in the briefest of silences

Shaw's home was dark by the time he made it back, the fire dwindled to embers and Flynn beside it, half-asleep in the armchair. He stirred at the sound of the door closing, and roused at Shaw's soft tread across the floorboards.

"Leave the light," Shaw said, and sighed when Flynn brightened the lamp anyway.

The shadows retreated to the corners of the room. Flynn made a soft sound of dismay, his forehead creasing as he took in the state of him.

"Messy one tonight?"

"Don't worry. Most of it isn't mine."

Shaw discarded his spaulders and peeled off his gloves, and set them on the table without concern. He would be doing a lot of cleaning up tomorrow as it was.

"Reassuring. What happened?" Flynn was already up and over to him, helping to strip off his armour with a practised hand. A coppery malodour rose as he loosened each piece and pulled it away. "Boots. Hup," he said, and lifted Shaw to sit on the table.

"I had to forcibly retire an agent," Shaw told him as he knelt and unfastened first one boot then the other, his hand cupping Shaw's calf as he pulled it off, then his ankle, then warmly enveloping the arch of his bare foot. Shaw closed his eyes. "Finally tipped his hand. He was Syndicate."

"Thought you knew that?"

"I suspected. I had hoped to be wrong. Or at least that he was Ravenholdt. Jorach is more open to negotiation."

"Heh." Flynn kissed the inside of Shaw's knee on his way back to standing. "Pity. I know how much you enjoy negotiating with Jorach."

"No, you enjoy imagining me negotiating with Jorach."

Flynn, forever a reprobate, made an approving noise. "Hold that thought," he said, disappearing to fetch a basin of water.

He was gone for only a minute or two, but dread could breed in the briefest of silences. When the hours were early and he was covered in blood, Shaw's heart was ripe for it.

It never used to be like this. He used to come home, clean up, set it all aside and then perhaps sleep for a couple of hours. Tonight the blood had seeped into his gloves and settled into the creases of his palms, and he could only think about how Flynn had abandoned a life of freebooting because he hadn't the stomach for it.

The basin hit the table and Flynn insinuated himself between Shaw's knees, one hand resting on his thigh and the other balling up a cloth, squeezing the excess water from it. Shaw's mood must have found its way onto his face, or enough of it to give him pause.

"Was tonight really that bad?" he said.

"No." Shaw lifted his chin when Flynn brushed his fingers under it, and let him wipe his neck clean. The blood there was his, but they wouldn't discuss that any more than they ever did. "Not tonight in particular, nor any night in particular."

"But all the nights in particular, when you put them together."

Always more astute than he let people believe. Shaw let out a long breath.

"I'm always fighting a different kind of war. Developments like this can put pressure on the status quo, which in turn creates windows of opportunity for... unpleasantness," he said quietly, while Flynn tasked himself with his collarbone and shoulders, kissing his hand when Shaw touched his cheek in an attempt to keep his attention on what he was saying. He was almost as old now as Shaw had been when they'd first met, and but for the grey in his stubble and his face lined in the shape of his smile, he hadn't changed a jot.

"I still worry, sometimes," Shaw said, "that you might decide enough of this mess is enough. The king's spymaster doesn't get to retire, and I know eventually there'll be a job I won't come back from. That doesn't frighten me. But the thought that I might return here on a morning like this, and find you gone..."

The cloth landed in the basin with a splosh. Flynn rested both hands on Shaw's thighs and leant in until their noses touched. "Well, I'd leave a note," he said. Then, more sombrely, "If I'm not here it'll only be because I'm asea."

"That wasn't what I meant."

Flynn took Shaw's hand and worked the simple gold band from his finger. It felt immediately bare. Shaw rubbed where it usually sat with his thumb while Flynn cleaned it.

"I know," Flynn said as he worked. "And I know as well as you do when it's the midnight demons talking. It'll take more than some bloodsoaked monologuing to scare me off. I took a vow, you know."

He pointedly slid the ring back onto Shaw's finger. At the same time he landed a kiss on his lips just as he'd done a hundred times before, each and every one of them a thunderclap in Shaw's heart.

"And I'm a man of my word these days," he said. "Do you want me to say it? Because this is how you get me to say it, and then you're really gonna be upset."

"Do your worst, Fairwind."

"It's what I'm best at." Flynn took Shaw's face in both hands, thumbs stroking an arc over his cheekbones. He adopted an officious air. "Your attention if you will, Master Shaw."

"Don't take that tone with me," Shaw said, deeply glad for the usual thrust and parry of their conversation even if he couldn't entirely disguise the catch in his voice.

"Oh, you know what, I can't do it," Flynn said, his brow in a sympathetic furrow. "I can't do it. I don't like to see you cry."

"I am not going to—" Shaw began, then caught his tongue. Even after all these years, sometimes he still took the bait, hook and all. Flynn knew it as well. His eyes were bright with affection.

"It's either that or laugh, and I know what's more likely."

"You make me laugh." It came out significantly more peevish than Shaw felt.

"When was the last time you slept? I think you might be delirious."

Shaw sighed, most put-upon, and rested his chin on Flynn's shoulder, his hands clasping in the small of his back. "Please don't make me gag you for the rest of the night," he said into his ear.

He felt Flynn pause, then turn his face to him. "Hmm. Mean it?"

"Keep on like that and you'll find out."

"Can hardly tell you I love you with a kerchief stuffed in my mouth, now, can I?"

"I'm sure you'll find a way."

Flynn squeezed Shaw's thigh, and this time sought a kiss with slow intent; one that grew more heated by the moment. Shaw hooked him close with his heels and buried his fingers in his hair, murmuring quiet words—and still Flynn had the effrontery to ask, "Coming to bed then, Shaw?"