up far too steep an incline

Flynn's had a busy day—shipwrecked, whammied by a siren, a drunken amble through giant lizard country, and then to really give things a bit of flavour, tied to a post by his erstwhile crew and given a right good beating. He's had better times, it's true, but it could have been worse. He could have been sober through all of it, instead of just most of it.

He's a bit foggy on what lesson Harlan was trying to impart, despite usually being a quick study. He can only conclude that Harlan's as wretched a teacher as he was a first mate, which is likely, or that he has a rollicking concussion and/or hangover, which is also likely. Anyway, he's finally been untied from the funtime torture post and is being dragged along to the brig for the night by a gaggle of burly Irontiders, when an SI:7 agent drops in out of nowhere and dispatches them with a ruthlessness that borders on vindictive.

He knows it must be Shaw before he even pulls back the cowl, because his mask only covers from the nose-up and Flynn's not so out of it that he wouldn't know that moustache anywhere. Blood's spattered over the blue-and-gold of his uniform, and not a small amount of it's gotten onto Flynn, too.

He's lightheaded with pain and relief, and all of a sudden his knees give out. His hands are tied behind him with no way to break his fall. A bleat of panic escapes him.

Shaw catches him mid-topple. "I thought you used to be a pirate. I'm sure you've seen worse," he says, as though he thinks Flynn's inclined to faint at a mere smidgen of claret. It might be a joke; it's as difficult to tell as ever. Either way, Shaw lowers him to sit on the ground, tugging his dagger through the rope at his wrists as he does.

"I wasn't a very good pirate, as my former colleagues have made quite clear." Flynn rubs his wrists and then at the blood on his face. Feels like he's mostly just smearing it around, and also it hurts like the blazes. "Ugh. Good to see you."

Shaw's eyes are on the surroundings, and he makes an ambivalent sound like he's only half-listening. "Can you walk?"

"Think so. Just gotta get a hand up, if you don't mind."

Shaw clasps Flynn by the wrist and heaves him back to his feet. He grits his teeth and sucks in a sharp breath while he's doing it, and Flynn eyes him questioningly.

"It's nothing," Shaw says, briefly pressing the heel of his hand to his flank. "Time to get out of here. Quickly and quietly, if you will, Captain."

"Aye, aye," Flynn says, then manages to take two steps before his body lights up like a midsummer fire festival. His knees buckle. "Okay, I'd like to revise down from 'think so' to 'ow, nope'," he manages, but Shaw's already wedged a shoulder under his arm and taken his weight. He's got a handy few inches on Shaw height-wise so it's not too awkward, but the going's still pretty rough when they get moving. His pauldron emphatically does not help.

"Almost there. You're doing well. Keep going," Shaw says repeatedly from the outset, and takes Flynn's increasingly sarcastic responses in stride until they are finally almost there.

There being a 'safehouse' Shaw 'secured', air-quotes absolutely deserved, some way out from Freehold and up far too steep an incline for Flynn's liking. It's an abandoned trapper's lodge—a single room with a hearth, the splintered remains of a table, and a gently collapsing bed. Flynn's slept in worse places, and even if he hadn't, he's never been so glad to lie down in his life.

Shaw gets a fire lit with the bits of furniture and then vanishes for an indeterminate amount of time wherein Flynn takes the opportunity to rest his eyes. He jerks back awake when something wet and cold slaps across his face, tries to sit up, and then proceeds to curse the existence of his whole entire damn body.

The offending article turns out to be a damp rag, courtesy of Shaw, who's brought in a dented bucket of water. He weathers Flynn's language with a raise of his brows. "Done?" he says. "Get yourself cleaned up."

Flynn falls back with a groan. "I'd rather sleep it off, if it's all the same to you." He hears Shaw's irritated sigh and a scuff of movement. A moment later the cloth lifts from Flynn's face. He squints one eye open when it indelicately drags against his cheek instead.

"Hold still." Shaw crouches down and sets about methodically cleaning the blood and dirt from him. His hand holds Flynn's jaw, warm glove leather against his tenderised skin, and Flynn's blood roars in his ears like the sea in a conch shell.

Flynn swallows and says, "Hey. Uh."

"Let's not make this complicated," Shaw says.

Flynn takes the hint and lapses into a restrained silence, until Shaw nudges his nose a little too firmly in the course of his ministrations and stars burst across his vision. He catches Shaw's wrist. "Think that's broken, as it happens."

Shaw makes a thoughtful noise and touches it again. Flynn winces. "So it is. If it's any consolation, it gives you a distinguished profile."

"Thank you," Flynn says with poise and dignity. He gets himself sitting upright-ish and both feet on the floor. His ribs ache with every inhale.

"Where else does it hurt?" Shaw asks, fetching a pot of salve from his belt pouch and gathering it on his fingers. "Don't say 'everywhere'."

Flynn thinks about that. "Everywhere?" he says.

Shaw closes his eyes and huffs a breath through his nose. A muscle tightens in his cheek. For a moment Flynn thinks he's just pissed off, but his face has turned ashen. He's pressing a hand against his side again.

"How about you?" Flynn asks casually, but Shaw just smears the unctuous stuff over Flynn's bruised forehead and cheekbones and his split lip. It tingles unpleasantly.

Shaw rises to sit on the bed with a tentativeness that speaks of both pain and a concern that it will finish its collapse under their combined weight. Once reassured it won't, he slowly unlaces his armour, his breath catching as he peels the leather away from his skin. One of the Irontide must have got a lucky shot in; his side is a mess of tacky blood surrounding a raw laceration.

The salve probably isn't going to do much for that. Flynn sucks his teeth.

"It's not as bad as it looks."

"If you say so. I'd say it probably hurts like a bastard."

"It's not something you get used to," Shaw says dryly, and reaches for the cloth just as Flynn does. They have a half-hearted tug-of-war over it. "I can take care of it myself, Captain."

"Yeah, and I could've taken care of my face, but that didn't stop you, did it?" Flynn says, and Shaw gives up the cloth with a pinched scowl. His expression relaxes into something tidy and closed-off when Flynn makes him lean back with a hand to his shoulder. He wets the cloth and eases Shaw's arm aside. "How'd you find me, anyway? Taelia?"

"There isn't a message arrives in Boralus that I don't see." Shaw is wiry muscle and sinew under Flynn's fingers, as lean and efficient as his manner. His voice grows ever more clipped as Flynn works the blood from his skin. "Good work on sniffing out Ashvane's treachery, but perhaps don't go off half-cocked next time."

"You could have sent one of your operatives if I'm such a bother."

"Indeed."

Flynn leans in close, and maybe someone less astute might believe he's inspecting Shaw for any further injuries. "Now who's making things complicated."

"Hmph," Shaw says, and gives him a light flick on the nose.

Flynn gasps and drops the cloth, his hands flying to his face. "All right, mate, steady on!"

"Give me space, then." Shaw goes to his belt pouch again, and this time extracts a small glass phial. He dispenses it carefully onto the cloth and then holds the cloth to his wounded side. "We can recoup here for a while, but we'd be wise to move on before daybreak."

"What was that?" Flynn says, as Shaw spirits the phial away and begins pulling his armour back into place.

"It's a numbing agent."

"Poison," Flynn says. "It's poison, isn't it."

"Only if you use too much of it," Shaw says. "Care for a sip?"

"If I wanted to incapacitate myself with mysterious liquids I'd drink at the Dampwick Tavern. Thanks, though." Flynn struggles out of his duster. The fire has warmed the small room more than adequately, and he's starting to sweat. Outside and its crisp night air sounds nice. "I'll take first watch," he says.

Shaw raises his eyebrows but doesn't demur, so Flynn reckons he's in worse shape than he'd like to let on. A few hours later Flynn checks in on him, and he's sleeping soundly enough that he barely stirs when Flynn covers him with his duster.

He sits on the lodge's stoop for the rest of the night and watches the constellations turn, and figures Shaw won't mind for long if the sun is kissing the horizon by the time Flynn nudges him awake.