Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

It's dark and tight here, the air redolent of mud and dust and things left long undisturbed that should probably have stayed that way. In the claustrophobic gloom, Captain Flynn Fairwind, erstwhile pirate, occasional mercenary and current unexpected occupant of a small, stone-walled pit, hears a grinding noise like a rusted anchor chain being winched. Sandy soil rains onto his head and down the back of his duster.

"How many times," says the man next to him, who is currently a disembodied voice in the pitch black, but whose glare Flynn can summon in his mind's eye fondly and without effort. "How many more times do I have to tell you. Not to touch. Anything."

"Few dozen," Flynn says airily. He frowns upward into the darkness, and gets nothing but more sand in his eyes for his trouble. "At least. Absolute minimum. There weren't any spikes, at any rate."

"This time. Still, not an ideal start to the proceedings."

Flynn runs his hands over the uneven surface of the wall, dislodging grit and flaky debris. Probably sandstone. No carvings, and either one bastard-huge block rolled in here with some feat of engineering and/or magical chicanery, or lots of reasonably-sized blocks that are very tightly mortared. Either way, not much so far as solid hand-holds go.

"A bad start doesn't mean there'll be a bad end, Shaw," he says, groping about above his head. Nothing to get a good grip on there, either. "No need to be pessimistic."

Here's where Shaw usually takes a deep, long-suffering breath and rolls his eyes. Flynn grins to himself.

"It's pragmatism," Shaw replies, then tuts when Flynn laughs at him. "This isn't funny, Captain."

"No, no," Flynn says, fumbling through his pockets. "But you are. Right, let's see what we've got here."

He delves a bit deeper and comes up with the battered book of matches he stashed in there during Midsummer's revelries. The cardboard is soft and worn under his thumb, the rough striking strip easy to find even in the dark. He twists a match free and swipes it until it flares to life. Shaw's face is illuminated in the flickering light. He looks about as impressed as Flynn expected. Flynn gives him a wink, and he shakes his head, both mouth and moustache flattening into lines.

No matter. Flynn will ply him with a swift gin later and all will be forgiven—if Flynn's taken up with Shaw the way he might take up a habit, then Shaw's adopted a vice or two himself. To cope, probably, with Flynn's allegedly 'highly cavalier', air quotes very necessary, approach to things.

From the first instance Flynn had clapped eyes on the Alliance's Spymaster General in all his tight-laced splendour, he'd wanted to know what rattled Shaw's ratlines. To his delight, he discovered very quickly that merely standing within three feet of him seemed to do the trick. For optimal results, though, six inches is the sweet spot.

He shakes the match out before it can burn his fingers and leans a hand against the wall near Shaw's head, about the right distance to get him sweating.

"Fairwind," Shaw says. Flynn can hear him trying to inject precisely the right amount of rational, calm authority into his voice, but the wall shifts a couple more inches further in before he can get around to whatever brisk thing he was going to say. More sand cascades down onto them.

"I agree." Flynn leans in just enough to not quite brush the end of his nose with his own. "It's hardly the time, Spymaster. What were you thinking?"

Shaw mutters something very unflattering under his breath. "Shall we, then?"

"Oh, I suppose. I don't mind a tight squeeze myself, but I know you're not one to let things get too close for comfort."

Flynn takes a moment to appreciate the pained noise Shaw makes, and then braces against the wall. He wedges one foot up opposite, his knee bending as things shudder and grind then shunt in closer again. About the perfect distance now—but it won't last long. He kicks up his other foot, pressing it to the wall under his backside, holding himself in tension between the walls. With an effortful grunt, he straightens his legs, pushing up.

He can hear Shaw working his way up likewise, the sound of his leather armour scuffing the stone and some under-the-breath cursing whenever the wall moves. He hasn't yet figured out if Shaw usually swears this much or if Flynn brings it out in him, but he's choosing to believe it's his bad influence.

Things go quiet for a minute or two as they climb, just the occasional huff of exertion and the inexorable grind of the trap as it grows ever narrower. It isn't all that deep a pit—they'd not fallen far enough to break any limbs, at least—but it's so dark that it's difficult to tell if they're getting near the top of it.

"How's it going over there," he asks, and is somewhat put out to hear Shaw's 'fine' come from above him. Well, that won't do. He redoubles his efforts, only to have Shaw grab him by the scruff of the neck and give him the old two-six heave out of the pit as though he needs the hand. The surprise of it leaves him sprawled on his back. The trap gives one last shudder and with a deep, throaty groan that Flynn feels in the pit of his stomach, slams shut. It resounds through the temple and shakes yet more grit and sand from its walls. Flynn's eyebrows go up, but he chooses not to comment on the close call in this instance.

"All limbs accounted for?" Shaw says, then, without waiting for an answer, "Good. The main chamber should be just up ahead. Let's be quick about this."

"Aye, aye," Flynn says, getting to his feet—or, that was the plan. His coat doesn't seem inclined to come with him, and he bounces back onto his rear with a thoroughly manly and not at all undignified squawk. It bounces off the walls and echoes back to him.

"What is it now," Shaw says, once it fades.

Flynn fumbles out another match and strikes it. It casts long unsteady shadows up the walls of the temple, throwing carved geometric spirals and grinning feathered serpents into relief. It sheds enough light for Flynn to see that the corner of his duster got trapped in the course of his daring escape.

"Oh, bloody perfect," he says, and gives it an experimental tug. It doesn't budge. He leans back, throwing his weight into it. Still no good.

"We don't have time to mess about." Shaw is over to him in a few long strides, dagger hissing from its sheath. It shears through the hem of Flynn's coat and for the second time in far too short a span he finds himself flat on his back.

With this act of savagery Shaw has all but guaranteed there won't be a third time, no matter how companionably he offers his hand. "I can't believe you did that," Flynn says, taking it and letting himself be hauled to his feet. He gathers up the tail of his coat, feeling about for the sliced edge. "Absolute sacrilege. Oh, my beloved—oh, look at you. That's a grievous wound, mate. I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive you."

Shaw gives him a look he's fully earned. "I'm sure you'll find it in your heart," he says. "But until then, head in the game, please."

He's a man who says please and thank you a lot without managing to be particularly polite. Flynn can admire that, albeit grudgingly at present. "All right," he says. "We'll soldier on. Walking wounded, coming through. Would it really have been too much of a bother for you to—"

On his next step he feels the resistance of a strung wire across his shin. He freezes.

"Ah," he says, and hears another ancient mechanism grind to life, just Shaw flings an arm across his chest and pushes him back against the wall. Several somethings whistle past Flynn's ear and strike the blockwork with a hollow thock thock thock.

There's a brief pause, then Shaw asks, "Are you hit?"

"Nope," Flynn says, merrily distracted by the way Shaw's forearm is pressing along his collarbone.

Shaw eases up. A hint of marvel colours his tone. "How is it you've survived this long?"

"I pride myself on my foresight and innovation." That earns him a profound silence. "Okay, I dunno, but I must be doing something right."

"Whatever it is, it's making me grey."

"So… is that a 'keep it up' or a 'pack it in'?"

"You're a liability," Shaw says, which is absolutely not an answer. His face is as flinty as ever in the scarce light of the tunnel, but he sounds halfway amused, for him. "I dread to think what trap you'll unearth next. I'll take point for now."

"Right you are. Age before beauty and all that."

"Don't push it, Fairwind."

The tunnel suddenly opens up into a central chamber, its stepped ceiling soaring high above them. The air is fresher here, and a faint column of light flows into the middle of the space, flecked with shimmering motes of dust. It pours down on a pedestal which is sat atop an stone ziggurat, which, in Flynn's opinion, is a somewhat excessive setup.

"Blimey." Flynn puts his hands on his hips. "Look at all those steps. I'm out of breath just looking at them."

"Nonsense," Shaw says distractedly. He's staring up at the apex of the chamber, where a square of sky is visible. "I've watched you scramble up and down your ship's rigging for hours at a time."

"Have you, now?"

A muscle flexes in Shaw's cheek. "Dusk's coming," he says. "We'll have to be quick if we're to get out of here and make it back to camp before full dark. Stranglethorn is not a hospitable place at night."

"It's not a hospitable place during the day, mate. Right, then—last one to the top gets the first round in."

Flynn takes to the steps at a clip. Shaw probably does this kind of thing for fun, so he'll need to push if he's to win this one. So far, the tally on this little jaunt has not been in his favour. Not that he imagines Shaw is counting.

If Flynn's a blunt object, Shaw is a honed edge: all lean efficiency and terrifyingly unwavering focus. He strides past Flynn, taking the steep steps two at a time fluidly, and it's horribly distracting, especially since he's opted for adventurer's leathers instead of his usual fancy getup. Flynn doesn't know if it's the novelty, or if its because the tan and olive drab sets off his eyes and hair something marvellous, or if he's discovered a heretofore unanticipated horniness for ostentatious Troll architecture, but he resolves to keep his eyes firmly on his feet as he climbs.

He plods up the last few stairs to the uppermost terrace, panting. Shaw is already there, and has at least the good grace to be breathing more heavily than usual. A faint flush has risen on his cheeks. It's a good look despite it clashing with his hair. Flynn realises he's staring only when Shaw directs a startling flash of teeth at him.

It takes a moment for Flynn to register it as a grin, but once he does he immediately gives Shaw a wink and his most dazzling smile in return. He turns his attention to the treasure occupying place of honour upon the pedestal while Shaw aggressively clears his throat.

"Oh," he says with not a small amount of disappointment. "That's an eyeball."

"Don't touch it."

"I don't want to touch it, Shaw, it's an eyeball."

"It's an amulet—" Shaw says.

"So… an eyeball on a chain."

"—with significant magical properties."

"Oh, well, probably worth a few gold, then."

He wiggles his fingers, making theatre out of reaching to grab it. Shaw turns his eyes to the heavens and swats his hands away, then, apparently no more eager to touch it than Flynn is, hooks the amulet with the blade of his dagger and deposits it into a pouch on his belt.

Flynn waits patiently. There's no click of a pressure plate, nor distant rumble of a careening boulder or two. No hiss of a snake pit unleashed. Not even a hint of a fiery explosion. He looks up hopefully. The ceiling doesn't seem inclined to rain dramatic chunks of masonry down on them, either.

"I was expecting a little more," he says.

"Try not to sound so disappointed."

Shaw sets off down the stairs with that same efficient lope. Steep as they are, the going is still easier than on the way up. In practical terms this just means Flynn can ogle him more comfortably.

"Something interesting?"

Eyes in the back of his head, Flynn swears it. "I was just admiring your new duds. Very Reno Jackson. Say—how much rope do you have on you?"

Shaw falters on his next step. He throws a glance over his shoulder, a half-raised eyebrow and a lift of the corner of his mouth that's becoming terribly familiar, and then continues on. The tunnel they arrived from lies ahead. "Less of the coquetry, Fairwind."

"Coquetry," Flynn exclaims as they duck into its gloom. Cock, his voice echoes back. Cock... cock... cock. He can practically hear Shaw composing his eulogy. He does his best to stifle his laugh but winds up sputtering violently into his hand instead.

"You always have something to say, don't you," Shaw says, picking his way around a heap of debris.

Flynn grins at him. "I can't help it, it's my natural disposition."

"Best watch your step," Shaw says, "because if you fall into another pit trap I'm leaving you there."

"Well, as long as you chuck me in a sandwich before you go."

"I'm not joking."

"Oh, of course not." Flynn reaches out in the dark and finds Shaw's back. He gives it a playful slap. "Bad for your reputation."

"Not as detrimental as five minutes in your company."

"Then maybe you should've brought a passel of agents to fling into certain peril instead of inviting me along then, eh?"

"If I'd known that your trap-disarming skills solely consisted of walking into them, I might've."

Slander. There are any number of menacing springes and deadfalls he's been careful to avoid, and Shaw knows it. "Nobody's died," he says brightly.

He does sound a tad grouchy, though, so Flynn leaves him to it. He has, admittedly, been more gung-ho about this than he should have, and it's put them way off schedule—they're approaching the way out and the light flooding into the tunnel is sunset-red. The jungle night slinks in from outside, humid and handsy. Breathing it is like sucking in warm water, so Flynn hangs back to savour the desiccated temple air a little longer.

"So," he says, folding his arms and propping himself against the wall. "Why did you ask me along? You could've done all that yourself and with half the trouble."

Shaw half-turns, framed by the tunnel mouth and the setting sun that filters through the surrounding vegetation. He looks as though he's working through a complicated series of protocols in order to find an answer. Flynn would happily wait for whatever pithy excuse he comes up with, but he realises abruptly that his lean is steadily becoming even more of a lean, and startles.

His shoulder depresses a carved brick. Next to his ear he hears an ominous grinding noise that he's getting really rather tired of, and then a click.

Shaw looses a heartfelt sigh.

"Right," Flynn says, leaping up. The walls tremble; a foreboding rumble has arisen from the belly of the temple. "Time to go!"

He kicks off at a sprint, Shaw with a good twenty yards head-start and dashing for the tunnel exit. Flynn hears the rush of something gaining on his heels. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that it's a tidalwave of sand. A laugh bubbles up in his chest. Now this—this reminds him of the vault. He never did feel quite the same about Shaw after that feisty little excursion. The hiss of the sandslide grows deafening. Flynn makes it past the tunnel exit just as it flows over his feet, sucking off his boots and consuming them in its roiling advance. He flings himself clear and hopes for the best, tumbling into the jungle's prickly long grass and landing face down in a patch of kingsblood.

The sand piles up over his back and insinuates itself into all kinds of inauspicious places, but subsides before burying him alive. Not the most objectionable outcome, but he decides to lie there for a while anyway and work on his general air of professionalism.

He feels sand being pushed from his back. A hand clasps his shoulder and turns him. So much for that. Flynn's about to complain, but Shaw says his name in such urgent tones it has him perking right up.

Shaw lets out a long exhale. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" Flynn stares mournfully at his feet and then up at Shaw, whose expression has broken ranks, then at the mountain of sand that's glutted the temple. "Ah. Lost my boots. Did you bring a shovel?"

Shaw snorts and shakes his head, then offers a hand. Flynn takes it but puts minimal effort into getting himself to his stocking feet, mostly to see if Shaw can manage to heave him up regardless. The answer is yes, which is invigorating.

"Look, this is no good," Flynn says, shaking a tiny avalanche of grit out of his coat. He shifts from foot to foot since the spiny grass is getting him right between the toes. "You're gonna have to give me a piggyback to base camp."

Shaw folds his arms and gives Flynn a long raking look from head to toe and back, which might have been more enjoyable if it weren't so withering.

"Fine, I'll bear up, as usual." Flynn affects a sulk and begins to pick his way slowly through the lush swaying foliage in the vague direction of their tents, but he can't keep it up. He's soon grinning again. "That was fun, though, wasn't it?"

"Uncontestedly the worst five hours and forty-seven minutes of my life," Shaw says, a crinkle to the corners of his eyes. He takes Flynn's arm and steers him a few degrees east, through meshes of darkness and strips of fading light, leafmold and stripped bark. It's hardly a necessary correction, and Shaw has yet to let go.

"Sounds like something worthy of commemoration."

"I assume that means you have something potent hidden in your pack."

"Ah, you know me so well."

"I know your predilections."

"You think?"

"Gold, liquor, and congenial criminality."

"Hmm," Flynn says, and flashes him a grin. "That's three out of four."

The sunset dies back into rich purple as they make it back to camp, the moons hanging fat among the stars and framed by the dark silhouettes of palm fronds. The heat is sultry and obsessive, clinging to Flynn jealously. He conceded his duster some time back and unfortunately lost Shaw's hand on his arm in the process of shrugging it off, but it had been pleasant while it'd lasted.

Flynn parks himself next to a cluster of friendly succulents while Shaw lights the campfire, and sets about picking bits of undergrowth out of his socks. "You didn't answer my question," he says.

"No, I didn't bring a shovel."

"Not that one." Flynn leans back, stretching into his tent to drag out his pack. He's moderately to fairly certain he stowed a spare pair of boots. He rummages contentedly, abiding in Shaw's quiet presence, the stifling heat of the fire, the jungle's insect-song.

"Because I appreciate your company," Shaw says after a while, settling near the fire so he can tend to it and its mosquito-repelling smoke. It sounds like he was aiming for sarcasm, but he's missed by a margin. He clearly realises this because he huffs and shakes his head. "You don't give a damn what you say to me."

"Should I?"

"Most people watch their words."

"No wonder you're so dour." Flynn encounters a flask of whiskey in his delving and hooks it out triumphantly. "Don't you have friends to rib you?"

"I—have people I trust."

"That's not the same thing, you know." Flynn twists off the cap and takes a swig, then grimaces. Could have done with another few months in the barrel. Well, beggars can't be choosers.

"Being spymaster is—" Shaw begins, then he purses his lips and stares at the campfire's leaping flames for a long minute, lines deepening in his face. "It's a demanding position that necessitates personal sacrifices."

"Oh, now that's the saddest thing I've ever heard."

"I didn't ask for your pity." Shaw gives the fire a sharp prod.

"I'm not pitying you." Flynn regards him with fond sympathy. "I'm taking the piss. Don't be so serious about everything all the time."

"I've no reason to be anything else."

Shaw is not a young man. It's there for anyone to see: the grooves stress has worn into his face, the fading colour at his temples, the pathological grimness. Less obvious is the resignation, as though his future is moribund. A life already lived. Not when he's pelting hell for leather through a booby-trapped temple, perhaps, but here, in the quiet moments. Flynn wonders if anyone else sees it.

"Are you lonely, Shaw?" Flynn asks, as gently as he can manage without being too earnest. He leans over, just far enough to bump shoulders.

Shaw glances at him, then stares down the shadows in the vegetation. "I didn't think so," he informs the jungle at large. His speech becomes slow and hesitant, with long pauses. "Then—you happened. And persist in happening."

Not quite his usual non-answer, and there's yet more honesty in the way Shaw's frame relaxes against him. Flynn has learned that for Shaw to set his duty aside even for a short time means his company is something he values. He'd just not recognised how much.

"For you, mate, I'll never stop happening. Constantly."

Shaw blows out a breath, a wry twist to his mouth. "It's all right." He hangs his head, tiredly rubbing at the back of his neck. "You flirt out of habit. I'm perfectly aware that you weren't trying to... seduce me."

Oh, tides help this man.

"Now," Flynn says solicitously, "are you absolutely sure about that?"

Shaw brings his head up. There are degrees to his inscrutability that Flynn's starting to get a handle on, but this is a new one. Well, nothing ventured. Flynn knows his own face is too expressive for Shaw to pretend he doesn't know what he's trying to communicate, though he makes sure to lean in slowly anyway. He's never managed to register Shaw as a threat but that doesn't mean he's not aware of what he's capable of.

He's seventy to eighty percent sure he won't stick him. He's rolled the bones on less favourable odds.

"Flynn," Shaw says with respectable sangfroid, just as their lips meet. It's a moment Flynn knows he'll keep for good; one he'll tilt back and forth in his memory so it flames like a jewel held to the light.

"Yes?" he says, muffled as he presses into the kiss, and laughs when Shaw makes a fist in his shirt and topples them both over, pulling Flynn on top of him. His calves hook the back of Flynn's knees, one arm goes around his neck and he uses the leverage to arch against him, chest to hip to thigh. It's superb, but also— "Is this a grapple hold?"

"Admittedly," Shaw says. He lets Flynn get a hand in his hair and angle his head, avidly catching his mouth again, "it's a sloppy one."

"I wasn't going anywhere anyway."

"So I finally gather." One of Shaw's hands insinuates itself under Flynn's shirt. Flynn can feel him smiling against his lips and his heart flutters. "How do you feel about another temple. Underwater, this time."

It's probably not a euphemism. "Hmm. How deadly is it?"

"Remarkably."

"Will you kiss me back to life if I drown?"

"After only minor hesitation."

Flynn laughs. "Sounds bracing. I'm in." He rests on one elbow so he can take a good look at the state he's made of Shaw's hair, and finds him intolerably handsome. "But you still haven't answered my question."

Puzzlement flits across Shaw's face. "Haven't I?"

"Not the most important one." Flynn tugs at a buckle and sets about peeling Shaw's armour off; his adventurer gear is gratifyingly simple to remove, bearing the alternative in mind. He slides one hand along his arm and clasps his wrist. "How much rope do you have?"