight and waiting in preparation. Even the faint flicker of movement failed to go unnoticed by his competitor, those lilac eyes narrowing even if the rest of the assassin didn’t so much as twitch. Undoubtedly the gears were spinning beneath that silvery head of hair, pulled up into a tight ponytail without a single wisp out of place. He was potentially closer to the target, but….

“I don’t suppose you’re willing to walk away?” Wriothesley asked even if he knew the answer already, leaning back slightly on one heel enough to cant his body away from the assassin, however slightly, so he might disguise the movement of his left hand at least partially, disguising any progress towards the grip of his pistol.

The Sovereign mirrored his shift in posture, turning his body in synchronous as if they were odd reflections of one another, robust against svelte, light against dark. Given he wasn’t attempting to close the distance he had to have something capable of some range which, given his specialties, left a slightly less limited list than Wriothesley’s own.

Then again he was probably good at everything, Wriothesley, suppressing a scowl. That certainly would align with the rumors he had heard from others in their profession, often murmured over the lip of a tumbler of whiskey.

The faint scent of petrichor and the tide was becoming steadily more prominent as they drifted around him like the ebb and flow of the sea. It wrapped by and around him, causing his own alpha to stir, something like discomfort churning low in his gut. It was rare one in their field, especially one so prodigious as the Sovereign, would make an amateur mistake when missing scent blockers given how much of a tell scents could be, even to the uninformed.

“What, running low on fancy scent blockers? I’m pretty sure the corner store has a two-for-one deal going on today - if you rush you might just get there before they close,” he droned, gesturing expansively with his left hand while his right shifted closer to his gun.

If looks could kill Wriothesley would have keeled over then and there, the pure venom in those slit-pupiled eyes cutting through him like a hidden blade, threatening to cleave him in twain. Salt soured to something bitter and abrasive, Wriothesley just barely fighting the urge to recoil as his nose wrinkled at the onslaught before it vanished only moments later, replaced by that same oceanic bouquet even if the vein of acridity lurking beneath the surface still hovered there.

The perfect bow of those lips parted (Wriothesley had a very normal obsession with them, truly) to impart what was undoubtedly a cutting retort when the door to the bathroom behind him creaked open, the greasy mug of Darvill peeping through to regard them both with open curiosity as the two turned, in tandem, to pin him in place with their respective gazes.

It was almost comical to watch the realization dawn on the accountant’s face, confusion giving way to fear, the man’s expression contorting in alarm as he made to both open the door wider and shut it in the same breath, instead managing some jittery pantomime of movement.

Two things happened simultaneously as Darvil waffled indecisively where he stood, gawping, from the door to the bathroom.

The Sovereign twisted away, the snap of his wrist the only preface to the blur of silver the flashed in Wriothesley’s direction, liquid and bright as years of honed reflexes and training managed keep him just clear of the blade that whipped by his face, missing him by a a scant hair’s breadth.He wasn’t remotely surprised to see another blade blossom into existence in the assassin’s hand as if pulled out of thin air, Wriothesley forcing himself to gain speed as quickly as possibly, tumbling to the side and behind one of the gauche pillars as steel clattered uselessly against marble.

He knew he didn’t have a moment to waste, allowing his momentum to carry him far enough behind the pillar that he had a line of sight on his foe, jerking his pistol up to bear on the blur of blue and white that was attempting to dart behind another of the busts. Stone exploded in a burst of pale shards and puff of dust as he squeezed the trigger, Wriothesley confident that the shot would have found its target had the damnable marble head not gotten in its way.

The flash of blades and sound of gunfire were finally enough to shake Darvill from his stupor, the man managing to slap the button of the personal alarm Sigewinne had neglected to tell Wriothesley about, the result instantaneous. Claxon sirens began to blare in earnest, utterly deafening as the glaring lights flickered lower and emergency illumination began to cast the hallway in a sanguine glow, the lurid red macabrely fitting.

The bust next to him, a mister Philippe Jean-Paul, was looking considerably less like a head and more like a mess of mangled stone and dust, sightless visage staring sadly into the middle distance as his remaining eye exploded into shrapnel. Wriothesley drew in a sharp breath, air hissing between his teeth as he craned his neck as far as he dared, only the distant flicker of a white ponytail catching his vision before the Sovereign ducked behind another statue. He was drawing persistently closer, closing the distance in a way that made the hitman distinctly uncomfortable as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, contemplating his best course of action.

It was decided for him when Darvill began his own panicked exodus, frantically beating a path towards the exit displayed in loud, vibrant letters. The movement was enough to temporarily distract them both, the expected flight giving Wriothesley just enough time to lunge and roll free of his crumbling cover, diving towards a more robust statue and bringing his gun to bear. He was here for a job and by the archons was he going to do it.

His adversary realized the same a few scant seconds after he did, a blade whistling harmlessly by to clatter, steel-bright, against partially fractured marble. The subsequent round fired from a pistol was less subtle, Wriothesley’s head jerking back with a snarled curse as stone split again, his shot at Darvill going just awry.

For someone who looked so out of shape the accountant was surprisingly spry, taking off with the speed of a rat fleeing a sinking ship as he scrambled gracelessly down the remaining stretch of hallway. It would have been a neat kill, an easy kill, had there not been the persistent menace that was hounding Wriothesley’s back like a wraith, threatening to either end him or steal his kill, neither of which were what he would consider preferable outcomes in this particular endeavor.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, Wriothesley taking a moment to fish a treat out of the small pack around his hips (it wasn’t a fanny pack, much as Sigewinne said it was), and lob it in the direction of his foe. The pop of the Sovereign’s pistol signaled his awareness and early reaction but the catalyst was already working its magic, the air erupting into a fiery burst of Pyro and Anemo as the two swirled together, filling the hallway with blinding light and giving him just enough time to lurch forward, eyes stinging even despite the fact he had managed to squint them shut in time.

Even despite the temporary inconvenience he wasn’t surprised in the slightest when a flash of white-and-blue broke free of the coiling smoke, embers trailing off his suit coat as bands of smoke coiled like a tail behind him, thrashing and enraged.

Their accountant friend stumbled gracelessly around a corner, well out of both of their lines of sight, effectively kicking off a footrace. While he wasn’t exactly what one would call slow, Wriothesley had a feeling that the Sovereign was graced with speed as he seemed to be graced with everything else, the two practically neck-in-neck for a handful of heartbeats as they raced after their target.

He had been right to assume his adversary was both light and quick on his feet.

The faint slashing motion of the Sovereign’s hand was accompanied not by the flash of metal but a lashing tendril of Hydro that snapped up to hook Wriothesley’s ankle. It was only years of experience and lightning fast reflexes that had the hitman replying in kind, twisting his body to brush his hand close enough to flash-freeze the gracefully arcing tentacle of water, solidifying the whole construct before it had time to fully encircle him as the Sovereign played his hand.

It would be a waste to not do more with the movement, he thought, the spread of ice not stopping the moment it hit the marble floor, instead expanding rapidly to race ahead of the Sovereign’s form, easily turning the already slick surface into the equivalent of the ice skating rink. The sudden change didn’t exactly stop his forward momentum but it made even the slightest adjustment difficult, especially as an obstacle similarly fashioned of Cryo made its presence known, misshapen stalagmites of ice bursting skyward.

The vertical jut of ice was just enough to present itself as a tripping hazard and Wriothesley let out a bark of self-satisfied laughter when there was a snarl from beside him, a rare break in the Sovereign’s normally unrufflable mein as he was forced to launch himself sideways off the tripping hazard lest he stumble. It was enough, just enough, for Wriothesley to retain the advantage, drifting into a low slide that easily took him around the corner, tugging his rifle free of its resting place on his back as he did so and snapping it up to line the fleeing form of Darvill up with his sights.

Before him the target was still scuttling forward rapidly, directly into the waiting arms of a half dozen of armored individuals who were swiftly bringing up their own rifles to bear.

Wriothesley didn’t even have the presence of mind to curse, swinging his rifle free of his back to squeeze a round at the most ready individual, met with a satisfying spray of gore that was nearly black in the dim, lurid light of the hallway. A second followed suit, and then a third, before the security contingent was prepared enough to return fire, the hitman allowing his momentum to carry him into the opposite hallway as the floor he had been standing on just moments ago erupted in a hail of bullets, stone splintering and flinging bits of painful detritus in all directions.

He ignored the stinging shards that had managed to worm their way into the bit of uncovered flesh visible, his attention already snapping back to the much larger threat that had brought himself to a stop opposite Wriothesley. His finger itched on the trigger as their eyes met, calculating and seeking as bullets continued to fill the space between them, the impasse recognized by both parties.

Both of them were champing at the proverbial bit to neutralize what was undeniably the larger threat but even then there was a tenuous thread of professionalism to contend with. While Wriothesley wouldn’t admit that he enjoyed their occasional conflicts (he didn’t, he swore, no matter what Sigewinne would say to the contrary) there was also a far simpler challenge before them that would be practically laughable against their combined talents.

The narrowing of his eyes was met in kind, the wordless oath of “just this once” forming in the air between them. That they could deal with one another after cleaning up Darvill’s mess went unspoken but was unequivocally accepted by both parties.

The tentative peace was crystalized when a distant and muffled call of “grenade out!” preceded a pause in the hailstorm of bullets. In the next heartbeat a grenade plunked into existence between them as if harvested out of the void, pin noticeably absent as the Pyro sigil marking its surface rolled cheekily into view.

Droplets of moisture condensed in the air about the grenade, hung suspended and glistening for the blink of an eye before they suddenly conjoined with an audible ‘whumpf’ of pressure, Wriothesley responding in kind as Hydro practically crushed the weapon, ice congealing atop the layer of water. The surface of the grenade warped briefly before the Pyro reaction engaged but too little, too late. The sheen of ice on the outside was rapidly thickening as Cryo reacted with Hydro, the combination of its glimmering shell and the nullifying effects of water turning the grenade into little more than a flashy depth charge.

Cheap equipment, really, to be so easily thwarted but he wasn’t about to complain. The brief flash of light, refracted from behind ice crystals, was enough to discombobulate their foes where Wriothesley and the Sovereign had had the presence of mind and experience to look away. In tandem they spun into the corridor, the hitman’s rifle snapping up once more, aware of similar from the assassin beside him.

A quick squeeze of the trigger sent another enemy crumpling to the ground before a cowering Darvill, splattering him with gore and eliciting a panicked cry so high-pitched Wriothesley was sure every dog within a mile radius could hear it. The man across from him dropped near-simultaneously, a precision shot sending him sliding against the nearby wall to leave a dark smear as he sank to the waiting ground.

A flurry of activity down the hall they had arrived from was enough to remind the pair that there was more than one way to access the current floor, another contingent of guards hustling into view, weapons bristling. These individuals were more organized, the front few dropping to their knees to give those behind them a clear shot as they trained their sights on the pair, no doubt relying on what they assumed was the element of surprise.

Unfortunately for them their presence was far from unexpected, even anticipated. Security detail on the building had numbered in the dozens at any given time and given the small retinue currently attending to (or have been attending to) Darvill, the arrival of additional units was far from a surprise. The timing was the only inauspicious part, though perhaps even that would work in the hitman’s favor….

His first responding shot went wild, the second managing to catch one by the unarmored leg, sending him pitching forward unceremoniously, tumbling against one of his fellows and knocking him awry. Wriothesley didn’t bother with the lie of “meant to do that” as he turned his sights to the next in line only to witness a knife materializing in the middle of his chest. He let out a low whistle before an errant shot forced him to jerk back, preferring not to trust in the integrity of his tactical gear unless absolutely necessary.

“That was my last blade,” came the perfunctory explanation from the Sovereign, tone clinical and detached as he stepped into the cover of an alcove before him. It appeared neither of them had expected much resistance today, Wriothesley having left his usual assortment of toys and goodies at home in lieu of traveling light. He wasn’t regretting that right now, not exactly, but there was an undeniable tinge of remorse on him not having an entire string of explosives handy for just such a situation versus the pittance he had used earlier.

The hallway where Darvill waited, panickedly mashing the elevator call button, was for the time being relatively quiet, the remaining guards there either creeping towards them or hanging close to their employer. Either way they were the smaller threat for the moment, Wriothesley shuffling to the side as he surveyed the scene before them, the beginnings of an idea percolating in the back of his mind.

“Can you finish them off if you can get in close?” Wriothesley asked, all nonchalance as he popped the latch holding the tactical bowie knife on his thigh in place. The look the Sovereign cast in his direction could have melted an entire wall of Cryo, so scathing that Wriothesley nearly laughed at the absurdness of the entire situation.

“Of course,” came the stiff reply, those glittering amethyst eyes narrowing, “What do you have in mind, Duke?”

“You know that trick earlier, with the ice? Think you can get in close if I’m a distraction?” he asked, awarding the assassin with his smarmiest smile. The Sovereign was quiet for a handful of heartbeats, gaze evaluating as it flicked between his temporary companion, the new contenders, and where Darvill was hopefully still cowering. Even in the throes of deep concentration there was something undeniably attractive to the man, that fine brow slightly furrowed until a faint crease formed, the singular wisp of flyaway white hair drifting free of his high ponytail only lending credence to how much he was concentrating given the way he failed to brush it back into place.

He knew he was getting the short end of the stick even if it was likely the solution with the least amount of risk to either of them - the primary risk being that of losing first dibs on their target. Perhaps he, at least, could afford to pay the price for that risk.

“Very well,” he finally conceded, eyes drifting to the blade now resting in the palm of the hitman’s hand. Wriothesley repressed the urge to let out a self-satisfied purr at the admission, instead tossing the large knife carefully in the Sovereign’s direction. The slender man snatched it expertly out of mid-air, lip twisting up in disdain at the large blade that looked so out of place in his hand, all dark, pocked metal with serrated notches near its base. Disgusted though he may have been he gave it an experimental twirl, apparently satisfied with the balance.

Wriothesley tamped down the odd surge of pleasure at seeing something of his clasped in those finely manicured hands, forcing his mind back to the matter at hand.

Unsurprisingly the security detail had been creeping down the hall while they had been formulating their plan of attack, eating up a considerable amount of distance though thankfully not enough to render their plan without merit. It would simply make everything tighter from a timing perspective, Wriothesley crouching low to splay his fingers across the ground, the cool touch of marble beneath his fingertips practically burning as Cryo began to blossom across the tiles, frost riming its way between the cracks as it raced away from him. The Sovereign had fallen even further back into his alcove, watching and calculating the advancement of the spreading ice as the hitman stepped back to let it progress naturally.

The yelps of alarm were enough to goad him into movement, rolling free of his cover and bringing his rifle up to bear once more, squeezing off a burst of rounds in the direction of the security force. Only one bullet met its mark but that was more than enough for him, their attention fixated solely on his moving form as he dipped into the opposite alcove with a few more wild shots, taking perverse glee in the growing chaos as he fired off a few more random rounds from his makeshift cover.

The distraction was more than enough, their attention drawn to the opposite side of the hallway as the Sovereign where he was apparently, for the moment, forgotten. Wriothesley had just enough of a bead on him to see the flick of intent from those lilac eyes before the assassin was dipping around the corner, pulling himself forward via another marble bust, ponytail whipping out behind him in a flash of white as he raced across the ice-slicked floor.

Wriothesley rolled back into the hallway, keen on both keeping what attention he could and providing cover fire even if he might have an ulterior motive as well. He barely needed to shoot twice before the minimal distance between the Sovereign and their foes was covered, nonetheless managing to cripple the nearest with a precise shot to the knee, leaving him wide open for a sweep of the serrated blade.

One fell and then another, graceful arcs of blood following the lash of the knife as the Sovereign leveled the playing field in a macabre dance. While Wriothesley had seen the assassin at work before, often from a distance, there was something to be said for witnessing the brutal ballet up close and personal, a chill racing down his spine as he watched. There was a reason the assassin had earned the reputation he had and this display of force suddenly made Wriotheslely very thankfully he had never been on the receiving end of one of those contracts.

He popped another shot, for good measure, crippling another of the two remaining and leaving another easy kill. For a moment his gut twisted, something like remorse and regret as he jerked himself away from the scene and back towards the hallway that housed the cowering weasel that was Darvill. That this was the inevitable outcome was a fact they both recognized and knew but he couldn’t help the small lurch of shame writhing around inside him, hot and anxious.

This was the way it had to be.

Wriothesley lunged around the corner just as the light above the elevator winked to life, security protocols having finally been overridden, likely carrying with it the accountant’s salvation. Too little, too late, the hitman forgoing his rifle in favor of his pistol to take out the panicked security guard smashing the call button. For a moment Darvill’s eyes met his own, wide and terrified, before bullet met braincase and the accountant tottered backwards, sliding to the ground as the light left his eyes.

The hitman wasted no time rushing forward to both confirm the kill and claim his trophy, proof of his deed, crouching beside the now lifeless form of the account and beginning to root furtively through his pockets. His clients had requested his pocket watch as evidence of successful completion, Wriothesley beelining for his coat pockets even as a warning prickle raced up the back of his neck and his rummaging fingers stilled, frozen in place before slowly turning to the sudden presence that had materialized behind him.

His breath hung in his chest, stale and cloying as the Sovereign returned his gaze, those lavender eyes entirely unreadable over the muzzle of his pistol. Wriothesley could practically feel the tension in the air on his skin, a heavy weight settling over him, keen to muzzle and stay his hand as the other alpha bristled, a perfect lip twisting up in something like a brief snarl before it settled. His own alpha bucked in retaliation, kept in check only by the very real threat of an imminent end leveled his way.

The faint change in air pressure and ‘woosh’ of the elevator doors were his only alert to another behind him before the Sovereign’s gun was twitching upward, finger squeezing off a shot as a warm spray of blood splattered against Wriothesley’s cheek.

Even with the knowledge it wasn’t his own his heart plummeted, unable to restrain his gaze from darting sideways to the tumbling form of some manner of security personnel as he pitched forward to the ground beside them, sightless gaze drifting between them as he impacted the floor with a wet smack.

Whatever spell had been in place shattered, splintering apart as the Sovereign let out a huff through his nose, pistol returning to its hidden holster at his side in the flash. At the very least he didn’t do Wriothesley the indignity of offering a hand, instead regarding the hitman with something approaching contempt even if those perfect lips were kept sealed against the splatter of crimson that sat there like a bright and macabre lipstick. His gaze flicked up, however briefly, to observe the crumpled form of a very dead Darvill before he let out another, deeper sigh.

For a moment those lips parted, words a mere heartbeat from spilling forth before a distant shout sent them both skittering apart, the tenuous thread that had bound them together fully severed as another contingent of security spilled into the hallway. This one was larger than the others and more well equipped Wriothesley swiftly adding up that the mental math equaled “not good” before he too was scrambling away. He wasn’t so dumb as to hover when there was a battle he couldn’t win, darting swiftly towards the nearest exit as his mind dutifully evaluated the layout Sigewinne had provided in advance.

The Sovereign had apparently figured the same, vanishing in the opposite direction with nary a backward glance as they split away from the elevator, neither party keen on being caught in that particular death trap.

Though the hallways may have been a maze, Wriothesley knew that a sharp left and a pair of somewhat discombobulating right turns would get him to a room with outside access even if the actual stairs lay on the opposite side of the floor. Getting outside was all he needed, sprinting recklessly through the halls as the shouts from behind him began to slowly fade.

Well aware though he was he was racing through the building quicker than he should have given the likelihood of more security arriving he was running on something of a high, heart thudding in his throat in a way he blamed solely on the thrill of a successful job and nothing else. He hadn’t been able to get a trophy, no, but Darvill’s passing would be hard to ignore, especially for his business partners situated in that very building. At worst it would land him a smaller profit but it was better than the alternative of no profit - or worse, not making it out at all.

He skidded to a halt before the door to another office, jimmying to lock until it opened with a satisfying click and he slid inside. He didn’t linger in the much smaller, less ostentatious office space, instead making a beeline for the window set against the fire escape. This one opened reluctantly, requiring a significant amount of elbow grease before it squealed up and Wriothesley was slipping through.

His escape route was already well-planned as he began to scale his way down the rickety fire escape, cognizant of the flashing lights and blaring sirens dotting the rain-slicked street beneath him. Thankfully they were mostly around the front side of the building, prying eyes gravitating naturally to the commotion and hubbub in a way that would allow him to slip through a few alleyways, stash his gear, and sneak away with folks none the wiser. It was almost too easy, he realized, shaking off the unease as he dropped off the last rung of the ladder and began splashing his way through the myriad of puddles that lined the broken pavement of the City.

Even though he was in the clear he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something had gone awry in a way he hadn’t anticipated, chalking it up to paranoia.

Surely everything was right as rain.

Chapter Text

“Hold still.”

Stern and sharp though the words may have been, Sigewinne’s touch was anything but. Her ministrations were deceptively kind for how full of indignation she perpetually seemed to be, small fingers cautious and gentle as she plucked out buried fragments of shrapnel. While normally Wriothesley would wince and wheeze theatrically today his mind is far too preoccupied, torn between what he viewed as a catastrophic failure and something else he couldn’t quite place a finger on.

“I’m sure it’ll work its way out eventually,” he grumbled after yet another pregnant pause, eyes fixed on a water stain on the drywall that looked like Focalors if one tilted their head forty-six degrees to the left and squinted. Sigewinne only lets out a muffled hum in response, her attention narrowed in far too much to needle at whatever it is that is causing his skin to crawl and unease to prickle at the back of his mind. She had been accepting of his failure when he had returned home, instead putting all of her seemingly infinite energy into glaring daggers at him until he sat down to be attended to.

“It would,” she admitted after another bout of rummaging through his wounds as if the slivers of marble were truffles and she the prize pig hunting for them, “But this will be better. And you’ll feel right as rain in no time.”

He knew better than to argue, instead consoling himself with grumbling and slouching back against the threadbare couch. Already the news stations had begun to buzz in earnest with news of the disastrous job, the details still nebulous and hazy when he had slunk into their shared apartment, tossing his bag in the corner. The television had been on the local news station even if it had been muted, text scrolling monotonously across the bottom as one of the reporters, Charlotte, regaled the viewing public with details of the grisly scene.

Another questing twist of the tweezers had him flinching, grunting in admonishment as Sigewinne trilled a quick apology and promise to be more careful. The newsline was currently claiming that a large group of organized criminals had acted in the building in an attempted robbery, with a certain Antoine Darvill sadly caught in the crossfire, an unfortunate victim of wanton violence.

Wriothesley had the distinct feeling that a certain organization had spun the narrative, a cleverly woven lie to disguise not his involvement but that of their agent.

“Have you heard anything about the Marechaussee Hunters lately?”

The Melusine’s hand paused abruptly, freezing above one of the stone slivers mid-extraction. Even though he refused to glance her way he could feel the heat of those crimson eyes on the side of his face, questing and inquisitive as they plucked him apart as though he were the last remaining wisps of a spider’s web.

“Is that who was there? To answer you question no; none of my contacts have so much as made a peep,” she answered, tone clipped and terse in a way that it was not normally as she returned his laser-focused attention to the task at hand. He spared a sideways glance, briefly curious why such a mention would elicit such a response before turning his attention elsewhere. He could understand not wanting to dredge up the past.

“Can you get in contact with the group funding Darvill’s untimely end after this? I know I couldn’t get the pocket watch in time but I’d argue that the news is a good enough indicator of how it went.”

They would simply have to take his word for it and hope no one made a claim to the contrary, not that he felt a certain individual would.

“Yes - they left a message while you were out. Base pay was supposed to be deposited in the account this evening but I didn’t reply. Do you want to wait orrrr -?”

He gave a one-armed shrug as he leaned fully back against the well-worn back of the couch once more, gaze drifting up to focus on the yellowing ceiling, its tiles pocked with evidence of years of both use and neglect in equal measure. Cheap though the apartment may have been, everything within it was (mostly) functional and it easily had enough space for them to run the business out of it. Fledgling though this endeavor may have been, it had seen moderate success, a string of initial jobs fortunate enough to fuel their meager renown while word-of-mouth did the majority of the heavy lifting.

That and a three-headed dog made a pretty neat sigil if he could say so himself.

“Do we have any other jobs lined up after this?”

“There are a few prospects I wanted to run by you but nothing that would shake the foundation of Teyvat,” his Melusine friend returned with a hum, canting her head to the side to admire her handiwork. “I want to review them more tonight before we decide on anything. Talk over breakfast?” There was a pleading look in her eyes at those words, the request for something that wasn’t oatmeal and dried fruit apparent.

He gave an exaggerated, mock sigh, arm flopping dramatically over his brow.

“If I must then I suppose that is allowable, O Great One,” he lamented, easily ignoring the tiny fist giving his bicep a quick one-two punch. She gave him a few more attempted punches (to which he bemoaned medical malpractice) before going about studiously cleaning up her kit, intent on making the table spic and span once more.

Nearly every piece of furniture in the modest apartment had either been lifted off the side of the street or had been acquired on the sly. Sigewinne had a critical eye for furniture and a particular knack for picking out pieces that were heartily built, relying on Wriothesley’s muscles to do all of the heavy lifting. The end result was a strange mix of well built furniture from wildly different eras and styles, most of which had been patched and painted at some point. An ornate bookcase here, a modern couch there, and the impossible to ignore child-sized rocking chair in the corner, replete with a doily in miniature.

Strange though it may have looked, it was home. It helped that they never met clients on the premises, either meeting at a place of their choosing or a local coffee shop whose staff were more than content to turn a blind eye after Wriothesley had helped them out of a pickle involving beef with a teriyaki shop across the street that was the front for some sort of criminal activity.

The free coffee and tea was an added bonus, even if Wriothesley refused the generous gesture most days, knowing full well how scant the profit margin was in such a neighborhood.

“If you were to make, say, crepes,” Sigewinne wheedled, giving Wriothesley eyes equivalent to a kicked blubberbeast, “You could go to the store and get some fruit too. Oh, and whipped cream! And maybe some of those bulle fruit syrups like the on-”

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’!” he interrupted, pushing himself to his feet with a groan that wasn’t entirely for show. Every day he was beginning to believe Sigewinne more and more when she told him he needed to focus more on calisthenics and mobility, not that he would admit it. She already looked delighted enough by his willingness to head to the corner store, eyes bright and rhinophores bobbling over the back of her head, clapping her tiny hands together as she scampered off to make a list.

“Don’t forget scent blockers! You’re almost out!” she called from the other room as she rooted around in their junk drawer for a pen and paper, “And not the cheap off-brand you’ve been getting! The quality of those is atrocious, have you looked at the ingredients list? They may be half the price but they’re also twice as diluted!”

He grunted a response, only half-listening as he rifled through his wallet, peeling apart the crumpled notes contained within and frowning at the meager pittance there. If the clients didn’t pay up soon they were going to be eating breakfast for the rest of the week, Wriothesley making a mental note to pick up whatever protein was on sale even if he had to get creative with cooking it. He had the distinct feeling funds were going to be tight for a while, especially if the wire transfer for the job took as long as it normally did.

“Be back in a few,” he said, glancing briefly at the list Sigewinne pressed into his palm and grimacing at the frankly appalling quantity of sugar and supplements dotting the page in equal measure. At least they’d have a tasty breakfast before what was hopefully a quick payday.

The first thing he noticed upon return, arms full of groceries, was the rather innocuous package sitting outside the door to their apartment. In the relative grime of the hallway, ancient wallpaper peeling away from the wall in draping curls and carpet stained a myriad of colors by who-knew-what, the small, perfectly white package stood out like a sore thumb. It almost looked as though it had been placed with an obsessive level of precision, sitting dead center before his door, not a single marking on its pristine surface.

Had it been slightly larger Wriothesley might have presumed that it was a bomb or something incriminating, but the closer he drew the less sure he was. It was only when he was directly before it, shifting the paper bag clutched in his right arm to his opposite hip, did he smell the faintest lingering traces of the sea, a touch of salt and spray that was as much a calling card as the looping cursive font may have been, written boldly on the austere packaging.

Had it been any other night he would have balked at picking up the package, perhaps even gone so far as to punt it and send it spinning down the hall but the events from a few hours prior had his curiosity sufficiently piqued. He picked the tiny package up delicately as if it might bite him but nothing so much as happened, the small box light and innocent as he inspected it critically. He didn’t get the feeling it was anything malicious even if he could already hear Sigewinne lecturing him for trusting his gut.

Balancing the package in the crook of his arm he took a moment to work his way through the litany of locks barring the door, the whole process giving Sigewinne enough time to scamper over to greet him by the time the last deadbolt and chain had fallen away. Her gaze lingered, however briefly, on the package balanced precariously on his arm before he handed her one of the bags, the Melusine scurrying off once more to begin unpacking it, already rooting through the top layer of goodies on her way to the kitchen, hoping to uncover a treat (she would have to dig a bit for the chocolate bar he had stashed there).

“What’s the box for?” came the inevitable question, Sigewinne’s tone saccharine sweet as she peered at him over the edge of the counter from where she was perched upon her small step stool, picking through the mixture of items Wriothesley had brought back. Already she had managed to sort through half of the bag in record time, studiously separating food from supplements and other items, with the perishables waiting to be whisked away into the icebox.

“Dunno,” Wriothesley mused, setting down the remaining groceries in lieu of inspecting the perfectly sealed package. It only took him a moment to dig his thumbnail into the seam where the tape held the box together, the lid popping open without fanfare to reveal a singular item nestled on a bed of brown paper, the hitman’s brows furrowing in brief confusion before realization dawned.

He held up the pocket watch for Sigewinne to see, the Melusine’s surprised ‘oh’ echoing his own sentiments completely. He could only assume, given the description they had received, that this was the very pocket watch he had been so furtively searching for on Darvill’s corpse before he had been so rudely interrupted. It was a Lepaute Horlogerie, the gleaming brass surface well maintained and worth a fortune in its own right even if someone had had the audacity (Darvill) to carve their initials into the back, thoroughly ruining its resalability while simultaneously definitively displaying its previous owner in a way no other would dare.

He hung it higher for Sigewinne to see, taking a moment to admire the meticulous whir of its tiny gears, visible through the immaculate glass window that protected them, clockwork ticking along resolutely as it swung back and forth upon its short chain. Even “ruined” as it was, it was a beautiful piece, albeit one the accountant had apparently kept very hidden, which could only mean one thing.

“Ooooh!” Sigewinne trilled, delight and devilry flashing across her features in equal measure, “Is that from him?”

It had to be, didn’t it? No one else aside from Darvill’s former associates likely knew about the fact that he owned it to begin with, let alone wanted it used as proof of the kill. It wasn’t the sort of trophy that many would take unless they knew its true value in more ways than one, that alone narrowing the pool to a scant handful of individuals at best. And given how even fewer of those individuals had been present earlier this evening, well….

Was it a trap? Some cunning ruse meant to force his guard down? He couldn’t quite tell, double-checking the box again for any manner of note but discovering none. Sigewinne was giggling deviously in the background the whole while, promising/threatening to tell Clorinde as Wriothesley continued to frown at the small watch, thoroughly at a loss for words. There had to be some ulterior motive but, for the life of him, he couldn’t figure it out. Was it a slight, perhaps, rubbing salt in the wound at his inability to recover something small but important? That had to be it, the hitman forcing a scowl onto his face that didn’t quite feel as though it fit.

“Better get it to the clients,” he grumbled, unceremoniously tossing the pocket watch in Sigewinne’s direction and almost immediately feeling a surge of guilt as the Melusine was forced to scramble to catch it, nearly tumbling off of her stool in the process. He was rewarded with an indignant huff that he only partially noticed, mind still roaming elsewhere as he rolled the why around in his head.

He had the feeling it was going to be a late night.

Sigewinne had been quick to both reach out to their previous clients to deliver the recently deceased accountant’s pocket watch and simultaneously set up a new gig with a speed that was practically uncanny. For whatever reason, the hit on Darvill had made waves (albeit relatively mild ones) in the communities that Wriothesley ran in, resulting in a pleasant deluge of requests ranging from the small and inconsequential to a few so large his eyes had nearly bugged out of his head. Those large ones he and Sigewinne both had decided to ignore for the time being, recognizing the risk involved and that it was likely not commensurate with the pay.

Even so, the Melusine had been able to secure a sizable commission for him that, while involving more of the local crime syndicate than he would normally feel comfortable, he felt was achievable. It would require caution, yes, but he was confident enough in his own skills and the fact that the group had reached out to him immediately after the resolution of Darvill’s contract, even if Sigewinne had softly urged him to be cautious and not overestimate himself. She’d been a bit reluctant about the gig but not quite enough to speak out openly against it even if her apprehension dogged the hitman’s first steps through the sprawling warehouse district.

Massive cranes loomed over the scattered corpses of abandoned shipping containers long since picked clean by local scavengers, broken and flickering bulbs interspersed amongst the metal carcasses that hung ominously open, their contents shrouded in shadow. That this was the derelict portion of the warehouse district was obvious, nearly every surface heavily graffitied, neon letters blaring warnings around whose turf was where at nearly every turn.

It wasn’t exactly favorable, no, but he had been in worse places and for far less pay. The paycheck was fat even if the margin for error was considerably lower, Wriothesley armed to the proverbial teeth as he slipped amongst an oddly arranged bevvy of shipping containers, a string of far more well maintained warehouses swimming into view past a tall chain link fence that bristled with barbed wire and ponderously swinging spotlights.

Rumor had it that this particular crime syndicate had gone to ground here quite some time ago and had begun to exercise their considerable control over the shipping lanes. They were relatively young, so far as gangs in the area went, but had undergone a rapid expansion that hadn’t gone unnoticed by others of their ilk. The current rumor also alluded to their being stretched thin due to the sudden growth, presenting an opportunity that more than one or two parties had been drooling over, unable to resist the temptation.

Wriothesley simply hoped it was an accurate assessment.

Cut the head off the snake and go. That was it. The ask, in and of itself, was simple enough, even if the heavy security made it a bit more of a challenge. Unlike the meager precautions at Darvill’s building this group was expecting trouble, nearly every crony that skulked across their territory packing heat. According to Sigewinne’s research, regular patrols roamed through their triad of warehouses on a set schedule, designed in such a way to minimize potential gaps. Even the most meticulous of schemes had the potential to fall apart, though, and if Wriothesley was good at anything it was fucking up the best laid plans.

The hitman drew to a stop near one of the last shipping containers before the area opened up to be replaced by stretches of broken concrete and the hastily constructed fence. The shipping container itself was a sprawling mass of graffiti in bold, competing colors, covered in local tags and blatant threats about any approaching this particular stretch of territory. A breeze had begun to weave its way through the maze of containers, bringing with it the promise of a late night storm, the distant rumble of thunder already growling across the horizon.

Rain was good for covering his tracks but that didn’t mean he was looking forward to making a break for it in a full-on storm, wondering just what archon it was he had displeased to cause the weather to hate him so. Regardless, he was here for the job and he wasn’t about to let an opportunity go to waste, especially when his quarry was confirmed to be present for the rest of the night.

Shinsuke was an Inazuman transplant, illustrious for his cruelty and ruling his particular gang, the Kanjou, with an iron fist. Attempts on his life were notoriously numerous but just as notoriously unsuccessful, that enough to give most pause when a contract opened up. The possibility to eliminate such a powerful threat and subsume his newly acquired territory was too much for some deep pockets to ignore, hence the current hit for a frankly ludicrous amount of mora. It was practically divine intervention given how the payout of this particular job was nearly the remainder of the loan Wriothesley had, that providence alone enough to ensure him that this was, indeed, a job worth taking.

The current patrol was due to cycle out at the end of the hour, a time that was swiftly approaching. He glanced skyward towards the moon that hung, low and fat, in the sky, wisps of cloud beginning to chase their way across its surface as the minutes ticked by. It was enough to illuminate the open swathes of pavement free of the swinging searchlights, allowing him to memorize the potential path before him as a trio of guards sidled into view, two of them chortling loudly to each other as the third scowled behind them, apparently the butt of some joke if his dour expression was anything to go by.

If Sigewinne was correct they would make their way to the warehouse on the far end to change out shifts, giving him perhaps a one minute gap, at best, before the group on their break inside would come hurrying out. It was enough time if he moved quickly but he still had to be cognizant of security cameras and spotlights the whole while, his gaze drifting to the ponderously rotating lights. He was less worried about those than he was about something unscheduled happening, keeping his eyes peeled for any additional movement as the trio drew closer to the warehouse.

The seconds ticked by, uneventful, and his opening was made clear. Sucking in a breath Wriothesley sprinted for one of the gaps in the shoddily constructed fence, sliding in behind the swinging beam of a spotlight and squeezing his way inside. A zig and a zag were all it took to bring him across the yawning expanse of concrete and up to the side of the first warehouse, tucking himself into the shadows there for a heartbeat as he waited.

Sigewinne’s intel had told him that the side entrance, mostly unguarded, was probably his best bet. It lay just around the corner of the building, the hitman sliding his way cautiously across the warped metal surface, ears pricked by even the faintest sound. Slowly the gentle drone of conversation came to his ears as a pair of goons came into view, dawdling just before the edge of the building, the glowing tips of cigarettes bobbing faintly in the rapidly cooling night.

“Boss said he had a bad feeling about tonight,” thug number one drawled, blowing a plume of cigarette smoke out of his mouth as he slouched back against the side of the building, “You know how he gets when he’s wound up. Jumping at shadows, calling in the big guns. Figured now was a good time to slip out while he’s barking orders.”

The other lackey grunted, apparently taking that as a good indicator to light his own cigarette and take a puff. Wriothesley hung back, nose wrinkling against the smoke that drifted his way, pressed against the grimy wall behind him as the two guards ate up the remainder of their smoke break with only the occasional tidbit of gossip sprinkled between the standard “how’s the family” and other such pleasantries. Though he was itching to move, the hitman knew better than to step out of cover until they had wrapped up, waiting impatiently as the clock ticked steadily by.

Eventually the pair stubbed out the dwindling remainders of their cigarette amidst a few final, griped comments to each other and moved away, leaving Wriothesley to move and worry just what the “big guns” were that the first one had mentioned earlier. More reinforcements had not been something he had anticipated, especially with the area already bristling with more guns than gang members. He tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his own gut at the thought that he was somehow going to find out.

He had ignored a similar feeling on Darvill’s contract and had come out just fine even if that had been related more to his competition than the job itself. Surely that meant his luck was changing for the better given the fortuitous price of the contract itself and how it aligned so precisely with what he needed to pay off the rather considerable remainder of his debt. If the stars weren’t aligned in some way then he would eat his boots.

He waited another long moment, waiting for the faintest signs of movement only to be met by the otherwise monotonous sounds of the warehouse at night. Above him the clouds had finally overtaken the moon, slipping over it like grasping fingers keen on pulling a sheet of night across the land, burying everything in shadow. Thunder was growing steadily closer, lashes of lightning illuminating the rigid skyscrapers of Fontaine in the distance and casting everything in sharp contrast. The various electrobulbs littering the warehouse were doing their best to push back the oppressive swath of darkness, casting small rings of flickering white across the ground as the wind swelled once more and began to gust.

It was now or never.

Wriothesley eased his rifle from his back, his preliminary checks as quick as possible before he was creeping around the edge of the building and out of his hiding spot. The new members of that particular patrol had made their way to the fence due to his own delay, leaving his own time to slip inside, unnoticed, meager at best.

And still his luck held. A quick peek around the door showed that the immediate space within the warehouse was empty and unoccupied, not a soul in sight as he cautiously roamed deeper within the confines of the industrial space. Huge crates and boxes stretched as far as the eye could see, numerous rows full of illicit goods arrayed amidst the soft drone of machinery, tucked away from the steady drum of rain beginning to patter a staccato against the roof of the warehouse.

Still nothing else moved in his immediate vicinity, the whole warehouse holding its breath as if watching and waiting for the pin to drop, Wriothesley’s own tension growing as the moments ticked by.

He began to creep forward as fast as he dared, sliding around row upon row of boxes and crates until they transitioned into a near maze of shipping containers. That hadn’t been what Sigewinne had told him he would find, not exactly, but it wasn’t especially off-brand for the warehouse district either, consistent enough with expectations to keep the uncomfortable prickle over his neck subdued. Still, it was enough that Wriothesley decided that a higher vantage point was necessary to ascertain the situation, his gaze drifting towards the containers mounded up before him.

Without further ado he was scrambling upward, fingers and the tips of his boots finding purchase over metal rivets and between corrugated bands of metal as he scaled the nearest container. Almost immediately he was met with a sprawling view of the warehouse, strangely smaller than he had previously anticipated and bereft of the aerial office that Sigewinne had figured Shinsuke would likely be holed up in. Perhaps it was meant to be in another one of the warehouses, tucked further away within the gang’s territory?

“Duke.”

He barely managed to reign in his instinct to spin around and shoot, instead stiffening at that perfectly modulated voice saying his name aloud and allowing himself a cautious glance over his shoulder. Like the specter of contracts past there the Sovereign stood, as resplendent as always in his immaculately tailored suit, looking casual and perhaps a bit contrite from behind the pistol currently levered in the hitman’s direction.

“Wow. Look what the cat dragged in,” Wriothesley responded, voice perhaps a bit more condescending than he would have liked if the slow blink returned in his direction was anything to go by. The hitman made a show of raising his arms and beginning a slow rotation, quickly scanning the assassin’s form and stance for anything that might give him away.

Much to his surprise the Sovereign almost immediately lowered his gun, the briefest flicker of expression passing through those amethyst eyes before it cleared, leaving him just as infallible as before.

“My apologies. I did not wish to get shot without a moment to explain myself,” he stated, nonetheless keeping the pistol close at hand. Wriothesley’s eyes narrowed, distrusting of the strange change of pace, fully expecting the situation to turn on its head without a moment's notice. And yet it held, the two of them standing awkwardly atop a shipping container as the sounds of the warehouse ground on around them.

The longer the silence held, the tighter Wriothesley found himself wound, the unease twisting into a ball in his chest that seemed impossibly heavy. He fought the urge to flex his own fingers, cognizant of the pistol still within the Sovereign’s grasp.

“Well?”

“I believe this to be a trap,” the assassin stated without missing a beat, apparently unimpressed by the sharpness of Wriothesley’s tone. It was only after Wriothesley arched his eyebrow, inquisitive, did he continue with his explanation. “The pay is not commensurate with the rate of risk involved and the timing of this contract is suspicious. Nor is this warehouse the standard habitation for the Kanjou gang. It was acquired within the last week under suspicious circumstances though there was sufficient doctoring of the details around its acquisition and the period of time it has been under their purview. At a glance much of that information tracks though any deeper digging reveals cracks immediately beneath the surface. This, among other suspicious items, are evidence of this being a trap, albeit a cunningly laid one.”

Was it just him or did the Sovereign sound almost…begrudgingly admirable about the whole situation?

The worry in Wriothesley’s gut twisted harder as the information turned the alarm bells in his mind, previously muted, into a full on blare. Now that it was verbalized the circumstances were indeed too good to be true, the time Sigewinne had had was too short for any true recon. Even a day more or digging may have uncovered all this info and more, or at the very least a smidgen of it. The Marechaussee Hunters were a much more well established organization and undoubtedly had access to better data than a measly duo like Cerberus.

His distrust of his fellow professional ran deep, sure, but in all of their run-ins he had never known the assassin to lie. Why now, why here? What did he have to gain? Did he think Wriothesley would let down his guard, turn around to allow himself to be stabbed in the back? Was that why he had sent the pocket watch over earlier, to lay a trap of his very own?

“And you’re telling me…why?” Wriothesley asked, not even bothering to try and sound unaffected.

At this the Sovereign frowned, looking almost surprised by the question, a fact that the hitman didn’t even begin to have time to process.

“If my suspicions are correct the trap has already been sprung and, similar to recent events, we may be required to…rely upon each other to escape unscathed.”

Wriothesley thankfully didn’t get a chance to question the admission when an unarchonly grinding of gears abruptly drew their attention to the massive set of doors cordoning one side of the warehouse from the other as they began to grind up with a speed that was frankly terrifying.

“Fuck.”

“Indubitably,” came the deep murmur by his side, the Sovereign’s gaze narrowed, expression stern and brows pinched as the pair observed the frankly obscene amount of firepower laid out before them.

The massive doors splitting the warehouse in twain had been drawn up to reveal an area that, at another time, might have been reserved for production but was instead now teeming with lackeys, each armed to the teeth. A trio of massive guns, ominous ribbons of ammo pooling on the floor about their bases, were arrayed across the space with enough distance between them to rule out one or two nicely clustered grenades as a solution. That wasn’t even to mention the distant mechs flanking the far walls or the dozens of gang members leering up at them.

“I would hazard to guess this trap was not left for us,” the Sovereign mused, uncommonly chatty even if his tone was tight. Wriothesley could only grunt in response, not trusting himself to spit out something unhelpfully sarcastic as his gaze darted between each of the guns in turn, whatever brief flicker of hope he had felt rapidly becoming a fading ember.

“I hate power struggles,” Wriothesley half spat, half whinged, finger itching where it rested against his rifle’s trigger as the distant shuffling far behind them signaled that an exit the way he had entered was no longer an option. He could practically see the rigidity in the Sovereign’s pose in his peripheral vision, that perfectly cut figure ramrod straight as he surveyed the scene before them critically.

“I have an id-”

“Well, well, well - seems we have some guests, gents!”

The voice that crackled over the intercom was dripping with derision, no doubt coming from the very individual they were after, tucked safely away in the high office overseeing the production floor before them. A few of the goons before them tittered but for the most part were silent, eyes fixated on the pair of assassins with a hunger and level of expectation that spoke to their professionalism. That these weren’t your standard, run of the mill thugs was clear, especially when paired with the rather high-end weaponry and gear that each was toting.

“I have an idea, if you can buy us some time,” the Sovereign murmured, low and fervent, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on some point in the distance. Wriothesley gave a soft hum of response, straightening with a casualness that he certainly didn’t truly feel, attempting to swell his chest with faux bravado.

“Don’t suppose you have it in your heart to let a couple of independent contractors wander off with their tails between their legs?” Wriothesley yelled, putting on his smarmiest smile as his gaze swept over the foes laid out before them.

“Not how this works, friend. You see, I’ve done my research and I know exactly the sort you two are and how much money has to be backing you, though I will admit I’d never have expected the pair of you to team up based on my intel. Must be a pretty big pot to force your cooperation, no?”

“Not sure I’d go so far as to say that,” Wriothesley responded, hyper-aware of the Sovereign’s form inching further into cover beside him, intent on keeping the attention focused on himself as much as possible. “Quite the opposite, I’d say. You just happened to catch us at a bad time.”

“Regardless, your reputation precedes you. Both of you. Not everyone is so dumb as to lap up whatever dross the media is doling out.”

Ah. Unfortunate that Shinsuke too had made that connection.

“You have quite the reputation yourself,” Wriothesley returned, smile cheeky as he shifted from one foot to the other. The Sovereign had disappeared out of his periphery but he didn’t dare turn to look and see where he had gone just yet. “Not a lot of folks willing to pick up a contract like this. Must have made quite the impression in the local community,” he continued, as if he didn’t know the sordid details about the Inazuman crime lord's rise to power.

There was a distant, succinct snort over the intercom but it seemed that the crime boss’s veneer of patience was beginning to wear thin.

“Unfortunately I have a reputation to protect, as I’m sure you understand. How better to get a point across than by making a statement with two distinguished gentlemen such as yourself?” Even over the crackling Wriothesley could make out the smug, self-satisfied tone of the crime boss, practically preening over his own eminent victory.

“What if we throw down for the amusement of you and these fine lads?” Wriothesley asked, rapidly running out of ideas, “Place some bets on who comes out on top. Guarantee a good time would be had by all. Well, mostly all.”

“I will have to decline that generous offer,” the voice came, the light edge of humor beginning to fade, “As I’m sure you are aware, time is money and I do hate to waste money. I would say it was a pleasure chatting but it’s been anything but. I’ll be sure to send a sympathy basket to that little Melusine friend of yours.”

Real fear, cold and sharp, dragged its claws down Wriothesley’s spine at the off-handed mention of Sigewinne, the pit plummeting out of his stomach at the casual line. With a snarl he ducked behind the nearest container, alarm and anger churning in his gut in equal measure. The clinical, detached part of his mind acknowledged that their foe had certainly done his research after all, even as the rest of him balked at the idea of repercussions for his actions landing on Sigewinne’s shoulders.

The only saving grace was that the Sovereign had entirely vanished from view, disappearing into the void and leaving Wriothesley hoping once more that he could trust his fellow assassin. While he had been honest so far… no. Now was not the time to dwell on those fears.

Regardless, he had to get out.

For Sigewinne.

“You know, all these guns make me think you’re compensating for something,” the hitman half-shouted from cover as he went through a final ammo check, the methodical process helping to slow the faint tremor that had begun to wrack his hands. Even as he did so he realized with dawning horror that even if he was extremely accurate he didn’t have enough bullets for every goon present, let alone the mechs. He could only hope that the Sovereign’s plan was a good one, trusting that his cunning compatriot had something in mind.

This time the response was not in the form of conversation but distant shouts and a steady, albeit light, ping of bullets meant solely to keep him pinned in place. Wriothesley gritted as the voices began to change direction, the gang members undoubtedly moving around to flank him from all sides. At least the large guns hadn’t begun their ominous whir just yet, sitting silent and patient, undoubtedly waiting for one of them to be caught outside of cover

Even from his relative vantage point Wriothesley knew he was quickly going to become an optimal target, shuffling backwards across the shipping container to check if the coast was clear behind him. For the moment it was, the hitman wasting no time in hopping down and making a quick dash towards another pile of containers, thankful that the majority of his surroundings were metallic in nature. While that would certainly make bullet ricochet a factor to be considered it also meant he was relatively safe from an errant bullet eating through the maze that surrounded him.

Whatever group it was the Inazuman crime lord had hired, they were organized. No sooner had his boots hit the ground and he had swung around the nearest corner did the first of the enemies lurch into sight, only Wriothesley’s own preparation and itching trigger finger enough to squeeze off a burst of shots before they could do the same, painting the shipping container behind them bright crimson.

Unfortunately the noise also gave away his position perfectly, the hitman cursing as he sprinted in the other direction, lobbing a parting gift in the form of a grenade behind him as he went.

The muffled boom wasn’t much of a distraction, especially when he darted past another row of containers and almost directly into a trio that had been keen on flanking him from the opposite direction. A quick round of shots took out the one furthest from him, biting beneath the gaps in his bullet-proof armor, but the pair directly before him were too close for him to react appropriately, forced to swing the butt of his rifle up into the face of the first man with a sickening crack before the other swung at him in kind.

In the ensuing chaos of the falling man grappling at his gun and the other swinging at him, just barely landing a glancing blow across his temple, Wriothesley felt his rifle pull free before it was sent skittering away across the grungy floor. The second man followed up with another blow, this time to the hitman’s gut, doubling him over as a boot was planted in his chest, shoving him back against the ground in a dizzying turn of events.

His lips pulled back in a feral snarl at the man looming over him, their eyes meeting briefly, defiantly, over the barrel that filled the space between them, Wriothesley watching the impossibly slow squeeze of finger on trigger as his mind scrambled through a way, any way, to avoid his fate. Perhaps if he could just -

The explosion that rocked the warehouse was sudden, loud, and inconceivably bright, searing the outline of the man before him into Wriothesley’s eyelids as the ground seemed to lurch beneath them and the expected shot went just wide enough to bury into the hitman’s shoulder instead of his chest. With a grunt he was reaching out blindly, fumbling with the barrel of the enemy’s gun in a furtive tug of war to pull it from his grasp. The adrenaline of the moment made it only too easy to ignore the pain growing in his left arm as he pulled his knife free of its sheath and stabbed forward blindly, rewarded with the meaty thud of blade digging into flesh and a pained grunt.

The rifle clattered uselessly to the ground between them as Wriothesley blinked rapidly, attempting to regain some semblance of sight and hearing as his senses ran amok in the wake of the explosion. Only blurry, indistinct shapes wavered around him as he stumbled upright, ignoring the prone and silent figure before him as he swung around, desperately trying to reorient himself and figure out just how to get out of the maze of shipping containers he was entrenched in.

“Duke,” came the urgent hiss before a steely grip tightened on his uninjured shoulder, twisting him around. Even with his recognition of the voice it was all the hitman could do to force himself from striking out in reaction based purely on instinct with adrenaline, pain, and fear creating a potent cocktail that boiled in his veins. “We have to move, now. Can you see?”

“Not exactly,” he responded through gritted teeth, biting back a scathing rejoiner. Even with fight or flight instincts pounding relentlessly through his body he was beginning to feel the burning sting of the bullet wound in his shoulder and more. Those fingers on his shoulder relented their grip but only slightly, pulling him wordlessly into a slow jog through the boxes as his vision began to return with agonizing slowness.

“I created a chemical reaction using my Hydro,” the Sovereign said by way of explanation as he continued to tug Wriothesley through the maze with what the hitman could only hope was unerring accuracy, “It seems they were manufacturing an additive for rocket propellants here. Convenient for us but not for their operation.”

“Coulda warned a guy,” Wriothesley griped without any real heat, his fuzzy vision beginning to come back in enough clarity that he could shake himself free of the Sovereign’s grasp. The other released him, perhaps a bit reluctantly, but continued to lead the way nonetheless.

At least one of them had managed to memorize the route in during the chaos.

“This way, quickly. I do not believe my distraction will keep them preoccupied for much longer,” the assassin murmured, taking a sharp left that had Wriothesley skidding to keep up.

Sure enough a familiar side door was hanging open before them, the pair darting through and into the pouring rain, Wriothesley noting the trio of bodies that lay, unmoving, in widening pools of blood just outside the doorway. The shouts that had been distant moments before were beginning to grow in volume, the adrenaline still pumping through Wriothesley’s body sending a thrill along his spine as they picked up the pace, sprinting across the open concrete to slide into cover beyond an open gash in the fence.

“I have a safehouse nearby,” the Sovereign said after a long moment, his gaze anywhere but on Wriothesley’s face, no doubt keeping an eye out for the enemies that would inevitably be pursuing them. There was something strange to his tone as he spoke those words but the hitman couldn’t place it in the moment, forcing himself to focus on the assassin’s rigid profile as the rain continued to sluice down around them.

“Right. I mean good,” Wriothesley returned, the weariness that was beginning to creep its way into his bones likewise tinging his words, adding somewhat lamely, “Anything is better than here.”

The Sovereign let out a muted hum of agreement, gaze still sweeping their surroundings as they waited for the right moment to move, a beam of light swinging between two containers not too far away from them. Wriothesley realized somewhat belatedly that he was doing little to help himself, somehow stuck on that perfect profile before him, eyes lingering on lips beginning to twist down in a faint frown.

“Neuvillette.”

“Gesundheit?”

“My name is Neuvillette,” the Sovereign - no, Neuvillette - stated with an exasperated sigh even if he seemed willing to forgive Wriothesley’s lamentable slowness. “It is best to do away with code names if we are going to be working together for the foreseeable future.”

“Wriothesley,” the hitman responded, feeling his cheeks color in a way that was most certainly not due to physical exertion, much as he would love to blame it on that. He awkwardly stuck his good hand out into the scant space between them, slowly becoming aware of the growing scent of petrichor and salt that didn’t seem to be coming from the weather.

Neuvillette reached out to grasp his hand, however briefly, in that iron grip of his, giving it a perfunctory shake while managing to somehow look bamboozled in a way that was oddly endearing. Brief as the shake was, Wriothesley could feel another surge of electro shoot up his spine, this time not even bothering to lie to himself about its origins.

“We should be off. They’ll be right on our tails,” Neuvillette cautioned, pulling away abruptly and straightening though at least he didn’t do Wriothesley the indignity of wiping off his hand on his coat. Wriothesley nodded in response as the gap in searching lights became apparent, not waiting another moment as the two of them darted off into the night, side by side, hoping beyond hope that Neuvillette truly was leading him somewhere safe and not into a trap.

He should have known better earlier.

He should have trusted his gut.

Chapter Text

The streets of Fontaine passed in a blur as they fled the warehouse district, distant shouts dogging their footsteps well past the docks as rows of warehouses and shipping containers slowly yet surely gave way to alleys overflowing with detritus and trash. The air burned in Wriothesley’s lungs and his shoulder throbbed, the persistent ache having long since evolved into something greater as his body put its last remaining iotas of adrenaline into flight instead of fight.

Upon sneaking a sideways glance at the Sovereign, a man who normally lacked even a hair out of place, he felt at least slightly smug (slightly) that even he looked partially disheveled from the locks of silvery hair drifting free of the bounds of their ponytail to the flush blooming across those high cheekbones. Even his tie was out of place, hanging askance and looser than where it normally was pressed flush against his neck, finely pressed jacket rumpled and a series of tears in the fine fabric that Wriothesley hadn’t noticed were there earlier.

That neither of them were in especially good straights was undeniably clear.

They were still a long way from the well-manicured boulevards of the city’s heart, where the upper crust of Fontaine sat in their plush townhomes, playing gin rummy or something, and Wriothesley had assumed where Marechausse Hunter safehouse would be. Instead his fellow contractor had begun to slow, surveying their surroundings with a critical eye as if looking for some sort of waypoint.

“Left here,” the assassin commanded, low voice slightly raspy from exertion, his head tilting towards an alley that looked the same as all the others. Wriothesley didn’t care to question his call, though, and neither did he waste a breath in response, simply nodding as their frantic flight skidded abruptly away from the winding side streets to hare off down the alleyway.

Only a handful of feet in the Sovereign began to slow, gaze roving intently over the various graffitied doors they passed, those that weren’t metal in various states of disrepair either thanks to the passage of time or abuse of the city’s denizens itself. Eventually they reached what seemed to be the object of the Sovereign’s search, the slender man drawing to a halt before a galvanized steel door that, at a glance, seemed much the same as many others. Its surface was almost entirely bright cobalt, haphazardly painted in broad brushstrokes, save a small stencil of what appeared to be three coiling dragons in the bottom right corner.

“A moment,” the Sovereign cautioned, questing fingers darting along the seams of the door, searching for something unseen. Wriothesley took the break to inspect the alley more carefully as he did so, making note of the distance to either side and the singular rickety ladder that led up to the rooftops, nestled between a pair of dumpsters long since divested of their wheels. If they were to be ambushed here there would be minimal options for them to escape at best, either leaving them to fight their way out or submit, only one of which was an option.

The soft click of a latch behind him was accompanied by a pleased “ah”, Wriothesley turning around to see the Sovereign straightening as a hidden panel popped open to reveal a keypad whose soft numbers lit the assassin’s sharp visage from beneath. The hitman was mildly surprised to find that Neuvillette didn’t bother to hide the code from his prying eyes, fingers dancing dexterously over the keys to tap out a ten digit code that Wriothesley dutifully tucked into the back of his brain in case it may be of use later.

What he wouldn’t do to have those dexterous fingers dance over his-

“Duke? Wriothesley?”

He blinked rapidly, blaming his wandering mind on blood loss as he took in the door that had swung soundlessly open before them to reveal a long, sparsely lit hallway that vanished into shadow. The assassin cast him another assessing look, gaze flicking briefly to Wriothesley’s shoulder before he was turning away to stride inside, the hitman obediently following suit, not at all complaining about his view as he did so.

What was going on with him?

He shook his head groggily as the door hissed asthmatically shut behind the pair of them. The initial dingy state of the hallway only seemed to be to keep up appearances as they moved deeper into the safehouse, Wriothesley almost immediately impressed (and unsurprised) by how kitted out the small space was. Cramped as though it may have been, only one room visible off the hallway as they moved into the main space, it was packed to the gills with supplies and seemed to have been kept meticulously clean.

The austere furniture looked practically untouched as Wriothesley stepped into the main room behind Neuvillette, pausing briefly on the threshold to drink in the space. Shelves and cabinets lined two of the four walls, the third mostly occupied by a kitchenette and table that seemed moderately provisioned. A singular large, plush looking sofa faced the hallway and the frankly massive screen that took up most of the remaining wall, everything done up in shades of grey and white that felt uncomfortably sterile.

At least it was well-stocked, his gaze sweeping the shelves and taking note of medical supplies, food stores, ammo, and more. So caught up in inspecting the provisions in the safehouse was he that he failed to notice the Sovereign removing his suit coat, his foggy mind only catching up moments later when the assassin had cleared his throat, those searching lilac eyes catching Wriothesley’s as he beckoned his unanticipated companion towards table and chair.

“I am proficient enough in dressing wounds that I can tend to your bullet wound, if you are amenable,” Neuvillette stated, tone somehow managing to make it sound like less of a question and more of a command. Almost of their own accord the hitman found his feet shuffling forward, carrying him over to the small table and chairs.

“Right. Yeah, thanks,” Wriothesley mumbled, beginning the awkward process of peeling himself out of his tactical vest one-handed. He forced his mind to the task at hand as the Sovereign futzed around in the background, gathering medical supplies and implements, desperately trying to keep his mind on something other than the fact that the assassin somehow, impossibly, looked even more attractive with his coat removed and the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

Eventually Wriothesley triumphed over both the vest and his own darting mind, grunting as he tossed the shucked tactical gear unceremoniously into the corner. It was covered in blood and ash and probably worse but he would have to wait to clean it until after his wounds had been tended to. Mentally, he began to take stock, pleasantly surprised that aside from the bullet wound and a fine new collection of bruises he had escaped more or less unscathed.

Impressive, given the firepower and preparations that Shinsuke had been toting.

“Shirt,” the Sovereign commanded from the other side of the room, still busying himself from gathering medical supplies. Wriothesley briefly mimed the words with his mouth even if he didn’t dare parrot the other contractor aloud, adding a few colorful invectives at the end for good measure as he did his best to struggle out of his turtleneck, wincing as coarse fabric, tacky with blood, pulled away from the wound, igniting nerve endings as it did so. While this was far from his first bullet wound that didn’t make it any less painful, only lending an air of trepidation at the thought of cleaning it due to the familiarity of the process.

“Sit.” Another command but one Wriothesley didn’t bother to contest, plunking himself into the chair with only a sideways glance. The Sovereign was watching him intensely again, gaze lingering for perhaps a beat longer than it should have but Wriothesley’s muzzy mind wasn’t exactly the best at judging time, let alone intent, as he sagged gingerly against the back of the chair.

For a moment he allowed his eyes to drift closed, exhaustion settling like a heavy blanket over his limbs even despite the insistent ache that radiated from his shoulder with every beat of his heart.

“I will begin now,” Neuvillette murmured from over his shoulder, Wriothesley’s heart jolting in his chest in what he attributed to surprise. Archons, he really must have lost more blood than he thought, awkwardly twisting to give the Sovereign direct access to his wound as the other contractor settled himself primly on the edge of the neighboring seat.

Somewhere along the line Neuvillette had acquired what looked to be a pair of reading glasses which were now seated delicately on the bridge of his nose. Up close, pressed nearly arm to arm as they were, Wriothesley could see that the lilac was more a kaleidoscope of color, panes of stained glass captured above the half-moons of his spectacles.

Archons.

“Do you have any medical allergies?”

Wriothesley was unable to stop the bark of laughter that he let out as the incredulity of the whole situation came crashing down upon him in one fell swoop. If someone had told him this morning - hell, any morning - that he would end his day sitting in a Marechaussee Hunter safehouse with the man he could only describe as the biggest thorn in his side tending to his wounds, well…he would have said something very unsavory involving cactuses and orificies at the very least.

And nor would he have believed them.

“No, but I’d prefer to do without any anesthesia,” he replied after managing to get his wheezing laughter under control, eyes focused on the small vial of local anaesthetic that the Sovereign pushed surreptitiously out of the way. His fellow contractor gave a hum of something akin to approval or acquiescence as deft fingers began to probe gently around the edges of the wound, mien growing more serious as he gave the task at hand his full attention.

This close, the scent of sea and petrichor was practically overpowering, overlaid upon something sweet and mouth watering that had Wriothesley’s gut squirming in a decidedly odd way. He was lost in attempting to pinpoint just what about the aroma was familiar, allowing Neuvillette to gently manhandle him forward in his seat as the assassin inspected the back of his shoulder.

It was vanilla but something heavier, more saccharine, recollection dancing just out of reach.

“There is no exit wound,” the Sovereign said abruptly, interrupting Wriothesley’s musings and bringing him crashing back to reality. Neuvillette’s brow was pinched as his gaze flicked up to meet Wriothesley’s, an apologetic frown curling the corners of his lips down. “I am sorry, but I will have to extract the bullet.”

Wriothesley groaned aloud, mentally cursing his body armor for doing its job only partially. He began to sit up to search for something to bite down on when those cool fingers pressed him insistently back down, that lithe grasp belying the deceptive amount of strength behind them. Wordlessly, the Sovereign slid a belt across the table, not commenting as Wriothesley took it haltingly.

He wasted no time in jamming the belt between his teeth, the rich taste of leather flooding his mouth as it pressed against his tongue, head tilted backwards towards the ceiling. For the briefest of seconds realization clicked into place at the faint tang of sweat and something else washing over his palate, that this was Neuvillette’s belt, but all rational thought vanished in the next moment as pain seared its way through his shoulder, hot and loud.

There was no way to describe how it felt to have forceps rooting through the meat of his shoulder, diligently hunting for the fragments of metal as his nerve endings screamed in both pain and protest, biting down on the belt so hard he could hear his jaw pop, opposite hand scrabbling to wrap around the arm of the chair in a white knuckled grip. The only advantage previous experience had given him was preparation and no small amount of dread as the seconds drew on at an agonizing pace. It was all he could do to force himself to breath, exhaling heavily through his nose as Neuvillette continued his task as quickly as he could.

“I am almost done,” the Sovereign murmured, voice low and soothing as though Wriothesley was a spooked animal shying away from his hand and not a grown ass man with a forceps buried in his deltoid. Wriothesley didn’t bother with a response, finally allowing his eyelids to crack open just enough to squint at the decidedly bleary ceiling above him.

“I have extracted it all,” Neuvillette stateda moment later, leaning back to drop the last fragment of bullet inside a glass he’d prepared in advance, metal meeting glass with a jarring clink. “Would you like a moment before I close the wound?”

Wriothesley could only shake his head in reply, struggling for a moment to unclench his jaw and spit the belt out, all too cognizant of the series of deep teeth marks etched permanently into the leather. Even though his shoulder sang in reproach he knew the worst of it was over, forcing some of the tension that had gathered in his body out, those muscles held rigid relaxing a fraction.

He knew, for a fac,t he was going to be feeling this all tomorrow.

The Sovereign was quick and efficient, the sting of antiseptic and closure of the wound practically unfelt as he finished his task in what seemed to Wriothesley like record time.

“There should be a fresh change of clothes in one the wardrobes in the bedroom once you’ve showered, as well as some mild analgesics,” Neuvillette stated, gaze raking over Wriothesley’s form critically, something distinctly predatory in the way those slitted eyes lingered even if the hitman didn’t have the presence of mind of unpack it all. Wriothesley was suddenly hyper aware of his current state of being, feeling uncommonly exposed in his shirtless, bloodstained state as the moment stretched uncomfortably on.

“Something may fit,” the assassin added lamely, breaking the awkward silence that had begun to cause a prickle to grow on the back of Wriothesley’s neck. Without waiting for a response the other contractor was turning away to busy himself with cleaning up, Wriothesley briefly glancing to the small jar that contained the bullet fragments that had been within him only moments earlier, only partially washed clean.

“Right.”

Even Wriothesley wasn’t so far gone as to not read between the lines, pushing himself upright with a groan. His skin felt stiff beneath a coat of drying blood and grime, the combination of soot and sweat undoubtedly making him an unpleasant house guest at best, no doubt stinking up the cramped space as he made to shuffle himself towards the bathroom. No small part of him hoped that a blisteringly hot shower would help to put his odd train of thought back on the tracks as well.

Whether or not the cleansing power of a hot shower would help remained to be seen. If anything he found himself more keyed up upon exiting the scalding water, wound tight as he emerged from the shower to find a fresh change of clothes waiting for him, the distant sounds of Neuvillette tinkering within the safehouse strangely reassuring and domestic, almost as if he was back in his shared apartment with Sigewinne and not lost in the bowels of Fontaine’s seedy underbelly.

Wriothesley wasted no time pulling on the sweatpants and thermal that had been provided for him, wincing at how uncomfortably tight across his chest and shoulders the shirt was. He supposed it was better than nothing even as he grimaced to himself, wondering just how petite the typical occupants of this space were, before wandering out into the shared space.

“There’s a frozen meal in the oven,” Neuvillette announced before he had even fully stepped into the living room. The table had been cleared of all implements and evidence of his wound cleaning, bullet included, with a place setting arrayed in their place that was so meticulously laid out Wriothesley would have thought Neuvillette worked at a fine dining establishment in his free time.

The other man had glanced up when Wriothesley entered, his gaze fixed on what Wriothesley could only assume was his shoulder but could only hope was his chest, well aware of just how taut the pull of fabric was across a chest that had once, long ago, kindly been described as “luscious” by a prospective partner.

Not that he remembered the exact phrase to this day. Surely not.

“I am going to shower,” the assassin said, voice sudden and abrupt as it cut through the silence tersely. Without waiting for a reply he was brushing past Wriothesley, the now familiar scent of sea salt and petrichor drifting in his wake with what Wriothesley now recognized as the rich scent of salted caramel welling beneath it. For the briefest of moments the hitman found his body turning and shifting subconsciously, chasing that scent that was far more tantalizing than it had any right to be before he caught himself, fingernails digging into his palm as he forced himself back to the present.

This was bad.

Belatedly Sigewinne’s warnings were coming back to haunt him, her reminder to get some sort of scent blockers that weren’t bottom-of-the-barrel crashing back, having gone unheeded. He could smell his own arousal and want spicing the air even as the door to the bathroom clicked shut down the hall, shower starting only moments later as Wriothesley hurried over to root through the cabinets.

Surely a place such as this had some backup scent blockers. Surely it had to have something.

Perhaps the assumption was that only one individual would take shelter here at a time, his furtive search proving fruitless as he scoured every inch, every nook and cranny of cupboard he could. Only the ding of the countertop oven was enough to bring him grinding back to the present, the hitman pulling away from his search with a gut-wrenching sense of trepidation.

He knew his tastes were far from conventional, eschewed in numerous circles at best. That certainly didn’t help that Neuvillette was what he considered fatally attractive in more ways than one, his preternatural good looks coupled with the untouchable nature of their relationship easily pushing Wriothesley over that precipice, well past the point of no return. Much as he liked to chalk his drunken confessions to Clorinde about the nature of his fascination with the other contractor to just that - drunken confessions - he was beginning to find himself losing an uphill battle with the reality of his own wants and desires.

“Fuck,” he cursed softly, and with feeling, less so at the too-warm container he yanked out of the oven and onto the countertop as much as his current predicament. He hauled the tray of something that only vaguely resembled pasta in sauce over to the table, tossing it down atop the table as he glowered at it, mind whirling a mile a minute as he contemplated his current predicament.

The distant sound of the shower turning off jolted him back to his senses.

He hurriedly wolfed down the meal, years of autonomic response encouraging him to eat what he could when he could. It was hot and tasteless, nutrients and little more, as he polished off the container and for what - to prove he was a good house guest?

Abyss if he knew.

His ears were perked as he listened for the muted sounds of Neuvillette, mind continuing to speed run a multitude of situations and conversations, each of which seemed more infeasible than the last.

So far the first and most promising both began and ended with “So, ya like men?”

He froze at the creak of the bathroom door, feeling not unlike a prey animal caught in a predator's field of vision as his fellow contractor padded down the hallway and into the shared space once more. Even fresh from the shower he was ethereal, water dripping from the ends of his silvery hair, a faint flush across his cheeks, loose button up even significantly more unbuttoned than before as his gaze rose, beseeching, to meet Wriothesley’s.

“Was dinner to your liking?” Bland as the question was, it was all the hitman could do to nod furiously, inwardly chastising himself for being as inept as socially possible, tripping over himself like a desire-addled teenager whose hormones had just hit overdrive.

The dubious arch of one of those perfect brows was enough to kick Wriothesley’s butt back to reality.

“It was…food,” he explained, lamely, surreptitiously slam dunking the try into the nearby bin. If Neuvillette was impressed by the undeniable feat of athletic prowess and and accuracy he said nothing, instead sidling fully into the living room, gaze drifting slowly around before he settled on the nearby couch, perching precisely on the arm as he pinned Wriothesley in place with an evaluating stare once more.

The moment stretched taut as they regarded each other, a handful of paces away.

“So,” Wriothesley began, grasping desperately for an escape, “I suppose I should be…going?”

Archons, he was about to combust on the spot, suddenly wondering if feeling like a hormone-ridden teenager once more was really the “feeling younger” he had whined to Sigewinne about desiring.

“To bed then, I mean? I should be getting out of your hair. I can take the couch, wouldn’t want to impo-”

“I am neither noseblind nor dumb, Wriothesley,” his fellow contractor cut him off, voice so dry Wriothesley’s could feel his own skin cracking beneath it, fissuring apart like plates of earth in the desert. There was no subtlety in the way Neuvillette’s gaze raked across his form now, not that there had been before, his raw hunger and admiration naked, laid bare for the hitman’s lagging mind to finally comprehend.

Somewhere, a switch flipped, relief and want flooding his body in turn.

“And? Like what you see?” he asked, the smile curling upon Wriothesley’s lips coy and taunting as he stepped forward into the other alpha’s space, all too grateful for the abrupt change of pace.

Rather than recoil from the sudden proximity Neuvillette met it, moving closer in a surge until the scant space between them practically crackled with tension, the air a vacuum that stole the breath from Wriothesley’s lungs.

“I will admit to certain temptations distracting me as of late,” the other contractor conceded, nothing remotely innocent in his tone or gaze as it swept downward, focusing with unerring intensity on Wriothesley’s chest and the undeniable outline of a barbel on each pierced nipple.

Slowly his eyes drifted upward to meet Wriothesley’s, the previously slender pupils within those lilac eyes blown wide, a faint curl to those perfect lips, challenge laid bare.

The tension snapped.

Wriothesley wasn’t sure if it was himself or Neuvillette who moved first, only that one moment they were mere inches from each other and the next they were grappling for something that was as much control as it was proximity.

His own hands were pulling the already gaping, loose collar of Neuvillette’s shirt open, baring the pale expanse of clavicle and neck to the world even as the other contractor’s hands sought purchase on the swell of his pecs, claws clipping the piercings there. The moment was frenetic and hungry, a consuming need to find purchase beneath each other as reservations scattered to the wind and Wriothesley found himself pawing at Neuvillette, desperate to touch every part of the other alpha that he could, caution evaporating in the heat of the moment.

Somehow, some way, they were shedding clothes, all too quickly stripped of shirts, the hitman’s own pants lost somewhere in the heat of the moment, tossed over a distant chair. There was a push and pull between their pheromones, sea spray and petrichor fighting iron and black tea until Wriothesley suddenly felt his knees bending as their backs connected with the edge of the couch, that lithe form bending over him, grasp unrelenting where it pressed against him, victor decided.

As if he would have it any other way.

Long fingers wound their way through salt-and-pepper locks until they found purchase, tugging Wriothesley’s head back to bare the column of his throat in a motion that had a snarl building within the hitman’s chest, instincts demanding defiance. It was that same motion that caused his alpha to rebel that sent arousal spiking through his groin, the growl building in his throat rumbling out into a groan in the same breath.

“Patience, dog,” Neuvillette commanded, low and throaty, against the shell of Wriothesley’s ear, his grip unrelenting as he pulled his head back a bit further, testing the bounds of his control.

Wriothesley would never lie and say he had conventional tastes, perhaps going so far as to admit quite the opposite. A soft and compliant lifestyle had never been one that had appealed to him, not a surprise given his line of work, but he much preferred to push those boundaries even further, stretching his own limitations and toeing lines that he knew for a fact others avoided at all costs.

The fact that Neuvillette, a man who had previously gone so far as to call an arch rival in the past, shared those interests, was doing a great deal more for Wriothesley than he cared to admit.

The air was impossibly thick with the heady scent of their combined arousal, practically cloying to the point where Wriothesley couldn’t tell where his own began and Neuvillette’s ended. Something had broken, shattered irreparably at some point, but he had no idea exactly what or at what time, only that reversing it would be disastrous for them both.

“We could make use of that belt again unless you want to keep it,” Wriothesley quipped, feeling unmoored as the world shifted around him, somehow managing to keep a smirk upon his lips regardless of the flush and disorientation he no longer bothered blaming on bloodloss.

“I’ve been told I bite,” he added with a snap of his teeth for good measure, chortling softly at the eyeroll it earned him.

“As if I will surely wear it now, marked as it is,” Neuvillette stated dryly, one eyebrow arched as he regarded his thoroughly ruined belt. Was it Wriothesley’s imagination or was there the ghost of a smile on those lips, a deeper flush of desire dusting those impossibly sharp cheekbones and flaring across those pointed ear tips?

He couldn’t help the cheeky smile on his own face as he rocked back on his heels, meeting Neuvillette’s gaze like a challenge.

“Better put it to good use then, huh?” he teased, tilting forward to meet the surge of lips that sought his own, hungry and feral.

Fingernails raked at the back of his neck, twisting through the hair at the nape in defiance of his baser instincts, fangs nipping at lips. Every time he pushed his tongue into Neuvillette’s mouth he surged back harder, a nearly inaudible growl rumbling through the assassin’s chest as the game stretched his patience thin to the point of snapping. In a battle of dominance only one of them would inevitably win, and much as Wriothesley enjoyed the frenetic push-and-pull he was keen on walking away with the consolation prize.

Neuvillette’s tongue licked at the roof of his mouth as he shoved Wriothesley back against the couch cushions, scattering the strategically placed decorative pillows about. This time it was Neuvillette’s hands and not his own affixing the leather belt between his teeth, the motion sure and bold in a way that sent a definite surge of heat to Wriothesley’s groin as the sudden intrusion spread his jaws wider, saliva already beginning to pool at the corners of his lips as the impromptu gag was secured into place with a self-assured tug.

There was lust, bright and carnal, gleaming in those stained glass eyes as the assassin leaned back to admire his handiwork, slit pupils blown wide and wisps of silver hair drifting free from a ponytail that was becoming decidedly sloppier by the second. Neuvillette ignored Wriothesley’s garbled query, instead regarding him with unbridled hunger for a moment longer as though he was committing the visual to his memory.

If he hadn’t already been undone, Wriothesley certainly was now, a pleasure-drunk spike of need and want twisting through his gut at the mere thought of eliciting such a response from this unbearably handsome man. He counted it as a win somewhere in his books even if any preening he was about to do was cut abruptly and mercifully short.

The hitman was twisted around and shoved forward over the back of the couch without hesitation, chest pressed against the upright cushion as clawed fingers dragged themselves down the line of his spine, slow and sinuous as they mapped every knob. All he wanted was for Neuvillette to take, take, take, Wriothesley arching back into the touch while simultaneously shifting forward more in the hopes of getting some sort of friction, any, to quell the aching need burning in his groin. There was a sharp, hissing intake of breath from behind him as claws found the band of his boxers, playing along the elastic before that tenuous thread of patience snapped and they were tugged down, cool air meeting flushed flesh in a rush.

“Delightful,” Neuvillette purred, that word alone enough to tamp down the surge of defiance, the need to spin around and pin the other alpha in place, replacing that urge with the desire to comply. Not submit, no, not so far as that, his own alpha vibrating against baser instincts and the desire to feel Neuvillette inside him, filling him, forcing him to at the very least bend beneath his fellow contractor.

There was the sharp snap of a plastic cap opening and then the assassin was pulling the globes of his ass apart, kneading them as he did so. Wriothesley relished the feeling, the motion gentle one second before claw tips dug sharply in, undoubtedly drawing pinpricks of blood. His own hands found purchase on the back of the couch, digging into the fabric-covered wood with a crushing grip as he grounded himself against the need to rebel.

There was the faintest pause, a bit of hesitancy behind him.

“If you wish to-” Neuvillette began, a small offering, a final path out if Wriothesley wished to take it.

Words were nigh impossible around the leather belt in his mouth, his muffled response as indignant as he could make it without the use of actual phrases. He pushed himself back against the hot grip, the defiant look he cast over his shoulder enough to earn a breathy chortle.

“Next time, perhaps,” Neuvillette churred, voice low and heady with desire as a single digit circled the hitman’s rim, the gentle tease sucking the breath and any additional complaints out of Wriothesley’s lungs in one fell swoop.

Thankfully the other alpha didn’t seem inclined to waste time, slowly sinking a finger in, puckered muscle giving way with only minimal defiance to the singular intrusion. He moved slowly at first, testing the waters as Wriothesley held still beneath him, forcing his own body to relax. It would have been easier, he told himself, if Neuvillette’s scent hadn’t drifted so heavily over him even if he knew the reality was quite the opposite. Already he felt lost at sea, adrift under the cautious touch as another digit slipped in to join the first, the addition only encouraging Wriothesley to cant his hips, begging for something more than the slow push and pull.

He ached for movement, for friction, for something, for anything. Spit was beginning to dribble down across his lips as Neuvillette made a pleased, wordless noise from behind him, fingers crooking to find that spot that had Wriothesley’s nerves keening for more. The all consuming need and simulation was swiftly overriding his basic urge to twist around and put the other alpha in his place, forcing himself to sink beneath the shimmering surface of pleasure, allowing it to wash over him as those beckoning fingers called him deeper into their depths.

At first it was defiance that had him biting down on the belt, worrying into the already pockmarked leather, before that swiftly gave way to sheer ecstasy as Neuvillette goaded him further time and time again. He wasn’t sure when two fingers had become three but he could scarcely comprehend when, sheer bliss rocking through his body until it began to border on overwhelmed and he felt himself tipping towards that edge.

Neuvillette was relentless even as that white-hot frisson of pleasure burst in his core, continuing to bully his prostate and work him open as cum spattered the back of the poor couch, Wriothesley faintly aware of how incoherent his cry was as his own fangs buried themselves as deep in the leather belt as they could. Any attempt he made to squirm away had him pulled back, overstimulation swiftly replacing any other feeling flooding his system as though he might unravel at the seams.

It was only then Neuvillette released him, the hitman slumping against the back of the couch, boneless and trembling.

At some point the belt had slipped free, tumbling from his mouth to leave spit-slicked lips in their wake, his breath coming in great gulps as he recovered from the aftershocks of his orgasm. The leather belt hung low around his throat, still tight enough to stay more or less in place even if it wasn’t pressing tight against the scarred tissue there, a whisper of touch a gentle reminder of its presence. He let out a soft growl when dexterous fingers brushed against the buckle of the belt, clearly indicating that it should be kept in place.

The bemused murmur he received in response indicated that Neuvillette at least partially understood its myriad uses.

“You should - need to restrain me,” Wriothesley managed to groan out, the words choking in his throat as he struggled to articulate a single rational thought. Fangs traced along the outer shell of his ear, the soft, warm huff of air that came out delighted, sending goosebumps racing down the back of his neck. Those long fingers down to his lower back to tighten on his wrists with an impressive degree of strength, straddling the knife’s edge between too much and not enough where they pinned his own hands against the small of his back.

“Is this not sufficient?” Neuvillette crooned, fingers flexing a fraction tighter.

“Not if you want to be touching other things,” Wriothesley challenged in turn, bucking back to grind against the impressive length still hidden from view. That earned him another breathy chuckle, the sound almost as dizzying as the rush of blood and heady need already flooding through his body.

“An excellent point,” his companion mused, iron grasp briefly relenting as he leaned away to fiddle with something. There was a soft and self-satisfied “aha” a moment later after he had begun to rifle through the end table. Wriothesley resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, awarded with clarity a moment later as he felt cool plastic wrap around his wrists where they were still pressed against the small of his lower back, the familiar whirr of the teeth of the zip ties as they latched into place meeting his ears.

“Why do you have - ah - nevermind,” he broke off as the ties were tugged tighter, just enough to begin to dig into the skin of his wrists without cutting off circulation. He gave an experimental wiggle of his own, inwardly delighted at how perfectly the zip ties restrained him, holding not just his hands in place but the angle of his arms, limiting what could potentially be unwanted movement as well.

Archons, this was not how he had expected his day to end but to say he was ecstatic was the understatement of the century.

His mouth opened, about to goad Neuvillette further into actually fucking him when he was suddenly tipped forward onto the couch cushions, strong hands keeping him from faceplanting entirely as plush torso met plush fabric and his hips were pulled up into the air, putting him fully on display. There was nothing gentle or hesitant about the fingers digging into his hip bones with bruising force, the final vestiges of teasing having long since drifted away into nothing beneath the crushing need that choked the air, thick with lust and desire.

He could only crane his head so far as Neuvillette finally unzipped his trousers, rewarded with the sight of his cock springing free, extremely grateful that the impressive length and girth he had felt beneath the fabric had not been an illusion. What he wouldn’t give to wrap his lips around that flushed length, press his tongue against the vein there, and suck until his cheeks hollowed.

Perhaps later, after their more pressing needs had been dealt with.

The pause to wait for Neuvillette to slick his cock was almost too much, Wriothesley biting back a whine as he twisted his hips slightly, any rebellious nature previously coursing through his veins long since superseded by the need to be filled, fucked down into the couch cushions until all cognizant thought left his mind.

Finally he felt it, the insistent nudge at his prepared rim as Neuvillette’s hand pressed down between his shoulder blades once more. Resistance gave way after a single held breath, friction replaced by an all-consuming heat and fullness that razed through his veins, toes curling as that cock carved relentlessly into him, bliss burning across his entire body as Neuvillette bottomed out in a single thrust.

The burn and stretch, uncomfortable for a moment, almost as quickly gave way to the carnal desire for friction, movement, for the assassin to rearrange his guts as he fucked him senseless. Some distant part of Wriothesley’s mind considered that perhaps caution was wise and taking it slow was advisable but he craved a punishing pace, to simply take what was given to him. Their competing pheromones were overwhelming and disorientating in the air, his own thoughts growing increasingly muddled as he felt Neuvillette shift slightly, almost as if he was waiting for Wriothesley to do something himself.

It was all he could do to whimper softly, pressing back as insistently as the angle allowed but that was enough. The assassin’s last fragments of hesitation vanished, fingers digging into the meat of Wriothesley’s back with force that he knew would be bruising, claws drawing pinpricks of blood as he began to fuck into the alpha, bound like a pretty parcel beneath him.

Pleasure sang through his veins as Neuvillette sank into him, relentless, the small space overtaken by the slap of flesh and muffled groans from where Wriothesley’s face was partially buried in the cushions. Much as the beast curling within his chest begged him to rebel, to push back, the sturdy grip of Neuvilllette’s hands and the tight embrace of the zip ties on his wrists kept that from becoming even the slightest possibility, the only alternative that he accept the gift given to him and melt into the other man’s touch.

He felt so full, fit to bursting as that thick cock rammed into him again and again. Even despite the sparks of pleasure fizzling through his veins his own desire was secondary, taking a backseat to the other alpha’s in a way that buzzed through Wriothesley’s mind as it removed all responsibility and expectation. Here and now he was simply an instrument for the monsieur to play, his own needs superseded by whatever it was that the older assassin craved, neatly removing any complexity from the equation.

A distant part of his brain wondered just why it had taken them so long, after so many encounters, chance and not, to act on what had been simmering, unspoken and unresolved, just beneath the surface.

The angle of those thrusts changed, glancing across his prostate in a nerve-searing rush of pleasure, electro sparks singing as Wriothesley swiftly felt himself tipping into the realm of overstimulation once more. Neuvillette’s free hand that had been digging into his hip bone had drifted further forward, the first fleeting brushes of his fingertips along the hitman’s cock practically sending Wriothesley plummeting entirely over the edge, staved off only when they tightened with almost crushing force around the base, drawing him sharply back from that precipice.

Fuck, if it didn’t feel like he’d been edged within an inch of his life and that somehow, impossibly, had only made him harder.

He was suddenly aware of the pressure on his throat as the belt still looped there was pulled taut, slow and insistent even despite the rhythmic pounding. His lungs burned, the lack of oxygen causing stars to burst before his eyes, at the mercy of the other alpha’s touch as he was played like a fiddle. The lack of control was divine, adrenaline surging through his body once more just as black began to creep along the edges of his vision only for air to come rushing back into his lungs a moment later as the tug on the belt around his neck was released, his breath raspy, old scars stinging faintly.

The metronomic slap of flesh had begun to lose its precise rhythm, transitioning into something frenetic, Wriothesley unsure where his own gasps and groans ended and Neuvillette’s began. His whole body was suddenly too hot, every slight movement a cascade of sensation. Some distant, latent part of his brain was telling him to do whatever it took to please the assassin, to bring him crashing over that edge, even if he didn’t instinctively know what that was, not necessarily cursing himself for alpha status even if, in some small part, lamenting it.

Through the haze of pleasure suffusing him he was faintly aware of Neuvillette asking him something, something that was probably important even if his fevered mind was struggling to convert words into cognizant thoughts. He became faintly aware of a growing pressure tugging on his rim, that sensation enough to have him simultaneously pushing back against Neuvillette and pulling at his restraints. The part of him that wasn’t solely obsessed with being fucked out of his mind rationalized that taking another alpha’s knot, especially after such not having done so in so long, was perhaps not the wisest course of action but those were regrets he’d rather live with tomorrow.

Whatever the actual words were, his incoherent garbling was enough to convey the intent as Neuvillette sank fully into him with a snarl, the near-painful swell of his knot and unrelenting pressure on his prostate enough to send him crashing over that final edge. It felt as though his mind was shattering into fractures, overstimulation rasping along every nerve, bliss blazing a charter through his body as cum spurted in thick ropes across couch cushions already darkened with sweat.

The other alpha slumped against his back, suddenly too warm when coupled with the liquid heat pooling in Wriothesley’s core, cock twitching as the last of his spend filled the hitman in a manner that bordered on uncomfortably full. Both of their breathing was coming in heaving pants, pulse rushing in Wriothesley’s ears as he felt a modicum of normal feeling beginning to return to his body, accompanied by the undeniable precursors to soreness and more.

Neuvillette shifted back before the proximity became too much even if he was unable to pull away til his knot softened, instead taking the time to rub gently along patches of skin bruising bright and fresh, reaching far enough away to produce a damp (albeit very cold) washcloth that he had apparently had the forethought to tuck away nearby. It was strangely soothing, the gentle play of his fingers upon the other alpha’s body as he wiped away flecks of blood and paid special heed to proof of their coupling.

“I apologize. It will be a bit,” Neuvillette murmured, sounding mildly contrite to Wriothesley’s surprise. He made a noncommittal sound of his own, the heady rush of pleasure and pain having already begun to steadily give way to a bone-weary exhaustion that was tugging his eyelids insistently down. “If you wish, we can stay here,” he continued, voice gentling as he gently shifted the two of them onto their sides, ignoring the mess they’d made of the couch.

Much as Wriothesley wanted to grumble out a response and deny the comforting movement his body didn’t seem to want to comply, oddly content with being pulled against the other alpha’s chest on the too-small couch, the imminent prospect of sleep chasing away any protests he might make. Sure, some part of his mind may have also been a bit chuffed by this turn of events, settling into the embrace even as he told himself, quite sternly, that he would undoubtedly regret this in the morning.

Surely that’s what it would be.

Regret and nothing else.

Certainly not burgeoning feelings.

Chapter Text

At some point during the night Wriothesley had woken and shuffled his way to the singular bed at the other alpha’s urging, Neuvillette insisting he would take the couch and brooking no argument. Exhausted as he had been Wriothesley had complied almost wordlessly save a spattering of incoherent mumbling, flopping bonelessly down to pass out on the bed for an incalculable amount of time (six more hours) before an impossibly dry mouth and the mounting soreness in his body finally forced him back to reality.

To say everything hurt would be an understatement, a motley collection of bruises blooming on his skin and his shoulder impossibly stiff beneath a bandage that definitely needed cleaning. That wasn’t to mention the other nicks and scratches he bore, a few of which were definite indicators that the previous day's activities had not, in fact, been a wet dream.

Sigewinne was going to kill him.

After groaning and griping to himself, he thrust himself out of bed to face a brand new day, the opposite of chipper and bushy-tailed as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and slouched his way into the main living space, still knuckling sleep from his eyes as he attempted to figure out exactly what mood it was he was in given the unsettled storm of emotions in his chest.

To absolutely no one’s surprise Neuvillette was already present, seated sedately at the tiny dining room table, a mug of something steaming held lightly in his clasped hands. The assassin had been up for some time if the cleaned space was anything to go by, Wriothesley momentarily tempted to sarcastically ask if ‘clean up’ was part of his job description before realizing that it probably, in fact, was.

And in a macabre way at that.

“Good morning, Wriothesley,” Neuvillette greeted, a perfect eyebrow arching as he regarded the hitman placidly, expression unreadable. “There is water boiling in the electrokettle and a selection of tea in the second cupboard from the left. Please, help yourself.”

Not trusting his mouth til he was at least slightly caffeinated, Wriothesley made a show of preparing himself a cup of Earl Grey in one of the six perfectly matching cups, not daring to look up until the tea had steeped properly, watching the color bleed slowly into the water of the cup as the gears of his mind ground slowly to a start.

And with it the reality of just what it was they had done the night prior.

The tea was long past oversteeped by the time he looked up, relieved that Neuvillette’s attention seemed elsewhere, the assassin focused on some distant point outside the window, brow pinched as he regarded the slanted light beaming into the living room, a furrow marring his forehead. He didn’t even look up as Wriothesley wordlessly dropped himself into the chair opposite, preoccupied with his own thoughts in a way that was somehow managing to make the hitman simultaneously anxious and relieved.

“So…” Wriothesley began, grimacing as he took a sip of too-hot, oversteeped tea. Neuvillette blinked, almost lazily, his gaze swiveling slowly to pin his fellow contractor in place, the faintest upward curve of his lips there for so brief a second Wriothesley was sure he had imagined it.

“So?” Again a questioning arch of his brow, this time accompanied by the clip of undeniable bemusement beneath the simple word.

“About last night-” Wriothesley began, not entirely sure where to start.

“What about it? We are both consenting adults, are we not?”

Far from accusatory, Neuvillette’s tone was gentle and reassuring, imploring Wriothesley to speak in a way that he found so at odds with their past interactions on contracts. The man sitting before him was so very different from the assassin he had thought he knew, he was quickly coming to find, that realization enough to send a slight, giddy thrill racing along Wriothesley’s spine, one he couldn’t recall feeling since he was much younger.

“Just a bit surprised you were still here in the morning is all,” Wriothesley returned, affecting nonchalance with a shrug.

“And go where? Another safehouse?” Neuvillette responded, tone so dry the hitman felt as though he could have sucked all the moisture from the air. A glance up revealed a faint quirk to the bow of the assassin’s lips, subtle though it may have been.

The pair paused to consider their beverages, Neuvillette taking a slow sip of his while Wriothesley cursed just how poorly prepared his tea was, not that he was about to waste it. He had never been one to waste food or beverage, especially when it wasn’t to his liking because of a mistake he had made, setting himself to the task of gritting his teeth and bearing it.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” came the innocent statement, quizzical in a way that had Wriothesley glancing reflexively up to drink in the sight of the alpha before him. In the morning light Neuvillette was soft in a way he hadn’t been before, the gentle, golden dawn smoothing the sharp planes of his face, lighting his eyes in a scintillating array of color from where they regarded Wriothesley curiously over the rim of his mug.

Had he not known better, Wriothesley would have almost said there was something oddly vulnerable to him.

“Of course I did,” he half scoffed in retort, managing to worm enough feeling in his response to make himself sound slightly aggrieved by the line of questioning. So what if he felt something warm well in his chest when he managed to draw more of a smile from Neuvillette, the simple curve of those lips doing far more for his mood than he cared to admit?

“You were more well behaved than I anticipated,” Neuvillette observed, clearly indicating the use of belt and zip ties both, the shadow of a smile a mischievous glint in his eyes. Even the morning after their tryst, wearing little more than a disheveled button up and loose slacks, he looked regal and refined. The gentle curl of steam rising from his cup created ripples of rainbow that played across his features, a flash of subtle color against alabaster skin and silvery hair.

“What can I say,” Wriothesley japed, his own smile somewhere between cocky and coy as he found himself sinking into a more familiar rhythm, “Sometimes a firm hand is all it takes.”

Neuvillette simply arched one of those perfect brows in reply, returning to the coffee cradled gently in his hands, his expression slowly becoming contemplative. Writohesley took the lull in conversation to remove the bag from his mug, once again lamenting the piteous state of the tea supply that the safe house contained.

At least it was better than nothing, he decided, taking a bracing sip of the tea one could only describe as Earl Grey if they had heard the flavor profile described to them in a dream after it had been brewed in a boot.

Still, tea was tea. More or less.

The silence stretched, oddly peaceful in the way the morning light slanted through the iron bars of the singular window, warm and comforting where it cast golden bands across the coffee table across from them. He noted, somewhat distantly, that a few of the pillows that had been on the couch the evening prior had mysteriously vanished, chuckling softly to himself at the thought that there was likely a trash bag full of horrendously stained pillows and throws that absolutely stank of them both. It was a realization that managed to straddle the border of amusing and something else he couldn’t quite place his finger on.

“You know,” Wriothesley began conversationally, shifting slightly where he sat as his mind drifted back to the night prior in more detail, even those faint memories causing his cock to chub in his sweatpants, “We’ll probably be stuck here awhile. Probably best to make use of that time.”

“Oh?” Neuvillette asked, query soft and breathless as he met Wriothesley’s gaze, carefully setting his rapidly cooling mug of coffee on the table before him, only to lean forward, chin resting upon the back of his knuckles conspiratorially. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Well, we’re going to be here all day at the very least and I figured I haven’t had breakfast yet. Seems like something a good host would remedy, huh?”

So what if he let his eyes trail significantly lower, his boldness met with a soft huff of bemusement from the other alpha.

“That does, indeed, seem quite egregious,” Neuvillette returned with mock seriousness, pushing himself slowly to his feet and taking a step around the edge of the small table, each movement calculated and graceful in the way a predator might stalk its prey. Wriothesley held stock-still as Neuvillette drew closer, fine-boned hand trailing along the hitman’s uninjured broad shoulder before he leaned over, lips so close to Wriothesley’s ear he could feel the slightest exhale of breath, goosebumps racing down his own neck in response.

“I wonder,” Neuvillette continued teasingly, voice dropping an octave lower, lips brushing the shell of Wriothesley’s ear as he spoke, “Do you like cream with your tea?”

A surge of motion had Wriothesley’s chair tumbling backwards to clatter against the tiles of the kitchen floor, already forgotten on moment of impact as he spun to press his lips against Neuvillette’s own. Whereas the kisses from last night had been frenetic and borderline feral, this one was restrained, eagerness honed beneath desire once-tempered. Questing fingers sought the planes of each other’s bodies, exploring over and beneath soft layers of fabric as the pair found themselves spinning way from the meager kitchen and back towards the relative comfort of the living room.

The kiss was languid in the haze of the early morning, Wriothesley’s tongue licking inside Neuvillette’s mouth to taste bitter coffee, unsweetened, as he felt himself pressed imploringly back until tile transitioned to plush rug. It would have been so easy to slot their mouths together in the warmth of the morning, lose themselves in something simpler, but the embers of want burning in Wriothesley’s core were only growing hotter with each passing moment, lazy hunger replaced by heated need as roaming hands grasped with increasing intent.

Knees knocked against the back of the couch, buckling, before Wriothesley found himself half-crouched before the other alpha, head tilting back to read the hungry expression laid bare above him, heat simmering beneath half-lidded eyes as pink tinged alabaster cheeks. Warmth pooled in Wriothesley’s groin once more as slender fingers shifted up to trace over the scars that scaled his neck, whisper light as they crept northwar to drift past the tip of his chin.

A cool finger drifted over his bottom lip, touch gentle and feather-light as it sent a thrill of goosebumps along the column of Wriothesley’s spine. Neuvillette’s gaze was hungry beneath his half-lidded eyes from where he looked down at the other alpha, pupils blown wide as Wriothesley lunged forward just far enough to capture the assassin’s thumb between his teeth, lips closing with tantalizing slowness to draw the claw-tipped finger back across his tongue.

He was keenly aware of the way Neuvillette’s breath hitched, sucking that thumb deeper as desire flared within his own gut, practically purring as the tips of the assassin’s fingers dug into the edge of his jawline, tugging him insistently forward. He was only too happy to comply, swirling his tongue around the appendage occupying space in his mouth, delighting in the foreign texture of Neuvillette’s fingerprint upon his tongue.

“Down,” Neuvillette commanded, the pad of his thumb pressing into the meat of Wriothesley’s tongue. Defiant, the hitman did the opposite, half-rising onto one knee, eyes bright and rebellious under the flutter of his own lashes as he purposefully pushed back against the other alpha’s demand. Amethyst eyes narrowed at his impudence, Neuvillette’s patience apparently wearing thin as he tilted his thumb to press the tip of a claw down near the root of Wriothesley’s tongue, the hitman extremely grateful for his lack of gag reflex as a bright pinpoint of pain flared there.

He crashed back to his knees, also thankful for the rug, as internally he warred against the need to rebel and obey both.

“Good boy,” Neuvillette crooned, the praise going straight to Wriothesley’s dick, heat flushing his body and cheeks heating in a way that had the other man chuckling softly, both amused and pleased by the revelation.

“Do you like that, dog? Will you behave for me?” The pressure on his tongue lightened just enough for him to nod without gagging himself.

Neuvillette let out a soft huff of pleasure, gaze raking over the hitman’s prone form, hunger flaring in his eyes once more before he pulled his thumb from Wriothesley’s mouth with a wet pop. A murmured ‘stay’ was the only thing keeping Wriothesley from lurching after him, Neuvillette regarding the hitman with the soft curl of a smile on his lips, half-predatory, as he drank in the flushed cheeks and small pants of breath.

“And what will you do to prove you’re a good dog?”

“Anything,” Wriothesley responded, voice husky and eager as his eyes focused on the bulge in the assassin’s slacks, hoping fervently there was only one layer of cloth between him and his prize instead of the normal two.

“Go ahead,” Neuvillette permitted after a long pause, settling his hips languorously back against the edge of the couch as he continued to regard Wriothesley with raw desire written across his sharp features.

This time the surge of rebellion, the need to defy this other alpha was far from as strong as before, somehow muted as Wriothesley fumbled against the buttons of Neuvillette’s pants, practically breathing an audible sigh of relief when he tugged them open to reveal pale skin instead of the underwear he feared. He didn’t bother to dwell on the fact that he was so far gone he was behaving like a hormone-addled teenager, instead focusing all of his attention on the frankly beautiful cock that sprang free.

Of course. Even his dick would be pretty. Some people had all the luck.

Not that he was complaining.

He could feel the heat of Neuvillette’s gaze upon him as Wriothesley leaned in, reverently drawing a finger up the considerable length to the bead of precum glistening at the flushed tip, grinning at the shiver it drew from the assassin. He wasted no time in pulling himself closer, this time repeating the motion with his mouth, laving the underside of Neuvillette’s cock with the flat of his tongue, relishing in the heat of skin beneath it, the soft swell of prominent vein as he drew himself with agonizing slowness to the crown.

He dared a glance up, drinking in the enraptured expression on Neuvillette’s face as fingers traced the curve of his jaw, catching on the stubble there, the touch fleeting before it retreated to allow Wriothesley free reign. He was only too happy to take it, sucking in a sharp breath before drawing Neuvillette fully into his mouth, the weight of his cock on Wriothesley’s tongue so right and perfect as it filled out his mouth, the tang of salt sinking across his tastebuds as he sucked the hardening member further into his mouth.

Though he could feel the territorial need to lash out and do something simmering just beneath the surface, this was different than last night, this particular action making it somehow easier to reign in this baser instincts as he hollowed his cheeks around Neuvillette’s cock. He was only too eager to put the piercing on his tongue to good use as he swirled it around the tip, drawing the slick bauble of metal across the slit there, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from above.

The younger alpha practically purred with self-satisfied delight as claws drifted through the thick layers of his hair once more, not quite grasping for purchase but hovering with intent that sent another surge of hot need through Wriotehsley’s core.

The ghost of that touch remained as Wriothesley began to bob, working his way up and down the other alpha’s cock, drawing him deeper and deeper each time he sank down until that length was bullying the back of his soft palate. He sucked in what air he could through his nostrils, all too aware of the spit bubbling at the corners of his lips and beginning to drip past them as he set to work, lavishing Neuvillette’s cock with all the attention he deserved.

He could practically feel Neuvillette’s restraint fraying as claws occasionally scraped along his scalp, drifting slowly but surely towards the back of Wriothesley’s head. All he wanted was for the other alpha to use him yet again, a convenient, wet hole to fuck, his own pleasure taking a back seat to the assassin’s as his throat was used and abused in a way that sent frissons of pleasure sparking down his spine in anticipation.

“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette hissed, lust bleeding into his name as it was spoken, a question rippling somewhere beneath the surface, an unspoken request for permission. Had his mouth not been otherwise preoccupied Wriothesley would have grinned, instead sinking down as far as he could onto that cock that filled him so perfectly, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as the ability to breath became a fleeting memory. He was, once again, grateful for his lack of gag reflex and eager to put it thoroughly to the test.

The movement was as close to permission as Neuvillette needed, fingers twisting through locks of salt-and-pepper hair to hold Wriothesley in place, the jolt of pain only sending further sparks racing along the hitman’s spine. In the next moment the snap of the assassin’s hips tested even the limits of the hitman’s own training, throat spasming in protest as cock bullied the back of his throat, nose pressed flush with curls of pale hair as Neuvillette seated himself completely in the younger alpha’s willing mouth.

He was given a moment to adjust, perhaps two, before Neuvillette began to set a punishing pace that Wriothesley knew was going to wreck his throat in the best way possible. One of his own hands found purchase on the assassin’s thigh, fingers digging into the taut muscle there even if he didn’t dare push back, simply needing something to grab onto as Neuvillette used him. His other hand slipped past the elastic band of his sweatpants to thumb his own length, hard and leaking as the lack of air burned in his lungs, his own pleasure secondary as he adjusted to Neuvillette’s pace.

The noises he was making were obscene, he was sure, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as the other alpha fucked into his mouth with just enough presence of mind to occasionally pull back far enough for Wriothesley to draw in a ragged, gasping breath before that beautiful cock was sinking past his lips once more. He could barely think about his own cock, aching and hard between his legs, as his oxygen deprived brain danced the border between pain and pleasure.

Spit dripped down his chin, cooling rapidly in the air as he flexed his grip on Neuvillette’s thigh, trying worldessly to communicate that he needed more. He needed to be used and left wanting, dangling on the precipice as the other alpha took his own pleasure. This was purely transactional after all, wasn’t it? His way of saying thanks for the safety provided by the safehouse after the disastrous attempt on Shinsuke’s life?

The fervor of Neuvillette’s thrusts only continued to grow until the rhythmic pace began to broach on erratic, hands never once stuttering from where they held Wriothesley’s head firmly in place. Somehow, the frenetic change pace was enough to drive Wriothesley to wrap his fist around his own neglected length, matching the pace loosely, as much as his lust-addled brain could comprehend in the moment, that decision only reinforced when Neuvillette gasped encouragement.

“Where do you-?”

Wriothesley answered the question only by tightening his grip on Neuvillette’s thigh even further til he was sure it was practically bruising, refusing to pull away even as he felt the bulge of a knot pushing insistently at his lips, threatening to stretch his jaw to its absolute limit. Fuck, if Neuvillette being so gone he would knot Wriothesley’s mouth wasn’t the hottest thing he had ever imagined, that thought alone sparking something feral in him that had a whine bubbling in his chest.

There was absolutely no going back as the knot pressed against the hitman’s lips once, twice, before it popped past as Neuvillette snarled above him. Warm heat spread rapidly across the back of Wriothesley’s throat. The other alpha’s spend washing down his abused throat as Wriothesley barreled towards his own release, struggling to swallow as he felt himself tumbling over the edge, cum splattering the floor between them as pleasure burst white-hot in his veins.

For a moment his vision swam, black creeping along the edges as his mind reeled and his brain screamed for oxygen. He wasn’t entirely sure if it was the lack of air, the orgasm he had justed teetered over the edge into, or a combination of the two (and likely more) but he felt almost as though he was adrift, lost at sea as he floated through a blissful haze that had no rhyme or reason, the raw pain little more than a distant and unfocused memory.

It was only when Neuvillette conscientiously shifted his hips, attempting to relieve some of the pressure on the back of Wriothesley’s throat before his knot could deflate enough to withdraw, that the hitman was able to drawing a stuttering breath once more, his mind tumbling reluctantly back to reality alongside the rush of air.

The assassin’s hands were almost gentle as he somehow shimmied his way free of Wriothesley’s mouth even though his knot had barely had time to go down, exhaling sharply as Wriothesley felt his own teeth drag slightly on the flesh there, unable to summon enough strength to open his jaws as wide as possible. Neuvillette didn’t complain, scarcely moving once he had removed himself, even going so far as to keep the younger alpha pressed against his leg for support.

“I apologize,” Neuvillette said between gasps of breath, gaze unfocused, “I did not…expect to pop a knot again so soon.”

The admittance drew a soft chuckle from Wriothesley’s ruined throat from where he was slumped against Neuvillette’s leg, feeling utterly wrecked and sated at the same time. It certainly didn’t help that the other alpha was running a hand gently through his hair, claws drifting between salt-and-pepper locks to soothingly scrape across his scalp in a way that had him just as boneless as the earlier activities.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Wriothesley mumbled, voice so rough it was almost unrecognizable. He knew for a fact he looked an absolute mess, lips flushed and swollen, chin glistening with saliva and spend, nose running. His own expression was probably more unfocused and lost than Neuvillette’s had been just moments ago. Even despite the reassurance Neuvillette looked slightly concerned from where he regarded the hitman.

“Let me get you some w-”

Almost unconsciously Wriothesley felt his arm around Neuvillette’s leg tighten, sure that if his face hadn’t already been brightly flushed a blush would have bloomed there. Immediately Neuvillette sank back into place, resuming the reassuring petting of Wriothesley’s hair even as his upper torso twisted, attention focused on one of the half-full water glasses sitting beside the sink, abandoned earlier.

His free hand rose, talented fingers weaving through the air, Wriothesley’s addled brain not quite realizing what he was doing before a wobbling orb of water was drifting up against gravity and bobbling towards them. He would realize later just the level of finesse and control such an action took but in the moment he simply stared, rapt and wonderstruck, as the water slowly hovered to a halt directly before him, Neuvillette’s expression expectant.

The cool water was too tempting a balm for his ravaged throat, Wriothesley leaning forward somewhat hesitantly to press his lips against the shimmering surface, surprised when it held its form save the gentle undulations that rippled across its surface, away from his touch.

“You were such a good boy,” Neuvillette crooned, the unexpected praise immediately causing Wriothesley to inhale the bubble of water between his lips, spluttering loudly. He drew in a hacking breath, grateful for Neuvillette’s control of Hydro as the globule of water drifted away, giving him enough space to clear his lungs.

“My apologies; was that too much?” the assassin asked, concern knitting his brow even if he did not clarify if he was speaking of the water or the praise. Wriothesley only shook his head in response, letting out a few more raspy coughs before he motioned for the water yet again, not trusting himself to speak for a myriad of reasons.

The water helped, at least a bit, even if he could tell already that he would have a helluva throat ache for the next few days at the very least. A small part of him hoped they were trapped in the safe house for just that long, dreading the possibility of having to explain such an injury to Sigewinne, already predicting her calling him out on any bold-faced lie about it being sickness. And that wasn’t to mention the horrific concoctions she would devise for him, only loosely recognizable as a milkshake if one was to cast aside all logic and the ability to taste.

Almost unconsciously he felt himself drifting towards sleep once more, lulled by the gentle, repetitive motion of Neuvillette’s fingers through his hair, continuing their calming ministrations. Unfortunately for him, the persistent twinge in his knees, shoulder, and near everywhere else was practically impossible to ignore, especially when coupled with drying spit and cum, drawing him reluctantly back to the present.

Wriothesley eventually pushed himself off Neuvillette’s leg with a reluctant groan, doing his best to ignore the way his joints cracked and popped in protest, knees in particular complaining about the morning’s abuse.

“Gonna shower,” he said by way of explanation, pushing himself upward with a grimace and a wobble. He had the distinct impression that had he been unable to get his feet well and truly under him Neuvillette would have assisted but he couldn't quite place why he had that feeling.

For his part Neuvillette simply nodded, beginning to straighten and clean himself as well.

“I will look at my network to ascertain when we will be safe to depart,” he said, attention already drifting around the living space, a faint purse to his brows that Wriothesley had come to associate with deep thought appearing, “I will be as surreptitious as possible. My current estimate is another three, perhaps four days, at most, but I will have more concrete numbers for you when you return.”

Wriothesley nodded and grunted, ignoring the traitorous twist to his stomach at the odd thought of being bereft of the comforting scent of sea spray and petrichor, chalking it up to the strange thoughts of a sex-muddled brain as he lurched towards the shower and whatever peace it might offer him.

Now that they had gotten this out of their system everything would be back to the way it was before. This was just a fluke, a passing tryst, and nothing more he staunchly told himself.

Nothing more.

Life returned to normal.

Perhaps that was an exaggeration. Life had returned to at least a semblance of what it had been though off by just enough it was a loose facsimile at best. For the most part Wriothesley’s day-to-day resumed as if nothing had happened and the attempt on Shinsuke’s life had never occurred. Their contacts for the contract had gone entirely mute in a way that one could only assume meant that the Inazuman mob boss had discovered just who it was who had called out on the hit on his life, effectively neutralizing an immediate threat while simultaneously sending a message to others.

Or so they could only hope.

Oddly enough they - or at least Wriothesley himself - were left entirely unmolested, not even the slightest whiff of a job gone south filtering out to circulate amongst his peers.

It was almost as if the whole affair had never happened.

Both his and Sigewinne’s initial hesitancy to take up more jobs soon eroded before a mounting pile of bills, Wriothesley finding himself with a few small, easy contracts that were enough to put food on the table and keep debt collectors off their (his) backs. They went smoothly, mostly easy to the point of being laughably so until their previous tension began to dissolve, drifting away into only faint, lingering ripples of unease that were difficult to pinpoint.

The new jobs were so easy that a few times he found himself with spare time, time that was well spent with an unexpected presence. How Neuvillette managed to know what job he was on and when was a mystery, the other contractor assuring him that it was purely happenstance and nothing nefarious. Wriothesley was only too eager to believe him, their carnal rendezvous an unexpected side benefit to the job, not that he was complaining about such a bonus. Who didn’t love a quick, hard fuck before they completed an assassination attempt on a man’s life?

Okay, scratch that - it was probably a much smaller pool of individuals than one would like to believe.

Neuvillette didn’t show up at every job Wriothesley took on but he appeared often enough that the hitman had come to expect it. The familiar wash of seasalt and rain, chased along by the saccharine sweet temptation of salted caramel, was impossible to ignore and had his mouth watering almost immediately.

He wasn’t down bad.

He could stop at any time.

Such was the thought running through Writohesley’s head as he pulled off of Neuvillette’s cock with a wet ‘pop’, swallowing down the last traces of the assassin’s spend as he looked up to the figure half-slumped against the grungy wall of the alleyway above him. The relentless grip on the hitman’s hair loosened, scalp still prickling from where clawtips had dug in, the desperate clutch transforming slowly to a soothing and familiar pet, thumb tracing a comforting circle along Wriothesley’s temple that nearly had him purring.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Wriothesley joked, voice rough and raw from where he knelt, leaning forward to press a cheek against Neuvillette’s thigh, warm beneath those slacks that were slightly less immaculate than normal. The other man only gave a contemplative hum, not pausing the gentle ministrations of his hand where his fingers wound their way gently along Wriothesley’s scalp, the motion oddly intimate even despite the fact they were in what was probably Fontaine’s third dirtiest alley.

“Pure happenstance,” he responded eventually, voice still low as he began to pull away from the hitman with something broaching on reluctance in his expression. He made a show of pulling up his trousers and making himself presentable while Wriothesley dabbed uselessly at the not insignificant wet patch on the front of his own pants, thankful yet again for his proclivity to wear black on a job.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that,” Wriothesley retorted, brushing his knees off as he lurched to his feet, wincing at the way his joints ground in protest. A firm hand under his arm helped to pull him up the last half of the distance, Neuvillette apparently done with his own preening enough to finally assist Wriothesley.

“Here,” he stated, unceremoniously jamming a handkerchief in Wriothesley’s face, “Keep it.”

Simple though the piece of cloth was, it was utterly saturated with the scent of the other alpha, so heavy with his particular bouquet that Wriothesley, for a moment, had to fight the urge to lean forward and bring it closer to his nose. Instead he settled for a grunt, somewhat reluctant as he leveraged it to make himself presentable as well, making note of the gently looping ‘N’ in beautiful cursive that marked one of the corners, the navy lettering silhouetted by a trio of coiling dragons that seemed reminiscent to the mark that had been on the safehouse door.

“So,” Wriothesley began, dabbing at his lips in a refined way that only made Neuvillette roll his eyes, the shadow of a smile upon the other man’s lips reward enough, “About this. About us. Much as I love meeting in dark alleys for these clandestine trysts have you ever thought of getting lunch? Coffee and tea, maybe? Because I know a place….”

He let his words trail off, affecting nonchalance even as his heart clawed its way into his throat as though it were seeking to choke the very breath from his lungs. He would be lying to say he didn’t enjoy and look forward to these casual meet-ups, disorganized though they may have been, and perhaps was hoping Neuvillette, too, felt the same way even if both contractors kept their emotions sealed tight behind padlocked lips.

There was only so much coincidence one could take before the crawling roots of hope wound their way tighter through the lattice work of his ribs and began to take form, growing into something new and different, something that sent both a surge of optimistic hope through him and sinking dread as well.

This was purely casual, simply a convenient way to blow off steam for both of their mutual enjoyment. Why ruin a good thing, after all?

Right?

The silence stretched on, painfully heavy as it settled over the alley like the oppressive humidity before a storm. Neuvillette’s expression was unreadable, face blank, brows neutral, save his eyes which were darting across Wriothesley’s face as though searching for something.

He had misspoke. He had made too many assumptions, had gone and stuck his foot in his mouth and probably ruined this good whatever it was they had going for them. It was all he could do to look away, gaze searching for anything else to inspect, eventually settling on a crumpled candy wrapper that had probably been in the alleyway for the better part of a decade, seemingly half-melded with the pavement. He squinted at it as though he were trying to read his future in the faded plastic.

Outlook: bleak.

The soft inhale of breath Neuvillette took was enough to send Wriothesley’s gaze snapping back up to the assassin, expectant in a way he immediately kicked himself for. What was he, a lost puppy in need of validation and connection? Like some sort of chump?

“I…suppose I would be amenable to tea,” he began slowly, still regarding Wriothesley pensively from where he remained standing, face utterly devoid of emotion in a way that was, to put it lightly, unsettling.

But it was a yes.

Or at least close enough to a yes.

“Great! I mean cool,” the hitman returned, trying to keep the giddy edge to his voice from entirely taking it over, “I know a good place, reasonably priced, good coffee too - did the owners a favor with aaaa-actually you know what, nevermind, that’s a story for another time.”

He was rambling, he knew, abruptly cutting himself off as quickly as he could before he could say something he would truly regret. Neuvillette probably didn’t want to hear his life story, especially in this exceptionally dingy alley and while they both undoubtedly had better places to be and people to kill.

Another day in the life.

“Saturday?” Neuvillette asked softly in the awkward silence, filled only with a nervous chuckle from Wriothesley, stretched on a heartbeat too long. Right. Actually planning their get together was probably wise.

“Yeah! Saturday, 10 am good? Not too early? 10 it is,” he said with the grace of Neuvillette’s affirmative head nod in regards to timing. “It’s the cafe on the way to Fleuve Cendre - Lutece. Small place but they make a mean cappuccino. You can’t miss the place.”

This time it was impossible to miss the ghost of a smile on the assassin’s lips as he carefully tugged his tie back into place, the subtle action somehow drawing an impermeable line between work and play without a single word being said. A siren had begun to blare just down the street, bringing with it the reality of their daily life as the job Wriothesley was on was dragged back to the forefront of his mind.

“I will see you Saturday, Wriothesley,” Neuvillette said, tone tinged with warmth even despite his professional stance. The assassin didn’t pause to wait for any additional commentary, instead turning to begin making his way down the alley once more, swiftly vanishing from sight, undoubtedly off on his own contract.

It was only once he was out of view did Wriothesley let out a groan, dragging a hand down his face.

“Shit. I’m gonna have to tell Sige.”

Telling Sigewinne he was getting coffee (not a date, he had been emphatic in stating) with Neuvillette had gone about as well as one could expect. Her eyes had widened with impish delight upon the reveal, diving for her phone before Wriothesley had even had a chance to stop her. The fact that Clorinde had called him just moments later to chew his ass out for “consorting with the enemy” had been purely coincidental and not at all related to the malicious texting spree the Melusine had gone on.

Aside from being on the receiving end of Clorinde’s ire for the next few days Wriothesley had found himself subjected to surprisingly little harassment otherwise. Sigewinne had gone so far as to tell him it was good that he and Neuvillette were finally acting like adults instead of skulking about in the back alleys of Fontaine, that enough of a revelation to tell Wriothesley that the Melusine had been aware of their shenanigans the whole while.

It also explained the additional physicals and tests that Sigewinne had been poking him about lately though how she had come to find out was still beyond him.

The saving grace, small though it may have been, was that she had at least kept Clorinde out of the loop until now, leaving him to go about his days as though they were normal, resuming a few contracts as the days until their not-a-date-date ticked steadily down. Preparations for one such job were how he found himself in their small apartment, safe from the heavy rains that had been sweeping across the City for the past day until gutters were overflowing and the waterways sought to spill out of their bounds.

From where he was half-hunched over his rifle, peeled apart and laid out meticulously for a full cleaning, he became faintly aware of the volume on the tv ticking up, the previously faint drone becoming impossible to ignore. For the briefest of moments he glanced up, mouth opening to chastise Sigewinne for blasting the volume while he was working before those very words died upon his lips, eyes fixated on the blurry yet familiar outline filling the center of the screen.

“- Police are cautioning the public to not approach the individual who is rumored to be responsible for the death of local accountant Antoine Darvil and potentially others as well. Again, this individual is considered highly dangerous and we warn the public about approaching him. If you have seen him or have any information to pass on in regards to his whereabouts please reach out directly to the FCPD. The number is 5-”

“Shit. Fuck. Balls,” Wriothesley stated eloquently, scrambling to his feet, partially disassembled gun forgotten where it lay in pieces across their dining room table. Sigewinne had turned to regard him with too-wide crimson eyes, rhinophores quivering where they lay flattened against the back of her skull, the remote still clutched uselessly in her paw.

“Is that who I think it is?” she asked, soft voice somehow managing to cut over the relentless yapping of the reporter still on the screen. Wriothesley grappled with the remote, turning the volume up as though it might cut through the buzzing racing through his mind, turning all thoughts but one into static.

He was faintly aware of Sigewinne toddling up to his side, the scrolling newsbox reflected in red eyes from where she watched, rapt with attention, mouth slightly open in a horrified ‘o’ as a very blurry picture of a pale-haired man imposed itself on the screen. It was impossible to ignore, seared into the backs of Wriothesley’s eyes as he watched on, unable to listen away.

The sudden, loud ring of the doorbell shocked him abruptly back to reality, muscles that were clenched tight nearly reacting spasmodically in a way that would have had him planting a fist through the TV screen had he not managed to wrangle them in at the last second, diverting the whole-body flinch to instead whirl towards the door to their meager apartment.

The doorbell did not chime again but he was already on his way, dodging around the low slung couch and past an end table littered with a daunting combination of medical text books, highlighters, and sticker sheets as he practically tumbled into the door, wrenching it open in a single movement.

He had thought it impossible for the alabaster of Neuvillette’s skin to be any lighter but under the humming incandescent bulbs, slouched against the opposite wall and drenched in blood, he was ghastly pale. Any healthy tinge of pink and rose had left his cheeks, ashen and gaunt from where he was steadily slumping to the floor, leaving a smear of bright crimson on the peeling wallpaper behind him that was jarringly at odds with the faded roses peppering it.

The assassin’s lips parted as if he might choke out words but only crimson emerged, pink-tinged bubbles of aerated blood and saliva blooming in the stead of the hitman’s name. Wriothesley couldn’t remember moving, body lurching automatically to Neuvillette’s side until suddenly he was cradling him, arresting his fall, tucking him against his chest as his own mouth babbled a panicked cry for Sigewinne. The Melusine was there in mere moments, the alarm on her face swiftly transforming into the detached, professional persona she took on when tending to patients.

Especially ones in critical condition.

Papers were scattered from the low coffee table with a sweep of her tiny hands, fluttering off to curl upon the worn carpet like the husks of molted cicadas. Wriothesley was laying Neuvillette upon the surface as gently as he could before Sigewinne even had to utter a word, setting him down with both reverence and fear, as though he was a fractured piece of pottery about to come apart at its few remaining seams.

In the few scant moments it had taken to ferry the other man into his apartment Neuvillette’s eyes had slipped shut, movement furtive behind bruised lids as his breath came in shakes and gasps, gurgling as his chest struggled to rise and fall. Beside him Sigewinne was stepping in, tiny hands sure as they darted along the lithe man’s frame, pulling apart his collar to reveal a map of bruises and gashes, each worse than the last, drawing a shudder from Wriothesley where he stood.

“My tools. Now,” the Melusine commanded, voice somehow simultaneously sharp and gentle as Wriothesley instinctively obeyed. His mind seemed to be lagging a few minutes behind current events, catching slowly but doggedly up as they transpired. Fetching the tools of the nurse’s trade were the least he could do, shaking hands grabbing bags and small boxes single-mindedly before he was hurrying back to the living room that now smelled heavily of blood and smoke.

“Hand me that - yes, that tool - we need to perform a thoracostomy immediately. He has a collapsed lung,” she demanded, eyes not drifting once from the task at hand. Wriothesley continued to obey, mute, as the Melusine set meticulously about her task, never once blinking, his own mind numb. It was only once she had the tool in hand that she glanced up, pity flashing across her features.

“Stay here. I’m going to need a second set of hands tonight.”

Chapter Text

The night passed in a blur.

Evening had blended into dusk, the flickering glow of electrolamps on the street going entirely ignored by the pair working frantically in the dingy third floor apartment.

The scent of antiseptic and blood clogged the entire apartment, so heady and thick Wriothesley found his head swimming at times. Had it not been for Sigewinne, calm and collected even as the urgency for work to happen jumped from minutes into seconds, he would have found his frayed psyche break and fizzle. It was her metronomic voice that kept his mind present and center as she urged him to move the coffee table into the kitchen, their unconscious patient still upon it, lest they stain the carpet with blood and fail to get their safety deposit back.

He had laughed at that, a surprised bark that had twisted into another sound bordering on a sob before he had cut it off.

Only Sigewinne’s guiding hand kept his mind from straying too far into darker, different times, the warmth and safety of their apartment and her stolid presence the only grounding facts that kept him from sinking into the past, of memories where he was lying on the floor, bleeding out, pain burning through his throat and chest, the air reeking of metallic blo-

“Wriothesley. I need you to go to the store for all of these.” Sigewinne’s voice, the soft crack of a whip, lashed him back to the present once more. Blood was normally so easy for him to ignore due to the nature of his job but this was different, her normally cheerful apron splattered with crimson, gloved hand studded with ruby droplets that caught the humming light from over the kitchen sink. In her other tiny paw she clutched a list of necessary supplies, pressing it imploringly against his stomach.

He took it mutely, turning it over in his hand, noting that for once it was bereft of treats and surprises, the names of medical supplies and compounds interspersed with the need for bandages and other items even his splintered mind was capable of comprehending.

“Be quick about it,” Sigewinne urged, the faintest tinge of exhaustion beginning to lace its way into the edges of her voice, moth-eaten tiredness accentuated by faint rings beneath her eyes. How long had they been at it? He squinted, noting the faint slivers of dawn beginning to crawl fingers through the ratty slats of their blinds, first whispers of peony pink and dandelion yellow chasing away shadow.

“He’s not quite in the clear but we’re through the worst of it. Maybe get some food while you’re out, if you can stomach it,” the Melusine added, stern expression giving way to soft concern.

“Right. I’ll be back soon.”

He had taken off without another word, shrugging on a coat and pausing at the door only to steel himself for the outside world, resetting his perception of reality as if this was simply another job. It was an easy enough mask to don, settling like sheep skin over his shoulders as he took off down the hall, refusing to so much as glance at the oxidizing smear of dark brown on the wall opposite their door.

Sigewinne had been prescient enough to even list where Wriothesley should go, marking two local pharmacies and a corner store that tended to cater to those of less reputable origins and owed her a favor. Mentioning her by name was enough to get him everything he wanted and then some, the clerk at the corner store going so far as to flash a conciliatory grimace his way, perhaps reading between the lines of his hollow smile, one that failed to reach his eyes.

Food was beyond the question, the hitman returning to their apartment, mechanical and concise as he slipped back down the familiar hall. In his absence someone had cut away the incriminating section of wallpaper and applied a cleaning agent to the growing stain beneath though he had no idea who it could have been. Sigewinne wasn’t the kind to so much as glance away from a patient in critical need of care, likely leaving it to one of their various neighbors who, unsurprisingly, also owed the diminutive Melusine a favor.

Never before had he been so glad to have a literal angel like Sigewinne around.

“Sige?”

In his absence the windows had been opened as if seeking to drain the small space of the reek of potential death, the lit candles that littered the apartment not so much covering the metallic odor as much as they mingled with them. He felt his own stomach lurch at the conflicting scents, covering his nose with his sleeve as he shuffled towards the kitchen, hoping he readjusted to the nausea inducing smell sooner rather than later.

“That was quick.” Sigewinne breathed out a sigh of relief, scurrying over to pull the bags free of Wriothesley’s forearms. Behind her Neuvillette had less the pallor of death and more that of a wax figure, entirely still save the occasional juttering rise and fall of his chest. At least he no longer gasped and flailed, looking like someone approaching peace rather than someone actively rattling the chains of their mortality.

“I have a bit more work to do and then we can move him to your bedroom,” the Melusine said by way of explanation, plucking her way methodically through the bag and pulling out what she needed immediately, the rest relegated to a corner of their counter between a bunch of browning bananas and mouldering apples. She glanced back up at Wriothesley, apologetic. “He’s a bit tall for my bed, I’m afraid.”

“S’fine,” Wriothesley returned with a short wave of his hand, “The couch is good as any bed here anyways. Whatever works best. Do you think he’s in the clear?”

“You’re looking at the most gifted Healer in Fontaine’s underbelly,” Sigewinne retorted with a trembling smile, rhinophores fluttering faintly where they were pressed flat against her skull. Then, a slight pause before there was that familiar spark of energy and self-confidence, crimson eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes, I think he is. Just don’t expect me to do any healing for the next week - which means you better stay out of trouble, mister!”

Wriothesley let out a soft huff of laughter at that, head dipping in a nod of acquiescence. He knew better than to go against Sigewinne in even mundane circumstances, let alone serious ones like this. She was a force of nature at best and a terrifying and immutable reckoning at worst, especially when it came to one’s health.

“Are you all right? I know that was a lot,” Sigewinne asked suddenly, concern coloring her tone, smile drooping down into a frown.

Wriothesley paused, knowing better than to lie, especially to his closest friend.

“I’ll be all right. The worst has passed. What about you? You look two seconds from passing out on your feet.” He was grateful when Sigewinne took the deflection at face value.

“Give me an hour, then I’ll take a breather. Can you keep an eye on him while I catch a wink of sleep? I don’t need much, just-”

“Take as much as you need, Sige,” he interjected, voice soft lest he wake their slumbering patient. She let out a sigh of relief, rhinophores bobbing as she turned back to Neuvillette. While he had been absent the Melusine had been able to clean up a bit more, no doubt relying on whoever it was that had cleaned up the hallway to also remove any additional evidence. He wouldn’t be surprised if the faint trickle of smoke he had seen in the courtyard on his way up was part of that disposal method.

“I just need a little more help, then we can both rest a bit,” Sigewinne piped, beckoning Wriothesley over to assist her. He was only too happy to comply, falling automatically into step beside her as she walked him through the next process, his own mind still held at a clinical and detached distance, a mantra of this simply being another job on repeat in his head.

Sure enough, Sigewinne’s estimations proved accurate. Within the hour they had managed to get the last of the preparations in place, addressing what lingering wounds they feasibly could before they moved the assassin to Wriothesley’s room. His bed, at least, was sufficiently sized for a grown man as opposed to the tiny pile of pillows and duvets that Sigewinne routinely nestled down in.

Not for the first time Wriothesley found himself questioning his own taste in decor or lack thereof, eying his own meager space as he pulled the more comfortable armchair out of the living room and jammed it into the only available corner. Clorinde hadn’t been lying when she had called his space a bachelor pad, the tiny room clean but generally uninteresting. A dresser occupied one corner while an ancient punching bag slumped in the opposite, chain long since broken (I’ll do it on the weekend, he had kept telling himself) while the only windowsills was occupied by a trio of plants in varying stages of leggy or withering away from neglect.

The only items of sentimental value he locked away, tucking them into his sock drawer before prying eyes might find them. While they weren’t shameful, exactly, he didn’t quite feel like having his life dissected by Neuvillette’s keen eyes the moment he awoke.

If he awoke.

No, when he awoke.

Wriothesley slunk lower into the threadbare armchair, finding what comfort he could in the cramped position, watching wordlessly as Sigewinne scurried in with an IV pole before mumbling him a tired “good night”, yawning, and scurrying back out. Much as he wanted to close the blinds and have a quick nap of his own he also wanted to be at least partially cognizant if Neuvillette awoke and needed anything, dashing out quickly to grab the nearest book he could find.

As fortune would have it, the small, colorful tome he had first seen and plucked up was a book on fairy tales, the hitman not bothering to suppress his snort. It was Sigewinne’s, dogeared and well loved, though that didn’t mean he hadn’t also read it a half dozen times before when he was feeling off kilter. The pages were worn and familiar as he cracked open the fading spine, unconsciously opening to a story of a dragon and a knight, the familiar words and vivid pictures a balm when he needed it most as he lost himself in the familiar tale.

“Wriothesley?”

The hitman jerked abruptly to wakefulness, mind jettisoning itself back to reality and away from dreams of fanciful paper hamsters and little wooden men, blinking groggily as his gaze focused on the pale, blurry figure regarding him with perhaps even more confusion from what was undeniably the younger alpha’s bed.

“Neuv! You’re awake, thank goodness,” he gasped, a tension he hadn’t realized was balled up within his chest unwinding, relief sinking into his bones as the assassin struggled and failed to push himself upright, movements feeble. “Wait, don’t move, hold on - let me get Sige. I can help you in the meantime.”

“Sige?” The confusion etching deep lines in Neuvillette’s face and winding its way through his voice was palpable as he ceased his struggling, allowing Wriothesley to help him a bit more upright, the hitman distantly realizing he perhaps should have checked with Sigewinne first before helping him to move. The slightest jostle had the other alpha wincing, air souring with the scent of pain and stress until Wriothesley found himself taking an unconscious step backwards, worrying he would only harm Neuvillette more.

“One moment, let me go get her - Sigewinne, she’s a nurse, healer - she patched you right up. Well, mostly up, you were in dire straits,” he explained, leaning briefly out in the hallway to holler her name. Sure enough, just a moment later there was the distant response from the Melusine, apparently already awake if her surprisingly chipper tone was anything to go by. The distant clatter of something accompanied her movements, Wriothesley ducking back into his room to regard Neuvillette in full.

The assassin looked terrible, to put it politely. Dark bruises bloomed across his arms, the telltale outline of a failed garrote a dark necklace around the pale column of his throat. Delicate bandages had been wound around the various stitched wounds and gashes he had obtained, a particularly large swath of white, staining slightly yellow, covering the burn that had puckered the flesh across the left side of his chest, peeking out just above the loose collar of the oversized shirt of Wriothesley’s he was dressed in. More continued beneath the clothes and sheets, Wriothesley knew, gaze drifting unconsciously downward to the conspicuous bulge of a makeshift splint over his leg.

“Am I…is this your apartment?” Neuvillette asked, brow furrowed as he picked apart the past day, attempting to piece it together into something loosely resembling time and logical order. He wasn’t given long to contemplate current events when Sigewinne came hurrying through the door, carrying a tray of medical goodies and shooing Wriothesley out in the same motion.

“This will only take a few moments! Just a quick checkup and bandage change, then you can return!” Any arguments he was about to make were forestalled as he was quite literally pushed from his own room, door slamming shut behind him to curtail any further discussion.

It was as good an excuse as any to grab a bite from the kitchen, the relief of Neuvillette finally being awake reminding Wriothesley that he was still a human being and nutrients were technically required to function.

The lingering odor of antiseptic stung his nostrils as he moved into the kitchen, slipping around the coffee table that still occupied the space, now completely sterile. At some point Sigewinne had come back over every surface, scrubbing them blisteringly clean until everything practically sparkled even if the pervasive chemical scent managed to offset everything else entirely, his nose wrinkling in distaste. While it was better than the alternative he was looking forward to their shared apartment smelling like it should, making a mental note to crack one of the windows on his way back to his bedroom, regardless of the rain tapping a steady strum against the thin pane.

An apple and a slice of toast, slathered in butter and jam, were about the only quick nutrients he could whip up in a pinch, waiting impatiently for the geriatric toaster to spit out his half-burnt bread and giving it a solid ‘whap’ when it refused to cough up the goods. Distantly, with his ears perked, he could hear Sigewinne yammering about something, just far enough away that it was muted by even the paper thin walls of their apartment.

His prize eventually obtained, plus the addition of a cup of (actual) Earl Grey, Wriothesley made his way back to the bedroom, the door now cracked as he approached. He could hear Sigewinne’s piping voice now, pitched in that way where he knew she was being a consummate professional. The words “collapsed lung”, “shattered kneecap”, “internal bleeding”, and more filtered out, layman's terms versus the medical jargon Wriothseley had been inundated with earlier. Even though the door was open he paused, waiting for Neuvillette’s response before intruding.

The assassin’s tone was polite and neutral as he thanked Sigewinne for her assistance but even from a distance Wriothesley could hear something like…stress. An anxious undercurrent, troubled, wending its way through Neuvillette’s words in a way that he, personally, wouldn’t have been able to place a few months ago.

As he stepped closer to the door Sigewinne burst out, her gaze unerringly finding his, a slight frown upon her lips as she pointed wordlessly back to the room, miming that he should get his ass in there that instant if he knew what was good for them. Wriothesley grunted and sent a rather rude hand gesture in her direction, fragile patience wearing thin as he slipped around her, ignoring the indignant stutter in his wake as he stepped into his bedroom and shut the door with a definitive click, taking brief solace in the latch snapping into place.

He allowed himself a heartbeat to draw in a deep breath, no small part of his mind noticing that the softest, faint trace of something like rainfall had begun to seep under the sterile scent of antiseptic. There was no time to consider it further or dwell on just how familiar it was becoming before Neuvillette shifted behind him, unable to suppress a faint groan of pain at the movement.

“Do you need more pain meds? I can bother Sige,” Wriothesley said as he turned, stopping himself from moving closer lest he cross some unspoken border. Neuvillette simply shook his head mutely, expression pinched as he settled deeper into the pile of pillows that had seemingly grown in Wriothesley’s absence, his own dark gray ones now interspersed with floral prints and one suspiciously in the shape of a shark.

“I believe I am fine for the moment,” Neuvillette replied even if the outline of a grimace never quite left his face. His voice was slightly stronger now albeit still rough and broken, less from disuse and more from whatever had been done to him, Wriothesley gaze drifting unconsciously to the dark bloom of bruises around his throat before snapping back upward.

“If you need anything, just ask. Do you…are you all right?”

He almost slapped himself for the question the moment it left his mouth, cursing his own ineptitude even as the faint traces of a smile played across Neuvillette’s lips. It wasn’t a true smile, not remotely close, but it was a shadow of his former self, however fleeting.

“Miss Sigewinne assures me I will recover but the process will be long,” the assassin stated, tone bordering on flippant, clinically detached as he looked down to the swath of bandages and slender tubes. He seemed on the verge of saying something more, mouth opening, before he seemingly thought better of it, jaws snapping shut so abruptly Wriothesley could hear his teeth click together.

“I’m sorry this happened.”

A broken admission, the second half unspoken. Should have been there. Should have helped. Should have should have should have-

“We are professionals, Wriothesley. Both of us are well aware of the implicit risks our profession entails,” Neuvillette supplied, tone even if his eyes were fixed on some distant corner of the room, avoiding meeting Wriothesley’s gaze. “In the scheme of things, events such as these are inevitable. There is only so long that we can stay the hand of fate.”

He had no reply to that, rebuttals rolling through his head only to slip away, sand through a sieve. As much as he wanted to deny Neuvillette’s words they both knew the truth - few contractors survived to old age and even fewer retired. Enemies were too numerous, be they criminal organizations or unhappy spouses of targets, the list growing exponentially as the years plodded relentlessly on. The fact that both of them were still here, today, at their age, spoke to their skills and network more than anything else.

But Neuvillette was different.

He had to be.

The sickly smell in the small room was off-putting, Wriothesley moving over to slide open the window an inch, the ancient pane grinding in protest. Immediately the rush of rain met them both, the familiar patter of rain soft and gentle, city life a distant hum. Behind him Wriothesley could have sworn Neuvillette relaxed slightly more, sinking a bit deeper into the nest of blankets and pillows Sigewinne had provided.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” Neuvillette sighed, tone aggrieved, after another long moment, “but I may miss our coffee date now. I am, unfortunately, waylaid it seems.”

Light though the attempt at levity may have been, Wriothesley could help but smile, something cracking in his chest. Even now, unable to move, undoubtedly racked with pain, Neuvillette was still attempting to be conscientious, keeping him in mind. He moved back to his own armchair, settling down with a bit less stiffness than he had earlier.

It was strange, even in this moment, that the presence of another alpha in his space was doing the opposite of unsettling him. If anything he felt an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness, chalking it up to Neuvillette’s injured state.

“Date, huh? I don’t recall saying it was a date,” Wriothesley attempted a quip, smile as cheeky as he could manage as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. Unbidden an idea jumped to mind, his smirk only widening in a way that had Neuvillette’s eyes narrowing as he recognized that mischief was afoot.

“Nothin’ bad, I swear, just a small idea,” he hurried, jumping to his own defense. “Just had a thought - tomorrow is Saturday - what do you say to a bit more localized coffee date? Say, same time, different location. This bedroom, mainly.”

This time it was Neuvillette who let out a snort through his nose, the first hint of a real smile crinkling the corners of his eyes and tugging the edges of his lips up in a slightly lopsided bow even if the expression transformed into a wince in the next heartbeat.

“I suppose that is amenable. Would you like my order now or tomorrow?”

Wriothesley’s smile only grew.

“Let’s do tomorrow. I don’t trust my memory enough to remember a quad decaf half-oat, triple syrup something or other right now,” he retorted, letting out a sharp bark of laughter at the frankly bewildered expression on Neuvillette’s face at the potential drink composition. “The cafe is just across the street, it won’t take me long to go grab us something tomorrow. My treat.”

Neuvillette’s expression softened, something flickering behind those stained glass eyes, above the dark bruises that smudged pale skin.

“Cafe Lutece, correct?” he supplied, though said little else. Of course he would remember, Wriothesley realized, wondering faintly just how long Neuvillette had known where he lived even if he hadn’t dared ask. How long before the delivery of the package containing Darvil’s pocketwatch? Weeks? Months? Years? As curious as he was, a large part of him didn’t want to know, uneasily casting that potential knowledge aside.

“Yeah,” he said, Neuvillette nodding slightly at the affirmation. In the short minutes they had been chatting, the older man’s eyelids seemed as they had been growing steadily heavier, each blink lasting longer than the last. Sigewinne’s earlier warnings were ringing true, the fact that the assassin would likely need significant time to rest and recuperate come haring back to the forefront of Wriothesley’s mind.

“Sleep a bit and we can talk more later. If I’m not here just yell or worse, I can find a bell. I’m sure Sige has one tucked away somewhere,” he said, only half joking as he pushed himself upward off his own knees, back whinging in protest after having spent the entirety of the morning curled up in the armchair. Neuvillette hummed softly in agreement, eyelids drifting shut already as he slid a bit further down into the bed.

It was strange, Wriothesley realized, the man who had once been his nemesis, or at least his greatest competitor, now recovering from a near-death experience that potentially tied the two of them together. He frowned, the sudden and frightening thought racing through his head like wildfire even if he knew his fellow contractor was in no condition to discuss the potential origins of his current state at present. It would have to be a conversation for later, if he could even recall that much given the state he had arrived in.

Not now, though, Wriothesley casting one last, lingering glance over his shoulder to where Neuvillette was already asleep, a hopeless twinge of concern blossoming in his chest.

Just what had they gotten themselves into?

Chapter Text

Saturday arrived without any fanfare, Wriothesley managing to peel himself off the frankly uncomfortable couch with only a couple dozen grunts and groans before he showered, made himself presentable, and went to bother Neuvillette for his beverage of choice (an eight ounce cappuccino, extra dry). From there it was only a matter of minutes before he was toddling into Cafe Lucene, earning a curious glance when he ordered three drinks instead of his regular two and tipped fifty percent of the bill, even if the latter wasn’t entirely called for given he hadn’t been paid within the last week or two.

Neuvillette seemed in even better spirits today despite how bedbound he was, Sigewinne flitting about to change his bandages, check various levels of this and that, and generally make a nuisance of herself as she sipped at her “latte” that was a good 63.8% sugar. Thankfully she was out of their hair quickly enough, commending Neuvillette for how well he was recovering before slipping out of the door with a mischievous gleam to her eyes, aimed solely at Wriothesley.

For what reason he had no idea.

Their initial conversation was casual enough, transitioning steadily from the weather to tea to water, of all things. It was only once they had begun discussing reading material (Neuvillette had noted the book of fairy tales that had been on Wriothesley’s lap when he had awoken) did the conversation begin to drift towards more serious matters, particularly those ascertaining to the assassin’s current physical condition and just who had been responsible.

“While they did not name themselves, explicitly, I have some ideas,” Neuvillette mused, gaze fixed on the city outside the window. The morning sun was filtering through, casting soft rays across his face, the golden light stealing the pallor from his cheeks and lighting his hair white-gold. Disheveled though he may have been, vulnerable and broken, the man was still undeniably beautiful, retaining an elegance and repose to him that others could only dream after.

Archons, he was down so bad for this man.

“My escape was unanticipated and while I believe I covered my tracks sufficiently that may not be the case. They knew where I was at and my location should have been exceptionally private,” the assassin cautioned, gaze drifting up abruptly to meet Wriothesley’s own. His hand, previously resting sedately on the sheets before him, curled into a fist. “They possessed knowledge they should not have, Wriothesley. I have reason to believe my organization has been compromised at the very least. Perhaps more than I dare imagine.”

Worry clenched in Wriothesley’s gut, the reassuring warmth of the London Fog he had been sipping dissipating abruptly.

“Do you think they know about this location?” he asked, the words sharper than intended as he bit them out, a spike of anxiety lancing through him at the possibility. Though it had been haunting the back of his brain, hovering just barely out of mind, Neuvillette’s words brought it crawling to the forefront once more.

“While I do not believe so, it is possible,” Neuvillette stated slowly, picking the words out with care, “They were a great deal more knowledgeable than I anticipated. Not only were they aware of my location but they anticipated my vectors of escape as well. Their familiarity with my methods of fighting was unpleasant but not unexpected.”

That, at least, rang true. Neither of them took the scorched Teyvat approach when it came to jobs, preferring to leave alive those they could, where they could. That that would inevitably come back to bite them in the ass was a clear, if unappetizing, reality.

“Who do you think it is then?” Wriothesley asked, fidgeting with the sleeve around his cup, the rasp of cardboard on paper growing increasingly audible in the oppressive atmosphere of the small room. He suddenly found himself anxious to stand and open the window once more, eager for the sounds of the city to disrupt the quiet that was growing increasingly fragile.

“Shinsuke, most likely,” Neuvillette responded flatly, taking a measured sip of his cappuccino, “Given our recent jobs and the track record of them he seems the most likely. While I cannot say for certain, the location I was taken to was…set up for two individuals.”

The assassin shuddered at that statement, eyes darting down to fix on his fist, consciously unclenching it as he undoubtedly relived past events that had Wriothesley’s own scars twinging in sympathy.

“Do they know about me?” In the cold, logical conversation they were having, his normal aspersions were cast aside, he found himself favoring bluntness and was glad that Neuvillette seemed unperturbed by it.

“Unknown. They did not allude to a specific individual but given their breadth and depth of knowledge I would not rule anything out.”

Wriothesley let out a sharp exhale he hadn’t realized he had been holding, slumping back against the chair to frown as a water stain on the ceiling. So far he hadn’t heard a whisper of any approaching their location thanks to the network both he and Sigewinne had carefully crafted over the years, a complex web of reliable individuals who valued hardwork and trust more than anything else. That wasn’t to say such a network could be cracked, though, that idea alone settling with uncomfortable heaviness in his gut.

It had barely been any time at all since Neuvillette had stumbled up to their doorstep but Wriothesley had kept his journeys outside as quick and perfunctory as possible, leveraging Sigewinne for any errands that needed doing. He knew he would go stir crazy soon but the possibility of being discovered hung over his head like a blade, even the process of opening rickety blinds done with trepidation as if they might reveal a sniper, poised atop the building across the way.

“I need to make a call,” he said abruptly, straightening. Neuvillette merely blinked in polite surprise, making a motion as if to say “go ahead” without so much as moving his lips. He did, at least, seem a bit surprised when Wriothesley snapped open his flip phone, dialing a familiar number before him and jabbing the speaker button, two rings blaring in the confined space before an annoyed voice answered abruptly, apparently quite peeved to have been called so early in the morning.

“Clorinde. It’s urgent - what’s the network look like now?” Wriothesley snapped, interrupting the reluctant greeting before it even happened. If she was annoyed by that particular line of questioning, Clorinde didn’t let it slip into her voice, the slight pause all that was needed to tell Wriothesley that she understood he wouldn’t be calling so abruptly for pleasantries alone.

“Within normal levels. Why?” Of course Clorinde wouldn’t mince words.

He hesitated for a second, worry eating at him before he decided full transparency was the best idea, eyes rising to meet Neuvillette’s significantly.

“How clear is this line?”

“Crystal,” came Clorinde’s response, sounding faintly offended at the implication it might be anything but.

“Neuvillette is here. Something or someone is compromised in the great network. Keep your head down, let me know if you hear anything. Is Navia available for work?” Across the room Neuvillette’s brows rose, however infinitesimally, though he didn’t protest audibly.

There was a long pause that bordered on uncomfortable before, distantly, in the background he heard another familiar voice pipe up.

“What do you need?”

Wriothesley almost barked a laugh as Navia’s voice, however faint, crackled over the phone.

“Can you get more info on the Marechausee Hunters? See if anything has changed recently? That and a gang run under a man by the name of Shinsuke but be careful and I mean careful. Something is up and I have a bad feeling about it,” he stated, the words coming out in a rush, eyes never once shifting from where they were locked with Neuvillette’s across the room.

He could hear, only slightly muted, Clorinde’s exasperated sigh before the fumbling static of a phone changing hands, his oldest friend cursing audibly in the background as it happened.

“This sounds serious, Wriothesley - are you sure? This isn’t going to be cheap,” came Navia’s concerned voice, stated in such a way he could mentally see her worrying her lower lip with her teeth, torn between her professionalism and her need to assist her friends.

“Rest assured your compensation shall be commensurate with the level of risk involved,” Neuvillette stated loudly, deep voice carrying across the room even despite the damage he had endured, a brief flicker of his former self. “I have funds set aside explicitly for such a purpose.”

Of course he did, undoubtedly hidden in some offshore account in the Tsurumi Islands or some such place.

Neuvillette returned his gaze, unflinching, the briefest waft of that familiar scent of petrichor and sea spray overriding the sickly bouquet that had been pervading the room since he had been relocated there. It was familiar and reassuring in a way that Wriothesley didn’t dare verbalize, another notch of worry knocked away at the faint hint of reassurance that Neuvillette was still there, sure to be as strong as ever in no time even despite all he had been through.

“Of course! I’ll get on it right away!” Navia replied brightly, not even missing a beat even as Clorinde began to harangue her about something, inaudibly, in the background. A second later the phone switched to speaker and the pair were treated with Clorinde chastising Navia for her bleeding heart (even if Wriothesley already knew she had been on the precipice of saying yes herself before her girlfriend had intervened).

”Regular channels all right or would you prefer something a bit more hush-hush?”

“Silent as the grave, please. When I say this is extremely dangerous I’m not over exaggerating, Navia. This may very well be the most dangerous job we’ve taken on to this day.”

Like it was a job at this point. A job hinted at a degree of detachment, a lack of personalization. This was anything but.

“Ooh, how thrilling!” Navia tittered, excitable for all the wrong reasons, “Mum is the word, boss!” There was the distant and unmistakable groan of Clorinde though the sharpshooter didn’t admonish Navia this time, apparently deciding it best to not waste her breath.

“I’ll send Sige to the regular meeting place with the details. Can you make it three hours from now?”

Outside the door there was a muffled thump, Sigewinne giving herself away entirely before the door swung open and she tumbled in, eye bright and a devilish smile on her face, not even pretending to be remotely innocent.

“Yes. I’ll see her then. I have some preparations to make, au revoir! Clorinde, say good bye,” Navia responded quickly, already rustling about with what sounded to be cloth and sheafs of paper. Clorinde grunted her own farewell before the receiver clicked and silence once again filled the room, this time accompanied by an unmistakable thrill of elation and hope, distant though it may have been.

“Well,” Wriothesley said into the silence, reaching out to snatch up his phone once more, “I’m starting to think we may have the ghost of a chance. If anyone can get us what we need it’s Navia and Clorinde.”

“She certainly did seem quite capable. Anyone who has your vote of confidence has mine as well,” the older alpha replied with that charming gravitas of his, Wriothesley’s heart giving a quick lurch in his chest at the words. He knew, like himself, that Neuvillette was slow to trust and the fact that he took Wriothesley’s own trust so seriously meant far more than he cared to admit.

Across the room a small Melusine cough broke the silence, less polite and more mischievous if the tilt of her rhinophores was anything to go by.

“You better get some rest. I have to give a certain someone-” he glared as Sigewinne for emphasis “-some instructions. Hold tight, I’ll be back in a bit. I unfortunately have a sinking feeling that time is of the essence.”

Much as he hoped he was wrong he sincerely doubted it.

Their days, seemingly intertwined and not, came to develop a particular cadence.

Wriothesley found himself falling into the new routine uneasily as the first few days of Neuvillette’s health balancing on the precipice of disaster transitioned into a slow but steady recovery. After he’d rolled off the couch and done a few stretches to prevent the disaster that was aging from targeting his joints and back he’d hobble his way to the kitchen, make two cups of tea, and then slouch his way to the room that had formerly been known as his.

More often than not Neuvillette would already be awake, greeting him with a small, sincere smile that did absolutely havoc on Wriothesley’s innards if the way his stomach was tying itself in knots was anything to go by before their day officially seemed to start.

For the first week or two the hitman kept himself scarce, either busying himself around the rest of the apartment (who could have known that having a stranger staying in your bed for an unknowable amount of time was enough to goad him into doing all those projects he had perpetually been putting off) or helping with odd jobs around the apartment complex. It was still too unsafe by far for him to go off on any actual jobs, leaving him busy himself far closer to home.

After a week of this Neuvillette seemed to realize what was going on and handed Wriothesley one of his cards, assuring him it was safe to use and the least he could do for all the care and boarding that the pair had been providing him. Reluctant though he had been to take and use it he couldn’t deny the logic in continuing to keep as heads-down as possible even if there was a blow to his pride there somewhere.

More than once the assassin had attempted to apologize for being a burden, his efforts almost immediately shot down by Wriothesley and Sigewinne combined efforts. The Melusine had gone so far as to admonish him with a gentle whap of a rolled up newspaper and threatening him with an even more healthful shake than was her normal concoction, even Neuvillette going a bit green around the proverbial gills at the threat.

He hadn’t attempted to apologize again after that even if he had promised to make it up to them someday.

Neuvillette needed his rest, Wriothesley had managed to continually tell himself for nine days (who was counting, certainly not him) before he found himself saddled with the task of bringing the assassin his meals throughout the day, taking the brief reprieve from the busywork he had been doling out to himself to pick through his own meal alongside Neuvillette. Some days were simply that, a quiet meal, while others he found the minutes bleeding into hours as they had chatted amicably about a variety of topics, the older alpha’s curiosity seemingly sincere as he diligently guided what would have otherwise been a halting conversation.

It was refreshing and almost uncomfortably easy, spending time in Neuvillette’s presence. His serene nature extended even to private conversations though there was the occasional glimpse, a sparkle of something more when they gravitated towards topics he particularly enjoyed. Water, of all things, became a subject that he had droned on about for literal hours before the sun had slid past the horizon and Wriothesley had turned on the bare-bulbed lamp within the room. It was only when Sigewinne had interrupted them with a devious concoction she called “dinner” that the conversation had finally drawn to a close, a bright flush creeping across Neuvillette’s cheeks and the tips of his ears as he seemingly realized how much time he had monopolized.

What he wouldn’t give to see him blush like that again.

Wriothesley had been quick to assuage his fears and assure him that he had, indeed, enjoyed listening to him talk. Probably more than he should have, if anything. The man could have recited the decimals of pi and he would have clung to his every word like a drowning man a liferaft.

Sundays in particular became a ritual of Wriothesley hurrying to the nearby cafe to snatch up a London Fog for himself, cappuccino for Neuvillette, and a terrifying concoction for Sigewinne whose sugar content made it more sludge than liquid. After divesting himself of the latter he would slip away to Neuvillette’s (his) room to throw himself in the armchair and chat amicably about whatever subject came to mind.

They had decided quite early in the process that even though Neuvillette was healing well it was far too much of a risk to move him elsewhere. He had begun to walk as soon as he was able but leaned heavily upon a cane, quickly winded and swiftly growing frustrated with what he saw as a lack of progress even when Sigewinne assured him she had seen few heal quicker. Regardless, it was a sore spot even if he did seem to be slightly calmer when Wriothesley was around to offer him encouragement while at the same time trading jibes with Sigewinne, the younger alpha doing his best to distract the other from what was clearly a painful process.

Today, though, the conversation had abruptly shifted away from the normal unpleasantries, haring off in a way that only became more and more apparent as their back and forth trickled off to be replaced by uncomfortable silence.

The hitman knew better than to push, sensing that something in particular was on the assassin’s mind as Neuvillette’s gaze focused on the skyline of Fontaine, blurry through the warped and ancient single pane glass of the apartment window until finally he seemed to collect himself, straightening slightly before he spoke.

“Our mutual contact has heard wind of an upcoming event that Shinsuke is helping to fund,” Neuvillette stated, tone briefly halting before he found his cadence, slender fingers folding on his lap before him, expression bordering on serene even if there was something distinctly off to his scent that Writohesley couldn’t quite place.

“While it is being marketed as a gala to raise money for charity it is, in reality, an opportunity for Shinsuke to flex and display his recent acquisitions. All of Fontaine’s finest shall be present and accounted for, including those who he wishes to impress. Given the varied nature of the attendees there shall be no media presence but rest assured - all eyes shall be on the event.”

All eyes, from the corrupted to the corrupting, then. Wriothesley’s own eyes narrowed, ideas racing through his head at record speed as he pinched his chin between thumb and forefinger. It was an opportunity they couldn’t miss and while he personally wasn’t sure Shinsuke was as easily led as Neuvillette seemed to believe from their previous conversations, he was at the very least it was a chance to put a bullet between his eyes and end this whole debacle once and for all.

“What if Shinsuke catches wind we might be attending?” Wriothesley read between the lines, eyes narrowing as the possibility sat itself, heavy and rotting, in his gut. If all their efforts amounted to nothing they would, at best, end up being sitting ducks.

“I’m sure he will. We can only prepare for that eventuality as much as possible and hope that his pride means as much to him as I believe it does. From what my - excuse me, our - contacts have told me, he is still interested in me and has begun to expand that search to another individual as well.”

While the mention of “our” contacts caused something to jump behind his ribs, not unpleasantly, the fact that the Inazuman crime lords search had begun to expand was an unpleasant reminder that his safety, and more importantly Sigewinne’s, was at risk. Not for the first time he found his gaze drifting towards the wall, the distant sounds of the Melusine healer puttering around in the kitchen a familiar melody that warmed his very bones.

If something happened to Sigewinne….

He couldn’t think of it. Refused to allow it. He would rather give himself up than have anything befall his Melusine companion. He, at least, had actively chosen this life whereas she had fallen into it, much as she would deny that particular fact.

“We will find him and end this,” he eventually returned as the silence stretched taut, throwing as much conviction behind his words as he could muster. From the bed Neuvillette smiled wanly, no doubt sharing at least some of Wriothesley’s reservations if the absence of that smile crinkling the corners of his eyes was anything to go by.

What choice did they have? They had both laughed, broken and hollow, when one of them had jokingly recommended fleeing Fontaine earlier. It wasn’t an option for multiple reasons and nor did Wriothesley want it to be one. He had managed to carve out his own little corner of life here in the City of Fontaine, gouged amongst corpses picked clean, corpses supplied by others less lucky than him to survive by a bit more than the skin of his teeth. The thought of leaving Fontaine was laughable and set him on edge more than he cared to admit.

It would mean calling it quits. Giving up.

And he couldn’t stomach that.

“Have you learned anything more?” Wriothesley asked, keenly aware that Sigewinne’s off-key singing had stopped a few minutes ago. He wouldn’t be surprised if he swung the door open to find her tumbling in, eavesdropping on what she considered something important (and she would have been correct).

“Some,” Neuvillette admitted after a pause, mulling his words over, picking apart threads that had become increasingly tangled the more he recalled. “None of it is good or particularly helpful. There was more to this than I had anticipated, especially given the relative silence Shinsuke left us with after our somewhat botched attempts on his life.”

Wriothesley grunted, waiting patiently as the lines between Neuvillette’s brow deepened, knitting together as he lost himself in thoughts and memories that seemed far from pleasant if the grimace twisting the fine bow of his lips down was anything to go by. For a moment the hitman was struck by the intense need to push himself away from the wall, to lean forward and gently soothe those lines of worry away with his thumb before Neuvillette’s gaze rose to meet his, the sheer intensity there sending a shiver down Wriothesley’s spine.

“The roots of corruption run deep indeed,” Neuvillette mused, expression serious as his gaze drifted past Wriothesley, focusing on the dingy cityscape hurrying about its day outside the barred window. “I believe I was poking too close to something vulnerable within the Marechausee Hunters - the knowledge of my location at the time of the ambush could only have been known by one of my superiors, especially given the thoroughness of the kidnappers.”

The betrayal. That caused something to buck uncomfortably in Wriothesley’s gut even as he watched Neuvillette’s face attentively, looking for any sort of tell. Though the assassin’s expression was placid, practically bordering on serene, there was the faintest hint of a quiver to his lips, a barely-there tension around the corners of his eyes and the softest hint of something stormy to his scent.

“I have reason to believe Shinsuke was involved in the smuggling of weapons - weapons outside of what a person would consider normal for one of his ilk,” Neuvillette explained, sharply cutting off the cheeky rejoinder that had been on the tip of Wriothesley’s tongue. “Do you recall the chemical reaction I triggered within Shinsuke’s warehouse?”

“Hard not to,” Wriothesley responded with more sarcasm than he intended.

“I performed that using a chemical most standardly used in rocket propellants. Strange for a bog standard Inazuman criminal to have such a chemical around no matter how much of a mastermind he claims to be, don’t you think?”

“Shit.”

Even though Wriothesley kept his head down and nose clean (at least as clean as one could in his line of business) even he had heard the whisper of weapons being constructed elsewhere, outside the relatively quiet bounds of Fontaine. Natlan and Snezhnaya had been at each other's throats for quite some time now and the latest political squabblings had reached an inevitable boiling point. Even the local media had begun to pick up on the unrest with titters of a potential conflict smattered throughout the Steambird here and there.

“Agreed. A most unpleasant revelation. Apparently Shinsuke similarly put two and two together as well, hence his rather extreme measures. It is my belief now that he wanted more information otherwise he would have killed me outright. I was questioned about collaborators and the depth of my knowledge, though thankfully they did not have time to get as far as they wished before I managed to escape.”

There it was again. A faint crack, however thin, a fracture in the fine veneer that the assassin wore like a mask. The brief hint of ozone in the air, just about the prickling sourness of fear as long fingers tensed atop bedsheets, drawing them tight into a bundle. The moment, however fleeting, tore something loose in Wriothesley’s chest, worry the only beast that kept him from stepping forward before Neuvillette was speaking once more.

“I have reason now to believe that, given the revelation of my location should have only been known to a select few of my colleagues at the time, he was similarly in league with someone within the Marechausee Hunters as well. I am unaware of how deep that particular corruption ran but I haven’t dared to reach out to any I worked with previously. As you can understand, that left me with relatively few places to go.”

An expression akin to an apology painted his face, soft and furtive before he continued when Wriothesley managed to give a short nod of encouragement.

“At least one individual within my organization acted as a middleman. I do not know exactly who the recipient was of such illicit supplies but it may have been both sides,” Neuvillette continued, scent turning abruptly stormy and a scowl twisting its way across his face. “I do not believe them a mastermind in the latest ongoing conflict but I do believe them to be complicit at the very least.”

“Darvill was connected as well, I believe. I do not have solid evidence yet but he may have been the one handling Shinsuke’s accounts, both offshore and here within Fontaine. Some of the more public accounts I was able to uncover were managed by the latter which may explain why the two of us seemed to be targeted by that contract.”

“Convenient,” Wriothesley grunted, mind spinning a mile a minute as the puzzle pieces fell slowly but surely into place. Darvill hadn’t been an especially upstanding citizen of Fontaine, much though he liked to pretend to the contrary, but he hadn’t imagined he’d be in league with someone as slimy as Shinsuke.

Then again, he had been stealing from charities, and quite blatantly at that.

“Again, I am still tracing these branches to their source but I do not believe I am entirely incorrect in my assumptions. I do not yet have enough information to do much outside of speculation and plan but Miss Navia has been exceptional in providing details and information I might otherwise have missed. She has been a welcome contact and is exemplary in her field.”

“Don’t let her know, it would go straight to her head,” Wriothesley snorted even as he felt a rush of gratitude for the woman. He made a mental note to send her a macaron gift basket when this was all done with, assuming he made it out alive.

“Do you think there are ties to politicians within Fontaine and, well, anywhere else?”

“More than likely though they do not seem to be key actors in this particular play. If anything they are probably funding the endeavors of at least one side, if not both, to play them against each other and exploit the volatility of the market. Regardless, given the power and wealth required to organize these events I do not anticipate finding a smoking gun that would make them complicit.”

“Do you think they were the ones who put the contract on Shinsuke then?” The thought was sobering, especially as Neuvillette gave a short nod. Just how much rot lay within the belly of the beast that was Fontaine?

Wriothesley let out a hiss, dragging a hand through unruly salt-and-pepper locks as he felt the beginnings of a headache pulsing beneath his temples. Why couldn’t people just be simple and want one another dead? Was that too much to ask?

“So what does this mean for us?”

“I do not believe it changes our plans. If anything it makes them more urgent,” Neuvillette said, steepling his fingers contemplatively. “I propose we pursue Shinsuke at the gala being organized in his name and strike him down there. We shall ensure it is exceedingly public lest Shinsuke believe he can deal with us via more discrete means. The more of a show we can create, the better.”

“So Shinsuke values his pride, or at the very least cares how people perceive him, right? That makes him a bit easier to manipulate if we’re both reading him correctly and the intel Navia has been providing is correct. We get a pair of invites to the gala and ensure we’re very seen; rubbing elbows, shmoozing, the whole nine yards. I think Navia can spread some rumors that make him appear weak and sow the seeds of dissent, perhaps even within his own org, to ensure that if we do make an appearance he doesn’t shoot us on sight and instead wants to make an example out of us.”

Neuvillette was following along intently, gaze evaluating, brows drawn together in contemplation as he digested Wriothesley’s words, not interrupting as the hitman continued his rambling.

“I can make sure we’re seen but we’ll have to play our cards carefully. If Shinsuke gets spooked he’s liable to run, I reckon. Perhaps Navia can plant one of the Spina di Rosula in his gang and keep tabs on him. Knowing her, she has all kinds of tricks up her sleeve. Clorinde will continue listening on the professional front; she has an eye for patterns and can track those better than any bloodhound. Obviously there are a lot of details we need to figure out but I figure it’s a start.”

He paused, waiting anxiously for Neuvillette’s response, the assassin continuing to look contemplative from where he sat, chin resting atop a knuckled fist.

“It does, indeed, have the makings of a fine plan,” the older alpha admitted after another achingly long moment, a genuine smile curling the corners of his lips upward. “I have some resources that can still be trusted as well from outside of the Marechaussee Hunters. I do believe finding Shinsuke’s location before we act will be necessary. To your point, while Shinsuke is vain he is also a cautious man who has survived in his current environs for quite some time. I am still leery that he wouldn’t simply have his men or individuals of our talents waiting to receive us on the guest list. We would certainly need to be eye-catching in some way, shape, or form.”

The seeds of a devious plan was beginning to plant itself in the back of Wriothesley’s mind, an off-color comment from Clorinde months ago over a fifth of whiskey bubbling to the forefront. Even though she hadn’t intended the supposed joke to be literal he couldn’t help but begin to take it as such.

“And if making a spectacle is something we need to do I may have an idea,” Wriothesley said, a shit-eating grin beginning to curl up the corners of his lips. Unbidden he found himself leaning forward, chin in hands and elbows on knees. “Am I right to assume you own a suit or two?”

“You would be correct in that assumption. What do you have in mind?”

Chapter Text

The high rises of Fontaine jutted above the cityscape, grasping fingers reaching for the heavens, the wealthy denizens of the corrupted city seeking to usurp the Archons themselves through their sway, both monetary and not. Amidst the encroaching dusk, lights glinted to life across the glass and metal edifices, a thousand evening lives buzzing into being, so many stories equating to little more than the flicker of electrobulbs.

In the center of the circlet of skyscrapers that ringed the heart of Fontaine City sat its crown jewel, a resplendent structure of reflective glass and worn stone that caught the last fading rays of the sun and lit its own surface with the embers, reds and golds washing into soft pinks and oranges, a blaze of color amidst the the otherwise austere white and grey that the surrounding buildings boasted. The Opera Epiclese had been the pinnacle of Fontainian engineering when it had been built less than a century before and still none had managed to outshine its glory no matter how they tried. Only the most wealthy of the city set foot in those hallowed halls with the keys to the veritable kingdom sitting deep within the coffers of those few saw but many whispered of.

The gleaming edifice was a beacon of wealth and opulence where it sat before the backdrop of a racing storm, massive thunderclouds eclipsing the stars, spreading across the horizon to devour the very sun before it set beyond the distant line of mountains. Already the winds were beginning to swirl through the carefully laid grid of streets, lights bending on pole and wire alike as the first lashes of rain began to tear at the beating heart of Fontaine, intent on scouring her to her very bones.

The fact that it was in that very central jewel the unlikely duo found themselves and not some dingy club deeper in Fontaine’s seedy underbelly spoke miles to the sorts of connections Neuvillette - no, in this case, the Sovereign - had. Though it had not been easy to obtain an invite to the prestigious event the assassin had nonetheless managed to conjure a pair, seemingly out of thin air, addressed to both of them in flowery script and hand-delivered by a sharply dressed man who had looked exceedingly out of place when he had shown up at Wriothesley’s apartment door, pristine and unruffled against the backdrop of drooping wallpaper missing a sizeable chunk that had yet to be patched.

“Remind me again why I’m wearing this?” Wriothesley asked, twisting to regard himself in the polished wall of the elevator, as if his current choice in outfit hadn’t been his own idea. Neuvillette had added his insight, yes, gaze hungry and dark the whole while, air heavily spiced with arousal, but it had been the hitman who had wanted to turn every head at the party.

To make a true spectacle.

“I could think of no one better to pull off such an ensemble so expertly,” Neuvillette offered, tone laced with sincerity and something far more carnal. For the briefest of moments a fingertip ghosted along the back of Wriothesley’s neck, sending a wave of goosebumps cascading down the column of his spine, before that brief touch withdrew, leaving him feeling bereft.

Wriothesley took the opportunity to appraise himself more critically in the mirror-polished expanse of metal before them, doing his best to ignore the fine figure standing behind him, unsurprisingly resplendent in a pinstripe suit of navy so deep it bordered on black, offset with a starched cream shirt and gleams of gold cuff links and buttons.

Unlike Neuvillette, he had chosen a more risque avenue when it came to a black tie affair, not just taking and running with the assassin’s polite musings that they needed to create a scene but tossing the idea clean over the roof.

He tugged at the straps of the dress, adjusting them slightly where they lay across his broad shoulders before plunging in a vain attempt to cover his ample chest, the jagged lines of scar tissue for once on full display. The graceful drape of fabric that made a game attempt at covering his pecs was abruptly lost beneath the tight laces of his corset, shoulders and arms bare save the long gloves covering his forearms, pale knots of scar tissue and tanned skin standing out all the more against the black fabric. He was well aware of how well the corset, an intricate affair of black satin brocade embellished with fine gold thread, only accentuated the curves of his body, waist cinched tight, grateful for Neuvillette’s last minute recommendation.

He didn’t bother to ask the assassin how it had been perfectly sized to his exact measurements.

Aside from the ornamentation lent by the corset the outfit was simple and unadorned otherwise, even if it was undeniably eye-catching. The slit along his left thigh was “tactical”, he had explained to Neuvillette, allowing ease of access to the variety of weaponry pinned in place there beneath gauzy fabric, the unspoken hint that it provided similar access for more carnal pleasures caught if the glint in the assassin’s eye had been anything to go by.

All in all it was a comfortable enough choice, if unconventional, and Archons be damned if he didn’t think he pulled it off.

The source of his nerves was less his current outfit and more the party as a whole. While he was more than content to haunt a local dive bar while sharking the newcomers at pool, dressing up and rubbing shoulders with the finest Fontaine had to offer was a far cry from his standard socialization. Generally the elite of the City were the sort of folks Wriothesley avoided at all costs unless he was working for them, and even then he preferred to be in the room only as long as necessary.

It probably didn’t help that he’d inevitably done a few contracts at their (former) expense over the years.

They had both agreed that this was the best way to get at Shinsuke. The man’s showmanship and the fact that they had managed to evade his grasp had no doubt irked him, especially given all he had resorted to to get back at the Sovereign in particular, meaning that a public show was the best way to force a confrontation before the Inazuman crime lord managed to get the upper hand on them.

Time was of the essence and it was wasting.

“If Shinsuke isn’t at this party you owe me fifty mora,” Wriothesley complained, nervously adjusting his corset for the thousandth time, grateful that it wasn’t so tight as it restricted his breathing or moving significantly. Behind him, in the reflection of the elevator’s singular, overly polished wall, Neuvillette arched one of those perfect eyebrows and shifted forward to lean more heavily on his cane.

“He is. Our contacts have confirmed it,” he stated with a confidence that both of them only partially felt. Not for the first time Wriothesley’s eyes dipped down to the cane that the assassin was forced to use more often than not now, admiring draconic head cast in what may or may not have been steel, half hidden beneath those carefully folded fingers that he was aching to ha-

He coughed, pointedly glancing up as the lights on the elevator flickered, something distant in the building groaning as the storm finally, at least, seemed to be hitting with its full force.

“Great. Because tonight wasn’t swell enough already.”

Instead of seeming miffed by the hitman’s grousing Neuvillette seemed bemused, the faintest hint of a smile cracking that resplendent facade he wore so immaculately most of the time. Every time the assassin smiled, the slight upward curve of the perfect bow of those lips, Wriothesley felt something distant and unbidden flutter in his chest, furtive wingbeats behind the cage of his ribs that he anxiously tamped down. It was nerves, nothing more, he staunchly told himself.

He turned to face the door, grimacing as the floors continued to tick by at an arduous pace. For a building so supposedly high end he would have expected the elevators to at least operate slightly better given how many renovations the building as a whole had been through but no - it seemed to be just as functional as it was fifty years ago and in the worst way.

“So do you think they’ll - shit.”

Suddenly and without fanfare the elevator shuddered to a halt, lights blinking off in a flash. A moment later an emergency light, dim and warm, flickered into existence, a surge of alarm racing along his spine as he realized just how close Neuvillette had moved the second power had died. He had been paying far less attention than he should have but even then he felt a rush of admiration and adrenaline as he was reminded, yet again, just how good Neuvillette was at his job.

Was it just his imagination or had the atmosphere in the elevator pivoted on a mora, the tension welling beneath the weight of something familiar and heady? Even beneath the dampening effects of scent blockers he could feel the prickle of spice and desire on the back of his palate, the now-familiar scent of salted caramel drifting through the air around him. Practically in tandem he could feel his own scent shifting in response, his earlier desire thrusting itself to the forefront.

Neuvillette was close enough that he didn’t have to even step back, practically feeling the assassin’s presence at his back in the stillness of air and the faintest pinprick of heat.

“Thought of all places this would be the last we’d have to worry about a power outage,” he joked, dropping his voice an octave as he cast a glance over his shoulder, smirking as he took in Neuvillette’s gaze raking over him with open need.

If the older alpha had been restraining himself earlier he certainly wasn’t now, his expression one that made Wriothesley feel like he himself was the assassin’s prey.

“Even a building such as this is largely at the mercy of Fontaine’s power grid,” Neuvillette murmured, a teasing hand trailing along the hitman’s arm, tracing a path along the hidden swath of ink and gnarled scar tissue that intersected pristine skin in dots and slashes. His fingers danced along Wriothesley’s shoulder, moving inward to gently cup the front of his throat as the assassin leaned in closer.

“Given the storm it may very well be a handful of minutes before we are moving once more. It would be a shame to waste a few moments of peace before our task begins,” he continued, taking one final step into the other alpha’s space until they were neatly slotted together.

“High risk, high reward,” Wriothesley groaned in response, unable to contain himself any longer as inhibitions snapped, grinding himself back against the swell scarcely contained by Neuvillette’s suit pants.

“Is that so? Perhaps we should make the most of what might be final moments,” Neuvillette mused, a breathy chuckle in the younger alpha’s ear as fangs nipped at the lobe of his ear, moving up the shell to gently suckle on the cuff there.

They both knew the risks of any job and what this one in particular bore. Abyss if they couldn’t at least eke some enjoyment out of it first.

“I wouldn’t - hng - be opposed,” he half-gasped, adrenaline and need racing through his veins as a gloved hand found the slit on the side of his dress and slipped beneath it, fingers trailing beseechingly across the bands of scar tissue over his thigh, questing tantalizingly higher and higher until fingertips were digging into the dip of his hip, just beneath his corset, the insistent pressure dragging him back against Neuvillette’s form.

“I will admit,” Neuvillette said, tone conversational even if the air was becoming so increasingly heavy with arousal that was impossible to ignore, “You were correct about this outfit and the nature of its ease of access. Tactical or otherwise.”

Claw tips teased their way just under the edge of the corset, progress slow and methodical as they drifted inward before shifting lower to wind their way through the curls of hair at the base of Wriothesley’s cock, the nearly-there presence causing him to gasp as Neuvillette paused his exploration, temptation just a hair's breadth away. The older alpha’s other hand rose to encircle the back of his neck in a motion that had him drawing in a sharp, juttering breath as he was tugged back with intent.

The instinctual need to buck back surged in his chest, the snarl that was growing on his lips dying off only as clothed fingers wrapped suddenly around his chubbing cock, the surge of arousal enough to temporarily throw his instincts off kilter, allowing him to wrestle control back. Too-warm fingers drew themselves up Wriothesley’s length, the unfamiliar friction of silk on skin enough to have him rutting forward into the hand clasping him, not bothering to restrain the needy moan that bubbled on his lips.

“Are those cameras battery operated, by chance?” he had the presence of mind to grunt out, Neuvillette’s hand momentarily stilling, his reflection in the mirror-like steel before Wriothesley glancing up and to the distant corner.

“Completely unpowered,” he provided, fingers squeezing tighter in the same breath, thumb teasing its way across one of Wriothesley’s piercings, the simple movement sending a deeper lurch of heat through the hitman’s gut. He didn’t bother to even try and stifle the groan that welled up within him now, arching his back to press the distinct bulge in Neuvilllette’s pants between the swell of his own asscheeks.

Neuvillette wasted no time in hiking the skirt of Wriothesley’s dress back across the small of his back, Wriothesley glad that the assassin seemed to want just as badly as he did to waste no time. No small part of him shuddered in anticipation at the thought of being used, barely prepared in the heat of the moment, the promise of that initial burn singing through his veins as Neuvillette palmed a globe of his ass and squeezed tighter.

“What will the wealthy of Fontaine think when you emerge from this elevator, reeking of sex?” he murmured into the younger alpha’s ear, goosebumps racing along his spine at the whisper of breath along the shell of his ear.

“Jealous, probably,” Wriothesley managed to bite out, half-desperate as he attempted to both push himself back onto Neuvillette and forward into the assassin’s hand in the same moment. He was delirious for friction, any type of it, needing Neuvillette to do something, anything before he would be forced to take matters into his own hands.

He reached back, feeling blindly behind him for the zipper of Neuvillette’s suit pants, the other alpha letting out a bemused chuckle but not moving to stop him. After a handful of increasingly frustrating moments he finally managed to fumblingly grab hold, letting out a soft ‘aha’ of victory as that now-familiar cock sprang free, settling between Wriothesley’s buttocks like it belonged there.

And perhaps it did, his lust drunk mind supplied, the thrill of being caught at any moment only fueling the heady need that simmered deep within in his gut, goading him to rub himself back upon Neuvillette, desperate for more friction, for any sort of purchase he could get.

“Needy,” Neuvillette whispered, dragging his hand torturously up Wriothesley’s piercings, one by one, until those dexterous fingers were once again ringing the base of the hitman’s cock, teeth nipping at his earlobe. Pleasure flared in his veins at the spark of sensation, dragging him along by a lead made purely of desire.

Neuvillette shifted abruptly, other hand dropping to grip Wriothesley’s hip tight and pivot him towards the mirror-polished metal that made up one side of the elevator, leaning down to meet the hitman’s gaze in the reflection over his shoulder, the devious quirk of his lips refracted in the gleam of his amethyst eyes.

“It would be a shame to miss out on such a view,” he crooned, canting his own hips back just enough for his cock to drop between Wriothesley’s thighs, the angle managing to drag across the younger alpha’s perineum, just barely nudging his balls before Neuvillette stopped his rut forward abruptly. “Don’t you think? Truly a wasted opportunity.”

In the reflection lent by the mirror Wriothesley could see just how debauched he already looked, the flush burning high across his cheeks apparent even in the dim glow of the emergency lights, a sheen of sweat already glistening on his skin even though he was sure the elevator wasn’t remotely close to sweltering yet. Was it his imagination or was there the faintest glow to Neuvillette’s eyes where they gauged his reaction, heavily lidded with lust and hunger as slender fingers drew their way slowly up Wriothesley’s length once more, drawing a groan from him as he pressed back, desperate for any friction he could get.

He moved to tug at Neuvillette’s hand resting on his hip only for the assassin to capture his wrist, twisting it up into the small of his own back with just enough pressure to keep him in place, dancing on the border of uncomfortable but skirting painful, the position nonetheless taking any semblance of control Wriothesley might have had firmly out of his grasp.

Good.

Neuvillette knew what he craved and knew just how little time they likely had, allowing Wriothesley the dignity of bracing himself against the gleaming wall, heedless of the handprint he would undoubtedly leave, before Neuvillette was rutting forward and fucking into the heat between the hitman’s thighs.

His motions were slow and languorous at first, pumping the fist he had loosely wrapped around Wriothesley’s cock in time with each thrust. The movement was torturous and delightful in the same breath, skin on hypersensitive skin at a pace that had every nerve ending singing and begging for more. It was all Wriothesley could do to arch his back as much as he could, inviting the friction that was lighting a fire deep within his own core upon the kindling of his desire.

How Neuvillette was so restrained he couldn’t fathom, the taunting friction of that beautiful cock between his thighs divine to the point he felt delirious. He pushed back as much as the angle allowed, the reflective surface between his fingertips squeaking in protest as Neuvillette’s grip on his other wrist tightened just enough to keep him in place, fangs darting forward to nip at the shell of his ear once more.

“What if you were to emerge from this elevator, marked?” he tempted, voice so low Wriothesley swore he could feel his insides turning to jelly as the assassin’s voice reverberated in his ear, “Claimed by me? Made an example?”

Though it was only a tease, having been something they had discussed at length before, Wriothesley couldn’t help but feel his gut tighten in response, opposite sides of his psyche warring between conflicting need and denial. The alpha side of him bristled, rebellious and defiant at the mere thought while something deeper, more base, practically churred with pleasure at the possibility. Of anyone marking him, showing all that he was Neuvillette’s….

He shuddered beneath the older alpha’s grasp, his own cock hard and weeping as Neuvillette twisted his hand expertly across its length, dragging over his piercings in a way that sent frissons of pleasure sparking through his body. Any pretense of patience vanished like the snapping of a thread held taut to the point of snapping as the assassin began to rut between his thighs with renewed vigor, the pace he set of the sort that meant he was chasing both their ends lest the power come back on at an inopportune time.

A distant part of Wriothesley’s mind was both thankful and a bit disappointed he wouldn’t emerge from the elevator with an awkward gait but it was likely for the best, given the pace the assassin was already setting. They had a job to do, after all, his lagging brain supplied, no small part of his person wishing that Shinsuke would have a heart attack and keel over before they managed to wrap their fingers around his throat and squeeze the life out of him.

The moment his head began to droop, lost in the surge of pleasure coursing through his body as he felt his own balls beginning to draw up, Neuvillette’s hand left it’s crushing grip on his waist to tangle through his hair, yanking his head up until he was forced to meet the other alpha’s gaze in his reflection. Not even Neuvillette was composed now, eyes dark with lust, a faint flush looming across those high cheekbones as his eyes sought Wriothesley’s, amethyst meeting celestite.

Opposite of Neuvillette, Wriothesley was utterly debauched, a bright flush blooming down across his neck, sweat glistening on brow and exposed shoulders both as Neuvillette pulled him expertly towards the edge. There was something obscenely erotic about the way he could only see the outline of his cock and the assassin’s hand beneath the gauzy fabric of his dress save where the fabric clung, tacky, to the tip of his own length. A barely-there glimpse he could see, however fleetingly, before the curtain of cloth rippled once more.

It was too much, from the crashing wave of physical sensation to the glint of Neuvillette’s gaze meeting his own to the thrill of potentially being found out, of being forced to watch himself. Too much or just enough, the cascade sending him tumbling after his own end even before Neuvillette, orgasm blazing white-hot through his veins as he felt himself nearly doubling over, stars bursting behind eyelids that squeezed shut. Enough to have Neuvillette chasing him only moments later, a buzzing part of his brain supplied, even if he was too lost in the leg-shaking aftershocks to truly comprehend it.

In the blink of an eye Neuvillette’s grasp had moved from restraining him to holding him up, both of their breathing ragged and far too loud inside the confines of the elevator as reality came flickering back into hazy focus. The first thing Wriothesley noticed was the fact that the front of his dress was soaked in their combined cum, already black surface somehow impossibly darker as he mumbled a half-lucid curse, drawing a soft and breathy chuckle from Neuvillette.

The older alpha drew the backs of his knuckles across the nape of Wriothesley’s neck, a soothing gesture that nonetheless startled him into lurching out of his embrace, whole body overly sensitive as he braced an arm against the safety railing, glad that his arms at least worked better than his legs as he managed to keep himself upright.

“Let us avoid impropriety and get you cleaned up,” Neuvillette said, not unkindly as an orb of Hydro spun to life in his grasp, managing to draw at least some of the pervasive, sweat-slicked moisture from the air in the same motion. Neuvillette was delicate as he plucked fabric away from sweat-dampened skin, the Hydro sinking into the worst of the offending stain, quickly becoming cloudy before the other man repeated the process a few times.

“Neat party trick,” Wriothesley managed to state a bit breathlessly, tone a bit dry, quite unlike the fabric of his dress. It was good enough, at least, even if he was sure the pair of them positively reeked beneath the fading presence of scent blockers and too-expensive cologne.

“Useful enough,” Neuvillette replied, tone conversational as he sent the orb of water out through one of the vents to fall down the elevator shaft. The distant noises of the storm were still there, faint howling of wind and rumble of the shifting building all the more audible in the now silent elevator. At some point he had retrieved his cane from wherever it had toppled, leaning upon it as he observed Wriothesley calmly, waiting for him to collect his senses.

The minutes ticked by and still the power remained off, Wriothesley somehow managing to refrain himself from teasing Neuvillette for not lasting longer, the words just on the tip of his tongue when there was a blessed hum and the lights flickered to life once more. The break had at least given him enough time to cool off slightly even if he was sure a faint flush remained, unable to bring himself to look at his own reflection as the elevator shuddered up the last few floors to their destination.

Neuvillette took a step closer once more, coming to a halt alongside him as the floor indicator drew to a stop. Though the air had begun to circulate once more the other alpha’s scent was still there, clashing with his own in a way that was simultaneously both arousing and reassuring, intermingling with the pervasive odor of sex and sweat. Almost subconsciously he found himself leaning to the side, chasing the warmth of the other only for the chime of the elevator to interrupt the motion as it signaled their arrival with a cheery ‘ding’ that had had him scowling.

“Shall we?” Neuvillette asked, fingertips drifting briefly along the back of Wriothesley’s hand as the doors swept open before them without a sound, revealing the interior of the Palais and an eye-watering glimpse into what they considered normalcy.

Before them was a scene of old wealth, sheer opulence arrayed before them in an eye-watering display. The massive hallway was flanked by marble plinths, mahogany panels interspersed between them, their hard edges broken by plush swaths of ruby velvet and golden tassels that were draped artfully about. Oil paintings and wondrous artifacts kept silent vigil amidst the slowly dawdling group of debutantes likewise making their way towards the party, the soft thrum of conversation centered primarily on the recent power outage or some manner of gossip that blessedly went far over their heads.

Neuvillette’s insistent touch on the inside of his wrist was all Wriothesley needed to shake off the momentary hesitation, forcing himself back into the headspace of this being yet another job, albeit the likes of one he had not attempted before. He took in a sharp breath, steeling himself.

They strode forward with confidence, unfounded or not, out of the elevator, past a contingent of valets and others hired help who hung about to snatch coats or fetch whatever it was they might possibly need at the drop of a hat.

No one outwardly commented on their appearance even if they drew lingering stares and the snide twists of lips, Wriothesley glad that Neuvillette had set a reasonable clip as they made their way past the dawdling clusters of partygoers. Whether it was them themselves or the hitman’s choice of outfit ,they were certainly drawing enough attention, that alone somehow allowing Wriothesley to relax.

They were too noticeable for Shinsuke to do something sly, especially given the rumors that Navia had assured them were now tittering about Fontaine high society.

That fact also meant they unfortunately had a part to play, Wriothesley warily falling into the role of watchdog, smiling only when Neuvillette called upon him, while the assassin chatted amicably with this or that individual. While there were a few Wriothesley recognized from the news or papers the majority of the partygoers were unfamiliar to him even as the Sovereign seemed to recall each name precisely, asking politely probing questions that had the hitman wondering, once more, just how much information the assassin was privy to.

He was good enough at reading people himself to recognize when somewhere was familiar with them or not, regardless of the circumstances of where that familiarity was rooted. A few glanced pointedly away, muttering to themselves, while others were content to gawk from a distance, having no doubt heard the latest gossip flitting through their ranks. That they were both present put Shinsuke’s social standing within said circles at risk but political decorum meant doing anything in such a setting was extremely gauche and frowned upon.

For once Shinsuke’s pride and the complex inner workings of the elite were working in their favor.

It was only once they had entered the main ballroom, a truly lavish affair with multiple glittering, crystalline chandeliers hanging from a ceiling of hammered metal in ornate patterns, did Neuvillette grow distant, ignoring the glances cast their way as he cast about, searching for their contact.

“Monsieurs! What a surprise, seeing you here!”

The pair glanced up in tandem as a blonde woman, dressed to the nines navy and gold, flounced towards them, smile bright over the fan she had been fidgeting with. It took Wriothesley a moment to recognize the overly bedecked Navia, not that the two of them had had much chance to interact face-to-face quite some time. Clorinde was fiercely protective of her personal life, even where Wriothesley was involved, and especially when it came to what could be described, at best, as the two women’s tenuous relationship.

“Miss Navia,” Neuvillette intoned respectfully, head tilting as the woman let out a tittering laugh and extended her hand, the assassin briefly pressing his lips against the back of her proffered glove in a polite greeting. “An unexpected boon, to find you here. Truly prodigious.”

The lie came so smoothly Wriothesley nearly let out a bark of laughter, impressed even if it had been rehearsed.

“And who is this, Monsieur? You didn’t tell me you were dating,” Navia added, attention turning to Wriothesley, her over-exaggerated wink totally spoiling her affected innocence. It was all Wriothesley could do to fight back his own grin, feeling some of his earlier apprehension draining away at the relief that Navia’s presence brought them told him they were in safe hands indeed.

“This is Wriothesley, a dear companion of mine. He was so very interested in rubbing elbows with the elite of Fontaine it was impossible to say no to him,” Neuvillette lamented with an aggrieved sigh, ignoring the conspiratorial smile that Navia covered almost immediately with her fan.

“How lucky of him! It just so happens that there are a few of Fontaine’s most illustrious businessmen present tonight! If you are interested in foreign dignitaries there is a fine gentleman from Inazuma present - he asked after you in particular, Monsieur.”

Neuvillette and Wriothesley exchanged a significant glance.

So Shinsuke knew they were present - not a surprise, given his connections and what he had been able to organize. The fact that he was asking after Neuvillette explicitly was an ominous, albeit convenient, portent.

“Did he now,” came Neuvillette’s icy reply, amethyst eyes narrowing slightly, the faint souring of his scent in the air indicating to Wriothesley just how much that line of questioning unsettled him. Rightfully so given the fact that Shinsuke was still interested in dealing with the assassin he saw as a thorn in his side, a fact that sat uncomfortably heavy in the hitman’s stomach, a ball of lead dragging his brief elation down.

“Yes. He seemed quite insistent, in fact,” Navia continued, the sing-song lilt to her voice fading as a faint frown turned the curve of her lips down, the flutter of her fan turning troubled. “He also expressed interest in meeting the Monsieur's plus one - quite emphatic, in fact. He mentioned he wanted to have a conversation about ‘future business working relationships.’”

That certainly didn’t bode well, Wriothesley exchanging yet another sharp glance with Neuvillette. The assassin didn’t seem especially pleased by this news but nor was it an unexpected surprise. The question was more of how much did Shinsuke know about Wriothesley, not that he knew about him at all. By this point he had likely put two and two together even if their networks had been ominously quiet about the whole affair.

“Where is he?”

“Over there - private room, third on the right,” Navia said, still watching them both attentively as she gestured towards the opposite side of the gaudy space. Past the glittering throng of partygoers the faint outline of a series of doors was just visible, each flanked by a guard whose sheer presence alone tested the limits of human size.

“Charming. A pleasure as always, Demoiselle,” Neuvillette returned, head tilting in the the briefest approximation of a bow before he was stepping away, wasting no time at all. Wriothesley had just a moment to toss an apologetic smile Navia’s way before he was hurrying to catch up, managing to lift a pair of champagne glasses free of a tray as he slipped through the growing crowd after Neuvillette’s finely cut form.

“Want to bet money on it being a trap?” Wriothesley finally asked, pressing close to the assassin’s side and offering him the second glass as though it might mollify him. At the very least it was enough of a distraction to stop him from his single-minded hunt, gaze flicking up to meet Wriothesley’s. Those normally impassive lines of his face were tight with tension, lips drawn at a sharp angle and brows furrowed.

“Not for all the money in the world,” he returned with a sigh, relaxing ever-so-slightly as he brought the flute of champagne to his lips, leaning against the cane at his side. A glance down revealed his grip to be white-knuckled, only loosening slightly as the drink afforded them both a moment pause to think and breath, reorienting himself away from his predatory intent.

“So what do we do?” Wriothesley asked, tone light and conversational as he leaned against a nearby table, ignoring the leer of the wealthy man occupying it. “Walk in, guns blazing? Or perhaps we blow Shinsuke a kiss and waltz out of here.”

“Neither,” Neuvillette responded, lips twisting down in a frown, “If he wishes to talk then we shall amuse him. How conversations go is another matter entirely but we should be prepared for any eventuality. From my research these rooms are too small to hold significant firepower but we should be prepared nonetheless. Given what I know of Shinsuke I do not think a venue such as this would provide enough of a spectacle for what he wishes to do, especially since our presence has become quite visible here.”

At that Wriothesley only smirked.

Even though he was still riding the high of their earlier rendezvous and the potential for this whole debacle to be done with for good, Wriothesley shoved his glass towards the ruddy-faced businessman at the table as a peace offering. Neuvillette simply set down his glass, following suit as Wriothesley took a step towards the door and what was hopefully the last time they had to deal with Shinsuke’s whole slimy persona.

The guards flanking the door scarcely cast either of them a glance save a cursory once-over, apparently content with what they saw as one of them reached over to push the door open. Where normally he would have had a quip on hand, the anxiety roiling in his core kept Wriothesley’s lips tightly sealed as the pair of them stepped past the hulking goons and through the doorway.

The room was empty.

Wriothesley glanced sharply to Neuvillette at his side, tension coiling a tightly wound ball in the pit of his stomach. Save themselves, the rest of the cramped space was filled only by a low-slung coffee table with a pair of neat boxes sitting atop it and a plush couch against the opposite wall, seated just beneath a large tv that had been affixed to the plaster. All the other walls were completely bare of even decorations, the space feeling surprisingly sterile even despite the warm hues the room had been otherwise bedecked in.

“We sho-”

“Gentlemen,” came a faceless voice, the terse tone identifiable as Shinsuke’s even before the television before them had flickered to life, momentary bands of static giving way to a picture of the Inazuman crime boss seated in what looked to be a private office of some sort. Even on the grainy camera the smirk on the criminal’s face, smarmy as he twirled what appeared to be a butterfly knife between his fingers, regarding the pair of them with a too-wide smile.

“So kind of you two to answer my invite. I’ll cut to the chase for as they say, time is money and we’re all busy men. Some of us more than others.”

“I’ll be blunt. Your little publicity stunt has only bought you minutes at best and hasn’t been quite the bargaining chip you thought it would be,” Shinsuke stated, jovial tone evaporating in a heartbeat as the silvery blur of his blade continued unabated, “You two will come to a location of my choosing for a good, friendly face-to-face chat and we can finally put this all to bed for once and for all. Water under the bridge, all that.”

The blade snapped shut and Shinsuke leaned forward, a smug smile on his lips once more.

“And before you protest please, take a look at your gift boxes. I’m a generous man but I think you’ll both be pleasantly surprised,” he crooned, gaze expectant as Neuvillette and Wriothesley shared another significant glance. The scent in the room had turned bitter as the pair took a reluctant step forward, Wriothesley’s fingers numb as he reached for one of the two petite boxes, anxiety and worry roiling in his gut as he pushed the unsecured lid free.

Sitting within, atop a bed of crumpled tissue paper, was a single familiar pink bow.

The tension in the air was so palpable Wriothesley could practically feel it crackle across his skin, recognizing the ominous shifting in his own scent towards blood and iron, anger surging in his chest, hot and feral.

Sigewinne.

“They’re alive,” Shinsuke explained drolly, interrupting the wild crash of their thoughts, Wriothesley’s gaze flashing up just in time to register the crime boss settling comfortably back into his chair, the picture of smugness. “For now. If either of you try anything funny - go to the police, wiggle out of this, run, well…they won’t be breathing for much longer.”

They. Had his attention not been glued to the screen as he furiously tamped down the rage bubbling in his chest, the need to crawl through the TV and bury his teeth in Shinsuke’s neck and rip out his throat, Wriothesley would have looked to the side to see what Neuvillette’s box had revealed.

That Shinsuke had his hooks in both of them, in some way, shape, or form, was painfully obvious.

“You remember that warehouse we had our, ah, first pleasant encounter in? Meet me there and we’ll settle this once and for all, like the gentlemen we are,” Shinsuke continued with a toothy smile upon his lips, so sharp it threatened to shatter at any second.

“Immediately.”

Without waiting for a word of response the screen died, leaving the two of them in a room that felt oppressively silent. Wriothesley flexed his jaw, belatedly realizing how tightly he had ground his teeth as his attention flicked to the side where Neuvillette was slowly tucking the box into his pocket, expression severe but otherwise unreadable. It matched the way the hitman felt, a combination of sheer rage and palpable fear churning in his gut, making him regret that earlier sip of champagne.

He didn’t bother with the box, instead folding Sigewinne’s bow into his palm with care, as though it might crumble to dust at any moment and blow away with the storm still raging outside.

Wordlessly they both turned, Wriothesley barely restraining himself from throwing the door open as the need to find an outlet coursed through his veins, his outward appearance kept at a strange equilibrium only in thanks to the conflicting worry and anger that had his mind swirling.

“It’s been dealt with.”

Navia was already there outside the door as they exited, Shinsuke’s goons conspicuously absent and a self-satisfied smile upon her lips even despite Neuvillette’s chilly query, looking more like a cat who had gotten into the cream than the very capable woman they both knew her to be. Whatever had happened during their brief stint within the room had been quick and efficient enough for the rest of the partygoers to be giving them a wide berth, a few gawking openly at them and whispering behind hands raised, aghast, to cover their mouths.

Vultures not worth their time.

“His location has been identified and the assets have been secured,” she continued, perhaps recognizing their stormy expression if her own more serious mien was anything to go by, cautiously offering them a small slip of paper that undoubtedly had the address for said location. “You were right to be wary - Clorinde has dispatched the cronies he sent after Sigewinne, and Melus and Silver are protecting Lady Furina as we speak. We can keep them off their tails for now but I can’t promise more than a few hours at best.”

Relief cascaded over him like a waterfall, sweeping away the blinding anger and heart-clenching fear in one fell swoop. Had he not known he would get shot by Clorinde (and perhaps even Neuvillette) he could have kissed Navia full on the mouth, the news of Sigewinne being safe, if even temporarily, a reassurance that he couldn’t even begin to put words to.

Not only that but it was kindling as well, lighting a blaze of purpose within his chest. No longer was Shinsuke a nebulous shadow, a distant threat, but an ominous and deadly presence that was not just standing on their doorstep but knocking on their proverbial doors as well.

He had to be dealt with.

“A few hours is more than we’ll need,” Neuvillette cut in darkly, the whiplike crack of his tone so sharp a few of the nearby denizens of Fontaine backed away uneasily, accompanied by a surge of ozone that practically outdid the storm still raging outside. Even despite the tense situation and the threats hanging over their heads like a guillotine Wriothesley felt a surge of want pooling low in his gut, fueled by both the anticipation of a fight and the raw promise in the assassin’s tone.

Fuck, if that wasn’t hot.

“We owe you,” Wriothesley chimed in before Navia had even the chance to look crestfallen from the terse response, “Seriously. You name it. Later, though, we have a parasite to deal with.”

He didn’t need to say how much it lightened their respective burdens to have Sigewinne and this supposed Lady Furina at least temporarily safe, giving them just enough leeway to hopefully deal with the scourge that was Shinsuke once and for all.

Despite that burst of hope, the potential for failure hung low overhead as they wove their way through the party, any hint at a sedate pace long since cast aside. The crowd split before them, curious murmurs going unremarked upon as thoughts and plans blazed through Wriothesley’s head at lightning speed, mentally cataloging the stockpile of weapons and ammo he had packed away for just this situation.

“We should take the stairs,” he noted somewhat belatedly, cognizant of the storm still whipping itself into a fury outside the glittering panes of glass, a brief flicker of the hanging chandeliers only reinforcing his statement.

“A wise choice,” Neuvillette said after a brief pause, voice much less tense than it had been moments earlier even if that stormy scent still pervaded the air. Wriothesley felt his own shoulders relax slightly when Neuvillette’s gaze finally and truly met his own, a flicker of worry behind the panes of those stained glass eyes, lips parting briefly before they compressed once more, whatever platitudes that had been upon them remaining locked tight. Was it only whoever this Furina was or had seeing Shinsuke once more rattled Neuvillette more than he cared to admit?

“C’mon. We can talk more once we’re on the way,” Wriothesley offered, a paltry olive branch extended but an olive branch nonetheless. Neuvillette nodded shortly, the motion stiff and restrained as both his gaze and resolve hardened once more. Curious though the hitman was as to just who it was the Inazuman mobster was attempting to use as leverage against the Sovereign he wasn’t about to ask.

Not here, at least.

Not now.

Those were conversations better served for later.

“Let us,” Neuvillette returned after another pause, this one blessedly brief as he turned to follow Wriothesley’s lead. “It is best we get on with this farce.”

Chapter Text

Neuvillette double checked, triple checked, quadruple checked, and quintuple checked the small piece of paper until Wriothesley had long since lost count.

The car, provided so generously by the Spina di Rosula, sped along the streets of Fontaine, neon lights blurring past in vibrant lines that strobed and scintillated in the damp evening air. Everyone could tell the reprieve from the storm was brief as thunder rumbled ominously on the horizon and bolts of lightning streaked through the sky, briefly lighting up the tower of clouds that threatened to overtake the city’s stunning skyline and plunge it beneath a deluge once more.

Dusk had fallen in full force as the car’s tires skidded through a myriad of puddles, disrupting the flashing reflection of the buildings above as they wove their way towards Fontaine’s more up-and-coming district. Old though the area may have been, once home to a bevvy of cozy shops and brick warehouses, it was steadily becoming gentrified beneath the guise of expansion, more and more of the city’s greener wealth flocking towards its brick-and-mortar buildings, single-pane windows, and the promise of being in the heart of something that was shaping up to be new and fresh.

Truly, in hindsight, it should not have come as a surprise that Shinsuke had sought to these very masses, managing to acquire one of the recently renovated abodes that skirted the upper crust of Fontaine just closely enough for him to be considered part of their ilk without too much squinting. From the brief glance Neuvillette had allowed Wriothesley the information seemed sound enough, all thanks to the recent renovations and public permits that had been acquired to completely redo the hulking shell of a building, stripping it down to its very bones before building it anew.

They had exited the party without fanfare, Wriothesley somewhat reluctantly changing back into clothes more suitable for a bloody job, regretting that he hadn’t been able to make use of the “tactical” slit in the dress more. The enormity of the situation hung ominously over their necks as they’d gathered the gym bags of supplies - mostly weaponry and ammo - before sliding into the waiting car.

Outside of some perfunctory discussions around weapons and ammunition the car ride had, thus far, been uncomfortably silent and terse, a palpable apprehension gathering in the air that set Wriothesley’s entire being on edge. The frivolity of earlier had been long since abandoned as the weight of their task settled fully upon both of their shoulders, a monumental burden that had his own spine contorting and twisting, the knots rivaled only by those burrowing their way into the pit of the hitman’s stomach.

Sigewinne.

He trusted Navia - truly, he did - but the looming threat of her death (or worse) clung to his back like a spectre of the past, dragging cold fingers down his spine and whispering dark what-ifs in his ear.

Neuvillette scarcely seemed better off than him, thumb worrying the top of his cane as his eyes drifted back and forth across the address and relevant details Navia had managed to provide them with. Much as he wanted to ask after just who it was Shinsuke had dirt on, Wriothesley balked. It was personal, he told himself, private.

As if he hadn’t helped to nurse the other man back to health, away from the precipice of death.

As if he hadn’t been fucking him for months in what he repeatedly told himself was a no-strings-attached relationship, a lie that had begun to rankle and fester like a pustulent wound, steadily widening the gaps between his ribs until his exposed heart felt bare and raw, liable to burst into flame at the slightest provocation.

But what if they didn’t survive? What if something happened to one of them and not the other? The thought tore a hole through his gut, skin clammy as his gaze flashed up to fixate on Neuvillette as an inkling of realization and need for closure wrapped around his chest like a vice.

He knew, without asking, that Neuvillette would take care of Sige. He just knew. But even then….

“She’s the closest thing I have to family, you know,” he croaked, voice dry as it clung to the inside of his throat, the words mechanical as he ground them out. The assassin didn’t glance up but the worrying motion of his thumb paused, however imperceptible an action, indicating that Wriothesley had his full and undivided attention.

“When I was young and living on the streets she patched me up. Didn’t ask any questions, demand any payment, just did it. It wasn’t until nearly a decade after that I saw her again, after I’d…come into this life fully. We ran into each other at a cafe and I don’t even remember how it came up but we were both looking for a place to stay and a roommate seemed necessary. She didn’t even comment on my profession or seem like she was disappointed in the path I took, just sized me up and smiled and nodded like that was all the confirmation she needed. She accepted me, then and there, no questions asked. I think she knew a lot of it already but she just…smiled.”

Even now he could see the moment clear as day, standing outside that grubby cafe, an hours old drip coffee clutched in his hands as he clung desperately to the warmth eking out of the styrofoam cup, Sigewinne beaming up at him with that too-wide smile of hers, eyes crinkled merrily. It had felt natural in a way he still couldn’t hope to describe, the pieces of some long forgotten puzzle falling into place as they’d shaken on the deal.

That wasn’t to say it had been easy; quite the opposite. The first few years had been awkward at best and painfully uncomfortable at worst as they had adjusted to living in each other’s space. And yet they had managed. It had taken time, trial, and error as they had adapted to each other’s lifestyle.

Slowly their apartment had begun to feel like home as a motley assortment of furniture began to fill it. His furniture, dwarfing hers, beginning to find itself mended in bright and colorful ways that always brought a wry smile to his lips even as he’d bemoan their state to the Melusine.

Sigewinne would wordlessly patch him up after jobs gone awry at first, at most humming judgmentally but never saying anything. Eventually that transformed into fretfully scolding him as their bond deepened and then suddenly it was like they had been friends since childhood if not siblings. He didn’t know when it had clicked, simply that it had, and they had never gone back since.

“You’ve seen her. She’s like a little sister but she cares, more than anyone else. More than I deserve,” he admitted, gaze drifting downward once more, unable to keep it trained on Neuvillette’s cane as tears stung at the corner of his eyes.

He startled when a gloved hand alighted gently on his knee, touch as feather-light as a butterfly before it settled comfortably into place, reassuring and warm in a way that settled soothingly into Wriothesley’s bones.

“I understand. She’s a remarkable young Melusine,” Neuvillette said, voice soft even in the quiet of the cabin, nearly lost beneath the hiss and splash of tires on puddles outside of the moving vehicle. “I have encountered many Melusine in my time but her care not just for you, but her fellow beings, is apparent. In the short time I have known her I have come to understand that she is truly exceptional. She is lucky to have you as well. We will ensure nothing happens to her.”

There it was - a spoken promise, plain and raw in the way Neuvillette’s words flayed him to his very core. He allowed his own hand to skim over Neuvillette’s, hesitant at first before it alighted atop the assassin’s long, graceful fingers, taking a moment to note the juxtaposition between his own scarred, torn knuckles and the immaculately kept gloves beneath them, something indescribably natural in the dichotomy there.

“Furina is not too dissimilar, I think,” Neuvillette began, voice still hushed and soft, hesitancy bleeding up from beneath his words, “She has forced me outside of my comfort zone time and time again - did you know it was she who encouraged me to court you? She was quite bold about it, during one of our tea times, sitting me down and chiding me for ‘beating around the bush.’ She’s never been one to mince words, which I appreciate.”

Wriothesley couldn’t help but laugh, a brief bark of a thing as Neuvillette chuckled softly in turn, the noise warm and affectionate in a way that made the hitman’s heart ache. The visual of Neuvillette, one of the most illustrious assassin’s in the world, being chided for his complacency well…it certainly was something.

“I believe, as with you and Sigewinne, she is the closest I have to a real family, not that either of us would admit that. Our pride runs deep and we were not always companionable. I suppose you could call it a sibling rivalry, as we were growing and training alongside each other. She was not fit for same the life I am, at least not entirely, and our paths diverged slightly.”

The scents intermingling in the air had taken on a tinge of melancholy, sweet and bittersweet both as their admittance flitted through the air on butterfly wings. Wriothesley gave Neuvillette’s hand a slight, reassuring squeeze, allowing his gaze to drift up once more to drink in the other alpha’s face.

Here, up close and in the privacy of the car, crystalline tears glistened on the fan of Neuvillette’s lashes, unshed droplets clinging just below the glitter of amethyst and carnelian and turquoise. Even despite the melancholy of their conversation there was a faint smile upon the perfect bow of his lips, curled gently up as his mind no doubt replayed with a reel similar to the one looping through Wriothesley’s own mind - regrets and dreams, hopes and aspirations that the years had either dashed against the rocks or managed to shore up, many of which were buoyed by their respective friend.

“It’s a deal then,” Wriothesley said thickly, voice rough with emotion he didn’t even attempt to hide, “We’ll do what we can and ensure they’re protected.”

It was the least the two of them owed.

“Yes,” Neuvillette spoke suddenly, voice sharp with promise and determination, hand rotating beneath Wriothesley’s own to twine their fingers together. “For better or worse they will not fall prey to our mistakes.”

His gaze finally snapped up to meet Wriothesley’s, blazing with defiance, purpose flashing behind those pale, slit pupils as Wriothesley unthinkingly tugged him close, his own heart surging in response. It was so natural when their lips crashed together, the kiss searing and brief as it razed its way through the hitman’s entire being, burning away the fear and apprehension as the desire, no, the need to succeed swept in to replace them.

Brief though the kiss was both of their breathing was ragged when they pulled away, Wriothesley’s lips stinging as he met Neuvillette’s gaze, their pact sealed in a way neither had originally intended but in a way that felt inexplicably right. He allowed a cocksure grin to tilt his own lips up, elation singing in his veins at the soft chuckle that earned from Neuvillette.

Even as the car began to slow, moving around the final curve, he couldn’t help but feel they stood a chance.

They made a spectacular entrance.

Wriothesley had always wanted to blow open a front door with an RPG and now seemed as appropriate a time as any, the rocket bursting apart the old, undoubtedly expensive wooden door in a truly magnificent spray of fire and splinters. Even from their safe distance away Wriothesley could make out the ripple in the nearby puddles the explosion caused as their equivalent of a knock alerted any and all within Shinsuke’s abode to their presence.

Neuvillette was moving quickly on his heels as the two of them dashed forward, wasting none of the surprise their impromptu arrival created. The Spina di Rosula car behind them was peeling away before the smoke even cleared but they themselves were already long gone, darting through the gaping hole the rocket had created and dispatching the pair of injured and confused guards that had been stationed at the entrance with a cold, detached efficiency.

No one left alive. Not today.

Navia’s intel had provided them with some details into the renovations done to Shinsuke’s domain, primarily through permits obtained relatively recently. The Inazuman crime boss hadn’t been occupying the space for too long yet, the air still smelling faintly of paint and new upholstery as they wound their way through the cramped hallways, quickly eating up distance to the heart of the mansion.

Renovations could only do so much when the bones of the place were mortar and brick, quite a bit of which was undoubtedly relevant to the whole building’s structural integrity, and as such for the most part their scant information seemed to hold true.

For the first few minutes of their foray they went relatively unimpeded, only running into one or two lackeys here or there, all of which were entirely unprepared for their arrival and had openly gawked at the odd pair before one of them had clinically dispatched them. Each hit was final, meant to neither inflict pain nor suffering as they tore their way through the mansion.

Garish wallpaper flew past in a blur, the dated style both gaudy and far outside of Wriothesley’s own realm of preference as it practically screamed wealth where crushed velvet and gilt filigree adorned nearly every surface not set in old, polish wood paneling.

Their luck was bound to run out eventually as the pair made their way to the atrium that marked the entrance to the second floor, a sprawling expanse of wrought iron and glass peeking just beyond a stretch of hallway. Unfortunately this one was occupied by a group of goons who were suitably prepared for their arrival, two crouched before a third, their guns raised, while the rest were jostling for position behind them.

More threatening was the fact that the third was a Pyro user, fist raised amidst a halo of curling flames as guns swung to bear.

“Duck.”

One moment the air above Wriothesley’s head was clear and the next it was awash with Hydro, a glistening plume of droplets that sped erratically out in every direction, the overhead lights scintillating through the glittering curtain. For a moment it hung there, resplendent and beautiful albeit baffling in its purpose only for a flare of superheated light to disperse across it, moisture dissipating in a cloud of hissing steam that swirled around them, handily obscuring them from view.

The sharp glance was all it took for Wriothesley to scramble to his feet, lunging free of the fleeting cover provided by the whirling steam, bursting out the other side as adrenaline sang through his veins.

He was awarded with a brief, blanched face of surprise before his elbow occupied the entirety of it with a satisfying crunch, cartilage giving way as the lackey’s nose became a thing of the past. He swept his forearm down in the same motion, shoving the mobster towards the ground and using his bulk as further momentum to carry himself into the next goon. The second was just as surprised if the flickers of reaction painting an alarmed expression across his face was anything to go by but Wriothesley was carrying through with his free fist, the clinging whorls of vapor condensing into a rime of ice as knuckles met befuddled face and sent the second crashing back without even time for a surprised shout.

It was rough, it was dirty, and archons be damned if it wasn't satisfying.

The silvery whisper of a blade arced over his shoulder, burying itself neatly between the vulnerable seam joining chest armor and helmet, muted gurgle lost beneath the frenetic thudding of bodies and panicked shouts. The other three were given just enough time to react, gun of the nearest jerking up as the barrel swiveled to bear on the pair invading the Inazuman crime lords home turf.

Flames crackled in the background as the Pyro user seemed to decide on who was the larger threat, Wriothesley not sure if he took solace or umbrage with that distinct honor.

Another jet of Hydro shot over his shoulder, more a distraction than a deflection as heat and water simmered in the space between him and the Pyro user. The gun was a closer, more pressing threat and he lurched forward, eating up the scant space in two lunging steps, throwing his shoulder into the gunman’s center of mass just enough to knock his unprepared form astray. They weren’t amateurs, exactly, but Wriothesley had a feeling that the heavier hired guns were elsewhere as the man stumbled backwards, tottering off-balance as he fell directly into a jet of flame.

The choking scent of burning flesh filled the air like a foul miasma, Wriothesley’s own stomach twisting in response as a surprised yell rose in pitch and fervor to a wailing, bitter scream of unimaginable pain. The scene was macabre as the man flailed into one of his fellows, sending the Pyro user spinning away as his panicked, flame-wreathed form tumbled to the ground, attempting some approximation of a stop, drop, and roll even as his screams grew fainter and fainter, the heat and smoke stealing the air from his very lungs.

The Pyro foe was attempting to tamp out the faint licks of flame beginning to eat at her armor but the third of them had decided enough was enough, arms raised as his gun clattered to the form, casting a panicked glance between Wriothesley and Neuvileltte as if waiting for some indicator he was free to go. Over his shoulder the hitman caught the faintest hint of a nod, the goon only too eager to turn and scramble his way down the hall, fleeing to whatever bastion he had available.

Pity was in short supply as a gleaming blade bloomed from the Pyro user’s chest, a macabre flower made manifest just before the last of the flames had been tamped down, leaving them to flicker and consume with renewed hunger as the enemy form slumped lethargically against the nearest wall.

“Could at least warn a guy,” Wriothesley offered over his shoulder, tugging his tactical cowl up over his mouth against the choking reek of charring flesh. Neuvillette’s expression was unamused as he stepped daintily over the nearest corpse, leaning heavily on his cane as they began to make their way swiftly past the roadblock.

Only moments later the fire alarms blared to life, peppering them with a fine spray of water as they picked up the pace, intent on both leaving the carnage behind them and getting to their prize as swiftly as possible. The more time they wasted the more opportunities Shinsuke had for escape, an avenue that neither of them found preferable in the slightest.

Their progress bordered on agonizingly slow as they finally made their way out of the narrow hallway and to the edge of the atrium, borne out of an overabundance of caution and the fact that Neuvillette still wasn’t quite fighting fit. While he moved along gamely Wriothesley could tell that his injuries still plagued him from the drawn pinch of his brows to the rigid line of his shoulder, each step restrained in a way that was not his normal graceful and fluid self. The hitman wasn’t about to complain, though, staying doggedly close as they picked their way down the last winding hall of Shinsuke’s retreat, ever cognizant of the potential for traps and worse.

The steady click of Neuvillette’s cane was all he heard behind him aside from the plaintive wail of the fire alarms, strobes of red and white illuminating the halls as the unrelenting spray of the sprinklers continued to soak the garish wallpaper lining the walls. Wriothesley stopped just before the yawning opening when a nagging, insistent feeling in his gut told him something was off, recognizing immediately that he should pay it heed.

If their sparse intel had been correct then the area before them was the atrium that led up to the second floor, a space that had seemed fairly expansive from the renovation documents they had manically leafed through.

It was also the perfect area to lay a trap.

He could feel Neuvileltte’s presence at his back as he too came to an abrupt stop, a subtle heat just close enough to have a similar view of the expansive space. He didn’t say anything, apparently just as unsettled by the lack of foes and the situation if his hesitance was anything to go by.

At a glance the space was preternaturally still, quiet save the distant, claxon alarms just now beginning to fail as something was undoubtedly being overridden remotely. Not a surprise that one such as Shinsuke would want to be able to control how and when Fontaine’s fire department arrived, the possibility of an outside distraction a fleeting dream at best.

Wriothesley squinted harder, noting the distinct scuff marks on the floor that indicated something had been there and likely at some point relatively recent. Drag marks marred the parquet wood styled floor, gouges deep enough to ruin the meticulously applied varnish but their current angle afforded them little more insight than that.

Shinsuke’s men knew they were here, had to, by this point, that alone meaning that stealth was likely no longer an option even if caution remained their nearest and dearest ally. The sinking feeling that whatever lay in this room was big was one he couldn’t ignore, mind spinning rapidly as it flipped through countless possibilities and scenarios, discarding more than those that even began to take root.

“Hydro?”

Neuvillette wordlessly acquiesced, a smooth orb of water bobbing into existence alongside them, hovering in place for a single breath before Cryo snapped around it, condensing and flattening it into something that resembled a disc. Wriothesley held his breath as he felt Neuvillette tense beside him, counting to three as the silence dragged on before flinging the flattened ovoid into the space to spectacular (and predictable) results.

One moment ice was sailing through the air, flashing beneath the lights of the atrium, and the next it was exploding in a veritable hailfire of bullets and elements, disintegrating so rapidly that it was dizzying.

They were off before it even had time to turn into slivers of ice and slush, bursting free of their cover in tandem. The thrill of the moment pulsed through his veins, adrenaline surging through his body as a graceful, heaving motion from Neuvillette drew a wall of water between them and the balcony, temporarily impeding their view of the dual stairs that twisted up, opposite each other, to the second level.

At the same time Wriothesley was dropping to one knee, skidding past the scintillating curtain of Hydro, left hand trailing down to the slick ground only for hoarfrost to burst from beneath his fingertips. It rose rapidly, elegant tines of frost eating their way up the water, the reaction turning natural and entropic as it climbed higher. He was already past concern, though, as the pins of the grenades in his right hand caught on the tactical hook attached to his belt loop and he lobbed them high, towards the smudged figures a floor above them.

Bullets scarcely had time to begin eating through ice when the grenades exploded with concussive force, the blast enough to send one foe plummeting from the balcony even if carnage hadn’t been its intended consequence and merely a fortunate bonus.

The smoke cloud of cover, however brief, was more disruptive than ice and water had been, especially when paired with the brief flash of light. Something akin to pride and gratefulness surged in Wriothesley’s chest as Neuvillette appeared beside him, unharmed, their wordless dance only continuing across the floor.

How strange that their rivalry and familiarity with one another had flowed so smoothly into this, an odd partnership where their abilities complemented each other so perfectly?

There was no time for a barked command as Wriothesley dropped once more to a knee, pulling his rifle free of its sling and leveling it at the nearest blurs behind the dissipating cloud. A quick squeeze of the trigger sent two enemies sprawling backwards, unable to react as the hitman began to pick them off with methodical precision.

Half behind him Neuvilllette was doing his own work, the occasional flash of a silvery blur over Wriothesley’s shoulder almost always resulting in a blade sprouting from a chest or between unarmored seams. With his other hand Neuvillette was pulling a lash of Hydro through the air, deflecting or absorbing the occasional bolt of Electro aimed their way.

They couldn’t sit for long, though, and both of them knew it.

Wood exploded in a hail of splinters beside the pair, signaling an end to their current ruse. A commanding “go!” was all Wriothesley needed to yell and they were splitting off once more, paths seemingly divergent even if their end goal was abundantly clear - get in close and use the packed enemy ranks to cause chaos.

The surprise of the explosion and their brief assault had been quickly fading but they still had enough time to loop opposite each other, moving as quickly towards the dual stairs as possible. Worry rolled itself into a tight ball in Wriothesley’s chest as the analytical part of his mind noted just how slowly Neuvillette was moving compared to their past encounters. He wasn’t slow, per say, but he wasn’t up to his normal tricks either, Wriothesley making his own pace more measured to match lest they throw off their unspoken plan.

A frenetic burst of gunfire lit up the area just behind Wriothesley, goading him to move at least a little faster as the carefully laid parquet floors became little more than a memory. Opposite him Neuvillette was likewise being harried, if slightly less, the hitman taking dark solace in the fact that his bristling weaponry had earned him the dubious title of highest value target.

He was more than happy to be a looming threat if it meant that the assassin was given a bit more leeway.

The curling wrought iron stairway was within reach when a bullet managed to find its target, thankfully hitting the body armor Wriothesley had donned when switching from black tie affair to tactical, the bruising strike enough to send him lurching off target, clanging into the metal gracelessly as he just barely managed to remain upright. His attention was distracted momentarily as one of Shinsuke’s lackeys leaned over the railing up above, previously unfettered view now blocked in part due to how close the pair were to the overhanging balcony, gun twisting awkwardly as it was levered in his direction.

His own manic scramble to haul himself fully upright, oblivious to the hematoma blooming where bullet had struck armor, was interrupted when a hyper concentrated jet of water only a few fingers wide blew a hole through the front of the enemy’s throat. The man had only a split second for his eyes to widen in disbelief before he tipped over the railing, plummeting to the ground below with a sickening crunch of breaking bone.

A wild-eyed Neuvillette met Wriothesley’s gaze, the surprise in his expression flicking away as the fervency of the moment came rushing back. Wriothesley had never seen Neuvillette wield Hydro that way before - hell, had never seen anyone else use it similarly either. It was another terrifying display of power that had wanton heat curling in his gut but also not one he expected a second viewing of anytime soon.

The rattle of booted feet on metal sent Wriothesley crashing up the stairs, following the assassin’s lead as panicked shouts to reform ranks echoed from above. The macabre display of concentrated Hydro had spooked a couple of the above foes and rightfully so, allowing them enough of their precious little time to wend their way up the twisting staircases.

Midway up Wriothesley reached out to drag a hand along the railing, sending another surge of Cryo up the iron before him, racing just before his own hurried ascent. Frost webbed its way across the metal, riming the railing as it darted ever-higher, managing to just outpace him as was intended. It provided him an additional icy surface to work with as the last few steps lurched into view, slamming a fist down to create another bristling barrier of jutting icicles.

Blurry though their foes may have been behind the glittering barricade, little more than a series of faceless blobs, it gave him enough time to see that Neuvillette was providing his own distraction. Their foes seemed thoroughly discombobulated now, not sure who was the bigger threat, providing them an excellent opportunity to further split their ranks.

Wriothesley rolled away from the brief safety of his barrier, rifle swinging up to squeeze off a few well-aimed shots. Two foes dropped with cries of pain, only temporarily dealt with as their clutched bleeding extremities but there were more looming threats to deal with. A Dendro user with panicked eyes was weaving their hands frantically, doing something that was causing the air to scintillate in distinctly unpleasant, verdant ripples which could only mean something bad was about to happen.

His next shot was interrupted before he could take it as a bolt of Electro arced so close to the side of his head he could taste ozone on the back of his tongue and smell fibers of synthetic fabric burning in its wake. The woman cursed visibly, lining herself up for a second shot that also went blessedly awry thanks to the blade that just barely missed her neck, instead nicking her shoulder as it flashed by.

The cloud of green was growing, rippling like some Lovecraftian nightmare as it seemed to gain a sentience of its own, expanding hungrily towards the pair of them. Somewhere along the line it had become Electrocharged, arcs of vibrant purple dancing amid the swirling mass of spores spreading even quicker, feeding off itself in an ominous chain reaction.

Not good.

Across the balcony Wriothesley could just make out Neuvillette at the opposite edge of the cloud, dealing hand-to-hand an absolute behemoth of a man, managing to just skirt the impending disaster. Perhaps if he could burn the Dendro before it became a bigger threat it could kill multiple birds with one stone, the presence of mobsters within the blooming cloud only reinforcing a decision that was far from good but probably the only option he had.

It was now or never, Wriothesley pulling his final grenade from his side and yanking the pin free, sucking in a breath as he counted for a second before lobbing it forward.

In his haste his aim had failed to account for the angle of the Electro user, the woman’s face set in a snarl as she pointed a finger in his direction once more, the convergent paths clicking into place in Wriothesley’s mind a second too late.

“Fuck!”

Electro met concussive force and multiplied exponentially, the limited explosion evolving rapidly from mild to huge in the span of a single action. Pure reaction had him tucking and drawing himself into a ball as the blast blew him back, impacting the railing in a blow that knocked all of the air out of his lungs as he felt the metal bend beneath him, ribs popping and cracking in blinding pain. He had a single heartbeat to blink, noting with panicked realization the glittering spores that hung in the air, emerald and sparking, before the fire of the detonation started a conflagration turned chemical reaction.

Spores burst in rapid succession, their fumes turning to toxic smoke that filled the space, sending Wriothesley reeling away as fast as his protesting body would take him. It was all he could do to spin away on faltering footsteps, trying desperately not to draw a breath into his already screaming lungs, squinting against the burning cloud assaulting his eyes.

Through sheer providence he stumbled out the side, the ominous prickling on his face vanishing as he tumbled into what he hoped was open air, dragging a rattling breath into his chest as he keeled over sideways, ribs screaming in protest.

“Neuvillette!”

His breath was ragged as he sucked in great gasps, lungs and throat burning as his eyes continued to water relentlessly, vision little more than a blurred mess. Even despite the stinging in his nostrils he could smell Neuvillette nearby, delicate notes of seasalt and petrichor that he could pick out over the rancorous stench of burnt flesh and spilt blood. His ears, at least, remained unaffected, hearing almost immediately picking up the faint rustle of movement and familiar click of a cane.

“Wriothesley?”

The assassin sounded better off than the hitman, at least, even if he was slightly breathless. Wriothesley attempted to push himself upright once more, letting out a pain groan as broken ribs grated upon each other, white-hot pain alighting in his chest as he attempted to lurch to his feet, slipping slightly in what he was sure was a pool of blood growing steadily stickier.

Neuvillette’s pale form wavered into being before him, angelic before the backdrop of acrid, swirling smoke. Smarting eyes kept the details smeared behind a gaussian veil but a less-than-lucid part of Wriothesley’s mind imagined a worried expression, concern etched over those fine features as the assassin knelt before him, strong fingers wrapping tentatively around his shoulder.

“Where are you injured? Do not push yourself, I believe Shinsuke’s forces have been adequately dealt with for the moment.”

Was he imagining it or did Neuvillette sound concerned, abnormally so?

“Ribs. Side. Not sure what else,” Wriothesley eventually responded after a too-long pause, brain still swimming as his body concentrated on letting him know just how close he had come to dying.

Very kind of it to do that.

“Hold still,” Neuvillette murmured, Wriothesley distantly aware of faint moans of pain in the background from those of Shinsuke’s goons that hadn’t yet succumbed to their wounds. He didn’t so much as glance away, though, instead concentrating entirely on the face that was coalescing more and more into view by the second, focusing intently on the other alpha’s features in a desperate attempt to ignore the pain thundering through his chest and side.

His eyes followed Neuvillette’s face, taking rapturous note of the minute expressions that flicked across it - the way his brows knit together with worry, lips pursed in a tight line before he caught himself and forced them to relax, just barely parted as he drew in a measured breath. The errant strands of silver-white hair that stuck to soot and the artistic splatter of drying blood that peppered his right cheekbone like macabre scales, the furtive flicker of his eyes between those long lashes as he took stock of Wriothesley’s condition.

And there it was, Wriothesley realized, the thought hitting him with all the subtlety of a rampaging bull.

The care and compassion. The genuine distress.

On his behalf.

The dawning reality was impossible to ignore now as gentle, deft fingers pulled fabric away from his wound with meticulous care, freeing coarse fibers of clotting blood and exposed flesh.

“Shrapnel, but it’s thankfully quite shallow. We can apply antiseptic and butterfly it closed but there’s nothing I can do about your ribs,” the assassin murmured apologetically, attention focused unerringly on the task before him as he poked and prodded as gently as he could. Wriothesley fought back a shudder as those questing fingers sent an arc of agony across the open but he was thankful it wasn’t a bullet wound this time.

Small miracles.

The assassin wasted no time, a small field kit appearing in his hand seemingly out of nowhere even though Wriothesley knew it had been plucked slyly from one of the numerous pouches strapped to his own leg when he hadn’t been paying attention. Ever the consummate professional, the hitman took the opportunity to observe the ruin they had wrought on the room, eyes switching critically between the corpses and corpse-adjacent individuals who littered the balcony. Be it blade, bullet, or worse, all of Shinsuke’s hired help had been dealt with in a very final way.

A few still twitched and moaned but it was in the throes of dying breaths, Wriothesley watching these in particular along with the door that led out of the second floor of the atrium. No reinforcements emerged, though, meaning this had likely been a last-ditch effort to safeguard their boss.

Good.

“I am done,” Neuvillette said suddenly, soft voice cutting through Wriothesley’s drifting thoughts as the assassin returned the medical implements to the bag and secured it once more against the hitman’s thigh, his touch lingering. “It is only a temporary solution, though - any extraneous movement will likely open the wound once more. I would advise against such activities but we both know that would fall on deaf ears.”

It was impossible to miss the faint crinkle at the corner of Neuvillette’s eyes or the affection bleeding into his tone as he stood and offered Wriothesley a hand, the younger alpha taking it without hesitation. As much as his chest ached from the broken ribs something else had shaken loose, dislodged itself from the inner latticework of his ribs to drift, free and unburden, a warm flutter of wing beats that was making it difficult to breath in a far different way.

“Are you all right? If anything happened to you, I…are you okay? Shrapnel, burns, bullet wounds?”

“I am, comparatively, unaffected. My injuries are minor in comparison and do not require dressing at this point in time,” came Neuvillette’s patient, bemused response, corners of his lips twitching upward.

“Are you sure? Because if you were hurt I would threaten to kill them, not I don’t think you’re capable of handling yourself, but I suppose that’s a moot point now anyways…”

He realized he was babbling, knew it, and yet somehow Neuvillette just looked both expectant and amused, one of those refined brows arching, wordlessly goading Wriothesley on.

“Neuvillette, what I mean to say is I think I lo-”

“Hush,” Neuvillette interrupted but the word was warm and deep, spoken with care, an honest smile curving lips gently upward. With his free hand he tugged Wriothesley close, mindful of his wound even if they were both unable to ignore the feeling any longer.

Where their previous embraces had been passionate and heated this was different. The surge of elation and need razing a bonfire through his veins was so far from simple heady, carnal desire, sank so deep into his bones it hurt in a way he only craved more of.

This kiss was a simmer built so long it had come to a boil, overspilling its bounds as their lips slotted together, bodies fitting against one another like pieces of a puzzle. It was all he needed and more, indescribable in the way it ignited even more want within his person but so different, tender and fretful and anxious and utterly, wholly welcome. It wasn’t fireworks between them here, now, amidst the ruin and drifting embers and splatters of blood, but a deluge of water overflowing a well’s confines.

All he wanted was more.

He only became aware of the passage of time when a subtle shift of Neuvillette’s hand sent pain lancing through his side, wincing as they both withdrew reluctantly. In the haze of the atrium Neuvillette looked just as starstruck as he himself felt, he noted with satisfaction, expression turning to a lopsided grin as he surveyed the other alpha.

“We should, perhaps, not forget our original task,” Neuvillette supplied breathlessly, the small smile playing across his own lips in a way that almost looked shy. “We have much to discuss, but later.”

That was about as far from a no as one could get, Wriothesley’s smile widening so much it practically hurt.

“I don’t know about you but I’m pretty tired of seeing his ugly mug,” Wriothesley quipped, suppressing a wince as he took a hesitant step back. Reluctant though he was to part from the proximity of the other alpha they both knew Shinsuke had to be dealt with.

And yesterday at that.

“Agreed,” Neuvillette said, casting one final, evaluating glance over the hitman, flushed lips parting for a moment before he closed them, apparently thinking better than to ask whatever question it was that had been on the tip of his tongue.

Much as elation sang and continued to bubble through his chest, buoyant and effusive, it couldn’t quite override the insistent ache of his broken ribs, every shallow breath sending pain lancing along split bone. He took some solace in his side feeling better at least but he also knew that his mood would only sour the longer they spent trudging along and not wiping Shinsuke’s smug little visage off the face of Teyvat.

“He can’t be far now,” Wriothesley growled, the desire to wrap his gloved hands around the Inazuman crime boss’s throat and throttle the life from him growing stronger with every passing second. While he trusted Navia and Clorinde to be true to their words the clock was ticking, every second that passed making the threat of violence against Sigewinne and Furina all the more real.

The atrium was silent by the time they left save a few garbled, incoherent crackles of someone’s radio, leaving through the final set of doors at a far slower pace than they had entered. Every step sent a jolt of agony through Wriothesley’s chest and he could tell Neuvillette wasn’t faring as well as he had been letting on, leaning more heavily on his cane now than they ever had before. Though they may not have had much further to go, every moment felt drawn out, stretched tenuously thin as the last hallway stretched before them.

There were no guards before the doors that led to Shinsuke’s office and, if the blueprints had been correct, no emergency exits. Like the rat he was, the Inazuman criminal had dug himself deep into his hole, hoping his schemes and firepower, misdirected though they may have been, would be enough to protect himself. He was sure there was some grim karma, perhaps even poetry, to the fact that Shinsuke would meet his demise amidst the stolen and acquired wealth he had managed to cobble together.

The end of the hallway drew abruptly close, door not even ringed by a burly guard or two as they had previously anticipated. Wriothesley’s heart was in his throat as they made their way haltingly to the door, pausing before it to glare back at the camera above it that swung to greet them.

With the feeling of standing on the edge of a precipice he gave Neuvillette a short nod, the other stepping around him to wrap slender fingers around the doorknob, met by the surprising click of an unlocked door, grip on the gun a this side tightening as his heart hammered a steady, anxious staccato in his chest. Before them the door swung open with a gentle push from the assassin, revealing Shinsuke’s final lair.

The first thing about the large office Wriothesley noted was how austere it was. Shinsuke apparently eschewed the pomp and circumstance that many of Fontaine’s wealthy fawned over, the space undeniably well put together even if it didn’t scream wealth at a glance. If anything it spoke more to Shinsuke’s character and his potential upbringing, the furniture spartan yet sturdy from a wide, heavy desk seated in the center of a Sumerian rug to numerous display cases lining the walls, almost each and every one filled with weaponry.

The second was that the room reeked of pungent terror, a primal fear that even the strongest scent blockers couldn’t override.

The contrast to Shinsuke’s smug, nearly contemplative mug, was jarring. Had his natural instincts not entirely given him away as the bleating, cowardly prey animal that he was, Wriothesley would have hazarded to guess that the crime lord had something more up his sleeve. He probably did, the hitman noted, but he was attempting to look as self-assured as humanly possible when a pair of wolves stood on his literal doorstep, fangs bared.

The man had gambled and lost, spectacularly so, the bulk of his forces off in some random warehouse with their thumbs of their collective asses while the few guards that had been around now lay dead and smoldering in the atrium. He had either been overconfident, underestimated them, or perhaps even a combination of each, the culmination of such a slip-up leading to the death quite literally staring him down at that very moment, much as he liked to pretend otherwise.

“Gentlemen!” Shinsuke stated loudly, unable to hide the tremor of fear beneath his otherwise boisterous tone, “It’s such a pleasure to have you visit my abode. Obviously there has been some sort of miscommunication given this location and the one I gave you but that’s all water under the bridge.”

One could practically see the gears turning in Shinsuke’s brain as he visually dissected them, taking in Wriothesley’s injured appearance and the fact that the two of them were covered in soot, blood, and viscera, weighing how much threat remained and just how best he would be able to manipulate them. The slimy crime boss licked his lips, eyes darting between both of them as that smarmy smile never so much as shifted from his face.

Whatever he saw, he finally seemed to come to a conclusion, leer widening in a way that showed far more teeth than necessary. To his left he could practically feel Neuvillette tense, a breath of that stormy scent drifting over the top of Shinsuke’s rank terror, laden with promise.

“You’re both fortunate I’m so generous. You see, I have a bank account with roughly twenty millio-”

The roar of a gunshot was deafening as Neuvillette’s final fuse fizzled out in its entirety, the bullet hole that appeared in the center of the Inazuman crime lord’s forehead as precise and professional as one could be. The expression never even had a chance to slide from Shinsuke’s face as he slumped forward, hitting his desk with a loud thud as it arrested his fall.

Wriothesley blinked as the moment stretched on for another long second, the echo of the shot ringing through the small room with a note of finality as it marked what was hopefully the end of a particularly messy chapter of both their lives.

In the next heartbeat the enormity of the task and the length of the day came crashing down, Wriothesley’s shoulders finally sagging beneath the weight that had hung about them, the sigh that tore itself from his lips equal parts exhaustion and relief. While he hadn’t expected Neuvillette to interrupt Shinsuke while he was monologuing, he couldn't deny that it was probably the best option given just how slippery the crime boss had been.

Beside him Neuvillette likewise drooped, leaning heavily on his cane as the only noise filling the office became the metronomic drip of blood, soft and muted, where it dripped onto the fine Sumerian rug.

It was done. Shinsuke was dead and with his reign of terror and the baying bark of his bloodhounds where they had pursued meaningless vengeance. Funny to think how if he hadn’t pursued them so relentlessly his plot would probably have remained hidden.

“What now? Wriothesley asked, somewhat lamely, adrenaline fading swiftly from his body with pain coming rushing back in its stead. He was suddenly very keen on being anywhere but here, the initial surge of relief rapidly dissipating in a way that left him feeling drained.

“Now? We leave, I suppose,” Neuvillette supplied, sounding just as much at a loss as Wriothesley. They glanced awkwardly at each other, the fact that Shinsuke was dealt with not entirely a relief given he likely still had some cronies skulking about. The snake was headless, for now, which meant that Sigewinne and Furina were likely in the clear without Shinsuke barking orders to his subordinates any longer.

Wriothesley sucked in a breath through his teeth, wincing as the deep inhalation of air caused another lance of pain between his ribs, the gears in his own mind spinning forward as the vestiges of hope settled comfortably across him like a warm mantle, an idea alighting in the back of his mind like a fed ember.

“You know,” he began conversationally, turning slowly towards the door, “I haven’t seen your place yet. And technically you did sleep in my bed for a whole month, free of charge.”

“This is true,” Neuvillette responded with a chuckle. “Is this your way of inviting yourself over, Wriothesley? I will admit my penthouse does not have the charm your apartment does but I’m told it’s quite nice. And let us be honest, your apartment is in dire need of renovations.”

The older alpha ignored the sputtering coming from the hitman’s direction, instead beginning to make his way sedately out of the office door with the poise of one who hadn’t just shot a man dead in cold blood, forcing Wriothesley to fall into step beside him lest he get left behind.

“What were you planning on doing next?” he continued, prying, “Going back to the Marechaussee Phantoms doesn’t seem like the optimal choice.”

The soft huff of retort was nearly inaudible but had Wriothesley smile wider.

“As it so happens I heard word on the street of a small, scrappy organization that could use the aid of a consummate professional,” Neuvillette replied smoothly, a tell-tale glint in his eyes, “They may not know it yet but I believe I can convince them.”

A grin so wide it hurt split Wriothesley’s face, his bark of welling laughter breaking free when the assassin’s sly facade broke beneath a wry smile of his own.

“As it so happens I know the owner. I think he’d love the idea of a partner.”