Hansel: Swordplay (pt 3)

Mishka’s rapier snapped.

Hansel could have killed him—he was using it wrong, using it more like a trident. Hansel had told him it couldn’t take the same stress that his trident could, but when Jonesy’s second and third in command came for them just outside Calim waters, and the ships flanked them and they had no choice but to stand their ground and defend the Blade, he slipped up. Maybe he got angry; Hansel couldn’t tell. But tridents were good weapons for working out anger—Hansel was an expert at it—and rapiers had a tendency to break.

They got away. They fought like wild animals, and after it was over it was all a blur of blood and black powder, and Hansel looked down at himself and found he’d escaped unscathed, somehow. Pure frustration made physical, he supposed. But Mishka was leaning against the fore-mast, out of breath, his pretty silk tunic bright with blood, his rapier bitten-off and blunt. Hansel had seen him leave the point lodged in a sailor’s stomach. The jeweled hilt tumbled from his hand as he sagged against the mast.

Serena pulled him into the main cabin before Hansel could reach him, but he was close behind them, stopping himself in the door. Mishka was making jokes, bluffing about how if Serena wasn’t careful he might incinerate her. He was going to be fine, then. There was an arrow stuck in him, but he was going to be fine. He didn’t need Hansel to look out for him, to fight for him. He was going to be fine, and they would be in Calimport after sundown.

Still, he waited by the door until Serena was done, and ignored the cool look she graced him with as she brushed out of the room.

“I'm not lying,” Mishka said abruptly. “I know I look like a delicate flower, but I can kill you with a snap of my fingers.”

God, he was so full of shit. Hansel didn’t know why he couldn’t be honest for just a second, even when he was alone with someone—he didn’t know what he would have to do to earn his trust. He also didn’t know why he kind of liked the bullshit.

“You used all your tricks during the fight,” he said. “I counted.”

Mishka tensed. Hansel had only wanted to tease him, but now he could see the gears whirling behind his eyes, appraising the risk, wondering if Hansel was a threat. He didn’t have his sword to fall back on, now. Hansel knew he kept a knife in his boot. Maybe that would help him feel safe. Maybe *something* would, some fucking day, but Hansel knew it wouldn’t be him.

He wanted to say, *Why would I hurt you? Why would I hurt you? I’ve had plenty of chances. Why would I ever want to? You’re beautiful. You’re amazing. I like the way you look at me. Do it more. Do it closer. Let me get closer.*

Instead, he drawled, “Wow. I must’ve caught you off-guard. You stopped flirting with me for a second, there.”

Mishka’s expression changed.

Hansel shrugged and shifted. “Your quarters only have one entrance. Go to your room and go to sleep. Bar the door if it makes you feel better.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean. I'm fully capable of defending myself,” he insisted.

“Right.”

Then Mishka watched him for a long time, and he watched Mishka, not knowing, this time, what was going on in his head. When Mishka briefly closed his eyes, it surprised him. That was strangely close to letting down his guard.

But when he stood up, he was back to himself. “Well. Shall we go to bed, then?” he asked airily. “If you’re so concerned about my safety, perhaps you can keep me company inside my room.”

Hansel knew he wasn’t serious. He was never serious—until it was deadly. Maybe it was better if he was predictable, like this, no moments of odd vulnerability. Like Serena. She still didn’t like him, but he didn’t need her to. He hated that he needed anything from Mishka that his captain wasn’t willing to give.

“There. Back to bullshit again,” he said. He could do this. He could do this until they reached Calimport. Everything would be the same, and then he would be gone. “Only took you sixty seconds. Maybe you’re not that badly hurt after all.”

He was ready to leave, to go back to his bunk and let the soreness of the fight set in, but Mishka kept watching him as he went towards his own quarters, looking expectant. He was never serious. He said these things to Hansel just to get under his skin, just because Hansel’s toothy grimace amused him. He was never *serious*.

Hansel followed him.

# # #

“*Neyë.*”

The Orcish word sounded odd coming out of an elven mouth, but Hansel always thought they sounded fake when he said them, too. He wasn't a real orc. He wasn't really awake. His captain wasn't really a breath away from him, hand on his shoulder, eyes on his eyes. It was a dream.

Come here, Mishka had said.

He tried to rouse himself, bone-tired from the battle. “What's wrong?” he slurred through the muck of sleep, feeling absently for his trident. “'S going on?”

The ship was quiet. That filtered through. They weren't under attack.

“I …” Mishka started. He pulled away and the moment became more real to Hansel, more reasonable.

Then Mishka took his hand and pressed it to his side, where Hansel could feel fresh, warm blood. He must have twisted in his sleep, snapped his stitches.

Hansel started to stand up. “I'll get Serena.”

But Mishka grabbed his arm. “No.” He stopped there like he didn't know what to follow it up with. A broken Orcish word came out, then, “Stay with me.”

Hansel wished he had to be told twice. He pressed his hand more firmly against the wound, hearing the little throaty sound Mishka made in response, and had no trouble hefting his captain in into his arms for the couple of steps it took to get him back to bed. He was still a little clumsy from having just been asleep -- that was what he told himself -- but he laid Mishka down gently before his balance tricked him into pitching down into the fine silk sheets as well. They were tacky with blood already.

For a beat he didn't breathe. Moonlight through the porthole illuminated Mishka's beautiful face, his eyes a little wide, but his expression unreadable.

Hansel wanted to crush their lips together. He wanted to make Mishka forget the pain he was in. He could feel the heat under his skin and he was sure Mishka could feel it too, but the elf was cool underneath him, giving nothing away.

“Is this where you want me?” Hansel asked, keeping his voice low and level; the last thing he wanted to do was scare Mishka off now. No sudden moments. No loud sounds.

Wordlessly, Mishka nodded.

It occurred to Hansel to ask again, but instead he just shifted -- off of Mishka to beside him, curling his arms around Mishka as he did, pulling Mishka's back against his chest. One hand stayed tight against the wound, the other wrapped around his shoulder.

For a while it seemed Mishka was frozen, and Hansel knew he'd done the wrong thing, and when Mishka had rested enough to have his magic back he really would incinerate Hansel.

He also thought that maybe it would have been worth it.

But after a minute, Mishka relaxed in his arms. He shifted a little to get more comfortable, stretching his back into Hansel briefly, resting his face against Hansel's arm. After a time, his breathing steadied. He was asleep. Hansel thought he might actually be asleep, and no doubt it was blood loss and exhaustion, but Hansel would take it.

He held Mishka and breathed in the scent of his hair until the sun replaced the moon.